Suburban Goddess

I have my parents to thank for my very diverse taste in music. My current mix CD in my truck contains Black-Eyed Peas, Gwen Stefanti, Sia, Credence Clearwater, The Judds, Missy Elliot, and Big & Rich. (The other two CDs also have no logical order). So the last time my mom visited, my husband was shocked to hear this 50 year old grandma singing along with all the pop hits as well as the classic rock stuff. Of course, my husband rarely recognizes many of these songs as remakes, which gives my mother the upper hand in the lyric department. But during this last visit, she stumbled.

“Few times, been around that track, not gonna end up like that, ’cause I ain’t no harlem black girl, I ain’t no harlem black girl…”

“What?” my husband interrupts.

“Ain’t no harlem black girl,” my mom replies. My husband erupts into laughter (which is ironic to me, because one of the things I originally found endearing about his personality was his ability to butcher song lyrics).

“No, it’s HollaBACK girl. Hollaback. Like a cheerleader.”

“Oh,” my mom smiled. “I guess that makes more sense.”

Sing on, Mom. You ain’t no harlem black girl…

I awoke this morning with the familiar sense of dread; I had to go to work. The frown that is now permanently etched into my forehead (thank you, 30) was particularly pronounced today. The thought of ad after boring ad made me want to crawl back into bed and pull the covers over my head until January (Then I wouldn’t have to deal with Christmas, either). Even the baby didn’t want to get up; her little face scrunched up in annoyance as I pulled her across the bed, her eyes shut tight. But I got up and trudged through my morning routine, because if I don’t go today, it just gets worse tomorrow.

When I arrived at work (late, as usual), my co-worker was getting into his car to leave. Could it be…Yes! Thank God! A Starbucks run! But what should I get?

Chai Eggnog Latté. Hell yeah. All the mystery of the Middle East, a hint of clove, a dash of cinnamon, mixed with the rich, buttery Christmas spirit of eggnog! Warm, comforting, but still enough caffiene to kick you in the ass and get you moving. And that’s when I had today’s epiphany;

This warm fuzzy feeling is what Christmas is all about. For a limited time only.

Dare I write about religion in a primarily Republican, Christian neighborhood? I simply have to; I have said before that I am a woman of principle, and if you’re going to trample into my private space with your strong opinions, then I should be allowed to voice mine also.

I grew up in a VERY Catholic family. My grandmother’s house was directly behind the small Catholic church (pre-Katrina). Every Sunday we would go to mass, then walk to my grandmother’s house where my family would proceed to get completely drunk and trash everyone in the community. (My parents sheltered me from the brunt of this; we often left before the true hatefulness began). So I learned that being a Sunday Christian was sufficient enough to get me into Heaven.

Some years later, I moved to Memphis, and had to work as a waitress to put myself through school. I was taking the maximum alloted hours every semester, so that meant the majority of my money was earned on the weekends. During this experience, I met two die-hard Southern Baptists who helped me form my very rigid ideas about organized religion.

The first was a woman named Tara. Tara was thirty-eight years old. She was an attractive brunette, pretty blue eyes, who was in the business of shopping for a husband. Tara could not work on Sunday mornings or Wednesday nights; she was a devout Baptist who at every turn was trying to “save” me. (She didn’t appreciate my Catholic humor; I could sin repeatedly as long as I confessed). What truly struck me about Tara was that no matter how vile customers treated her, no matter how mean or condescending the managers were, no matter how many failed dates she went on, she never wavered in her faith. At 38, she was a virgin, and still refused to give up her principles. I admired her so much for that, that I actually attended church with her one Sunday. I felt that I owed her that much. I didn’t agree with everything I heard there, but I respected her beliefs. After I went, she understood that it wasn’t the religion for me, and she didn’t push the issue anymore. She remained my friend, and we continued to talk for quite a few years until we lost touch.

The second Baptist to enter my life in that period of time was a very, very popular minister. The church had a following of over 30,000; I would swear to this day that he would make an announcement at the end of the service for everyone to meet at the restaurant because without fail, every Sunday after church, the place would go on an hour wait at 11:00am. The round table was reserved for this prominent minister (who drove a brand-new black Mercedes SUV) and the most prized members of his flock (all decked out in their Sunday diamonds). Since I was one of the more experienced waitresses, I usually ended up with this table.

