Suzanna Danna

I have this idea. Whether right or wrong I believe that our lives are broken down into percentages. I used to call it a rule, but “idea” sounds better, and I am sure I have mentioned this before. The percentage idea is that our lives are basically* split up into 80% and 20%** (to make up the 100%... I can do math, I are S-M-R-T). The percentages are thusly, 20% is what happens to us and 80% of how we handle those situations, how we react.

*Don’t argue with me.

**Could even be 90% and 10%.

I know, crazy right? Taking actual responsibility for our own lives? What the hell am I thinking?

(Coming back to this page after working for the better part of three hours on something mindless and I swear I had a point. Racking brain. Biting lip. Going backwards in my head on what…. OH … that, yes… carry on.)

So we are not just little leaves being tossed willy nilly about the sky in a wind storm. No, we definitely do have control over what happens in our lives. Some of you think you don’t, but you do.

Let’s do a for instance, shall we?

Let’s hypothetically say, oh… I don’t know. That you… hate your job. Number one, be thankful you have a job. B) Seriously, be really thankful that you have a job. Let’s say that you really dislike your job, but you are thankful to have employment and thank the six pound, 8 ounce baby Jesus (insert your own deity here) for the job daily and when you pay your bills, and go to the doctor because you have health insurance. I mean, you are SUPER thankful. Right? Right. That’s better.

But even though you are right and properly employed… there are things that make you want to punch people in the genital area*** and you are not a violent person. No. But you really can feel the rage beginning to build and then it turns into a full blown migraine (minus the vomiting) when this screech owl of a woman bathes in gardenia based perfume that you have asked her not to wear before because of aforementioned migraines and apparent allergic reaction to said scent, yet still, STILL … you can smell it at least 30 feet before you get to your desk and she sits a mere 4 foot (by crow) away.

***And or face.

Could happen. Yes? Or that you have been with your current employer for almost a decade (minus a year and some months) and you are not being paid what you believe you are worth. You have to do grunt work, not that it is below you (because you’d flip burgers for a living if you had to… amen!!!), it most certainly isn’t, but you are not feeling challenged.

You have been told to lower your expectations. You know this feeling, you were married to it. (BTW… hi ex-husband**** who is now researching blogs. Sir, did it ever occur to you, ironically or otherwise, that it would be rude after not showing the least bit of interest in your previous bride’s blog for almost a decade until you wanted to start one of your own to ask her for advice? No? Just checking.)

****As an aside, he would never get past the part where I lose my train of thought. Or that run on sentence.

You feel like you are in a rut.

Yeah, you kind of want to hunker down until the employment percentages change and are more in your favor. But here’s what you do. In a jacked up job market, regardless of where in the world a job is (Fairbanks, Alaska? Seriously? Yup.) you will make changes to your very marketable resume and send that puppy out. You will sling resumes far and wide. Your job within your job is to interview at least every six months just to keep your interviewing chops about you and to keep your resume current.

Hey, wait. I know that person. I AM that person.

I walk by a little shadow box, mounted by the door to my apartment, with a fortune from a Chinese cookie inside that reads, “One day you will be an accomplished writer.” And the guilt that takes hold of me sometimes for being a humongous LAZY whore is crushing. But these are the things I (we) can change.

I do challenge myself to send out my resume, I do interview, I may turn down the offer because yes, I am comfortably rutted into my routine, and I am not being challenged, but I am employed. I have health insurance. I love that I have a job to get up for in the morning. I love that finding a job ISN’T my job. I may not always love the job, but I have one. And I am thankful.

Being a massive lazy whore and not finishing a book, a short story, a novella because … well, it’s hard is such a pussy move. Hello, my name is Susan. (from the crowd gathered around on metal folding chairs “Hi Susan…..”) And I’m a puss.

I have had this discussion with the always beautiful and talented
Weet on several occasions and my excuse (that’s all it is, an excuse to be lazy and not take the time, not research, not start an outline, not even throw ideas into a bucket… nothing) is that everything I write turns out to look like I am completely ripping off the story line from Blade Runner.

No, seriously… check it out. In which I kill off a main character. PARTY FOUL! At least I didn’t kill her off in my first attempt.

Weet’s argument is this. Art is cyclical. Written word, poetry, fiction, movies, you name it. In 70 years it’ll be rehashed and covered again. Example? My favorite one she rattled off in a millisecond was, “Romeo and Juliette?... West Side Story. Same thing, just reworked for the time period in which it was placed.”

