Suburban Goddess

I feel that I must preface this post with an apology to those sensitive individuals I am about to offend. If you offend easily, then hit the BACK button immediately and go back to where you came from. To those not faint-of-heart, read on, but at your own risk.

While standing in line at a local sub shop that will remain nameless, I had the luck to fall behind an elderly woman and her friend. It was the lunch rush, and the line stacked up quickly behind me as the woman and her friend peered at the menu above the attendant’s head.

“I can’t see that….what does it say?”

“I think today is meatball day…it’s Tuesday, right?”

“What?”

“It’s meatball day….it’s Tuesday, right?”

“What?”

“It’s meatball day…..meatball sandwiches today…on special.” (It’s Monday, by the way.)

“Oh, but I don’t like meatballs….what else do they have?”

“I don’t know, I can’t see that. Can you see that?”

“I can’t see that…what else do they have?” (Who’s on first?)

The attendant offers a helping hand. “We have turkey, roast beef, ham, tuna…”

“What?”

“She said tuna.”

“I don’t like tuna…what else do they have?” (PICTURES, Grandma, look at the PICTURES.)

“I think they have chicken here…”

“I want BBQ. Do they have BBQ?”

The attendant looks relieved. “Yes ma’am, we have BBQ sauce. We can put it on the chicken if you would like.”

“No, no, I don’t want chicken.”

“You don’t want BBQ chicken?” the friend asks.

“No, no, I just said, I don’t want chicken. What else do you have?”

The attendant points up above her head. Hallelujah. “We have all those sandwiches up there. You can pick any one of those.”

Silence…..more silence……then the rumbling of an angry mob beginning behind me. Oh dear God, I’m in the way. I quickly look for a way out, but it appears the only way is over the counter, seeing as how there are about 15 people in front of the door. I figure I can clear it; I’m tall. Old Lady finally points a gnarled, wrinkled finger above the attendant’s head.

“Is that chicken?”

“I thought you didn’t want chicken…” says the friend.

“I might want chicken, if it’s BBQ chicken. It has to be cooked that way.”

“No ma’am,” says the attendant. “It’s pre-cooked, and we can put BBQ sauce on it for you.”

“Oh no, that’s not what I want. I want the chicken BBQ’ed.”

Silence. Rumble, rumble.

“You don’t BBQ the chicken here?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Well, that’s what I want… I want BBQ’ed chicken.”

“We don’t have that ma’am.”

“You don’t have chicken?”

“No ma’am, we have chicken, it’s not BBQ’ed, we put the sauce on here.”

“You don’t have chicken?”

Silence. “Yes, ma’am, we do.”

“You have BBQ’ed chicken?”

Pause. “Yes ma’am, we can make BBQ chicken for you…..”

“Well, why didn’t you just say that?” She turned to her friend. “Why didn’t she just say that? These kids today just don’t listen.”

I am overjoyed that this law passed. There are a few things I am absolutely adamant about, and knowing that a convicted child molester is in the vicinity of my daughter is one of them. Sure, I believe as a human, you have rights. And as a human, the right to privacy is one of them. But when you violate my rights, or worse yet, the rights of a helpless child, well, screw your right to privacy. That child had a right to a normal childhood, and you destroyed that. That child will never, NEVER recover fully. So why should I allow you to walk away after you serve time and hope you’ll never do it again? Oops, I screwed up, sorry.

Statistics show that many pedophiles are repeat offenders. Does anybody hear that? They WILL do it again. How can you defend the right to privacy of someone who has willingly and purposefully hurt a child? If your right to privacy is so important to you, then DON’T TOUCH THE CHILDREN. I think it’s pretty much a no-brainer. You gave up that right when you took away the rights of another human.

As a parent, I’m faced with issues everyday. This is one instance where I feel my tax money is being put to good use. The reality of life is that there are bad people out there. Whether they’re still bad or not, that’s something for everyone else to hash out. But if they did it once, and they live near me, I want to know where they are. And while I normally don’t make it a habit to judge people, this is my exception. I don’t believe pedophiles ever “recover.” I think they just fight the urge ’till they either work through it, give into it, or die. And that’s not a gamble I want to risk when my daughter is playing outside.

My husband’s new hobby is buying cars. By buying cars, I mean he’s dabbling in dealership circles, going to auctions and flipping cars for friends. This has resulted in a high turnover of cars in front of my home. At one time, we recently had seven cars in our driveway. (Luckily, one sold quickly, so we we reduced to six). While I’m happy that this hobby makes him happy, I’m sure the neighbors are starting to talk. It’s one thing when you’re redneck; it’s another thing when you’re redneck and have a bunch of cars.

Scratch that. It’s one thing when you’re redneck and you have a bunch of cars that RUN.

Jef got me thinking about what kind of boss I am, and I realize with great disappointment that he may be right. Looking back at my behavior, I’m NOT very consistent. Some days I’m up, some days I’m down. Some days I expect more than others. So today, I am trying a new approach. I will expect the same thing every day, and make those expectations clear. I will attempt to keep my personal feelings out of the workplace, because moodiness really has no place with such strict deadlines. And I will attempt to find better ways to control my stress. All of this may give the impression that I’m a cold bitch, but at least that way they would learn to expect the same behavior, and can count on my newfound consistancy. Because he’s right; it’s HARD to work for someone when you don’t know what to expect that day. My boss is clear in his expectations, always keeps the customer as the focus of issues, and reamians fair but firm in his decisions. Because of that, I respect him. And if I want that type of respect, I’ve got to change the way I’m currently approaching things.

