Suburban Goddess

I’ve had a lot of things I wanted to write about; the Katrina Anniversary, The JonBennet Sicko, Nagin’s ridiculous comments, cute things my kid does, 50 Cent…. but I can’t seem to stay focused lately. Wrapping my head around a complete thought takes my entire concentration and an act of God in the will power department. It’s not A.D.D., it’s just a compilation of too many interesting things happening at once. I’ve tried to slow down and focus on one thing at a time, but the interruptions are too numerous to count and if I get sidetracked in the middle of a great thought…well… then it’s gone. And then I’m left with a big empty screen to match my big empty head.

As I age, I’m finding that I appreciate the brutal honesty of certain people. If you can leave your feelings out of business, it’s amazing how much easier it is to get business done.

One of my clients has been sugar-coating his critisism of my design. As much as I appreciate the concern for my feelings, I would much prefer him to completely blast the design so we can move on to something different. After his third revision today, I finally told him that.

“You can tell me you hate it. It won’t hurt my feelings.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say we HATE it, there’s just some things about it….”

“Like what?”

“Um, like everything.”

GREAT. Now I am getting somewhere.

I was checking my bank statement online yesterday when I noticed my web host had charged me $115 for my new domain instead of the $15 that they were supposed to. So I called customer service to see what was going on.

“This is Company That Shall Remain Nameless Because I Don’t Advertise On My Site.” (For the sake of space, let’s just call them PowWeb).

“Yes, I think you charged me for a website, and I only wanted to register an additional domain.”

“And what is the name of that domain?”

“Um….(mumble).”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, what was that?”

“Rudebitchdotorg.” There was silence for a moment, then the young man on the other end cleared his throat with a nervous laugh.

“So what you’re saying, is that I should proceed carefully with this telephone call….”

I had put this idea on hold, but after traveling alone with a 1-year-old, I feel the need to resurrect this idea. I was AMAZED at how rude people have become. There are more instances than I have space to write about, but here are some of the ones that pushed me over the edge during my vacation:

1.) The Intercontinental Elevator: As I patiently waited for the elevator to reach my floor, I watched helplessly as the doors opened and everyone rushed in, leaving no spot for me & my child’s stroller. So I waited for the next elevator, and the same thing happened again. The third try, I stood directly in front of the doors, something that I hate to see other people do, but at this point, I had a plane to catch. Not only did people pour in around me, one person had the nerve to actually nudge the stroller out of her way. I stood with my mouth wide open in disbelief, watching the door close before me for the third time. I glared at the witch as they closed, but she didn’t look at me, content to press the buttons on her cell phone.

2.) The Security Checkpoint: Again, I’m lugging around a one-year-old, a stroller, and my camera/laptop bag. I prepared myself well in advance, removing my belt, shoes, wedding rings, sunglasses, and other possibly suspicious paraphanalia. I also removed the my daughter’s shoes, and unzipped my bag in anticipation of yanking my laptop out. As I neared the checkpoint, I felt like an Olympic runner, waiting for the gunshot to start the 100-yard dash. As soon as I possibly could, I started putting everything into the bins and shoving them through, but was caught off guard when the security offcial barked out, “Stroller through the X-ray machine!” I looked down at the monstrous Eddie Bauer deluxe version stroller and thought, “No f’n way…”

So I attempted to pull my daughter out with one hand and collapse the stroller with the other, to no avail. I set Alex down for a moment to struggle with the stroller, and she proceeded to walk towards the metal detector. The other guard barked at me, “You have to carry her through!” No kidding. I momentarily abandoned the stroller to chase my daughter, dragging her backwards, but she loudly insisted that she didn’t want to go that way. Pulling the “Limp Noodle” move, she slid from my grasp and started back towards the metal detector. By now, the @sshole business man behind me began to complain. He began shoving his laptop towards the conveyor, pushing my bins to the side.

“Miss, you have to CARRY your baby through!” the guard barked again.

“I KNOW,” I replied. “I’m TRYING.”

