Suburban Goddess

As the gas prices continue to rise, I’m watching my dream of a nice vacation disappear.  I’d had intentions of taking my daughter to Sea World this summer, just a little weekend trip over to San Antonio, but now cash is stretched so thin that I find myself cuttting back just to make the bills.

It’s carried over into many other aspects of my parenting as well.  I find myself having to get creative, searching the Internet for new and different activities.  I cook a lot more than I used to.  We make use of things in the house or services we already pay for, like the community pool. And while I’ve discovered that I’m spending much more quality time with my daughter in the process,  I’m also starting to realize the incredible pressure that is placed on the breadwinner of the household.

No wonder guys are so crazy.  It’s stressful.

In a society where it’s increasingly necessary to have dual-incomes to survive,  I find myself looking to other resources to try to get by.  I currently work three official jobs; I’m an Art Director, a freelance artist, and a photographer.  Throw in full-time single mom, and all semblance of sanity goes right out the window. But I’m one of the lucky ones; I have a flexible day job, and this is where having visitation does come in handy.  All of my freelance/photography is scheduled when I don’t have my daughter.

I cannot imagine what it’s like for single moms who aren’t as blessed to have a good job.  Who have to drive hours to a dead-end job just to put food on the table and live in a crappy apartment.  Who don’t have a decent ex that helps them out when they need it.

All over the nation, as the gas prices creep up, we’re all taking a pay cut.  To those middle-class suburbanites, that means no extravagant Disney vacation.  But to those struggling working moms, that means less opportunity for their children.

And that’s why I get so furious when I hear that Congress refuses to cut tax breaks to Big Oil.

Yesterday I had to pick up Alex from her cheering class.  For thirty minutes, I managed to sit next to my ex without saying anything mean, although I have to admit the thought of jabbing my pen into his neck made me smile a couple of times, especially when he kept playing with that damn Blackberry.

I hate that damn Blackberry.

So we talked about Alex, and we talked about my father, and then he told me that TOW’s mother was going through the same thing.  I had a moment where my first impulse was, (and pardon the French) “Why in the hell would I give a shit about her?”  But I immediately felt guilty as the thought crossed my mind. I don’t know this woman’s mother; she might be a very nice lady.  And I certainly wouldn’t wish the feelings I’ve had this week on anyone else, and yet TOW is right in the middle of the same thing I’m dealing with.  Irony.

It’s a scary thing to deal with.

I suppose if it would have been said in sympathy (and I’m sure it was), then I wouldn’t have gotten so irritated.  But it felt strangely like a competition… like, I’ve got more to worry about than you…. I’m sure it was just in my head, and I read him wrong just as he is guilty of reading me wrong.  But the whole exchange left me feeling, well….. awkward and uneasy.

But it was a step in a positive direction.   Thirty minutes of a shaky truce; hopefully it will just get better from here.

I know I’ve been heavy on the Alex posts lately, but honestly, she’s the only thing bringing continuous joy in my life and I’m just so happy to have her back.  So if you don’t like it, well…. tough.

Every morning I have a ritual where I take a shower, then plop down in front of my closet to blow-dry my hair. (I have a rather strange bathroom floor plan, with a lot of mirrors, so one of the closets has mirrored sliding doors.)  Every morning, I sit down in front of the doors (because I’m lazy) and blow dry my hair.  Lately, Alex has been gathering all her beauty supplies and setting them up next to the spare wash basin… in the exact same order that I line up mine.  Shortly after I sit down, she plops down next to me with her pink Barbie hair dryer, and we dry our hair together.  In case I didn’t notice, she informs me.

“Mommy, I dry my HAY-ER, too.”

“I see, baby.  And it’s HAIR.”

“Dat’s what I sayin.  HAY-ER.”

“HAIR.  It’s HAIR.  One syllable.”

“What’s a sybable?”

“SYLL-A-BLE.  It’s… never mind.”

“Look, Mommy, mine’s is PINK and you’s is REY-ED.”

(sigh)

I caught this little gem the other day that will come back to haunt her when she starts dating.  I’m afraid I might have instilled a few violent tendencies….

This one’s for you, Aunt Cindy.

While I was drying my hair this morning, Alex walked into the bathroom, heading straight for the toilet. She placed her “Baby Jaguar” beanie on the rim of the toilet, then squated down in front of him.

“You go pee-pee now, Baby JAG-WAR. Good boy! Good job!”

She carefully unwound the toilet paper, tearing off a single square before wiping the furry bottom of her toy. She dropped the paper in the toilet (using Baby Jar-WAR’s paw to flush) then walked out singing “I’m Squishing Up My Baby Bumblebee.”

Who needs television?

Yesterday, in a fit of complete depression, I baked a pan of brownies with every intention of eating the entire pan.  As they cooled, the comforting smell of warm chocolaty happiness wafted through the air… so I went to take a shower as Alex played happily in the living room.  A few moments later, Alex ran into the bathroom.

“Uh oh, Mommy!  Look what Bay-er did! ” (Bay-er is Texan for Bear, in case you didn’t know.  I shudder when I hear it, but I’m powerless to stop it.)  I quickly grabbed a towel and ran to the kitchen, where Bay-er retreated quickly.  The empty brownie pan lay on the floor….

