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February 2004 Archives

February 2, 2004

Weekend Synopsis and a Bit About My Body

There are approximately 60 people who work in this building. There are two bathrooms. One is the women’s and one is the men’s. There are only three little stalls in the women’s restroom, with one of them being equipped for handicapped people.* There is about 6 feet of space between the stall doors and the two sinks, hardly enough room to perform an arabesque.

*I never use the handicapped one unless all others are occupado. I fear bathroom karma.

So why, please tell me, do women decide to conduct lengthy conversations about decorating their entry hall buffet tables with a friggin bowl from Hobby Lobby in the bathroom? Please. Ladies, step out into the hallway. Hanging out in front of the stalls… it’s creepy.

If I were to take off my shoe and toss it nonchalantly over the door, it would hit you in the head.

I have a shy bladder anyway. The restroom, especially one so small, is not meant for holding decorating classes titled, “Cheap Crap at Craft Stores Can Be Yours Too!”

In other news. Did ya’ll see Janet’s boobie? Mister and I did. And I tell ya what, we feel changed for viewing it. Our lives finally have meaning. I can die now.

No?

It wasn’t that big of a deal? You don’t say. CNN seems to think so. While getting ready this morning I listened to several CNN anchors bemoaning the question, “Was it planned?” more than four times in one hour. Every radio station in the country is talking about it and rumors are flying faster than grease through a goose.

Was it planned? I think so, but more importantly who cares? Yes, Janet has an album coming out. Yes, Janet needs the spark and sizzle to fuel her career that the Madonna/Brittany kiss sparked last summer. But come on. It wasn’t half as humiliating as Diana Ross grabbing Lil’ Kim’s boobie in 1999.

It’s a boob … with a sparkly thingy on it. Let it go. Kids that happened to be watching didn't get traumatized by anything that they can’t see on prime time TV or after 10 pm on the Cartoon Network. Yep, the cartoons may be drawn boobies, but they are boobies nonetheless.

The only thing I would even halfway give a crap about would be if Justin did it without it being rehearsed. Hello, sexual assault.

Nnnnnnext.

Did I run you guys off with the soapbox entry and the subsequent apology? Sorry. Really. I’ll keep it real like my pal Nelly from now on.

Mister and I had a wonderful weekend. None of the fighting and mad cleaning like last weekend. We did do our chores and our little abode does look charming. Let’s see. Friday night we went to Chipotle for dinner. We took our snacks over to my sister’s house so we could visit with my folks. They were babysitting Gray and making a cake (with sprinkles!) for my sister’s birthday. My sister and BIL were out for her birthday supper. We enjoyed chatting with Momma and Daddy for several hours then went home to go to bed.

Saturday morning we were up with the roosters to do our chores and clean up the place. Mister ran to the market for a few things for lunch while I got dressed and we hosted our first “Parents Over For Lunch”. It was so nice. The conversations always flow so easily when we are all together. The only things missing were the sister, Gray and the BIL.

After the parents left we made plans for the rest of the day. Mister offered to take me to a movie as a treat. We have several movies and a couple DVDs that are duplicates from when we merged our collection, so I opted to get a light dinner, swing by the Movie Trading Company and to get ice cream from Baskin Robbins.* We also went to the local library which is fantastic! I have a library card now! We watched Signs, ate ice cream and had a wonderful Saturday evening.

Sunday we went to a new church (really enjoyed it) and then spent the rest of the day driving through neighborhoods looking for homes that were for sale, lease or rent. We got a lot of information. Wow, homes are expensive aren’t they!

Late yesterday afternoon I developed a migraine. My little cocktail of 3 Ibuprophens and 2 Excedrins did not work. I had to have Mister give me an Imitrex shot. That was pretty rough, but I really enjoyed our weekend.

*Mmmmmm Quarter Back Crunchy goodness. Geeze that stuff is heavenly. I can only have a few bites before it gets to be too much for me though. I can keep a pint (quart… whatever) of ice cream in the freezer for up to 6 months. I have even been known to throw away ice cream. Yes, I’m sorry to say it’s true.

So… why the hell is my ass the size of U-Haul van you ask? I would like to blame genetics, but my mother is roughly the size of a small parrot. So I’m going to have to go with what’s behind door number three Monty! Yes! It’s because I sit on my posterior and don’t eat correctly! Or I could always take the lazy way out and link to Robyn’s explanation. I can holler “Amen!” to almost everything but the PCOD thing [read: Polycystic Ovarian Disease]. Seriously, that woman hit the proverbial nail on the head.

All of those years being so nervous and swallowing so much rage and shame, the only things I could keep in my stomach without feeling so awful, bloated and having the most amazing acid reflux were carbs. Carbs, carbs, carbs. Mmmm baby, carbs.

