Suburban Goddess

I think I need to stop waiting for someone to sweep me off my feet. I don’t think those guys exist. I wonder if they ever did, or if they were just made up by some Disney writers to make women suffer a lifetime of disappointment. Prince Charming, my ass. Prince Charming never farted. He never walked up to Cinderella with a cheesy pick-up line. And the man could lay a kiss on her that made her senseless without trying to feel her up or get her into bed on the first date…

(Sadistic bastards, those Disney writers. Why do they always kill the mommies? Seriously….)

I think I might set the bar too high. I mean, let’s face it, I’m not Ms. Romance myself. But I used to be, before immature and childish men would make fun of my silly little romantic games, making me feel stupid and dumb for doing the things I did. (Coincidentally, that’s one of the reasons Chip stated he left; because I didn’t do those little things anymore. Well, gee, asshole, I wonder why? Maybe because you treated me like I was RETARDED everytime I did….)

Maybe that’s what the guys are afraid of. Maybe they’re afraid they’ll look stupid. Who am I kidding here… I don’t have the slightest idea why guys do the things they do. I’m looking for answers. Maybe I’m not recognizing a guy’s attempt at romance. What is romance, really? Is it flowers, or the thought behind them? In which case, if it’s not flowers, does it make the gesture any less romantic? What if it’s a car part? I mean, he thought about you enough to get you the car part… shouldn’t that account for something?

Do these guys even exist? Am I looking in the wrong places?

Maybe I should try the Renaissance festival….

I truly hate dating. Seriously. I quit.

In my life, I wear so many hats that I could open a haberdashery… so needless to say, I have become a master of prioritizing.

My first and foremost priority; basic survival. I have to work so that I can feed and clothe my kid, then myself (hence the reason the CHILD has new shoes and Mommy DOES NOT).

After that comes responsibilities; things that must be done in order for me to achieve priority number 1. This is where life’s little maintenance fees stack up. Just this week, I had three unforeseen expenses; a new windshield, back taxes, & tree removal, because a big oak limb decided to die a slow painful death on my rooftop.

Once survival and responsibility have been placated, then I can entertain the notion of recreation. I am very particular with my time and who I spend it with; time is a scarce commodity in my life that is more precious than money. You can make more money; you can’t make more time. So when I have my daughter, I want to make the most of that time. And when I don’t have my daughter, I make the most of that time also.

My entire life is deadline driven, appointment dates, calendar entries… a collection of x’s over a grid as one event leads to the next. Without my calendar I’m helpless, but NEVER unaware…. I know when the next deadline is approaching. And I will not miss it.

I don’t miss deadlines.

So I invite those who question my methods to step into my shoes for ONE SINGLE DAY. I dare you to live my life without collapsing into a broken heap of missed deadlines and passed obligations.  If you think you can do it, be my guest.

I DARE YOU.

This year I want to:

Let go of anger.
Be a better mom.
Learn to salsa dance.
Be self-employed.
Be able to tell someone that I love them.
Curse less.
Go to Boston.
Hang with Dylan.
Remember everyone’s birthday.
Buy my jetski.
Find balance in my life.

All right!  All right!  I HEAR you….

After resounding feedback on how much everyone hated the other template, I’ve reverted back to my Six Feet theme…. I promise not to change it again until I have something absolutely spectacular…. 

The ingenuity my daughter is starting to display on a daily basis is frightening. Yesterday morning, I sat her on the countertop for our morning ritual of brushing our teeth. Alex has extended her personal ritual to washing her feet in the basin, putting on imaginary makeup, and “washing” anything within reaching distance, which has prompted me to become vigilant about unplugging my hair dryer.

I had forgotten a bottle of water next to “her” sink (we have two, thankfully), so she was content to play with that momentarily as I turned around to pick out my clothes from the closet. By the time I turned back around, she had managed to pour half the bottle in her cup with the other half running down the front of the cabinet soaking into the carpet. I calmly grabbed a towel and wiped up the mess… let’s face it; she’s two, and spilling water is the least of the messes to come in the future. I turned my attention back to getting ready for work, but after a few moments, I realized she was concentrating very hard on something. She had to be; she was quiet.

I watched her for a moment, dipping her hand in her cup, then holding her fingers over the bottle, letting the water run down her fingers until it dripped back into the bottle. Her face was a mask of pure concentration, her brow furrowed, which scrunches her button nose. I held the laughter, choosing instead to smile at her.

“Alex, what are you doing?”

“Water out, Alex put water back in….” she mumbled without even glancing up. A moment later, she held up the bottle, triumphant. “Look, Mommy, new water!”

I smiled and applauded. “Good job, baby girl! Good job! But can Mommy show you a trick?” I took the cup and the bottle, and holding it over the sink, I poured the water in the cup into the bottle. Alex watched with fascination.

“Gimme!” She made the universal toddler sign for “Give it to me,” which is palms up, fingers in & out. I handed the items back to her and turned back to my make up. A moment later, there was water all over the countertop.

“Uh, oh, Mommy…. Broke it!”

I know, I know. But to my defense, I hadn’t had coffee yet. Of COURSE I wasn’t thinking.

