Suburban Goddess

“You know, sometimes, I just want to walk up to them, take that stupid bell, and STEP ON IT.”

I erupted into laughter as my friend continued.

“Take that and stick it in your little-red-bell-ringing-apron…”

“Harsh!” I cried, gasping for air between shrieks of laughter as I imagined this tiny woman snatching the bell, stomping on it deliberately, then dropping it into the bright red bucket.

“Yes, I’m a little cranky today.”

One of the hardest adjustments for me since the divorce was watching another woman take my place in my old life; I’ve said it before, it’s like a big hand reached down, plucked me out, dropped her in, and life continued without a beat. Everyone in the old neighborhood accepted her without so much as blinking; since I’ve moved out, I’ve only heard from two of my old “friends,” and the communication is growing longer between each call…

The ex is still living the EXACT SAME life; he hasn’t changed a thing. He still does the same things, frequents the same establishments, goes to the same vacation spots… there’s nothing original going on. Even the changes to the house that I was so upset about a month ago; changes WE discussed. Nothing new, nothing different. Nothing original, nothing changed.

It was that moment when I realized there was never anything original in that life; it was always something that someone had done before, only Chip had to do it better. Bigger. Louder. But never first. Something that was on TV. Something someone else had done. Something on the Internet. Something for a story. That life was all about the story, and the bigger, the better. And it hasn’t changed at all; it’s still there, the same story, but a new actress. Like when someone else stands in on a soap opera and everyone pretends that they didn’t notice the face changed.

MY life, meanwhile, is totally unrecognizable from a year ago. EVERYTHING has changed; including me. For a while, the change terrified me… I held onto the past, stuck in it, clinging to it, constantly looking behind because looking forward was just too terrifying. I’d let Chip run things for so long that I’d forgotten I was perfectly capable of doing these things myself. I’d done what he wanted for so long that I forgot what interested ME. I felt lost, because the life I knew was gone and I wasn’t ready to embrace the new one.

Well, I’m not afraid anymore.

It was a sudden realization as I heard more “plans” of theirs… at first, a quick pang of jealousy, then I realized with a start; HEY. I NEVER LIKED DOING THAT ANYWAY. WHAT AM I UPSET ABOUT???? It was like a slap in my face, and I suddenly laughed at myself.

I hope she enjoys living my old life. It wasn’t always what it appeared to be. But she’ll discover that in due time. Meanwhile, I’ve realized that I want to write my own story…

I made a prediction a couple of months ago. That prediction came true; now everyone is acting all surprised. “How did this happen?” “We never saw it coming!” “Blah blah blah blah!”

Okay, people, here’s the deal.

I have this THING about being right. I like to be right. I REALLY do not like to be wrong. My friend M and I have had this conversation multiple times; we are control freaks who like to have things a certain way, and we will study and evaluate the situations at hand, prioritize, analyze, then decide a course of action. Granted, we both seem to wait until the last minute to do it, but the point is, we know precisely what we are capable of… we have a firm grasp on our weaknesses and areas of opportunity.

With that in mind, it is that precise reason that I KNOW when I say something, it’s going to be RIGHT. (I’m not talking about matters of opinion, here, I’m talking about black & white facts in a corporate environment). The reason being; I do not want to eat crow if I’m wrong. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I will… but I am going to keep Crow Eating to an absolute minimum, which means if I’m opening up my mouth with a concern, then I’m going to KNOW WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT. I don’t throw out opinions without some concrete facts to back them up; because as I said earlier, I DO NOT want to be wrong.

I’ve tried to keep the whole “I told you so” thing to a minimum, because I realize that directly relates to the question at hand… People hate it when the know-it-all is right. But no matter what approach I take, it seems that I can’t get people to take my opinion seriously. Which makes me wonder: What am I doing wrong? Is it my delivery? Is it my body language? Am I inadvertently throwing out a different message?

Someone once told me that my tone had an air of condescension about it, and that might be the reason people tune out. I was surprised by that statement; you won’t find anyone who exhibits self-depreciating humor more than I do… with my redneck origins, it would be extremely pretentious of me to assume I was better than anyone else…. and that’s my point exactly.

If this dumb redneck from Louisiana can figure it out, how can people with multiple college degrees and pedigree breeding miss the most obvious signs?

“Can I ask you something?”

“What?”

“You mention it a lot…did he give you herpes?”

