Suburban Goddess

Occasionally, I have something come out of my mouth that, while I’m hearing it, I can’t stop. And I wish I could just have that moment back, but alas, it’s too late.

I’ve said something stupid.

“Did you go to the Taste of The Town the other night?”

“Yes, I saw (name withheld) there.”

“Really? How was he?”

“Drunk.” Oops. Too late.

Too bad I can’t sing. I look kinda like Amy Lee here. Photoshop rocks!

There is such hypocrisy in the media these days. Sure, Tyra put on a few pounds. SO WHAT? She used to be a STICK. Now, she’s normal, and she’s getting blasted for it. Yet if you’re TOO skinny, then you hear about how eating disorders are destroying our young girls. Well, gee, I wonder where they get the idea that they have to be a stick to be considered pretty?

I have noticed in the past few weeks, as I have gone out with various neighbors and friends, that men don’t see anything below your breasts, anyway. So that should be the only thing you’re concerned with, and if you’re like me, there’s not too much to talk about. Alcohol will felt the fat away… but sadly, it does not make your boobs bigger.

Earlier this week, my friend & I had a girl’s night out. Now, most of you probably do this all the time (party on a school night!), but I am sorely out of practice. So when 9:30 rolled around, my thoughts turned to, “Oh my God, I have to get up early.” And my body began to shut down (especially since I’m still dragging six hours of missed sleep through the week).

Somewhere during the course of my life, I read something that said the human body needs eight hours of sleep to function correctly, and that little tidbit of information stuck stubbornly to every nerve ending in my brain. No matter what I’m doing, I mentally calculate how much sleep I’ll be getting that evening, and if the sum is less than the required eight hours, I start to stress over the consequences of sleep deprivation. This is a MAJOR hangup of mine. I’m not sure how it developed, but I can even attribute it to part of my current marital woes (Not tonight, I’ll only get SIX hours of sleep!) Seriously, it’s that bad.

So anyway, I turn to my friend and tell her I’m ready to go. And so it began; the dance of drunkenness. Have you ever had a friend who wasn’t ready to leave yet? (”No! I’m not leaving! I’m having a GOOD TIME!”) I can honestly say, until now, I haven’t had a friend like that. I WAS that friend. But motherhood has definately mellowed me out a bit, and now I consider things like what effects a DWI could have on my life. And I practice moderation. But moderation was not something my friend was interested in at the moment. So I waited about a half an hour and tried again.

“K, I’m ready to go. I have to get up early.”

“So what? So do I! Why do YOU PEOPLE always want to leave early. I’m having a GOOD TIME. I’m not leaving yet.”

And so I sat, unsure of what to do. I thought about calling her a cab, but if the roles were reversed, I’d be pretty pissed off if my friend bailed on me. So I shook the keys threateningly at her.

“Seriously, K. I’m leaving. Right now. I need to go home.”

“Then GO!” Bluff called. Crap.

“K, SERIOUSLY, I am tired. I am exhausted, & I want to go home.”

“Then go. Don’t ever ask me to come out with you again. I’ll call a cab. Go home. You’re boring.”

I blinked. Boring? That was low. I knew it was the alcohol talking, but I was starting to get annoyed. It was now 10:15, and I was tired of all the droll bar conversations that surrounded me. I left the bar and went to sit in the car, hoping that she would follow me. After sitting in the car for fifteen minutes, I called her husband.

“Your wife is drunk in a bar. I can’t get her to come out.”

“Just go tell her to get her ass in the car.”

Hmmm. That easy. I returned to the bar to find her in a deep philosophical conversation with a man that resembled a serial killer.

“K, Let’s GO!”

“Get the F@$# out of here! I’m not goin’ ANYWHERE!” She punctuated the ANYWHERE with a stab of her finger that threw her balance off kilter, resulting in her pitching dangerously sideways on the barstool. Luckily, the serial killer was there to catch her by the breast and push her back into an upright position. At this point, I weighed my options. a) Call her husband again and tell him to come get his drunk wife. b) Call her a cab and bail. c) Wait around until she passed out (which didn’t look like it would be much longer, but this woman has phenomenal tolerance, and I didn’t want to risk that one) d) Try to reason with her e) Shove her off the stool and pray for head trauma.

I opted for A. I went back to my car and dialed the number again. Her husband answered the phone, clearly irritated.

“Just go get her & PUT HER IN THE CAR. If you want to leave her there, than leave her there, but make sure she’s not out of control. You can’t leave here there if she’s not in control.”

So I returned to the bar for a third time. This time, she was in a screaming match with some skinny barfly. Apparently, he had eluded to the fact that she may be a loose woman, in so many uncertain terms. A crowd was starting to gather around them. I tried to pry the drink from her hand, but she slapped at my hands and pulled away violently, lurching into the crowd and, thankfully, spilling her drink. She bore down on the rude bar dude, stabbing her finger dangerously into the air around her. I took the opportunity to snatch the drink from her hand while she was distracted, and began to pull her from the bar by the arm. Lucky for me, her self-esteem had taken a beating from the horrible man, and she was dejected enough to finally call it a night. I dragged her by the shirt sleve as she continued to yell obsenities at the man long after he was out of earshot.

