Suburban Goddess

My child has not yet reached the tender age of two, but she has already realized the power she possesses when she cocks her head slightly to the side & flashes her precious toothy smile. I think it is genetically implanted in every little girl, the power to manipulate. But I never imagined it would surface so quickly.

She has begun to throw things, the first of many bad habits to break, I’m sure. Tonight she flung a plastic plate at my head, and I sharply barked, “No ma’am!” The sign that she has done something that severely upsets her mother. As I do every time she behaves in a disruptive manner, I got down to her eye level (thank you, Nanny 911) and explained that her behavior was unacceptable.

“Do you understand?” I asked clearly. Her eyes open comically wide as she nods her head in perfect sincerety. Yes, mother, I understand that I have angered you. And then came the apology. Squinting into the sweetest smile, she cocked her head slightly to the left and flashed me the first of many manipulative smiles, so cute that it melted my icy resolve to be a stern disciplinarian and I picked her up to kiss her pink little chipmunk cheeks.

A moment later the plate landed squarely on my cheek again. I can see I’m going to have to toughen up my game plan. This parenting thing is about to became a very rough ride.

This day is really so crappy that I don’t even think it deserves acknowledgement.

You know, I think in 2007 I’m going to learn to Tango. Seriously. Like Brad & Angelina in Mr. & Mrs Smith, which, I watched AGAIN last night.

I also resolve to watch less TV in 2007. And resume kickboxing. And play more board games. Just because.

As I’ve tried to maneuver life’s obstacles this week, I’ve discovered you can find all the answers to the universe on the Internet.

Need a cookie recipe? Internet.

Need baby advice? Internet.

Need to finish holiday shopping? Internet. (Even God can’t do that!)

Need advice on how to iron out problems in your marriage? Internet.

Need to find a new husband…. Just kidding! But if I do, I’ll probably look on the Internet.

I watched this special on HBO over the weekend, and I have to say, if I voted, I’d be pretty pissed off. The premise behind the documentary is that it is relatively simple to fix electronic elections by rigging the “Black Box.”

Well, DUH.

If you’re even somewhat computer-savvy, you know that there are no limits to a determined hacker. Especially you PC people. Diboll Industries is either extremely arrogant or extremely stupid to come out in public and say,”Our software is completely secure.” If I were a hacker, I’d hack it just to take them down a notch. And then I’d post my hack all over the Internet so everyone could hack into elections, and who knows? Maybe Kinky would be governor of Texas & Ralph Nader would rule the free world. Or maybe I’d sell my hack to the highest bidder. I wonder which politicians would be first in line at my door with their checkbook in hand…

…or do you think they’re all above that?

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

I’ve mentioned our Christmas tradition before; trek out into the woods, find the ugliest pine tree imaginable, chop it down, drag it home, & adorn it with six ornaments, one single stand of multicolor lights, and one tinsel garland. It is my husbands idea of wrapping to put all the gifts into a Walmart bag & wrap them with duct tape, so I’m sure he was quite disappointed when I came home with everything pre-wrapped. Even I have to drawn the line of dysfunction SOMEWHERE.

So last weekend, while the Stepkid was in, we all loaded up into Big Bird & headed out into the wooded lot behind our subdivison. We drove around for about fifteen minutes, each of us pointing out our ideal tree, when we finally settled on one.

It was unlike any of our previous trees.For one thing, it had more than six branches. It actually RESEMBLED a Christmas tree. I looked at Chip & the Kid with disbelief. Were they SERIOUS? I could barely contain my happiness. I decided to stay quiet unless they changed their mind.

Chip pulled out the chainsaw & down came the tree. A few moments later, it was loaded in the back of the truck and we carefully maneuvered the mud puddles & potholes out of the woods into the ritzy subdivision that backs up to ours. I can imagine Buffy choking on her Frappaccino as a huge yellow truck emerged from behind a break in the fence. We drove slowly back towards the other break in the fence that would lead us home, admiring the $1 million+ homes. When we reached the open lot, Chip turned to check on the tree, only to discover…. it was gone.

We backtracked through the snooty neighborhood, and the tree was nowhere to be found. We deducted that it must have fallen off the truck when we hit a pothole in the woods, so we drove back through the break in the fence & sure enough, laying in a huge mud puddle, was our tree.

Chip wrinkled his nose, but I begged him not to let the tree die in vain. So he pulled the tree out of the mud, and threw it back into the truck. The Kid elected to sit on top of it for safekeeping, mud & all. So we brought it home, hosed it off, and gave it the traditional Royal MacLaughlin treatment.

I actually feel sorry for all those other trees out there who die a slow death, drowning in tinsel, lights & expensive ornaments. At our house, OUR tree can be itself, free to breathe in its own individuality. Much like the people who live there….however dysfunctional it may be.

