Sunday, August 5, 2012
The State of Chynna vs. The Wretched Bacon
I know a girl
She puts the color inside of my world
But she's just like a maze
Where all of the walls are continually changed
And I've done all I can
To stand on her steps with my heart in my hands
Now I'm starting to see
Maybe it's got nothing to do with me
Fathers, be good to your daughters
Daughters will love like you do
Girls become lovers who turn into mothers
Daughters -John Mayer
"Good morning, good morning, good morning, my lit-tle boys & girls! I love toseeyourfaceinthemorning, my lit-tle boys & girls!" "Oh well," I think, "it'll never be a top 40 hit, but it's better than nothing." Seasoning my downright militant weekday wake-up the troops approach with as much motherly love as possible - I realize the good cop approach is definitely not working this day. I have two boys to get to two different elementary schools on two different ends of town.....and it's almost too late! Pleasantly surprised to see 6 year old Daniel brushing his teeth, albeit with his shirt buttoned up askew and still no socks & shoes on, I suddenly realize that 4 year old Chynna's door is still closed. I must get her up soon. My stomach lurches a little. Oh, boy, this is one phase I'll be glad to eradicate from our lives. My daughter, the diva tyrant of the pre-school set.
"Dill? Dill? Dillan? Where are you son?" I'm downstairs, Momma," I hear my eldest son proclaim. 9 year old Dillan has sneakily crept down the stairs as I was passing by, no doubt, to stake his claim in his seat of choice for the morning ride to school. I'm sure he'll be informing me that he will ride shotgun and Chynna (he's taken to calling her "Chinks" lately - its time for a politically correct names only for your sister talk), while Daniel will sit in the "way back." Actually, not a bad configuration, I think, since each child sitting in a row, independent of each other makes for far less poking and teasing. I was considering a similar schematic strategy, myself, in light of the recent disastrous plastic cup travesty. Feeling my face flush just from thinking about the incident, I recall the events from last Thursday afternoon as I attempted to drive all three children home from Dillan's baseball practice - a scant 2-3 miles, though it felt like a cross-country journey. First we had Dillan giving us the minute by minute account of every player's performance, peppered with tales of his own super-human performance. Next, we have Daniel asking me, in his own little precious speech pattern, devoid of r's and most first syllables of words, imploring me to turn the car around so we can go find him that Batman action figure he simply cannot live without one moment longer. After all, didn't I fashion some sort of bargain during Dillan's practice to get hime to agree not to throw dirt at his sister. At least there was Chynna, an uncommonly precious angel quietly sitting in her booster seat, sucking her thumb and holding her favorite item of the past 6 weeks, a clear sippy cup with a built in straw that circled and swirled from the bottom to the tippy top of the shiny pink lid. My moment of weakness during last week's grocery shopping trip. All hail the magical calming powers of the round-&-round cup. As I'm driving, and shushing, and listening, and agreeing, and nodding, and turning the radio music up just a tad louder, and worrying about dinner, and wondering about a million other things...I realize a new game has started. A decidedly bad game. An evil, wretched game. Glancing into the rearview mirror while attempting a 90 degree turn, I see that Daniel has the amazing round-&-round cup, no - Dillan does. No, its definitely Daniel. Immediately, an otherworldly, guttural, primitive, head splitting scream emanates from the back seat. I have no words to describe this noise. I cannot believe the windows in the car haven't all shattered. There must surely be blood running from my ears, I think. It's her. The princess has awoken. Hell hath no fury like Chynna when she's been wronged in some way. "Boys!!!! Boys!!!!! How many times do I have to tell you about taking things away from your sister! That is HER CUP. Please give it back! Dillan! Daniel! Michael Dillan!!! Give....excuse me? What did you just say? Guh.....HEY! Gi......LISTEN!!!!!!!!! GIVE IT TO ME NOW! THIS MINUTE!" And quicker than you can say no wire hangers, I grab the cup, roll down the passenger side window, and execute an AMAZING throw of the round-&-round cup, lobbing it successfully across the wide ditch, directly into a plowed and recently planted field of what looks like cabbage. Quiet. Silence. No one daring to utter a single noise. Breathing heavily, I barrel on down this quiet little farm-to-market road, equal parts relieved to end this mayhem yet hoping my mini-nervous breakdown wouldn't scar them all for life. But, that cup - that cup would not soon forget. It would remain top side up, hot pink shiny lid glowing in the sunshine like a little piece of a rainbow trapped in the cabbage patch for weeks to come. Each time we drive past that corner, I will hear my daughter's wistful little voice whisper, "Awww. Dares my rounanroun cup, Mama." Thus, the assigned seating idea, albeit a product of Dillan's slight OCD (oldest child disorder) nature, comes to fruition. We'll tackle the therapy issue at a later date.