I’ve never even taken part in National Novel Writing Month. Why? Because I am a chicken… and as previously discussed… a LAZY chicken. I’m like one of those boneless chickens from Gary Larson's Far Side, "Boneless Chicken Ranch" cartoon.

(Have image downloaded, but Moveable Type is jacked... use your imagination.)

So, after coming perilously close to breaking my New Year’s Resolution (no noodling in 2012), I have decided to keep my head held high and regardless of how retarded the story is (in a bordello, a mustache competition and a sloth rescue?... WRITE IT!) then I will make my posts here more frequent. I will start on a novel. And I will keep slinging that resume. You guys never know when it’ll stick.

Much love and Happy New Year!

In this season of giving and receiving it has been brought to my attention that there is not enough “How To” manuals on the shelves. No, my dears, I am not speaking of How To … Make a Better Bundt Cake, Realizing Your Self Worth, Turning a Million in Real Estate into Twenty Five Bucks of Cold Hard Cash. I am speaking of How To Guides to giving that special gal in your life the gift of a magnificent orgasm. I don’t care if you are bi, straight, gay or just really friendly*… this season give her the gift that keeps on giving. And I am sure that you will receive in return**.

*I am not a whore. I am just very friendly.

**Unless they are slutty, selfish bitches. You know who you are my darlings.

The first thing you have to realize is that each woman, like a unique special snowflake, is as individual and as special as a hot house orchid. Sometimes, they can be hardy. Sometimes they can wilt on you for no apparent reason. And sometimes, they need a hand/mouth combination of… spritzing. If you know what I mean, and I think you do. (You can purchase those teeny little spritzing cans at your nearest Home Depot or Lowe’s. And if you actually try to use one of those on her… special flower, you may be receiving an all expense paid (by you) trip to the ER to fix your broken jaw.***)

***Unless she’s into that sort of thing… then, mrow, call me mama! (I have no idea what I am saying.)

Alrighty, back on track.

So each woman is unique in her own way. Some women are all about the, “Wooo!” “Lemme get on top!” “TURN OFF THE LIGHTS!” and then Bam! They are happy campers. Most women are a little more complicated than that. You have to take into consideration several things before you proceed:

1) Her state of mind at that particular moment.
2) How she is feeling about her body at that particular moment.
3) How she is feeling about YOU at that particular moment.
4) Is she particularly stressed out?
5) Have you been sweet to her lately?
6) Have you told her she is pretty?
7) Does she believe you? Or does she just think you’re sweet talking her to get her to do that thing she does with her tongue?
8) Is she planning on murdering you for being a cheating whore?
9) Does she have family coming into town?
10) Would she rather be doing a million other things that she knows she has to do right that second because each moment that passes is a lost opportunity to do laundry, pluck her eyebrows, run to the store for a half gallon of milk, has she shaved and lotioned properly?, do her thighs look good in this light?
11) Seriously, WHAT the fuck is wrong with you? TURN OFF(down) THE LIGHTS!
12) Have you touched her in sweet ways all day/week/month long? Or is this the first time you have touched her in months?

If your answer is 12 is anything other than "I touch her lovingly every chance I get."… then fuck you. Go to hell. Everyone else, keep reading.

So, yeah, you have your plate full thinking about all of those things. But just think, we’re women, we’re crazy (in a good way) all of that shit above is already in our heads. Your mission, if you chose to accept it, is to make allllllllllllll of those thoughts go away. You can do it, we know you can. With the right combination of affection, lighting, distraction and timing she’ll be putty in your hands (mouth, whatever).

Our minds are full on tilt-a-whirls of thought process. Get us to focus on you (or better yet, ourselves), on what you are doing to our bodies, make us feel like we are one big “pre-sneeze” and we will do whatever you want (within reason). Touch us gently, make out with us, kiss our necks, the arches of our feet (unless we hate that (TRIXIE)), the backs of our knees. Turn off the phones, lock the doors, don’t try to do a music mix (I beg of you, we’ll be analyzing each song wondering what the lyrics mean), just make sure it’s a comfortable temperature and then unleash your lust.

