Ffs, p.5
FFS, page 5
Each and every door is an opportunity to change the fate of my state. There is a bit of serotonin hit when a voter is not going to vote in the midterms and you convince them otherwise. The silver lining in not having a job currently while running for office is that I do have a bit more time on my hands than I would if I were employed. In case you didn’t know, running for office alone is a full-time job. Not only are you knocking on doors and on the hunt for votes, but you are in a constant meet and greet. Each campaign event is an opportunity to present as the most qualified person for this position. Which, by the way, is in by no means a position to provide a proper salary or life. Texas is old school. Like way old school. Like, kick it back to plantation days and only white men who owned property. I’m not talking about a house; I’m talking about acres and acres and money upon money. Family money, like decades and generations of financial security. Nothing like your typical Texan. But here we are nonetheless. In this moment of expectation, it is a reality that not much has changed within our Legislature. How far have we come and yet how far have we remained?
Remained more likely, it’s where we are a hundred-plus years later. We still expect legislators to be able to “leave” their jobs and home lives for six months every other year and to be paid $7,200 a year. This “salary” is while they are expected to live in Austin, Texas. Which the Austin housing market took off over a decade ago and has not stopped. A lot of folks from California came over with their tech-millionaire success and bought up a ton of property. Houses that used to cost $150k in the early 2000s, now cost over 1.5 million dollars. But the salary of a Texas Legislator has not changed. Let alone the budget for their staff.
Okay. That makes sense ... this is going to create the mold of a legislator that represents the people. No average Texan could do this. How is it that a person who can leave their home/career et al for six months every other year going to be able to understand the needs of their constituents, and on a salary of $7,200 a year?
Which is where I come in. As I am an everyday Texan, once I am gainfully employed again, I will figure out how I will balance a proper work of nine to five while also being a legislator. I didn’t plan this part out, as some things you can’t. Sometimes you have to wait until the cards have been dealt to determine how you will play them. This was the stage of the game of life I was in. I was ready to be hit with an ace. However, it might have already been played.
I stand in front of a green door. I always size up the door and house and any descriptive piece. You can tell a lot about a person/family by the exterior and items outside of their house.
Let’s get something straight to begin with. It is not soliciting to ask anyone if they are going to vote or to encourage them to do so. That being said, I will also be real with you. If there is a No Soliciting sign on the door or anywhere in the yard. I am skipping this house. I know legally I can knock on their door. But why? These residents have already told me they do not want to be disturbed. So, if I am hoping for their vote, why would I go against what they have already stated is their wish? I don’t care that “legally I can talk to them”—they said no. No means no. Even with voting. Let’s please be polite and honor the right to say no and acknowledge their preference. That is a much-needed behavior.
I check the next address in my app. The name pops up with their age range and their voter history. I walk in the direction, as it is only two houses away, which is kind of like a gold mine in Texas. More times than we would like, the distance between houses is streets, not only a couple of houses. I check the voter info. I also do not assume that the person/people in the app are going to be the person who answers the door. Further, I don’t like the concept of speaking to a stranger by name like “Hey, Mary Gonzales.”
No. Don’t say their name. Even if their doormat lines up with the name in the app. If you knew my name before we began to speak, I would be on the defensive. I am not going to want to hear you out, as I am going to be concerned with why you know my name. Which means my mind is going on the hunt for how you have my name versus why you are on my doorstep. I don’t read from the app. I read the room.
The sound of the doorbell chimes through the house. I only use the doorbell if I think my knock was not loud enough. I am sure people love their ring devices. But I can tell you it creates extra intimidation for canvassing. Too many people have posted videos on NextDoor and Facebook asking why people were at their door with flyers for an election. Good times.
“No soliciting,” a person yells through their device.
I nod and head back toward my car. This is the end of my two hundred doors for the day. I try to do at least a hundred doors on the weekdays. It is harder to catch people at home during normal work hours. Or if they are at home via a remote job, they have already fully embraced the reclusive lifestyle and are not interested in a conversation on their doorstep. They are more likely to say “Leave it on the doorstep and get the hell out of here,” circa Home Alone.
I tap the Submit on my app to turn in my door count for the day. The app is great, don’t get me wrong, but there is more to being in person than the AI of this device in my hand. I have to use skills that cannot be programmed. People always say to me “You have to have thick skin to run for office.”
I smile politely and say yes. I get that. I knew it would not be easy. But I had been focused on the idea of more than thick skin for a while.
In my marriage, I had to focus on my gut instinct and what was real or not. Things were not surface level. They were twisted every which way to the point that I was left spinning, wondering which way was up when all I wanted was out. Gaslighting was a daily form of abuse. The idea of trying to make someone doubt themselves and not being able to determine fact from fiction can destroy your self-esteem, among other things. Yet, I was able to pull myself out of the deception. I survived, barely.
