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March 2004 Archives

March 2, 2004

John Cleese's Nipple

Did that title catch your attention? I'll explain, I promise.

Sleep mocks me.

Sleep sticks out its fuzzy tongue and zurbert’s me.

The past two mornings I have awoken from my fitful rest with a Keanu Reeve’s “whoooa” in the back of my throat. Sweating slightly and very disoriented. This is not the way to wake up people. Fear and anxiety are not bringers of good cheer for a weekday.

The dreams. Oh man, these have Got. To. Stop.

Yesterday I awoke to the notion that I had just been dry humping James Van Der Beek… underwater. Would that be wet humping? Apparently James, Jason Mewes (of Jay & Silent Bob) and I had been playing a game of craps under the bleachers at a high school baseball game. For some reason the craps game was done under water and I was able to breathe. Not to mention the fact that we had just successfully pulled off a Can’t Hardly Wait type of party at my parent’s house while they were out of town.

Um. Am I seventeen?

And what’s with the humping of Dawson’s Creek dude? I don’t even find him, or his five head* attractive.

*A five head is larger and more pronounced than a forehead. For an example… well, you could click on the link for the love of Pete!

This morning, Sheesh, it was all I could do not to weep with frustration. I spent most of the evening writhing in pain from my uterus falling out (yes, this is an exaggeration) and when I did finally drift off to sleep [thank you Tylenol Extra Max with Wings!] I found myself in a very large mansion. This mansion was the property of my good friend [who knew?] John. John was dying and he had in his possession a machine that would allow him to extract his soul so his body would die but his soul could move on. When it was John’s time to go; and apparently it happened to be right then; they pointed this large phallic looking gun thing at him and pulled the trigger. His ‘host’ never showed up so another John… John Cleese … yes, of Monty Python… asked if I would act as dead John’s host for the evening. All I could think was, ‘Well, sure, just for a little bit, as I am about to start my period.’

Like I had nothing better to do.

So dead John and his white purple soul thing floated into me and all I can remember is thinking how tired I was all of the sudden. That if this is how dead John’s soul felt, I couldn’t imagine how awful his meat suit [read: body] felt in life. Ew. I sat down with John Cleese and he rubbed my finger on his exposed nipple.

!?!? What the?…

Mr. Cleese asked me to promise him that I would never let dead John’s soul rub his nipple like that because it would [and I quote], “Make me feel all squinky.” I had to get out of there.

I went to lie down because I was so tired but my girlfriend, Ginger, stopped me and asked me why I had sold her out, Apprentice style. I told her that it was never my intention to hurt her or her feelings and that I didn’t [for the life of me] remember selling her out in anyway. She whispered, “Judas.”

I felt so small. I knew I needed to fix my friendship with her but I also needed to take care of a problem.

I was elected the leader of this group to take care of the roach infestation of the mansion. No wonder John was dead.

With my trusty hairdryer I went after the roaches that were boiling up from this fountain at the end of this walkway. They would disappear when blasted with the hot air but come back triple when I turned the air stream from them if even for a moment. They were closing around my feet as well.

I had to go back to the banquet hall and grab the repellant. This stuff was awesome. I had used it before apparently because I was yearning for it like it was a Lauren cashmere sweater. I needed this stuff. It was supposed to kill the roaches instantly. I knocked a couple off my legs; [one was biting me… ow!] and I ran back down the walkway. I sprayed the repellant and the little roach carcasses dried up instantly and began to disintegrate.

I was Joyful!

YES! I thought, this stuff ROCKS!

Then I saw it… all along the sides of the walkway, bundles of roaches and other nasty things were morphing together to make …. Ugh… this kills me….to make puppies and kittens. I was supposed to kill them!

My team was yelling for me to kill them before they morphed again!

I sprayed the repellant into the muzzles of a few doe-eyed furry babies. Then I just kept walking. I couldn’t do it anymore. My heart was breaking.

The repellant can turned into my family cat from when I was like 8 years old and her claws were all split and misshapen.

Then I woke up.


I did not eat any habanero peppers before I laid my head down to sleep.

Nor have I watched any Dawson’s Creek… [ever actually], Jay & Silent Bob Strike Back, Monty’s Python, John Carpenter's The Thing or the Orkin channel. I haven't seen my girlfriend Ginger since 1994, and I doubt that my hair dryer has any super powers.

I just need a nap.


I’m pooped.

By the way, Mister and I are off to see The Passion of Christ tonight. I wonder what kind of dreams I'll have after that.

Alas my notify list is all tarded, please pardon my slowness to send out update emails. Thank you.

March 3, 2004

My Uterus, the Martyr.

Suzanna Danna: Ow. Could you just… stop… it… please?

Suzanna Danna’s Uterus: I told you once, and I’ll tell you again… Don’t mess with me, I will make your life hell! Hell I say!

Suzanna Danna: I’ve already entered the seventh ring of hell thanks to you.

Suzanna Danna’s Uterus: Look, if you’d just do as I say… nobody gets hurt.

Suzanna Danna: I already went on a mini shopping spree for you yesterday. You wanted the cute knit pantsuit that looked comfy and warm.

Suzanna Danna’s Uterus: Yeah, but you were all “Fine.” about the whole thing. Couldn’t you just say something nice and be happy about it for once?

Suzanna Danna: I was nice! We even had a hot pocket for breakfast yesterday. I thought you would be happy about that!