I can remember going to college in 1990. Fall semester. I was so incredibly worried about gaining the “Freshmen 15” [pounds], I was not sleeping because of living in the dorm with all the new sounds, I was worried about failure and not being pretty enough or thin enough. I literally survived on Dr. Pepper, beer and mashed potatoes for weeks. I lost the Freshman 12 and when I went home for a weekend my mother was so pleased with my weight loss I continued with that pattern for years.

Can you say vain and whore for praise? I can.

I am approximately 5’8” with a large frame. In 1990-1991 I weighed in at (tops) 121 pounds. That is gross on my frame. You could see all of my ribs, my spine was prominent and my hipbones were so angular and pointy that I couldn’t lie on my tummy comfortably. I wore a size 7 Rocky Mountain jean and my hipbones would get raw from the denim rubbing against them when I went dancing.

Here is a picture a friend and I (I’m on the left) when I was just starting the downward spiral. I didn’t have much to loose in the first place.

My most attractive and comfortable weight is 165 to 170. At that weight I am a size 12. I could live with that quite happily. I don’t want to starve myself, and to be 10 pounds lighter than my ideal weight is a full time job. To quote Margaret Cho, “That is not a job I want for the rest of my life. I am turning in my time card and walking away.”

I’m sure that the weight that is the best on me is not ideal for many people and most of those Kimono Dragons [read painfully thin women who host charity events in Dallas] with Chanel accessories would probably remark that I am obese. I can live with that as well.

My only job now is to get back down to that “ideal weight”.

Wish me luck.

I’ll need it.

Oh, and just for fun… and a little bit of lighter material…read this one from the precious Miss Doxie. I swear. This almost made me pee a little.

February 9, 2004

This Wasn't Pavlov's Dog

I was in the fourth grade at Sope Creek Elementary in Marietta, Georgia. I don’t even know if I was 8 years old yet. I know that it was spring. I know that much to my chagrin, my best friend Laura P. was going to be moving to Ohio later on that year before the school year was over.

Laura’s dog (a collie named Sky) had eaten part of my garter snake Bandit. We were upset at the merciless killing and we didn’t know what to do, so we took our little victim over to Suzie M.’s house for an impromptu declaration of death and a small funeral.

Suzie M. was my first lesbian friend. Oh, don’t tell me not to be so quick to judge. She had a crew cut (she looked like a tiny Martina Navratilova), she had 300 hamsters, 2 Afghan Hounds and was the person to teach me the word ‘deformed’ when I was 7 years old. As in, “that Mack truck looks deformed” as we sat in the rear-facing seat in her mother’s station wagon on the way home from the lake.

Laura and I went over to Suzie’s house because she was so wise for her (our) age. We were certain she would know what to do. Suzie’s vocabulary at 7 years of age could rival that of a college freshman and her calm nature was just the one you wanted around you when a crisis hit, or if you wanted to conduct a science experiment. More on that later.

Laura and I were the exact opposite of Suzie. We would skip through the forest of Fox Hills neighborhood making up stories to go with the arrowheads we would find. We would climb over abandoned felled trees to search for green lizards and blue-tailed skinks. We would also make up different words to sing to Air Supply’s Every Woman In The World while we dug our way to China on the side of the cranky man’s property. We never thought about the heavy stuff like the mating habits of hamsters or how you could make electricity with a potato. But Suzie did.

She knew just what to do when we brought Bandit over for her to make sure he (or what was left of him) was truly dead. She pulled out one of her mother’s dishrags and wrapped Bandit carefully inside. After making sure that his lifeless body was not going to return from the great beyond she went and got a shoe box out of their overflowing garage.

Laura and I mutely followed Suzie. Laura feeling guilty about her dog dispatching a snake that I had rescued from the street, a snake with a calm enough demeanor that he would coil up in my hand while we were being driven to dance class. A snake that was so laid back that my mother would handle him with just the smallest shudder of revulsion. And me… I followed too, struck mute and completely enthralled by all of the useful looking crap in Suzie's family garage.

I never said I was a deep fourth grader.

Suzie led us to the creek down by Adam B.’s house and we began to dig a small, shallow grave. Each of us had a stick that we used to uselessly push the mud around. When Suzie seemed satisfied with the job we did she placed the shoebox inside the inconsiderable crypt and asked us to form a triangle and hold hands. She said a simple prayer for Bandit and then we walked away from his final resting place to forget exactly where it was the next day.

We never really spoke about that little service again, but during that spring we did all sorts of things that seemed pretty significant to us at the time.

I mentioned Suzie’s knowledge of sex. Yep, she knew about the mating habit of many of God’s creatures. She could also tell you the gestational period for almost any rodent or canine.

After one enlightening day at the Suzie’s house Laura and I decided to do an experiment on our own. We had an idea and with the knowledge we gleaned from Suzie, we just knew it would work.

