Suburban Goddess

“Excuse me, ma’am, can you please step out of the car with your license?”

“Yes, sir.” (There is no STEPPING out of this car. I rolled out as gracefully as I could.)

“Do you know why I pulled you over?”

“Actually, no sir.”

“When you pulled out of the parking lot, you pulled out into the middle lane instead of staying right.”

“Oh.” I had no idea that it was illegal to do so. Another reason you should have to take the driver’s test when you renew your license.

“Do you have your insurance card, Ms. MacLaughlin?”

Crap. I had the wrong purse. “Um, I don’t think so, officer. My purse is in the trunk. May I get it?”

“Sure, sure.” My passenger was starting to freak out inside. She gave me a wide-eyed OH MY GOD WE’RE GOING TO JAIL look. I shuffled around for a second and bonked my head on the soft top trying to get out. Since I was wearing heels, it caused me to stumbled a bit. K dropped her head into her hands. I gave the officer a sheepish grin and an apologetic smile as I unlocked the trunk. After shoving the items in my purse around for a moment, I gave the officer my best OOPS-I’m-An-Idiot look.

“Sir, I don’t seem to have my insurance card.”

“What kind of car is this?”

“A Lotus.”

“Really? What kind?”

“Um, a Lotus Elise.”

“Yeah, but what brand is that? Like a Lamborghini?”

“Um, no, a Lotus. It’s British.”

“You had anything to drink tonight, Ms. MacLaughlin?”

“Yes, sir, I had a couple glasses of wine. But we were there for a while. I only had two.” I swear, this was the God’s honest truth; I figured that even the jalapeno poppers wouldn’t mask the smell of merlot, and I am a die-hard believer in action-consequence. I was not drunk; there was no reason to lie.

“Could you step over here, ma’am? I’d like you to take a little sobriety test.”

At this point, I’m not even freaking out, but I see the car shaking as K, (who is drunk) is rocking back and forth. I stood with my feet together (in my ass-jacker heels, no small feat), and followed the officer’s finger with my eyes.

“You can get back in the car, ma’am.”

“Okay.” I climb back in the car and realize with dread that I’ve left my keys in the trunk lock. I watched as the red light of the timed alarm started blinking ominously. Please God, don’t let it go off until the officer gets back…. K looked at me with panic. “Are we going to jail?”

“No. I’m not drunk.”

“But you don’t have insurance!”

“I HAVE INSURANCE. I just don’t have my CARD.”

The officer returned with his ticket pad. “I’m gonna let you off with a warning, Ms. MacLaughlin. You ladies head straight home, and don’t wind this thing up, okay?”

“Yes, sir,” I answered with a smile, watching the light. Ten, nine, eight….

“You might need these…” he smiled, handing me the keys. I quickly shoved them in the ignition and hit the deactivate button.

“Thank you, sir.” I smiled back, and said a silent prayer of thanks. As he pulled around us to drive away, I started to laugh. K looked at me like I was crazy.

“What’s so freaking funny?”

“Because I can imagine him telling his trooper buddies later; you should have seen that Amazon try to get out of that little car!”

“So what does this mean, separated?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you getting a divorce?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, what are you going to do now?”

“I DON’T KNOW.”

“I think you need to find an 18-year-old piece of ass, go to the Bahamas & get your groove back.”

“You just want to live vicariously through me.”

“No, I just want to remember what’s it’s like to #@$# an 18-year-old.”

Are you following the court case about the Washington staffer that blogged about her love life with a Senate Aide? The fallout from that case might be enough to make me sign off my blog.

I’ve already been embroiled in a “legal suggestion” (DOOCED!) concerning my place of employment & my blog. Despite doing my best to keep my comments vague, I was “advised” that all comments concerning my place of employment must cease & desist immediately. That got me in such a tizzy that I had writer’s block for a month.

And my husband has made mention that some of my posts make him uncomfortable, too. Getting pressure from outside is frustrating; getting pressure from within the home was enough to make me want to shut down completely.

But this is my SPACE (not to be confused with MySpace), my place to vent, my place to speak freely. It’s hosted on MY DIME, not anyone else’s. Journalists can post complete CRAP all over the Internet, true or not, but if you try to say something that personally moves you on your own personal site, you can get slapped with a LAWSUIT. Isn’t it understood, when you stumble onto a blogger’s abode, that you are reading the personal OPINION of somebody? What constitutes a right to privacy? Here’s my disclaimer: If you interact with me, fair warning, you are fair game for my next blog discussion.

Why does this jerk get to whine, “POOR ME…I need $20 million dollars for the damage you’ve caused my reputation.”

Here’s the reality of it:

1.) You were the kinky MF’er who liked things “spicy”

2.) You hooked up with a loudmouth.

3.) Deal with the consequences. If you don’t want your love life posted on the Internet, maybe you should put the handcuffs away until you figure out if your lover is trustworthy.

Why is this even in court? By taking it there, there may be a complete shift in the Internet paradigm. Bloggers may have to censor themselves or face serious financial repercussions. And that, my friends, is a complete load of BULLSHIT.

