Suburban Goddess

As I get older, it gets harder for me to ignore the injustices of the world. Children carrying guns in Africa, people dying of radiation fallout in the Ukraine, people being kidnapped in South America for ransom… it’s all horribly disturbing and extremely frightening. And it makes me realize that somehow, I won the cosmic lottery. I was born in America, land of the plentiful, freedom to do & say what I want (for the most part.) It’s no wonder the rest of the world hates Americans. We have too much, and we take it all for granted. Sure, we have to occasionally dodge a bullet downtown or step over a homeless bum, but as a whole,we’re PRETTY DAMN LUCKY.

But if there’s one thing that frightens me the most, it’s history. History shows us that all great empires eventually fall. I can only pray that America can hold on until me, my daughter, & any of my descendants are long gone. Because I don’t think I’m strong enough to live through a revolution.

I really need to spend less time on the Internet.

When I was a sophmore in high school, I brought home the ugliest, tiny, terrier-mixed-breed-yap-yap dog. He had belonged to my boyfriend’s aunt, a 350 pound heifer who accidently sat on the 2 pound dog and broke his front leg. Since they were redneck, and the dog was “broke,” they decided to put him down. So the morning of the planned doggie execution, I skipped my first class, drove my Hyundai to Jabba’s house, and stole the dog.

My parents’ first reaction was swift and sympathetic. “Hell, no!”

I had to plead for this poor dogs’ life. He was so ugly, he could hardly be called a dog. But eventually I convinced my parents that returning this poor pitiful creature to Jabba would certainly seal his fate as alligator food, and they relented. And that is how Peanut came into our family.

As the years progressed, Peanut became my mom’s constant companion. He wore a tiny spiked collar, a testament to the fact that size does NOT matter. If you looked him straight in the eye, he would growl ferociously; if you threatened my mother, he would lunge for your throat with his tiny needle teeth. He had contracted some bizarre flea disease in the first year of his life, a debilitating muscle disease that, in theory, killed the host within two years. That theory held true for his entire litter; all six died within that two year span, except Peanut. Our family veterinarian warned us repeatedly, don’t expect him to live much longer. On occasion the disease would flare up, and Peanut would limp around on three legs, which automatically spawned a wave of sympathy treats from my mother. Years continued to roll by. Sometimes I would watch Peanut limp past my mother, only to put the “lame” leg down when she wasn’t looking. I was absolutely amazed by the manipulative power this dog possessed. I actually came to admire him. I could almost see his fuzzy little doggie lips curl into a smile when I regarded him with suspicion, releasing the stench of rotted shrimp from his aged, yellow teeth.

About four years ago, the veterinarian’s diagnosis was not good. Peanut only had a month to live. Apparently, nobody told Peanut. The veterinarian would look at the dog in absolute amazement everytime my mother brought him in. “This dog should have been dead YEARS ago.” Well, he continued to thrive, taking it one day at a time.

I got the email yesterday that my mother finally had him put down, and I was stunned. The dog was 15 years old. He had managed to thwart death for 13 years, only to die by lethal injection in the end. I asked my mother, “Why? Why did you do it?”

“He was suffering. It was his time to go.”

I thought about all the times I watched that dog manipulate my mother to get his way, and I had to wonder, was it actually real this time, or did his plan go terribly awry? Either way, Peanut has gone to a better place, and another chapter of my life has now ended. One more tie to my childhood has been severed.

I don’t know why I am so annoyed by people who try to be helpful. I’m not talking about those annoying people who think they know everything, I’m talking about those annoying people who genuinely have a suggestion for EVERYTHING.

“But what about this? What if we try this? How about we try it this way?” Always delivered with a smile, candy-coated goodness in every breath. The type of person who’s just starting out, who is not yet jaded by the harsh realities that even though it’s a good idea, I DON’T WANT TO DO IT simply because they are the one who suggested it.

Petty? Yes. Immature? Yes. Spiteful? Yes, yes, yes, but I look at it this way; if I crush any hope that I will ever listen to these suggestions, then maybe I won’t have to listen to them anymore. Sometimes a good idea is not worth the credit I have to give you later….

