Suburban Goddess

This is just so darn cute it makes you want to squeeze a bunny.

“He put Alex in a cheer class. The antithesis of my very existence. I’m going to be sick.”

“(sigh) I take it you don’t have the cash on hand to hire a hit man. Oh, wait, R would to it for free… or at least your promise for one night of illicit romance.”

“I’m tempted…”

So, about that post from yesterday…

I woke up at 4:00 am to the sound of my bathtub water running.  Since Alex is with her father and I’m lying in my bed, I’m a little freaked out.  (My dog DOES have the ability to open doors, but I seriously doubted that he decided to take a bubble bath at 4:00 am.)  I crept quietly around the corner, not quite sure if I’d rather see a busted pipe or a burglar taking a bath.  The water was steadily running… but not in the bathtub.

This is where a man would come in REAL handy.

I immediately went into panic mode… the water was already creeping beneath the low sheetrock wall into my carpet.  It’s moments like this you suddenly understand the importance of batteries, because every flashlight I had was dead.  As I ran around the house looking for a screwdriver to remove the plate, I heard the water start running faster.  It was this very moment when “I can do it myself” flew right out the window.  The question now was, “Who do I call at 4am?”

So I dialed the only man I’ve ever been able to depend on without fail.  I called my Daddy.

Immediately he told me to turn off my main water valve.

Okay! (Um…where is it?)

A few moments later, after going to the street with a pair of channel locks and a pen flashlight, hands full of mud and a wild look in my eyes, the water stopped pouring into my bathroom.  I finally found a plumber to come out and repair the busted valve (after he cut a monster hole in my sheetrock), and was handed a $300 bill for something that took all of 10 minutes to fix.

I chalk this up to my complete arrogance yesterday, looking into the eyes of God defiantly and saying, “I CAN DO THIS MYSELF!”

To which He swiftly responded, “Oh yeah?”

Okay!  I get it!

Over the years I’ve become a little hardened and cynical. I’ve learned to do things for myself simply because I had to. There were times in my life where there was a slight reprieve; I allowed someone to “take care of me,” only to be discarded like yesterday’s trash in the end.

Damn it, I’ve earned my independence. It’s been a HARD road, and I’m proud of where I am.

Sometimes my determination is misunderstood; people accuse me of being proud, stubborn, or at times, stupid. I’ll admit, there are times when I should exercise more caution, but I will not back down from life. I’ve had my share of falls. I survived. I might have gotten scratched up, taken a few black eyes, and broke a thing or two, but I LEARNED.

If I am not given a chance, how will I ever learn? If I do not fall, how will I understand the importance of getting back up?

My naivité leads me into what many would consider dangerous situations. Compared to my past life, this one is a cakewalk. I refuse to live a life in fear anymore; I will live boldly and take chances. I cannot help what I have become; life has made me this way. And while it would be nice to be “taken care of,” I just don’t have the time to wait around for someone to fill that role. I want to live NOW.

Until I am ready, I just feel the need to do things for myself. I wish people could understand that sometimes. Yes, I am afraid to ask for help. It seems that help is always conditional; I don’t deal with debt well. And I enjoy the challenge; I enjoy pushing myself past my boundaries, getting outside of my comfort zone, and seeing what I am truly capable of.

Sometimes I surprise myself.

I had Alex tonight, a short reprieve in this wretched month… she walked into the house and immediately headed straight for the pantry to get her “princess snacks,” those gooey, gummy fruit snacks that I find stuck all over the place.

After she opened them, she set out lining them all up according to size and color (I swear I didn’t teach her this, it’s GENETIC), calling out the name of each piece.

“Look, Mommy, Cindybella…. Wittle Mermaid… Gwass Swippers…. and a Bippitybopityboo….”

“A what??”

She held up an orange pumpkin carriage.

“A Bippitybopityboo!”

I gave blood today. It’s the first time in my life I’ve ever given, and for some reason I was completely freaked out by it. One, I’m terrified of needles. Two, I kept having this vision (despite the fact there is NO evidence of hemophlia in my medical history) that I was going to bleed out. I could see myself lying on the floor in a pool of my own blood, twitching unconsciously as a group of nurses stood over me screaming…

Those of you who thought I wasn’t dramatic, sorry to disappoint you.