Now, on a side note, I must tell you, something about church makes people MEAN. These church-goers were the rudest, more inconsiderate, hateful (not to mention CHEAP) customers on the planet. I have been cursed at by the finest of God’s children, only to have them return to their prayer conversation and talk about how wonderful Heaven was going to be. But the crowning moment for me involved this minister.

Upon appraoching his table to take their drink order, he immediately assualted me verbally.
“Why didn’t you go to church today, young lady?”
I blinked. Deer-in-headlights.
“Don’t you know that Jesus died so that you could be here today? So that you may be relieved of your transgressions and enter the gates of Heaven to go home to God?” Amen go the sheep. Lots of nodding around the table.
“Well, sir, somebody has to serve you, right?” I said it in a joking manner, with a harmless-silly-little-waitress smile. Dead silence. Nothing. Extremely awkward. After moment he dismissed me with a wave of his bejeweled fingers; sinner. Satan’s spawn, worthy only of crawling to kitchen and fetching his food. Try as I might, I could not make this man happy. He sent everything back, twice. He insisted I’d forgotten things, only for me to point them out on his table. The final straw was when I was walking out of the kitchen with a coffee pot on my tray for another table, when he raised his jeweled fingers and SNAPPED them at me like a common serving wench.
“Coffee.” He pointed at the cup on the table. I looked this arrogant preacher straight in his eyes and with the last shred of dignity I had left, I answered him.
“Yes, sir, it sure is.”
And with that, I walked directly past him to my waiting table, then walked straight past him again without so much as a sideways glance into the kitchen.

Strange that this response seemed to amuse him. Every Sunday after that, this man actually REQUESTED me. And every Sunday he ran me through the ringer, and every Sunday I would treat him like the hypocrite he was. One Sunday I asked him why didn’t he preach kindness in his church. The sheep were appalled, but he just laughed. Another Sunday I informed him that Christians shouldn’t treat waitresses like dirt. Again, he laughed. And his personal favorite, after a $3 tip for eight people, I told him that even Jesus had to pay bills. (After that, he actually began leaving me $5 every Sunday for a party of eight!)

My point is, and I do have one, that just becuase you’re part of an organized religion with a big bankroll, the principles behind the religion are what’s important to me. I shopped around for a religion that fit me, and I really could not find one. So I live this way; I try to treat others as I’d like to be treated. I try to live a good life and help as many people as I can along the way. I believe in God; I don’t necessarily believe that God needs to be his name. I believe that the Bible was written by a bunch of men in a time where women weren’t exactly treated fairly. There may be truth in it, there may not, and it’s up to you to decide that for yourself. If you choose to believe it, and live by it, then I will respect you for it. If you choose to use it’s words against me then proceed to treat me like dirt while you praise yourself, then I have no qualms about turning my back to you and waiting for God to get you in the end.

I’m not perfect, by any means. But I don’t use the Bible to justify my bad behavior. I leave the judging up to God. I think he’s the only one truly qualified to decide.

I have posted three explosive rants over the past week, all over one single work-related topic, only to read them and take them back down. “Don’t blog angry,” I tell myself. The repercussions could cost me a promotion somewhere down the line. But that brings up an interesting topic. How easy it is to forget that an entire online community now has access to my innermost feelings.

My mother asked me the other day, “What’a a BLOG, anyway?”
“Basically it’s an online diary.”
“Can’t anybody hack into that??” My mother. She’s so cute in her technilogical naivité.
“Yes, Mom, that’s the point. Anybody can read it. It encourages conversation.”

I believe my mother thinks that everyone on the Internet is some kind of freak. Perhaps they are. I met my husband on the Internet; many people would agree that he’s not particularly right in the head. But then, I feel more comfortable having a conversation with a graphic pen in my hand, when I can take my time and contemplate a witty comeback. Real life is so much harder; I’ve always been one of those people who has something clever to say five minutes too late. But the same principles apply here; don’t say anything that may come back to haunt you later.

Don’t blog angry. It’s my new mantra.

