Suburban Goddess

I have found myself doing things the past few weeks that make me stop and think, “Why the hell did I do that?”

Anger is truly an all-consuming evil, and if you allow it to continually fester within it can destroy you & everything you care about. So I’m trying to find outlets for my anger, outlets that would pass as “healthy.” I have a punching bag, and I’ve gone back to my old hobby of kickboxing. It’s a bright red bag with a water-filled base, which is significant because I’ve spent so much time with it that the top of my Reeboks have turned pink, and my black gloves have faded to gray where they connect with the bag.

You would think I would visualize the person making me so angry while I punch, knee & kick the bag, but I find myself sinking into a zone that is nothing but me, my insecurities, and my anger. It’s a dangerous place. I wouldn’t suggest coming between me and the bag while I’m there. But my mind completely checks out, and I’m left with this burning anger that never subsides, even when my exhausted body gives up. I can’t get rid of it.

Some days it completely consumes me, the injustice of my situation. Some days I wonder where I went wrong, and how the hell I got here. Some days I just want to stay in bed. But I can’t. Life is passing me by every moment that I sit here and feel sorry for myself, every second wasted on anger and unhappiness. So I climb back into my head and look around, a brief moment of reality pushing through the muddy darkness of anger and depression. Life is moving on.

But in the meantime, I’m getting into pretty good shape…

I like to think of myself as somewhat intelligent. I’m not brilliant, but I’m not stupid either. I don’t particularly like fart jokes; not because I don’t think they’re funny, but I am more amused by sarcasm, black wit, and irony than a bodily misfunction.

That being said, does anyone really get all the cross references in a Dennis Miller stand-up routine? Seriously, I have a headache trying to keep up with all his obscure literary and political references he drops at lightning speed… if he didn’t have a job on stage, what would he do with that vocabulary?

While I was home, I was reminded of a time when I was younger. In the center of my tiny Mississippi hometown, there was a old country store. Every time we’d go to my grandmother’s house, my dad would stop at that store and get a Coke. It was a ritual for us; we’d both go in, he’d choose his Coke and I would find the most brightly-colored-sugar-soda I could find. I’d put the soda on the counter in front of Ms. TeeTee (I have no clue what her real name was), and she would tell me how big I was getting. But one day I discovered the magical and wonderous concoction known as a YooHoo. Sweet and chocolatey, it managed to emulate milk without ANY of the nutritional value. Every child’s dream.

So for weeks, my drink of choice became the YooHoo. YooHoos have a limited shelf-life; if you let it sit too long, all the psuedo-chocolate-flavoring would settle to the bottom. So before you opened it, you would have to shake it vigorously, a task that any eight-year-old would happily rise to. And so it became the new ritual; get the YooHoo out of the cooler, plop it in front of Ms. TeeTee to ring up, (“So big, so big!”) and commence to doing the YooHoo dance. Shake shake right, shake shake left, shake shake shake.

So one particular afternoon, my father was in a hurry. “What do you want, Sunshine?”

“YooHoo!” I replied from the cab of the truck. My mother sat next to me. A few moments later, my father came out of the store, YooHoo in hand. As he handed it to me, I wound up for the shake. Shake, shake, LEFT…. and realized that he had already shaken it for me. And taken the cap off. My mother’s brand new white shirt was now covered in brown YooHoo. I laughed so hard I snarfed, which did not make my mother any happier.

So on my last visit, I found myself sitting next to my mother with a Starbucks Frappiccino in hand. I started to laugh as I shook it.

“Hey Mom, heads up!”

“Not funny…”

There are a million ways to say “I Love You,” to someone. So why do we always get hung up on the ONE way someone refuses to say it?

I’m at a crossroads in my life path; I can choose to continue on the path I’m on, the path that continues to lead me to disappointment. Or I can take the road less traveled, that leads to the cliff at the end of the road, and take a huge nosedive into something that has no ending. Both paths lie within myself, and represent the mistakes in my life that I have not learned from. It’s time to do some heavy soul-searching. I probably could have made it through mid-life without a crisis, but unfortunately, the crisis was handed to me. And it’s kind of like finding a newborn in a trash can; you can’t walk away from it, you have to deal with it, you have to make sure it’s safe & cared for, although there’s no way you’d ever keep it. Deal with it, deal with it, deal with it.

I’m so tired of dealing with it. I just want life to be easy again. But then, I guess I wouldn’t appreciate the good times so much…

As my husband is down in the heart of my old city, enjoying the revelry that is so close to my heart while I sit here and play separated suburban housewife (yes, I’m bitter), I started thinking about where I was seven years ago, before I pledged my life to this person.

Seven years ago to the day, I was standing on Bourbon Street. I had access to every VIP lounge on the street, because I was voted as half the duo known as the Sexiest Couple in The City.

