Ffs, p.8
FFS, page 8
People who vote expect you to be at their event, whether they will indeed vote for you or not. One of my friends told me about a certain congresswoman that would show up everywhere. Someone would have a thirteenth birthday party for their niece and, all of a sudden, this congresswoman would be there, find a big cooler, and announce to everyone that “There is no place I’d, rather be than right here celebrating the sweet thirteenth birthday of Lisa Montrose.” And not one person in the crowd would think there was a slight doubt in this. Because this congresswoman did appear everywhere. She was a woman of the people, and this is why she had the tenure she did. She was there, she cared, and people knew it.
Which is why I had to show up. Even if it’s only for the grip, grin, and click from the camera lens. Get the photo, always. Nothing says, “I’m here for this district”, then a splurge of photos of you being everywhere. This is my new normal. Thankfully, I am single and don’t have to worry about my significant other and can attend everything and anything. Although, it would be nice to have a plus-one for at least a few of these events. Especially in dead-ass, kill-me, boring conversations with racists or misogynists. I would love to have a partner, cue me out of the scene before I go off. I’m fortunate to have Ginger; she is there for the majority of my events. The lady loves to mingle, and she is perfect at being the best hyper. Obviously, her career is much more distinguished than a hype girl, but if she ever had a brain injury and could no longer be a doctor but still had the hype skills ... clearly that is what she should run to as a profession. I would endorse her any day of the week. I could hear her in the background: “Okaaaaaay, peoppppppppppppppple, did you hear that? Mia Verita endorsed me as the number one HYPE Lady ... Yes, Houston, let’s do this ... Can you feel me?” The crowd obviously would go wild.
“Are you sure about tonight?” I glance at myself in the mirror. The age-old battle of Should I wear this or that has ensued.
“Mia, are you seriously doing this again? Are you in front of the mirror? What is wrong with that mirror in your place? You should call the super and have it replaced. I think it might be one of those carnival ones or something. You never seem to appreciate the way you look. Like you seem put off by your appearance and, honey, that doesn’t make sense.”
“I don’t know ... I know it’s a casino night, but I feel like maybe this dress is too much.” I stare in the mirror. It’s a red sequin dress with a deep V. Jessica Rabbit from Who Killed Roger Rabbit would be thrilled. But I’m not a cartoon character. I want to be taken seriously, and I think this might be too much of a no for that idea.
“Too much what?” Ginger sighs. “Hotness, what? What is going on in that brain of yours?”
I let her question dangle in the air. I don’t know what’s going on in my brain. Sometimes it’s too much. Too much everything. Like I want to be elected, but the constant in the back of my mind “Is this okay?”; “Is this too much?”; “What could be said about this?”; “Am I being electable?” which is my favorite. I remember when a certain lady candidate was running for president of the United States, not the PTA, and people kept the conversation going, “Is she electable?” Seriously, the level of misogyny and internal misogyny is almost too much to stomach. Thankfully, there were some smart people ... marketing people with an edge for reality who began a T-shirt and bumper sticker business to address this electable notion. Their slogan: “Yes, she is electable if you vote for her.”
What?! Mind blown. Hold on a second. She is electable if you vote for her. What? I am still in the midst of being able to wrap my head around that deep concept. Electable. Yes, she is electable. Stop with this nonsense. Can she do the job? Yes, then vote for her. The end.
However, I can rant any day of the week, but when it comes to me and my campaign, I shrink into one of those wall flowers of uncertainty, not aware of where I should go or how I should act. I’m forty effin’ years old. I know how to act. I know where to go. Why do I doubt myself? Is it from years of trauma and constant gaslighting? Being told that I should shrink because I was taking up too much air in the room by my mere existence?