Now, back to the morning at hand? Passenger control is only one part of my stomach wrenching morning dilemma. Backpacks organized? Check. Breakfast ready to grab and eat in route - biscuits and bacon? Check. Shoes and socks in car? Yep. Hair gelled to oblivion and combed to the side with absolutely no alfalfa's, circa Little Ricky from "I Love Lucy"? Bingo. Ok - here we go. Like an Olympian athlete, I approach the stairs. Tentatively, I tap the bottom stair with my right big toe, as if to test it's sturdiness. Will I succeed today? Will I triumph? I must. Warrior that I am, I will not fail. On your mark, get set.....running up the stairs in record time, I turn the doorknob and enter her room. grabbing her favorite blanket with the slippery white satin ribbon trim from the foot of her bed, I pick, turn, wrap, and snuggle in one swift move. Ignoring her protests, I hold the massive tangly cloud of light brown hair against my left shoulder, aware that I can barely see where I'm walking through this super-sized bird's nest. There could be a small animal hiding in there somewhere. Down the stairs we go, more carefully this time. Through the kitchen, past the laundry room. Approaching the door to the garage, I'm so hoping the boys are already deeply into some loud argument that will upset her more. Luckily they're not. Dillan has his electronic football game going and Daniel has created little warriors out of both his fingers and toes. We're good!!!! Gently, I belt her into the little car-seat kingdom I've created in the middle seat. I plump the pillow I carry with me at all times, stretch the blanket up, and smooth the mop of slightly damp, sweaty hair over her eyes. Today, I rock at all things Mom. Today, I win. One sleepy hazely-brown eye gazes up from under amazingly black eyelashes. It crinkles. I see a lopsided smile form around the thumb in her mouth. The tiny dimple vibrates, unsure as to whether it will pop inward or stay smooth. All is good in the world. Until we get home, that is.
My sweet princess has multiple personalities. Some mornings she's all about being my perfect bambino on the way to the boys schools. On those days, however, I know my real job will start when we get home. I am so fortunate. I do not have to work. I get to stay home and organize this daily convoy twice a day. I get to wash, fold, freshen, scrub, and straighten to my hearts content. I get to put her down for a nap. I get to make fresh tea. I am so thankful - this is important to know. There are challenges, before the fortunate things, however, like the bacon. Princess Chynna does not like the smell of bacon. Sometimes, it's not even an issue. Sometimes, she refuses to leave the comfort of her throne in the middle seat. She whines, she growls, she kicks - leave me alone, she seems to say. Who goes there? Halt! No one wakes up the princess before she's ready! Be gone with you. So I leave - garage door locked tightly, car door and door into house open wide. I glance, I run back and forth every 60 seconds. I keep my eyes on her. Finally, she emerges. When I spot the silky Disney image of Esmerelda on the front of the pink nightgown, thumb still in mouth, tanned little toes firmly planted on the black and white tiles of the floor. I know what comes next. Thumb comes out. Sniff. Sniff. Eye-contact. Let the gagging begin. "Aaaaaah!" Fake gag. Fake gag. "Aaaaaaaah!" Faux cough/gag combo. OKAY. I say, firmly. YOU WIN. Out comes the magic spray. This week we're using the country potpourri scented air freshener. She seems to like this better than the powder scent we borrowed from the downstairs guest bath last week. Spray.....spray....room to room. Concentrate on the area my the stove. Concentrate on the bar area that faces the living room television. Cheerios go in the bowl. Spoon. Cup of milk. Place the princess on her favorite bar stool. Nick Jr - on. Face is here. "Little Bear next," she says, speaking for the first time today. "Yes, baby," I say defeated, having lost the battle once again, "Little Bear is next." "It smells bad, Mommy," she says, screwing up her little face and poking out a rosy, shiny bottom lip. I know, baby, I know, I think - you hate the smell of bacon, don't you. It's ok. Mommies can fix anything, even the evil smell of bacon in the morning. Why do I fight her, I wonder. She's obviously way better at this than I am. Mommy + Country Potpourri Air-Freshener = A very good, downright magical day, minus the round 'n round cup, of course. I beg your pardon. Apparently I did promise you a rose garden with no bacon.
