Suburban Goddess

“You know, if you smiled once in a while, people wouldn’t think you’re such a bitch.”

“Yeah, well if you kept your mouth shut occasionally, people wouldn’t think you’re so stupid.”

My daughter woke up this morning with a runny nose. I fought the urge to put her in her room, close the door, and seal off the perimeter with plastic, duct tape and Lysol…

As she sat on the bathroom countertop, I watched uneasily as she continued to make that pleasant SSCCHHHHNNNUUUCCCKKK sound of sucking snot back into her head… over, and over, and over again.

“Sounds like somebody’s got the sniffles,” I commented, dropping a kiss on her head as she nodded miserably. That’s the problem with kids; even when you know they’re about to infect you, you can’t help but give their sad little face a a kiss. Because that’s what mommies do.

A few moments later, I began to load the Jeep, part of our morning routine… she wandered past the dog, pointing at him in a cautionary manner…

“No, no, Bubby…. stay away….Alex has the schnickles.”

I received a phone call around 4:00pm today.

“Did you pack a bag for Alex?”

“No. You were supposed to get her on Thursday.” I hear Alex screeching in the background with what I assume are Darlene’s children. A pang of irritation, sadness, and rage swept over me.

“Oh, I thought I was supposed to get her on BOTH nights. Well… you can come pick her up tonight if you want, she can just hang out with us for a little while…” (Are you f-ing kidding me? I just got over the rage at seeing what he’s done to the house, now he wants me to come over and see that woman and her entire family in it??? I don’t think so.) I took a deep breath… it was a simple misunderstanding, and I’m going to have her the entire week next week, so… be nice.

“No, that’s okay. You keep her tonight. She’s already with you anyway….” As I hung up the phone, I was deeply saddened that I wouldn’t be seeing my daughter tonight. I had already made plans for us to make Christmas ornaments together to decorate her tiny pink tree… and that got me thinking about how a mother must feel when a father disappears with her child. I cannot describe to you the level of disappointment I felt at just missing Alex for the evening… the thought of a lifetime without her would totally, completely, and whole-heartedly DEVASTATE me. I canot begin to assume what it must feel like to lose your child.

I don’t even want to think about it.

So tonight, although I’m sad, I’m thankful that the Idiot & I can at least be civil enough to make this visitation thing work. I’m also thankful that I know where my daughter is, and although I don’t agree with Chip’s lifestyle at times, I know that he loves that little girl with his whole heart… and that he would never do anything to let harm befall her. Thank God, it was simply a misunderstanding… because if my daughter ever disappeared in earnest, I don’t know if I would make it through….

A couple of months ago, as I was packing to move, there was a box of photographs sitting on the floor. Alex found it, as two-year olds are apt to snoop through anything left within reach. She has an appreciation for photographs, making a game out of identifying the people in the pictures. So a few moments after discovering the box, she had neatly laid several pictures around her, pointing to each face and saying a name…

“Preston! Daddy! Mommy! Gee! Gampa! Alex! Alex! Alex!”

I walked over to see if she was close, and what I found made me smile. There was a picture of her brother, making silly faces for my camera… the second was a picture of Chip with his Jeep… the third was a photograph of me in my third trimester, miserably fat and unhappy…. the fourth was a photograph of my mother and father…. but the last three were not pictures of Alex at all. They were pictures of a young toddler, the features of her face so familiar that it would be extremely easy to mistake the young child as Alex. But the faded sepia tone and ragged edges told a story of age and history…

The photographs were my mother.

I smiled and pointed to the pictures. “Alex, that’s not you, honey. That’s Gee.”

“No, Mommy. That’s Alex!”

As I looked at the photograph, I couldn’t really argue with her. The resemblance is uncanny…

I carry these pictures around with me now, in my wallet. They’re a reminder of how precious time is… and how we’re never really that far from home.

All you have to do is look in the mirror.

I guess everyone in life would like to think they’re, well, DIFFERENT. It’s our nature; we have to believe that we’re unique. Special. Otherwise, what gives our life more value than the next person? Without diversity, we’re all just a bunch of sheep.

