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September 1, 2004

He said her name would be Thomas Elizabeth.

My my my… time really has flown hasn’t it? I am sorry little ones, I have been away, and the drama… aye, the drama, it has been a-flowin. Well, not really, that just sounded sorta corny and like the start of some 1970’s folk song … either that, or a tampon commercial.

So, I’m back from San Antonio. Last week my boss and I put in almost 60 hours. The majority of those hours were spent at a conference for old people in San Antonio. We flew down Wednesday afternoon… wait, let me back up.

I have to ask you people something.

Let’s say you were a meeting planner. No, let’s say you were a sales person for a large convention center in San Antonio. Let’s also say that your name was something that rhymed with Ho-handa and you were about 5’8” with brown hair and eyes, of Hispanic decent and you were wearing a blue shirt and black trousers on Wednesday 8/25/04. Let’s just say, for the record that I hate you.

Let’s also say… for fun’s sake… because here at Princess of Irony, it’s all about the fun and games is it not poppetts?

Let’s say that I called you a frillion and eleventy four times for my boss the week prior to our event Ho-handa, let’s say I called your assistant. Let’s say I called your convention center operator. Let’s even say that I told everyone on your staff that I am just a neurotic little meeting planner and all I needed was just a verbal confirmation and a little compassion from you.

Just a little, “Hey, yeah, I got your message. Yes, your pre-con meeting IS at 4:30 pm. Yes, our administration offices are on the surface of the sun, yes… sorry sweetie, you will have to walk 1000 miles to get here with 80 pounds of audio visual equipment, but we are looking forward to meeting you and your boss… and your director.”

Not that it is my job to set up the pre-con meeting or the registration area… it’s not even my ass on the line here Bub, I was just trying to be a nice gal. Because dammit, I am a nice gal.

So when we showed up, lugging all that shit. Sweating, and not happy to see you and your non-message returning ass, I started to hate you even more. And when you did not apologize or even show the slightest concern for our program or the many, many, many messages you apparently did not get from many, many, many people in your office, I started hating you even more than that… but what did it is the mother of all piss offs.

Let me spell it out for you Ho-handa.

Lack of attention to detail on your part should in no way EVER necessitate an emergency on my part.

Got it?

My boss asked you nicely when you would accept a large shipment of boxes from our supplier. Boxes that are the materials that make up the reason people come to our conferences. You told him Day X. He shipped them Day X.

Your security guards down stairs denied UPS when they delivered said shipment of materials on Day X. UPS took them back to UPS never, never land, and said that they would not be sent out for redelivery until Thursday between 10:30 am and noon…ish. Our conference starts at 7:30 am on Thursday.

You see the problem here?

[Yes, ya’ll… my tense and grammar is all messed to hell and high water but that is ok. You love me and my hair looks pretty no?]

After much hemming and hawing from Ho-handa the wonder-bitch we called the fantastic people at our printing company. They called UPS, the director of the call center of UPS made the girl at our printing company cry, bastard.

Anyway… even though it wasn’t their baby daddy (no clue what that means ya’ll… it just seemed to fit) they put two of their lovely workers on a plane, flew them to San Antonio, rented two Suburbans, loaded up 80+ boxes, almost got denied again by the security Nazis and delivered our materials at 10:45pm Wednesday night. Much love to the printing company, much hate and gonorrhea wishes to Ho-handa.

All she kept saying was not, “I’m sorry, is there anything I can do?” “Can I bear your children and juggle these flaming bowling balls for your pleasure oh paying customer who is giving me commission for putting you and your old ass attendees with an average age of fucking EIGHTY! With WALKERS! in the FURTHEST REACHES of the UNIVERSE! Of the CONVENTION CENTER!” or “You meeting planners rock with your solid will power to not choke the ever living shit out of me right now” *genuflect*

Nope… she just kept saying… over and over… “Well, we’re not like a hotel, we just can’t accept things that are shipped and store them.”

No shit, you imbecilic tard. That is why we asked you when we could ship them.

Hate.

Stupidity makes me crazy with anger.

And also… tired.

But… On the other hand. I really want to smoke. Like a whole forest of tobacco.

Oh, and my sister is pregnant… YAY! Another baby! This was the cutest of all cutestenest.

Is too a word. Hush.