All because some stuffy old closet kinkster got outed by his girlfriend. Here’s a light bulb for you; if you don’t want people to know you engage in XXX-rated behavior, then maybe YOU SHOULDN’T DO IT! For God’s sake, take responsibility for your actions! Stand up in front of your peers and say, “Yes, I like kinky sex, but I don’t think that was the topic we were discussing at the moment.”

I hate people. Seriously.

It was exactly as I thought it would be when I came home yesterday. The presents are still scattered around the tree, dirty dishes still in the sink as I left them. A single lamp was on, casting a dim light around the open room. His shoes were gone. Aside from that, it looked like any other day when I come home; the only thing missing was him, nose buried in the laptop sitting on the sofa.

Reality hit me with devestating force when I walked into our bedroom. Everything still there; covers thrown back where he’d slept the night before. Toothbrush still next to the sink. But the closet; the entire left side was now empty, a huge gaping hole reminiscent of the feeling in my heart. I burst into tears, the type that shake your entire body until you have to sit down. As I sat on the closet floor, letting out the emotion that I’ve kept pent up for the past few months, I felt a tiny hand on my back. I turned to find Alex peering at me with concern on her face.

“Mommy?” she said in her tiny, teeny voice. With a maturity I did not know she possessed, she patted me on the back, “K, Mommy, K.” And she climbed into my lap. Here I was, supposedly the one in charge, and my almost 2-year-old was the rock that was holding me steady. I held her tight, squeezing her in a tight hug until she tried to wiggle free. She patted my face and gave me her now patented smile. With that smile came the strength I needed to get up, pull myself back together, and take her out of that wretched closet into the living room, where we sat and read her favorite book together.

I don’t know how she knew I needed her at the moment. I love her more than words could ever describe. God gave me an Angel and she was watching over me today.

As I write this, my husband is currently moving out of the home we share together. Thankfully, I’m not there to watch (or help, for that matter, since everything he’s taking with him is upstairs). But it brings me full circle in my life once again; I’m starting over.

He gets irritated with me when I say things like that, but when I come home today, it will be to nobody. The house will be painfully quiet, and I will have to deal with that. He’s not asking for a divorce, yet. It’s that ominous YET that I can’t get past. I thought our holidays were going well, but apparently, they weren’t.

It is an awful feeling, the feeling of not being wanted or loved. He claims I’ve made him feel that way for over two years. I can’t imagine having this feeling for two entire years & NOT GETTING VOCAL ABOUT IT. As in, “HEY, YOU ASSHOLE! I WOULD LIKE A LITTLE ATTENTION OVER HERE, or else I’m going to MOVE OUT.” That might have gotten my attention. Perhaps I might have done something then. But hindsight really doesn’t help me out here; it’s truly too little, too late.

He thinks this may ignite the spark that has fled our marriage. But to me, it’s the equivalent of dumping a bucket of ice water on it. There’s nothing left to do but sweep up the ashes.

Well, here I am, still standing. I have made it to the-day-after-Christmas, that day you pray for when family is in town. If you make it to this day in one piece, you’re lucky. If you make it to this day without pissing off anyone in the family, then you need to book a trip to Vegas.

I’m not going to Vegas.

The In-Law trip was not quite a complete disaster, but it was pretty uncomfortable a couple of times. The night following the octopus incident was pretty excruciating; Alex was in a foul mood from the beginning. Upon entering the restaurant, she proceeded to wiggle & wail (would have been a hit in the fifties) until Chip decided to bail on dinner. Seriously. The whole dinner.

“Where did Chip go?”

“He took the baby for a ride.”

“Isn’t he going to eat?”

“Um, I don’t think so….”

“Then why are we here? It’s supposed to be a family dinner, & my son & grandaughter aren’t even here.”

(Because you’ve been mean & miserable the whole trip, & he doesn’t want to deal with you torturing another waiter mercilessly because it embarasses us all & we’re afraid they might spit in our food. Or worse.)

“Um, waiter….. can you bring me another merlot, please? A BIG one…”

Seriously, I don’t wish my MIL ill-will. She just seems so UNHAPPY, and I think all she needs is for someone to ask her WHY. I’m somewhat of a connoisseur of mental illness, if you will. I recognize depression when I see it, and this woman is almost textbook. I wish she would seek help. I wish others would seek help for her. In the meantime, I choose to fall to my own family’s particular brand of medicine when dealing with her.

Drink more booze.

Growing up in Louisiana toughens you up. Down home, we rip the heads off stuff & suck its brains out. My grandmother’s gumbo consisted of crabs (the WHOLE crab), shrimp (with the vein, you wussies!), and anything else that happened to float into her net on the bayou that day. Add eight years in the restaurant industry on top of an upbringing like that, well, let’s just say I could eat damn near anything without blinking. I have a cast-iron stomach.

So I was pretty much unfazed when we took the in-laws to the Chinese buffet last night. I mean, you see all kinds of weird stuff on an authentic Chinese buffet; it kind of reminds me of home. (“Is it dead?” “Yup.” “Then let’s eat it!”) I filled a plate with food I could identify for both Alex & I, and returned to the table to find a discussion in progress.