So I worked myself up to a ridiculous state of paranoia. Those close to me, who rarely see me in this state of vulnerability, took every opportunity to twist the knife. “Call me when she passes out.” “They’re using BIG needles today.” “Oh my gosh, it hurt SO BAD!!!”

And to all of you I say, there will be repercussions. That is a promise. And you suck.

As I laid on the little cot and the nurse handed me the squeezy ball, I warned her. “Don’t let me see the needle & I’ll be just fine.”

“What happens if you see the needle?”

“I’ll hit the floor.”

“Then you’d better look THAT way,” she said, motioning towards the opposite wall. And that’s exactly what I did. About ten minutes later it was all over, and I had a small container of juice, a bag of cookies, and yet another overwhelming sense of accomplishment. To those who have given blood before, you’re probably thinking I’m a big wuss. And you’re right, I am. But this is a fear that had to be overcome….

And I did it. So make fun of me all you want.

“I thought you weren’t going to dye it red again?”

“Oh no, it fits her.”

“What, like the red-headed stepchild thing?”

“No, more like a flaming bitch.”

“Hey! I don’t know if you two noticed, but I’m STANDING RIGHT HERE.”

“See? 0 to bitch in 2 seconds flat.”

“Yes, it fits her.”

Network Geek has again played upon the fabulously famous Catholic guilt that plagues me, dropping me several emails to inform me that I had “comment spam” on my site.  I knew this, but in the tradition of great graphic designers everywhere, I was just too LAZY to go clear it out.

Until I know someone is looking at it.  Then the OCD kicks in.

As I started scrolling through the comments, I see that many of you who read this blog were there from the very beginning.  It amazes me that anyone would be interested in my tiny little insignificant life… the rantings of a woman who has seen extraordinary changes in such a short amount of time.  I still don’t see why anyone would care about what I have to say.

Again, the self-esteem issues… I have no answer.  I had a GREAT childhood.

But some of the comments actually made me smile, and it’s the ones I least expected; I didn’t realize how much Chip used to comment… and when I looked at the dates, it also made me laugh.  How he must have been drowning in guilt, watching me sink into despair knowing that he had the next woman all lined up.  All water under the bridge now… but at the time, I believed that he cared.

This blog has truly served it’s purpose over the past few years.  I will not repeat my mistakes.

(And to those that are jumping up & down right now going, “But!  But!  But!”… I KNOW.  I KNOW.)

“I miss my Boogie.”

“When do you see her again?”

“Tomorrow.”

“And how long do you get to keep her?”

“Just tomorrow.”

“Well that’s not enough time to detox her.”

“I know.”

I was walking along the side of my house yesterday, weeding the side yard (no pun intended), when an overpowering smell hit me. I sniffed for a moment, recognizing the smell from my younger years, when I realized what it was.

Now, personally, I don’t care what you do in your own home. It’s none of my business. If you want to smoke WHATEVER, as long as you’re not doing it near me, I don’t care. But what bothered me is the fact that the smell was so unbelievably strong that it lead me to believe that someone was hiding behind the garage. Directly next to my fence. Right next to my deck.

And that bothered me.

Not so much for my sake; I’ve been to enough concerts to know that particular smell. But I have a three-year-old daughter who plays in that yard… and suddenly, I feel like the biggest square on the planet. All my life, I’ve never cared if people around me chose to do drugs; its their choice. I actually hung around a really rough crowd in my younger years where drugs were more than recreational; they were part of life. (And on a side note, I want to point out that peer pressure was never a problem with my friends. I chose not to do drugs, which made them perfectly happy because they didn’t have to share.)

But now, as a mom, there is a fear there that I’ve never felt before. The neighbors who moved out were nice, quiet people. Granted, I hated their little yap-yap dog, but I’d much prefer the yapping to a stoner hiding out behind the garage.

It’s sad to say, but my biggest hope now is that weed is all they’re into. Otherwise, we may have a problem.