At like… Eleventyfour thirty at night on Friday, my boss and I are stumbling around trying to get our baggage from that twirly carnival of metal thingy (ok… sorry with the words… coworker just helped me out… it’s the carousel in baggage claim… duh Sue… yeah, still with the tired) anyway, my cell phone rang. I looked down to see my parents phone number on the display, it was late, I just wanted to make sure they were ok, but I wanted to call them back when I had my luggage, was in the car and on the (blessed) way home.

I answered and my sister said, “Gray has something he wants to tell you.”

Me: “Can I call you back, I’m at baggage claim… and my bag, there… ”[mumbles]
Reb: “Gray has something he wants to tell you.”
Me: “But, bags… there *points* um… let me call you back…. ” [watches bag go by, makes an awkward lunge for it]
Reb: “Really quick.”
Me: “Call you right back…”
Reb: “Kay.”

So I hung up quickly, watched as my (nice) boss snagged my luggage for me anyway, got it all situated and called my sister back at my parent’s house. She answered right away.

Me: “Hey, what’s up?”
Reb: “Gray has something he wants to tell you.”
Me: “Okee dokee”
Gray: [shouting]“WE’RE GOING TO HAVE THE BABY THOMAS!”
Me: “……what sweetie?”
Gray: [shouting]“WE’RE GOING TO HAVE THE BABY THOMAS!”
Me: “We’re going to have a baby Thomas?”
Gray: [shouting]“YES!”
Me: “How exciting! Can I talk to your mommy?” [Reb gets on the phone]
Reb: “Hey…” [laughing]
Me: “You’re pregnant? Oh My Goodness! How Cool!”

Et al.

She went on to tell me that Gray wanted to name the baby Thomas after Thomas the Tank Engine. I asked her what if it was a Girl, she said she already asked Gray about that. He said her name would be Thomas Elizabeth.

How cool is that?


Can I talk to you guys about some things?

I am convinced that there is something going around. That maybe a bit of crazy is in the air. I have stayed off of the internet for a few days because reading about people I care about in pain hurts my heart… wait… let me see if I can articulate this better.

With Dooce going through her struggles. Amy over at Amalah having a tough time. Pineapple girl, one tough cookie showing a bit of blue. Martha at Random Muse wanting to hide from the world. Trance with so many demons, SSI and prescriptions. Judd in Colorado with his personal and relationship wrinkles. AB with her fertility issues. All of them, all of you.

I may not know these people or you people on a personal basis although sometimes I feel like I do. I know a few of them or a few of you, Erica at Marigold Mind, a private lady with a big heart and a private soul, being one, going through tough times… it just seems like we are all in this together. Like one large wet blanket has been laid over the whole country making it harder for us to breathe, harder for us to turn our faces towards the sun to find the calmer spots the more colorful areas.

It seems we are more apt to look for the angst and not for the love and admiration and the better parts of us all.

We’ll find it, I am sure we will. It may be a long time coming, but I hope, just like neon… this too will pass.

September 8, 2004

A row of little question marks appears instead.

Scene: Cheesy golf course or country club setting complete with aging child star (played by me… I wasn’t a child star… but go with it…). I have on a cute little golf outfit, something plaid, a sweater vest of some sort, a glove, and an unnecessary visor (it’s a bit overcast… perfect day for a commercial shoot). The fact that I have never swung a golf club of any sort is of no importance.

It is clear that this is a very important golf event, and I should be important. Everything is important or seems that it should be. The melting ice sculpture on the terrace with the creeping ivy is important. That silver haired man over there that just sneezed (off camera … Thank God!) seems very important.

My lack of golfing ability is of no importance for some reason… and the fact that I can’t remember my name is of no importance either.

It’s one of those American Express commercials. The camera pulls back through the pro shop and I smile winningly and say, “American Express, Never Leave Home Without It…” I slide the card across the counter to the golf pro to pay for … Lessons? Sex? The salad the old guy just sneezed on?

The card is shown… and my name is supposed to print on the bottom of the card. You know, when the clickity clack of a typewriter is heard during the real commercial?

But it doesn’t. A row of little question marks appears instead.

? ? ? ? ? ? . ? ? ? ? ? ?

And Stacy and Clinton from TLC’s What Not To Wear bust out from behind the camera and berate me on my choice of plaid.

Bitches.

I love how my little anxieties show up in my dreams* as shows from cable. Or better yet commercials. I majored in Journalism, minored in Sociology. It’s a sickness.

Speaking of sickness…

Mister is still suffering from the snuffaluffogusses/allergies and he went back to the doctor today, two more shots in his tookus. I have sad face right now. But I hope that our wonderful Dr. W will take good care of him, this is his second week of antibiotics.

