TauntSociety

As we were semi-practicing our Spanglish (which, let me say right here, anyone who has ever said, “learn the language, hello, you are in America, speak English,” and only speaks one language, should give it a shot and when you see how very, very difficult it is, I will prepare for you a steamy, heaping plate of crow) …

“We should pay that bitch $300 …”

“To spank us?”

“No, love, to tutor us in Spanish.”

Why would we even bother attempting to take in another language has never lived in Houston, Texas or had family members who speak Spanish.  First, and most importantly, I want the ability to determine if someone is talking shit about me.  Secondly, I would like to be able to say more than just “Buenas noches,” to the nice lady who services our floor at work.

Okay, so here’s the deal.  Last week was just all out shitty.  Everything about it was shitty.  Every morning, every noon, every night.  Just. Plain.  Shitty.  I was stressed to the max.  I was on edge.  My neck literally pained me from tension.

What I’m asking myself now is if those instances of frustration … the two tickets, the drama at work, the trip to the social security office (which I’ll talk about more later, what a story that is to live and breathe and survive to tell), the three 2.6 mile runs after being a smoker for 22 years and overall couch huger for many decades, and well, I could go on but I am becoming exhausted rehashing the memories … were they all that bad or did I just allow them to affect more than the usual inconveniences?  Did I maybe overreact to everything, everyone – life in general?

Maybe yes, maybe no.

I can tell you that this week I am making a promise to myself to do better.  I am looking forward to our run tomorrow morning.  I am looking forward to work which continues to challenge me, keeping me on my toes, evolving.  I am looking forward to traffic.

Okay, hear me out on this one.  I know I have bitched about Houston traffic on more than one occasion.  It is one of those topics were you blurt, “don’t get me started,” before you even register it happened.  If I am honest with myself though, I actually brought this nightmare down on my shoulders.  When I was a little girl, I dreamed and prayed about getting the fuck out of hick-town Belhaven, North Carolina.  I wanted to live where the nearest store was closer than 15 MINUTES by car.  I wanted more than two lanes on the HIGHWAYS.  I begged the good lawd above to please, please, please get me the fuck outta there.  Take me to a big city where I can become lost in the crowd.  Where people don’t know me and don’t know where I came from or all those horrible, horrible things that people in small towns remember.

Well, now I have it.  People who see me in traffic or in the grocery store or in line at a fancy, uptown, over priced coffee house with the feng shui ambiance and too perky barristers know nothing at all about me.  The only impression they have is the first one, the initial one.  No history.  No background.  No skeletons.

So when I think this week about all the things that are working my last good nerve, I am going to think about those weak, whimpered prayers of a small town country girl who wanted to get the fuck outta there and run to the big city.

I have a job other than being a baby machine, kid feeder with dirty white babies running in the dust out in front the trailer.  My husband has a job other than a fisherman or a farmer or a drug dealer.  My apartment is full of trinkets and toys of every kind that small town country girls could never afford what with the five kids and plastic swimming pools and all.

So this week moving forward when I am bitching and moaning about the traffic and my career and my apartment building and fancy police I am going to make a conscience effort to remember that this is all my fault  and that I brought this all on myself.

Maybe there is a god after all.  Maybe he does answer prayers.

He just happens to be 20 years behind on his messages.