The concept to survive. When we think back to our ancestry, we think of their survival and what they did to exist. The ideology of survival of the fittest was probably not considered with the concept of grocery shopping. How could one think that grocery shopping would be correlated to survival of the fittest? You would have to think about technology and decide if that is going to be considered in this reckoning. Is grocery shopping a modern-day survival of the fittest? Or is it dumbed down to a fun event like an impromptu party, or is it laced with a stressed-filled bubble where you have to count each and every penny to make the balance of the total of the bill for the party or rather grocery bill? Some people don’t understand the notion of not being able to make ends meet. The ideology of necessity over desire. How can I make a dinner for less than two bucks? Very simply. A pack of ramen and a bag of frozen vegetables.
I blow the air out through my lips. It’s fine. Everything is fine. The budget is okay. Yeah, it’s totally fine. I’m not to the ramen part of the chapter. Yet.
I peruse over the picked-over produce at my local supermarket. I am almost to the point of being a member of an ugly produce sign-up service. I don’t mind produce that isn’t pretty. I prefer to avoid the time waste of the pick-and-choose at the grocery stores for something that looks edible. Anything can be edible with the right spices.
Except time is on my hands. I don’t need to crunch numbers to figure out where I can save time to find the perfect crunchable veggies.
I put some veggies in my shopping cart and glance up.
If a record was being played right now, it would scratch. Meaning, at this moment, I must be being played. Hardcore played. What in the world? I shake my head as if I have fallen into a deep sleep of nonsense and need to be woken to reality. Nope. No such luck. I glance at my feet. I need to be grounded. Not again. My eyes narrow in on the tall suit. Crisp and clean as always. Like he walked out of the dry cleaners, and probably even smells like Versace or something. But seriously ... why of all grocery stores does this douchebag have to be in mine? There are at least five in a two-mile radius. I’m dumbfounded as to this chain of unfortunate events. Did I subscribe to something I am unaware of? Is this because I didn’t forward the nonsense chain mail over the years? Or the “Hey, have a happy day” via Facebook messenger chain reply all? Pass on this “smile to ten others.” Nah, I wasn’t a part of that scene. It’s not who I am. I don’t subscribe to those forwards and pass-alongs. I didn’t forward it, because I didn’t want to.
But is this retribution of a karmic equation or something? I disagree with this thought process. I should not have to be a part of this nonsense. I toss my head back and sigh. Really. Are we doing this again? I am here to grab some salad, maybe a little hummus, and celery, and then bounce. I hightail it to the next display of vegetables and pretend that I don’t see him. And no, not “Satan,” who others might refer to as Mike DaVile or my ex-husband. But instead, it’s “Satan’s” equally douchebag-esque evil lawyer, Maxwell Graham. Don’t lawyers add esquire to their names ...? This makes sense for his new moniker in my mind. If I could conjure up vomit at a moment’s notice I would properly vomit on his shoes. His fake-ass brown leather shoes with ties. Like, Check out my ties. Whatever, dude. Tie them around your throat and get out of my way. I bet every morning he ties them with a level of hate for all women. He probably imagines himself with the strand as he wraps each lace around their throat like he wraps up his divorce cases with venom and ignores the pain he creates. His vengeance- and hate-filled representation. Zero remorse. Zero compassion.
I shake. No. Don’t think about him, Mia. That was over two years ago. You don’t have to deal with him anymore. It’s over. It’s long over. You only have to deal with the exchanges of Schatzi. Which is nonsense too. It’s not right or fair at all. But who is here to care or listen? Not the court. No... they have too many other cases to deal with than a custody battle of a “rescue mutt dog” as the judge stated in the final order. I cringe. I know Schatzi probably wouldn’t be able to understand the words that were said. But they were hurtful and mean. Just like the Texas Family Court system. Garbage.
“What are the odds?” His voice is like a flamed torch against my skin. The sheer presence of him invokes the smell of my skin being burned. Evil.
“I can think of a lot more odds that don’t make sense,” I let rip from my pursed lips. Like the idea that he would represent “Satan” and fight for me to have less time with my dog. The dog that I adopted. The dog that I ran with daily. The dog that comforted me during the most painful moments of my life. The dog that gave me the strength to continue. To put one foot in front of the other. The dog that knew me better than me. Yeah ... this was not the guy I wanted in my same space. Today was not my day either. Nope.
I swallowed. Be present, Mia. Be in the moment. I glance back at Maxwell. His sharp suit. Pressed. Fitted. Professional. He pierced me with his blue eyes. I shuddered. No.
A laugh tumbles from his mouth like a bunch of overgrown weeds that do not belong. “Well, that leads me to believe you’re delighted to see me then?” He effortlessly tosses some lettuce into his basket. I want to grab the basket from his hand and smash it over his head. And shout “Enjoy your chopped salad!”