“You know, Kristie, some people here will NEVER understand your sense of humor.”

“That’s unfortunate. Then how will they ever realize I’m making fun of them?”

I was watching a Carlos Mencia (dee dee dee) comedy special about a year ago. At the end of his routine, he was ranting about freedom of speech, and closed his act with five minutes of racist, bigoted, biased nicknames for basically every single race & religion on the planet. He then challenged the audience to go into work on Monday & try to say the same things he had just said.

It was a brutal realization that I have absolutely NO freedom of speech. I couldn’t even get the first two out of my mouth before someone would grab me by the hair and hurl me down the stairs towards the HR Department. Not that I would say any of those things anyway, but honestly… even if you wanted to… you CAN’T. In ANY context. And that got me thinking just how hypocritical this country has become.

Certain ethnic groups have more liberties than others. Some would argue that they deserve that right for suffering they have endured (and NO, I’m not just talking about BLACK people.) I would agree that some horrible atrocities have been committed to all races and belief systems, and some have definately suffered more than others. But where does the finger pointing end? How much atrition is needed so we can all move along and get back to current issues?

I am a Plain Jane, vanilla white woman. I cannot imagine what racism feels like, because I’ve never endured it. I definately would not want to undermine someone’s suffering by saying, “Get over it.” I cannot imagine it. I can only assume, and it still would never amount to the true feeling some people must endure.

But it seems that political correctness is not helping anyone’s situation. Unfortunately, it does not appear that diversity & tolerance are two principals that can peacefully coincide. Rodney King was completely profound in his simple statement, “Why can’t we just all get along?”

Why can’t we?

While I was visiting my down-home country kin, one of my long lost cousins showed up for the party. She left for California about a year ago, and had been enjoying the change of scenery ever since. However, as many of you know, the California culture is just a bit more liberal than Southern Louisiana, so when she showed up in a hat that said “Pink Taco,” I sat back and waitied for the train wreck to ensue. Only two other relatives of the entire clan caught it; my gay cousin & the girl’s father.

“Take that off,” he scowled.

“What? I got it last weekend in Vegas.”

“Take it off!” he barked, but it was too late. Now he had attracted the attention of my 60-something uncle.

“K, what are you yellin’ at that girl for? Girls wear hats now-a-days. It ain’t rude like it ust-a be.”

I snickered. Gay Cousin snickered. Uncle leaned closer to the offending hat and squinted through his bottle-bottom glasses.

“Pink Ta-Coe. Pink Taco? That don’t sound good. Who ever heard of eatin’ a pink taco?”

“Not me,” chimed in Gay Cousin. “Sounds disgusting to me!”

At this point, I wanted to fall to the floor in a hysterical fit, but it continued to get better. My 80-something Grandmother had to get involved.

“It sounds like the meat didn’t get cooked enough! You better not-a ate at that place, B, you mighta caught the salmon poison!”

“Yeah,” said Gay Cousin, “But they make a cream for that Fish Disease now, MawMaw.” Taco Cousin & I are both giggling uncontrollably now, while the smoke is pouring out of her father’s ears. “Hey, K,” said Gay Cousin, who is Taco Cousin’s brother, which I guess makes him the Gay-Uncle-Everyone-Warns-You-About, “didn’t you have that fish disease before?”

“No, no,” said Grandma. “He had The Clap.”

And that, ladies & gentlemen, is entertainment.

(Names & country accents have been changed to protect the innocent.)

I have seen Back To The Future over 150 times, and still never get tired of watching it again. I have also seen Dirty Dancing over 100 times, and once my best friend & I recited every line of the entire movie from beginning to end. (That same best friend & I also sang “Every Rose Has It’s Thorn” at the top of our lungs while traveling to the top of a ski slope in Winter Park, Colorado. Good times, good times…)

That’s over 30,000 minutes of my life wasted on absolutely nothing. 500 hours, or 20.8 days. Almost an entire month of my life spent drooling over Michael J. Fox or Patrick Swayze.

This is exactly why I’m shutting off my television.

It’s hard to be in the Christmas spirit when your family is falling apart. Add irony to the mix; this is the same time of year my first marriage dissolved.

The sad thing about it is that I was really looking forward to Christmas this year. I thought we’d work everything out, both the kids would be at the house, and we would wake up Christmas morning and celebrate as a real, Norman Rockwell family. Granted, Norman Rockwell wouldn’t have a crooked psuedo-pine Xmas tree with six ornaments & a camoflage Santa hat, but the sense of warm & fuzziness would be there.

So here we are, on December 1st, and there is no warm & fuzziness. Only the possibility of another lonely Christmas working through a separation on the way to divorce. So I’m mustering all the Christmas spirit I can, and only asking Santa for one thing this year.

I want my family back.