Suburban Goddess

Yesterday was my father’s birthday. It was hard. It was harder than I though it would be, but I knew Daddy would be pissed off if I sat here feeling sorry for myself. But perhaps worse than the pain of the loss of my father, was laying in wait for my family to do something stupid.

Of course, they did not disappoint.

I won’t pretend to understand why people in my family do the things they do; I suppose that’s the nature of all families. Blood may be thicker than water, but with enough alcohol, I’m pretty sure the viscosity starts to level out. I moved away for many reasons, but one huge reason I won’t return is to uphold my parents’ honorable tradition of shielding small children from the insanity of alcoholism. I don’t want my daughter to be hurt. Sadly, she loves my aunt as much as I did. Luckily, she’s too young to be hurt by her like I was.

I forgave; after time, I missed the old war stories, the eloquent conversations, and the culture that she brought into my life. But the curtain was drawn back; I saw a side of her that was hurtful and cruel. I maintained my distance. I still love her, but I know her for what she is. Our family isn’t family unless there’s a feud brewing.

Less than a year ago, all of these people sat in a room with me, mourning the death of my father. My aunt stayed with us for several days, making sure my mother was not alone. It was nice. Fast forward 10 months later, and the venom and anger thrown across the room is pure vile. I can’t pretend to know the pain that they caused one another; my parents were so good at hiding the evil and cruelty that when I was finally exposed to it, it was devastating. I’ve written about it before; every female influence in my life except my mother decided to stop speaking to me because I asked the “wrong” cousin to stand in my wedding. If I had to go back, I’d do it again. I wasn’t in the business of excluding people out of spite, neither then or now.

A few months after Daddy’s death, my grandmother fell ill. She went to stay with my aunt until she got better; my aunt wanted to put her in a nursing home close by. We discussed it then, sitting at the bar of her kitchen in Mississippi. They couldn’t get a doctor to deem her mentally unfit. My opinion? Let her be where she wants to be. She can’t possibly have much time left. Let her die happy.

My grandmother returned to her small trailer on the Pearl River. My aunt, angry that she couldn’t convince her to move into the nursing home nearby, wrote her off, refusing to check on her or help her. About a month later, an ambulance was called to take my dying grandmother to the emergency room. I suppose that sounds horrible, but no one really knows the pain these two women have inflicted upon one another. I can’t say I blame my aunt for saying, “Let her die.” My uncle chimed in with the same response. “Put her in a home and let her die.” I can’t even imagine what a mother has to do to her children to have them react to her that way… but honestly, I don’t care. When an 80-something year old woman is dying, there’s no need to twist the knife.

My mother offered to take my grandmother in. Everyone was floored, including me. My grandmother had a strange relationship with my mother; I think she never forgave my mother for taking my father away. But despite all the years of nastiness, I understood where my mom was coming from. She did her best to honor my father’s wishes when he died, and she was extending the same courtesy to his mother. You see, more than anything, my grandmother did NOT want to go in a nursing home. She’s said it her entire life. I’m pretty sure my fierce independent streak comes straight from her. But as far back as I remember, I can remember her asking me, my father, my mother, my aunt: “Don’t you put me in a nursing home when I get older.”

My aunt, for whatever reason, decided to jump back in at that point. Brandishing her power of attorney, she informed the doctors that she would be taking my grandmother back to a nursing home in Hattiesburg. Everything the old lady didn’t want from the woman who had left her to die. My great-uncle stepped in to defend my grandmother’s right to choose. And the war ensued.

I’m not sure when being a caring and Christian person became so evil, but my aunt’s son has painted a target on my mother’s reputation; a reputation that this family has been taking pot-shots at for as long as I can remember. My aunt, I expect it from. But her son, my cousin… my father’s nephew… he held the other hand of my father as he died. I thought that meant something. In less than ten months he’s turned from my mother’s protector to her tormentor, and I can’t seem to get an answer why.