We knew that a dog put his wiener into the girl dog’s backside and then he humped her. A few weeks later puppies would come out. She said that hamster sex wasn’t much different. “People do that too,” said Suzie. We were floored with that one. Trying not to imagine our parents looking like the male and female version of Suzie’s Afghan Hounds humping each other.

We figured that we could see a tiny puppy come out of the boy dog’s wiener if we could get that boy dog to hump and ‘pee’ the babies into a small butter dish we had pilfered from Laura’s mom.

We had the Junior Scientist’s MicroLab (complete with microscope) and we had the butter dish.

The neighbors on the corner of Laura’s street had a large black Lab that they let run free. If we were riding our bikes, roller skating or walking by the house the dog would run out, jump up and try to hump us, or anything that moved. Poor mail man.

We figured that we had the subject for our experiment.

We called that horny bastard into Laura’s garage one Saturday morning and started our experiment. It was tough to get that dog to hump an inanimate object such as a trunk with a blanket thrown over it, or a spare tire. But we kept at it and I think he got so frustrated with hearing two seven year old girls say, “hump this ya stupid dog” over and over in our little immature voices that he just thought ‘what the hell’ and started in on the trunk.

We both got down on eye level with the doggie wiener. We made sure our trajectory was correct and we taped the butter dish to the trunk at a strategic location.

The dog snorted, sneezed, farted then flopped off of the trunk and started to lick his crotch.

We thought we were geniuses! We had succeeded in the first part of our experiment. All we needed was microscopic proof. We prepared the glass slide and put the sample under the lens to stare in wonder at the tiny puppies.

We looked, we blinked, we rubbed our eyes, and we took turns. Neither one of us saw one damn puppy under the microscope.

I learned my lesson that day. I needed more information. No matter what I thought was cool or a neat idea. I needed the 4-1-1. I needed Info. I should of asked Suzie more questions, but I had to go home.

When I got home I promptly and asked my parents at the dinner table, “So, what is this sexual intercourse thing I keep hearing about.”

They told me… but not before my sister could run screaming from the kitchen.

February 11, 2004

He Ain't No Ike Turner.

I made a phone call last week that was very hard for me to do. Well I made two tough phone calls, but we’ll only discuss one of them here.

I called my ex-husband, X.

I left in the summer of 1999 (why didn’t Prince write a song about that? Huh?). I left because of irreconcilable differences. That phrase usually means ‘cop out’ or nothing at all to those who have not been through a divorce. Maybe to those who haven’t been through it, it just means a title of an old Drew Barrymore movie that made most of our mothers cry. But to those who have been through the severance of a marriage it also means everything, a chance of survival, and a key to financial freedom, finding yourself again or even growing up.

I’m not saying that X was some masochistic bastard who beat the livin snot out of me on a regular (or irregular) basis. We just didn’t do right by each other. It is as simple as that. I was not blame free and neither was he.

We were young and stupid. I was looking for a family to take care of and he was looking for someone to take care of him and his family. I had no idea what I was getting myself into. All I knew was that I was graduating from college, I was so in love with his daughter, and X and I were best friends… It had to work… right?

That graduation day (the same day as my wedding) would start six years of laughter, tears and ungodly frustration.

We were lazy and we didn’t work on our relationship.

He took me for granted and I took for granted that he wouldn’t care what I did.

I was the disciplinarian for his daughter while he played the good guy.

I swear to you people. I have never been so lonely in my life.

Because of that loneliness I started to chat online at the direction of one of my co-workers. The people in that online chat forum filled up an empty space in my life. I lived to talk to them.

I would come home from working late, fix X’s dinner, get him dressed in his ‘costume’ [he is a night shift police officer - still] and say goodbye to him at 10pm. I never listened to the scanner for fear of hearing him get into some altercation. The town we lived in was a huge transport thoroughfare for drug trafficking an a Deputy Sheriff had lost his life doing a routine drug stop one evening a few years before I graduated. Man, that was scary!

I could only watch so much TV and we lived far enough out of town that it was a waste to go back into town for fun sport and amusement. So… I would sign on, and talk to people that I had never met before. Listen (or read) stories, real stories about these people and their lives. It was interaction. It was my lifeline.

A habit formed. I would get excited to see X pull out of the mud that served as our driveway so I could sign on. I began to bring home a six-pack of Coors Lite longnecks from the Kroger in town. On special occasions I would get a bar of Dove’s milk chocolate to go with my beer.

The six packs and the chocolate became my painkillers and the people on IRC (the chat room) became my therapists.

I was miserable.

I was living in a 1976 Redman doublewide trailer. I lived maybe 1000 feet from my mother and father in law. It took 45 effing minutes to go get gas people. We would get iced in during February and the power would go out. Oh jeebus, the cold!

The trailer was electric with a gas heater (that ran on electricity… HA HA HA!). X would forget to call and have them fill the propane tank, but it didn’t really matter, if the power went out, the heater wouldn’t work anyway. I pledged my allegiance to that Honda generator up in the shed.