Suzanna Danna’s Uterus: I wanted Dove chocolate and beer.

Suzanna Danna: You messed up my panties.

Suzanna Danna’s Uterus: You wouldn’t give me the chocolate and beer.

Suzanna Danna: For breakfast?

Suzanna Danna’s Uterus: You also ate some healthy salmon shit for lunch when I specifically asked for pasta. Lots of pasta!

Suzanna Danna: But I am trying to be healthy.

Suzanna Danna’s Uterus: I’ll be nice if you just get some of that berry colored lip gloss from that lady in finance who moonlights for Mary Kay.

Suzanna Danna: I spent my allowance on the cute knit pantsuit that looked comfy and warm yesterday… for you because you were screaming for drawstring pants and elastic waistbands. Sheesh.

Suzanna Danna’s Uterus: How about some pizza from Mama’s down off of Parker?

Suzanna Danna: That stuff goes straight to my belly and I don’t need the heartburn thankyouverymuch. The last time I got that pizza for you… we ate one piece then had to spend the rest of the evening in the restroom. No, thank you.

Suzanna Danna’s Uterus: It wasn’t MY fault.

Suzanna Danna: Of course it was. You are just being difficult.

Suzanna Danna’s Uterus: Heh. Sounds familiar doesn’t it?

Suzanna Danna: Oh quit it. Stop acting like you are in some sort of alliance with Mister and my mother. I can change my mind sometimes.

Suzanna Danna’s Uterus: You change your mind all the time. If you would just settle down and … and….

Suzanna Danna: And what? Please don’t start in on me now. I didn’t sleep very well last night. I’m tired and a little vulnerable.

Suzanna Danna’s Uterus: If you’d just settle down and have a baby.

Suzanna Danna: No. Not right now. Mister and I have a plan. And you are just going to have to wait.

Suzanna Danna’s Uterus: Come ON. Just one? A little one?… With sprinkles?

Suzanna Danna:Sprinkles?

Suzanna Danna’s Uterus: Uh… yeah, be a dear and fetch me a Krispy Kreme donut with sprinkles would you?

Suzanna Danna: [shaking head] I swear, I am the only woman on the planet with a passive aggressive uterus with ADD.

Suzanna Danna’s Uterus: You asked for it.

Suzanna Danna: Ow! Meanie! Quit.

Suzanna Danna’s Uterus: How do you like them apples huh?

Suzanna Danna: If you ruin this new pantsuit I am going to seriously think about putting you into a permanent ‘time out’.

Suzanna Danna’s Uterus: Oh, you won’t do anything of the sort. We’ve been buddies… pals for nigh on 20 years… you love me. I let you get your ears pierced when you were thirteen, right?

Suzanna Danna: Yeah. Yeah, you did.

Suzanna Danna’s Uterus: By the way. What was up with you getting your upper ear cartilage pieced over last Thanksgiving?

Suzanna Danna: I am under the impression that I’m not nineteen anymore. I guess I did it because I could.

Suzanna Danna’s Uterus: Smart. Real smart. … [pause] Hey, where’s my donut?

Suzanna Danna: How about some almonds … or a Dr. Pepper?

Suzanna Danna’s Uterus: We could really use a new pair of shoes yanno…

Props to classic Weetabix for the whole talking uterus idea.

March 4, 2004

Mental Enema or Vain Glory?

For those of you playing the home game and have an understanding of Kim [if not… you can get caught up here and here] Mister and I have yet to use the phone number he gave to ex-Co-Worker C.

For the most part that little printed out email has been sitting next to the home computer since the day I got it. Unused and forgotten.

I noticed it this morning when I went to put a receipt in the envelope for bank account reconciliation.

I haven’t called, and I don’t think Mister has, but I did have a dream about Kim last night. It wasn’t very flattering either. Actually it was more likely this morning that I had the dream and Gomer* made an appearance as well.

*This entry doesn’t show up on my archives page… I wonder why. Hmmm

I swear, it is attack of the ex-boyfriends. My subconscious is purging something fierce.

The dream itself wasn’t all that bad. Kim and I had apparently gone to some sort of reunion or fundraiser or something for this family that seemed on the edge of poverty. I was sitting on the end of a picnic table with Kim to my left. I was talking to this woman who [forgive me] looked like the southbound end of a northbound mule. She made Charlize Theron look hot in Monster. All scrawny and underfed with that premature female pattern baldness going on with her freckly self.

I have nothing against freckles, I promise, as I am one of the freckled myself… but on her it just looked like bad sun damage and poor hygiene. Yanno?

Anyway, I turn to see who is trying to tap me on the left shoulder, thinking that Kim had to tell me something. So, I turn and see that Gomer is trying to reach around Kim to … I don’t know… stroke my back or something. Kim and Gomer are doing that whole ‘You’re on my siiiiiiiiiiide!!’ ‘Nooooo… you’re on myyyyyyy side!’ little kid thing with one of them trying to touch me, and the other trying to prevent it.

The Monster lady got all deer in the headlights and shot a look at Gomer who I guess was her husband. Who knew?

I was just so tired [seems to be a recurring theme aye?] and I wanted a nap so badly that I asked Kim if I could just crash in the extra bedroom at his home/trailer. He said sure and led me into this pit of a room with a broken waterbed, dried up caulk tubes with one rusted out caulk gun and cat vomit on the carpet and the sheets.

Um… Ew.

I woke up.