But I think I know in my heart, why. Alcohol is a dangerous fuel for grief and anger. It makes people say and do stupid, hateful things. But the level of cruelty leaves me sad and disappointed. I thought that we had tuned over a new leaf as a family….

But sadly, nothing has changed. Alcohol still makes mean drunks.

The most frustrating part of all of this is the complete inability of both my aunt and my cousin to take responsibility for their actions. My aunt left her mother to DIE…. so when other family steps up to make sure the old lady is taken care of, my aunt becomes indignant. “We have fights like that all the time.”

Great. Next time you decide to give your mom the silent treatment, don’t be pissed at the people who *do* check on her. You don’t want to? Nobody faults you for it. But don’t think we’re all going to turn a blind eye so it can happen again. Evil or not, she’s still a human being… and the moment you stop thinking of people like that, no one’s life has worth anymore. It’s not up to us to pass judgment; it’s not up to us to mete out justice. But this is not a mistake that can be repeated. A woman’s life, whatever her perceived value or transgressions, is at stake. It’s time to accept the consequences of your actions. You left her to die; you don’t get a second chance. You have lost that privilege. Deal with it.

And I’m not even sure why my cousin is in it at all. Maybe he’s defending his mom’s honor, I don’t know. He *HATED* my grandmother. I tried to speak with him, but he won’t return my call. Honestly, I just want to know why he’s so damn angry… had he bothered to check facts he wouldn’t look like the complete moron that he does. Empty threats, hateful slander, ridiculous accusations… he’s called my mother insane, a liar, a thief, and a gambling addict. He’s taken private and personal information she confided in him and twisted it for his own personal smear campaign. But my question is just this simple:

Why?

He has nothing to gain, and so much to lose. I don’t understand how he can be so deliberately cruel and hateful to someone who took *him* off the street, and cared for in the exact same manner Mom is caring for my grandmother. When someone needed help, my parents were always there. When *HE* needed help, my mom and dad were there. Why? Why? WHY??

You need help, Cousin. In the meantime, your hateful rhetoric and drunken late-night ramblings are just hurting your reputation. Keep my Daddy’s friends; you need them far more than we do. Tell them whatever lies ease your aching heart. But you have to face the same maker that your “evil” grandmother has to face, so I’d be a little more careful with your soul if I were you. Alcohol will only drown the voice of conscience for a while… you can hit delete every morning, but your actions do not disappear.

Sad. And a little bit funny, in a sick, redneck, black humor kind of way. We are the material Jerry Springer dreams of.

I’ve been spending *way* too much time on a new website called Pinterest lately. If you haven’t gone there, DON’T. Seriously, it makes you realize exactly how much of your life you’re wasting… and then you don’t realize how much *more* you’re wasting by staring at it for hours on end.

Actually, it’s been a great motivating force in my life. After looking at beautiful landscapes, incredible scenery, amazing art, awesome crafts, and various other useless information compiled in a wonderfully organized way, I’ve discovered the key to thrifty living while still appearing fabulous. I have made my own “ghetto” Febreeze, learned the easy way to clean almost anything, painted and redecorated several rooms, and made enough meals for a month packed nice and tidy in my freezer. I’ve made sugar cookie truffles, and have a pumpkin truffle batch ready to go. I made my own carpet cleaner (that WORKS), learned how to paint over laminate to make *anything* look fabulous, and invested in some power tools to start building a ew organization projects around the house, as well as a few structures outside so that I can finally use my backyard the way I imagined when I bought this house.

I keep waiting for the energy to fade out, but before it can, I pull myself up and force myself to keep going. The productivity is amazing when I actually stop napping so much.