“MOTHER! NO! I was implying that I hope HE catches it for messing around!!!”

“Oh. Just checking. ‘Cause you talk about it a lot.”

“Gee, thanks, Mom.”

Now that the basic necessities of life have been met, I’ve started to contemplate things going on outside of my home again; namely, my old home. The last trip to New Orleans brought conflicting feelings of hope and disgust, optimism and frustration.

Parts of the city are unrecognizable; between the new construction and the remaining destruction, it’s a wonder that residents even bother. New apartment complexes have gone up next to rotting carcasses of old ones; why would you want to move in? The simple answer… no other choice. The real estate market is out of control; rent on a simple two-bedroom closet apartment costs more than a four-bedroom home here in Houston. The city can’t afford to pay their workers (compounded by the fact that crooked politicians either pocket the money or incite lawsuits that cripple the D.A.’s office… why isn’t that national news? It was a blip on CNN’s radar!) There aren’t enough teachers (because they’re not getting paid fair compensation in hazardous and sometimes dangerous conditions.) There aren’t enough doctors. There aren’t enough WORKERS.

But there are still plenty of PEOPLE.

My father made a comment as we drove into town one evening. “New Orleans is a third-world country.” The comment has stayed with me; as I looked at the devestation, the rotting, the decay as we headed out to Metairie, I could not argue. How can we, one of the richest nations on the planet, a people of excess wealth and waste, continue to pour aid out into the world and neglect our own? I’m not saying stop helping the people of the world, but damn, can we take care of our own first?

It drives me crazy, the politics of New Orleans. The city has so much history, so much culture, so much PROMISE… we need the equivalent of a Katrina to sweep through the Louisiana legislature and wipe out all the BS… I’m hoping that Bobby Jindal will be able to make a difference, but the fight ahead of him will be a long, hard one.

My friend D was coming over and offered to get dinner. On the way, he called…

“Hey, I need a favor. Can you look up the number for Pizza Hut?”

“Sure,” I replied, pulling out my laptop. I Googled “Pizza Hut,” only to get the corporate website where you order a pizza online. “Hold on a sec,” I said, balancing the phone on my shoulder as a began to run a new search on Pizza Hut, my part of town, and Texas. Again, I did not get the result I was looking for. “Wait a minute, I can’t find it.”

“Um…”

“Um what?”

“Well, I just figured with the profession you’re in, you would just grab the phone book.”

My fingers stopped flying over the keyboard as I contemplated the absurdity of that statement.

I’m going to Google myself right out of a job.

I went home early Friday, a combination of stress and a horrible upper respiratory infection (thank you, daycare). I prayed all the way home… begging the Powers That Be to have mercy on my poor sick soul…

He did not.

I stood on my doorstep for a moment, contemplating my options. Mysteriously disappear, then explain to my co-workers on Monday that I was abducted by aliens, or paint my own freaking backdrop. As I began to iron out the details of an feigned alien abduction, I stopped and sighed. It was no use. So I dragged my sick self to Hobby Lobby and proceeded to buy $60 worth of blue paint and a stencil. I had a hideous old backdrop with a Hawaiian theme that I only used once, so luckily, I at least had a canvas.

If you’ve never seen a 10 foot by 20 foot piece of material, let me tell you, it is LARGE. It is so large that it spanned the width of my two car garage and rolled out into my driveway. It is so LARGE that I was completely overwhelmed for a moment; there was NO WAY I was going to get this thing done on time….

Six hours later, 16 cans of spray paint, 1 can of spray adhesive, an obscene amount of glitter and one monster buzz, it was complete…

At that point, I no longer CARED if it was presentable; it was BLUE and had white swirlies… anything else would just have to be Photoshopped in. The nice thing about having a monster paint buzz is that you don’t stop to stress about it anymore… all I wanted at that point was to fall into bed and sleep. So I did.

Those close to me knew, but for the most part, everyone was oblivious to the backdrop. The boyfriend of one of my artists looked at it and exclaimed, “you PAINTED that???” I nodded, somewhat flattered at that comment. (For all I know, it could have been an exclamation as in, I thought you were supposed to be ARTISTIC, but I choose to take it as a compliment no matter what he meant by the statement.)

So the evening was a success, and I’ve spent the better part of today being a complete and total vegetable. But I figure, hey, I earned it!  And let’s not even discuss the headache that has carried over the entire weekend…