Suburban Goddess

I followed two men across the country.  I left everything I knew behind, to set off on a grand adventure.

Both times, they left me stranded.

Gee, Skipper, I sure wish I had a boat right about now.

I have to thank every person in Texas who has taken me under their wing, who have shown me that I can make it here, that I’m not alone. Mandy, Donnie, Charles, Jessica, Tim, Kimberly, Stephanie, Hope, Lana….. when I start to list out the people who are getting me through the day to day, I realize, life in Houston is not so bad.  In fact, life in Houston is starting to feel like a real life, with the realization that it is actually a life of my own.

Not a life followed.

I had a million things to write about today, but I can’t seem to hold my focus long enough to get an organized stream of thought out of my head.  I wanted to write about the injustices of the Texas legal system.  I wanted to write about how double standards are finding a way of creeping into my life.  I wanted to write about an experience with a friend, driving through the country.

But some days, I feel the need to just step away from the computer and live the life that I write about.

“You didn’t have your coffee this morning, did you?”

“No, not yet.  Why?”

“Your shirt is on inside-out.”

I’m surrounded by people who are going through the same thing I am; it’s inevitable. When you’re single, unless you’re completely not worth having, chances are you’ve just come out of a relationship. And the residual effects of that past relationship are going to effect everything you do for quite some time.

Technically, it’s been eight months since my ex left me. Granted, he kept up the pretenses that we would “work it out” for three months, but honestly, he left three days after Christmas. My grieving process started then. By May 24th, I was doing pretty well, but on that day, I discovered that the reason he was leaving me was not the same reason he told me. That’s when I found out about the other woman. So I had to start the process all over again. Granted, it was a little different the second time around; I didn’t want him back, I just didn’t want him to be happy while he had caused me so much pain.

It’s taken me a long time to come to that conclusion, and admit it to myself. I did not want him back; but damn it, I wanted him to suffer for hurting me so bad. I still do; I can admit that. I’m vindictive, I’m angry, and I don’t think he deserves happiness for treating me the way that he did. Doesn’t mean I’m right, but that’s just the way I feel. It will pass in time. I’m embedded deeply in the Anger phase at the moment. You can look at the last eight months of my life find every stage, textbook, laid out in front of you.

Being that in tune with your own emotions gives you the luxury of psycho-analyzing those around you and trying to figure out where they stand. I got into a car with a friend the other day, and the CD in the stereo spoke volumes… everything on it, purely autobiographical…. it was then that I realized, we all do it; we all put on this brave front on the outside, pretending that everything is okay. Sometimes we even convince ourselves of it… but there are little things… a song, a smell, a spoken word…. that breaks you down and brings you right back into the pain.

I know it’s natural. I know it’s normal. And it makes it so much easier to know, I’m not alone in this struggle.

Because I’m not, really. Lately, I’ve had quite a few people mention that they were concerned about me… to which I did a double-take. I’m a little bummed over recent events involving custody of my child; I mentioned possibly leaving Texas, or at the very least, Houston. My ex promptly put an end to that one (threats of legal action tend to make you re-think your living situation). So I realize I’m stuck in Houston, at least for a little while, and I’m coming to terms with that.

It won’t be all that bad. I realize that. Honestly, it will only be as bad as I let it. And I’m done with sulking, pouting, and feeling sorry for myself.

I remember, many years ago after the demise of my first divorce, having a conversation with my very close friend Dylan. Dylan was going through a really bad divorce, too, and since we both spent hours locked in a cinder-block closet that doubled as our office, we got to know each other very well. Sometimes, too well.

As I listened to Dylan become more and more jaded, I realized that I was mirroring his behavior. My fairy tale ending had crumbled like a burnt corpse in a windstorm… replaced by a jaded, cynical, untrusting demeanor. From now on, every relationship that I entered into would be tainted by the selfish actions of an unworthy and self-absorbed man. I would forever wonder at the beginning of every new relationship: “Is this seemingly incredible and kind person going to turn into a cheating, lying piece of crap after I’ve invested six years of my life in him?”

The next two relationships after that first husband ended quickly; an unexplained phone call, an unanswered message… I immediately assumed the worst and became the psycho-jealous woman that every man fears. So when I met Chip, I blindly gave him my entire trust… I was ready to try a serious relationship again, and I knew that if I didn’t at least TRY to let go of the fear, it wasn’t going to work.

Well, guess what? It didn’t work anyway.

So now, I embark down that path again, looking for someone I can deem trustworthy with something that I consider more valuable than anything else on earth; my heart. And it is truly one of my biggest challenges to keep an open mind… to save my judgments until I get to know someone.

Because when you’ve been burned as badly as I have, you become scared of the fire.

I’ve been reminiscing about old times with a new friend, and was reminded of a story about my cousin Kenny.

I don’t remember exactly who crafted it, but someone in my family made their own version of his own kneeboard… it was a big plywood circle. Actually, now that I think about it, it was pretty revolutionary… kneeboards hadn’t even been introduced yet.

One afternoon, after one too many Bud Lights, Kenny decided that he was going to try to get a barstool on that plywood behind the boat. You have to understand; my cousins would try to tow ANYTHING behind that boat. So he sat at the very edge of the pier, plywood floating in the water beneath his feet, a barstool in one hand, the ski rope in the other, and a bottle of beer hanging from his teeth. The entire family lined the pier, watching what appeared to be a recipe for the perfect redneck disaster…

My cousin dropped the throttle on the Johnson, and we watched with dreadful anticipation as the rope unwound quickly…. when it reached the point that there was no longer any slack, Kenny was snatched from the pier. Miraculously, he managed to stay upright… the boat headed down the river, around the bend, with Kenny in tow….