Monday, July 9, 2012
George Eat Old Gray Rat at Phillip's House Yesterday
Ben, the two of us need look no more
We both found what we were looking for
With my friend to call my own I'll never be alone
And you my friend will see, you've got a friend in me
Ben, you're always running here and there
You feel you're not wanted anywhere
If you ever look behind and don't like what you find
There's something you should know, you've got a place to go
I used to say, "I", And "Me"
Now it's "Us", Now it's "We"
Ben, most people would turn you away
I don't listen to a word they say
They don't see you as I do I wish they would try to
I'm sure they'd think again if they had a friend like Ben
Like Ben, like Ben
"Ben" -written by Scharf, Walter, Black, Don & sung by the incomparable MJ himself
Rats! No, seriously, I have rats. I have A rat, at least. I'm trying to convince myself that it's "one, singular sensation, every little step she takes." Still, I don't see "my" rat starring in A Chorus Line anytime soon. Yes, I choose to think she's a large she and not a he rat. She has excellent musical taste, otherwise, why would SHE be frequenting my humble abode? After all, who else in my neighborhood plays classical music in their kitchens while slaving away at work all day? See, I also keep my amazingly precious dogs kenneled in the kitchen during the work week. Gotta have the classical music jammin', though I did try Spanish speaking radio for a while thinking it would make the pups tre' sophisticated. It didn't. They do like to bark at Selma Hayek, though. Every time the trailer for Savages is on TV they go crazy! But.....back to my rattus norvegicus (that's how those in the know talk about their vermin guests). HHHHHHEEEEEEEEEEEELLLLPPPP MMMMMEEEEEEEEE!
"A Rat", by Dina Moon (poetic version). "A ratticus in my atticus. Sounds so quite sympaticus! With my whole wheat pita bread you are in love...icus."
"A Rat - The Remix", also kind of by Dina Moon (rap version). "Yo, yo, yo baby rat come here and give me a kiss (no, don't). Bettah make it fast or else I'm feedin' you a dish (of poison)."
*************************************and finally*************************************************
"Gone with the Rat", inspired by Dina Moon (theatrical version). Dina: "Rat, rat, where evah are you goin'? Why, oh why, are you choosin' to ravish your rodent tendencies in my plantation?" Rat: "Frankly, Dina, I don't give a d#$n!"
So, here we sit. I have a rat, who apparently, LOVES living in my kitchen. Why rat? Why not mouse? Well, this lovely rodent lady saw fit to down a WHOLE BAG of whole wheat pita bread rounds yours truly likes to have with the amazing hummus I keep handy. Exhibit A: Imagine my shock with I pulled out my bag of near zero calorie pita bites to find that the package was EMPTY! I accused everyone of being the pita bandit, but they all looked at me like I was crazy and said, in unison, "What the heck is a pita?" Exhibit B: My husband brought home the dreaded Mrs. Baird's cinnamon rolls. I rolled my eyes - surely he will start understanding I wound never eat something so repulsive as packaged cinnamon rolls! Yet, 24 hours later, who was ready to throw caution to the wind and scarf down a luscious, impeccably iced, cinnamonly morsel of amazingness (on the patio with coffee, of course)...THIS GIRL! Until I noticed the corner of the package. It didn't exist. Until I noticed the missing Mercedes hood ornament sized section of cinnamon roll. It didn't exist, either. Ok, so maybe I accused someone's bratty kid at Kroger of wedging a pudgy finger in MY cinnamon roll package and devouring MY corner of sugary, guilty, yumminess. But, this ain't my first rodeo. I knew better. Something cinnamon was rotten in Denmark! Out, out you darn cinnamon rolls. And, so, I threw them away. (WAAAAAAAAH!) Exhibit C: That was NOT a partial chocolate chip snippet on the countertop the next morning. Enough said!