“Oh! They had those?” my sister-in-law (SIL) exclaimed.

“Yep,” my father-in-law (FIL) answered, popping something into his mouth.

“Shut up,” my mother-in-law (MIL) interjected quickly.

“Have what?” I asked, curious.

“NOTHING,” MIL barked. I looked at SIL, but she kept her eyes down and echoed quietly, “Nothing.” I looked at my husband, and he shrugged. MIL kept her eyes averted to the right, far away from FIL’s plate. I tried to peer across the table, but it was a large round table & FIL was sitting directly across from me, too far to distinguish the offending food. (I’m also convinced I’m going blind, because anything past two feet in front of me is blurry.) We continued to eat in uncomfortable silence, my MIL obviously upset by something. A few moments later, SIL returned with her plate, & MIL immediately became distrought again, sighing heavily and turning her eyes upward. I looked over at SIL’s plate. There was a small pile of squiggly pupple little creatures.

“Ew…Is that-”

“DO YOU MIND???” MIL exclaimed. SIL looked at me with a mischevious smile.

“The whole thing?” I whispered. It was a baby octopus. It looked like a bath toy that Alex would play with; a perfectly-formed, rubbery, purple ocotpus, small enough to fit in the palm of your hand. On closer inspection, you could see the tiny little suckers on each tentacle that obviously weren’t strong enough to keep the poor creature from being ripped away from it’s natural habitiat & plunked down into a pot of boiling water. It was a miniture version of those huge sea-creatures you see on the Discovery channel, with two large eyes on either side of it’s little rubber head. SIL popped one in her mouth, a tentacle sticking out the side of her lips. I had to fight the urge to both laugh & barf at the same time. She happily speared another with her fork & bit it in half.

“You eat the whole thing?” my husband said loudly. MIL looked like she was going to scratch his eyes out.

“Uh huh,” SIL answered, chewing with gusto.

“THAT’S IT,” MIL proclaimed, throwing her napkin on the table in disgust and walking away.

That is dinner with the in-laws. Always entertaining.

“That was an awfully self-righteous post, don’t you think?”

“What do you mean?”

“All-I-need-for-Christmas is love, happiness, blah, blah, blah. Youre one of the most materialistic people I know.”

“WHAT? What are you talking about?”

“Miss-I-Drive-A-Big-Yellow-Truck, but Sometimes-I-Drive-A-Little-Yellow-Lotus-Because-Yellow-Is-My-Favorite-Color. Kristie, most people only have ONE vehicle in their favorite color.”

“Really? That sucks.”

The in-laws swooped in last night in a flurry of Christmas bows and gift bags. As I watched package after package being placed under the tree, then around the tree, then three feet away from the tree, I started to fret that perhaps my daughter might be a little overwhelmed. My mother-in-law made the comment, “Well, I didn’t have any IDEAS for Alex, so I had to go out on my own.”

All right, let’s look at the evidence in question.

1.) You must call at a decent hour (follow my double-digit rule) for me to answer the phone.

2.) Repeatedly calling the number over & over & over & over again until I pick up does not count as an acceptable attempt either. I pay a lot of money for people to ignore my voicemail.

3.) If you are attempting to find out what my my daughter wants and only try to call me ONE TIME at 10:30pm with the over & over method, then don’t get mad at me for not volunteering any information.

4.) I never ASSUME that anyone will buy me or my offspring presents. Especially if I feel like it was just a huge hassle for you to do so, and you go out of your way to make sure I KNOW I am a pain-in-the-ass to shop for.

Here’s an easy holiday formula for anyone who wants to know what I want for Christmas.

Me + My Family & Friends + Time = All I Need For A Merry Christmas.

I truly don’t care about STUFF, and I don’t want my daughter turning into a materialistic-gimme-more-spoiled-brat type. I want my daughter to appreciate Christmas for the spirit of love, happiness, giving, & appreciation. I’m not saying I’m depriving my child of presents on Christmas; NO, I’m not THAT Mom. I love to watch her little face light up as she unwraps each gift to find some magical, wonderful toy (which she will break in fifteen minutes.) Stuff is easy. We can get stuff.

But I also love the look on her face as my father tickles her, and she runs to hug my mother, and she giggles uncontrollably as she chases her brother around the living room. I love to watch my sister-in-law drag Alex around the tile floors on the “Blankie-Train.” I love to hear her tinkly laughter when her grandpa says “I see your toes!” And to have all those people in the same room, together, sharing that moment; THAT is what Christmas is about to me. And you can’t wrap that up & put it under the tree.

On the twelvth day of Christmas, my child gave to me….

Twelve stinky diapers
Eleven socks with no match
Ten stale Goldfish crackers
Nine wailing tantrums
Eight hidden binkies
Seven swats at Mommy
Six toots after broccoli
FIVE SINGING ELMOS
Four new toofies
Three bad words (I swear, I didn’t teach her that one!)
Two kisses night-night
And the cutest face in the whole world.