A close friend of the family had a personal crisis recently, and it got me thinking about my life.

I have never known grief. I’ve been sad, I’ve been pretty down & out occasionally, but even when I hit my all-time personal low, I still did not know grief. I’ve never had anyone close to me die, and I’m not quite sure what will happen when I do.

It brings me back to emphasize something I wrote in an earlier post. My reaction to many things in my life is one of removed indifference. Almost like I’m watching from the outside. So I wonder, when someone close to me goes, will I finally feel a depth of emotion that has previously eluded me?

I’m waiting in line at a particularly crowded Starbucks drive-thru the other day. The line is backed up so far that I have to wait on the street. So here I am, waiting patiently with my little blinker on, blinky-blinky, blinky-blinky, when this very RUDE woman in a white Nissan XTerra dives in front of me, not only cutting in front of me but blocking the flow of traffic in TWO directions.

BOTH WAYS!

The rage boiled over. I gave her the finger and yelled a few obcenities, but the window was up and she never even bothered to look back at me. I wondered how someone could be so heartless, so rude, so uncaring of another individual’s needs. I know, I know, it’s the line at STARBUCKS, it’s not like I was waiting for a heart transplant or anything, but it’s the PRINCIPLE. (I am, if you haven’t guessed, a woman of principles). So I wondered, in my passive-aggressive way, how could I shame this rude woman into better behavior without a violent confrontation, when I had an epiphany.

RudeBitch.org (because Rudebitch.com & Rudebitch.net are taken).

I always carry my camera with me, without fail. In the future, I will take a little snapshot of people like HER, and post her rude little mug all over the Internet. Of course, I couldn’t be sure that they would stumble across themselves, so I’ve designed a calling card, pure simplicity…

You’ve the newest member on RudeBitch.org.

Present this card to the offending party with a little smile & wave, and walk away knowing that you have possibly made the world a better place. Fast-lane karma.

Of course, my husband makes the observation, “Well, what happens when YOU end up on there?” Touché. That’s fair. I drive like an ass, too. I guess if I end up on my own website, then I’ll have to re-evaluate my behavior.

And that’s all I ask for. Even I need to be put in my place occasionally.

An older man, maybe in his fifties, balding, very tall and skinny. In tow is a short, round woman, easily 250 pounds, with short, choppy brown Texas hair. The two are smiling, holding hands and talking animatedly. Suddenly, the man flicks the woman in front of him, and they two break into a full-fledged country two step, twirling between cars and dancing around shopping carts. In the parking lot. At noon.

How cool is that?

My weekend is over on Sunday mornings, because that’s when the dread sets in. Every Sunday, when I wake up, I wake up with the knowledge that it is Sunday, which means…

Tomorrow is Monday.

I’ve so come to dread going to work on Monday that it has begun to creep into my weekend. In the past, when this dread began to surface, I would start looking for another job. But I know now that it will not be enough anymore. I’ve been so spoiled at my present job, that there is absolutely no way I’d be happier somewhere else.

It’s not a case of the grass is greener on the other side anymore; everywhere I look, the grass is dead.

What do you do when you’re uninspired? What do you do when you’ve hit the plateau? When you can’t go any further in your profession? I’ve peaked. Yellow page ads will never be any more creative. Customers will never change. Sales representatives will always be manipulative and selfish. I’ve peaked, and the only way to go now is down. It’s time to work for myself.

I might as well jump. I suppose the thrill of hitting bottom will be better served by a base jump than rolling slowly back down the mountain, right? Maybe I’ll get lucky and find a bungee cord…

I have to borrow my co-worker’s description today. Have you ever driven somewhere, only to get there & realize you have ABSOLUTELY NO RECOLLECTION of the drive? That’s how I dented my beautiful brand new truck. I was filling up with diesel (eek, $100), and I calmly and quietly attempted to pull away from the pump when SCREEECCCH, I realized I was dragging a concrete pole with me.

This is definately not typical behavior for me. I’m pretty alert most of the time; I drink enough Starbucks to keep an entire creative department dancing into the night… but this particular day, I skipped the morning mocha in my pursuit of better health. Well, screw that. This is not the result I envisioned.