Help Us Find a Cure

I thought we were going to be immune from it, but sadly, no. Bieber fever has hit our home. It was bound to happen. I have two daughters, one thirteen, the other eleven. If that isn’t his demographic, I don’t know what is. Maybe pedophiles. And grandmas, if they don’t have to listen to him sing, but can just pinch his smooth young cheeks. Regardless, I have somehow raised a Bieber fan, a Bieleber, despite my good intentions and years of careful emphasis on quality music and intellectual grooming. I am living the Teen Beat nightmare.

At this point, the fever has only hit the teenager, but it’s only a matter of time before the tween catches it too. The teen, who has been playing guitar for three, almost four years, and piano for eight years, doesn’t mind listening to his overproduced bubblegum pop. She is normally very opinionated about music, and eschews all things popular with the masses, so it makes no sense why she would like little Justin. He looks younger than her, for Christ’s sake. He’s shorter than her as well. He’s also way more feminine than her. He probably got his period before she did. He’s a pretty young boy, don’t get me wrong, but hot? Hunky? Sexy? Nope. Nonthreatening is about the best I can come up with. He looks like he hasn’t come out yet, so he’s safe for preteen girls. He doesn’t look like he will give them HPV; he looks like he could do their nails.

But let’s get back to his so-called music. He’s certainly not the first pop star who is more a product than a musician, so I’m not judging him solely on the fact that he doesn’t write most of his music or the fact that it’s so overproduced that it’s virtually all created in a studio, devoid of talent.  No one is going to say in ten, twenty, fifty years, Wow, that Justin Bieber, what an artist. They might say, What ever happened to that little Canadian lesbian? But mostly, they will say what they are thinking now, which is, hey, Justin, better save up that money. My beef with him is the over exposure. Bieber on tv. Bieber on the radio. Bieber cologne. Bieber is everywhere. Does he have to be in my home too?

Normally, I wouldn’t give a crap about the current Justin Bieber or whoever used to be Justin Bieber or whoever will be the next Justin Bieber. It’s all back to my teen. She flaunts her love of him in front of me, taunting me, daring me to forbid her from listening to his music. I’m telling you, this is a teenage girl issue. You lucky fuckers with your sons, what’s the worst they can throw at you? Speed metal? Hard core rap? Try a little Justin. I’ll take Wiz Khalifa over JB any day, unless they have collaborated, in which case, never mind.

The other day while driving my teen to school, a Bieb song came on the radio and she forced me to listen to it while she sang along. “I feel that I have failed you as a parent,” I said to her. “Don’t say that, Mom,” she said. “Well, I must have done something wrong if you’ve turned to the dark side of the radio,” I replied. “Don’t blame yourself, it just is. These things just happen,” she said, and I swear she winked at me.

But they don’t just happen. My girls were too young to be Hilary Duff fans. They were the Miley Cyrus generation, and we came out unscathed. They both hated Miley, either as herself or the evil Hannah Montana.Even now, they could care less about One Direction or any other boy band. They will listen to Florence and the Machine over Demi Lovato. Hell, they spend hours combing the internet looking for new artists that haven’t hit it big yet. How does my teen reconcile her edginess and trendsetting with her love of Justin?

I’ve decided that the only way I can accept this from her is by declaring it an act of rebellion. She doesn’t really like him. She just says that to get under my skin. She knows it makes me insane to hear her squeal when his voice cracks on the radio. She forced me to watch his hosting of Saturday Night Live, sacrilegious on its own, so she could see his twinkly brown eyes and ridiculous six pack. Even that looks wrong, like muscles on a baby.

I’m trying to not complain too much, lest this painful phase lasts too long. If I go along with her and don’t put up too much fight, I figure she’ll lose interest and move onto to something else. Of course, that could be worse than the Justin thing I am dealing with now, even if I can’t imagine how.

Back in the day, I had a bizarre haircut and color phase. I owned a Suicidal Tendencies record. I took up smoking at fourteen to earn a little street cred.  None of it got much of a rise out of my mom, so I kept upping the ante without permanently jeopardizing my health or my future. With her, nothing worked, so I stopped trying. You can’t rebel against someone who doesn’t exactly give a shit.

 I’m not sure how much fight to put up against whatever my teen throws at me. Do I do just enough to let her know I still care, or do I ignore until it goes away?I’m at a loss, and until I figure out the right approach, I will have to endure that puny heartthrob, with his stupid sneakers and crotch grabbing.

No amount of grabbing down there will make your testicles descend, Justin. Just saying. So stop, because it makes you look like you’ve got a rash, and rashes, like you, aren’t sexy. Also, stop your Svengali mind fuck of my, nay, all of our teenage daughters. Go take some voice lessons, maybe do a Broadway musical or something equally obscure and unpopular with the 13-17 girl demographic. Then maybe I can have my daughter back.