Take cues from her body, is she pulling away? She doesn’t like that. Is she leaning into it? She does. Good going… keep it up. Is she still talking? Shut her up, kiss her. Do something you know will make her do that sharp intake of breath, followed by a small moan that you look for as a “GO GO GO!” sign. If you do not know what this means… close this page and go ask an older man, or better yet, an older woman to take you under their wing and for the love of God, teach you.

Take off her clothes as she would take them off of herself, either slowly or efficiently, always removing each item with care or then folding it neatly and placing it away from a candle if you have one lit nearby. You don’t want her thinking, “Dear God the house could catch fire, and THAT is my Favorite blouse!” Right?

This is all about taking away her worries, making it like a spa environment. As a matter of fact, that is a great way to look at this. If you can make this a safe little vacation bubble for the two of you (yes, even if it is only for an hour or two) that would be a fabulous way to view it. Take away her worries, her stresses; make sure she is concentrating on the things that you are doing to make her feel sexy, sultry, in the moooooooooood.

Yeah, most of this is mental. We know. Seriously, we’re insane. It’s ok. We’re aware of it too. Just help make it go smoothly and all will be right.

Once you have her in the mood, and naked… (or in a little chemise, if she’s self conscious about her body) then tell her you would love to fulfill her fantasies. That you want her to feel good. But not too much pressure y’all. I once had this man want me to orgasm at the stroke of midnight… on New Year’s Eve… while eating chocolate dipped strawberries and holding a flute of champagne while he went down on me. Um. No. I am not a circus performer.

The less thought she has to put into it (letting go is key), the better. This is about HER after all, right? So make it about her, move around her, don’t make her come to you and sit/lay a certain way so your damn hand/arm/face/neck/knees don’t get tired. OMG do not get me started.

Actually, if she trusts you, the more thought you can take away from her, the better, right? So, maybe a sleep mask as an impromptu blind fold, maybe a scarf as a way to tie her wrists together softly so she doesn’t feel like she has to please you simultaneously. Small things like that y’all… they work wonders.

Listen to her.

As a matter of fact if you are okay with taking a little verbal instructions, say so… softly… but NEVER EVER EVER FALL ASLEEP. Oh holy, Lord. Seriously, you wanna set back Orgasm-O’Clock? Fall Asleep. Yeah, go ahead, make her feel BORING. “Hi, your vagina is boring to me, I am going to fall asleep with my face, finger, whatever inside of you.” No. NEVER. We don’t care if you just pulled a 72 hour shift as a NICU nurse, DON’T Care… Don’t fall asleep on us. Take No Doz, load up on caffeine … just stay awake if you want to give your lady an O-face she’ll never forget.

And y’all? Don’t be afraid of toys. Seriously. There is nothing insufficient with you or your technique (maybe) we are just used to a little bzzzzzzzzzzzzzz to go along with our self appointed “Me Time.” Climb aboard, don’t mention that anything is weird****, and just enjoy the ride.

****So help you God, if you use a toy and your hand to make any sort of S.O.S. noise, the backbeat to your favorite jam or the melody to your favorite team’s fight song. We are not human kazoos.

Start slow when you go in for any kind of penetration. Some women like it shallow; some women like it deep, some women only want you to lightly lick their left earlobe. Whatever it is, do it.

And if she isn’t into that at all, then don’t do it… take it all up top and tap lightly or massage small circles on her clitoris. If you can’t find it and if you don’t know where it is, ask. We’ll show you. Most women like a combo of penetration with clitoral stimulation, but please keep in mind, you are not a jack hammer and our vaginas are not pot holes in a city street. Unless she specifically requests a fisting, then, by all means.

Take your time, listen and watch for body language and verbal cues.

Biggest tip I can give you, kind reader, if you find the G-Spot (again, if you don’t know where it is, ask… or for Pete’s sake, Google is your friend (Ps: Porn is not)) and she gets wetter and you hear the verbal cues we discussed earlier, this is NOT the time… I repeat, this is NOT the time to pull a “variety is the spice of life” move.

Consistency is key when you get all the stars aligned… then keep doing whatever it is you are doing, for as long as it takes… I promise, it’s worth it.

I was having this amazing dream where everything was crisp and vibrant. The colors were kind of soft with a patina but only around the edges. In the middle the contrast was so bright you could taste the dust motes on your tongue, you could see the starkness between a ray of sunlight and shadow like the light carved the darkness with a blade.

