Suburban Goddess

On the rainy commute this morning, I came across a taxi going 25 MPH in the last lane (Peeve #1). As I gave him the benefit of the doubt, I trailed behind him for a moment at an acceptable distance, but he continued and actually slowed down to 15 MPH. In the fast lane (Peeve #2). As I passed him, I discovered he was talking on his cell phone (Peeve #3.) In retrospect, I should have left earlier. I should have been more patient. The guy was undoubtably lost. But because he didn’t use common sense or decency and pull over to the side of the road, choosing instead to block traffic during rush hour, IN THE FAST LANE, I felt obliged to do my part as traffic vigilante and blast him with the train horn.

It’s wrong to intentionally inflict misery upon another human being. I know this. But frankly, some mornings, I just don’t care.

My husband planned a wonderful weekend getway at a “house on a marina” in the sleepy little town of Rockport, a coastal community on the Gulf of Mexico. This “house on a marina” comfortably sleeps eleven, he was told, so we invited some extra friends & family to join in the holiday festivities.

Rockport, a mere “three and a half hour” drive from Houston, ended up being a seven hour drive with Houston traffic. But we were undaunted, and pushed forward to enjoy the weekend ahead. It was dark by the time we arrived, but not dark enough to see that sitting before us was a doublewide trailer with the words “Cabin 2″ stuck to the siding in 25¢ vinyl stickers. When the door opened, we were greeted with one communal living space, complete with two double beds and three futons. My husband braced for the backlash.

“You said it was a house on the water,” I said slowly.

“I didn’t say that,” he replied. “But the marina is right there!” He pointed at a boat tied to the pier directly across the shell road.

“You said it slept eleven,” I said as I stared at the carcass of one of the largest roaches I’d ever seen. My mother pointed out later that I should be grateful it was dead.

“It does!” my husband said proudly, pointing at each of the beds & futons. “Two, four, six, eight, ten, and one on the floor.” He pointed at the bathroom. “And it has a jacuzzi tub!”

I peeked my head around the corner and found another roach carcass, it’s six legs pointing towards the door. There, in the center of the floor was a hole, filled with an ancient jacuzzi tub. The model number had to be 1. The jets were some sort of metal, rusted with a green patina.

My mother looked at me worriedly. “I snore,” she whispered. I knew that already. Soon, everyone else in the room would be privy to that secret as well. Approximately three hours later, to be exact, when the walls of the doublewide were shaking from the force of her snoring. I stared at the textured ceiling and thought of my options.

1. Place pillow over sleeping husband’s face until he was no longer of this world.

2. Bitch all weekend and make everyone else miserable.

3. Laugh about it and make the best of it.

I opted for #3, and in the end, was thankful for it. The communist living space actually brought everyone closer, for better or worse, and it spurred great conversations with great people. I spent some quality time with both my mother & my child, caught up with an old friend & my sister-in-law, got artistically inspired in downtown Rockport, had a great cup of coffee at a local coffee joint, and rediscovered how sexy my husband is in a cowboy hat.

Isn’t that what vacations are for?

I’ve had an uneasy feeling nagging me of late. For one reason or another, whining irritates me more than usual. I think it might be that I’ve bombarded myself with negative images lately (damn Internet). But after you’ve seen people TRULY suffering, you can no longer feel sorry for your co-worker when they complain that they’re unhappy about the most trifling shit.

I turned a corner somewhere, and I honestly think it was good for me; having your child go under anesthesia is a minor worry, but having 2 logos in an ad that’s only supposed to have one, well, I just don’t see the reason to kvetch over crap like that anymore. Life is only as complicated as you decide to let it be.

My boss constantly tells me to pick my battles, and I’ve discovered that life has gotten easier now that I’ve finally put it into practice.

“This is not the hill to die on, Kristie.”

Great advice. It’s my new motto. Spread the word.

The trip home this weekend was a mixed-emotional affair. We were there for a wedding (Yea S. for making through the Q-Tips!), and we stayed at a hotel down on Bourbon Street. It appears to have recovered nicely; the old familiar stench of pee & beer is just as I remembered. But the drive in was downright eerie.

When you drive from the Northshore of Lake Pontchartrain to get downtown, you have to pass through several lower & middle class neighborhoods in New Orleans East. These neighborhoods are predominately black. But what was eerie is that even in the nicer neighborhoods, there is a deadly silence that lines the street much like the trash & debris that remains. There’s no evidence of rebuilding, or even repairing. Entire shopping centers are boarded up on both sides of I-10. It reminded me of the villages of Chernobyl; empty shells of a once-thriving community now haunted by the ghosts of a disaster. There are no signs of life, and no signs of hope. Where is the “Rebirth of New Orleans” that everyone’s been preaching about? Where did the millions & millions of relief dollars go? Because I can tell you first hand, I do not see it. The numbers aren’t adding up.

