Suburban Goddess

Conversation overheard at Wal-Mart:

“Whatchoo mean, ‘waitin’ period’? I need that gun TODAY!”

It means you’ll have to wait until Wednesday to shoot him, redneck. You should’ve planned ahead.

I was living in a huge house with my six-month old daughter.  My ex-husband was probably in the garage.  I was glued to the television, making phone calls, trying to locate my parents amidst the horror stories coming out of Slidell and Pearlington.  40-ft storm surges, towns wiped out, people missing…

It was the day after Katrina, and my life irrevocably changed.

It was shortly after that when I started to write. It was that event that changed my life; suddenly, I realized how lucky I was, and how much family meant to me. I realized I had no history to pass down to my daughter. I had stories that I never wanted to forget. I had a heritage, one that I’d tried to hide for many, many years.

Now I display it proudly.  We may be redneck, but we love each other.

As Gustav bears down on the coastline, I have the worst sense of anxiety I’ve experienced since the divorce. While there is some comfort in knowing that the waters didn’t make it to my parents home before, there is the matter of cleaning it all up again. I have witnessed what Katrina did to people; those who lived freely and openly have been replaced by hollow eyes, sunken cheeks, and a vicious case of “I remember when…”

I don’t know that they can take another hit.

Okay, so I’m not much of a political blogger, but I love the stage that’s been set.

We are about to make American history, one way or another. There is no way to avoid it; black man or woman?

What are all you cantankerous old white men going to do NOW, huh?

LOL

ME: Redneck is a state of mind, not a geographic location

D: I am starting to see that. This may sting… but I don’t consider you a redenck

ME: NO! That’s my IDENTITY

D: you are way too open minded/freaky/cool too be a redneck

ME: I cannot deny, I DO have redneck moments, though

D: Yeah, but that can be deferred to bitchyness

ME: Like, I’m all…. “I can DRIVE OVER THAT!”

D: So, the difference between redneck and normal is hope? Because i would say, “I hope I can drive over that.”

ME: No…. you would drive over it for a purpose… I’d just drive over it FOR FUN

“I cannot handle all your angst today.”

“Then go away, dammit.”

Transparency: I’ve heard this term a lot the past few weeks. One of the great Christian principles is transparency; be real, be open, be honest. It’s something I started trying to be in all my relationships. In so doing, some of my relationships have strengthened more than I ever imagined…

Others have become unbearably complicated.

The problem with honesty is that it is often followed closely by conflict.  Because sometimes, people don’t want to hear the truth.  And after a while, things that you thought were true start to come under fire, until you’re left hopelessly confused wondering what the hell really IS true and what’s been twisted beyond recognition.

But I know what the truth is within myself, if I stop and look for it. I know right from wrong, and now, when I’m faced with a decision to do the right vs. the wrong thing, I cannot willingly lie… my conscience won’t allow it anymore.  My heart quickens, my breathing becomes shallow, and I get the worst anxiety that I’ve ever experienced.

It’s forced me to change the way I deal with people.  It puts me in some pretty uncomfortable situations… but in the end, I know I’ve done the right thing.  Even when it’s really, really hard.

My BFF’s mother was kind enough to get us tickets to the circus while we were in town. I was excited for two reasons; 1) it would be Alex’s first trip to the circus & 2) it would be mine as well.

When we arrived, I was surprised to find that we had front row seats right next to the ring. We were running a little late, so the show started almost immediately after we sat down. The opening number involved the entire cast, and before I knew it, there were eight scantily-clad men in tights standing eye level directly in front of me.

My first thought was, “Um, wow.”

These fellas must have some major self-confidence, because those tights left NOTHING to the imagination. In fact, I had to fight the urge to cover my daughter’s eyes.

But it wasn’t just the tights… It was the expression on their faces coupled with the dramatic gestures and jazz hands that started to take their toll on me, and I got the worst case of teenage giggles. My BFF looked at with a puzzled gaze.

I pointed with a giggle.

“Gayapalooza!!!”

I know. I’m hopelessly immature.

Every time I come home, I have to make some time to see my grandmother. I’m pretty lucky that Alex has had the chance to meet her great-grandmother; I have a few photographs of them together that I cherish.