So, either I am so incredibly vain and arrogant that I think that these men [neither of which I want to have anything to do with] should be bickering over me… or I am afraid of cat vomit and trailer trash.

I vote for the cat vomit and trailer trash. All in favor? Say aye.


Let’s talk about the virtues of Mister. He so rocks my world daily. He found out yesterday that a job offer is in the works for him. His ginormous brain has garnered the attention of a company that works for a very wealthy and benevolent benefactor. His talent and drive have once again bitch slapped the standard rise up the corporate ladder as he engineered a virtual corporate elevator to fly upwards and onwards!

Poorly Used Metaphor: *tap-tap-tap* Um, excuse me?

Me: Yes?

Poorly Used Metaphor: You’ve got to be kidding. “virtual corporate elevator”??? Come ON!

Me: Look, it’s the best I can do… I’m tired… and my …

Poorly Used Metaphor: Don’t tell me… Your uterus dictated that you butcher the English language and all that?

Me: Well, no. I’m just lazy and I can’t really get into all the righteous stuff Mister has done because the offer letter isn’t in his paws yet.

Poorly Used Metaphor: Fine, but look missy, just be careful with poorly used metaphors, they can become a habit.

Me: No kidding, check out my essays from my Senior Lit class…

Poorly Used Metaphor: *snort* Heh… those did suck.

Annnyway. So yeah, Mister has an offer on the table to join a company where he could work from home, garner an amazing pay raise, have three weeks of vacation and have some righteous health insurance. Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaay Mister!!!!!!!

I had a strange moment of “no shit!”-i-ness yesterday when my coworker said, and I’m not kidding, “Well, you look great. It really looks like you’ve lost some weight.”

:: jaw drop ::

A comment coming from her really floored me since she’s all, “I have to go train tonight before I go out on the town.” Yep, she’s a Size 6. She’s a tiny little cute thing with ginormahuge blue eyes and pretty little dainty hands.

I want to believe her.

I also want to eschew the common standards and revel in my chubby, round, Rubenesque goddess-like proportions.

Who knows which neurosis will win out?

Please be sure to click on the Extra Extra link below and sign the guest book.

March 9, 2004

I got nothin.

While driving to dinner Saturday night Mister commented on my nails, as I have recently stopped with the acrylic nails madness and have let them grow out naturally. He said, “Your nails look beautiful.” To which I replied, “Why thank you my love.”

But I was thinking, like the 31 year old movie tool that I am, “Watch it you ham fisted cow.” As in what Julian says to his manicurist in the movie Bridget Jones’s Diary. But those of you who have the DVD know that he doesn’t say cow in the DVD release. He calls her a bitch with a capital C.

Such an eloquent gentleman.

Then I made a connection that cracked up only me while I tried to explain to Mister the workings of my tarded mind and why on earth was I giggling madly.

Julian who is positively orange in the movie due to improper tanning products came out of my mouth as Julius. I couldn’t keep from giggling while thinking ‘Orange Julius!’ ‘Orange Julius!’ ‘Orange Julius!’ ‘Orange Julius!’ tee hee hee ‘Orange Julius!’ ‘Orange Julius!’ ‘Orange Julius!’ [pause….breath] HE’S ORANGE!

Later on in the weekend on the way home from church I turned to Mister while we were at a stop light and asked him to guess how I got from the Jeep in front of us to the classic “That dawg would bite chewLewis Grizzard joke*.

Mister, the poor man, looked at me with the most exhausted expression I have ever seen and said, “Baby, I seriously have no idea.”

I think I’m wearing him out with my ricochet rabbit stream of consciousness type of speech patterns.

*Ok, so.. the joke: “It used to be common practice for UGA (pronounced Ugh-ah), the University of Georgia Bulldogs mascot, to lead the football team onto the field before home games. One year, the dog decided to stop on the fifty-yard line and lick his private parts as he made his way across the field. Two "good ol' boys" (euphemism for "rednecks") were up in the stands and one said to the other, "Ya know, I wish I could do that." To which the other replied, "that dog would bite you!!!!...."

Annnnyway, I have decided that I have a humongous girl crush on Norah Jones. Yes, I know this is not the first mention of said girl crush, but alas, I have yet to have a Norah humping dream and I wish to correct that erroneous conclusion.

So… yeah, I got nothin’.

I know, tens of readers will be aghast to find that I am completely tapped when it comes to writing.

If you have something, by all means, share…

More later… if I can think of anything witty. If not, I’ll just post my usual rubbish.

March 10, 2004

Hot Barney

Dear Lord, my feet smell like Doritos™. I have the ugliest little black leather mules [shoes] on that apparently I wore whist walking through a field of Nacho Cheese Doritos™ … OR… that I wore when it was raining, got them wet, then continued to wear them without socks or nary a stocking and now they smell like puppy breath.

Yeah. I’m sexy like that.

I have a term stuck in my brain that eludes me as to its definition and its origin. Stripper wood. I woke up with that in my head and now it won’t go away. I am not sure if it is a type of parquet flooring used in gentlemen’s entertainment establishments, if it is a type of freshwater fish or maybe a strain of long grain wild rice.

This cracks me up… yup only me. And maybe Clarice. But I must include it in this random entry. I came back from lunch with my husband yesterday and a thought wedged itself in my head between the notion that I needed to pull up my tank under my blouse as not to attract any boobie lookers and that I was excited about lunch with Stacey the Possum Slayer at El Fenix this week.

