Suburban Goddess

Yesterday I finally brought the jetski out to the lake; I’d looked forward to it all week. But when I awoke, it was about ten degrees cooler than the previous morning. I eyed the gray skies with suspicion; would the weather hold out long enough for me to break this thing in? The call came from my friend C, who so graciously agreed to help me launch this thing for the first time.

Let’s go!

The drive to the lake was uneventful; I was so excited and the music was turned up so high that I couldn’t hear the rattling of the trailer. I arrived early, walking down to the marina boathouse to pay the launch fees and wait for C to show up with his jetski. A few moments later, he pulled his bright yellow Sea-Doo next to my brilliant blue Yamaha.

Friends for life. Complimentary swatches on the Pantone “power” color palette. (Yes, I actually think about things like this.)

C launched his ski effortlessly, backing into the water and making it look deceptively easy. Now, I have to tell you, as long as it’s going FORWARD, I have no problems maneuvering a trailer… but when I’m going BACKWARDS… well, that’s a different story. And apparently, it’s one hell of a comedy, because C would not stop laughing at me. (On a side note, there are very few people that I feel comfortable with that I will allow to see me at this level of vulnerability… C is a huge exception. Although after yesterday, I might have to re-think that.) After he stopped laughing long enough to direct me, I finally managed to get the thing in the water.

There was a moment there, as my thumb slowly eased into the throttle, the briny smell of the water and the wind in my face, where my heart sang with pure joy. Any buyer’s remorse I had before that moment melted away; this is where I was meant to be.

I had a moment where one of my life’s dreams was suddenly realized. And that is an incredible feeling.

Fast forward about five minutes as I started to ride through the excessive chop of the mounting waves in the lake… and I wondered why the hell I chose today to break it in. As we turned north and headed up towards Del Lago, I held on with such a fierce grip that my arms started to shake. The rolling waves were so high that at times the entire ski seemed to drop beneath me; the bow of my ski was not as adept at handling the waves unless I was going fast enough to lift it… but at that speed, the jarring of my rear end with each landing reminded me of the time I got a spanking in second grade for yelling on the school bus. Only that time, I just got three licks.

Yesterday I got more than I could count.

Add this to the ruthless spanking; an added insult that each wave I successfully cleared rewarded me with the equivalent of a bucket of water to my face. Again, C laughed; his Sea-Doo obviously has a superior hull design. The major difference in C & I; he researched his ski, making a carefully informed consumer decision before making the major purchase.

I just liked the color of mine. (Oooh… pretty! Blue!)

After about two hours of bone-jarring wave jumping, we rolled into a lakeside bar & grill to relax for a while. I looked out over the water, wondering where my uterus was floating… but still knowing that I’d made the right decision. For a brief moment the sun came out, so C & I headed back over to the island, parking our skis side by side, sitting lazily on the back dipping our legs in the surprisingly warm water.

The day ended that way, both of us too tired to handle any more. But as I drove my ski onto the trailer (successfully, first try, yea!) I had a tremendous sense of accomplishment. C offered to help me both launch and load it, but understood my need to do it myself. Aside from a few trailer mishaps, I’m proud to say that I truly believe I CAN do this myself.

And while I miss my daughter more than words can ever describe, a tiny part of me is grateful that she wasn’t there this morning when I woke up, because I feel like I’ve been hit by a bus.

I’ve always wanted to teach Photoshop. I love the program more than a fat kid loves cake. It’s not just the program; I get excited when I see other people get inspired. So when a local photography group invited me to come teach a class, it was, well, a dream come true.

But as I’m trying to narrow down the subject matter to keep it within two hours covering the skill levels from complete beginner to moderately advanced, I’m starting to realize that there is NO WAY to truly convey the absolute AWESOMENESS of Photoshop. And I’m also starting to understand that maybe, just maybe, all the useless stuff rolling around in my head is lining up for a PURPOSE.

And that’s pretty exciting.

“So I saw your ex the other day…”

“I’m sorry.”

“He’s totally getting fat.”

“I love you.”

Occasionally, I have a friend/relative/acquaintance/total stranger who finds out what I do for a living, and they realize “Hey!  Captive audience!”  The gears start turning about a particular photo/project/scrapbook something-or-other they’ve tried to work on at home with no luck, so they want my “expert” advice on how to fix it.

Generally, I hate these questions.  Especially when they start out with, “Hey, do you use Adobe?”

“Adobe what?”

“You know, Adobe… I have Adobe on my computer and I want to (insert graphic request here).  I can use Adobe for that, right?”

And that’s when I take a deep breath because everyone is not a graphic designer with 12 years of experience, and they just don’t understand that the question they’re asking is funny.  I used to go DIVA on these people, like, duh…. but as I age I realize there are a lot of things I don’t know anything about and I’m sure I’ve asked some silly questions myself that made a seasoned professional laugh at me.

