Suburban Goddess

Here I am.. still waiting… no end in sight.

The changes I need; not happening.

What is the difference in patience and being taken advantage of? What is “doing the right thing” and what’s just being selfish if they look the same? Is the person I see real, or is it just charming manipulation? Words are truly, truly useless… I’ve heard them all before, I’ve seen it all before, I’ve lived it all before…

I really need this time to be different.

I see things others do not, both good and bad. What is love but a perception, anyway?

“You’re awfully possessive, aren’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You always refer to everything as yours: Your people, your team, your girls, your techs… Like you’re the queen and everyone is your servant.”

(blink blink)

“No, it’s not like that at all. I’m like the MOTHER.”

“Again, an air of condescension.”

(blink blink)

“NO…. it’s not like that….”

“Were you an only child?”

“WHAT DOES THAT HAVE TO DO WITH ANYTHING??”

“I knew it….”

Every time I hear Poison’s “Every Rose Has It’s Thorn,” I’m transported back to fifteen, when my best friend and I took a family ski trip to Winter Park, Colorado. Living in Louisiana, there wasn’t much of a choice in ski suits; I mean, snow was some mythical weather phenomenon that they told us about around Christmas time. So my mother and my best friend’s mother both made the trek down to J.C. Penney to buy our snowsuits.

Imagine our teenage angst when we found out they had bought the exact same ones.

Bright pink, with grey trim, I’m not sure that they didn’t plan it that way on purpose. After all, two teenage girls in bright pink who have never encountered snow are pretty easy to spot on the side of a mountain. Just look for one sprawled out while the other laughs hysterically. The ski lift operators came to know us quickly; I’m sure it had something to do with me coming in too fast and taking out two rows of people-mover tape before flipping over a fence (as my BFF laughed hysterically).

I wasn’t a big fan of the ski lift. For one, it was cold, which everyone knows I can’t stand. Two, it was high, and the unnerving feeling of two heavy sticks of wood pulling at your feet as they dangled gave me a constant fear of falling off. Of course, my BFF thought that was funny, too. And third, it just took FOREVER to get to the top of the freaking mountain, so my BFF and I would amuse ourselves by spitting on skiers below or making fun of the people who fell down (and I wonder now why karma is so cruel to me).

So, to pass the time, we would sing. At the time, I really thought I could sing. It was only years later and countless musical auditions that were quickly cut short by “no thanks!” did I realize I couldn’t. (I’m just grateful American Idol wasn’t around back then so there’s no recordings of that audibal atrocity. Cats in woodchippers sing better than me.) But the song that sticks out was the quintessential Brett Michaels power ballad. And we sang so loud that when we were done, the fellow riders cheered for us. But before they could request an encore, my BFF pointed beneath us to the snowmobile towing a wounded skier.

“Hey, that looked just like your mom!”

“Crap, that *is* my Mom!”

Lately Alex & I have been video-conferencing with various relatives around the country; it’s a great way to keep in touch and seems to hold her attention longer than simply talking on the phone. A post on Facebook made me think of my ex-stepson, and I wondered if he had a webcam; since he’s moved away, Alex doesn’t get to see him as much as she used to. So I pulled up his mother’s profile on Facebook to ask her, and Alex pointed at the screen.

“Dardee!”

I laughed, because the resemblance is truly striking (I don’t think the X ever got over his first wife, personally), but I figured Alex would at least be able to tell the difference.  I pulled the picture up larger and pointed.

“No, Alex, that’s P-Bug’s Mommy.”

“Dardee is P’s mommy?”

I laughed again… “Um, noooo…. P has a DIFFERENT mommy.”

“But that’s Dardee!”

I am *sure* she’d love to hear THAT. But I got a laugh out of it.

“It’s like you have a muzzle on these days.”

“You have no idea.”

“It’s probably a good thing.”

“Again, you have no idea.”

“What’s with you and the long hair?”

“What about it?”

“It’s not really that long, is it?”

“No. Fake hair helps me channel my inner-Fergie-Ferg. Like Beyonce turns into Sasha Fierce.”

“So what’s your alter ego? Reddy Whitetrash?”

“Unnecessary. You’re just mad because you don’t HAVE any hair.”

“Ouch!”

“RAWR.”

Some days I just grow tired of the fight. I wonder why I’m fighting at all. I have no control; why don’t I just accept that? Something in my stubborn little head cannot accept that fact, no matter how many times God keeps thumping me in it.

“Hey, dumdum, LET GO.”

“No. I can do this.”

BONK.

“You wanna let go now?”

“No. I can do this.”

BONK.

“Seriously, have you got brain damage?”

“Um, I think I might.”

“Well, if not, you will.”

BONK.

(sigh)

I’ve lived a great deal of my life in the dark. I always believe the best of people; I put great faith into the things they tell me.

I hate to find out that they’re lying to me.

My sense of righteousness and morality kicks in, and I pass judgment swiftly. I become angry, hurt and indignant. I lash out, cry, do and say hurtful things to reciprocate the pain I’ve come to accept as part of life. But when the dust settles and the air clears, I’m left with something very uncomfortable.