But it doesn’t stop; it’s like crack. I have to go on EVERY SINGLE DAY and see what other amazing and helpful tips I can find. How to remove soap scum with a grapefruit (I tried it; it WORKS). How to deodorize your mattress (Again, brilliance). I made homemade play-doh for Alex, as well as some of the cutest damn lightning bugs you’ve ever seen (Stuff a battery-operated tea-light in a Easter egg. Add googly eyes and pipe cleaners for the legs and antennae.) The crap on this site is endless.

For a crafty person, it is absolute overload. And it was just what I needed…..

Hmmm…. well, that’s kind of a long story.

Let me begin by saying this: Karma WORKS. If you think it doesn’t, please don’t walk in front of a bus or play in a lightning storm, because you’re just asking for it. It *WILL* get you. I promise.

That being said, I’ve been dealing with my own karma for quite some time. Like five years of it. It took 30 years for it to build up, and it decided to pay me back all in one fell swoop. Now, don’t get me wrong; I’m not complaining. I had it coming. And some of my reactions to karma in the past few years have guaranteed me a few more years of torture, I’m sure. But watching the great balance of life swing up and down has been enlightening, to say the least.

I’m left in a stunned state of acceptance. This is life, and it’s what you make of it.

Aside from the Jack Handey-esque deep thoughts, I’ve just been busy. My dream summer of relaxation was anything but that; camp after camp after camp kept me moving until I’m staring at the calendar in stunned disbelief that it’s already time to go back to school.

Really? But I didn’t even get to LAY BY THE POOL!!! (Sorry, that was a heartless jab at my old corporate friends. Love you!)

My book did not get finished; it didn’t even get STARTED. I did set up a rather impressive Pinterest account, which has evolved into a million other projects that I will never get done due to my debilitating case of procrastination. If a pharmaceutical company came up with a cure for THAT, I might stop hating them so much. But no, male pattern baldness is much more pressing than silly diseases like cancer, or Alzheimer’s, or procrastination.

I’ve made a promise to myself to start writing again. I had far less anxiety when I wrote regularly. In fact, there is a driving creativity that has been trying to claw it’s way out of my chest lately. I’m thankful that my daughter seems to have the same ailment; it’s made for many wonderful afternoons demolishing our kitchen table. The projects are lined up in order on the windowsill, ready to be tackled one at a time. I’m not sure where it comes from, this needle poking my brain saying “Get up, lazy ass! Create something, or you’ll be the next featured home on Hoarders!” My garage looks like Hobby Lobby’s stockroom, piled high with craft supplies dying to be utilized. So many ideas. Not enough time.

I’ve discovered my time management skills are lacking. (I just heard half the Internet roar in laughter at the obvious statement.) But hey, sometimes self-realization is slow in coming! I think the term is denial, or something like that. So in true graphic designer style, I created my own time-management binder (because I hated everyone else’s designs) to help keep myself on track this year. I also had to create all the posters for my classroom (because I hate the Polyanna Apple designs that prevail in education). I mean, if we’re teaching the next generation, I think a classroom needs to be a bit edgy. Why are we still decorating it like a 100-year-old school house? UGH.

My next goal is a bit more important, though. I’ve been so bogged down in myself for so long; I’ve been self-absorbed and unappreciative of all my friends trudging through the the same melancholy mire as me. Everyone always has *intentions* of doing things for others, but they never get around to it. So my goal for the next few months is to do one small thing for anyone who’s helped me along the way. Not out of obligation, but because I am truly grateful to these people, and I need them to know that their actions/words/advice helped me through the blackest part of my life.

And the first person who needs to know that: my little girl.

“Hey, Ms. Mac! Are you gonna have a baby?”

*sigh*

“I want to growl, but I can’t growl anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Because that stupid floozy stole my growl. Now anytime I growl, I think of her growling, and it makes me mad to think I sound like her. I don’t want to make the same noise a floozy makes.”

“You’re getting professional help, right?”

I’ve been gone too long. This summer has been liberating in several ways. Driving around with the top down on my Jeep, music blaring, with my cowboy hat on… I take a deep breath and thank God for the beauty in a day. I thank God for the love in my life.