I’ve begged my parents to pack up & leave it all. My father is playing Russian Roulette with his property value; how do you know if your property will ever be worth anything again when it is surrounded by empty shells of homes with doors missing, windows smashed out, and trash lining the streets? Where is all the AID that was promised? I know that cleanup of a disater of this magnitude has an astronomical price tag, but as I look at deserted storefronts, I have to wonder, what are the people doing who used to care for this property? Where did they go? Did they pack up & say “SCREW LOUISIANA,” or are they sitting back & waiting for the government handout?

And what about those who are sitting back? Life is not fair; you chose to live there, this is the consequence. Get outside & clean up the mess! If you’re so damn proud to be a New Orleanian, then ACT like it. Don’t wait for FEMA to come sweep up the mess for you; you already know that’s NOT going to happen. You’ve had an entire year to feel sorry for yourself, it’s time to clean up! If they haven’t tuned on your electricity yet, or the insurance man hasn’t been to your property, shouldn’t you be knocking on your city official’s doors? They’re easy enough to find… follow the sound of the air conditioning unit & look for the lights.

Ugh, it makes me so mad. Crooked Louisiana politics have their tentacles in all that aid money, and the truly needy will never see it. If you want to make a difference there, go to the ATM, get cash, drive to New Orleans, and go to the harder-hit neighborhoods. Find the people who are standing out front with the rake & trashbag, ask them what they need, and GO GET IT for them. That’s what the government should have done to begin with. Why is that so f#$*ing hard?

All those Louisiana politicians are sitting back salivating, rubbing their greedy little hands together as their pointed little noses are glued to The Weather Channel. Get ready for Hurricane Season 2006! PAYDAY!!!

“So, what do you do for a living?”

“I’m the Art Director for (Name of Company).”

Blank stare.

“I make phone books for a living.”

“OH MY GOD! I HATE phone books. The paper makes my hands feel icky. So dry. Who uses those anymore anyway? I just call information.”

I can only hope one of my side businesses takes off, otherwise I might be out of a job soon.

So I went to see the big hoopla movie last night, and it was okay. Not great, not amazing, not riveting, just okay. Tom Hanks didn’t play the part the way I envisioned, and the directing was actually a little boring. There were a lot of oppurtunities to do something amazing with the story, but the editors stuck to the book, so in true movie fashion, the book was better. But you could hear the Christians hissing at each religious reference. That actually turned out to be more entertaining than the movie.

The references were fascinating, though, but lost on the majority of the crowd. For one thing, you had to have a pretty good knowledge of Christian history to figure out what they were talking about some of the time. And, of course, you had to appreciate what a genius DiVinci was (although much of DiVinci’s “code” was left out of the movie, so it almost didn’t make sense to call it that anymore). If you were clueless about art history, then you missed even more. There were so many visual references that were lost on so many people.

I think the biggest irony is that the movie seemed geared towards intellectuals (the very people who have momentarily lost their intelligence), but they took all the intellect out of it. Sad. I can’t believe people are getting upset about this.

Sorry about the hiatus, but I made the trek back down to New Orleans this weekend. Alex pulled through surgery with no problem; thanks to all the well-wishers & moms who calmed my nerves.

I made a decision on the five hour trip to New Orleans. The day that I snap, I’m going to get the biggest, longest, most-destructive-hunk-of-junk-metal-death-trap-ghetto-sled I can find and physically shove people out of the fast lane. I HATE people who cruise in the fast lane. There’s a special lane for people who like to drive fifteen miles an hour under the speed limit; GET IN IT!

I had plenty of time to research this (ten hours total), and this is by no means a racial slur, but the biggest offenders are big black women on cell phones. I don’t understand it. I think it’s a diva issue. I don’t mind if you’re fat, black & proud, but do you have to scream for attention in the fast lane? Granted, not all of the offenders fit this description, but HONESTLY, about 65% did. PLEASE, She-na-na, BACK THAT ASS UP and MOVE OVER! It’s enough to drive a white girl crazy! The other biggest offenders were at the opposite end of the spectrum; old white men. They also seem to have caught the superiority complex that gives them the right to block the fast lane. I don’t care if you have oil & gas money; if you drive a Lincoln then you can afford to go 10 miles an hour faster. What a great time to become an environmentalist; you’ll drill for oil in protected wildlife preserves, but you drive 45 MPH in your Land Rover because “It’s the right thing to do.”

I’ll tellling you, I’m going out Thelma & Louise style. Maybe a old Ford LTD, running down I-10 with a brush-guard on the front, plunking people like a pinball. If I can scare the crap out of just one person, the highways will be better for someone else.

Sometimes you gotta take one for the team.

God, how I wish people would get a life. I wrote about The DaVinci Code some time ago, but seeing the hoopla surrounding the movie just irritates the crap out of me. FICTION! FICTION! FICTION! When did all these theological scholars lose the ability to determine fact from fiction? It’s not like Christianity is going anywhere anytime soon, and it’s not likely that if someone believes Jesus was married that they will recieve a ticket straight to hell. If anything, it might lead them to question what they were taught & lead them back to the church to find the answer. Do they think the all-powerful Ron Howard, Dan Brown & Tom Hanks will topple Christianity as we know it? Both Brown & Howard (poor Opie) have both said, “If you think it will upset you, DON’T READ/WATCH IT!” Hmmm…that would be too simple, now wouldn’t it? I think beating up Ron Howard and Tom Hanks is just a publicity stunt on the part of the church; they need something to detract from the negative press they’ve been getting lately. Do the Christian thing & turn the other cheek, or just ignore it like you ignore the molestation of small boys in the church.