So, what's a working girl to do? Wanna catch a bigger mouse? GET A BIGGER MOUSE TRAP! Sure, I initially wanted to trap the lil lady live and release her into a pristine field somewhere in a proverbial rattus norvegicus Eden, complete with lavender and pita plants galore. Realistically, though, do you know what a live trap costs? GEESH. Nevermind. Let's annihilate the sucker! That is how I wound up choosing the top o' the line, cutting edge, REUSABLE, GINORMOUS sophistimacated rat trap! (Go, me) But, my rat catchin' life - it ain't been no crystal stair. Night 1: trap set on top of counter. Trap tripped. Cheese abandoned in favor of life saving measures. Trap winds up in kitchen floor. No rat. Night 2: Trap is set in floor (she's smart enough to push it off counter without experiencing Ratticide). Trap not tripped. Cheese still in trap. No dice. Night 3: Trap set in floor with peanut butter (OOOOOOOOOH! AHHHHHHHHH!). Trap NOT TRIPPED AGAIN. Peanut butter left in tact. Houston, I have a problem. Night 4: Trap set on other side of kitchen in the floor with cheese AND peanut butter AND bread. Trap STILL NOT TRIPPED. Whole smorgasbord left in tact. Egad, she's onto me. I fear I am turning into a girl version of Abraham Lincoln, Vermin Hunter.
Fast forward (cue Gilligan's Island dream sequence music).......it's a year from now. I come home early from work one day. There she is, Ophelia (yes, I named her - it's classic and tragic, don't you think?). She's wearing my new Nike capri workout pants and doing my TapOut MMA workout in the living room. Her abs are amazing. Later, I see her drinking a glass of my merlot and chatting with the dogs about the perils of eating dog food high in fat. Next she takes a bubble bath and washes her fur with my Kerastase zero phosphate shampoo - she contemplates dousing herself with my It's a 10 leave in conditioner, but decides to do that in the AM, instead. She favors peep toe platform pumps, Michael Kors purses, and only real pearls. She refuses to get any body piercings but wants a tiny tattoo of the infinity symbol. She knows the words to all the Miranda Lambert songs.Yep, that Ophelia is a really cool rat. Sure, she poops on the kitchen counter and has a predisposition for rabies and certain types of mites. Still, she's a survivor!
On the other hand, HHHHHHHHHHEEEEELLLLLLPPPPPP MMMMMEEEEEEE!
A rat by any other name is still eating my pitas and listening to my classical music and I won't have it one minute longer! Tonight, maybe I'll try asparagus & parmesan cheese. A sophisticated rodent like Ophelia would never eat plain peanut butter!