He had this same crap last year right before he had his appendix taken out. Thank goodness he can only do that once. Good Lord, that sucked. I am not sure if it is something in the air, or flu, or what. But he gets chest bronchitis stuff every year about this time, and we aren’t even smoking.

But boy, howdy would I ever like too. Tobakky forest, yeeeehaw! Gimme sommadat!

Ahem. Pardon me, I must have stepped off of the redneck curb or something.

So…. This weekend, was lover-ly. I was big crybaby in Chili’s because Mister loves me so much that he cut some of his corn off the cob for me. If you know me. This is a big deal. Yeah, it made me cry. Shaddup… what are you lookin at?

*Wait just a darn minute it’s a day (or two) later and I have been doing everything but not updating.

This morning I got a call from this lady named Jennifer. Why is that important? It isn’t… stay with me. She is with American Express Financial Advisors. Apparently I won a lunch for 10 people at Cuba Libre. I was there in August for a debriefing with a committee and I put my business card in the little bowl to win a free lunch.

But oh ho Ho! I won 10 free lunches… From American Express no less.

Mister says this is because I am psychotic… I mean psychic.

Yeah… I got nothing.

I was actually going to rant on and on about how I was watching Sex In The City last night and how when SJP went to leave her stuff at Big’s apartment, she wanted to leave her little miniature hair dryer there, “Because she’s wearing her hair straight now, yanno.” And I was So Incensed by that for some reason.

Her hair is curly for goodness sakes!

Does any sane person think that she could really get that long curly hair straight with that little Chihuahua of a fucking hair dryer?

Hell-OOO! NO!

I tried it in London you bitch!

It does NOT work.

Um. I think I may need a nap.

… sorry.

Love you babies!

September 9, 2004

So, as the boys took care of that business, corn-fed gimp and I took care of Bessy.

WARNING: This entry has a few pictures at the end of it, and they are graphic. They are not suitable for children, wussies, any leftwing, bleeding, heart liberals from PETA (sorry ya’ll… didn’t mean to lose you immediately), or any barnyard animals… especially any barnyard animals.

Once upon a time I was fully ensconced in redneck regalia. Carhart overalls, Justin boots and a ball cap. And that was my outfit. The family I married into all lived on the same property in the manner of a commune. Whether intentional or not, it was pretty effective. They had enough weaponry and firepower to put David Koresh to shame.

We had our own “game management program”. I put that in quotes because when you lived on that much acreage and you gotcha a little hankering for some back strap, you just went out gotcha some.

If you know what I mean. And I do believe you do.

I wasn’t all that uncomfortable in my little corner of the world either. The stars were absolutely breathtaking. It was quiet, I had a tin roof. I had cable (well, it was a humongous satellite that blew out anytime the wind got over 5 mph), I had beer, I had food (if we killed it ourselves … I kid… sometimes) and I had a dial up connection family. I was set right? Right.

Why I am telling you this? Well, because I am narcissistic and like to talk about myself and revel in the bullshit I came from. And also because I like to let you know that I was fine with being in a very rural area. I liked the country. I liked being able to get loud with my friends on a Friday night (Tuesday, Wednesday or Thursday night for that matter too) and I liked being far enough out that I could run around nude (inside or out) and no one would render themselves blind or call the cops* on the account of my visage… if anyone was around at all… which was sort of rare.

(*Note to Trixie: Haha ha ha ha ha aahaahhahahahaha … wheeeeze ahem… sorry)

But… I was in a place in my life where I was kind of hard. I used humor and a sort of in your face type of worldview to deal with my heart and my situation. Whatever they were and whenever they came up. Please keep this in mind as I tell you this next story.

It is true.

If you listen closely you may hear strains of the Beverly Hillbillies wafting gently on the breeze.

The afternoon had turned off cooler than I thought it was going to, which was a blessing. I was not looking forward to going over to Beau’s that night if it was going to be a scorcher. X and I were supposed to meet up with the gang after I got off work. Joe was going to be playing acoustic guitar and singing a few songs for the customer’s over at Beau’s. X wanted to go before he went in for the night shift and since we just signed off on our bills, we had a few bucks left over, Beau’s seemed like the perfect place to spend the remaining 20 bucks to my name on beer.

See? S-M-R-T.

Beau’s was not all that packed with people so we sat with Trixie and some friends out back listening to Joe do his rendition of “Wanted: Dead or Alive”, Trixie and I chiming in to do the harmony at the right parts, well, Trix chiming in, me… just howling really. Having a blast.