My grandmother was a victim of Katrina in the worst sense – the tiny town of Pearlington, MS took on a 12 foot storm surge, obliterating everything in it’s path. Since Katrina, over 300 of it’s elderly residents have died, and there really weren’t that many residents to start with. It’s always surreal to drive through there; the only remenants of my life growing up there are a few bricks and an occasional tree.

Since Dad’s illness has been diagnosed, family history has become very important to me, so I decided that on this trip, I would take a picture of what was left of our old front porch… it’s stone half-cicle stairs and cinder-block base are all that remains. Our house sat right next to an identical one owed by an old lady named Ms. Juanita. Our old driveway had washed away, so I was forced to park beneath the old oak tree that stretched over hers. The fate of her old house was the same as ours; only bricks of the front porch remain.

As I stepped out of the car, the first thing that struck me was the distance between the houses, and the distance from the house to the front fence. As a kid, I felt like our yard was HUGE… standing there at the moment, I was amazed at how small it really was. Next to the old oak, there used to be a huge magnolia tree, but all that was left of it was a dead trunk… I think of that tree every time I even hear the word magnolia, and now it’s gone.

As I stepped around the rubble, my mom called out, “Yeah, they buried Ms. Juanita and her mother under that oak tree.”

I looked at the short distance from where I was standing to the tree, and immeditely stepped back, looking for a marker.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes. That’s where they wanted to be buried.”

“I thought there were laws about that kind of stuff!”

“Yeah, well, it’s Mississippi….”

Indeed, it was. And now, everytime I pass that property, instead of thinking in a melancholy way that my old home is gone, the only thing I will be able to think is:

There a dead lady under that tree.

And it will make me smile, because somehow, life goes on.

Everytime I make the trek to New Orleans, I call upon my heritage and do a little “traffic voodoo” dance in hopes of making it there in less than 7 hours.

I guess I’m not a good dancer. Or voodoo priestess. Probably a combination of both.

Anyway, we were making excellent time for a rainy Wednesday afternoon until we hit Baton Rouge, where a few miles of Interstate 12 has been completely shut down.

Now I ask you, why, why, why would you completely shut down that much of a MAJOR roadway in the middle of the day, in the middle of the week, in the middle of a time where millions of people are trying to GET somewhere? And not give them a CLEAR, marked, alternate route???

As I rolled into Baton Rouge, the highway signs warned of the impending closure and the traffic began to slow as me and the rest of the vehicular procastinators waited until the very last minute to exit. For a moment, I began to stress out; I didn’t know an alternate route, and Alex had made it through five and a half hours without a tantrum. That meant the clock was ticking…

It took me a moment to realize, “Hey, stupid, you have GPS and Google sitting in the palm of your hand. Duh.” So I looked up my position on the GPS (hey, look, I-12 is outlined in RED where it’s closed!) and started plotting an alternate route. A few minutes later I had a plan.

I think everyone in Louisiana had the same plan.

An hour later, we were stuck in a line of non-moving traffic on a backwoods Louisiana road. The rain finally cleared, so I rolled down the windows, letting the cool, wet air sweep away the smell of dog from my Jeep (and Bear was thankful as well, I’m sure). I’d forgotten how majestic the huge old oaks were that lined these types of country roads. Kudzu grew over many of the smaller trees, giving the path a feeling of tropical lushness.

“Mommy, we in the JUNGLE,” proclaimed Alex. I laughed. I guess to a 3 yr. old, this WAS the jungle.

Another hour later, we made it back to I-12… And nine hours after we left Houston, we finally made it to my parents door. Although I appreciate Louisiana’s natural beauty, I would like to implore the state to allow me to discover it through a more traditional route, instead of forcing me through it against my will.

Send me a brochure, damn it.

“Oh my GOD! What happened to your dog?”

“What? Nothing… I cut his hair.”

“With WHAT?”

“Scissors. Duh!”

“He looks like he has mange!”

“Don’t say that! You’ll give him a complex! (whispering in dog’s ear) It’s okay, Bubby. You don’t have the mange. She’s just mad ’cause she’s having a bad hair day and has to pick on someone else…”

“No, REALLY… you need to fix that.”

“I tried… but I have to find some sheep shearers.”

(shakes head and walks away)

“WHAT? He looks fine to me! He’s EMO!”