I could smell the exhaust of the little scooters in the streets, racing past at break-neck speed.

I could feel the dirt stuck to my face.

I was on the phone, and walking, walking, walking, pleading with an embassy, talking to confidants and listening to the advice of close friends and smart people. I was working a deal, it was so complex, sort of like the domino theory of transplants that only happens on Grey’s Anatomy

I was so hot, sweaty and grime stained, and I kept wiping my face with an old dark blue bandana that I had shoved in the back pocket of my cargo pants. Sometimes the point of view would be like that of a “Ghost Hunter” with the shoulder mounted (POINT IT AT MY FACE!) camera, kind of shaky and missing frames. Sometimes the point of view was very circular, because this deal…. MAN… this deal had to go through.

I was working on (for pennies a day, enough to buy a cup of coffee) adopting children for each of my family members, my friends, and the man whom I am sleeping with (shut up). I was adopting these babies with flies in their eyes so my family and friends would receive a picture and a description of Umfoofoo and Shakira and about how they love to learn, dance and read, and notes that would read, “Thank You my new adopted family! Because Of YOU I can afford a flip flop and this aluminum ashtray.”

It’s a freaking Christmas MIRACLE!

Somehow the dominos didn’t fall right and I ended up with a retired circus grizzly bear who was wildly incontinent and who would remove his diapers if they weren’t just motherfucking perfect.

My biggest worry THEN was how to get him changed if he wouldn’t lift a freaking paw to help. Not to mention how to catch an Alzheimerized grizzly to change its diaper.

Freaking nightmare.

Stupid bear.

Mascara on lashes and lipstick on kittens
Bright colored sweaters and being bitten
Brushing my hair being tied up with strings
These are a few of my favorite things

Products and lotions and high leather booties
Earrings and make up that make me look cute-y
Smacking my butt cheeks ‘til they fairly sting
These are a few of my favorite things

… Oh… hi… sorry, you caught me singing to myself. Remember the other day when we were talking about things getting clogged… toilet… slow drain in the tub. Well, I have been singing this little ditty (and variations thereof) in my head since Monday. Monday was the day of “ONCE YOU SEE IT, IT CAN NOT BE UNSEEN!”

My toilet was clogged again. AGAIN. I know, if I wouldn’t use a catcher’s mitt amount of toilet paper to protect my hand from pee, this wouldn’t happen. Whatever, it’s a quirk. Deal, okay? So, yeah, I was working away from home… toilet clogs, I call the people… the service people. Whoever they are, those guys that make living in an apartment awesome. I have a leak? “Hey, um… I have a leak.” Boom. Fixed. I have a clog? “Hi, yes, it’s clogged again.” Boom. Fixed. Those guys. So I called the people. “Hi, I have a clogged potty and the drain in the bathroom is slow.” “You have one bathroom only, yes?” “Yes.” “H’okay, we’ll be there soon.” “YAY!”

This Lilliputian man shows up and knocks. I have to open my door to see anything other than the top of his head as he was too short for the peephole. Pocket service man. He was carrying a plunger and two sets of pliers. The needle nosed pliers will be important in a few minutes. Remember them.

He nods up at me and smiles. I can see him thinking, “Oh great, just what I need, a big, fat chick who ate too much of her own Halloween candy calling me for a clogged toilet.” He was pleased (I’m going by the smile on his face) to get to the bathroom and find the water clear…. Just clogged. He took care to remove things from the back of the toilet, bath salts in a glass container ect. and remove the back lid. He flushed, plunged and was done in like 30 seconds. I gave him some paper towels and a plastic sack to put the plunger in and he turned his attention to the tub.

Now I have had these issues before (clogged toilet, slow drain), but I have never been there for the actual fixing of said issues.

This is important.

He reached into the tub and unscrewed the little stopper for the drain.

(Excuse me. I need to walk away for a moment.)

He used one set of pliers to take the stopper off and the other… the other to reach in and grab a giant mass of (Dear God, it looked like something from The Grudge) hair and with a gleeful grin, dropped it directly into the toilet and flushed it.

He went back from more and this time pulled out more hair that rivaled the size of an East Texas barn rat. He flushed this as well. I was thinking, “If that … (vurp/swallow) gets caught and clogs… I’m running for it….”