“Your cue card is as bad as your bar card.” I grab my celery do a full about like a soldier and march toward the checkout. I’m thankful for a crowded store because I can blend into the people and avoid another encounter. The air in my lungs is about to combust. I do not need to self-destruct at this moment. It is important to always consider where I am and who is there. In this world of immediate social media fame. I have to be cognizant that anyone can record at any time. Even though the State Representative seat I am after is not a hot target. I have to be careful. If I were to blow up and let myself be as I want, that could be released to the internet and a quick sayonara to my campaign would incur. Our society is too ready to film on the spot, and I’m not ready to go viral for a lapse in judgment. I’m better than that. I can hold my tongue and wait till I’m alone to be who I want to be and let my emotions truly come through. To be true, like my pal Shakespeare wrote: To Thine Own Self Be True.
It is so hot. I rush through the parking lot. My car is in sight, and I let out a sigh of relief as I slide into my cloth seats, once again a reminder that leather is not always better. Especially in Texas. I press Ginger’s number. As soon as the dial ends into a slow ring, I begin to speak.
“You’re not going to believe this.” I wait for her to be invested in my news.
“Shock me, I’m all ears.” She lets out a small laugh.
“He was at the freaking grocery store with me. Me. My grocery store.” I groan as I back out of my parking spot. I casually glance in my rear-view mirror. Only a small part of me thinks that I might hesitate and not hit him if he happened to be in my viewpoint. The lane is all clear. I switch gears and veer out of the lot.
“He as in ‘Satan’?” I can hear the dismay in her voice.
“No, ‘Satan’s’ assistant. His lap boy. His evil monster helper. His vile, awful, cruel—”
Ginger interrupts my rant. “Wait a minute, I’m not sure who we are talking about.”
I let out another groan. “Seriously, you know how awful he is. Why does he have to keep popping up in my life? I just want to vanquish his very image from my mind and never have to see him again.”
“I know, but you’re better than the days of yore, and I don’t think you want to add witchery to your bio.” She laughs. “Besides, it’s not good for your appeal to the Rs, and you’re going to need a few of them to vote for you. If you have dog mom, hurricane survivor, marathon runner, and witchcraft on the side, the percentage of people that that will appeal to is like less than .0000000000000000007 percent.”
“Ginger.”
She continues, “And those people don’t even live in your district.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Every vote counts though.”
“True, but let’s whisk away from witchery. Trust me on this one.”
“Okay. But why is he popping up everywhere?” I merge onto the freeway with the store in my rearview. My mind is all over the place. I don’t need to give him one thought. None. Not a one. I have bigger things to consider.
“Who cares? More importantly, where are you popping up next? We have an election to win. How are the people of the district going to know you are the better representative?” Ginger clicks her tongue. She is right and always pulls me back to the path of success. Even though my path has been jagged and not exactly paved with a ton of wins. But the path I am on gives me something bigger than a lot of things ... it starts with an H.
Hope.
Chapter Five
“Swipe to the left or slide to the right ... which side do you fall?”
It’s another Friday night and Ginger has agreed to leave her man to have a ladies’ night with me. She truly is the best. Her man is not bad either, since he has given up a top weekend night so she can console me in one way or another. It’s been three months since my last date. I feel like I’m reporting in at an AA meeting ... no joke there, simply a confessional of my last hit of any interaction with the male species. This era of the swipe has become so commercial and non-committal. We live in a society of FOMO ... fear of missing out. People on these apps have formed their version of ADHD, as they can’t stop the swipe game regardless of the possibility in front of them. The never-ending chaos of what could possibly be if we continue to swipe. That quickie dopamine hit of serotonin when someone responds with an affirmative of being semi-interested to swipe their finger on a technical application filled with so many hopefuls and hopelessness. I can’t imagine this is what we are supposed to do in order to “meet the one.” Especially now, no one is interested in anything more than a superficial discussion. Especially the divorcee crowd. Good grief, we should all be in a “meet the right therapist” application instead of the circular maze of endless options for more of nothing much and insecurities.
If it weren’t for Ginger’s generosity of being my wing lady tonight, I would be sitting in the comfort of my home and swiping. I would grab my bottle of cabernet and pour a nice healthy amount. My friends have told me to go and sit at a bar and let men approach me. This is not anything that appeals to me. I want to be home and be safe. I can scan through hundreds of men in the area. There are so many single men on these sites. I have a little game I play with myself called “Can I swipe to the end of the app?” I have yet to do it. But I can only read so many profiles. And good grief with these profiles.
“I’m a busy professional but can make time for that right person”
“I’m looking for my partner in crime.”
“I’m height- and weight-proportionate, and you should be too.”
“I’m tired of these other guys that make it difficult for us nice guys.”
“No drama. No, I don’t want to give you money.”
“Quit posting group photos for me to figure out if you are the hot one or not.”
And the photos that accompany these profiles. I know I live in Texas, but when did a dead carcass equate to sexy? I don’t get it. And the shirtless mirror selfies. That’s an automatic swipe left. My guy, if you have to put that in your profile, then the level of substance is not enough to even make it past the appetizer at a semi-okay restaurant. Pass.