My hypocrisy.

As I look back over the course of the past few years, I have to come to the realization that I should not be judging others quite so harshly. I have not been honest, either. I have kept secrets, I have had conversations, I have made mistakes. I let fear rule portions of my life, despite putting on an air of strength. I have had moments of weakness.

I am not perfect.

I hold the bar so high for others sometimes, but I know full well that if I tried to walk the path I expect them to, I would certainly stumble. I have. The question at this point becomes: at what point do you decide to walk another path? How many mistakes are too many? How much do you endure for the sake of something you believe in?

I have decided to stay the course I am on, praying that there isn’t a sinkhole at the end of the pathway… trying to rebuild faith and trust, trying to live the principle of forgiveness while fighting the fear that I might be manipulated. The one thing that keeps me moving forward is the knowledge that I have made some pretty big mistakes…. and the trust and kindness that were extended to me were so extraordinary that it convinced me to change my ways.

When someone believes in you, it *can* be enough.

It’s been a rough couple of weeks. Actually, it’s just been a SUCK kind of year; betrayals, lies, theives, bastards… I’ve learned not to ask the question, “What ELSE can possibly happen?” Inevitably, there has been an answer, and each answer is more disappointing than the last. Without my beautiful daughter to carry me through, I don’t know how I would have survived this year. She is my light, my life, my heart…. and even in the worst of times, she has an uncanny ability to make me smile through the tears.

All this crap has taken a sledgehammer to my creative drive; it’s hard to think at a higher level when you’re struggling with basic emotional survival. But somehow, through it all, God keeps presenting amazing little opportunities to me; glimmers of light and hope that keep my feet moving in the right direction. The trials are not aimed only at me; everyone in my company is dealing with major, heart-wrenching issues. Sometimes I feel like the weight of it all is bearing down upon us, trying its damndest to force us to just give up…. but there is a voice in my heart telling me this is simply the dark before the light. It’s an E! True Hollywood Story; the darkest times always precede amazing success. We are poised with so much potential, so much talent, so much promise… we just have to hang in there just a little bit longer…

Yesterday I was reminded why I chose to be part of this group. It was a difficult day to begin with, emotional insecurities weighing heavy on me; my heart was not really into the project. We were doing a promotional photo shoot for a new product, and I knew it would require high energy. As the girls started to show up and the shoot was underway, I found joy again; there is nothing that makes me feel better than making a woman feel good about herself. Especially women who’s self-esteem has been damaged by some careless, useless bastard who’s given her some bogus reason to doubt herself. By the end of the day, we got some incredible shots; the girls came alive behind the lens, and they left happy with the results (and this is BEFORE I even Photoshop them!) The foggy veil of pain lifted for a while, and I was reminded that my purpose on this planet is greater than myself; when I get out of my own head, and use that purpose to help someone else, amazing things start to happen.

So at this point, I have to get out of my head, move forward in the gift that God chose to give me, and trust that the path will come clear in time.

In the meantime, I have work to do.

When I was little, my favorite ride at Disneyland was the Pirates of the Carribean. The swampy entrance with the fireflies and the wooden shack on the bayou reminded me of home, and I loved the cold, clammy feel of drifting through the cave of treasure. Despite a crippling fear of skeletons, I was drawn to that treasure cave with its shiny piles of coins and jewels.

As the trilogy unfolded years later in film form, I was amazed at the writers’ ability to incorporate every single aspect of that ride into the movies. Being a writer myself, I’m quite sure there is no way I could have evoked such emotion and crafted such an intricate story around a Disney ride. I could see the the writer’s meeting now:

“And… umm… there could be this big cave… and um… one pirate could stab the other. The end.”

I’m sure my childhood memories further endear me to these movies, and it has nothing to do with Johnny Depp and Orlando Bloom. But now, I’m even more in love with the story created from it. The perfect love story of a strong woman and a noble man… Will Turner has become my Prince Charming. Although, it appears, I keep ending up with the Jack Sparrows. Either way, I loved the movies so much, that they are often on at my house, and one day I noticed Alex had stopped playing and started watching the movie intently. I was a bit nervous about this: an early exposure to Poltergeist and skeletons in the pool kept me out of swimming pools for years, as well as introduced a lifelong horror of them. So I sat down next to her, ready to explain anything she saw that might upset her, or to quickly shut off the TV if necessary.

She was mesmorized by the tale, quickly identifying herself with the strong-willed “ElizaBET.”

“Mommy, I want to be ElizaBET for Halloween.”

As the story continued, Alex asked countless questions. After it ended, she immediately wanted to watch it again. A few days later, I heard her singing in the bathtub, “Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate’s life at sea.” I couldn’t help but giggle; Alex has her own version of everything.

A few days after that, we were in downtown Houston and saw a homeless man with dreadlocks on the side of the road.  “Mommy, that’s Captain Jack Sparrow!”

“Not quite, honey.”

It warms my heart that something dear to me is now part of her life as well. The true defining moment of this experience will be her first trip to Disneyland, where I can watch the wonder in her eyes as the tale comes to life… it’s a moment I look forward to.