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February 2005 Archives

February 1, 2005

Do night terrors mean anything to you?

scritch… scritch… scritchscritch

What? Huh? What was that noise? Nothin? Oh. Oh-kay.


Huuh!? Hey.
[stands up – looks around]
What the fuck man?


No, really, this shit ain’t funny any more.



*the chiming of a cat bell begins and runs into a constant atonal sound*

[The fuzzy image of a malnourished Asian boy is seen in the background, his gaping, toothless, maw the deepest black you have ever seen… it widens and widens and widens…]


I saw The Grudge about three weeks ago and I am still scared shitless by my own shadow.

Mister and I went out for date night and he knew I wanted to see The Grudge, and he likes horror films as well, so we made plans. It was showing at the dollar theater, which is cool, pretty close to the house and has great popcorn… so we were set.

Mister and I got our tickets, our sodas and found our seats. We were only two of about 15 or 20 people in the theater. I noticed that there were people of all ages there. Another couple on a date. A family with their 4-year-old son. (!) A lady with her two kids, probably the ages of 10 and 13. And a young couple with a baby in a blanket… probably no older than one.

These people were stupid.

Yes, I am able to criticize these people freely without guilt, cast the first stone, if you will, without knowing them.

They brought babies to a horror movie. A fucking movie that made me, a 32 year old woman scream and almost pee her pants within the first 10 minutes of the film.

What the hell do you think it is going to do to the sleep patterns of a 4 year old? Huh? Huh? You vapid, stupid woman… Do night terrors mean anything to you?

End Rant::

And yes, I did scream… out loud. Loud enough to elicit this response from Mister, “Baby? Do you want to leave?” Me and my stupid ass should have said, “Yes, please, protect me from the evil ways of this PG-13 movie. I am a big titty-baby. I can not hang.”

I normally love the horror genre. I do. Really.

Stop laughing. Shut up.

Could you imagine my excitement when the title credits were rolling and I saw “… Sam Raimi” flash across the screen? For the love of all that is Bruce Campbell and the Evil Dead trilogy! Woo Hoo!

And yet.

I still was about to tinkle in my britches when Yoko got the kibosh put on her plans for living in the first few minutes of that damn movie when she so wisely went to check on what that scratching noise was coming from the attic. S-M-R-T… see? Smart.

Stupid movie.

Yet, I still love Sam Raimi. Could you imagine what it would be like to work for him? I just searched IMDB.com on Sam Raimi’s projects and there is a Grudge 2 coming out. Sorta looks like Grease 2 by the title alone… BUT IT’s NOT!

Anyway, moving along.

Could you imagine working for Mr. Raimi? Going home totally terrorized every day or just getting completely desensitized to the most insane clown shit imaginable?

Sort of like having Clive Barker* (of the Hellraiser fame) read you bedtime stories when you were little.

kids: Uncle Clive! Uncle Clive!! Read us a bedtime story will you???
Clive: Ok, ok, … hmmm, oh, here’s a good one…. “So, Uncle Frank took over Kristy’s dad’s body because her mom was really having an affair with him and then he tried to get with Kristy and said ‘Come to Daddy’ and she got all freaked out and Frank actually sold his soul to the devil so the devil’s henchmen came and Pinhead said to him [creepy yelling voice] ‘WE’LL TEAR YOUR SOUL APAAAAART!!!!!!’”

The sound of kids shrieking and running to hide in their closets and not come out until they are forty and completely emotionally scarred… Then they can never hold down regular jobs and end up working at Hollywood Video and blackmailing the manager at Weinerschnitzel because they saw him making completely inappropriate overtures towards the pygmy goat at the petting zoo in the local mall.

Poor Uncle Clive still sitting in the living room wondering where those sweet little rug rats went, he was just getting to the juicy part of his bedtime story. He wanted to tell them, “Don’t let the bedbugs bite!” He never gets to say that!

Ok… now I have completely lost my point.

Oh, yes.

Now I remember.

That fucking movie was scary as shit.

*Or Clive Cussler talking incessantly about Dirk Diggler or Dirk Pitt or blah blah blah… ok, maybe only dorky fiction reading twits like me think this is funny.

