Suburban Goddess

What is it about my personality that people feel they can walk up to me and say mean things? Don’t they know I’m one step away from Postal Worker?

“Tonight at 5:00, the Evil Graphic Artist who stabbed her co-worker over two hundred times with a paper clip…”

I know the way of American life. For the most part, American life is about the way of the dollar. Money runs the world. And I live in a peaceful state of apathy because I know that if I choose to challenge that, I will fail. But occasionally, something comes along and jars me out of my little box and makes me think about the injustices of the world.

I came across a blog by an Iraqi student that just made so much sense to me. When I watch our biased American news, I see Iraq on the brink of civil war, two fiery religions clashing in the streets. I don’t see the people who sit in their houses waiting for the gunfire to end. I don’t see the families who are just trying to survive the insanity. And I realized while watching our biased American news, that they don’t show that happening in America, either…

It is amazing that in the name of God, or a god, whatever you call him, people will hack, bomb, drill, shoot, maim, hang & murder. It’s not that I don’t believe that their faith runs that deep; but how can anyone think that by inflicting pain on others that it will help you get to your promised land? Where are the gentle religions? Where are the merciful gods? Where did the value of a human life go?

Check out her blog. I bookmarked it to the right at “Riverbend.” It’s amazing how much our media can distort things.

I am, by nature, a quiet and shy person. Only those who know me well are subjected to the drama. But generally, I try to be nice to everyone that I meet. I think I’m a decent boss, maybe not as professional as I should be, but that’s okay in my profession because people expect the artsy-types to be flaky.

What I am NOT is a hard-ass bitch. So what amazes me is that I have that reputation among my sales staff. I was quite taken aback when my boss approached me and let me know that some comments I made were misconstrued as “smart ass.” Now, I do have that tendency occasionally, but only with people that I know pretty well who aren’t (or don’t appear to be) easily offended. And NEVER when it comes to business. Business is business. If you ask me a question, I will give you an answer, blunt, straight to the point, no nonsense. So recently, a co-worker emailed me with a simple question.

“Will you let me know when this project is done?”

To which I replied quite simply, “Yes, I will tell you when it is done.” Send.

How is that being a smart ass???

I spend a great deal of my life tiptoeing around other people’s feelings. As I get older, I guess I expected people to be more, well, grown-up. When you’re playing in the schoolyard and a group of girls in the corner are talking about you, Mom shouldn’t sugar-coat it and say they’re just mean, ignore them. This is LIFE, sweetheart. It does not change with age. The boys will still be dumb, the girls will still be catty, some friends will still backstab you and others will stay true for life. And if you want to succeed, you better learn to master this game.

I wish I had paid more attention in the schoolyard. I wish I had kicked a few more guys in the balls. I wish Mom hadn’t taught me the values of respect, conscience, and work ethic. Now I have to live with it.

Damn it, Mom.

I might be in a overly cynical mood today, but I’m just a little tired of life’s politics. It seems no matter where you go or what you do, there’s some type of politics involved. Family politics, job politics, neighborhood politics, government politics… and it all involves somebody’s over-inflated ego that you have to somehow appease for the sake of peace. Don’t you ever wish you could just say what you were really thinking without having to deal the consequences? Just the unhindered, blunt, and painfully honest truth?

My neighbor asked me at dinner last night, “Do you ever get lonely?” To which I did not reply, but thought to myself, “No, not really.” Because within myself I find a peaceful calm that does not involve anyone else’s feelings. I’m free to think the way that I want & express my feelings without fear of repercussions. I don’t have to stroke my own ego to achieve something; I just have to get off my ass and do it.

I wish everyone else had that kind of perspective.

My mother made a comment the other day that got me thinking. In the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, she feels that she has too many material possessions. It is almost unfair that her house was spared, with it’s four bedrooms, closets filled to the brim, while others nearby are left with absolutely nothing.

“I have eight red shirts in my closet. Who really needs eight red shirts?” she lamented. I didn’t really understand at that moment. She has the ability to have eight red shirts, she should appreciate that. But as I thought about the comment, and my life in general, I realized that maybe I wasn’t as grateful for the material things in my life as I should be.

And then, there was the Weekend From Hell.

My mother-in-law enlisted the help of her four children this past weekend to help clean her garage & attic. I have never seen as much stuff as she crams into this house. Every corner, every surface, everything is covered with something. As the kids walked by with armload after armload of stuff, I started to wonder if she had ever thrown anything away. Every item had a story. Every item had a memory. And in that was both joy & sadness. A house full of memories. An era coming to an end.

Her youngest daughter is preparing to leave for college this summer, and you can tell that she’s having a very hard time with it. She clings to her daughter in an over-protective mode that would rival Hitler’s regime. Soon there will be nothing left in that house but things, things & more things. Nobody to talk to. Nothing but things to keep her company.