Well, I’ve moved the site to my server, so now I no longer have a fractured website. Unless, of course, you start looking at all the components of my website, which no longer match, which means I get to start over AGAIN. The template may change here, but the address is permanent. Unless, of course, something happens with my web host. Then I’d have to start all over AGAIN. Unless, of course, I just let it all lapse into oblivion…. but we all know that I can’t keep my mouth shut that long.

I’ve been trying to launch a fledgling photography business on the side (because I have SO MUCH free time), and I’ve taken on a few jobs for free. Actually, they’re not free, because I get exclusive rights to use the photographs in advertising, but for the models I’ve chosen, it’s a win-win situation; they get free pictures for their portfolio, and I don’t have to pay a modeling fee.

So this weekend I had two shoots; one paying, one not. The paying gig was a referral from the non-paying gig, so I was pretty happy to do another shoot for the girl who got me the business. Not to mention the girl is beautiful, and she photographs extremely well with very little direction. So I was rather shocked when I was told she was angry because I took a picture of her friend with my car.

Now, eighteen was not THAT long ago, and I do recall that things were much more dramatic back then. Rivalries were fierce, even among friends. But flash forward twelve years, & I became really irritated.

1) If you’re getting free pictures, and most of them are in the style of YOUR choosing, you shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

2) I am a 30-year-old woman, and I pay the note on my car, and if I want to take of picture of somebody with it, I will do so.

3) If the person taking a picture with said car happens to be your best friend, you should be happy for her.

4) If you’re on good terms with the photographer, then chances are the opportunity will arise that you will be able to take the picture also.

5) If both you and your best friend are insanely beautiful, you should shut up and appreciate it before you make it to thirty and something as stupid as a picture doesn’t matter anymore.

God, to be eighteen and have eighteen-year-old problems again…. try a mortgage, daycare, sick kid, stressful job, messy house, and bills, and if you make it through all that, then you can come back to me and bitch about a picture!

I watched the moving “Waiting” this weekend. As far as a plot goes, it’s non-existent, and the dialogue is wretched, but the core message behind the movie had me riveted.

“Waiting” is about a bunch of twenty-somethings who make their living in the restaurant industry. And while I’m watching this, I’m suddenly transported back to my restaurant days. It’s amazing how accurate they portrayed the average American restaurant and the personalities that work there.

There’s the slutty young underage hostess. The cool pretty-boy that sleeps with everyone. The woman who’s been waitressing just a little too long (hence the term, Doorway To Schizophrenia, a term coined by myself & a good friend. You walk into the back, and you curse like a trucker; you walk into the dining room and you’re Ms. Suzy Sunshine). The obnoxious tattooed grill cook. The older experienced sage who everyone goes to for advice. The drugged out bus boy. The lesbian bartender. And let’s not forget the after-party EVERY SINGLE NIGHT, where all the employees get together to unwind and end up in some co-worker’s bed the next morning.

It amazed me how much of that I’m suppressed. I think it was self-defense, a method to cope with the post-traumatic stress disorder you contract when you work in a restaurant. But it was so accurate, that it opened a floodgate of memories that I’d left somewhere in my subconscious. Good times, good times.

So which personality was I? I was very much like the main character; the once-ambitious but now slightly lazy server who gets caught in the machinations of the daily grind…quiet but witty… far too smart to be a lifetime server, but too lazy to figure out what I want to do with my life. I do my job, and do it well. But eventually, reality calls, and I realize I don’t want to spend the rest of my life smelling like country-fried steak. And that’s when I decide to turn in the apron and follow my dream…

…but you know, I made more as a waiter, and the damn government didn’t take HALF as much in taxes!

Have you ever encountered someone who asked you a question, but refuses to listen to the answer? It’s a carefully-laid trap, a dangling question to which THEY have already formulated an answer of their own, without ever having the intention of listening to your reply. My question is this:

WHY IN THE HELL DO YOU ASK THE QUESTION IF YOU OBVIOUSLY HAVE THE ANSWER ALREADY???

I was tagged by TexasGoodies and I figure if I don’t share then I’ll have seven years of bad luck or something….

Here’s the rules:

Go write 6 weird facts/things/etc. about yourself in my comment box and on your blog, then tag six more people!
Then leave a comment that says “You are tagged� in their comments telling them to read your blog.

Now, six things about me….

1. I wear stripper shoes, but I am not and NEVER HAVE BEEN a stripper. I just love platforms, even though I’m already 5′11″. I usually top out somewhere around 6′3″ with the shoes. I figure if I’m going to be freak of nature, I’m going all out.