He went back a third time and rooted around for a moment with the awful noise of metal on metal on wet, moldy, HAIR and pulled out a third mound of… You know… I am pretty sure that he may have been fucking with me, because if I lost that much hair between this and the last time I called “the people” for my slow drain, I would be well and surely bald. But he hauled up another clump of … Lord. Yes, more hair, and I can guarantee you … Ok, I’m making myself sick about this… so let’s not talk about it anymore, and I’ll promise to not ever be home for “the people” for when they come back. Or I just won’t talk about it.

Ok, just one more thing. I’ve been having nightmares that the chick from The Ring is going to do that weird jerky crawl thing out of my well toilet/TV in the middle of the night and breathe on me.

Happy Halloween!

BTW… I still have all of my candy left. Not one trick or treater. I would like to take the time to blame this on me following Steam Me Up Kid and Gween Brick on FaceBook and giggling maniacally while sitting on the porch. Yeah, that could be it.

So let’s talk about shit.

Literally. I wanna sit y’all down and talk about bodily functions.

I have a small one bedroom, one bathroom apartment. Well, one bedroom and a bath and a half (Max’s restroom is in the laundry room… that counts, right?). So my… business… is done in a very private area. Alone, with 4 deadbolts and a garage door between me and the outside world.

I am not one to follow you into the restroom for conversation, I have a shy bladder* and on family trips my mother and I have been known to “go without” for neigh on a week. My daddy says it makes us mean. Moving on.

*Friends in college would be at the apartment and whenever I would (Khaaaaaaan!) “break the seal” after one or seven too many beers, Chad would holler through the apartment, “WE CAN ALL HEAR YOU PEE!” to which my bladder would close up, the kegals stopping the flow at the mere mention of someone hearing me tinkle… and I would carry the heavy weight of a bladder full of beer around with me the rest of the night, while someone would try to tickle me. Lovely. PS… Fuck you all.

So, suffice it to say, I have…. Issues?

Thank goodness the X’s trailer** had two bathrooms… and locks on the doors. As he would be one to come in while I was in the tub and make motions towards… his… morning constitution. (Gag.) I would hurl things like razors, loofas, towels, whatever was in reach, screeching, “Getoutgetoutgetout!” until he backed out saying, “Okay, ok, ok… I’m going to the other one… Lor-DUH.” Yes, he could make “Lord” two syllables. It’s a talent.

**Oh the irony. It burns.

Mr. X is a very polite man who would (even in agony of appendicitis… which makes you… gassy) have the grace to act embarrassed if he tooted.

(I’m 12, pardon me while I hide my mouth behind my hand and giggle at the word toot.)

He never dutch ovened me… Thank God. Or anything like yelling, “Hey, come lookit the shape of my deuce!”

I’m not saying that I don’t have baggage, I do. I am also fully admitting that if there was an attractive man, over 5’10” who had similar values, got my motor runnin (if you know what I mean), was kind, nice to old people and animals, employed (or wealthy enough not to have to be) and made me laugh and wanted to make sure I was treated in a Queenly manner (spoiled, spoiled, spoiled)… if this said Mr. Right was firing on all cylinders and a great conversationalist. If he was smart and liked to brush my hair and pet me… I still don’t know if I could get past a dude who wants to poop with the bathroom door open, then talk about it later like it was a prized piece of art. Or ask me to pull his finger or fart on me (in my general direction) then laugh and run away (or… stay… either position is equally repugnant).

Is this mad?

I mean, yeah, I use enough toilet paper in one session to make sure NOTHING TOUCHES MY HAND… EVER. Enough that would provide perfectly stable and safe padding shall your vehicle’s air bag fail to deploy. What? I’m “green” in other areas, but we will NOT skimp on the toilet paper.

I DO have one problem. While at work (ok, more than one problem) there are chatty people in the stalls. The toilets could flush a housecat, which is awesome. But I have… difficulty even trying to void my bladder when there are people in there freshening up, talking gossip, or God forefend… talking on their cell phones. And for some reason I am mortified when an older lady comes in and just sits down to well… do her business, noisily then comes out while I am boiling my hands and tries to be chatty.

Lady, I just heard you drop off the kids at the pool and hit the air breaks like six times, no, I don’t want to discuss my boots.

Yes, they are awesome.

And they help out a charity.

(distant pimp music)
And now it’s time for a break down.
Lookit.
These are mine.
Wearing them right now.
So excited I may have to pee! Ut oh…