The thought was this… my buddy Tim, who refuses to sign the guest book, looks like a hot Barney.

Check it.

Now he is much better looking than the above image mind you. But I have seen him take on a case of Bud Lite and win… repeatedly.

Ok, now squinch up your eyes and make the image all blurry… take away the belly… yeah, now add a goatee… and a southern drawl. Better. Give him good soccer legs and make his eyes crinkle up when he laughs… yeah, like that.


Sir Timothy, I dub thee… Hot Barney.

Now sign the guest book darn it!

Clarice sent me an email this morning saying that if I dreamt of Gomer or Kim anymore she would personally crawl into my brain and remove all traces of either one... as she knows and has spent time with both of them. Bless her heart.

I wouldn’t object to the brain scouring, but thankfully I haven’t really even thought about either one since the dream the other day.

That is one of the reasons I love thee Diaryland. You are my one-dimensional therapist. I spew forth the crap that comes to mind and you offer a Pandora’s box in which to keep it. Keeping it for retrospection, reflection or just a quick laugh.

Thank you Diaryland… you rock out with your cock out!

March 11, 2004

On Being 21.

Mister got the offer letter for the new job yesterday afternoon. I am so excited for him and proud of him. Really, this man is incredible. He didn’t get hired on his incredible list of skills ya’ll… he got hired on brainpower alone. Very cool.

We went to Red Lobster last night to celebrate a little bit. Not that we went to Red Lobster to escape the hideousness that I created in the everyday wok sitting on top of our stove when Mister got home from work … or anything… why do you ask?

Yeah, I suck at creating pad thai. But I’ll kick your ass makin buttermilk biscuits darlin!

We went to imbibe in Red Lobster’s New England clam chowder, some shrimps and an oyster or two. Mister had the lobster lover’s dinner, which could be drafted to feed all of south Dallas, and I had a half dozen oysters. Well, I really only had three of them because they were bigger than my damn head.

Yanno the movie Attack of the Killer Tomatoes!? No? Well, anyways, those movie tomatoes are humongous, kinda like Rosie O’Donnell’s head. I kept thinking that the oysters on my plate last night were going to rise up and demand compliance or they would take over the world. Yeah, they were that big.

This morning while I was brushing my hair and brushing my teeth I noticed that Mister was on the computer working on something. He had a look of determination about him so I sashayed [yup, a God honest sashay] out into the kitchen and asked him what he was looking so serious about. He said he was working on his resignation letter for his current company.

His idea for the resignation letter sounded a little like this:

March 11, 2004

Mack Daddy Mister Man
Our Address
Our Town, TX

Current Company
Company Address
Company Town, TX

Dear Bossman-doo,

GREAT NEWS!!!!!!!!!! My Monster.com search has finally paid off! Your company has earned a place in my heart as the biggest conglomeration of half-wits with extraordinary egos! Thanks for nothing!




Now, I don’t know if I would mess with perfection like that, but I think he may have worked a little to refine it.

Funny yes?

In other news, Hot Barney’s company has blocked his pleasure of viewing my site. I am not sure if it was for the holler of ‘rock out with your cock out’ at the end of yesterday’s entry… or if their delicate sensibilities were struck dumb with terror of the thought of me dry humping James Van Der Beek.

It is a mystery.

Please note: Just send me an email if you want to be on my notify list. It has been about a month since my first email to the notifylist.com people to “Help a Brotha Out!”… to no avail. So I may just scrap the whole thing.

Weirdest Google hit…. ‘Dog panties’.

Dear Sick Ass Freak,

Stop it.

Thank you.

This afternoon I read over an entry from M over at Les Cadeaux. She is an eloquent writer who deposited me directly back to my 21st year on God’s green earth. The year was 1993. The things that M wrote about may be a bit foreign to me as I was not forever tan, never comfortable wearing a bikini top into a grocery store, nor have I ever painted my toenails blue. But she did strike a cord with this quote:

When I was 21 I thought that friends were more important than family, that my youngest brother [I substituted older sister] was happy and that he [she] didn’t need to hear me tell him [her] I loved him [her]. At 21, I wanted independence, and the notion of care taking cramped my style. I thought my parents never fought, nor cried, never missed nor longed for anything.

I thought that blowjobs would make boys like me, that talking about boys and blowjobs would make girls like me, and that being liked was very, very important.

…When I was 21 I thought sex meant love and love meant forever and forever seemed impossible to grasp.

That whole grouping of words right there made me stop in my tracks. She hit the nail on the proverbial head ladies and gentlemen. The things that matter to us when we are that young should brand upon us and our culture that we, as a whole, should never marry, reproduce or make large decisions when we are that young.

Yes, I am generalizing. But shit. What were you thinking about when you were 21?

I was probably thinking about dating a FMF* part-time deputy sheriff that made my knees weak with one kiss in Joe’s Generic bar on 6th Street in Austin.

*FMF = Fuck Me Fine

Mister was probably thinking about anything but how he was raised, as he was fresh out of boot camp for the Marines.

Hot Barney had just found out that he was going to be a Dad and must therefore drop out of college to get a full time job.

My biggest worry was what to wear to the bar that night, as we went every night Wednesday through Saturday.

I… was a complete tool.

Sex was important because that meant somebody liked you, really liked you… right? No, you weren’t being used… you were using them right?