I wish the Bible-thumpers got as upset for movies that didn’t have anything to do with God. They should have told me not to watch “The Ring,” because I can’t look at static on my TV without freaking out now.

So we head for The Mercury Room downtown, a spot that K swears is one of the coolest in Houston. When we get to the parking lot, K reaches into the envelope and finds…nothing. The $200 in cash was not there. The Middle Eastern parking attendent is getting very annoyed with us as K flies into a fury. A nearby police officer watches with interest, and I start to imagine what a night in Houston lockup must be like. She eventually convinced the parking attendant that she would run to an ATM and return with cash. He regarded us suspiciously as we walked away.

“You not back in five minutes, I tow!” his warning followed us. I thought K would have an aneurysm on the spot, but she refrained. As we walked in the direction of the club, she stopped in front of the cop, reeking of alcohol.

“Let me askya sonethin…” she started, and relayed the whole story to the officer, who leaned back slightly but listened intently. He looked at me with some amusement, and I widened my eyes and feigned stupidity in response. After ten minutes, he told her it was basically her word against valet, and she shouldn’t have left the money in the car to begin with.

“I DIDN’T,” she replied loudly. “IT FELL OUT OF MY PURSE.” At this point I grabbed her hand and started to drag her away, mumbling thank you to the nice policeman who thankfully did not arrest her for being drunk in public.

As we moved closer to The Mercury Room, I started to feel horribly out of place. A group of guys walking by made the comment, “Hey, look, white girls.” Like we were some oddity of nature. And as I looked around, I realized we were. Apparently, a popular Houston rapper was performing at the club that night. K went from mad to furious. “Well, this is just f#$#$ great,” she said, just a little too loudly. A group of fabulous rapper groupies turned around with three snaps and a big attitude.

“You got a problem?” A large woman started moving towards us. I pulled K behind me and apologized quickly. “She’s drunk,” I offered. “She really doesn’t mean anything by it.” Big Momma did not seem convinced, so I quickly started pulling K back towards the car before we became a blurb on the ten ‘o’ clock news. We were immediately accosted by Parking Attendant, who, at this point, was seriously pissed off.

“You not bringing back my money! I tow! I tow!” He followed us all the way back to the car, which thankfully, was still there. All the while he’s following us, and other parking attendants are starting to gather in our very own version of West Side Story. I slowly reached for my heel in case I had to defend myself. We loaded into the car and immediately backed out. I waited for the THUD, but thankfully, K managed to miss the attendants. As we drove away, she pulled out her cell phone and dialed the restaurant. I knew what was coming next, but there was nothing I could do but grip the door handle & pray for this experience to be over. For the next twenty minutes, K weaved in and out of traffic in the Montrose area, alternating between gunning the gas as helpless pedestrians dove into bushes and coming to complete stops at red lights, all the while screaming at the valet manager about the virtue of his employees. I realized that she was trying to drive back to the restaurant, so I began to try to convince her that we could go somewhere else. After another ten minutes, she finally relented, and decided she wanted to dance.

The time was 12:30pm. Still no end in sight.

Our job is pretty tedious. Day in, day out, we have to produce piles of crap with limited creativity. So I’m actually happy to see my designers try to slip one past the proofers every now & then.

Today an ad sold for a headstone & monument company. But if you look closer, inscribed in Old English on the tombstone, you’ll find the name of one of the most irritating salesmen in the company. It’s our little way of saying, “Be as annoying as you like. We’ll still get the better of you in the end.” Or some version of that I am unable to write here.

It reminded me of a time when I inadvertently created a MAJOR mistake at one of my previous jobs, although this mistake was unintentional. The client was a major foodservice provider who needed a catalog cover for their annual trade show. The theme was “Mysteries of Egypt.” (I don’t really know what this had to do with food, but it gave them all a chance to dress up and walk like Egyptians). So I set about to create a hieroglyphic slate with some carved text. I found a really cool glyph font that had small Egyptian characters, and used it as part of the background.

It went to press, 25,000 copies. As it was rolling off the press, both the pressman & the production manager commented on how cool the cover was. I was quite proud of myself, until the production manager squinted for a moment, pulled the cover away, and made the comment, “WTF is that??”

I took the cover from her and looked. There, in all his glory, was an Egyptian king standing at attention. And he was extremely well-endowed. I was mortified; I’d just hit various keys to lay down the glyphs, I didn’t think any of them would be pornographic! The production manager looked at me with suspicion.

“I swear I didn’t know! I didn’t do it on purpose!” I shrieked. At the end of the day, I had created such an uproar within the company that I expected to escorted out by the end of the day. After weighing the options (trash $7,500 worth of work or pray they didn’t notice), we opted for the latter. Luckily, nobody noticed, but after that, the production manager personally proofed everything that came off my desk. To this day, that manager still swears I did it on purpose.

Did I?