Suburban Goddess

My mother used to preach at me constantly as I stuffed Star Crunch after Twinkie after Swiss Roll into my mouth…
“You’d better enjoy that, because you’re not going to be able to eat like that when you’re thirty.”
Pish. What does she know? I thought to myself. Silly old woman. She also said someday I’d turn into HER.

Fast forward 15 years. Hello 30. I am now sitting here eating 12-grain toast with imitation sans-trans-fat-psuedo butter flavoring, trying to chug down yet another bottle of water while I nod off from getting up before dawn to run until my shins are screaming in agony. And yet, despite this grueling schedule, I still cannot manage to shed the final 20 pounds of lard from my ever-spreading ass since having my child in March.

It hardly seems fair. I watch the beautiful people float by and think in a dirty, evil little voice within my head, “Ha ha, lets see if you can stuff your ass in those pants in another 10 years, you little floozy.” Granted, I’m sure ten years ago someone was thinking the exact same thing about me as I strolled by, my perky little ass hanging out of my signature sundresses, made all the more stunning by the platforms I loved to wear because 5’11″ naturally just wasn’t high enough to look down my nose at people. Hmmm. Young and blissfully stupid. If I went back, of COURSE I’d do it again. You only look that way for a little while, unless you’re some freak of nature who was blessed with an abnormally hyper metabolism.

(Sigh). Of course it’s jealousy. Age is a brutal thing. There’s no such thing as aging gracefully, well, unless you’re not a self-absorbed narcissist. Show me one woman who’s happy with her aging process and I will show you a woman who is obviously taking anti-depressants.

Enjoy it while you have it, girls. 30 is a brutal, bloodthirsty, heartless, merciless monster who will crawl into your life and try to steal everything that makes life worth living. Indulgence, sleep and beauty, now distant memories, nothing more than ingredients in that birthday cake that goes straight to your thighs without passing go…

Psuedo-Butter-flavored toast is now your life-long friend.

I sold out. I am ashamed to admit it, but I gave in to temptation.

There was once a graphic designer who decided to poke fun at a corporate coffee giant by altering their logo and creating a satirical graphic novel about said nameless corporate coffee conglomerate. Now, you would think this company, who is largely supported by the artsy designer types, would not take itself so seriously and appreciate that this designer decided to poke fun at them. After all, the designer was a devoted customer. Most of us are. Coffee and the graphic artist are in inseparable pair, a symbiotic relationship that was born shortly after the conception of the first laptop.

The corporate coffee giant swiftly hit the tiny designer with a copyright lawsuit. It seams that this company is EXTREMELY protective of their logo. So much so, that they would stop at no lengths to crush the tiny designer, despite his years of loyal patronage. I was extremely offended. Without us, their sales would likely plummet! After all, it is the uber-trendy, dark-haired, pale-skinned, bespectacled cappaccino-sipping designer that fueled the great Western coffee rush of the 90′s. How dare they bite the hand that so lovingly fed their corporate greed for years?

I joined the anti-corporate coffee movement. I sought my fix in the tiny coffee shops of New Orleans, choosing to donate to the needy instead of feeding the evil giant. A virtual Robin Hood of coffee I became, proud to stand up for what I believed in. But then…it began to happen.

The giant proceeded with it’s plan for global domination, and everywhere I looked, on every corner, there stood another store, it’s warm earthtones and exotic smells beckoning to me at every turn. Until one day, guilty, I sneaked in the front door and broke my internal vow. Hypocrite. Sell Out. Weak-minded turncoat. Treason.

But it was the best white chocolate mocha ever.

What ever happened to the fast lane? When did it become home to every law-abiding blue-hair and inattentive cell phone user intent on making the rest of us slow down?

I am the reason there is road rage. I pass on the right, without patience & without fail. If you are going slower than I am, I do not have time for you to figure out there is a great big bright yellow truck in your rearview mirror before you decide to tell whoever you are talking to on your cell phone that you need to move over because some idiot is about to run over you. That idiot is me, and nine times out of ten I am late for something.