2. I twirled a flag in the 1992 Florida Citrus Bowl Halftime show in a shiny wizard costume. Harry Potter would be proud.

3. I used to date a guy whose grandmother had a six-foot alligator named Mike. She’s feed it chicken twice a week. One day, my new puppy disappeared. A few days later, two more dogs disappeared. A few days after that, his nephew was playing next to the pond with another dog when Mikey decided to grab a snack. Luckily, he got the dog and not the kid. I’ve hated alligators ever since.

4. In 2002, I was the “Fastest Woman In Louisiana.” No, not a reference to stripper shoes. I was the Trans-Louisiana Autocross Women’s Champion. Okay, so it’s not the Indianapolis 500, but according to the SCCA, it’s racing! I won in a Miata. Despite upgrading to some very impressive cars, I’ve never been able to win again since.

5. My other career choices in high school were 1) genetic scientist or 2) lawyer. I chose to be a graphic artist instead. I’d love to go back to high school and beat my guidance counselor with a baseball bat.

6. On my first day all by myself as the youngest manager in the history of Cracker Barrel Old Country Store, I had a kid lock all the bathroom stalls, so I had to climb on the filty floor and unlock all of them. I also had a gas leak, which brought the fire department. And to finish off the day, a fat man had a heart attack during the lunch rush. More sirens. That same day was the first time I received flowers from what is now my husband, and I quit that job shortly thereafter.

As I was writing this, I realized that I have a pretty colorful history. And I always thought of myself as boring! So I pass the Tag Plague onto the following victims, er, participants: Just Kelly because she’s REAL, Big Pink Cookie beacuase I love her photographs, I Don’t Think beacuase, yes, somebody DOES read your blog, Ain’t Chicken because she’s funny as hell, Pete, because his blog reminds me of Dennis Miller, Mary @ French Roast, even though I know she hates this shit but she’s too interesting to NOT do this to, & finally, TexasBug, because even though I don’t always agree with her, she brings up some good points and occasionally makes me laugh. To the people I tagged, I’m sorry, but it is a form of flattery, because I admire your work!

As the natural progression of marriage moves forward, you come to expect certain things from your partner. A kiss in the morning, “How was your day?” when you return home, your back scratched at night. These are the little things in marriage that you come to expect & eventually take for granted until you fight, and then all the little things become important again.

But then there are other little things that you begin to notice that get to you… those little habits that will start to annoy you, then really bother you, then drive you COMPLETELY INSANE. My biggest pet peeve for the longest time was a Q-Tip.

Every morning my husband has a habitual routine that includes sticking a Q-Tip in his ear. I like to tease him and remark, “Poking your brain awake?” while he makes comical faces of pleasure. That isn’t what bothered me. What bothered me was the way he would haphazardly flick the Q-Tip in the general direction of the trash basket and, inevitably, miss. And there it would sit on the floor.

Filthy little yellow ear-waxed Q-Tip.

I don’t know why it made me want to flip out. I think I might be a germophobe, bodily fluids in general gross me out, but ear wax & snot are definitely on my cannot-tolerate list. But I have been through a divorce, so I know that freaking out over a cotton ball on a stick is pretty stupid, so I’d clean it up and keep my mouth shut. It’s part of marriage. For better or for worse. This is the “worse” part. And considering what other people have to tolerate for “worse,”, I’ve got it pretty damn good.

So we’re having dinner with another couple, J. & S., and after a couple of drinks we start to bash our significant others, because that’s much cheaper than therapy. And it was then that I realized, I am not alone! S. has the exact same problem with the Q-Tips!!! Hallelujah! It was like a miniature Q-Tips Anonymous meeting, and here I could vent my Q-Tip frustration in a safe place. My husband looked at me like I was crazy as S. & I carried on about Q-Tips & socks, but I suddenly felt a sense of complete relief. Because finally, I knew that it’s not just me, and I’m not crazy. Sometimes your feelings need validation, otherwise you start to question your judgment, your character, even your sanity.

Shortly afterwards, my husband started making an effort to get the Q-Tips in the trash. The socks…well, that’s another story, but today, I want to say THANK YOU for the Q-Tips. It’s the little things that matter.