And to the rest, I say fuck off. My life is not so complicated anymore.

The ex and I; done. No more arguing. I finally realized, arguing is futile. My daughter is loved and taken care of, and for that, I am thankful. The rest are simply details that really aren’t going to matter anyway.

The boyfriend and I; here. Yes, we have issues. We’ll either work through them, or we won’t. Either way, I’ll live. Either way, someone will love me.

The business; done. I will no longer be guilted into something that I should feel no guilt over. No, I wasn’t the perfect partner. Yes, I made mistakes. Most importantly, I’ve learned from them. Don’t make promises you can’t keep; you let a lot of people down. Now I just make promises I CAN keep, or I don’t make them at all.

The job; WAY harder than I first anticipated…. and more fulfilling than anything I’ve ever done. I’ll stick with it as long as they will let me.

What happens now? Whatever life decides to throw at me. I’ve seen enough to know it’s not going to be easy, but I always did enjoy a challenge.

I made a trip home last weekend at my mom’s request; she’s taken in my ailing grandmother who wanted to see Alex one more time before she passes.

It may sound cold, but I don’t give my grandmother a lot of thought most of the time. I had a great childhood with her, but we grew apart in my twenties due to a stupid family argument. I never felt close to her again after that. I’d still make the obligatory visits each time I came into town, but my trust in her had died a long time ago.

But this trip was different. For one thing, her own children have washed their hands of her. When told she was hospitalized, the standard response was: “Let her die there.” I suppose that would shock most people, but my grandmother wasn’t the best mother. My father never elaborated on the details, but I know she caused him a great deal of pain. He was a dutiful son anyway, helping her despite her meanness. I don’t know that the woman is rotten to the core; my parents did a great job of shielding me from the nastiness that others describe. But what I saw when I arrived was a fragile shell of a human being, stripped of her independence and dignity. She is suffering for her sins, no doubt. I don’t care how horrid she was; she is suffering and in horrible pain. As a human being, I can’t understand how you can walk away from that.

There was a time when someone I loved hurt me in the same way. When a moment of truth came, he made the wrong decision. It hurt me so much that I couldn’t bear it anymore. I packed up his things and left them on his doorstep. I washed my hands of the years of pain he caused me, ready to move on. That night, he called me from his bed. He was hurting worse than he ever hurt. Part of me thought: “Good. I hope it stings, you lying bastard.”

But the human being in me took over again. I simply cannot bear to watch anyone suffer. I don’t know why I went to his bedside that night. He did not deserve me. But much like my grandmother, I believe in moments from God. I believe in the right situations, a person can change. But in the end, I don’t think even that matters. In the end, my grandmother just doesn’t want to die alone. She wants to be with her family. I think it’s tragic that she hurt them so badly that they want nothing to do with her in the moment of her greatest need. But who am I to judge? I certainly understand being hurt by those you loved and trusted; and God knows I was blessed enough to never have to endure that kind of pain from the very people who were supposed to protect me from it. Maybe she deserves to die alone.

I just know I wouldn’t. I hope I’ve made enough of a impact in somebody’s life that they care enough to hold my hand when I die.

It reminded me so much of Daddy, looking into her clear blue eyes. But unlike my Daddy, who had a room full of people surrounding him with the most beautiful love when he died, it was just me and my mother sitting in the room with her. Nobody whispering in the hallway. No conversations in the kitchen. No lull of voices from the smokers on the front porch. Just silence.

My kiddo was out of school yesterday, leaving me no alternative but to take her to work with me. Of course, she’s completely okay with that, because my kids were completely enamored of her the moment they walked in. During second period, one of my Asian students was especially attentive to her, playing with her hair. She fixed Alex’s hair into a popular Asian style; an off-kilter sideways ponytail. She looked absolutely adorable, and the day wore on.