I poured her out at her doorstep and went home, sinking happily into my soft, cozy bed. Early the next morning, my phone rang.

“I’m sorry if I was a bitch last night. I didn’t mean to be. I was f-ed up! Thank you so much for not leaving me there.”

“It’s okay. That’s what friends are for.”

“Well, you’re a good friend.” With that, she hung up and I smiled. I WAS a good friend. Sometimes the headaches of relationships are worth it. I rolled back over to look at my alarm clock and the mind took off.

Got home at 11:30, didn’t fall asleep until 12:00. K called at 6:30, which means I didn’t get sleep in a multiple of two (because a full sleep cycle takes 2 hours) and it was an hour & a half shy of eight. Now I’m short AGAIN and my whole day is all f-ed up……

There’s medication for this. .

I am a graphic designer. I know TIFs, GIFs & JPEGs. I can convert a file with the best of them. I can design for print or web, & know all the nuances involved in designing for different print mediums.

I am good, no, VERY good at what I do. But I have to tell you, I just DON’T want to redesign my website. It’s time consuming, it’s boring, and there’s absolutely no fulfillment in it for me. Because as soon as I get done with it, I’ll hate it and have to start over. And it will never get done.

I recently invested in some advertising that will hit the streets in about three weeks, and my website is plastered all over it. I’ve pushing the photography angle, yet I have NO working links to my portfolio on line. Which leaves me in a very bad spot; how will people know if I’m what they’re looking for if they can’t see what I do?

So I have decided to take the LAZY way out. I’m going to buy a template.

My designer buddy went ballistic. “Are you F-ING CRAZY???” he yelled at me. “I’ve seen your work… you’re perfectly capable of building your own site!”

I KNOW that. But the point is, I DON’T WANT TO. I have a full-time job, followed by a part-time job, preceded by being a full-time mother. Stack my personal situation on top of that, and it all makes me want to climb into bed & pull the covers over my head. It just makes no sense; you can buy a kick-ass template for $70 these days. My time is worth WAY MORE than $70.

I never thought I would sink this low. But I look at it as an investment; $70 now may open doors to allow me to spend the time on my own design later. And that is the ultimate goal….

A friend of mine was over this evening, and we were discussing out ambitions to become photographers. She has done extensive research on pricing and packaging, and I have to say…

You people should be ashamed of yourselves.

As I looked over the sites of local photographers, I was sickened by how much they make. Granted, there are a few exceptions; I have a true and deep respect for photographers who still shoot and process film. There is true science & talent in that, and I am deeply envious.

But since the dawn of digital, there is a rise of amatuer professionals out there who have discovered that a decent eye and working knowledge of Photoshop is grounds to quit your day job and charge people an insane amount of money. As I look over some of the pricier ones, I can spot a Photoshop-ed picture faster than you can say Gaussian Blur. In fact, I can tell you a shortcut to almost every popular photo style I see. How to build a better black in white in three steps. How to colorize a portrait in four. Need a chocolate wash? I can do that in two steps. Soft focus? No problem…

I’ve started to get a decent amount of business through word of mouth, but I’m starting to think that keeping my prices low is working against me. People automatically wonder, why? Maybe because I can’t justify marking something up over 1200% in the name of art. I ENJOY taking pictures; I love making someone feel good about themselves. Now, if I could just convince myself that my pictures are good enough, I could quit my day job.

My husband was devestated by my post yesterday. But instead of blasting me, he called to discuss it in a mature, calm, and heartfelt manner.

It was completely unlike him. And I liked it.

So I got to thinking about some of the things he said, and how I might be making this situation worse with the role I am playing in it. And I realized something about myself; the very reason I loved him is because he was, & is, different. I can’t expect him to react to normal problems like everyone else, because I’ve never wanted him to be like anyone else. And even in this difficult time, he’s staying true to what I wanted. He didn’t handle problems in our marriage in the traditional get-counseling-send-flowers kind of way. I see moving out as an end; he sees moving out as a way to regroup. I don’t agree with it, and I don’t like it, but when I step back and look around, there are subtle changes. And I know from personal experience, that sometimes life-changing ephiphanies only come across in my life as subtle changes. What looks like tiny things I’m doing on the outside takes great strength, courage, and trust on the inside.

So when he apologizes for hurting me, I should not blow it off as guilt. There was a time in his life when he wouldn’t have even offered the apology. And when he calls to talk, I need to open my mind and heart, even though I’m terrified to let my guard down. Becuase he’s letting his down, something he wouldn’t have done before.

So I see the changes, the attempts, and the effort. I know it is hard. I can’t expect two years of hurt to disintegrate overnight. That he still calls, that he still makes an effort at all, that should say something.

It just goes to show that the way you see things play out in your head are just fantasies. Time for me to get back to reality now. But God, I wish I knew there was a happy ending at the end of this story. Because I never watched Titanic again….