“Today…” mumbled the business man. At that point, I became so exasperated, I dropped the stroller, grabbed my daughter and plunked her down on the table, and gave him my best passive-aggressive “EAT SHIT” look. Apparently the look lost something in translation, because he continued to push his laptop towards the conveyor despite the fact that a CHILD was now in the way.

“Ex-CUSE ME!” I said through clenched teeth. “This isn’t exactly EASY.” But the jerk continued to push. In a rush of pure rage-induced adreneline, I collapsed the stroller and rammed it through the machine, grabbed my now screaming child, and walked through the machine.

“Beep!”

3.) The Security Checkpoint at Logan Airport: Pretty much the same scenario minus the change in my pocket that set off the alarm on the way to Boston. Fortunately for me, a heavily tattooed gentleman took pity on me, and in the only display of chivalry I encountered my entire trip, carried my bag for me to the gate. Funny that the scariest looking guy in the entire airport was the only one who gave a damn about doing the right thing. He told me later he had 2 kids of his own and his wife had to travel a lot without him, and he would have liked to see somebody help her. He was a roadie for Alice in Chains, returning home from a concert. With two full tattoo sleeves, long black hair, and the build of a biker on steroids, Roadie Man was an unlikely hero in my story, but I’ve always believed that you can’t judge people by the way that they look.

But you can judge them by the way that they act.

So without further ado, I loudly proclaim the birth of RudeBitch.org. The domain is MINE. Website to follow shortly. Passive-aggressives everywhere, get your camera phones ready. I am about to make my little mark on the world!

As the moment approaches when I’m supposed to get on a plane with my daughter, I’m starting to have some anxiety. We have rescheduled this trip once, & I refuse to do it again. I was already apprehensive about Alex’s first plane ride anyway; traveling with a kid in a CAR is difficult enough. Now let’s throw in security checks, a mammoth stroller, & my expensive camera equipment. At least I have my husband to get me to the gate, right? Nope, uh uh, he bailed on me to head to Dallas for a ball game. Rather than bitch about it, I sucked it up and took it in stride. I’m a big girl. I’m capable of getting things done by myself.

Then I get a phone call yesterday from daycare. Come get your sick kid. F’n great. Now I’m traveling with a sick kid. Granted, she’s acting like a perfectly normal 17 month old; she still screams when I take my cell phone away from her. So I called my best friend (after prying the cell phone away from the kid) to warn her. Gracious as always, she blew it off as no big deal; we just can’t let the kids swap bodily fluids. I tried to sigh in relief, but being the high-stung individual that I’ve become, it sounded more like a pathetic moan. But rather than bitch about it, I pushed forward. In an uncharacteristically grown-up move, I packed my bags last night, so I was completely prepared for today’s trip.

Then I get up this morning to go work out, and I see a reporter on TV standing at Intercontinental. Not a good sign. Standing in front of a Continental plane. Even less of a good sign. As he’s ticking off the list of items that you can’t have in your carry-on bag today, I realize with increasing dread that when I get home, I have to re-pack. I can only hope they won’t unwrap the gifts for my friend’s two-year old, but I know that in all likelihood, they will. I’m okay with that; I’d rather them be safe than sorry, and Scotch tape is cheap. But the timing is incredible. I HATE to fly. A bumpy flight into Philidelphia a few years back left me terrified of turbulence (chance of rain 30%), but to make matters worse, now I get to worry that Muhommed sitting next to me might mix up a Molitov Cocktail with his shampoo, toothpaste, & Bacardi 151. And quite honestly, it just pisses me off. If you’re mad at my govenment, take it out on my government. Leave me, and more importantly, my baby daughter, out of your fight. I don’t care who you worship; I just want to take a F’N STRESS-FREE VACATION!

At this point, I have to tell you, the plane doesn’t have to blow up to scare me to death. It is entirely likely that I will have an aneurysm long before I make it to the airport.

There’s a lot of reasons it’s good to be a redneck these days.