And with that, one of life’s little clichés suddenly became frighteningly and glaringly true. Money will not buy you happiness.

During my last trip to New Orleans, my father & I took a ride down to Biloxi, Mississippi to see what was left of “Casino Row.” I was absolutely amazed to see everything I knew of the Gulf Coast completely wiped away. All the pictures, all the stories, they don’t do it the slightest bit of justice. You simply have to SEE it with your own eyes. Huge, beautiful plantation homes completely ripped from their foundations. Casino barges pushed almost a mile inland. Absolute destruction.

But… the street we traveled on was wiped clean of debris. Everywhere you looked, there was some type of heavy machinery pushing, ripping, pinching, hauling something away. And across Hwy 90, the main road that parallels the beach, the freshly-sifted, gleaming white sand beckoned invitingly.

It’s almost unfair to Mississippi. Across the state line, New Orleans is sending out reports of dead bodies still being found. But Mississippi is quietly, and SUCCESSFULLY cleaning up their own mess. You don’t hear the mayor of Biloxi in the press begging for help or money. The mayor of Gulfport hasn’t been on CNN lately with some off-color comment. And you don’t hear Mississippi politicians being investigated for pocketing Katrina money.

What is it about that state line?

I’m innocently walking out of the grocery store when I’m accosted by three hoodlums in green outfits.

“Hey, lady, ya wanna buy some cookies?”

Like a miniture crack dealer. Shady little character. She holds a box of Thin Mints out with a scrawny little arm, shaking the box enticingly. I look left, then right. No witnesses. I slide over to the table.

“How much?”

“Only $3.50.”

“$3.50! I remember when they were two dollars a box!” I complain, handing over a $20 dollar bill. The girl grabs the cash, looking down at the money while mumbling out of the side of her mouth.

“$2.00. Sheesh, you’re old, lady.” With that, she handed me my change and put on a bright white smile.

“Thank you so much for supporting our Girl Scout Troop!”

And just that quickly, I have blown my diet. We all have our addictions.

I live my life with a set of standards that have been working pretty well for me. My basic theory for life is that for every action, there is a consequence, so I usually weigh the consequences and make a decision. Sometimes I know the consequences will suck, but the easier route is just the one that I want to take at the moment. And I deal with it. Like I said, it works for me.

What bothers me about this are the people who defy the consequences by excessively whining until the natural balance is shifted and they get their way. It’s not right. You didn’t do your job; if you whine enough, eventually your boss will just say OK to shut you up. Why not own up to the fact that you just didn’t feel like getting up early today, so you kept hitting the snooze button until you were late? I appreciate honesty so much more than well-crafted bullshit. Now you have a whole new set of consequences: instead of telling the truth, you’ve lied to me, and now I will forever view you as a liar. Which means I can no longer trust you. So now, every time you’re late, I will resent you because I saw you sneak in with Starbucks…

The first birthday came and went without incident. It was actually a little sad for me. I was hoping that Alex would dig into her cake with childhood abandon, but as she always does, she surprised me. She stuck one little finger into the icing and smeared it across her face, carefully examining the new textures and colors of this interesting new food. Perhaps it was her father’s genes in charge here; the engineer, completely and thoughtfully mapping out every new plane, testing the new substance ever so carefully.

I see an strong sense of independence emerging in her young personality, and it made me realize that she’s no longer my baby. She’s my little girl now. And for the first time, with striking clarity and eminent resolve, I feel my own mortality.

While on a business trip, I picked up “The DaVinci Code” to keep me occupied on the plane. I was raised Catholic, so I was wondering what the big hoopla was all about, anyway. About six chapters in, I was interrupted by a woman.

“Are you a Christian?”

I was rather taken aback at the abruptness with which she asked.

“Um, I grew up Catholic. Does that count?” I answered with a feeble smile.

“You can’t read that garbage and call yourself a Christian.”

Hmmm. Meanwhile, she’s got a Danielle Steele novel poking out of her bag. Not that I don’t like Danielle Steele, but I found it amusing that Dan Brown is GARBAGE while Danielle Steele is not.

Which brings me to my point. I loved “The DaVinci Code.” It was a well-crafted mystery drenched in religious icons that reminded me of my childhood. My mother was Catholic. My father was a Mason. It was a really great STORY. A work of FICTION. Did everybody else miss that? FICTION. If I write a story and use Catholic history as a backdrop, that doesn’t mean I’m attacking the entire religion. I’m writing about something I know, and dressing it up to make an interesting story. I liked it so much that I bought a couple of other Dan Brown books. Numerologists aren’t in a tizzy because he used a mathematical genius in “Angels & Demons.”

I understand people stand behind their religion, but can we take this issue at face value? Dan Brown presents a sacrilegious idea in his book. But he’s not putting it out there as a reference manual to the Catholic religion. And if you actually read it all the way through, you might be surprised.

FICTION, people. Get a life.