I know what you’re thinking; if you’re in such a freaking hurry, then leave earlier. Touché. However, if you were not obstructing the FAST lane, then I wouldn’t have to leave earlier, now would I?

Yes, I am an unsafe driver. Yes, I drive like a maniac, an ass, a jerk, & whatever else you want to call me. Now, kindly remember that if you see me and move quickly and quietly to the right, because you never know which day it will be when I snap and decide to use your vehicle as a speed bump.

Tamara N. & Meghan L.; if you’re reading this, send me an email RIGHT NOW! I’m worried about you girls!

And why wouldn’t it? Have you seen what people have to endure from their customers these days?

Case in point: I’m in line at a popular craft store, and a young girl is frantically trying to check out the woman ahead of me as people stack up behind me. The woman is arguing about every item, swearing that the items are on sale. The girl assures her that the UPC codes are determined by the computer; if the item is on sale, it will automatically apply the discount.

Now, here’s where it gets interesting. Instead of listening to the poor cashier, the loudmouth chooses to hold up the line and argue in an even louder tone. “I’m in here all the time! How dare you talk to me like that?” (I can bear witness, the girl was extreme cordial in her explanation, without a hint of condescension. I’m not sure I could have done the same…) When this refused to get a rise from the cashier, the customer took to doling out personal insults. “How does an idiot like you get a job as a cashier? Do you even know how to count?”

Meanwhile, the large line behind me is starting to get restless. But to my utter surprise, they are also angry at the cashier. “Why doesn’t she just ring up the discount?” Why doesn’t she, indeed? Perhaps because they have STUPID-PROOFED these point-of-sale cash registers. A monkey could run them. Just scan & put it in the bag. Until you encounter an individual such as the angry, self-righteous, I-am-entitled-to-a-discount-because-I yell lady. Or perhaps because we all pay inflated prices because of women like this, because they drive up the cost of inventory to compensate for the money the store isn’t making by giving things away. Or maybe it’s just the PRINCIPLE. I, too, and starting to get highly annoyed, but not quite for the same reason.

In the end, a manager comes. The cashier is nearly in tears. The manager backs down, keys in his magic manager code, and the lady gets her discount. Ever ungrateful, she has to mumble under her breath as she is stuffing her reciept into her bag. I step up to the cashier with a smile, but she doesn’t make eye contact, choosing instead to focus all of her attention on my products. I lean forward with a non-confidential whisper; “Don’t you just HATE bitchy people? She’s probably got a miserable home life.” I look directly into the eyes of the bitch, whose jaw is dropped in disbelief, then stand to my full 6’1″ height (with heels on). Funny, she didn’t have anything else to say after that. The cashier cracked the tiniest smile that she could get away with, but her eyes said volumes.

Having been in the service industry for 8 years, I can totally understand why people stop caring about their jobs. Everyone doesn’t start out as a dull-eyed, slumped-over, monotone servant to the masses. They’re driven to it by micro-managing, beligerent customers, and general lack of niceness in the world today.

My favorite customer service story takes me back to my table-waiting days at a very popular country restaurant. It was a crowded Sunday afternoon, and a good friend of mine, Kevin, was waiting on seven of the dumbest, back-woods, mullet-sporting rednecks I’ve ever encountered. Kevin was a six foot tall albino that also happened to be a flaming homosexual. He endured the taunts and barbs thrown at him with the true grace that only a homosexual man can possess, but was eventually driven to his breaking point when one of the rednecks proclaimed loud enough for the entire dining room to hear:

“I ain’t eatin no food brought to me by a s@#$-packing faggot.”

Kevin stood in front of the redneck with a tray full of nine tall glasses of iced tea. “You’re right,” he answered with dignity. “You won’t have anything brought to you by this faggot because I JUST QUIT.” And he dumped the entire tray of iced tea in the rednecks lap and walked calmly out the front door past all of our stunned faces.