February 4, 2005

After the big bucket of crazy, anything seems great?

Things that make you go… hmmmmm

Or an alternative title…The Lion, The Bitch and He Needs A New Wardrobe.

I’m torn, torn like an old sweater, torn about how I should feel about the news I got this afternoon at lunch.

Oh, and Hey, Amy? Thanks for going to lunch… I enjoyed getting to spend some time with you. It was good to see you… that color of sweater (plum) looks great with your skin tone by the way, and I like how you’ve let your hair grow out. Have you guys ever seen someone with a devilish gleam to their eye when they grin? That’s my Amy.


Let me lay out the dirt for you. And by dirt, I mean some information on an old boyfriend.

A while ago I started thinking about an ex-boyfriend. Not in an, “Oooohhh, I’m all a-flutter with caramel thoughts and cotton candy dreams about Kim” type of way either. Just sort of a, “Erm, he’s hovering at the edges of my conscience and it’s really becoming quite bothersome, why the hell am I THINKING ABOUT HIM!?… Oh, hi Guilt.” Type of way.

I thought about him for no reason. Then the call came from Co-worker C with news that he called looking for me.

When Co-worker C called I almost felt validated. Sort of like, oh, so that’s why I was thinking about him… it was because he was looking for me. Or because he was calling my old work and talking to Co-worker C to find out how I am. But then I shook the crazy from my brain and realized that No, Miss Drama Queen, you are NOT clairvoyant. And you do Not have some sort of connection with that man.

And then I felt better.

Mister and I never used that phone number that he gave Co-worker C to pass along to me. I printed out the email that she sent and brought it home to Mister. The paper that his number was printed on lay on the stack of mail next to our home computer(s) for a week or so then got thrown away with some errant Domino’s Pizza mailer or something.

Have you guys ever had a relationship with someone after you dated a big ol’ bucket of crazy, and after the big bucket of crazy, anything seems great?

I dated Kim after I dated Marcus… and let me tell you, Marcus’s cheese, done slid off of his cracker.

But don’t let me sugar coat this for you.

I was divorced. Still bitter as a hunk of chicory soaked in pecan shells and Kim was freshly divorced. Yanno, I don’t even think his divorce was final. So, there we were, two people just looking for someone to validate their feelings… or at least not to screw their best friends or cheat on them with their siblings… whatever.

I was emotionally retarded.

He was a good listener.

I was ambitious.

He was content to let someone else eke out a living for him.

I was resentful.

He was clingy.

It was a match made in hell.

But, we were six hours away from each other, so when we got together, everything was perfect. You guys know how it is. When you visit, it’s a vacation. The outside world doesn’t infringe on your little party. So you start fooling yourself into thinking that it could really be like this forever.

Hi, why don’t you stay for two weeks and let’s see how this goes?


Hi… end of two weeks? Get the fuck out of my apartment you needy man with your cheap cigarettes and your Cosby sweaters!

Yes, I am an awful, hateful person.

Today at lunch Amy told me that he found her on IRC and got her caught up on how he is doing.

He’s back with his wife, his oldest is 16 (6’8”), youngest is 13 (6’1”… they are a family of Sequoias) and he has his dream job caring for the big cats and the bears in the zoo that he works for… and he is very happy.

I couldn’t be happier for him, really. I know that he and his wife belong together so I am glad that they figured that out. They were together for 14 years before divorcing and they are truly soul mates.

The sweet southern girl part of me is all, “Awww, really? That’s awesome. Working with the cats has been his dream job so that is so cool.” Which is what I said out loud to Amy at lunch. And also, “I’m really happy for him that he and C (his ex-wife) got back together, I’m sure the boys are happy too. I’m so proud of him for getting that job at the zoo! I bet he is so excited!” Which I believe is what I told Mister on the phone shortly after lunch.

And deep in my brain where the mean things go to die, this little nugget is hiding, “I found a 12 page hand written letter in the glove compartment of my car from that man detailing every sordid thing he did to me the first weekend we met. I shredded it but I’m still afraid it will come back to life like some freaky Chucky doll and I will be crowned the p0rn queen of the Big D. Freak.”