We both found what we were looking for
With my friend to call my own I'll never be alone
And you my friend will see, you've got a friend in me
Ben, you're always running here and there
You feel you're not wanted anywhere
If you ever look behind and don't like what you find
There's something you should know, you've got a place to go
I used to say, "I", And "Me"
Now it's "Us", Now it's "We"
Ben, most people would turn you away
I don't listen to a word they say
They don't see you as I do I wish they would try to
I'm sure they'd think again if they had a friend like Ben
Like Ben, like Ben
"Ben" -written by Scharf, Walter, Black, Don & sung by the incomparable MJ himself
Rats! No, seriously, I have rats. I have A rat, at least. I'm trying to convince myself that it's "one, singular sensation, every little step she takes." Still, I don't see "my" rat starring in A Chorus Line anytime soon. Yes, I choose to think she's a large she and not a he rat. She has excellent musical taste, otherwise, why would SHE be frequenting my humble abode? After all, who else in my neighborhood plays classical music in their kitchens while slaving away at work all day? See, I also keep my amazingly precious dogs kenneled in the kitchen during the work week. Gotta have the classical music jammin', though I did try Spanish speaking radio for a while thinking it would make the pups tre' sophisticated. It didn't. They do like to bark at Selma Hayek, though. Every time the trailer for Savages is on TV they go crazy! But.....back to my rattus norvegicus (that's how those in the know talk about their vermin guests). HHHHHHEEEEEEEEEEEELLLLPPPP MMMMMEEEEEEEEE!
"A Rat", by Dina Moon (poetic version). "A ratticus in my atticus. Sounds so quite sympaticus! With my whole wheat pita bread you are in love...icus."
"A Rat - The Remix", also kind of by Dina Moon (rap version). "Yo, yo, yo baby rat come here and give me a kiss (no, don't). Bettah make it fast or else I'm feedin' you a dish (of poison)."
*************************************and finally*************************************************
"Gone with the Rat", inspired by Dina Moon (theatrical version). Dina: "Rat, rat, where evah are you goin'? Why, oh why, are you choosin' to ravish your rodent tendencies in my plantation?" Rat: "Frankly, Dina, I don't give a d#$n!"
So, here we sit. I have a rat, who apparently, LOVES living in my kitchen. Why rat? Why not mouse? Well, this lovely rodent lady saw fit to down a WHOLE BAG of whole wheat pita bread rounds yours truly likes to have with the amazing hummus I keep handy. Exhibit A: Imagine my shock with I pulled out my bag of near zero calorie pita bites to find that the package was EMPTY! I accused everyone of being the pita bandit, but they all looked at me like I was crazy and said, in unison, "What the heck is a pita?" Exhibit B: My husband brought home the dreaded Mrs. Baird's cinnamon rolls. I rolled my eyes - surely he will start understanding I wound never eat something so repulsive as packaged cinnamon rolls! Yet, 24 hours later, who was ready to throw caution to the wind and scarf down a luscious, impeccably iced, cinnamonly morsel of amazingness (on the patio with coffee, of course)...THIS GIRL! Until I noticed the corner of the package. It didn't exist. Until I noticed the missing Mercedes hood ornament sized section of cinnamon roll. It didn't exist, either. Ok, so maybe I accused someone's bratty kid at Kroger of wedging a pudgy finger in MY cinnamon roll package and devouring MY corner of sugary, guilty, yumminess. But, this ain't my first rodeo. I knew better. Something cinnamon was rotten in Denmark! Out, out you darn cinnamon rolls. And, so, I threw them away. (WAAAAAAAAH!) Exhibit C: That was NOT a partial chocolate chip snippet on the countertop the next morning. Enough said!
So, what's a working girl to do? Wanna catch a bigger mouse? GET A BIGGER MOUSE TRAP! Sure, I initially wanted to trap the lil lady live and release her into a pristine field somewhere in a proverbial rattus norvegicus Eden, complete with lavender and pita plants galore. Realistically, though, do you know what a live trap costs? GEESH. Nevermind. Let's annihilate the sucker! That is how I wound up choosing the top o' the line, cutting edge, REUSABLE, GINORMOUS sophistimacated rat trap! (Go, me) But, my rat catchin' life - it ain't been no crystal stair. Night 1: trap set on top of counter. Trap tripped. Cheese abandoned in favor of life saving measures. Trap winds up in kitchen floor. No rat. Night 2: Trap is set in floor (she's smart enough to push it off counter without experiencing Ratticide). Trap not tripped. Cheese still in trap. No dice. Night 3: Trap set in floor with peanut butter (OOOOOOOOOH! AHHHHHHHHH!). Trap NOT TRIPPED AGAIN. Peanut butter left in tact. Houston, I have a problem. Night 4: Trap set on other side of kitchen in the floor with cheese AND peanut butter AND bread. Trap STILL NOT TRIPPED. Whole smorgasbord left in tact. Egad, she's onto me. I fear I am turning into a girl version of Abraham Lincoln, Vermin Hunter.