Later… watching my husband, shaking my head, he’s drinking beer before going in to the office. Not any normal 9 to 5 office either. Fucker is a cop.

With. A. Gun.

Yeah, nice.

He has to go in at 10, so he can’t get too shit faced, I guess that’s a blessing. And after all, how cranked can you get on twenty lousy bucks? Not too bad. I told X that I needed to go, he said that he’s gonna go change clothes at the station and that he’ll meet me at the loop when I am headed home.

I gave him grief and asked him for the frillionth time, “So, what are you going to wear tonight?”

Hardee Har Har.

It’s a wonder I’m not buried out somewhere in an unmarked grave in Nacogdoches county for that bullshit alone. Really.

X left and I stayed a bit longer than I planned to. When I finally got out to my truck, a Ford, 4X4 F150, Standard, (yes, that is important… bear with me…) I called X and told him that I was leaving Beau’s. X said that he would meet me at the loop so I drove away from the restaurant/club.

I got to the loop and waited for my husband’s black and white cop car to pull up. He made it a few minutes later. I looked at the clock on the radio and noticed that it is a few minutes after midnight, April 15th 1998.

I talked to X for a few minutes, gave him what was left of the 20 dollars for him to eat dinner with and told him to be careful. We smooched and he patted my butt as I climbed back into the cab of the Ford.

He pulled away before I did, because he got a call on the radio.

I looked up into the sky. There appeared to be no moon. It was so dark.

So I pulled out onto Hwy 7 East, clicked my high beams on, headed towards Center and set the cruise control at 55.

Highway 7 East is a two-lane highway that is frequented by chicken trucks and log trucks at all hours of the day or night in East Texas. You learn to stay out of their way and you watch out for all matter of debris on the road. Come tornado season in East Texas there is an old water tower that just may be across both lanes in the morning after a big storm, not to mention a few felled pine trees.

There are sometimes animals on the roads as well. I have seen packs of wild dogs roaming the steep shoulders foraging for food. I have seen deer, foxes, wild pigs, goats, geese, rabbits, squirrels and even a hooker.

[Not sure what phylum the hooker falls into… holy shit I am such a dork… here I am making species/phylum jokes about a hooker… anyway… ]

I came to the first hill, noted that there was no traffic coming the other way, so I left my high-beams on, the truck’s engine revved going up the hill and just as I crested it I noticed that there was a large dark shape covering the whole eastbound side of the highway. MY side of the highway.

I didn’t have a moment or even a nanosecond to think. All of those years of driving around big rigs with Daddy-O came back to me in a flash.

I shoved my left foot into the clutch, (heard the engine scream because the truck was still trying to crest the hill in cruise) grabbed the gear shift and threw it in neutral, yanked the steering wheel to the left, aimed for the smallest part and hung on.

I hit something… HARD, the truck bounced and fishtailed out behind me. Then it skidded and I was afraid it was going to slide into one of the steep shoulders on the side of the highway. Luckily, I gave it a bit of gas and drove into a cattle gate on the opposite side of the road.

Whatever I hit (I had a good idea by this time) was still on the road, and there was traffic coming. I needed to make them aware of the danger. I got my truck turned around in my hopped up adrenaline state and pointed my remaining headlight at the absolutely gargantuan Angus heifer laying in the middle of Highway 7 East.

I rolled down my windows and turned off my truck and sat there shaking like a leaf, a cracked out leaf that is being electrocuted. That is when I heard it… the tinny warped up sound of a 4-banger engine getting ready to make a run at a big hill.

Oh shit.

I started flashing my one pitiful remaining high beam…. No! No… Go Slowly! And with Much Caution! Up Ahead Lies Dead Carcass That May Be Bigger Than Your Ford Ranger! (Mazda, Mitsubishi, whatever…tiny truck)

I saw him.

Tiny little blue truck. He (his truck) hit her, he (his truck) went airborne, he (his truck) flipped, he (his truck) skidded on his roof and rolled down the steep shoulder on the north side. Narrowly missing; in it’s slide the back of my truck by about six feet.

I was out of my truck and running down the shoulder of that highway so fast… but that big old corn-fed country boy was faster, by the time I was about 10 feet past my truck, he was out of his tiny little smashed in truck, up the embankment, on the shoulder of the highway, running towards me and then he had me in his arms, his bloody arms apparently of no concern. Stroking and soothing me… hugging me like a child, “AreyouokAreyouokAreyouokAreyouokAreyouokAreyouokAreyouokAreyouokAreyouok?”