I put X through the police academy so we were a one-income family for the better part of a year and a half. Which didn’t really count for much when you had a little girl (me!) with two degrees making $10 an hour. Yep, ten dolla-roonies. Sweet.

I have actually uttered the phrase, “Your daughter and I are hungry, go kill something.” And… I wasn’t kidding. You ain’t got shit on me Skah-lett. I’ll bust a move on your curtain wearin ass.

It didn’t get much better. The summer I left I was making $21,500 a year. A YEAR! We were a 52K a year household, with no mortgage. Living hand to mouth. Where did it go? Not sure. I have heard many a rumor. I have seen evidence. I am just glad to be out of there.

I’m not putting this down on paper to crucify X, his character or his family. What I do want to do is put it all behind me.

The last time I talked to X was almost two years. It was before I even met Mister, my knight in shining Lincoln.

I needed to call X to ask him to sign over some stocks to me that my parents gave to us for our first Christmas. I dreaded that phone call. I’m not sure why. I just didn’t want to call and ask him for a favor. We were best friends, then lovers, then married and then estranged. It ended badly I am sorry to say. I was not mature, and JesusGod neither was he.

The phone call went something like this:

X?

[mumble] Yeah?

It’s Sue.

Heeeeeeeeeeeyyyyyyyyyeeeeeeee, how are you?

Fine. Did I wake you up?

Yeah, but hell, I needed to get up anyway. [sound of stretching]

Listen, I hate to call and ask you for a favor, … [uncomfortable pause] did you get my email about the stocks?

Naw, you know that mutha piece of shit innernet, I hardly evah get my email anymore. What’s up?

Well you know those [name of] stocks that my parents gave to you and I for our first Christmas?

Yeah?

I would like to change them to my new name. IjustgotmarriedlastSeptember… [breathe] andIwouldliketochangethename on the stocks tomymarriedname.

No shiiiiiiiieyet?

No shit.

Well, that’s great. Finally find you a good one huh?

Yep… he’s the best. I’m so lucky.

Good…

So, about those stocks, would you sign them over to me?

Awww Hell Suz, you know I don’t give no shiiiyet about that stuff.

Well, I would really appreciate it. I’ll send you a return address envelope and everything.

Shiiiyet, just send it oooownn [on] and I’ll sign ‘em and return ‘em.

Thanks X. So much, really.

So, How're yo' momen-ems?

[Translated loosely to being "I would like to inquire about the health and well being of your mother, your father and the rest of your ilk."]

They’re fine. I’ll let them know you asked about them. I’ll send you those papers, thanks again for signing them.

Naw problem.

20 minutes pass with him doling out gossip quicker than Aunt Maye.

Thanks again X, I really have to run.

Ah-righty, bring that new husband of yours out to meet us.

[I can barely keep from screaming “Hell NO!”] Sure, next time we’re in town. Kiss R [his daughter] for me, Bye bye.

I am an awful hateful person. The whole time he was totally civil. I just could NOT stop thinking. Holy shit, what a redneck. I was married to that???

So much water under the bridge. Really.

My sister asked me one night why I really left X and I told her. I could only wake up one time by my crying friend to hear that she felt guilty about sleeping with X the night before… confronting him with it and him saying, “Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you I slept with ___ last night.” No biggie huh? I could only go through one eptopic pregnancy with no support. I could only feed 14 people for so many nights. I could only live with a passive aggressive, matriarchal, misogynistic, holy rollin bitch of a mother in law for so long. I could only deal with the ‘language barrier’ [thanks Stacey!] of East Texas for so many years without cracking and going all postal on those sum’bitches.

I also couldn’t deal with the resentment that was growing inside of me. I was number one head honcho of martyrdom, ladies and gents. It was sickening.

Reb also asked me why I chatted on that ‘Internet thing’ and I told her I had never been so lonely in my life. Out of all the things I told my sister that was the thing that hurt her the most. That I was out there in East Texas all alone with all of these people around me. The loneliness made her cry for my pain.

To me it was all about realizing that I was not loved for who I am or was but yet how much I was willing to tolerate.

February 16, 2004

Thank You Cupid. [wink wink, nudge nudge]

Good morning baby, awwwww. [g’mornin kiss]

And what would you like to do today?

How about a manicure and a pedicure?

Would you wear your hair curly? Even if it is the fastest way to fix it… I like it that way.

My…you look really pretty. Rawr.

I love your hair that way. [stroke the hair]

God, you really are beautiful. [squeeze me with just the right amount of strength]

I love my Valentimes gift. Happy Thanksgiving! [grin]

No, really, we’ll go up to Sam Moon this afternoon.

How did I get so lucky?

Mmmm luscious bootay! [pat the bootie]

[quietly] Kiss me.