Or maybe Jef is just a chauvanist.

Have you ever been working on a project with multiple databases and found that you just wanted to pull the plug and start over….

Have you ever hit the DELETE button and immediately realized you just screwed an entire site up?

I have. At least the blog is still working.

I’m not sure when the trend began, but over the years it seems that crosses at the point of automobile deaths have multiplied exponentially. I don’t stopto look at them, but I will make an effort to read the names or look at the pictures as I drive by, which, I guess, is the point of them being there. But in the short drive from the grocery store to my home, there are 4 crosses, the most recent being the twelve-year-olds who took a joyride last week that ended up wrapped around a pine tree. The other 3 crosses also represent people who were 18 years old and younger. (I know because I read the “born-on” date).

God forbid anything should ever happen to my child, but I would think a gravestone would be sufficient. I don’t think that I would want a memorial in the spot of her death. It’s not like I wouldn’t know where she died; I’m sure no parent could ever drive past the spot their child died without being acutely aware that it happened THERE. Do they think that the spirit lingers there? Are they supposed to serve as a warning to others? Because honestly, I must live in one of the most dangerous places to drive in Houston.

I don’t mean to sound heartless or uncaring, but it’s just damn CREEPY. I don’t deal with death well, and to be surrounded by these contant reminders of mortality while I’m head-long into middle age does not help the anxiety levels. There has to be a better way to celebrate a life cut short than memorializing their place of death. I wouldn’t want to be remembered wrapped around a tree.

I am amazed at how many people will sidestep my office & go straight over my head because they don’t want to deal with a woman. Seriously, I didn’t think this crap still happened, but it does. They don’t ever even give me the chance to do my job, but go straight to my boss because they think I will tell them no. Now they have insured that I will tell them no, because, yes, I have a chip on my shoulder. I do. I didn’t, but they insisted on treating me like I didn’t exist, so they put it there.

I keep telling people, if they think I’m a bitch now, then perhaps they shouldn’t piss me off. They haven’t seen the real bitch yet. I hide her in the doublewide. God help anyone who lets that redneck out.

Our neighborhood, as I’ve said before, is a great place to live. People actually talk to one another, look out for one another, & keep an eye on each other’s kids. It’s rare in this day and age to find a neighborhood where people actually interact. But with interaction comes the inevitable; gossip.

I opened my email this weekend to find that one of our neighbors had taken it upon herself to organize some charity events for another set of neighbors. These other neighbors have both been stricken with overwhelming health problems. Now, I know The Organizer; she herself has had health problems & people banded together to help her out in her time of need. So I understand that she feels the need to pass it on, which I think is wonderful. But in her lengthy email, she divulged a great deal of personal information about this usually private couple. I don’t know how she came by this information, but I’m assuming it was directly from the source.

Well, enter The Friend Of The Sick. She was offended that The Organizer divulged this personal information, and was upset on the part of The Sick. Thus began an email war, the War of the Righteous, right in my inbox. (This isn’t the first time there has been a war in my inbox; there was the Bunco War of 2006. Sixteen housefraus with computers can lend to some pretty interesting entertainment.) But it left me feeling uncomfortable, because now I know the entire medical history of two people that I barely know. I myself would be pretty uncomfortable if someone sent out my personal information to my entire neighborhood, but then, if I were in need, maybe I wouldn’t. I don’t know. Either way, I do feel that I didn’t really need to be cc’ed on all the ensuing responses.

Now the lines are being formed, & I’ve already been asked to pick a side. Who’s right? The Organizer, whose righteous and noble intentions were horribly misunderstood as a nosy neighbor, or the Friend of The Sick, whose righteous and noble intentions were misunderstood as a controlling housefrau? Personally, I DON’T CARE who’s right. I personally think they’re BOTH out of line for drawing my innocent little inbox into the battle. If you tell me a neighbor is in need, I will do what I can to help. I don’t need to know the gory details. If you feel it was out of line to divulge gory details, then tell the informer directly; don’t publicly shame them in front of all cyberspace.

And people wonder why I don’t drink at neighborhood functions….

I am ashamed of my behavior yesterday. I shouldn’t have been so happy to inflict pain on someone. I stooped to Said Person’s level of childish behavior, and it continues to bother me today. I try so hard to be a better person. I try so hard to be accommodating. I realize that some people will never accept you, and that’s THEIR problem, not yours. So why is it that some people are blessed with the amazing ability to let that kind of stuff simply roll off of them without a thought? I envy that.

Yeah, I have self-esteem issues.

I hate spent a great deal of time & effort in my life to repress the redneckness that occasionally tries to scratch it’s way out of the doublewide within…

…however, on occasion, I am finding that it’s actually therapeutic to let her out. If someone insists on trying to cut you down, and insults you, and stabs you in the back, what kind of example are you setting if you continue to take it? I’ve tried to be noble and turn the other cheek. I tried to handle them with care & understanding. I tried to kill them with kindness. Unfortunatlely, that seems to just egg Said Person on.

So yesterday, I cracked. I know what pushes Said Person’s buttons; she cannot be confronted with something that she does not know the answer to. As she whined & complained, I listened with glee, horrifed at myself that I actually found happiness in her misery. Rather than admitting defeat & asking me to help, Said Person continued to waste time until she was forced to leave in a fit of frustration. I couldn’t help but fling a sarcastic remark at her retreating back. Petty, I know, but the slight pause in her step and the smoke pouring out of her empty head gave me enough satisfaction to keep me smiling through today.

Take that, bitch. There’s more where that came from. To coin your favorite phrase; hope that works out for ya!