Hell, we’re all sheep most of the time anyway. Otherwise, how do you explain reality television?

But I struggle with my individuality. Some days, I feel like I AM different. I know there are those out there with similar interests as me, but they are few and far between… which makes connecting with people really difficult. So when I make one of those rare connections, I get pretty excited.

I guess I’m just at the point where I’m trying to figure out why it’s so difficult for me to make these connections. I have a seriously black sense of humor, which doesn’t help in this age of hypersensitivity the country has flown into. I’m not as openly affectionate as I used to be (a trait that Chip soundly murdered), and I hate that I come across as cold. My “I-have-to-be-right” attitude DEFINITELY doesn’t help things…

The biggest irony is that I’m hopelessly drawn to laid-back people when I am probably one of the most high-strung individuals on the planet. Of course, this type of person can only handle so much of my neurotic nature before they bail; I can’t say I blame them. Who really wants to hang out with a neurotic, self-absorbed complainer who makes socially unacceptable jokes?

I used to work with a girl who dropped the term “Me Monster.” I didn’t like that girl much, and I can honestly say it was because she was right about me, and I didn’t want to see that. I WAS hopelessly self-absorbed… but now I’m starting to see why. I was struggling with my identity, caught in a marriage where I couldn’t be myself, defined by actions of someone else… I’m not an adrenline-addicted thrill-seeker (But I do like to drive fast!). I lost myself, and in trying to find myself again, I spent a lot of time trying to talk it through.

I can see where that would be pretty freaking annoying.

Anyway, I’m back at square one now. I know who I am. I haven’t quite figured out how to compromise without losing myself, which is why I’m gun-shy about jumping into another relationship. I want to be with someone who recognizes these faults in me, and chooses not to exploit them. I want to be with someone who appreciates my black wit, and doesn’t expect me to change. I want to be with someone who can argue with me without getting their feelings hurt, who’s comfortable enough in their own skin to disagree with me… and can gently laugh when I get defensive, reminding me that I CAN be wrong.

(I’m just not, most of the time.)

The stress factor is reaching epic proportions this week; major workload, overtime in the freelance dept., minor mommy issues and all the while trying to stuff the emotional skeletons back in the closet…. so the last thing I needed was house trouble. But I got it anyway.

The garbage disposal went out a few months ago. Being the typical female I am, I ignored it. Who needs a disposal anyway? But I could no longer ignore it when I turned on the dishwasher and it backed up into the sink, pushing two-month-old-food-zombies into the sink… which happened to be full of dishes. The smell alone was enough to make me open every window in the house; it didn’t help. So I bit the bullet and called a plumber.

He was a jovial fellow, right on time. He reached beneath the sink, flipped a switch, and the disposal roared to life.

Needless to say, I was irritated. I waited two months and paid a warranty deductible for two minutes of service? Hell, no! I decided to get my money’s worth, and asked to to check out my hot water heater while he was here.

One of the biggest selling points of this house is the master bathroom. I grew quite spoiled in the old house, where the bathroom was absolutely huge… but the most important thing in the whole room was the whirlpool tub. Almost every single night, I would sink down into the blissful bubble nirvana and forget about all my worries; so when I had to get my own house, it was the number one thing that I HAD TO HAVE. (It drove my realtor insane.) After a hard day of moving, I filled the tub, prepared for a nice, long, relaxing bath…. and found a tub full of lukewarm water.

EEK! No good!

So I explained the situation to Mr. Plumber, who immediately pointed out that my hot water heater was too small for the job. But since my heater is located in the attic, the only option is to move the location and get a bigger heater… an expense greater than a single mother is prepared to handle, even for the sake of relaxation. Mr. Plumber saw the long look on my face, and took pity.

“Here, I tell you what to do.” He turned the thermostat a few degrees higher. “Fill it until it starts to run cold, go do something for about thirty minutes, then come back and fill it the rest of the way.”

“But I like my bath HOT-”

“Trust me… it’ll be the way you like it.”