I counted to three, looking up to the heavens.  Must you take my brownies, too, Lord?  I mean, COME ON already…. cut me a break….

I took a deep breath, as Alex pointed at the dog.  “Mommy, Bay-er is a BAD DOG, huh, Mommy?”

“Yes,” I sighed, picking up the pan.  “I don’t know what’s gotten into that dog.”

“Brownies, Mommy!”

I thought I was having a bad week, but it was nothing in comparison to the phone call I got yesterday morning from my mother.  My father was diagnosed with cancer.

For a moment, when you hear that, it doesn’t seem real.  Then the realities start setting in.  How can I get down there?  What will I do with Alex?  How much time can I take off?  What about my mother?  And the one question no one can answer, but the most important one of all…

Why?

We don’t know enough about it yet, and won’t until his surgery on Tuesday.  Out of respect for my father, I don’t feel it’s right to post his personal details.  But I do know that I love him more than anything, and news like this starts to make you think about things that you don’t ever want to think about.

On a long enough timeline, we all go.  But I ask God, please, please, please, not yet.

Not yet.

So many times in my life, I’ve wanted nothing more than to hear the words, “I love you.”

So many times in my life, they’ve been uttered as a desperation tactic, leaving the words hollow and meaningless, ruining what should be the most beautiful phrase ever spoken.

When I lived in Memphis years ago, I was dating a kickboxer.  He was devastatingly handsome, perfectly chiseled, witty and confident.  I couldn’t believe he was interested in me… every girl I knew wanted him (and I found out later, had him.)

At the time, I was a restaurant manager in training, and I basically belonged to the company.  So during the week, they shipped me off to Russellville, Arkansas, and on the weekends I would return to Memphis to take care of personal business.  I left my townhome, my animals, and my bank account in the care of the kickboxer while I was gone.

I overlooked so many of his character flaws simply because I wanted to be loved by this person.  He was so dynamic, so confident…. everything I wanted to be.  But he always made it clear to me that he wasn’t ready to be exclusive, so I held on… waiting for him to change his mind.

One weekend, I’d returned home and he’d moved into the ultimate bachelor pad; a luxury three bedroom condo with two other single guys.  I knew this didn’t bode well for my hopes of a relationship.  Rumors started to swirl about the wild parties and girls coming and going… yet I held on, held on.  He was young; just sowing his oats… eventually he would come to see what he had in me.  He would always tell me, when he was ready to settle down, it would be with me….

Yes, I see you all shaking your heads.

One particularly hard week, I came home to find the my townhouse trashed… the animals hadn’t been fed or let out for days.  The whole place reeked of cat urine and dog feces.  Furious, I called the kickboxer, who smooth-alked me out of my anger…. “Come over, we’ll barbeque, I’ll give you a massage and we’ll go back tomorrow and clean up.  I’m sorry, I just got too busy this week to check on your place.

“By the way, on the way over, pick up hamburger buns, hamburger meat, six steaks, some chips, and a bottle of Southern Comfort.”

I stood in line at the grocery store, over $100 in groceries by the time I got through.  The cashier swiped my card, then handed it back to me.

“Declined.”

“What do you mean declined?  It’s a debit card!  I have over $700 in that account!”

“Ma’am, it’s declined.  Unless you have another way to pay, you’ll have to leave the stuff…”

Embarassed, I left my cart and found a pay phone, calling the customer service number on the back of my card.  After arguing with the lady for over twenty minutes, I realized what had happened.  The kickboxer had made a withdrawal for $600 earlier in the week.  Furious, I headed to his condo, where a party was in full swing.  One of the perfect Barbie dolls greeted me at the door with a frown.  “Hey, she didn’t bring the food!”  I shoved past her, heading straight towards the kickboxer.

“You bastard!  You drained my account!”  He quickly grabbed me by the elbow and pulled me up the stairs to his room (where I noticed a great deal of the Asian decor came from my living room.)

“I was going to tell you; I needed rent money.”

“That was MY rent money!”  I shrieked.  “You had NO RIGHT.  I TRUSTED you!”  I began grabbing my things as he started to talk quickly, the excuses empty and shallow.  Furious, tears rolling down my face, I narrowed my eyes… it was the last straw. “That’s it.  We’re THROUGH.”

He tried to hold me there, afraid of the scene I would make on the way out. It was that moment he finally said the words I wanted to hear for months.

“Please, Kristie.  Don’t go.  I don’t want anyone else.  I love you.”

But my heart was cold, because I knew the words meant nothing… I left him that day, and never looked back, but it’s not the last time those words were used in desperation. It makes me sad that I can’t believe someone when they tell me they love me… to me, the truth is in the action.

I want to believe in the words again, but I don’t know that I can.

“So, Mark had a question for you…”

“Okay?”

“He wanted to know if you he had to go through you for family pictures, or your owner..”

“My owner?”

“Yes, ’cause you said you ‘pimpin’ yourself out’….”

“He’s AWOL.”

“Any explanation?”

“No.”

“I think he was just using you for your Photoshop knowledge.”

I snickered.

“What?”

“It’s just funny; I’ve heard the line, ‘You’re just using me for my body,’ but I can honestly say this is the first time I’ve ever heard, ‘He’s using me for my Photoshop skills….’”