But there is a point where I realize that I don’t know how to, say, fix my car… at that point I let a professional handle it.  I do not go to a mechanics shop, grab a wrench, and proceed to ask him how to fix my car in his shop, correcting him at his own trade when I think I might have a “better” suggestion.

The bad thing about my profession is the fact that PC’s are so accessible, and the general public thinks that Microsoft Word is a perfectly capable graphics program.  They don’t understand the dynamics of PostScript, the temperament of a RIP, and the complex process of imaging out process color to plates.  They don’t understand that just because something looks good on the Internet, that doesn’t mean it will make a great brochure.  They don’t get the concept of resolution.  They think because they have a paint program on their computer, that they can do what I do….

And that drives me crazy.

Yesterday, I came home to find an old client on my doorstep.  I actually stopped working for her because she was a “nudger.” (Nudgers are people who will nudge design elements around the screen for HOURS, only to return the item to the original position. Ack.. I just had an aneurysm thinking about it.)  She wasted so much of my time that eventually I told her that I just didn’t need her money.  Because let’s face it, there is no dollar amount worth your sanity.  So at that point, she decided to buy the software and do it herself.

Well, now she wants me to teach her how to use it.

She is an incredibly bright individual, and I don’t doubt that I can teach her how to use these programs in due time, but she has a project due to press in three days.  This is like shoving a person out of a 747 and telling them, “okay, FLY!”

And right now, that seems like a perfectly feasible solution to her request.

About a month ago, the ex called me after picking up the kid from school.  Apparently, she got in a little trouble because she uttered the words “damn it” shortly after recess.  Normally, they just ignore it the first time, but Alex felt the need to repeat it over and over, a little personal mantra… until all the other children began to say it as well. Mass preschool anarchy.  My little Jolly Roger.

I feigned complete surprise.  Really?  I don’t know why she would say that.  But that’s when the ex told me that he asked her where she heard that word, and she promptly answered, “MOMMY!”

Damn it.

So I started making a a very conscious effort to watch my language.  (If you look back at the beginning of the year, it was actually one of my New Year’s Resolutions.)  I thought I was doing pretty well, but apparently my schizophrenia occasionally takes over, because I have no idea when I would have done this in front of her, but don’t doubt for a second that I did.

Saturday morning, I gave Alex a Pop-Tart and placed the other one in a bag on the counter “for later.”  (Now that she’s finally grasping the concept of time, she will stash things around the house “for later.” And I wonder why I have mammoth flying roaches?) Anyway, we left for the pool, and on the way home Alex reminded me that her Pop-Tart was still on the counter, and is it later now?  I assured her that it was, and yes, she could have it when we got home.

But when we walked in the door, the dog immediately ran and hid, a behavior we have learned means “I ate something I wasn’t supposed to.” There lay the empty plastic sandwich baggie in the middle of the living room floor…  Alex swept in quickly, raising the baggie high above her head in a most dramatic fashion before shaking it menacingly at the dog.

“Damn dog!!!”

Obviously, I need to try harder.

… because one day you may have a kid who you swore you would never dress in pink, only to find in three years that not only does she have a closet full of pink clothes, but her room is also painted pink and you pull her hair back in pigtails because she looks so darn cute despite the fact that YOUR mom used to tie yours so tight that you looked like an exchange student from Japan and you swore you’d NEVER do that either….

Before I had a child, I never gave mothers a second thought. When I’d see them in the store with their children pulling at their pants legs, their hair disheveled and a frown on their face, I’d look at them with a feeling dangerously close to irritation. You chose to procreate, why should I feel sorry for you now?

Now I know.

I have the added bonus of being a single mother, a status I did not choose but there’s no point in dwelling on that now…. life is what it is. If I was inconsiderate of regular mothers, I was doubly so for single moms. After all, single moms are either irresponsible teenage moms or women who were too dumb to figure out how to take birth control, right?

I think God wanted to teach me a lesson.

My eyes have been opened to trials and tribulations I never dreamed possible… and an understanding that is reserved only for women brave enough to incubate a tiny parasite that eventually grows to a big parasite and pops out of your unmentionables leaving a trail of destruction in it’s wake…. yes, ladies, this is motherhood.

And even in it’s hardest moments, it’s worth it. Despite the fact that your body will never recover, despite the fact it is the most thankless job on the planet, despite the fact that you are prone to moments of complete and total insanity peppered with an early form of Alzheimers…. when I look at my daughter’s beautiful little face, I can’t help but thank God for the path that led me here.

Motherhood opens your heart to a new type of pain, a pain stronger than the throes of labor. When you hear your child cry in pain, you would lay down your own life to take their pain away. You learn sacrifice in a context that no one else could ever comprehend. You act out of pure instinct, and when someone else hurts your child, even the most passive woman will turn into a raging lunatic. You become more aware of the world, all the danger within, and suddenly things you never cared about become your life’s focus… how can I make this world a little safer for my child?