I love you so much. I really am the luckiest man in the world.

Where would you like to go for dinner tonight?

How about your favorite, El Fenix? No, really, I know how much you love that place. Sure, no, that’s ok. We found something there that I like too didn’t we?

I’m so happy.

Sweet dreams my love. I hope you sleep well.

Goodnight, [insert my full name here] I love you.

If that is not the most wonderful running commentary for Valentine’s Day, I don’t know what is. Mister is the sweetest man on the planet and I am lucky to have him. I feel like I get a present everyday when he opens his eyes, his mouth and his heart.

I feel almost guilty about the amount of happiness this man instills in me on a daily basis. But yanno what? I have paid my dues. I asked him last night what I did to deserve such an amazing man such as he. Mister looked me in the eyes and told me that I have paid over and over for a chance at happiness like this. That’s why I love this man so much. He is intuitive and introspective.

Other reasons include:

He is kind, generous, loving, incredibly brilliant, responsible, reliable, loyal, lovable, has a great sense of humor, cute feet, a beautiful smile, handsome as the debil!, generous, a great cook, an amazing lover and my best friend.

Ya’ll don’t tell but I have a picture of Cupid canoodling a goat. He effin owed me.

February 17, 2004

Are You There God? It's Me, Suzanna Danna.

I remember reading Judy Blume痴 Are You There God? It痴 Me, Margaret when I was all of nine years old. I remember Margaret praying to and asking God about several things. Asking if she could get Phillip Leroy for a dance partner, questions about her period and other things that all the six grade girls in the world were thinking about.

The knowledge that I was not alone in my questions about my body was very comforting.

I was curious about my period. Would it hurt? Would it be nasty? How would I know when it was coming? Did I need to rule out white shorts for the next 4 years?

Tampons or pads? Could you actually loose a tampon up in your cuda? Could I get my ears pierced and wear makeup after I became a woman?

Several things stick out in my memory about my journey into becoming a woman. I can see myself in my mind the first day I started my period; clearly, just like it was yesterday. We had just moved to Texas from Georgia and I was in the sixth grade. Twelve years old. Kinda young and geeky, all knees and elbows.

I was in Miss Davis痴 class @ Schimelpfening Middle School and I felt� something� down there. I asked Miss Davis if I could be excused to go to the restroom. I confirmed that I had started my period in the restroom, stuffed what felt like a whole roll of toilet paper into my drawers and went back to class, excited, jittery and scared. I told Miss Davis what the present situation was, and she excused me to go to the nurse for equipment.

I called my mother from the nurse痴 office and all but yelled into the phone, 的t CAME!�

My mother picked me up from school because it was a special day. She took me shopping at the grocery store for supplies and then showed me how everything worked. My older sister never talked to me about that kind of stuff. Even though she had boobs and I asked her about her period� repeatedly. She was very modest and too embarrassed to tell me about it. She would rather die than be seen with any members of her family at that point in her life, much less talk about her body.

I was so excited! I called my grandmother. I called my aunt. I called all of my friends. When my father came home from work, I barreled down the hallway, jumped into his lap and proclaimed dramatically, 的知 a woman now�. Can I get my ears pierced?�

Later that year my grandmother came into town from Georgia and the three of us; my mother, my grandmother and myself (three generations), all got our ears pierced together. That was so great.

When I stated wearing makeup I was even more excited. It was another right of passage. I procured from the local Eckerd痴 an eyelash curler to defeat all eyelash curlers the world over. I still have that friggin thing. Actually, right now, it is in my purse. I致e had it for almost 20 years. It is a silver Revlon one that has the white squishy pads. I tend to hang onto stuff that works.

The popular girls singled me out as having the best eyelash curler at Clark High School. They loved me. They said I was pretty.

Ok, no� they didn稚. But my circle of girlfriends did love the Revy.

Sidenote: I was tempted to purchase a Shiseido one a few years ago, but I heard my Revy eyelash curler crying from the depths of my purse. Begging not to be replaced. He promised to not clump up or pull out any wayward eyelashes; he knew I needed all I could get. The Revy offered me the moon and the stars, swore I was the best, no body ever worked him like that. He said he loved me and would always accept the cheap-ass refill cushion that I offered him. I relented.

When I was young I was always trying to glean things from my older sister and her friends. I remember thinking that I always wanted to be older. I was always six going on twenty-seven. I couldn稚 wait to grow up.

When I was 9 I couldn稚 wait to be 10. I think it was double-digit envy.

When I was 10 I couldn稚 wait to be 13. The word teenager rang in my head like the peal of bells from a church tower in Venice. It was intriguing. I always heard of, 典hose damn teenagers.� I wanted to be a damn teenager.

When I was 13 I couldn稚 wait to be 16. Driving = Freedom baby!

When I was 16 I couldn稚 wait to be 18. If I wanted, I could have left home. Or joined the navy� or the Peace Corps. Ha ha ha ha! This made me snort.

