Dance Moms: It’s My Nationals 90210, And I’ll Cry If I Want To. Abby And The ALDC Head To Beverly Hills For Some Dancing And Candy Apples Spanking.
Because Abby’s wearing the same color as me. That’s why I’m crying. Just let me die out here by this dumpster.
Never changes. Bitches always be hating on the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown. Always.
Hold up. So you’re telling me that on TLC 3 year old Toddlers get bigger Beauty crowns? That’s just F***d up.
Mmmmmm… Pumpkin. I wonder if that Dunkin Donuts muffin is out yet. I do love my muffins.
Ssshh. It’s ok. You don’t have a fat head. It really is a little crown. And I’m a model now, so I totally know this kind of stuff.
What say we drive down and pick up those Dance Moms: Miami kids? I hear they’re not busy.
I did not just kick Dance Moms: Miami while they’re down. And before this post even started? That ain’t right.
Relax. I didn’t. Actually, that was my uniquely subtle approach at hinting to Lifetime TV that they should probably un-cancel the Florida show.
I’m missing Lady Killer Lucas already. And we all know that Kimmy doesn’t need much time to do all that 4am homework. So let’s get these kids back to work, mmmkay?
Thank you for your immediate attention to this matter.
Now back to bidnezz.
After a long, drawn out journey that probably fell second only to what those Glee kids put us through every school year, Abby Lee Miller and the ALDC finally made it to the end of what we like to call the Road to Nationals. It’s kind of like the Yellow Brick Road, but without a Good Witch.
Definitely no Good Witch.
Going on what had to have been week (…or month?…) #3 in California, it was time for the Energy Dance National Competition and Abby was in it to win it.
I’ve got to admit. I’m in awe at how these Moms and kids can jump ship and leave home for weeks at a time with seemingly no regret or homeland fallout.
Speaking as someone who can’t take a long weekend without returning to at least one dead houseplant, I have no idea how they can just pick up their leopard print suitcases and head out of Dodge for all these extended stays away from friends and family with what appears to be almost no advance planning.
I’m sure that by now they have it all down to a science, but in my head I always picture one of three scenarios.
One. The front yard is piled high with rolled up newspapers, the mailbox is overflowing with Publisher’s Clearing House “You Just Won!” envelopes because Mom forgot to stop postal deliveries and a burglar is prying the screen off the back door with a tire iron.
Two. The husbands are having affairs with the housekeepers, because this is Lifetime Network and that’s what husbands always do on Lifetime. At least if they’re married to Jane Seymour in a two hour movie they do. Granted, the cheating husband always ends up shot in the face or trapped in a burning house when Mom comes home early, but still.
Three. The husbands and sons are inside looking like shipwreck survivors wearing the same underwear they had on when Mom first left the house, waiting for her to come home and tell them how to turn on the microwave.
But maybe that’s just me.
Regardless, it was another week in sunny L.A. as they prepped for Nationals in the Land of Brandon, Dylan and Perfect Hair: 90210.
That’s right….Beverly Hills, baby. Swimming pools. Movie stars.
But first, the Pyramid of Shame. ’Cause that’s how Abby rolls, even on the West Coast.
Bottom row was all about Paige, Nia, Chloe and Kendall.
Paige had forgotten a move or two in last week’s dance number, which meant that Abby…well…elephants never forget. Sorry, Paige.
Nia was great in her 1960′s dance, but didn’t exactly bring home the bacon so Abby stuck her in the basement again. Chloe had come in 6th, which is 5 below First Place, so you do the Pyramid Math.
And finally, Kendall was on the bottom primarily for the Jill Face. And it worked.
The middle row was held down by Brooke and little Mackenzie.
Brooke, who was the envy of every woman in Beverly Hills with that line-free, expressionless face of hers was considered second tier because Abby felt she was lazy. And she needed to fix that face, please.
Go figure. The only female in Beverly Hills history to ever be chastised for not being able to scrunch her forehead. I thought that was the ultimate longterm goal out there.
MackAttack was in the middle because even though she does a mean quadruple backflip into a pouty face beach blanket pose, she keeps messing up the easy stuff.
Knock that off, please.
And then Maddie was on the top again. Go back and read pretty much any review I’ve ever written on this show if you’re really dying to know why she was on the top this week.
Just change the date.
Solos were handed out to Mackadoodle Doo, Maddie and Brooke, with the one remaining open spot split between Nia, Kendall and Chloe. Anyone want to play Mind Game Auditions? Hold that thought.
The group number was a disturbing PSA on texting and driving.
Don’t do it. Just don’t. Unless you want to get thrown from a car and have Nia perform CPR on your dead body in between high kicks and back bends, that is.
Abby does love those dramatic pieces, and this one really freaked the girls out. Even Paige, who did nothing but sit perfectly still at the wheel after her head went through an imaginary windshield, was creeped out.
Naturally, Mom Kelly was more concerned with the obvious fact that Paige was barely dancing in a dance competition than she was with any longterm trauma from her daughter having to play a cadaver. But you know Kelly. Meltdown in 3…2…1.
Since they apparently don’t do MomPerches in California, everyone has had to resort to random back alleys and porch decks for their weekly gripe sessions.
As they hung out in one of those makeshift locations doing whatever it is that they always do on those freakin’ cell phones, a text was received from Chaos Cathy Nesbitt and her Evil Candy Apples Soccer Moms stating that they would all be coming out for Nationals. I got all excited. The Moms? Not so much.
LOL. Smiley Sideways Kitty Face.
The thought of having to deal with Cathy, compounded with watching her daughter sit and collect dust while all the other girls actually danced, finally cracked Kelly’s egg shell.