Being smaller than a Large was important to me. Hiding my tummy from ‘prying eyes’ when we went to the lake or, as I was skinny dipping or riding a horse sans clothing just to act like I was free and totally cool with my body image.

Acting like I had the heart of a hippy, totally cool with free love and how men were predisposed to have more than one mate. And I quote myself, “look at the sperm count compared to the number of eggs women have… it’s right there… in the numbers.”

Such a lie. Such crap.

I would have pashawed anyone who tried to tell me that with time I would think differently. With time, my attitudes would change.

In time… I wouldn’t be such a raging moron.

So… How do you think I’ve turned out?

What were you doing when you were 21?

March 18, 2004

Corn-fed Harvest Scientist

Yesterday Mister and I dined at Arby’s for lunch.

We are trying to log as much lunchtime as possible as his last day with his present employer is the 25th.

We did not run into any talking oven mitts or any unruly horseradish, but we were, however, accosted verbally by the manic woman (on an upswing) manning the cash register. She greeted us with a hearty, “HEY!” in almost a screech.

Mister and I both turned to look behind us, totally expecting to view a man running away with a freshly snatched purse or something. No one was behind us.

We tentatively approached her realm of ‘all that is menu’ to make our selection.

After getting our chicken strips and roast beef sammich we found a cozy little booth and sat down to enjoy our meal.

Suz: Bite? [holding out her sandwich]

Mister: No thank you.

Suz: [noticing an old man parking his pick up, getting out and hobbling inside] Oh look. He’s so cute with his little blue coveralls, I wonder if he would let me hug him.

Mister: Most likely, but he’d probably goose you, then I’d have to clobber his ancient ass.

Suz: I love old men, always have yanno… hasn’t momma told you stories?

Mister:Yeah, so… what was the deal with that Scandinavian Goat Farmer?

Suz: Oh, that was just a phase.

Wacked Out Cashier Lady [approaching the table] So, how is lunch for you two?

Mister: Fine, thank yo….

Wacked Out Cashier Lady [rapidly nodding her head] Great, great! Perfect, wonderful! Greatgreatgreat! [and… she retreats]

Suz: What was all that about? [under her breath] freak.

Mister: HellifIknow. [under his breath] spaz.

Suz: chew

Mister: chew

Suz: Ok, I have to ask… where did the ‘Scandinavian Goat Farmer’ thing come from?

Mister: Remember our first date how we went on and on about that cockeyed parakeet with the overactive air bladder (so that he flew all screwy) and that he had a slight over-beak [makes the hand motion to signify the over-beak… like an overbite.] a shaggy mane and a spastic colon?

Suz: snort Heh, yeah… you’re funny.

Mister: Well, I have a theory about the secret to being a great comedian.

Suz: Oh reeeeallly? … Ut oh.

Wacked Out Cashier Lady [approaching the table] So, how is going?

Mister: Just fine, thank yo….

Wacked Out Cashier Lady [rapidly nodding her head] Perfect, perfect wonderful! Great wonderful!! [and… she retreats]

Mister: Uh…

Suz:… Lithium much?

Mister: Heh, … anyways…. My secret for success for comedians is loosely based on … oh, what’s his name?...that fat one from Tommy Boy…

Suz: Chris Farley? Can’t wait to hear this one….

Mister: Yanno how he would take the most ordinary thing and build it into this big description?

Suz: Yep….

Mister: The more adjectives you put into something, the funnier it is… take for instance…the corn-fed harvest mouse… Ut oh, here she comes again.

Wacked Out Cashier Lady [approaching the table] Are ya’ll doing ok?

Mister: Yes.

Wacked Out Cashier Lady [rapidly nodding her head] Wonderful news!!!!!!!!!! [and… she retreats, breaking into a song about rainbows and elves… kidding… sorta]

Mister: I think I’m gonna get a cherry turnover thing. Want one?

Suz: No, thank you.

Suz: … wait… yes, I do.

Suz: No, no I don’t.

Mister: Are. You. Sure? [gets up to go to the counter]

Suz: Yes, thank you. [leans over her tray to take a small bite of her sandwich, promptly drops a dollup of ketchup on her boob.]

Suz: Dammit. [addressing her boobs….] Ladies, ladies, ladies, I even have on the minimizer and you catch the ketchup.

Mister: What?

Suz: Nothin, I’m just talking to my boobs.

Mister: …………….. ok [continues to the counter]

That is why I love him people. He makes me laugh, handles my ever-changing mind like a pro and doesn’t think twice about me talking to my hooters.

When my sister and I were little we would enclose ourselves in the bathroom and take stock of everything that we had under the sink.

Shampoo, conditioner, toothpaste, mouthwash, detangeler, Q-Tips™, Dixie cups and hairspray. Nail polish remover and that setting lotion for hair too. Not to mention the cleaning products like Comet and those scrubbing bubbles™ guys.

We would line up the products on the counter, bust out the Dixie cups and commence to make the largest mess possible by mixing different combinations of all the ingredients. Two little curly headed precious girls making a mess that would deter even Alice from the Brady Bunch.

We would mix the ingredients with one another regardless of toxic fumes or whether it would eat through the paper cup. We would sneak Daddy's shaving cream to give a particular potion a frothy finish.

We called this game playing Scientist.

While driving home from work last night I was thinking about what to make for dinner. I was mentally lining up all the ingredients that I had in the pantry, the freezer and in the refrigerator to see what I could make.

I guess we never really stop playing Scientist.