February 9, 2005

Happy Birthday Husband, In other words... sorry I suck.

Yanno how you wake up in the morning of February the 8th and you have this stabbing eye pain headachy thing and you call in to work at 6:15 am and then when you get back to bed your husband says, “Awwww, baby, did you call into work to stay at home with me because it’s my birthday?”

Um… yes?

Shit… shit shit shit… I am the worst wife ever in the whole entire world.

I mean, I remembered it was his birthday, sorta (don’t stone me yet people)… after all he had already requested his birthday meal, that I needed to start preparing last April for it to be completed on time at 6:30 pm last night. But good Lawd. I felt like the biggest piece of milk crust.

Not to mention (of course I’m going to mention it… just saying “not to mention” doesn’t get you off the hook buddy boy) the fact that I had planned a girl’s night out with Stacey for last night. And I had even asked Mister, “Hey baby? Is next Tuesday night, the 8th an okay night to do girl’s night with Stacey? She and I really need some girl time.” And of course he said, “Sure love, that’s fine.” Because… have I mentioned? I SUCK.

I know, I know… he’s been sick, he hasn’t felt celebratory. He’s been feeling gloomy. He told me that he didn’t want to do anything for his birthday; he didn’t want me to get him anything.

That does not let me off the hook for planning happy hour on the day of his birthday.

I went shopping for the last remaining ingredients for SupperGate 2005 and while I was at the store I remembered to call Stacey to cancel. Why? Because, as I mentioned above. I suck.

While at said store, shopping for ingredients to make the homemade supper for my husband, which my husband asked for, for his birthday, on his birthday… I forgot to get him a card. Also, my cat pee’d on his hunting seat cushion and he got some bad news from his job. Do I know how to rock a birthday or what?

If you ever get the chance, do not ever marry me.

Good Things About Yesterday In Haiku Form

visit from loved ones
mcnuggets and ginger ale
Blazing Saddles, yo

Speaking of Blazing Saddles, Mister got the dvd as a gift for his birthday from some loved ones yesterday and he is so excited. We watched it last night after dinner (dun dun DUN!… SupperGate 2005…) and after the movie we were going through the extras on the dvd and there is a television pilot for a show called Black Bart, starring Lou Gossett Jr.. I thought it looked interesting, so I asked Mister to play it. He did and within minutes I was bleeding from the eyes.

I love Blazing Saddles… the writing, the snarkiness, the oneliners, the references to other projects, even the in your face use of racism and humor that went hand in hand. Richard Pryor was on the writing team along with Mel Brooks and Gene Wilder. Glorious. I guess that is why I was so shocked that some television asshole exec. could think that they would be able to take something that took so much love and work to make, shove a bunch of nigger references in it, slap it on the ass to force it into some television-mold-bastardized-version of the movie and make TeeVee History BayBee!

Have you guys seen this thing?

Poor Lou Gossett Jr. He looks so fucking embarrassed. He has to make, “I have a hard enough time keeping my horse white.” Jokes… It is obscenely offensive.

It’s a wonder they didn’t play “Jungle Love” over the poorly timed laugh track and have him dry hump the gimpy, hard of hearing, madam that had a green glittery patch over one eye. And yes I wish like hell I was kidding.

Let me repeat that.

They actually had a character whose job it was to work a poor German accent, bad powder makeup, reeeeallllly bad wig, gimpy leg, going deaf, sparkly patch-eyed, a poorly timed run-down take off on Lili Von Shtupp and play a lady that ran a whore house.

And she came on to Lou. Lou had to reply that he had enough troubles riding a white horse.

THIS WAS IN 1975!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Holy Shit!

It was then that I started crying for Lou’s career and the fact that he still had to make Enemy Mine ten years later. Eeesh, just being those teeth for the 4 or 5 months alone to make that movie would put me out of the running. Poor Lou.

So, in conclusion. I suck… but not as bad as the test pilot for Black Bart.

February 14, 2005

Knights of the Tiny Round Tables (In Thongs)

I have on blue eyeliner today because I, am a tropical fish, and also... in the seventh grade… in 1985.