When I was 18 I couldn稚 wait to be 21. It wasn稚 the drinking thing; I had been buying liquor since I was 16. I think it was just a magical number.

When I was 21 I couldn稚 wait to be old enough to be taken seriously.

It was always the next milestone.

When I was 30 I couldn稚 wait to be old enough to be taken seriously (heh.)� And I really wanted to be 22 again. So many things I could have done better.

Why couldn稚 I just relax and enjoy the phase of metamorphosis that I was in? Why can稚 I enjoy it� even now? Why do I have to always look ahead as opposed to enjoying the now?

February 20, 2004

Dr. Goatee, Links and Some Guilt

I feel like Tall-ee McTallister today. I do have short and tall days depending on my posture, how I slept, choice of footwear, frequency of chiropractic appointments and other such variables. Today all the tall stars must be in alignment as I am an Amazon. Rawr.


I went to the cuda doctor yesterday to get my princess oiled, lubed, rotated and balanced. At least, that’s what it felt like Doctor Goatee was doing.

That chair thing with the leg-holder deals is hideous.

I was so nervous about the appointment because, Hey! Who doesn’t want a complete stranger getting all up in that with a jaws-of-life metal torture device in reverse? But I was so nervous that I started sweating [and because I couldn’t be anymore uncomfortable with the situation] I actually stuck to that ‘protect the Naugahyde!’ paper strip.

Yes, you read that correctly. I was stuck to the chair of embarrassment.

“Just Relax” … My. Ass.

Dear Doctor Goatee, telling me to relax in a very anxious voice doesn’t work. It doesn’t work even worse when you smoosh my right boob into my spine.

Yes, there is a lump there. Yes, it is uncomfortable when you grab my tit and drag that bad girl into the next room to show the nurse. Yes, I have had a mammogram. Two actually. Yes, it’s there [points] in my chart.

Yes, I am only 31.

Please don’t make me feel any more anxious and freaked the fuck out when you follow each “It doesn’t seem to be cancer” sentence with, “Notice I said seem

And BIIIIG side note here. Telling a patient that, “The only way anyone can ever be completely certain that a mass is not cancer is if the mass goes away, or if we remove it and the pathologist tells us it is not cancer” does not instill confidence.

On the way home, after I fled the chair of Satan, I called Mister to alert him to how the appointment went. He was appropriately “Aww baby” about the whole thing and even encouraged me when I pouted and ended the appointment synopsis with, “My boobs hurt… I think I need some new pants. Hmmmffff [pouty noise]”

So, cute, new, black, cargo pants, you are the replacement for my pride and payment for pain. I adore you.


Props to Preston and NN for linking to me. I appreciate it ya’ll!

Preston actually uses such phrases as “as I awakened Sunday morning after a long night of rich, pretentious faggotry” and his Mouse entry is Pure Gold!

NN is a sweet little pocket precious that I want to squeeze that writes poetry and loves her some kitties.


I stole this whole paragraph from Mimi Smartypants:

Swallow what you're drinking and then view this inexplicable sweater-related site: complete with unhappy model in metallic gold spandex pants. I am not doing it justice, seriously, go there now.

You must follow her advice… and the link. It is imperative.


This is one of the funniest things I have ever read. No. Really. Go read it now. I will wait.

I first read that story in 2002 when I followed a link from something. The "What? You want a peanut? The End is Nigh? Timmy fell down the well? WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WANT??" Thing KILLED me. I forwarded that link onto my co-worker, my buddy Tim and my new boyfriend (the young Mister, before we were married of course). They all thought I was smoking crack.

But you might like it. You’re my friend right? My buddy, my pal?

I love you, you know. You look really pretty.


Ok, this linktastic Friday entry is giving me a bit of grief because I have something on my mind and I know that it needs to go away. Like, now.

I know that if I purge it onto here, I can get rid of it. But I don’t know how to do it with out sounding like a dork or giving anyone the wrong idea.

Oh hell.

When I was freshly divorced I got to meet up with a friend of mine. We knew that some feelings were there between us but we were not sure if it was because we were both in troubled marriages at the time our friendship started, the whole port in a stormy sea bullshit or if it was truly genuine.

I can see that October day in Oklahoma City so clearly.

I parked my truck, got out and summarily ran and jumped into this man’s arms.

I started thinking about this time in my life this past Wednesday night. For some reason I felt guilty. Jittery too. There I was laying in my marriage bed, next to my whole world, the man I love and I was thinking about ancient history. Why was this man, Kim, suddenly in my mind when I haven’t spoken to him in over two years?

No clue.

Really.

I used to feel guilty over my break up with Kim. He wanted to move to Dallas to be with me after his divorce but I didn’t want to be his net. Yanno? I wanted this him to find out what it was to be independent. I wanted him to stand on his own. I knew that if he moved here fresh from being Mr. Mom for a eleventy-four years that I would end up taking care of him and I did NOT want that.