Now it’s just called cooking.

March 23, 2004

I just heard the word spa and had a mini braingasm.

It hath been written that I suck at making titles for these journal/diary entries.

Duly noted.

I will, from this point forward pick a random grouping of letters and words from within the entry itself for the title. Kinda Indie in it’s I don’t care how this looks, …. BUT I really do! sort of way… no?

Yeah, I don’t think I pulled that off too smoothly either.

I would like to pass a motion that I have the best husband on earth…


All In favor?


Check this out. Do you guys remember that Mister has taken a job with a new company? Well, he has. The company was so jonesing for him to start that they asked him if he would double-dip and work for both his current employer and his new one during the duration of his two-weeks notice.

He said he would, and because he is such a rock star with a ginormous brain he is doing just that. And succeeding.

If I were asked to work two full time jobs that required me to use more than 02% of my brain I would be reduced to a quivering pouting heap on the floor. I would be whimpering a mantra of “It’s too hard. It’s tooooo haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrD!!!” This would be accompanied by a great gnashing of teeth and rending of flesh… not to mention wailing. Yep, lots of wailing. Lots and lots of wailing.

Did I mention the wailing?

Yeah, so that wouldn’t be so pretty. Not to mention annoying as all hell.

But my husband, my husband…

[And the clouds open up and bathe him in a glorified light of the heavens.]

My husband asked me last week to take this Friday off. I did as he asked and took a personal day. He told me that it was a surprise and that we were going away for the weekend. So immediately I got all “Squeeee!”

Why were we going away for the weekend you ask? Yeah, I asked too. Nosey little bitch ain’t I?

This beautiful man said these words to me, “Well baby, I’ve been working for both companies for the past week and it has been taking time away from us. This trip is just for us to get away. No visiting of relatives. Just us time.”

[And the angels started singing.]

He then asked me to help him arrange our flights and a room for Thursday night at a hotel… in Orlando.

He hath been secretive, he hath been quiet… but he finally broke at lunch today.

I’m so excited I may pee a little.

The plan is this…

Thursday night we fly into Orlando, get in late and get situated in our hotel. Maybe we go out drinking and dancing, a little night on the town, maybe we hang out at the pool and drink froo froo drinks and dance the Macarena.

Friday …. Hee!… Friday we go to a Disney park of my choice. Epcot? Magic Kingdom? MGM Studios? It’s up to me. That evening we go spend the night with Mister’s best friend (Jeff) and his family. Hang out and relax time after a day in the sun.

Saturday Jeff’s wife and I are scheduled to spend a day at a spa. No more details there. I just heard the word spa and had a mini braingasm. Spa. Me, at a spa in Florida all day….All Friggin Day on Saturday!… Just a few days from today. Spaaaaaaaaaaah. Mmmmmm puuuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

Saturday night we are all going to Disney Village for a nice dinner. Dancing?, Maybe.

Sunday we pack up, and have another “US” day and fly back to Dallas late that night.

Did I mention that he is SO getting laid?

Yeah, I didn’t think I needed too either.

Tonight, before I cook a wonderful meal for my angelic and oh so hot hubby [please see above] I have an appointment.

Nay, I will not be joining the leagues of soccer moms and barely legal teens at the local Vietnamese nail salon for a refresher for my manicure and pedicure.

I am having something else done entirely.

Because we are going to Florida and I am roughly the color of Cool Whip (not Strawberry) I decided that I would try the airbrush tanning technique. I did not want to try the mist on deal because I have seen ‘When Misting Goes Bad’.

It was an after school special on ABC… featuring Paris Hilton.

My coworker directed me to this quaint little shop in Plano that does the airbrush tanning technique. I called, acted like a total tool (unintentionally of course), asked questions of Marci the owner and made an appointment for this afternoon.

Apparently the spray they use has no bronzer so they guarantee you will not turn orange like that Julian guy in Bridgett Jones’ Diary. The spray reacts with some sort of amino acids in your skin and slowly darkens you over 6 to 8 hours. She said that the spray works better on pale people better because it is more of a drastic change.

I swear, if I turn orange, I will be loofa-ing my skin until it is red (better than ORANGE!) and raw. I will be a tomato with legs for our Just Us trip.

Please think good thoughts for my non-oranging.

March 24, 2004

Baz Luhrmann is so going to kick my ass.

So, yeah… my skin.

It’s not so much the tangerine explosion of bad 80’s reruns like I thought it was going to be. I fully expected to wake up this morning with orange skin and a humongous urge to Sun-In™ my hair just so and to wear shimmer shell lipstick by Cover Girl and that blue eyeliner with glitter.

That would have been hot.

I could have called my girlfriends and left messages about how cute John was and squeal indignation with Stephanie over the fact that Tate P. asked her during lunch for a sample of her pubes because he needed to make sure that the carpet matched the drapes.

I could have then filled up the gas tank in my 1980 red Mustang for $5.00, smoked a pack of Marlboro Lights and then pulled the front and sides of my hair up into a pseudo-do because the bangs are too long.

Wait… I did that this morning. The hair thing… yeah. Because I’m sexy that way.

But seriously, the airbrush tanning thingy was a success. I am now a golden hue, reminiscent of drunken afternoons in the sun at Lake Nacogdoches. The only things missing now are my hipbones and my complete and utter lack of responsibility. Go me.

I sorta like the color my skin is today. Not to mention, it was easy, inexpensive and not even slightly uncomfortable. I am sure I will be making another appointment sometime in the future.