I has recently come to my attention that my cat eats Cheerios. They are a healthy snack, no? So now I find great pleasure at pelting my fur-bearing mammal with the little toasty-o's in the head when he decides to sing a seven-minute aria whilst I am fixing dinner. I should probably stop this as he may think I am actually sending him the kitty cat equal of throwing roses onstage when the diva sings.

Ok, enough stalling. I have a little story to tell… I've told you all about the Kerr Krew. And I have told you about how beautiful the women I went to college and high school with were and are. I have told you about how talented and what great dancers they were and are, I told you that they have grown up to be nurses, interior designers, teachers, detectives, mothers and a whole slew of other incredible things but have I ever told you how evil they were? Pure-D evil. Seriously.

Exibit A:
Some random trip home from college. A select few of us headed to Dallas for a weekend at our parents homes and a few parties over the Easter holiday.

Ps. I am sorry Baby Jesus.

One girlfriend (Kerry) had a neighbor (Sandra) who was very European and whose father owned a gentlemen's club, the gentlemen's club was right next to LeBare. (This was before it got moved from Greenville and Lovers, for those of you who care… and yes, I'm old.) LeBare, for those of you who are not European but young, uptight, white, Southern Baptist girls whose biggest sin is mixing pastels… LeBare was like stepping into Caligula.

My Eyes! Bare male chests on stage with spotlights, booze!, "Can I light that for you ma'am?", holy shit!, is that a g-string? Women everywhere squealing and pawing at male flesh. Men dancing to the latest pop music on the main stage with poorly thought out costumes being flung behind them as they disrobed. Thrusting their hips to the beat of the bass. Dollar bills flying, liquor flowing, the maniacal gleam of hope and something else entirely flashing in the eyes of the crowd.

Kerry, Stacey, Stephanie, Sandra and myself all wandered in and looked for a place to sit that would let all of us sit together in a group without getting too close to the stages (um, hi, ball sweat may fling far and wide*) and we didn't want to be trampled by the seemingly millions of bachelorettes (with requisite condom veils on) that were teeming over the bar area.

*Yeah, I typed that. And I'd type it again too, are you getting sassy with me? Hey, we (Steph and I) were scared, it was our first time at a naked man place and we had no idea how absorbent those little g-string things were. Those guys were floppy I tell you… Flah- to the Double P. Or it just seemed like it when they did that hip thrusty thing and their junk would smack their… Oh-kay… enough of that.

We found a suitable booth in the back that allowed us visibility to almost the whole bare, ordered our drinks… er, did I say drinks? I didn't drink at 19, no Siree Bob. I meant ordered our water and Shirley Temples and lit up to further view this testicle spectacle through the cleansing haze of Marlboro Light smoke.

There were men everywhere. Dancing on the bar, on the backs of the booths, on the three stages. You couldn't look anywhere and not see a bare man-chest or a man that had put in some serious time in a tanning bed… or a thong.

That last part was sort of disconcerting to me. I am from hearty farm stock, I was raised to feed people and to work hard… seeing men with better nails than mine and way better eyebrows raised a flag in my subconscious. Seeing as how I thought I was pretty cute before we walked in, in my little black blazer, black leggings (gag, I know… shut it… really, I know… seriously) and my little low-heeled flats…(gah… does it ever end?... no…did you not see my hair during that period of time? [scroll down]… ) I immediately began to hear that "Hot guy, you're not good enough!" siren going off in my head.

How could these women come here night after weekend night and feel that way about themselves? Then I figured out why. I thought, "These men are getting paid to pay attention to these women, and the women are eating it up. This is sort of like retail." It was a very basic principle, but it helped me deal with the squick factor and … why are these women screaming!?!!?

I walked over to give a particularly large specimen of man a tip for being… huge… (shut up, I know he didn't have anything to do with his genetic makeup, but damn, I like big men) and he grunted at me that his name was Conan. Conan? Seriously? He affirmed that I wasn't hearing things and grinned at me while dancing provocatively… and looking me in the eye. [Sidenote: how do they do that with a straight face? I'd be laughing my ass off.]