Fast forward (cue Gilligan's Island dream sequence music).......it's a year from now. I come home early from work one day. There she is, Ophelia (yes, I named her - it's classic and tragic, don't you think?). She's wearing my new Nike capri workout pants and doing my TapOut MMA workout in the living room. Her abs are amazing. Later, I see her drinking a glass of my merlot and chatting with the dogs about the perils of eating dog food high in fat. Next she takes a bubble bath and washes her fur with my Kerastase zero phosphate shampoo - she contemplates dousing herself with my It's a 10 leave in conditioner, but decides to do that in the AM, instead. She favors peep toe platform pumps, Michael Kors purses, and only real pearls. She refuses to get any body piercings but wants a tiny tattoo of the infinity symbol. She knows the words to all the Miranda Lambert songs.Yep, that Ophelia is a really cool rat. Sure, she poops on the kitchen counter and has a predisposition for rabies and certain types of mites. Still, she's a survivor!
On the other hand, HHHHHHHHHHEEEEELLLLLLPPPPPP MMMMMEEEEEEE!
A rat by any other name is still eating my pitas and listening to my classical music and I won't have it one minute longer! Tonight, maybe I'll try asparagus & parmesan cheese. A sophisticated rodent like Ophelia would never eat plain peanut butter!
Sunday, March 25, 2012
Country Roads, Take Me Home
You got a fast car
I want a ticket to anywhere
Maybe we make a deal
Maybe together we can get somewhere
Anyplace is better
Starting from zero got nothing to lose
Maybe we'll make something
But me myself I got nothing to prove
You got a fast car
And I got a plan to get us out of here
I been working at the convenience store
Managed to save just a little bit of money
We won't have to drive too far
Just across the border and into the city
You and I can both get jobs
And finally see what it means to be living
"Fast Car" - Tracy Chapman
So, it hit home one day at work. I am eccentrically different. I think I always sort of knew, but didn't want to realize it for a long time. I travel extensively in my profession. I go to different parts of the country and talk to different people in order to help them do their jobs more proficiently. I was up North (that phrase alone hints to the content of this blog) and launched into my monologue about a weed eater. It's a lovely little ditty of a tale about customer loyalty, but it fell upon deaf ears like a huge anchor on a dry lake. Silence. Crickets. No one got me! Why? Up North, there are no weed eaters. Why, they thought (as I rambled incessantly for several minutes) I was telling a story about an ANIMAL! Apparently, this group of co-workers was trying to mentally envision some giant, prehistoric anteater type creature who ran around and ate Paleozoic weeds!! I picture a redwood/fern hybrid that's roughly 50 ft tall. Turns out, they call my deep South weed eater a WEED WHACKER. Who knew? Case study #2: I know someone who is a recent transplant to Texas from another state. When you really take stock of the people in our larger communities who we interact with daily, are any of them Texas natives? Increasingly, as with any metropolitan city, we are comprised of many people who originally hail from all sorts of places. Cool, right? Still, she looked at me and said, "You know, when I moved to Texas I imagined all the girls were Southern Belles and sounded like you, but no one does. Everyone here sounds very Midwestern. When you opened your mouth on the first day, I thought - YES! Finally, someone who actually sounds Southern!" Great, now all I need to do is show up in my cowboy boots and talk about J.R. Ewing. On another business trip, I became very animated - typically, that's when my Texas accent is most obvious. Realizing I had lapsed into country girl euphemism speak, I apologized and explained that I'd really tried hard to keep the accent at bay all week. The consensus from the group was that I failed miserably. I thought: I am uber cosmopolitan and professional. Hear me not sound Southern! They thought: We can't understand anything she's saying. Is this even the King's English? Why do her words have 377 syllables?