Or is it because of my internal misogyny? I don’t know. But I need to shake myself of this doubt and dissonance. It’s time for a new move, a new groove, and I don’t mean like the emperor in a quasi-Disney movie. No. It’s time to move forward without any more doubt. I need to have the faith in me. If I could afford it, I would go to therapy. I have read through a million psychology online articles, papers, and books. I get it. I was in an abusive marriage. Emotional, verbal, physical, and financial. All of it was abuse. I have to accept this. It is hard to say. Especially out loud. When I had told my attorney about what I thought might have been abuse—the blood, handprints left on my skin, broken nails, all of the destruction he had caused in what had been my home, to then be a shared home, to then be a home that was taken from me, along with everything else—my attorney said, none of that mattered. She said I would have to have a bloodied face and broken bones and, get this, even with that it would be an uphill battle to prove. Can you imagine? I felt like an imposter to even use the word abuse, given that I had no broken bones. Broken nails, yes. Broken dishes, yes. Torn-up woven baskets I had made as a child, yes. Broken stereo speakers, yes. Shattered glass, yes. Blood down my leg from the horrible violence of non-consent, also yes. But even with all of those broken things and pieces of me, I didn’t qualify for a temporary restraining order. These horrible things didn’t matter enough to be put in a court document to prove that I was a victim of abuse. I was an imposter, as I had no broken bones. Where was I to turn if the courtroom couldn’t even help me? This was when I realized the laws were not written for people like me.
How can I have a level of confidence in myself when I constantly sink back into the lack of confidence in our legal system? The system of justice is the backbone of our country. If it crumbles for the most vulnerable, how am I to stand tall and act like Lady Liberty is not a farce? These levels of doubt make me return to those moments of insecurity. I constantly question if I can do it. I don’t know. Every time I give myself the millisecond of a pep talk, I fall back to, “But can I?”
It’s a battle. Internal. And I realize this. I am trying. I am trying to be stronger than I was the day before and not sink into those moments from my past.
“Mia, snap out of it. Take some vitamin B. The dress is good. You are fantastic. This event will be fun. I will be there, so you will laugh at least once. Which is more than you can count on by being at home,” she laughs.
Ginger is right. The event will be worth it. I need to stop being so ho-hum and drum. I need to shake off the sadness and embrace the possibilities. One never knows when an ace will show up, especially in the game of blackjack.
“You’re right, see you in a minute.” I hit the End button. Time to sink my feet into the sparkly red heels. I might need to tap my ankles by the end of the night. I am ten toes into my shoes and ready to play. The moment of the story in which the heroine reflects on her shoes. This is my time to shine. As if I might pull out a red heart in a game of blackjack when I have already doubled down.
Does that even mean anything? I don’t even know at this point. I look at my Lyft app. Two minutes. I had to call for a Lyft. Besides the expense of new tires, the car rides in exchange for the use of my car definitely add up. I have yet to be able to prove if anyone is actually puncturing my tires, but they continue to find themselves with nails.
I grab my lip gloss, ID, and a few credit cards. I can’t be at some sort of unfortunate moment and have a decline. Always have a backup. Always. This is my mantra. I know cash would be good. But that’s just not my scene.
I bend down give Schatzi a big kiss on her head and snuggle her for a hot minute. My phone buzzes. The Lyft has arrived, hopefully, free of any nails in its tires. Time to go. Let’s do this. Maybe tonight will be a winner.
“Hold down the fort, Schatzi.” I blow a kiss to her and lock the door.
I verify the license plate and make and model of the car. Yup. Nissan XYX – 337, Juan as the driver. “Hey, Juan, how are you?”
“Good, Mia, yes?”
Man, it feels so good when the drivers verify that I am the rider. It makes me feel safer. Too much has happened to too many people, and this little bit of security helps to restore my faith in humanity a bit.
“Yes, that’s correct.” I check out the distance. Only five miles. No big deal. I’m ready to have a good time. I take a deep breath. Every ride goes like this. I try not to say it. I know we all try not to ask it. But I can’t help myself. “How long have you been driving for Lyft?” There, I did it. I can’t take it back. I know it’s not right. I know they are asked it every day who knows how many times. But I can’t help myself. Whatever. It is what it is.
A small laugh echoes in the Nissan. “This is my two thousandth ride. Exactly.” He glances at me from the rear-view window. “You tell me, how long that is?”