We watched, me in his arms, as a matching pair of chicken trucks narrowly missed hitting our cow. We decided to get her out of the middle of the road.

The boys in the chicken trucks got stopped, jumped out, yelled, “______ (last name) that you!?… Holy Shit! You ok?”

I replied, “Yes boys, it’s me, please call X, he’s on duty, make sure to tell him I’m ok, just that I’ve had a little … mishap.”

So, as the boys took care of that business, corn-fed gimp and I took care of Bessy.

He grabbed one hoof and I grabbed two. We heaved, and ho’d… and drug that 500+ pound bitch out of the middle of the road.

The EMT’s showed up, the fire trucks showed up, the sheriff’s department showed up, the DPS department showed up. By that time, I was goofy with adrenaline. I wanted them to let me do a trophy pose with my kill. My husband finally showed up and refused.

These are the only pictures I have.

I tell you what.

Being a hard ass wasn’t always a fun thing, and this whiny crybaby bitch stuff ain’t fun either, but at least I used to know how to drive!

September 14, 2004

Somebody.

In all of my wildest dreams I never dared hope that any of that stuff in those crappy Danielle Steele books would be true. That somebody, somewhere was out there for me. I thought that all that stuff was foolish and was only for lonely old housewives to pass the time. Sort of like their “stories” on TV.

Fabio (heh…. Shut up.) would rip up another perfectly good linen shirt with leather lacings and Mrs. Nussbaum would have to imagine herself in something definitely 18th century with a bustle. Whatever. Feh.

I didn’t really read that kind of stuff or watch those kinds of things because I didn’t want to get it in my head that I was meant for somebody. I didn’t want to become lazy and complacent and so sure that somewhere out there (like in that fuckin Fivel song) that there was somebody waiting for me. That I was made for somebody, and somebody was made for me.

I had it in my head that those were not the cards that I had drawn for my lot in life.

I was the worker bee. The drone. I wasn’t meant to be the princess.

I watched action movies. Rawr. I worked on cars and built stuff. Hoah! … That was supposed to be manly sounding. Did I fail miserably? Well, yeah, I failed at emulating my father too. I wanted to be tough. I wanted to be emotionless. I wanted to be one of the guys. I wanted to be cold… well, not cold, just not some weebly girl... you know?

Bless my (few) true girl friends hearts, they really stuck with me. In high school and college they would come to me with problems and I would look at them, true confusion in my eyes and say, “I’m not really sure if you just want to bitch, or if you are looking for a solution to your problem.” And they didn’t stone me ya’ll!!! I wanted so desperately to protect them from the stupid boys/men they were so madly in love with. And I was confused by my adoration of the gangly mop headed men as well. I didn’t know how to fit into either gender role.

I wanted to be strong like my father.

I wanted to be loved like my mother.

But I didn’t know how to be either one.

When I decided that it was time to move on from my surroundings in East Texas, I was still struggling with my gender confusion. Not my sexuality mind you, I had that in spades. I just wasn’t sure where I was supposed to fit in this puzzle of a gender role. I was a strong woman who was so pushy, that I kept attracting spineless men and expecting them to stand up to me. It was a vicious cycle and I was not winning, or getting out of the race. I ended up resenting every one of the men I had a relationship with, any of them that were crazy enough to get involved with me.

It was time to get help.

I asked Stacey, a true, dear, dear heart, “What the fuck is my problem?”

She answered, “You’ve been hurt, you have issues, why don’t you go to counseling… and we’ll talk about it too.” I started seeing a counselor (and drank a lot of beer with Stacey at Happy Hour(s)… believe me… they deserve capital letters) and decided that I needed to let someone in. I needed to let things work themselves out as opposed to trying to have control over everything. Ha. Ha… haha… hahahahaha!

Ahem.

Boundaries dears… they are a bitch.

One of the almost nails in my own coffin was a man named Neal. Neal and I had an on again off again relationship that seemed to span ages. At this century in our lives he was living in San Diego and I had just moved back to Dallas I was freshly divorced and he was fresh off of a nationwide tour with a General’s (crackheaded) daughter. I didn’t know about his little trip, but he was looking to come back to the Dallas area, so without hesitation, he packed up his equipment and headed east.

