Suburban Goddess

I went in to see my doctor today for some routine blood tests. I used to have a hellacious fear of needles, but through the years I have been lucky enough to encounter some great nurses. The technician today was no exception; she’s frequently taken blood samples from me before, and her gentle touch & extreme care makes it relatively painless everytime. She always remembers me when I sit down it the chair:

“I’m fine-” I start…

…”I know, as long as you don’t SEE the needle,” she finishes. We smile at each other & I close my eyes while she wraps the rubber tourniquet around my left bicep. A tiny poke, and I don’t even feel the blood coming out this time. She pulls out the needle & puts a small piece of gauze on the area, telling me to hold it firmly. A moment later, I’m on my way to front desk to pay my co-pay.

As I’m standing there, I feel something crawling across my fingertips, put I pay it no attention at the moment. The nurse behind the desk points to me and says something, but I didn’t understand her.

“Your bannnnnfff…” she says.

“I’m sorry, what?” I ask.

“Your banddfff…your banndff….” she says, pointing.

“My what?” I repeat, looking down. It was that moment I realized she was saying Band-Aid, because my entire left arm was now covered with blood that was dripping off my fingers.

And with that, I promptly passed out.

I have never passed out in my life (without alcohol), so I actually found it funny when I came to & three concerned faces were hovering over me. Just like in the movies! The nurse, the receptionist & the lab technician helped me to a nearby chair, when the technician commented, “Obviously I can’t let you see your blood, either…”

And with that, it is official. I am a bonafide, complete & total wuss. I will now carry Band-Aids with me at ALL times.

It took years for me to get where I am today. Lots of spelling errors, lots of wasted print runs, lots of wasted time, & lots of wasted money. So I’d like to think I MIGHT know what I’m talking about when it comes to print design. Not the design side, because that’s all relative to person’s opinion, but the technical-can’t-argue-with-a-two-ton-press-and-a-postscript-file side.

After years of fruitlessly banging my head against a brick wall trying to explain graphic formats to salespeople & clients, I drafted a course called Graphics 101. It involved short, simple sentences & lots of bright, catchy illustrations. The presentation that accompanied it had lots of fun little tunes and cute animations. There are four basic handouts titled:

a.) “Why Is My Customer’s Logo Fuzzy?”

b.) “Why Doesn’t The Color Match On My Ad?”

c.) “Why Can’t I Use The Picture Off The Internet?”

And of course, my personal favorite…

d.) “Why Can’t I Use Microsoft Word To Design My Ad?”

I figured that this was the proactive solution to all my problems. Written in USA Today-level language with lots of big pictures, surely I wouldn’t have any more communication problems! When they see what happens to a photograph when you blow it up to seven times it’s intended size, I would never again encounter a 72dpi image. Oh happy day! Oh joy!

After giving them the handouts on FOUR SEPARATE occasions, after REPEATED phone calls rejecting artwork, after doing everything short of pulling out an aluminum baseball bat & a cattle prod, I STILL receive files in Mircosoft Word and instructions to “just use the picture off the Internet…..”

WHY, GOD, WHY?????

I grew up in a tiny Mississippi town nestled near the southern part of the Pearl River. A marina used to stand across the street from the house I grew up in (pre-Katrina). My grandmother’s house was about a mile & a half up the road, behind the small yellow Catholic church.

Most Saturdays were spent on a boat in the river, either fishing or water skiing. Every Sunday we would go to church, then walk over to my grandmother’s house and sit in the back yard under the massive old oak trees. The adults would talk over a couple of beers (always in koozies), and the kids would either play in the pea gravel or run up to the grassy point and pick blackberries or strawberries until my grandmother would yell at us. It was here that I learned the value of a good story.

My aunts & uncles had hard lives. They would all gather in a circle, some in the porch swing, others laid back in old dollar store canvas chairs. I would hide behind the folding lawn chair and listen as they relived their childhood antics. Do you remember when Charlie did this? Or Neice did that? And then there was the time Leona did this, and Mary Ruth, well, ha, ha,ha… As they would drink more, the stories became more animated, more lively, and a little more inappropriate for children. About that time, my parents would kiss everyone goodbye and we’d head home.

I love the stories. And as I grew up, I surrounded myself with people who tell stories the same way. Attention to detail, animated motions, and most importantly, heart. It wasn’t a conscious decision, I just gravitate to that kind of person. Someone who can help me escape reality a few moments at a time, and take me to a place that meant something to someone.

You would think, as time progresses, that people like this would be easy to find, but it’s actually getting harder for me. People get so wrapped up in NOW, that they forget the moments that make their life special. Perhaps that’s why it’s so hard for me to truly connect with people. I want to hear the stories, not the complaining. I want to know the person, not what you think I want to hear. I want to truly connect, not just small talk.

It’s a lofty expectation for someone you just meet.

Over the weekend, my husband & I decided to try out the new drive-in in Tomball. It’s been over six months since we’ve gone out to a movie, which is unheard of for us. During that life before baby (distant, distant memory), we would go to the movies almost every week. Immediately post-baby, we thought we were going to be the “lucky” parents whose kid could sleep through anything, and we were until about seven months. The last movie we saw together was “Walk the Line.” Actually, we didn’t see it together because we spent the entire movie playing tag team with the baby in the lobby. So we were pretty excited to hear about the drive-in; freedom again! The ability to let the baby talk all she wants in the backseat without the angry stares and frequent “SHHHHHHH!”