I flitter my eyelashes. Is that a sexual question? I’m not sure. Obviously, I am not going to answer if it is. But where is he going with that?
“Come on, take a guess,” Juan semi-pleads. His voice has a sense of subtle anticipation, but like he is not fully committed to the conversation. And I get that, as I definitely am not.
I check my map: less than two miles. “I don’t know, Juan ... What would an average ride look like, mile-wise?” I try and swing the conversation back to a semi-professional tone.
“It depends on the rider.” Juan lets out a low chuckle.
Of course. This conversation can only be fueled by sexual innuendo. I am not here for it. Not with the Lyft driver. Let’s swing back to professional land, please.
“I’m not sure what you mean. Maybe you could explain?” There, I really threw it back on him without going sexual and giving him an opportunity to be polite.
Juan stifles and drops the ball. With nowhere to turn in a polite matter, his silence is the force that guides me to my destination. I hop out and click my heels on the concrete sidewalk as I make my way to the entrance. The music is loud and I haven’t made my way inside yet. However, I hear Demi Lovato in full-on mode to let women express themselves, not like Madonna. But rather by being confident. Be you. Walk into the room with shoulders high, chest raised, eyes locked in, and boom, let’s do this. Yes, I’m ready to feel confident tonight.
I check in at the table. Tag myself with a nameplate of “Mia Verita for TXHD 193.” It’s actually a good thing to wear a name tag, that way, if people don’t know who you are and they want to, this is a helpful hint without anyone being awkward. I’m here for this. I scan the crowd in pursuit of a familiar face. Nothing. I glide through the room of sequined gowns and seer-suckered suits. The wine is good. There is a small bar top in the back with a tip jar. Crap. I don’t have any cash. This is not good. I don’t want to be that person. I saunter a little slower as I make my plan. Maybe they have one of those QR codes or something. I hate to be so unprepared to participate in a society of tipping, even though the origins are not good. We really need to get rid of the whole concept of tipping in general ... Maybe when I’m elected. I internally smile. I glance up at a man with intense eyes that move from my face down to my chest.
“Hey there ...” The man looks at my tag. “Mia, can I get you a drink?”
And in one small moment, I’m thankful that I let the Jessica Rabbit fear that hovered over my brain dissipate and instead opted to go with it, and now my tipless fears are gone.
“Thank you—that would be fantastic ...” I hold my hand out and wait for a name in return.
“I’m Brent Moss with the Realtors Association, nice to make your acquaintance.” Our hands shake. His is much older but not rough. He must be part of the group of men who get routine pedicures or he has good genes. His hair is like a white fluffy cloud, and his eyes reflect that of a happy moment. He is sure of himself, which is nice. That’s the thing about older men, they have a level of security and assurance that younger and middle age men don’t always carry. Otherwise, they have this level of doubt and insecurity. But once men pass the age of about fifty or so, they don’t care. They have zero shits to give. You either want to be in their presence or you don’t. They are assured that they have something to offer, and if you don’t want it, they know someone else will be around in a hot minute to recognize this.
Women are at a disadvantage past the age of thirty. Not that they can’t find their happily-ever-after or hold their own. But if we are to look at the numbers, men have held the cards of fate for quite a while. It’s on us to make the change. Not to spread and bend over, but to change the course and demand equality in all aspects of our life. However, that change has to come within, and I mean internal misogyny. We can’t make changes if ladies don’t stand together. It’s impossible. Unification is the only way. And it is possible.
“I’ll take another bourbon on the rocks, and the lady will have ...?” He glances at me, and I have to break my internal rant about misogyny and choices to go with, “I’m low on cash.” Might as well accept a free drink. I owe nothing in return, regardless. It is what it is. Chivalry doesn’t have to be dead or unaccepted to also have equality in the same room. Both are possible. That’s the thing that a lot of people don’t get, and I mean both genders. They think it’s an “all or nothing.” Like if I want equal pay for equal work, then I can’t also accept a drink with zero expectation. Hey, y’all, we can do both. It’s totally cool. And, also, when women are making the same pay as men, then let’s have a revisit on the convo, but until then ... accept the drink, no big deal. Really.