I totally forgot to add the best part of the Just Us trip yesterday.

Saturday night, after the lovely spa day (with sprinkles!), Mister and Jeff are taking all of us to see La Nouba.

Click on it. Watch the clip.

Seriously, do it.

For those of you playing the home game, you will remember (or maybe not) that I was totally enthralled with O when I saw it in June of 2002. Then last year Mister and I saw a spin off of a Cirque du Soleil show in Boloxi called um. Shit, I still can’t remember the name of that damn show.

….. Balagan!

Yeah… Balagan. My report on it was here. Click on that one LuLu, it is probably one you haven’t read.

I also saw Mystere at Treasure Island last June in Vegas, with my girlfriend, it was wonderful. I am Cirque du Soleil’s bitch.

Anyway, I am so excited to see La Nouba on Saturday. The Cirque du Soleil troop is amazing in their timing, athleticism, grace, beauty and sheer talent. I really would have run away with them if given the chance when I was younger.

You too?

This afternoon I take Max the Wonder Cat to the boarder’s for the weekend. He knows it is coming. I just know he does. He bit me on the ankle while I was cooking dinner last night.

See? Preemptive biting. He’s a mind reader, I swear.

It’s either that, or he thinks his new collar makes him look gay.

I’m sure they will take wonderfully good care of my baby for the weekend. This is the same place that my family used to take our cat, Lucy. She was there so often that she had the run of the office while she was boarding.

I don’t think Max will demand the same “Queen of the Office” respect that Lucy did. He’s a bit of a wiener, and they have dogs loose in the office now.

I just got off the phone with Mister. I alerted him to several things.

1) Don’t forget, I am taking Max to the boarder’s tonight after work.

2) My pretty French manicure is chipping… eh. I painted clear polish over what’s left so maybe it will halt the chipping.

3) I am going to run by Kohl’s after I drop off Max to see if they have any jean shorts that I like… for our trip. I found some online that are like $16 bucks!

His response to the above three nuggets of information was less than ecstatic. For one, he thought I was taking Max to the boarder’s before work.

For two, awww… sorry about your fingernails. [Ladies, I ask you, doesn’t this sympathy for the ruined manicure just make you want to lick his face?… Yeah, me too.]

And for three, [Please step away from the poor grammar… nothing to see here.] he replied, “Now, don’t go hog wild…” I blinked several times to make sure that his admonitions sunk in to my head.

Hog wild over $16 dollars… the eff?

Yeah, apparently I have a problem. It is a very serious disorder that affects millions of women and a few swishy men. It is called, “Oooh… Lookee Here! Something Pretty and Shiny That May Make Me Feel Gorgeous! [pause] Let’s BUY It!”

Yes, sadly friends, being stricken with OLHSPASTMMMFGLBI can have many off-shoots, secondary afflictions such as “I Must Buy These Products From Aveda”, known as IMBTPFA and the most painful, “Oh Crap, I Can’t Believe I Spent That Much Cash, My Husband Is Going To Kill Me.!” Also known as OCICBISTMCMHIGTKM.

The secondary affliction of OCICBISTMCMHIGTKM is the one I suffer from most often.

I would have balked at the idea that I am that woman several years ago. I am just coming to the realization that it is ok and even mildly amusing to be that woman sometimes.

My life is a celebration of Shoes, Jewelry and Products…. But above all things Make Up.

Oh, Baz Luhrmann is so going to kick my ass.

March 25, 2004

A molting Kimono dragon with wicked-bad flatulence...

This one’s gonna be short as I am leaving early to go to Florida today for the start of our long, debauchery filled weekend!

At 3:30 pm, Mister will arrive at my office in his shiny Lincoln LS to whisk me away to Dallas Love Field. We will then park the LS and make our way to the curbside check in, all the while muttering curses at our exceptionally heavy luggage. The sky caps will take our luggage and curse the heaviness while we bribe them with money not to loose said luggage on purpose just because it is heavy and we are a pain in their shorts wearin, Southwest airlines working butts.

Onward to the gate we will traverse to find that even though we are the first ones there for our flight. Ninja boarding will ensue… guaranteeing we will be crammed into a row with a mouth breather named Urn and his brood of eleventy-four dirty Wal-Mart-feet-having chillins. Said chillin will be directly behind us, pushing on our seats with their dirty bare feet and scabby knees the whole way into Austin. Austin, where we will deplane for approximately 45 seconds and then jump on another Greyhound in the sky for the remainder of our trip into Orlando. Landing at 11:45pm.

I am SO excited!

They could sit me next to a molting Kimono dragon with wicked-bad flatulence and I wouldn’t care. A Holy Roller who insists on singing “Holy, Holy, Holy” the whole way… in monotone… with a triangle to punctuate every syllable, and I wouldn’t care. Jim Carey doing that awful “AEHEHEHEHEHEEHENGH” noise from Dumb and Dumber and I wouldn’t care. Sade singing Smooth Operator… wait. Well, that would convince me to puncture my own ear drums with the dirty pinky finger of Urn’s second youngest… Sharmaine Sheniqua.

We’re going away for the weekend!

This is gonna be Great!

This morning, at 5am… why 5 am? Because we are certifiably insane, thanks for askin. This morning at 5 am, I am sleepily sitting on the potty tinkling. I finish and take some toilet paper from the roll. Mister looks over and [with all the annoyance he could muster] says, “THAT … right there *points* is why our toilet gets clogged up.”