Okay, Mr. Plumber… I don’t believe you, but I’ll try it just so I can complain about it tomorrow…

So I ran the water until it began to cool slightly, then finished up the laundry that has been piling up for the past three weeks… I peeked longingly in the bathroom, the steam rising from the mere three inches of water, and shook my head. No way it was going to work. But I set about the relaxation ritual anyway, lighting all 32 candles (yes, 32) until the soft, sweet smell of spiced vanilla filled the room. Exactly 30 minutes from the time I shut off the water, I turned it back on. It ran ice cold for a moment, much to my sadness, but a moment later, the water became so hot I had to remove my fingers from the stream. A few moments after that, I had a bathtub full of hot water…

One has to understand that a hot bath to a woman can be better than sex at times… as the last lilting notes of Moby’s “Porcelain” faded into Michael Bublé’s sultry rendition of “Feeling Good,” I sank chin-deep into the most incredible feeling I’ve had in months… the sweet smell of vanilla wafting through the steam, the warm candlelight flickering across the deep red walls… I closed my eyes… as the music wrapped it’s sultry arms around my psyche, enveloped in the complete and total peace of warmth, thought, and comfort…. for the first time in months, I really, truly, RELAXED.

“It’s a new dawn, it’s a new day, it’s a new life….” (deep breath in…)

And I’m feeling good….

“I don’t get it….”

“Don’t get what?”

“Why does it say “non-portable” water on a tanker truck? It’s moving, isn’t it?”

“POTABLE. As in, not suitable for drinking.”

(blink.) “Oh.”

I closed my eyes and shook my head.

“You better not put this on your blog.”

“Not a chance….”

I have a friend halfway across the world in Kuwait. Needless to say, he gets a little bored over there, so we swap emails pretty frequently. It’s kind of strange to think his day is halfway over while mine is just beginning, and when I’m going to bed, he’ll be getting up shortly. So in one of our many conversations, I mentioned that I keep my Blackberry next to the bed at night (because I’m a complete addict), and it goes off every time I have an email.

So he calculated the time difference and sends one at exactly 5am. My time.

Of course, being the addict I am, I hear it buzz and I have to look at it. Must. Answer. Blackberry. I fight the urge, pulling the pillow over my head, but I know there’s a message there… waiting… waiting…. waiting… until I can’t take the suspense because it might be that email that says “All the troubles in your life are over! You’ve won an all-expense paid LIFE in Bora Bora!” Because that email is coming. I know it. Right after the one where I can buy Viagra in Canada.

So I grab the phone and hit the message button at 5:01am, quite sure that my life will magically be transformed by this email, to find this waiting:

“PSSST! Wake up!”

(twitch) You’re SO gonna get it.

Rather than sit, stew, and simmer in hatred, I decided to call the ex and just ask him about the things I saw. There is only one rational explanation; credit. Because even though I doubt his word, at one point, this was a good man. I loved him a long time ago; so much that I decided to marry the guy.

I’d like to think I wouldn’t do that with someone who was a complete and total shit.

So I picked up the phone, and in a calm, rational, and grown up manner, I asked him point-blank. And he answered with the rational answer I assumed that he would.

Apparently he hasn’t changed that much.

So, I’m continuing to move in a forward direction… changing the way I approach things, taking the high road, and using my brain instead of letting the emotions rule. With every step, I feel an inner strength that I didn’t know I possessed swell slightly… and it encourages me. If I can get through this… if I can work through the anger and manage to stay rational with the ex, then any other challenge in my life is tiny in comparision.

And that gives me so much hope that there are still great things ahead of me.

“Today, we focus on forgiveness. ”

(Snort)

“Today, we reach into our hearts and find forgiveness for those who have hurt us…”

(Are you freaking kidding me? TODAY????)

“…and we release all that negative energy, letting go of that pain. Focusing on the healing power of hope…”

(Focus… Focus…. FOCUS…. I’m FOCUSING, it’s not WORKING)

“…letting go of that anger and forgiving those who need our forgiveness.”

(I’M TRYING, DAMMIT.)

“Forgiveness. Our focus for today. Namaste.”

(Sigh) Well, that just wasted a perfectly good hour of yoga.