“Oh, I would fancy a cabernet.” I let my lips purse together out of habit, and I anticipate the taste of a nice sip. I know I shouldn’t have a crutch of a sip of wine, and maybe it’s a placebo, but it does help to settle my nerves, and when I am alone, I am uncomfortable. I need a little help.
“The lady fancies a cabernet, top shelf if you’ve got that for wine?” Brett asks the bartender, who nods and gets a key to unlock the wine refrigerator. Well, okay then. I can appreciate a locked-up wine. Bring on the fun.
Brett slides some cash to the bartender and hands me the properly poured glass of wine. There is only an inch or so from the top of clear glass. I can’t help but take a long whiff of it before my taste. I’m not in the least pretentious; I shop at Goodwill and other second-hand stores predominately. However, I can appreciate a good glass of wine, and this one was unlocked, so I want to have a good sniff before I take the first mouthful. The aroma is delicious and deep. Like a walk through a thick forest after a heavy rain. The ground is damp, but the soil is solid and not soft enough to even begin to sink your feet. Barely able to make a footprint. And then a small amount of a blossom. My lungs fill with this essence, and I let the liquid travel over my tongue to avoid the delay. Brett has his eyes on me.
The sip is full, like the wine. The notes open even more on my tongue, and I can see why it was locked up. This is a wine I would want to lock up in my home. Not because I wouldn’t be able to control myself but rather to save it for special moments. This is a “special moment” wine, and I’m touched to be in it. I clink my glass against Brett’s bourbon. “Thank you, this is quite delicious.”
Brett’s eyes light up with a small reflection of the lights against the windows in the ballroom. He seems satisfied but not anything out of the ordinary. This man is obviously used to this level of enjoyment of a simple glass of wine. And in that moment, I get it. I’m not in my league. This is outside of where I am right now in life. Despite our age difference, and some might measure us on appearance, I’m still the underdog. I am not in the right corral. This reminds me of the first 10k I ran out of high school. I didn’t think about the difference in line-ups. I only remembered back in my cross-country days the necessity of being in the front of the pack. So, with all my naivety, I put myself in Coral A. With the fastest runners. Of course, with the sound of the gun, I kicked off my run with a speed that mirrored everyone else’s. I had the surge of adrenaline and the inexperience of being in a race past high school to fool myself into the notion that I could keep pace with Corral A. I made it to about the halfway point, and then my pace began to drop drastically. I couldn’t keep up. Several races later, I realized that not only did I not need to be in Corral A, but I also needed some chill music to start the race and tame my adrenaline before the kickoff. I needed a proper pace to make it. I learned, and several 10ks later, I did much better.
Here I am at a fancy event. I paid to be here. To exchange campaign cards with business cards, to mingle, and even when paired with a well-to-do man and an incredible glass of wine, I was out of my comfort zone.
“Well, hello, Brett, I didn’t know you were well-acquainted with the Mia Verita.” Almost as if my guardian angel dropped Ginger exactly into this moment. She squeezes my shoulder and lightly kisses my cheek.
Brett laughs. “Oh, Ginger, you know I’m always keen on the next who’s who of Texas. Now, fill me in on how you know this lovely young lady?”
It was my turn to laugh. Young ... okay ... granted, I was way younger than Brett, but I don’t think anyone would describe me as young. Not even a person aged to the point where they have one foot in the coffin.
“Mia is my dearest friend. And I am so proud to see someone with integrity and commitment willing to represent TXHD 193, don’t you agree?” Ginger points at his chest.
Brett grinned. “Yes, it’s always a good thing to have people with integrity run for office.”
“I knew you would agree.” She nods and her eyes flicker, as if she has an incredible idea cross through her mind. “Which makes only sense if you and the Texas Realtors Association were to host Mia a fundraiser!” Her lips spread into the widest of smiles, like one of a beauty contestant as they wave to the audience.
Brett shakes his head. “Now, you know we don’t go against incumbent representatives.” His eyes run over my face in an attempt to read my electability and if he should go against his rules in a gamble.