Neal had never taken any of my shit and always sworn that he would take care of me. He wanted to break me of my “I can do it myself” mentality I think. He promised that he was clean (off the crank… whatever that was… yes, I was stupid) and I let him move in with me.

So… yeah, there we were. We had never spent the night with one another, he wasn’t paying rent, he was detoxing in my apartment… which was not very pleasant. And... he is 6’11”.

One bedroom, One bath.

Big guy.

It wasn’t pretty.

Let me put this in perspective for ya’ll. I was so into this, “I’m tough, I can handle anything.” “I don’t need you.” bullshit and it was hard to have someone else in the house, that after two months I came home to a fucking Dear, Jane letter telling me that I was too much man for him.

Go ahead. Read that sentence again.

I’ll retype it for you. I came home to a fucking Dear, Jane letter telling me that I was too much man for him. He left.

Which, in all honesty, was the best thing for both of us.

So, let’s take a toll shall we? Ok, I was um, approaching my 30th birthday by this point, I had been married previously, I was so scary that I ran off an almost seven foot tall junky.

But, I was making progress. I had realized that I couldn’t control everything. I had to let some things go. I didn’t have to always have everyone like me all the time. It was ok for people to think I was a bitch, no worries, so when Neal called trying to do his “I wanna come back, don’t you love me?” thing… I told him to get bent.

One bridge burned. Felt pretty good to close that door.

I just needed to deal with things in my past too. I needed to realize that it was ok to be soft and gentle. That it was ok, and not a weakness to be seen as soft and feminine.

Soft…. Mmmm

Feminine…. mmmm

Pretty… puuurrrrrrr

Can I cry too?

Really? No Shit?

Oh. I have to quit cursing? Damn. Maybe later.

So, I had to deal with years and years of baggage. We are talking BA. GAGE. Yanno, how when you get so adapt at sweeping stuff under the rug when you are young, then you turn around in your late twenties and you are all Holy Sheeeeeeeyit! And you can’t even see over the big ol’ hump that you’ve swept under the rug.

You have to start dragging out your drama piece by mother fuckin piece. This may take a while.

Ok, so ya’ll I am like three years into this project and I am beginning to see daylight over on the other side of my proverbial rug.

The reason I am even telling you this is because when I realized that I didn’t have to be all She-Ra Princess of Bad Attitude on everybody and I let down my guard, I found out that it doesn’t take as much work to be nice to people when you aren’t holding up that wall or that mask. It doesn’t take as much work to smile when you are really smiling, not trying to make some fake you smile, or trying to smile behind four feet of protective concrete and bricks.

I had already busted up the Masks of Sue and buried them with the Bricks I had when I tore down the Great Wall of Sue. These are the hardest projects I have ever been involved in. I have found some very ugly things buried beneath those masks and behind those walls. I found that all the good things I did… like, giving up my financial comfort for the gain of those I loved was all for naught when it is tainted with resentment. Things like that. Ick right?

But under all of those bricks and masks was, is the real me.

I even met a really nice man who met the real me. I introduced the real me to a man for the first time on October 16th 2002. The real me walked up and shook the hand of this nice man who was the friend of a friend. I didn’t feel the need to put on a mask because, if I was supposed to be alone for the rest of my life, I had already made peace with that.

This man, this somebody, turned his blue eyes to me over ice cream and asked me out to dinner. Little did I know that those few words would start the beginning of the rest of my life.

This month is the first anniversary of our marriage.

This man holds me when I cry, this man laughs at my jokes, this man says that I look pretty in the mornings, this man is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen. This man has gold in his beard, this man pets me in just the right way, this man appreciates products, this man shares my dreams for our future, this man knows my thoughts, this man knows when I hurt.

This man knows me.

This man has a delicate heart, this man talks to movies, this man loves Max.

This man.

This man is mine.

This man is my somebody.

September 15, 2004

Have y'all heard that song Goodies by Ciara?

Can I be catty?

Saucer of milk? Table for one?

I知 a bit off of my game today. And by my game, if I mean, that I am rarely 登n� then, yes, yes� that is exactly what I mean� then of course. By all means, please, continue.

Why, thank you.

There are few things that make me want to go postal quicker than Whitney Brown on Two For One Night down at the crack house. And sound is one of those things.

I have a pretty high tolerance for most things. Ignorance. Racism. Sizism. Agism. Cruelty to Pottery Barn workers� whatever. I can handle most of it. But I am pretty snobby about what goes into my ears.

I love music.

Looooooooooooove music ya値l. Oh� and Q-Tips.