In fourth period, another student commented on how cute her hair was. Alex primped, telling the student, “It’s Aging.”

I looked at her, puzzled for a moment. “It’s what?”

“Aging. The Aging girl fixed it.”

*snicker*

I ran across a post from an old boyfriend. Curious to see how his life was going, I clicked through to his home page. Underneath his relationship status, I was stunned to see “Engaged.”

I knew it would happen eventually. He’s a great guy, and always has been. I just didn’t expect it to kick me in the heart quite like it did. It’s not like I didn’t have the opportunity: I blew it on several occasions. In a way, I think that was a blessing for him; I would have killed this poor guy, and the girl he’s with is perfect for him in every single way. I’m genuinely happy for him, and truly wish him the best.

But the narcissist in me is devestated. What do you mean, he got over me?

It was a joke among our friends: he was my eternal back-up. No matter what happened in my personal life, he would always be there for me when it didn’t work out. It wasn’t fair, the way I treated him. He deserved so much better. And now, he found it.

It’s a wake-up call for me. He always stayed true to what he believed, and now, he’s finally getting the life he deserves with someone who will truly appreciate him.

There was a time when Evil Me would call, just to see if there was a hint of longing left in his voice. But New Me knows the value of a man you can trust, and sometimes doing the right thing involves keeping your mouth shut and staying far, far away.

That was a lesson some would have staked their lives on that I would never learn. But after years of battling trust issues with those who claim to love me, I will never allow myself to be part of a temptation again.

Not to say he’d even be tempted.

I hope and pray, he wouldn’t. Because once you find real love, you’re blinded to everything else. And I’d give anything for those I care about to be able to love that deeply.

Never in a million years did I think I would date a cop. It never crossed my mind, was never a thought, until shortly after my divorce. While eating lunch with a co-worker, I saw a table full of them having a conversation. Without thinking, the thought tumbled from my lips.

“I want to date a cop.”

“WHY?” My co-worker laughed.

“I don’t know. Maybe because they’re honorable.”

Little did I know how unbelievably stupid that thought was. I’m not saying they’re not honorable; I’ve met quite a few. I’ve also encountered the typical cop stereotype along the way: drunken, power-hungry womanizers. A relationship with a cop is not like other relationship. They are trying, difficult, and require a great deal of understanding and compromise. Their ability to compartmentalize is unreal. One moment, they’re looking at a grisly murder scene, the next minute, they’re eating spaghetti without so much as a wince. They are unmoved by tears, and often show no emotion at all. If they do, it most certainly involves a child, and those scenes are something unfathomable to the general public.

I’ve given four years now to this relationship. I wish I could say it’s been easy. It hasn’t. It’s been four years of the hardest compromises, the most incredible disappointments, and the worst heartbreaks I have ever endured. In that four years I’ve been lied to, manipulated, and maneuvered. Four years into our relationship, his daughter still doesn’t know my name. It makes me furious that my own child can be treated one way, but his is held to a different standard.

It makes me furious at myself that I allowed it to be this way. My daughter deserves better than this.

I deserve better than this.

There are friends and family who think it’s intentional on his part. Some think he’s a manipulative womanizer. Some think he’s just spineless when it comes to his ex. Others don’t see a problem at all, and think he’s the sweetest person on the planet. I guess that’s the problem when you invite opinions into your relationship; you’re obligated to listen. After all, you asked for it, right? I suppose the only opinion that truly matters is my own…

Four years. We should be closer to family now.

Four years. He should have been holding my hand when I was watching my father die.

Four years. His daughter should feel the same anxiety that mine does when he’s not around.

Four years. I shouldn’t feel fear every time his phone rings.

Four years. I should feel secure in this relationship.

All I feel is anxiety. Fear. Unrest. Every minute of every day… and the only thing that prevents it is having him in my line of sight, and even that doesn’t work like it used to. I’ve become something that I’m not. I’ve become a shell of myself.

It’s time to change.