I awoke at 4:15am from a nightmare. I’ve had the nightmare before; same concept, different people, but I think it says a lot about me. For all you armchair psychiatrists, this should be textbook.

It always starts as a harmless situation. In this case, it was Chip and I, talking calmly and rationally about Alex. We were in my old house, which is now his house, and all the pictures that were me and him were now him and HER. I won’t lie, it still hurts. Anyway, he started to mock me, make fun of my pain as if it amused him… the anger swelled to such proportions that I swung to hit him, but it was as if were swinging through molasses, because the punch landed harmlessly on his jaw with no impact… this made him mock me even more, stoking the anger until I wanted to kill him, the sound of his evil laughter piercing my very soul… I tried to lock my fingers around his neck, but I could not squeeze hard enough… I tried to hit him, but I couldn’t find the momentum, unable to put any force into the swing… eventually he shoved me aside, pushing me to the floor where he stood over me, laughing…

I awoke in a cold sweat.

I think I may have some repressed anger.

I grow weary of the status quo… time for a change…

This template is temporarily borrowed… I just didn’t feel like cutting the grass on the other one anymore….

Alex & I were at the pool last weekend, (the 18 inch deep KIDDIE pool, no less), when I noticed a heated exchange between the lifeguard on duty and the lifeguard who appeared to be on break.

It began with two quick chirps of the whistle, which is apparently lifeguard-speak for “Hey! I’m talking to you!” Lifeguard #2 (LG2) didn’t appear to be the least bit interested in what Lifeguard #1 (LG1) had to say, forcing LG1 to tweet-tweet repeatedly, throughly confusing all the parents at the pool.

“Do we have to get out?” another mother asked me. I shrugged in response, watching the altercation escalate with morbid curiosity. LG1′s face was scrunched into a scowl as he tweeted, pointing at his watch.

“I have 5 more minutes!” replied LG2, directing his attention back to the two bikini-clad girls sitting at the table with him.

“It’s 6:00! I need my break!”

“You were five minutes late. I get five more minutes,” LG2 replied, turning his back to LG1. This sent LG1 into a tweet tirade… which sent the Bikini Team into a fit of bitchy girl giggles… LG2 had that arrogant air of adolescence about him, tossing his head in the direction of LG1 as if to say, “Can you believe this guy?”

More giggles.

LG1 launched into a teenage rant about how this was “totally unfair,” and “this is BS, man!” LG2 ignored him, working his adolescent lifeguard magic on the girls. LG1 shifted in the chair, tweet-tweeting repeatedly, but it was as if his butt was glued to the seat. He obviously took his job as lifeguard VERY seriously.

I couldn’t help it. I started to laugh, and unfortunately, the table of teenagers heard me, which made the situation worse.

“Look, man,” said LG2, waving his hand in my direction. “You’re being really unprofessional in front of the guests.”

I half expected to find my Jeep keyed when I left the pool that day.

Teenage angst. I know it’s deathly important when you’re 15, but when you’re 30, it’s just freaking funny.

This morning, Alex woke up earlier than usual. Most of the time, she stays asleep until I take my shower, but today I heard her singing in her crib. I brought her into the living room and set her up with her favorite Dora DVD, leaving her alone…

When I got out of the shower, I walked back into the living room to check on her. Everything appeared to be fine, except the image on thhe screen was no longer Dora. The little Latina had morphed into a big green ogre.

I looked at the DVD boxes, which were now stacked in a different order; Dora, Dora, Dora, Shrek. I looked back at Alex, splayed out on the carpet on her belly, her little feet in the air, eyes riveted to the screen. I stood there for a solid minute, questioning my sanity (because there is no mental capacity before coffee). I looked back at Alex, holding the Shrek box in my hand.

“Alex, what happened to Dora?” She stood up, holding both hands out to her sides, palms up. Her little head cocked slightly to the left, eyes wide, the portrait of complete innocence.

“Doan know, Mommy… nana ba lalalalal DORA…. an nana lalal ba SHEK.” She shook her head slightly, shrugging her shoulders, palms still up. It took me a moment to translate, but I’m pretty sure she was trying to communcate: I’m not sure, Mother. One moment ago, I was happily watching Dora when Shrek magically appeared in her place.

“Did you change the DVD?” I asked. Her eyes got even wider.

“NO, Mommy. BUBBY….” She pointed her chubby little finger at the unsuspecting dog.

Either I have the world’s smartest bilingual dog, or my daughter just told her first fib.

All the media attention surrounding pedophile blogger Jack McClellan has caught my interest.

He is, without a doubt, a sick, perverted man. His actions are disturbing, to say the least. If I knew this man was looking at my daughter the way he looks at other children, I would undoubtedly be extremely upset. That being said….

He hasn’t done anything wrong yet.

I occasionally joke about inflicting bodily harm on people; sometimes, in anger, I might mean them. But I don’t act on those impulses. So I wonder if this is a cry for help from McClellan. Maybe he wanted to draw attention to himself because the urges are so strong, and he knows that one day he might not be able to control them. There has to be some motive for publicly admitting you have a thing for children.

I would hope that it is a cry for help, and not just pure, unadulterated stupidity. Because if it IS just stupidity, then as a mother, I would be absolutely terrified to have him in my community.