I am not saying that I have the best taste in music, really. I have been guilty of listening to everything from Depeche Mode to The Gaithers, The Florida Boys to Velvet Revolver, Willie Nelson to Casting Crowns. The net is wide, and my love for music runs deep.

But there is a range and pitch that hurts my head. There is a sound that causes me to lose track of thought and if the noise continues it scrambles any coherent notions.

Have ya値l heard that song Goodies by Ciara?

Holy sweet Mary, mother of the baby Jesus.

That song is played over and over and over on the local pop 40 station here in Dallas. My co-worker listens to Kiss FM in her cubicle and that song seemingly circles the radio, then her monitor, it hovers over her work area� gathers strengths with the

EEEEEEE
OOO
EEEEEEE
OOO
EEEEEEE
OOO
EEEEEEE
OOO

then DIVES!, DIVES!, DIVES!, over the particle board separator thingy [that they use in cube farms to give one a sense of privacy] and pierces my frontal lobe.

I hate that song.

Or noise. Or whatever kids are calling it these days.

Much like I hate that certain register of tone that some women get when they get to be a certain age. Or maybe, just maybe they have always had it. One never knows. The one that sounds like the audible equivalent of that time your retarded cousin got into your uncle痴 hooch and decided it was time to sing Evergreen � reeeeallly fast... and in a high B sharp� monotone.

Kinda makes you wanna punch them in the neck.

Not enough to hurt them, just enough to make it stop.

There is a lovely young woman that I have to listen to around here that sounds like that. I just heard someone else tell her, 添ou make people want to drive off of a bridge.�

That just about sums it up� doesn稚 it?

By the way� I have several G-Mail invites, if you would like one, email me with the subject: G-Mail Lovah.

September 20, 2004

Elvis is the King of KAHNGS!

Me: I’m excited about going to Houston to see LuLu and her belly.

Mister: When are you going again?

Me: October 2nd and 3rd.

Mister: Baby shower right?

Me: Yep.

Mister: You haven’t seen her at all since she’s been pregnant have you?

Me: No, I suck as a friend. But at least I got to see Sil while she was pregnant. I can’t wait to see Baby Sam. I’m so glad she’s finally here

Mister: What is her full name again?

Me: Samantha Gray.

Mister: That’s pretty.

Me: I think so too.

Mister: We have claimed Elizabeth Hope right?

Me: Yep…

Mister: … and Brandon Paul too… right?

Me: uh huh…

Mister: …. What about Jesus?

Me: Like Jesus Jesus?

Mister: [nods] Yep. And not even call him Hay-Sooos… like the Hispanics do. Really call him Jesus. But spell it… J-E-R-S-R-U-R-S.

Me: Um, what’s the deal with all the R’s?

Mister: They’re silent. Heh.

Me: …

Mister

Me: Middle name Elvis?

Mister: Sweet.

Me: Jesus Elvis (LastName)?… Catchy.

Mister: All the R’s are really going to throw a lot of people off. Heh.


Mister and I went to Destin, FL back in May and on our way back we stopped in New Orleans, LA. We fell in love with this beautiful watercolor done by a local artist of three jazz musicians. We first saw the painting on the square the first time we passed through the city on the way to our vacation spot. So when it was still there on our way home, we snatched it up and praised Lady Luck for our good fortune.

The painting is a medley of jewel tones and yellows mixed with the medium of charcoal for the outlines for the jazz players. I love this painting. It is the first piece of art that Mister and I have purchased together and it doesn’t go with one single thing in our home.

I have one other watercolor that was purchased on the steps of the Opera House in Paris. That piece is absolutely tiny and it is almost like a piece of my heart was captured on acid free paper. So when Mister and I found the piece in New Orleans we were so excited. It is vibrant, it is large, it is colorful… and the best part. It, when framed, will look divine above our new fireplace.

Wednesday evening I got home after a long day and my husband met me at the door, he took my things from me. Placed my purse on the table, draped my sweater on the back of a kitchen chair, asked me to kick off my shoes and then proceeded to uncork my favorite champagne for the unveiling of the newly framed painting.

We took the painting to a local framing house called Grace’s. She. Is. A. Doll. It was a bit pricey, but ya’ll we double matted the piece, wide matted, beautiful. Italian frame. Good Lord. So beautiful.

Mister poured the champagne and I walked all over the living room taking pictures (that I am sure will not turn out). He hung it wonderfully, it is perfect. The colors we picked out are divine. I am so excited.