Now, at first I was quite disheartened. We place so much self-value on the perception of others, after all. I think back to one of my first "car dates" with a boy when I was 16. It was Saturday afternoon and we were going to see a movie. I spent an entire week teaching myself how to do finger waves on my long hair, a la Veronica Lake. I thought I looked tres chic! Whatever prompted me to ask this question, I will never, ever know. As we approached the entrance ramp to the highway, bluebonnets and waist tall weeds in the background, concrete and highway bridges in the horizon, I asked this poor, clueless boy if he also thought the city was far, far more exciting than our dumb, boring life out in the sticks. He seemed non-plussed. I asked if he didn't think I belonged in the city - didn't I seem like a sophisticated fish out of the water out on the dirt road? Why, I would fit far more nicely with a slick, modern high rise apartment address than with my rural route and box # that no one could find on their first try, right? Finally picking up on the fact that his answer might dictate the entire mood of this date, he grappled to find something to say that would both placate me and shut me up: "I guess you're like a citified country girl?" Egad. My spirits were dashed. All I wanted was to be so different that the person I was.
Fast forward 30 years. I finally get it. Everybody wants to be somebody they're not. Everyone wants to reinvent themselves. None of us thinks we're quite good enough in our original packaging. Part of this original thought is good, I think. Shouldn't we as the human race want to aspire to more? Doesn't this form evolution in a certain aspect - both the scientific form of evolution AND the spiritual type of evolution. Shouldn't we all want to be better, make less mistakes, improve our existence. I say yes. Somewhere on this journey to perfection that's never enough and never attainable, I drove my inner-self jalopy into a ginormous pot hole. I broke my self-perception axle and had to have my life towed to an existential garage. Those who love me have been working on my chassis for some years now. I think I'm almost ready to be a road warrior once again. I think I'm ready to get behind the steering wheel and start moving along toward my goal of being the person I should be. This time, it will be different. This time, I have GPS. This time, I'll use the compass. I never did find the city, after all. I kept driving all around the outskirts, but there was never an exit ramp that would take me where I wanted to go. Today, I drive again. This time, I'm headed back to the country. All hail the power of Indian Paintbrushes and Buttercups. This time I will embrace sweet tea and banana pudding. I won't be embarrassed for people to hear the twang in my voice, the word y'all, the mixology of our Southern words (whatch'alldoin?).
I think I finally realized I am different. The real me is different than anyone else I know. It's time I embraced that. To do otherwise would be criminal. So.....as we end this first week of Spring, I encourage us all to do some self-introspection. Pop the hood on your life. Roll down your windows. Drive through your life's neighborhood and understand that whether good or bad, those are the things that form the essence of you. Turns out, the things you're trying to banish may just be the things that others adore about you most.
You can put your therapy check in the mail today!!!! Peace, love, grits 'n Aqua Net, y'all!