After confronting Abby in regards to Paige sitting perfectly still for the entire number like a Crash Test Dummy (…and not the cool talking ones on the commercial…) the whole conversation got ugly, culminating in Abby suggesting that Kelly might want to get Paige to a pediatrician asap to see if there was a cure for her daughter’s stupidity.
Nice talk, which resulted in Kelly dramatically exiting, stage left. Forever. Again.
When the rest of the Moms finally tracked her down, Kelly was outside behind a dumpster crying like she had just lost her last noodle. After a little Mom bonding, Kelly managed to get her shizzle together and then took Paige off for a pre-arranged photo shoot.
Not gonna lie. When Kelly and Paige first arrived at the photographer’s studio and the only caption under the dude’s face was “Photographer,” I was pretty much expecting an abduction or some borderline soft porn. But the joint seemed legit and they gussied Paige up into a 1940′s screen siren in no time.
All that age inappropriate hair finally paid off, because she looked a-maz-ing by the time they finished the shoot. Twenty years older, but a-maz-ing nonetheless.
The following day, Kelly returned to practice. Again. If you ask me, Girlfriend might be losing some of her dramatic exit credibility.
Somewhere in the middle of all this activity, Christi and Jill had taken over the role of dance coach and helped run their daughters’ solos. Christi got a little frustrated with Chloe, and Jill had some trouble with her bra straps. Feel free to tuck those things back in under your sleeveless top, honey. Sooner the better.
To continue this week’s Cryapalooza, it was then time to choose the final soloist. Having the three Moms of the three contestants as judges didn’t exactly make for much drama or resolution (…ummm…if my Mom didn’t pick me in a contest I would be some bulls***…) so Abby had Melissa break the three way tie.
Drama. Crying. Chloe got the last solo spot. Drama. Crying. Kendall didn’t. Jill meltdown in 3…2…1.
Finally it was Showtime!
As the ALDC troupe was rehearsing and crying and hating on Abby, the Candy Apples gang rolled into town and made their entrance like Super Bowl champs coming up that ramp from the locker rooms.
My favorite bad a** red-haired Mom was there, all tattooed, chewing on her gum and looking for a rumble. Love her. That bitch will cut your face off with her acrylics if she has to.
And though I swore all along, with no proof other than that blinding Clairol-assisted red hair, that she had to be scruffy Justice‘s Mom, the DNA results were finally revealed and she was indeed the Mom. And her name is Tanya, like a female wrestler.
The only Mom conspicuously MIA was that big Walmart one we saw the last time we visited Ohio. She’s my second favorite Ohio export, so I was secretly bummed that she apparently didn’t like to fly.
One half of the Fabulous M&M choreography team was also part of M’Lady Cathy’s Court this week. Plain or Peanut? You decide.
Our boy Mitchell was there, all fabulous and styling in his relaxed fit fancy blue dungarees (…with a scooch more room in the crotch in case you drop anything, according to the ad…) and vibrant blue tie.
Word on the street was that Abby had accused some of the Ohio Moms of hitting her up on her Sidekick for insider info on summer dance camps and random Abbyness, which Cathy couldn’t believe. Canton’s Jerky Queen wanted phone bills and proof of texts and a swab from every Mom’s mouth to prove that her own Ohio posse was loyal.
Turned out that Tanya had actually reached out to Abby a few times, which made Cathy look like a fool. Round One: Abby.
Back in the dressing room, Abby was threatening that there would be Hell to Pay if they lost the competition or if any Mom ever crossed her. Same threats. Different outfit. And with matching color-coordinated jewelry, thank you very much.
It should also probably be noted that tiny Maddie was drinking what appeared to be the biggest cup of take out Joe I’ve ever seen a young girl guzzle. She must have been up all night with that much caffeine.
Everyone was in full PsychThemOut mode backstage as they tried to give Justice nervous pee and mess with all the Candy Apples’ brains.
Even little Mackenzie was in on it, considering that she was dancing to the now classic Vivi-Anne Bumble Bee music. To guarantee a win and some bed spins for the opposition, Mack had hooched up the infamous Bee costume into a Pussy Cats Doll ensemble. If spaced out Vivi-Anne actually had a clue where she was, she would probably have been as miffed as Mom Cathy was that the other team was blatantly flipping them off with a new and improved Killer Bee.
All the solos were great. Even Brooke got her face to work long enough to wow the judges.
Chloe’s legs got longer, and Mack stung Vivi-Anne right in the butt with her updated Bee.
Justice did some kind of wounded army vet looking thing.
The Candy Apples group number was a bunch of girls running around carrying umbrella-ellas while Justice tried to guide Vivi-Anne across the stage the way a Boy Scout guides a blind person across the street.
The ALDC group number was so good that everyone was probably texting about it after it was over. But hopefully not on the drive home, right?
After a round of applause for the tee shirt throwers (…seriously? Tee shirt thrower? That’s a real job? With a real paycheck? Sign me up…) the awards were announced.
Fast Forward: Abby and her team took all the top honors. Like…all of them. There were not even scraps for the Candy Apples.
Since these were the fancy Nationals, top honors even came with Shrinky Dink micro souvenir Toddlers & Tiaras crowns and sashes.
To finish off the night, and the second season, Abby and Kelly went one more round over the usual checklist of grievances.
Man, there was a lot of crying this week.
As Abby wobbled out the door ranting about how lucky Brooke and Paige were to be allowed access to the ALDC Mother Ship, Kelly still hadn’t decided whether she was coming back next year.
Then everyone cried some more.
Not exactly a Dynasty cliff hanger, but enough to keep us going for a few months.
Or at least until the Real Housewives of Pittsburgh Reunion Show.
Eat your heart out, Andy Cohen.
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