1.) The Return of The Camaro: Yes, the car that is the staple of trailer parks everywhere is slated to return. I, for one, am overjoyed at the return of the sports car, no matter what kind. As I clung to my redneck roots, zipping around the monstrous SUV’s piloted by Yenta Zombies, I knew that the Tank Trend couldn’t last.

But the Camaro has a special place in my heart. I had a Camaro in high school, (scratch that, I had a Hyundai & my mom had the Camaro, but she refused to drive it because “it had too much power,” so I was only allowed to drive it when I begged until her ears bled or unless she had an errand to run.) It was a 1984 model, six cylinder, automatic (too much power????), in a glossy black. That black paint job taught me a valuable lesson in life: never slide across the hood Bo Duke style when you have rivets on your Guess jeans. Anyway, the car was previously owned by a relative who disclosed there was a slight electrical problem. That translates to: the headlights would mysteriously FADE OUT slowly, then come back on. It was particularly unnerving after twilight on the Louisiana back roads with their infamous crater-ditches that fell two inches from the asphalt. This electrical trait lead many of my friends to refuse to set foot in the car, who became affectionately known as “Christine.” Viva la Camaro! Yee haw!

2.) WalMart slated to sell “America’s Gas.” Now, I know that most rednecks will look at this with disdain at first. Tree-huggin’ gas made out of corn? But we need to think this through… instead of turning over every cushion in the house and raiding your two-year old sister/cousin’s piggy bank to scrape up $3.24 to put in your Hemi-powered Pontiac Firebird (yes, I said Hemi-powered FIREBIRD), now you can run out back to MeMaw’s garden & pluck some corn! Better yet, you’re gonna be at WalMart anyway, so now you don’t have to push the car to the gas station, and now you’ll actually be able to get more gas for less! Hoo-doggie!

3.) The Return Of The Mullet! Haha. Just a joke. Thought I’d scare you guys for a minute.

Yeah, it’s a good time to be redneck. I think 2007 is gonna be our year….

…how certain songs can pluck you completely out of reality and drop you back in a moment in time where you remember things so intently, that you can smell the smells, feel the air, and remember that exact moment as clearly as it happened, even though you haven’t thought about it for years…

Shortly after I got home on Friday, my husband disappeared into the bathroom. Alex likes to follow him, so when she tried to open the door handle and found it would not budge, she started to cry. After a moment, I got up to open the door for her, figuring it was just stuck, but was surprised to find it locked. I fiddled with the doorknob, curious. We never lock doors in our house. There are no secrets. Alex & I banged on the simultaneously, but were answered with silence. A few minutes later, my curiosity was answered when he opened the door.

“I need your help,” he mumbled, zipping into the bathroom. I followed slowly, not quite sure my eyes were seeing right. As I rounded the corner, it was confirmed. My husband stood proudly in front of the mirror with a mohawk.

“What did you do?” I asked, incredulous.

“Do you like it? I always wanted a mohawk.”

“But you’re 34!”

“So?”

Alex pointed at her father with a giggle. “Da-DEE!”

“I need you to straighten it out for me,” he said, pointing to the back of his head. I was actually quite impressed with his clipper skills; there was only a small section where his hand had wavered. Without another word, I took the clippers and shaved off the last of the offending hair, leaving my middle-aged husband with a perfect mohawk.

We were officially redneck before; now we are card-carrying, licensed, registered experts.

As I walked into the house yesterday, my husband quickly put something behind his back.

“What did you buy?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

“What did you buy?”

“Nothing!”

“Liar!, I see the box!” A 3 foot by 5 foot box lay on the floor, tissue paper everywhere. My eyes followed the line to the middle of the living room, where a large red & black container sat. I recognized it immediately from “Extreme 4×4.” “You bought a parts washer?”

“Uh huh. It’s for you. For your birthday!”

“You bought me a parts washer for my birthday?”

“Uh huh.”

“What am I supposed to do with a parts washer?”

“You can do your nails in it!”