I looked down to find a reasonable 4 foot expanse of double ply Charminゥ in my hand. Rolled into the requisite ‘around the hand, slide off the hand then bunch up into a pleasing wad of softness’ method.

I could only blink. Is Mister a 4-square kinda guy? I may use the toilet paper in the patented ‘Don’t Want Anything Touching My Hand’ method, sure, but it isn’t enough to clog the toilet… is it?

Is my experience at work with the inferior toilet paper coloring my actions at home?

Have I told you guys about the inferior toilet paper at work? No? Well, that is most likely because I’m not a big, “Oh Look! I got a little pee on my hand!” type of share-er.

Yep, I’ve done it. Numerous times at work.

[shaking hands] Nice to meet you Mister President of Non-Profit Guy!

Yes, I wash, nay boil my hands when the above unfortunate accident occurs. And you wonder why I own stock in Purelゥ?

It is humiliating.

I have been doing this particular act or motion for nigh on 30-something years. Why am I having such a difficult time now? No clue.

I sit the same.

I tinkle the same.

I wipe the same.

What’s the deal?

It never happens at home, with the wonderful fluffy cloud toilet paper.

I’m gonna blame the John Wayne toilet paper at work. You’re with me right?

Hey… where are you going?

March 31, 2004

Two sweaty kids fumbling eagerly with zippers in the front seat.

Driving back from lunch Mister and I heard “Rock Candy” a song by Montrose from the late Jurassic period. Sammy Hagar pounding out vocals like a lumberjack at a Sthil competition.

What ever happened to muscle metal like that? I mean stuff that makes you think of Detroit and sweaty steel workers? And sex. Yes, lots and lots of sex.

I personally love Hagar and have been known to pop in the cartoon movie Heavy Metal just to hear him belt out the title song. I have heard a few songs in the past few decades that get my blood pumping like some good old-fashioned rock, and bless Kid Rock’s greasy little heart for trying to revive the whole genre.

I was very involved in my church youth group growing up. I was the youngest in a large group and learned about many forms of rock at the knee and through the tutelage of the older kids who were bound and determined that I would grow up cool… and if they couldn’t do that, at least my musical tastes wouldn’t get me beat up out behind the cafeteria.

I remember hearing Meatloaf’s “Paradise By The Dashboard Light” off the album Bat Out Of Hell when I was a tender thirteen years of age. It was during the summer, a rainy Wednesday night after the church service. I was hanging out with my sister’s friends in the parking lot when Keith B. started up his Maverick and popped in Meatloaf.

The sweet sultry voice of Meatloaf’s duet partner changing from pleading to demanding and the imagery of two sweaty kids fumbling eagerly with zippers in the front seat of a car was too real. I saw it all behind my lids when I closed my eyes.

My brain was already forming lurid tales of flesh because of my choice of reading material and because I saw that movie The Last American Virgin. I cried, oh, how I cried feeling so vulnerable with the lead character when all he wanted was to find a connection.

With the heartbeat shaking rock as my constant background I felt moved to pound my feeble little fist in the air and sing along, loudly and off key.

The older kids introduced me to Motley Crue (before they were wearing pink and more makeup than Cher), Ozzy Ozbourne, Black Sabbath, Iron Maiden, Ronnie James Dio, Led Zeppelin and countless more hard rock bands over the years.

I can remember Zeppelin’s “Whole Lotta Love” being the first simulated orgasm I had ever heard… and in stereo no less. My little hormones were raging and there I was listening to Robert Plant mind fuck the American public through my headphones… while I was on a bus going on a mission trip. Surely, I thought, I was going to hell. The excitement alone should have caused lightening to strike me deaf, dumb, blind or just dead.

Stryper came along and rocked the Christian boat… hard. Soldiers Under Command and To Hell With The Devil riled up that church group to a feverish pitch. I rocked out with them too. Silently wishing that I was listening to Dokken or Winger (Don’t be hatin) while my friends all sang in their high-pitched teenage voices… “To heeeeeelllllllll wiiith the Debil!” Rock on…. truly… rock on.

We were at a lock in one weekend and I had my trusty little tape player complete with headphones with the little foamy stuff flaking off. I had my little cache of tapes to share with the group but one I was holding out for my special little treat. I wanted to listen to this tape while everyone else was singing wistfully along with Stryper’s “Honestly”… “Call on me and I'll be there for youuuuuuuu / I'm a friend who always will be truuuuuuuuuuuuuue / And I love you can't you seeeeeeeee…”

I snuck out my little tape that was so worn out it rattled. I placed it in my cassette player and pushed play. Immediately I was draped in a gossamer gown, struggling to break free of my confines while my love danced upon the dining room table while Milton Berle showed up in drag. I sang under my breath and did little sit/dance type movements to the beat of “Round and Round” by Ratt.

”I knew right from the beginning
That you would end up winnin'
I knew right from the start
You'd put an arrow through my heart

Round and Round!”

I looked up to find all of my friends staring at me.

Apparently I had been getting so into it that I didn’t notice I was banging my head a bit and breathing heavily, not unlike a wildebeest with a severe upper respiratory infection.


Ratt, I blame you for getting beat up behind the cafeteria.

Not you Mr. Manilow. You still rock the hizzouse!

About March 2004

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

February 2004 is the previous archive.

April 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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