As I struggle to get through each day, I am struck by the unfairness of my situation. Everything I care about is being taken away from me. My husband, my best friend, my lover, my home, my family, & my dreams of a future with the man I love. I have no say over it, I have no control. It makes me physically sick to deal with it; I cannot eat, I cannot focus. I try to worry about the day ahead of me, and not to project beyond that. One day at a time. But I don’t know when I’ll be asked to leave my home; I don’t know when my car will disappear. And I fall back into a state of panic that leaves me frightened beyond words. I hate him for putting me through this. I was not perfect, but I TRIED. I cared enough to TRY to fix it.

After almost three months of being shut out, I have decided that I can’t take it anymore. Every move he makes points to the obvious; he’s not coming back. He’s waiting for his lease to run out so he can move back into the house, move me out, and carry on with his life. Just a speed bump in his empty life. And that’s his right; it’s his decision, & there is nothing I can do to change that.

But as we started to talk about the details of splitting up, the topic turned to custody of our beautiful daughter. I just assumed the responsibility would be mine; he’s been an absentee father for months. He’s not a bad father, by any means, but his life is too hectic, too unstructured for a baby girl. He travels a lot; he parties a lot. He lives life for the next adreneline rush; the life of a parent is far less glamourous. I give her a schedule, I give her structure, I give her discipline. But most of all, I give her complete & unconditional love. She is my life, my heart. I was struck with terror when he said he wanted her for “half the time.”

I’ve always been an advocate of father’s rights. All of my ex’s had children, and I watched mothers dangle their children in front of them, using them as a tool in their power plays. The one thing I DO NOT want to do to my daughter is use her in that way. I could not imagine keeping her from him; her face lights up when she sees her “Daddy.” The only reason I’m staying in Texas is so that she can be close to him. He says I have too much to lose if I return to Louisiana, but I disagree. I have family there, and with family comes love and support. And that is what I want my daughter to know she will always have; love & support. (Proof again that he has no clue what’s important in my life.)

But now I’m struck with a dilemna that is more painful than I could ever describe. I am going to be excluded from HALF of my daughter’s life. No trips to the Ranch together, which means I won’t see her tiny face light up when she sees “Horseys.” No trips Jeeping together, watching her dangle from the car seat with hysterical giggling. All these events that will happen in her life, that I will not get to watch her experience. Because he has decided to leave.

He says that he cannot be a “every other weekend Dad” again. I say he doesn’t have to be. My door is always open where she is concerned. He says “it’s not fair” that I should get her more than he does. He’s right; it’s not fair.

It’s also not fair for you to commit your life to someone and then change your mind when the going gets tough. It’s not fair that I have to give up EVERYTHING in my life that means ANYTHING, & stay in a state that has brought me so much heartache simply so he can be near his daughter. It’s not fair that I have to tell my family I cannot move home because I do not want to lose my daughter. It’s not fair that he gets to continue the exact same life in MY house with MY yard & MY friends, and I have to start completely over.

It’s not fair that for YEARS I have endured his selfishness, and I’m rewarded for my patience with this final act of selfishness beyond comprehension. It’s not fair that I have to put up with him for the next sixteen+ years, to look at the face who once pledged his love & life to me and know that I mean NOTHING to him now.

Don’t talk to me about what’s not fair. I KNOW unfairness.

I hate casinos. Not because they’re houses of immorality and corruption; I just can’t stand all the damn noise.

I had a brief stint as a hostess in a Gulf Coast casino buffet many, many years ago, and the one memory that sticks with me is the never-ending barrage of ear garbage; the screaming, the dinging, the bliping, the beeping, ARRGGGHHH. Ding, ding, ding, ding, cha-ching, click, click, click….. I don’t know why, but it seriously drove me insane. I only made it in a month in the joint, until one day I was late and they fired me. For being late. Once. Seriously. I was in a CAR WRECK, and they fired me because I was late. The unfairness of it was enough to make me hate casinos even more than I already did.

So there’s never a danger of me beoming a compulsive gambler.

I’ve always depended on my mother. Anytime I hit a rough spot in my life, she’s the first person I call. She’s always been there for me, without fail. But this weekend I realized, I’ve never really DONE anything with my mom. We took a trip together to Boston about a year ago, and it was an experience I’ll never forget. Occasionally, we as daughters get the opportunity to see our mothers as women, not as MOM. We forget they had a life before us, and a life after we left their home. We forget that there’s actually a PERSON there, a person who had hopes & dreams of their own.

Mom spent all week cooped up in the house with my sick child, and I felt so guilty, even though I knew she enjoyed the time alone with Alex. So I wanted to just take her to a movie (because I knew even in the rare occasion that she actually gets to go see one, chances are, my father picks it out.) So we had many choices before us, and she made her decision.

Night At The Musuem.

Not exactly what I had in mind (I was ready for a good chick flick, just because I have that freedom now), but it was the least I could do as a measure of gratitude to the woman who has given up so much of herself to call herself my mother.

As the movie progressed, I was often distracted by the sound of my mother’s laughter. She rarely laughs with such abandon. It made me so happy to just get her out of the house and do something, albeit a small something, but something nevertheless, for her. I wish I could do more for her. I wish she lived closer. I wish I hadn’t wasted all that time I had when I lived closer to her.

I appreciate things a lot more now than I used to. I love you, Mom.