Suburban Goddess

“Is this a weed?”

“You don’t know?”

“I got another letter from the homeowner’s association saying that I needed to weed my flower bed, but I’m not sure if this is considered a weed or not.”

(Laughter.) “You can’t tell the difference between a plant and a weed?”

“Look, you Texans have a WEED for a state flower, dammit! Your ideas of flowers vs. weeds are a little SKEWED.”

One of my trademarks is the fact that I always have my sunglasses on my head. It started as self-defense; I crushed/lost/rolled-over/misplaced so many pairs that I soon discovered the safest place for them (and also the ONLY place where I’d remember where they are) is on my head.

I didn’t realize that this had become such a habit until I had an exercise with my staff. I gave them each a piece of paper and told them to draw a stick figure of everyone in the room. The only catch was that you had to add just ONE item to the stick figure to identify it.

On mine, they put sunglasses on my head. Everyone identified me immediately.

So a couple of weeks ago, I reached up to absentmindedly twirl a piece of hair when I noticed I have a HOLE in my head where my sunglasses rest; two perfectly matched indentions on either side where the nose rests lay on my skull. I immediately freaked out.

“I have a HOLE in my head!” I shrieked as my cubicle-mate laughed out loud. With my brow furrowed, I examined the damage. Yes, it was right where nose rests were, and have been, for the past four years.

Later, at lunch, I climbed into my friend’s truck and announced, “I have a HOLE in my head.”

He snickered.

“It’s not funny! I have two HOLES! Here… and here!” I pointed to my deformed cranium as he continued to laugh at me. “It’s NOT FUNNY! What if I go bald? What will that look like?”

“Well, at least you’ll have somewhere to put your glasses.”

“I don’t like you right now.”

At times, the creative streak hits with such a vengeance that I can’t contain it; these are the times when it’s really a good time to have a creative outlet, otherwise I get yelled at for doing something crazy like Post-It-ing my bosses office.

Enter the new camera.

I’m so impressed with this thing that I’ve taken pictures of almost every item on my desk. Why, you ask?

Because I CAN.

In an effort to start honing my photography skills, I added a FlickR account to my link list. If you have any interest in the little things that inspire me, please head over there to check out my pictures. These aren’t the money-maker shots; they’re just the little things in life that make me so darn happy.

The Houston Chronicle has been in talks with me for some time about picking up this blog for their “Mom Houston” section, an honor that I am completely in awe of. (Me, a writer? I always considered myself a WHINER, not a WRITER.)

So last week, I made the first step. And today, my little blog is a blip on their homepage.

I’ve already gotten fifteen emails, ten of which tell me to stop whining, five of those who lament that my pathetic life is nothing in comparison to gas prices/the crisis in China/unrest in Darfur/the cost of Viagra/the vicious case of anal itching this particular reader had at that moment.

I LOVE THE INTERNET!!!

“I thought you wanted to stay debt-free?”

“I am, mostly.”

“Either you are, or you aren’t.”

“I aren’t, but I are in about ten days and a couple phone calls….”

“How’s the love life?”

“Fairly decent. I have only one complaint.”

“Same complaint?”

“Yes… but I’m OK for now.”

“Do you realize there’s plenty of available men out there who would love to be with you?”

“Yes.”

“But that means absolutely nothing to you, does it?”

“Now you’ve got it….”

Alex has one of those magnetic doodle drawing devices that she loves to draw on. She’s grown quite adept at it, surprising me one day with a recognizable smiley face.

This past weekend, she lay out on the floor, drawing to her little heart’s content. After a few moments, she held up the toy, showing me two large smilies and a small one in the middle.

“Look, Mommy. That’s Mommy, that’s Daddy, and that’s Alex,” she said, pointing to each of the smilies. “We’re a FAM-A-LEE.”

I closed my eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. I know she had no comprehension of what she said, or what it means, or all the pain that suddenly welled up and overpowered me. The anger within at the unfairness of life and how it let my little girl down swelled to epic proportions for a single moment… until the air filled my lungs and common sense returned.

This is just the way it is.

My future decisions will be made with far more care and thought. I am a different person now; I’d like to think I’m better than I was. In the meantime, since she has no true concept of divorce, I just smiled at her and answered, “Yes, baby. And we both love you very much.”

Somehow I just know that it’s going to get harder before it gets easier.

My camera died last month, leaving me in one heck of a bind. Actually, it didn’t die, it just won’t turn off. So I guess you could say it’s possessed. The problem with that is since it’s acting so peculiar, I can’t trust it, and when you can’t trust your camera and you’re taking pictures for money… well, you have a PROBLEM.

Enter all my little photographer friends, who immediate put the bug in my ear… need a new one, need a new one, need a new one. And not just any one in particular, it’s time to UPGRADE.

So I did. And now I can’t breathe. Talk about impulse purchases. Mine had three zeros behind it.

OWWWW.