It’s actually pretty easy to get voted for that in New Orleans; just wear as little as possible and project a really big attitude. I wore a leather and chrome corset, leather hotpants, fishnet stockings, and thigh-high lace up platform boots. In had my boy-toy in tow; a kickboxer with sprayed silver hair, silver pants, and a black latex top that showed off his perfect physique. Coming in at 6’3″ in my boots, I stood out, and I loved it. Tourists everywhere stopped us to have their picture taken with us; I can only imagine that when they returned to their normal lives and pulled out those pictures to show their friends, they must have prefaced it with something along the lines of, “and THESE two FREAKS…”

It is actually such a fond memory that tonight, while my daughter splashed in the tub, I pulled down the old corset from the top of my closet. A thick layer of dust lay on it; I blew it off and promptly sneezed (“Bless you, Mommy!”). I couldn’t help it; I just needed to try it on. So I did. As I tried to pull the zipper across my torso, the layer of fat that didn’t used to be there made it difficult, but I refused to loosen to corset. About three minutes of tugging later, I finally made it over the pudge. Not satisfied yet, I pulled out my “Fergie Fall,” three feet of clip-on hair that instantly glamifies even the dowdiest housewife. And since I made it THAT far, I had to try on the hotpants, just for old times sake. But there is NO way to look good in those unless you have a set of twelve inch heels jacking your rear end to kingdom come, so I laced up the old boots, promptly remembering why I shelved them. And I stood in front of the mirror, a glimpse of that twenty-something glint in my eye with the wisdom of a thirty-something woman.

Momma’s still got it.

I unzipped the corset and felt all my internal organs shift back to their natural position, and let my feet free from the leather prison that had them so cruelly tortured. And as I listened to Alex babble happily in the tub, splashing and sloshing water out onto the floor, I was struck with the realization that the legion of adoring fans is nothing compared to her.

And suddenly, I wasn’t so jealous anymore.

Besides, I’ve still got the corset if I need it.

Y2K was over 7 years ago??

Where were you?

When I was a teenager, my grandfather was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. As the disease progressed, he became unable to care for himself, and my mother & father decided that he would come live with us.

I never appreciated the man while he was alive. He was right there in my house, and I never got to know him because I was too self-absorbed with the drama of a teenage girl. I still regret that to this day, but there’s nothing I can really do about it, so I have to let it go. But I do have some really off-the-wall memories of the man, and one in particular has scarred me for life.

One morning, as I began my two-hour morning beauty ritual (when I look at pictures, I wish I’d spent LESS time worrying about it), I picked up my toothbrush to find it wet. I walked into the kitchen where my mother and grandfather were sitting.

“Did somebody use my toothbrush?” I asked in an accusatory tone.

“That’s MY toothbrush,” my grandfather said, pointing a shaky finger at me.

“No, I’m pretty sure it’s mine, it’s PINK.”

“Oh. I thought it was mine. I’ve been using it for almost a month now.”

Sorry about the hiatus, but I needed a break. I went home this weekend for a much needed recharge. I was happy to see new growth in my old city; a sign that a very slow rebound from Katrina is still moving in a positive direction.

I wanted Alex to experience Mardi Gras, so I took her to a daytime, family-oriented parade. We arrived early and set up in the neutral ground (that’s Louisiana for “median”). After waiting three hours for the parade to make it to our side of town, I figured the kid would tank, but she held on like the little trooper she is. As the first colorful floats drifted by, I saw the wonder in her eyes that I felt as a child. It was the most wonderful experience to share with her; this was home, this was my heritage. This was a part of me, and now, it would become a part of her, this love for the biggest free party in the world. The colors, the music, the beads, the joy, the feeling of community and ultimately, belonging to something.

She made it through that entire parade without crying or whining, despite the fact that I knew she was completely wiped out. I had to post my favorite picture of the day. I laugh every time I look at it. (The Dale Earnhart look-alike is my father).

Today’s title has nothing to do with the story, but reflects how I feel about Valentine’s Day. I had to throw that in.

How can my government tell me I HAVE to get a vaccine for cervical cancer? Granted, it’s not a BAD idea to get vaccinated. HOWEVER, I have a true problem with a pharmaceutical agenda influencing my politicians’ decisions. What if I don’t trust the vaccine? What if I’m one of those people who decide NOT to use it? Where does the government get off telling me that I HAVE to be medicated? Last I checked, cervical cancer wasn’t contagious. Yes, I KNOW HPV is, but shouldn’t you be making the effort to EDUCATE women instead of saying, “Oh, they’re too stupid to figure it out; let’s just poke them instead so the big pharaceutical company can make lots of money and I can line my political campaign coffers with drug money…”

No, Rick, no.

The only thing that would make this okay for me is if men have to have mandatory prostate screenings every year, as decreed by law. And the wives/girlfriends get to watch. And post the pictures on the Internet.

During the course of your life, you come to depend on certain people to exhibit a certain behavior. Your co-workers, your spouse, your friends, your family…. they don’t often change, and if they do, there’s usually some driving force that you may not understand.

Here recently, I’ve become aware of how much I depended on Chip. He was my cheerleader, my support team, my mechanic, my babysitter, my general contractor. With his continued removal from my life, I have started to realize that I have to adjust the way I do things again. I can’t count on him for these things anymore; I have to find them within myself. I have to find self-suffience (is that a word?).

I never intended on being so dependent on another person, specifically for this very situation; people let me down. So many people in the course of my life have not followed through on their promises, and as a result, I’ve become a fiercely resentful creature. It’s why I won’t ask for help. I know that I hold the bar too high… it’s human nature to make mistakes. Nobody’s perfect. But where my life is concerned, I’d like it to close. I strive for perfection in my job, so much so that I drive people crazy. I strive for perfection in my domestic abilities; so much so that I drive MYSELF crazy. The combination of perfectionist & co-dependance is a deadly match; you better do it for me, and if you don’t do it perfectly, I’ll hate you.

For those of you that believe in astrology, you’ll get a big kick out of MY sign. I sit on the cusp of Leo & Virgo.

Well, it just all makes sense now, doesn’t it?