But with the pain also comes the more exquisite joy… a joy so pure and intense that at times it moves me to tears. Life becomes simple again… a simple drawing, a simple smile, a simple question asked in childish curiosity…. all this things I cherish with my whole heart. Part of me can’t wait to see what she will accomplish; part of me wants to hold her tiny hand and pray for time to stand still for a moment…

And as I dive to find a towel because there is Sprite now running down my leg after my beautiful little cherub decided to shake the can uncontrollably, I can’t help but laugh… these are the moments that I will long for after she’s grown.

I have a gift. It’s the gift of understanding and acceptance; when I decide I like someone, I accept them for all that they are, good and bad. It’s almost as if I put blinders on and cease to see the bad things. One thing I never hear from a guy is that I didn’t accept them for the way they are.

But the gift is also a curse. I think most guys are so happy to find someone that accepts them the way that they are, that they don’t stop to think about the woman they’re committing to. So many times I’ve heard the words, “I love that you accept me for the way that I am.”

But they don’t realize there’s a lot more to love than that. If that’s the only reason you love me, then that’s a problem.

Granted, my ability to accept things is a big part of my personality, but it’s not the only part. The struggle I’ve found with dating is that I don’t feel like people are truly seeing the rest of me; my needs, my wants, my dreams, my desires…. and then it all falls apart when those things surface.

When you love someone just because they have the ability to love you…. well, that’s just not enough. I want more than that.

Shortly after we arrived in New Orleans, Alex found a present from my mother. It was a brand-new, bubble-gum-pink Barbie fishing pole. Immediately, the request began.

“Mommy, we go fishin’ now? I want to go fishin’. I want to go fishin’. I go fishin’ with my daddy, can we go fishin’ now? Mommy, you take me fishin’?”

Part of me wondered what the hell Chip did to get her this excited about fishing… did he dip the fishing pole in crack? Because the only other thing I’ve ever seen this kid get this excited about is a bag full of candy and a Dora video. But unfortunately, it was only Thursday and we weren’t going to be in any position to go fishing until Sunday. So all weekend, all I heard was:

“Mommy, we go fishin’?”

“Mommy, I want to go fishin’ now.”

“Mommy, when we goin’ fishin’?”

“I WANT TO GO FISHIN’!!!!”

Finally, Sunday arrived and we headed over to a family friend’s home who had a pond stocked with well-fed catfish, perch and bass. Alex immediately suckered my cousin and father to take her down to the water. After some debate, the bait of choice was a Ball Park hot dog.

Skeptical? So was I… but apparently catfish aren’t picky eaters. Either that, or they have the taste buds of a three-year-old. My cousin swore that it would work, and lo and behold, not even a full minute after he helped Alex cast out her line, the small pink bobber disappeared beneath the dark water. Alex reeled in the line excitedly but the fish got away, sliding off the hook before she could catch it.

My cousin placed another chunk of hot dog on the hook, and together they cast out the line again. Again, almost immediately the small pink bobber disappeared, but this time the fish apparently bit off a little more because as he struck the bait and began to swim away, he yanked the pole completely out of Alex’s little hands. We all looked on in amusement until Alex started to cry… my cousin reacted quickly and reached under the water, grabbing the pole before the fish dragged it into the murky depths. My cousin tried to console my upset daughter, who was now distraught that water was pouring out of the pink housing of the reel. He put another piece of hot dog on the hook and helped her cast once again, this time holding his hands over her tiny ones while assuring her that they would “catch that doggone fish” that stole her pole.

Hell hath no fury like a three-year-old pissed off at a mean fishy.

The bobber disappeared again, sinking deep under the water, and they began to reel in the line. Now, keep in mind that this is a child’s fishing pole and these fish are fed heartily. The rod started to bow as they fought to pull this fish in; my cousin held tight, teaching Alex how to release the line and allow the fish to wear itself out. On the bank, a small group had formed, everyone cheering Alex on as she fought the fish for almost five minutes. She giggled excitedly as we continued to encourage her. Eventually, the fish began to wear out. As they pulled in closer to the bank, it put up a last valiant effort, rolling above the water and thrashing uncontrollably for his survival.

About that time, Alex realized exactly what she’d been fighting. The catfish must have been at least five pounds…. and approximately half the length of my daughter. Alex shrieked, jumped back in fear, and dropped the pole.

“I DON’T WANNA GO FISHIN’ NO MORE!”

And that was the end of that. She would have nothing more to do with fishing for the rest of the day, giving the pond and its’ freakishly large prehistoric inhabitants a wide berth.

When we loaded up the car to go home, Alex sat contented next to me. I planted a kiss on her cheek and asked her if she had a good time. She nodded solemnly, then tilted her head slightly.

“Mommy, we go fishin’ again tomorrow?”