I wanted someone to take care of me for a change.

I realized that things could never work out with Kim and I when I slammed him on his lack of drive, his lack of education and lack of a spine. I was ruthless.

How could I be so hurtful when all he ever did was shower me with love and affection?

I could do that because I knew he wasn’t the one. I was kidding myself when I even allowed him to come visit me. I was embarrassed when my friends asked, “So, what does he do?” and I had to answer, “He’s a bouncer for a ‘go-go’ club.” [eyes averted and everything]

No offense to go-go bouncers out there. Really.

I just didn’t want to be a partner to one with only a high school diploma, a busted up hoopty for a ride, two children who were the world to him, no ambition, no stability and the will for me to be his support, financial and emotional.

Nope. Nuh uh.

Not gonna happen. I’ve been down that road. I was the original East Texas friggin Florence Nightingale. I did my tour of duty when I was married to X.

I was not about to jump into that boat again.

I know I hurt his feelings. I felt like I needed to C-L-O-S-E that door. I didn’t want to leave it cracked anymore. When I left it cracked in the past he would be there. He was always there.

I just wanted a partner, not a charity event.

I felt like he truly loved me though. Really, truly loved me. But he wasn’t my equal and I would have ended up resenting him. It was harsh to realize and even harsher to verbalize. But I did it. And good Lawd Almighty and I glad I did.

I guess that was one of God’s answered prayers.

Thank you Lord. And Mister, I love you.

February 23, 2004

Email from Co-Worker C

I changed my font… [twirls] … don’t I look pretty?

Also, my comments thing went by the wayside as I am a tard and only paid for the diaryland Gold Membership as opposed to the SUPER (with sparkles!) Gold Membership when I renewed. So, if you want to send some comments, please do so by following the ‘Extra Extra!’ link at the bottom of the page, you can click on the ‘On Location’ link on the top left-hand side or the ‘Notes’ link below that.


I realized why I was all nervy-shaky and thinking about Kim last Wednesday, as I received this e-mail from my ex-co-worker this afternoon when I got back from lunch with Mister.

Suz –
Kim [last name] called this morning asking about you….
I told him that I would pass along his interest and phone number, but I would not tell him anything.
He asked if you were remarried and I said yes, but would not tell him your new married name. He also asked about your job and I told him you were laid off.
That’s about all he asked after he realized that I wasn’t going to talk about anything.
His phone # is [phone number].
Talk to you later.
[Co-worker C]

Very very interesting…. No?

Really? No? You aren’t in the least bit interested in why after all of these years, literally… years man… has Kim decided to contact me when I asked him (before I even started dating Mister) to never call me again?

Eh, I’m not really either.

3 second pause.

Pffft. That is a big ol’ honkin Lie! I am interested. Only because… well, shit…. It’s a mystery. Annnnnd, I’m nosey.

I had that feeling of impending doom for most of Wednesday day… then Wednesday night I start thinking about Kim? What’s the deal? Does he have good news he wants to share? Does he want to congratulate me on my marriage? Did he go to school? Did he finally crawl out of his pit o’ despair? Are the boys ok? Is his ex-wife fine? His family? …. Did the fifth dentist cave?

I don’t know.

I have really enjoyed these past few months (nay, years) with no drama. No estranged wives calling me to tell me that if she had to pick a replacement for her husband’s new wife it would be me. Ick. No calls at 10pm to discuss the merits of working at the zoo compared to the benefits of the titty bar. No worries of meeting a family that I didn’t want to be a part of. No tales of soon-to-be ex wives messing around with his brother. Did that make sense? Ugh. Just… no more. No. More. Of. That. Thanks so much!

I have enjoyed the stability blanket that I have been wrapped in. It helped me put the pieces together to have a wonderful and perfectly lovely wedding ceremony and honeymoon back in September. It insulated me from losing my shit when I got laid off back in October. It even kept things on sort of an even keel when I lost my vision due to a migraine in November.

With Mister comes a big dose of reality. Financial responsibility is no longer an ulcer-causing dilemma. We are a team. If anything I feel that Mister is smarter than I am and better prepared for the future. [Says the girl who has had an IRA since the age of twelve.]

So, do I want to talk to Kim? Nah. Do I want to find out why he’s calling me out of the friggin blue? Hell Yes!

Bless Mister’s heart, I called him on his cell phone a bit ago when he was headed back to the office after dropping me off and told him about the email. I read him the email and he asked me what I wanted to do. Did I specifically tell Kim that I didn’t want him to call me again? Affirmative. Did I tell him it was over? I think I did, yes. Do I want him (Mister) to call him (Kim)? Yeah. I do. Um, well, sorta. But I wanna hear toooooo!!!!!!!!!!