It doesn’t help that I lost one of my biggest freelance clients this month; a casualty I knew was coming eventually, but the timing couldn’t be more rotten. I know, in due time, that this camera will pay for itself at least ten times over… but it’s the here and now that leaves me with an incomparable state of nausea unlike any I’ve ever known.

(Actually, that’s not true at all. There have been things that made me feel MUCH sicker than this.)

I’d just like to thank everyone who contributed to my new state of debt, one person in particular (and you know who you are) … I hope you’re happy. I’m SO going to steal your business now!

I was lying on the sofa yesterday when Alex came up to me with her eyes wide open.

“Mommy, the door is locked!”

“Which door?”

“DAT one…” she said, pointing in the general direction of the hallway (which has FOUR doors). I walked down the hallway and tried the bathroom door. Locked.

“Did you lock this door?”

“Uh huh.”

“Why did you do that?”

“I don’t know….”

I sighed in pure exasperation, walking over to the washroom door to get something to unlock the bathroom door, but it wouldn’t budge. Locked. I turned to look at my precious little angel, who stood at the end of the hallway with both palms up and a puzzled look on her face.

“I dunno, Mommy. They just locked!”

On a hunch, I turned the handle of her room. Locked. Then the guest bedroom. Locked.

“Alexandra! Why did you lock all these doors??” My tone was a bit too harsh, because the tears immediately welled up and she collapsed into a sobbing heap on the floor. Irritated beyond words, I walked past my little drama queen and went to the kitchen to try to find something to open the doors. After a few failed attempts, (especially at the “no cursing” thing) I gave up and called my best friend.

“Do you remember how we used to get the doors open when they were all locked? You know, the kind with the hole in the middle?”

She laughed hysterically at me for a moment before telling me about a paper clip trick. So now I go on a frantic hunt for a paper clip, but given my limited access to real estate (and all my crafting supplies are in a LOCKED room), I had no luck. I returned to the kitchen and eventually found a candy thermometer. After a few moments, all the rooms in my house were accessible again. I looked at Alex, who stood before me with tears in her eyes.

“Mommy’s sorry she snapped at you, but you can’t go around locking all the doors in the house, Alex. Do you understand me?”

She sniffed pitifully and nodded.

“Yes, Mommy. Alex no lock doors ’cause it make Mommy yell at Alex.”

And this is how parental respect is earned.

I got an email yesterday informing me that The X was going to sign up Alex for a cheering class. Her future stepsisters have been doing it for years, and it is only a natural progression that Alex will love it also. (Did you see that movie about Texas Cheerleader Moms? Yeah, that is so NOT me… but the first woman who says something nasty to my baby girl will get a redneck bop in the nose.) My first reaction was anger, my second reaction was disgust, and my third reaction was disappointment. Pretty harsh, I know, but please, A CHEERLEADER???

Why not paint me up in a mani/pedi, force me to dye my hair blonde and walk around with a Coach purse? I am ANTI-ESTABLISHMENT. The whole concept of cheering is completely foreign to me. I’ve seen those cheerleader moms and their crazy schedules, their elitist attitudes, and their psychotically insane competitive nature. That’s not what I want for my daughter. I want my little girl to be intelligent. I want her to thumb her nose at the status quo and strive for more. I want her to be impervious to the materialistic greed and excessive narcissism that surrounds the whole sport of cheering.

And as I started to dissect what it is that really bothered me about this situation, I realized it had nothing to do with Alex, or even cheering, but everything to do with the driving forces behind the activity. I didn’t like that this woman in The X’s life is exposing my daughter to everything I looked on with disdain. And that’s really the wrong reason to have reservations about this particular activity. I wasn’t thinking about my daughter at all.

Besides, it’s too late anyway. She’s already been exposed to it, and despite my genetic contribution (that I’m sure is writhing furiously in its little DNA strands), Alex LIKES cheering. Which brings me to the same conflict that will probably follow me until I die; do I impose my own limited ideals on my child, or do I let her experience ALL of life and choose her own path, even if it’s not one I would have chosen for her?

The answer for me is just too easy. I just want her to be happy.

In a way, I suppose all the things I hate about The X & TOW (The Other Woman) and their influences on my daughter are simply a matter of dissenting opinion. And dissenting opinion can be a good thing; it fosters debate, conversation, and (if handled correctly) healthy conflict. Heaven knows I don’t ever want to make my daughter feel guilty for following her heart. And if her heart involves a big bow on her head and a set of pom-poms, then I will support her to the very best of my ability. Then I will teach her nuclear science. (Okay, maybe not me personally, but I’ll buy her a book. Just in case the whole pom-pom thing doesn’t work out.)

Honestly, I will support my daughter in whatever path she decides to follow. But if it’s this particular path, I just hope that she will always practice kindness and tolerance for others. I know that I personally must set that example if I ever expect that of her. Sometimes that’s really hard, especially when you have your own conflict within. But I vowed not to pass my resentment on to my daughter… and I will keep that promise, no matter how much it physically pains me to do so at times.