We arrived around 7:30, and it was already packed. Row after row of Ford & Chevy pickup trucks with dirty children and beer coolers. I was a little apprehensive at first. If somebody pulled out a shotgun, there was no other option than to run. But the atmosphere was light, and the rednecks were jovial. Some stopped by to admire the truck (bright yellow F-250), others smiled at Alex as she played in her playpen. (Can’t bring that to the cinema!) The weather was absolutely beautiful, and as the sun set and the lights came up, the old fifties music began to play and Alex danced happily on the backseat. (Can’t do that either!) For $10, we watched two new releases (Ice Age 2 & Failure to Launch, and that would have cost us at LEAST $28), ate popcorn, and let the kid climb around the cab of the truck until she passed out in the backseat. During Intermission, the redneck children played happily on the field beneath the screen (no grass or fresh air at the megaplex). And aside from the creepy fifties music (which is catchy, but I can’t get the movie “Christine” out of my head), it was a very pleasant evening.

I have a feeling we’ll be frequenting that establishment more often. Me, my baby, my husband, fresh air & a beer cooler. What more do you need?

Sorry for the inconvenience to my dedicated readers, but apparently I caught the eye of a spammer who was driving me insane. Enter Word Verification, that annoying little necessity that forces the reader to decipher some squiggly text before you get your turn to speak. Who are these bastards who intrude into my daily zen, hocking useless products and services to the technologically-impaired & hopelessly naive? Does ANYBODY ever REALLY click on this stuff anyway? Why can’t these web parasites get a life and try a real job?

My husband & I have been juggling alternate schedules lately. Somehow, our activities cannot seem to coincide (either that, or it’s an activity that the other has no interest in). So a few nights ago, I was happy that we found each other in the house at THE SAME TIME.

But when I came in from work, I was disappointed to find his nose buried in his laptop (where it tends to spend a WHOLE lot of time.) He can spend hours cruising car forums, until the entire evening has disappeared in a click of a web page.

“You pay more attention to those damn forums than you do ME,” I complained.

“No, I don’t.” he replied without looking up. Click click. Click.

“Yes you do. You get to come home early, and all you do is sit on the couch and surf. It’s not fair. I want you to pay that kind of attention to ME.”

“Then join the forum.”

Indeed. Bay-stard.

I hate laundry. I hate it so much that I will let it pile up all week until there is a huge mound of clothing that blocks the path from my bed to the bathroom. Then, in moment of pure disgust (usually on a Sunday), I throw everything in the washing machine at once and leave while it wobbles furiously from being overloaded. But I digress…

I had about a month’s worth of Alex’s clothes that I needed to put away, so I lugged her upstairs. She rarely spends time in her room unless she’s sleeping, so she loves the opportunity to explore when I let her. So I gather the basket of clothes, and lay all the empty hangers around me on the floor.

Mistake Number 1: Choosing to sort the laundry on the floor. As soon as something is laying neatly, she feels the urge to pull at it (usually whatever is at the BOTTOM of the stack).

Mistake Number 2: Assuming that her room will keep her occupied for over ten minutes. I am dealing with the daughter of the poster child for ADD. After chewing on assorted blocks, pulling all the stuffed animals off the bookcase, pulling over the diaper hamper and climbing up the changing table, the whole “Alex’s Room” situation was pretty much played out.

Mistake Number 3: Putting hangers within a one-year-old’s reach. She is inexplicably drawn to hangers for some reason. Maybe it’s the shape, maybe it’s something new, maybe it’s the taboo because Mommy constantly takes them away and says “no no.”

But I knew exactly when she’d had enough of it, because it came hurtling at the back of my head. With a shriek I turned to regard my previously passive daughter, who obviously found the sound funny because she erupted into the beautiful sound of tinkly childhood laughter. I, however, did NOT find it funny.

“NO.” I barked. “No ma’am!” With that, the laughter quickly stopped, the smile faded, and slowly the face transformed into the huge pout that always precedes the crying. Immediately I regretted my tone and did exactly what I swore I would never do. I gathered her into my arms and kissed her until the smile came back. A few moments later I was rewarded with another hanger in the back of the head.

So the true trials of motherhood have begun. She’s only one; how do I teach her that throwing things at her mother is not socially acceptable (unless you have a horribly dysfunctional family) ? I know this is just one of many issues I will face in my life, but now that I’m faced with them, what I SAID I was going to do is going to be a LOT harder than I thought…

I was at classy wine bar this weekend with a friend of mine. Since it was “Girl’s Day Out,” we got dolled up and took my sportscar, a Lotus Elise. Upon arrival, the valet looked at the car with a small degree of awe.

“Dude, what is this?”

“It’s an Lotus Elise,” I replied, giving him the additional instruction that it starts with a BUTTON so he wouldn’t attempt to break the key off in the ignition. Now, those of you who know me know that I love any and all types of cars, and my biggest addiction (other than Starbucks) is speed. So I was pretty flattered when they parked my little yellow car next to a SL600 V-12 Mercedes directly down in front. A few moments later, two Ferrari 360 Modenas joined the party.

We sat at table on the patio since it was a beautiful day, and I observed how many people looked at the cars parked down in front. What amazed me the most is how many people walked right past the $100,000+ cars over to my tiny little go-cart car.

There are NO creature comforts in the Elise; I almost feel like I should turn around & pull-start it like a 5hp Briggs & Stratton. We bought the car because it is a racecar, pure & simple. But slap a label on the back and give it a pretty yellow paint job, and people assume it’s a $100,000+ car, too. I had the realization that labels can be very, very misleading…. and that made me wonder how many people judged me when I stepped out of it.