I told Mister that Kim never really did anything to hurt me. He wasn’t an ass of sorts. Well, an ass of sorts that I was used to. He was thoughtless a few times, but hell, who hasn’t been? You? No? Me, neither.

I’ll keep ya’ll posted as the tale unfurls. Yeah, big drama huh? [eyeroll]


In other news, I cleaned out the trunk of my car this weekend and found Jimmy Hoffa. He’s doing well thanks for asking. He just complained of the copious amounts of plastic water bottles I keep back there. You know, just in case I get trapped in a snow bank and have to heat up snow with my body heat for drinking water. Yep, a snow bank. In Texas.

Shut up, it could happen.

In related news my car is getting better gas mileage now that the weight of an elephant has been removed (I don’t mean you Mr. Hoffa.) from my trunk.

February 27, 2004

Google Me This..... Cheese Omelet

I am number 3 on Google’s list for “Hamster with a broken pinky toe”. How frikkin cool is that!?

I tell ya, I have been Googled for stranger things than that. Bathing cats, dog panties, breast butter, white beaded clutch, picture of irony, mega excavators, Dwayne Doopsie, nude Fran Drescher, words to Oh Happy Day and UTF – HOR (which I have no clue what at UTF – HOR is). The list is endless.

But oh, how I love me some Google.

Example, I am currently searching for something out of the ordinary, the name of the group that re-made Eazy E’s Boyz In Da Hood. The groups’ name is Superfast. How did I know?

Why, Google of course!

In the past few weeks I have run across the term bukkake* in several different journals that I read. I, being a curious sort, like to know what interesting words mean. Yes, I am Dictionary.com’s bitch. I don’t read any type of soft or hardcore porn diarys. I can mainly be found perusing the likes of dooce, mimi smartypants, weetabix and pork tornado, as well as others, but yet, I have run across this word several times.

*[No, I am not going to link to the search. I do not wish to get fired, as I am updating whilst (I love the word whilst) on a break.]

So, what do I do? At WORK no less? I Googled that darn word bukkake and recoiled in terror at the promise of ‘taking it on the chin’ and whatnot. I still don’t know what it is. But with all the promised of erotica and BIG COCKS! I have yet to click on the links.

Don’t Google that term at work. Really. And it doesn’t show up on that prudish Dictionary.com either. I looked.


Speaking of Dusty over at pork tornado, please click on this link. It will take you straight to the best belly laugh entry ever, even if you have a sinus headache and feel like your eyes might just explode.

I bet Dusty would be great fun to go people watching with. It’s a great sport, I usually do my best people watching at the airport. It really doesn’t matter which airport as I travel a bunch with my job.

Mister is a master at this craft; my sister is as well, although she tends to lean towards making everyone a raging slut.

My favorite make believe life I constructed was for this man who looked like his name should be Forrest Bushland. Forrest was in possession of the largest and most elaborate unibrow on the planet. His eyebrows practically sang (in D minor) that Viking song by Led Zepplin. Aaaaaaeeeiiiiiiiaah!… Aaaaaaeeeiiiiiiiaah!…

Mr. Bushland was on his way to the south of France to pick up his girlfriend, who sadly was without any eyebrows at all. They intended to have children, hoping against hope that their eyebrow evils would work themselves out in their children’s DNA. Mr. Bushland had an urge to meet his beloved’s family when he got to the south of France. He wanted to tell them in their native tongue that he would treat their little bald browed princess like a queen.

All week he had been listening to an English to French in 72 Hours tape. He had the idea [the night before leaving to collect his beloved] to listen to the tape throughout the night to imbed the French lessons deep into his subconscious.

The tape skipped after Forrest was deep into R.E.M. [the sleep, not the band]. The tape got stuck during a lively discussion on French meals, what to order for breakfast. It skipped and repeated the same word over and over all night long into his subconscious, the French word for cheese omelet... Omelet du fromage’, Omelet du fromage’, Omelet du fromage’, Omelet du fromage’. The next day a cabbie picked him up to take him to the airport. The only thing Forrest Bushland could say to the cabbie was “Omelet du fromage’”. At the curbside check in “Omelet du fromage’”. In line to purchase his Starbuck’s “Omelet du fromage’”.

Forrest was stricken with grief.

As I was wishing for Forrest to break out of his rut and really speak..... [dramatic pause] he horked a lugie into the trash and got onto the plane… going to Amarillo.

Apparently I had been watching an episode of Dexter’s Laboratory that morning before I went to the airport.

No, none of this makes sense. Blame it on the sinus medication.

And, Tim, my feelings are getting hurt because you haven't signed the guestbook.

About February 2004

This page contains all entries posted to Suzanna Danna in February 2004. They are listed from oldest to newest.

January 2004 is the previous archive.

March 2004 is the next archive.

Many more can be found on the main index page or by looking through the archives.

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