Ha Ha! You go, girl!

My co-worker is from Pakistan, and she believes in karma. What goes around will come around. Be good and good things will happen to you. Be bad, and, well, you know.

I bring this up because I talk a lot about my grandmother’s home, or what’s left of it, here. Until I was 20, I thought the world of this woman. I would spend every Friday night at her home, the highlight of the evening was a standing date with Bo & Luke Duke. (Of course, I had to get through the Incredible Hulk first, and I’d always bury my eyes in the blanket at the slightest hint of green.) But my parents shielded me from the ugliness of the alcoholism that permeated through our family, so much so that I didn’t truly realize the depth of the nastiness it spawns until I began to plan my first wedding.

I have two younger cousins, a year apart. One is blood related, one is the child of a previous marriage. I asked the non-blood related cousin to stand as a bridesmaid because she was the one I saw the most. (The other girl was often with her mother, caught in the turmoil of a particularly nasty divorce, so I didn’t get to spend much time with her.) This resulted in me being, quite literally, disowned. Without discussion, without rhyme or reason. My last one-sided discussion with my aunt and grandmother involved them saying “We won’t be at your wedding.” And that was it. My father was so hurt, he stopped speaking to them. And it stayed this way for eight long years. A family ripped apart by my decision to choose a bridesmaid. It made no sense to me. I struggled to understand what I’d done to be so completely rejected by these women I had idolized my entire childhood. My father’s explanation was quite simple.

“They’ve always been that way.”

Fast forward to March, 2005. My beautiful daughter is born, and my entire perspective on life is completely changed. I received a baby gift from my estranged aunt. An olive branch. The closest I will ever recieve to an apology. Since I now understand the value of family, I want to mend the rift that has hurt me for so long. But I am cautious. I am sensitive. I am a cynic. Can people change? I don’t think so. But we can approach them with caution, and not let them get into a position where they can completely destroy your ideals again. I don’t want to poison my daughter with stories of how mean her grandmother & great-aunt were to me. I want her to know how much I enjoyed my childhood. I want to share my good times with her. I want to shield her from the kind of pain I endured when my family unexplicably abandoned me.

A baby brings a family together. A hurricane REALLY brings your family together.

My grandmother & aunt are fortunate enough to have found a house to rent, ironically, extremely close to my father. He checks on them occasionally. He helped survey their property. They have nothing in terms of belongings. During my last visit, I walked through my aunt’s house, the stench of mold and mud overpowering. I had an eerie feeling, because I thought I’d never set foot in that house again. And there, on the mantle, is the only picture salvaged from the 15-foot wall of water with absolutely no damage. It’s a picture of my grandmother, my aunt, me, and the blood cousin.

I try to live a good life. I try to be a good person. Now I will definately try harder.

Oh God, so help me, if I have to build another ad where the customer’s logo is created out of the font Papyrus or Brush Script, I swear I will lose all fragile grips on my sanity and run through the streets screaming in frustration. There are HUNDREDS of THOUSANDS of typefaces out there; why not be a little more creative? If you’re a graphic designer, and you use either of these fonts willingly, (that is, of your own free will without force or persuasion or threat to cancel an account that you require for this month’s rent), PLEASE re-evaluate your job title, because you are NOT WORTHY. I will happily eat this post if anyone can find me an example where one of these two fonts is used in a current and classy way. ARRGGGHHH.

This photographer is absolutely amazing. His photographs say what I could not describe. He’s traveling between New Orleans & Pearlington, taking pictures and telling the stories of the victims. Be warned; some pictures are not for the faint of heart.

http://operationeden.blogspot.com

A reporter for The Aspen Times is in Pearlington writing stories for the newspaper. I find it extremely interesting that the resort town of Aspen is interested in the tiny, little hole-in-the-wall city of Pearlington, but I am extremely grateful. Go to http://www.aspentimes.com and search for Pearlington. Scott Condon is the reporter.