I want a ticket to anywhere
Maybe we make a deal
Maybe together we can get somewhere
Anyplace is better
Starting from zero got nothing to lose
Maybe we'll make something
But me myself I got nothing to prove
You got a fast car
And I got a plan to get us out of here
I been working at the convenience store
Managed to save just a little bit of money
We won't have to drive too far
Just across the border and into the city
You and I can both get jobs
And finally see what it means to be living
"Fast Car" - Tracy Chapman
So, it hit home one day at work. I am eccentrically different. I think I always sort of knew, but didn't want to realize it for a long time. I travel extensively in my profession. I go to different parts of the country and talk to different people in order to help them do their jobs more proficiently. I was up North (that phrase alone hints to the content of this blog) and launched into my monologue about a weed eater. It's a lovely little ditty of a tale about customer loyalty, but it fell upon deaf ears like a huge anchor on a dry lake. Silence. Crickets. No one got me! Why? Up North, there are no weed eaters. Why, they thought (as I rambled incessantly for several minutes) I was telling a story about an ANIMAL! Apparently, this group of co-workers was trying to mentally envision some giant, prehistoric anteater type creature who ran around and ate Paleozoic weeds!! I picture a redwood/fern hybrid that's roughly 50 ft tall. Turns out, they call my deep South weed eater a WEED WHACKER. Who knew? Case study #2: I know someone who is a recent transplant to Texas from another state. When you really take stock of the people in our larger communities who we interact with daily, are any of them Texas natives? Increasingly, as with any metropolitan city, we are comprised of many people who originally hail from all sorts of places. Cool, right? Still, she looked at me and said, "You know, when I moved to Texas I imagined all the girls were Southern Belles and sounded like you, but no one does. Everyone here sounds very Midwestern. When you opened your mouth on the first day, I thought - YES! Finally, someone who actually sounds Southern!" Great, now all I need to do is show up in my cowboy boots and talk about J.R. Ewing. On another business trip, I became very animated - typically, that's when my Texas accent is most obvious. Realizing I had lapsed into country girl euphemism speak, I apologized and explained that I'd really tried hard to keep the accent at bay all week. The consensus from the group was that I failed miserably. I thought: I am uber cosmopolitan and professional. Hear me not sound Southern! They thought: We can't understand anything she's saying. Is this even the King's English? Why do her words have 377 syllables?
Now, at first I was quite disheartened. We place so much self-value on the perception of others, after all. I think back to one of my first "car dates" with a boy when I was 16. It was Saturday afternoon and we were going to see a movie. I spent an entire week teaching myself how to do finger waves on my long hair, a la Veronica Lake. I thought I looked tres chic! Whatever prompted me to ask this question, I will never, ever know. As we approached the entrance ramp to the highway, bluebonnets and waist tall weeds in the background, concrete and highway bridges in the horizon, I asked this poor, clueless boy if he also thought the city was far, far more exciting than our dumb, boring life out in the sticks. He seemed non-plussed. I asked if he didn't think I belonged in the city - didn't I seem like a sophisticated fish out of the water out on the dirt road? Why, I would fit far more nicely with a slick, modern high rise apartment address than with my rural route and box # that no one could find on their first try, right? Finally picking up on the fact that his answer might dictate the entire mood of this date, he grappled to find something to say that would both placate me and shut me up: "I guess you're like a citified country girl?" Egad. My spirits were dashed. All I wanted was to be so different that the person I was.
Fast forward 30 years. I finally get it. Everybody wants to be somebody they're not. Everyone wants to reinvent themselves. None of us thinks we're quite good enough in our original packaging. Part of this original thought is good, I think. Shouldn't we as the human race want to aspire to more? Doesn't this form evolution in a certain aspect - both the scientific form of evolution AND the spiritual type of evolution. Shouldn't we all want to be better, make less mistakes, improve our existence. I say yes. Somewhere on this journey to perfection that's never enough and never attainable, I drove my inner-self jalopy into a ginormous pot hole. I broke my self-perception axle and had to have my life towed to an existential garage. Those who love me have been working on my chassis for some years now. I think I'm almost ready to be a road warrior once again. I think I'm ready to get behind the steering wheel and start moving along toward my goal of being the person I should be. This time, it will be different. This time, I have GPS. This time, I'll use the compass. I never did find the city, after all. I kept driving all around the outskirts, but there was never an exit ramp that would take me where I wanted to go. Today, I drive again. This time, I'm headed back to the country. All hail the power of Indian Paintbrushes and Buttercups. This time I will embrace sweet tea and banana pudding. I won't be embarrassed for people to hear the twang in my voice, the word y'all, the mixology of our Southern words (whatch'alldoin?).
I think I finally realized I am different. The real me is different than anyone else I know. It's time I embraced that. To do otherwise would be criminal. So.....as we end this first week of Spring, I encourage us all to do some self-introspection. Pop the hood on your life. Roll down your windows. Drive through your life's neighborhood and understand that whether good or bad, those are the things that form the essence of you. Turns out, the things you're trying to banish may just be the things that others adore about you most.
You can put your therapy check in the mail today!!!! Peace, love, grits 'n Aqua Net, y'all!
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