We waited for a moment, listening for the inevitable lull of the motor to quiet, but it didn’t… a few moments later, the red & gold boat came roaring around the corner.

Behind him, sitting on a barstool on a plywood disc, was Kenny… the rope in his right hand, the beer in his left…

Sure, it’s redneck. But it takes TALENT.

I took my friend K and her stray neighbor J (she picks them up like kittens, seriously!) to the Astros game on Monday evening. K’s husband works downtown, so she suggested I pick her up so she could ride home with her husband. I think this was also a guerilla tactic to set me up on a blind date with J, but I shut that down quickly.

I hate being ambushed.

Anyway, I picked them up at her home and began the drive down to Minute Maid park. About ten minutes in, I noticed her working the “passenger brake” well before I needed to stop. At least, I thought it was too soon; my idea of braking obviously differs from hers, because when I ignored her frantic footwork for a few seconds before applying the brakes, she would quickly grab the “Oh Sh#t” handle and brace for impact.

After about three stoplights, I started to laugh.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Being the evil person that I am, (and because I still owe her payback for a night she refused to let me drive, choosing instead to fall asleep behind the wheel and shaving ten years off my life) I decided to see how far I could push her until she said something. Because I’m a great friend like that.

I turned on to I-45, beginning my best cone-dodging moves between the evening traffic; I can dodge & weave with the best of them. Her grip on the “Oh Sh$t” handle tightened… with an evil smirk I noticed her knuckles turning white. But she held her tongue, glancing at J in the backseat who appeared completely oblivious to his impending death by tragic car wreck.

“I wonder if they’ll have the roof open…” K looked at me nervously. I swung about three feet without letting off the gas behind the 18-wheeler whose brake lights were glowing a menacing red. Up ahead, traffic was slowing, red tail lights blinking like a Christmas tree… I looked down at my phone absentmindedly.

“I told C we would be there at 6:45. Damn, we’re going to be a few minutes late.” I mumbled, watching out of the corner of my eye as she planted both feet firmly into the floorboard, one hand on the console and one grabbing the handle again… I probably should have begun to slow down here, but I waited for five seconds before hitting the brakes… K slammed both of her palms into the dashboard, pitching forward.

Still nothing.

Damn!

We sat in traffic for a moment, waiting for whatever it is that Houston drivers feel the mysterious need to stop for in the middle of a major highway… a few moments later, we were approaching the 610 split, where K, the navigator, started to direct.

“Get in that lane! No, the right lane! No! The FAR RIGHT LANE!”

“K, we’re going EAST.”

“No, no! That’s not the way! That’s not the way! Trust me, I know where we’re going! Wait! Where are you GOING? You missed the turn! You MISSED THE TURN!”

“Look, K. 59 South, right this way…”

“Oh. Okay. Hey, I’ve never been this way before.”

I shook my head as she continued to navigate, slowly rolling my foot back onto the gas until her hand found it’s way back to the handle. As I hit the ramp from 59 to I-10, the G-force in the Liberty took over… even J reached for his handle in the backseat… I felt the Jeep ride to the edge of the tires, staying in the gas as I deftly manuevered the vehicle around the off-ramp.

“Don’t worry, J! Kristie used to race cars!” K said, her legs straight, palms flat on the dash, eyes wide. At that moment she almost seemed to embrace her inevitable fiery death, plunging from the off-ramp onto the unforgiving gray concrete below… I saw the vision in her head… a stained red pile of mangled flesh… her children, practically orphans in her husband’s care, doomed to a life without schedules, regular bathing, or vegetables…. calling some stripper named Candy their “new mommy”….

“I wasn’t worried,” said J, looking out the window. “Should I be?”

HA HA! I WIN!

eats like a pig, looks like a pig, smells like a pig, and roots around the garbage like a pig…

…it must be a pig.

Occasionally, in my profession, I have what I call a “move the cow” moment. A “Move the Cow” moment is not something to be proud of; it is a moment of extreme misunderstanding, so much so that it could be misconstrued as, well, STUPID.

It originated from a time when I worked for a local newspaper. I was quite accustomed to receiving crap to work with; sales people are generally more concerned about getting a signature (i.e., COMMISSION) on a contract than discussing the quality of provided art. So I’d get under/overexposed pictures, logos that had been stapled through or taped over, pictures of ugly children to be included in the ad… you get the idea. But there are some that just unequivicably transcend the term “crap” wholly into a another dimension…

It was bad enough that it didn’t come via salesperson; the salesperson felt the need to drag the customer in. A portly lady in her mid-forties, she had a craft consignment store that she wanted to advertise. She held a tattered photograph in her hand as she described her “vision” for the ad.

“I want it to look antique but modern… you know, like how old times come again into new… maybe a lacy border… and I want to have a picture of the store in it…”

I assumed the picture she was holding was said photograph to which she was referring, but she kept going.

“I want it in pink and green (she hadn’t paid for color), and put my name across the top in purple in that scripty font (Brushscript, the most overused and dated font in design history). And I want to put this picture of my great-grandmother in it…”

She handed me the tattered photograph, a sepia-toned image of a cow. Thankfully, I kept my mouth shut for a moment until I noticed feet on the other side of the cow, and what appeared to be a milking stool. I looked up to see if this was a joke, but the seriousness on the woman’s face told me it wasn’t. I glanced to the left at the over-eager sales rep who was beaming with a look that can only be described as completely retarded.

“I told her you were AWESOME. I told her you could make the picture look brand new!”

“Well, that’s not the problem….” I started carefully. Stupidity of this magnitude must be approached carefully. “The problem is that we can’t see the grandmother….” I let my voice trail off, hoping that the synapses would begin to fire.

“Oh, that’s no problem,” said portly lady. “Just move the cow.”

Indeed.

This is my life, people. And you wonder why I’m insane.