It brings that whole room together….

That, and I took down the curtains that were hanging in there since 1976, cream with pink ribbons and blue bows. They made me cry and pulled out my soul repeatedly. My living room is now happy, the fireplace is happy, the couch and all of the furniture is happy… the curtains that should be burned (it’s a rental… I can’t torch them) are put away and my pretty taupe tapestry curtains are up.

Ahhhh….

Much better.

Wanna come over?

September 21, 2004

I am finally the type of girl that my parents would be proud of... when I finally don't give a shit.

Warring factions, not political, not between Middle Eastern countries… but inside me.

Sunday at church Mister and I walked in before our class on finances and one of our friend’s oldest child (they have three) spotted us from down the hall. She came flying down the hall yelling our names and holding out her arms to be swept up and hugged.

Ah, the adoration of the young, it is a drug, no?

After the class Mister and I came out into the hallway and she jumped up into my arms and told me that she loves me. I held and rocked her. Her mother told me that she, the oldest child, had had a bad morning and that I was exactly what she needed, to be held and paid attention to. Heck, I’ve had those mornings too.

I asked the child, we’ll call her C, “C? Are you having a tough time today?” She turned her blue grey eyes upon me and with sage wisdom and a heavy sigh for a four year old said, “Yes ma’am, I certainly am.”

I told C’s mother that being around her and her three children make me want to quit my job, stay home, take care of my husband and have bunches and bunches of babies. She said, “Well sister, you’re talking to the wrong woman, because I am all for that idea.”

Their whole family came over for dinner last night. I fed them and played with all three little girls. It was crazy trying to get home from work in time, get the house straightened up, and get a balanced dinner on the table before they got there. It was so tough. I didn’t make it either. Dinner was late by about 30 to 45 minutes and I felt bad, but it was ok. I enjoyed spending time with them and I love it anytime I get to see their family outside of church.

After dinner last night, we had dessert then we all piled into the living room to watch The Christmas Story on dvd. I had both of the older girls sitting with me on the love seat while the youngest was nursing. It was such a peaceful time. I just wanted to never let them go. We had changed all the diapers (on the youngest two), their jammies were on and the adults (except me) were talking about faith.

I totally enjoyed it, but it wore me out.

Mister and I do want to have babies of our very own. We do. No doubt about it. But dammit we’re old. And I say “fuck”. A lot.

After everyone left, Mister and I went upstairs and watched a little bit of VHI’s Inside Out Leah Remini: The Baby Special… Holy Shit. Do you guys know how much that lady cusses? A lot more than I do.

Erica told me once that I reminded her of her girlfriend. Her girlfriend and I both have this “Soccer Mom” vibe… without the kids, or the Volvo. And then she went on to add, “But you also curse… like a sailor.” And I was also thinking, “And I also have a girl crush on Joan Jett.” I also talk to Erica about my faith, she’s an atheist, and she doesn’t run screaming.

So, let’s play, Why Haven’t I Been Committed?

Let’s add all this up.

I want so badly to be a good girl. I really do. I want to be the sweet Missus Cunningham type of lady that has snacks ready for her kids when they get home from school. I want to be a nice person.

I don’t smoke anymore. I barely drink. I’m not fuckin around.

Who the hell am I?

I don’t stay out late. I love my husband more than anything on this earth. I am finally the type of girl that my parents would be proud of… when I finally don’t give a shit.

Oh, except for the swearing.

I get a good night’s rest. I eat three square meals a day. I don’t drink my dinner like I used to. I don’t take drugs. I never really did. I’m not a big ol’ whore. I am living in a respectable neighborhood and I have a good job…

But.

I hear Bob Segar on the radio singing Come to Papa, Tom Jones (Jaysus!) singing You Can Leave Your Hat On and Joan Jett (Rawwwrrrrrr) purring the lyrics to Do You Wanna Touch Me….. InDeeed…. And I turn into Slutty McSlutterston.

Well, I don't turn into Slutty McSlutterson. I just FEEEL like I want to. And isn’t that bad enough?

I want to be a good girl.

Dammit.

This is an uphill battle. The human side of me is not going to win I say. (She said in a determined manner.)

By the way. I went to lunch with Erica and Wendy yesterday and we had a blast. I did not cry on anyone. I promised.

Wendy is a sweetheart and she didn’t run screaming from either of us even when we tried to sit in her lap.

About September 2004

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

August 2004 is the previous archive.

October 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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