Then a fast song came on and Conan… apparently the barbarian… ever thankful for the two fucking dollars that I gave him, picked me up.

Did you get that? He picked my ass up… as in off the ground… with one hand, cupped my butt with one arm and pulled my ankles to his other side with his other hand... he could hold both of my ankles in his one hand…(!)… I must have looked like a three year old. He danced around for about seven seconds with me on his hip, and then put me down like he was the carnival's quickest two-dollar ride.

I was so stupid and naive that I shoved him in the chest like, "you big bully" and wandered off to go tell on him to my girlfriends. I had no idea what the protocol of a strip club was. I should have snapped his thong and asked for my $2 bucks back.

Or, thanked him for the dance… whatever. I still am pretty confused on that one.

So, after my lap/hip dance with Conan… (?)… I was over at the table with my girls and the place went dark…

"Ladies, Ladies, Ladies… It's what you have been waiting for allllllll niiiiiiiight, (sound FX of a motorcycle or something).... Please help me Welcome to the Main Stage Of LeBare….. The MAAAAASTER BLAAAASTER!!!!!!"

The spotlights started going crazy and the music ramped up to an earsplitting level and then the lights all came on at once and this guy came out from backstage… he had on a Stetson, boots, and … leather chaps. He started dancing and put all of the others to shame.

Women were going crazy, throwing money, roses, bras and their vaginas on stage and still the Master Blaster danced nimbly on.

He tipped his hat and I said out loud and with much fervor, "Holy shit… I know that man!"

::Scooby Doo wavy noise…. You are going back in time!::

When I was but a wee lass there was a place in Lewisville, TX called The Good Luck Rodeo where I used to go to dance. It was once an old skating rink so the dance floor was sublime, but it was there that I met… Dun Dun DUN!... The Master Blaster… years before. Randy and I used to cut a rug or two around that wooden floor at the Good Luck so it was quite a shock to me to see him on that stage with vaginas being tossed at him willy nilly.

::Scooby Doo wavy noise…. We now return you to your regularly scheduled program.::


The Master Blaster huh?

I turned to Stephanie, "Hey, isn't that Randy [last name] from Good Luck Rodeo?" She said that he looked familiar, but didn't know for sure.

I was going to find out.

I got up from the table and went to the stage with my little limp dollar bill. I pushed my way tough the throngs of heavy mortar fire and hand-to-hand enemy combat… um, wait… wrong journal entry… I pushed my way through the throngs of women hopped up on estrogen and bad champagne and by the time I got to the stage, he had removed his chaps.


Randy was nekkid.

Or… actually he was In A Pink Thong. I do believe that might have made me even more uncomfortable.

Holy shit, I used to dance with this guy, and apparently he was the hottest thing since Rico Suave. (Shut it, I told you I'm old.) I held out my dollar like he was some porpoise trained to snatch it with his oiled and well-trained muscular thighs… and holy shit... that is exactly what he did. Eeeeeeeee!

Must not look him in the eye, will turn to stone… will… turn to…
Yeah, hi… there dancing sweaty guy, um. No… this isn't uncomfortable at all. Yep, must look natural, like I do this alllll the time. Why are you touching me?
You don't know me at all do you brother? Why don't you take her dollar there buddy? I'm gonna go back to my whoa---- hey there… those are your, wow.
Nice um, boob muscles…. Can you put me down?
Why do all of you want to pick me up? Is it because I'm a husky challenge? IS IT?

And then for some reason I got all "Yeah, everything is fine" and smoked like Robert DeNiro for about 15 minutes after I went back to the table.

After "Master Blaster's" set, he came over and yes, he did remember me, how was I blah, blah, blah… where was I in school… very charming. Anyway, I went to the restroom to pee, reapply lipstick the whole nine and while I was gone, check this out.

Exhibit B:
While I was gone… Kerry gave this man my home phone number. And no, I didn't know about her passing the digits. Not so much in its self an evil, evil thing… except, my parental units are Ward and June Cleaver. Now, yes, in the issue of transparency and to elicit a small shock from my mother's temporal lobe I told her exactly where I was to be going with the girls that very night.


That night we left the club with enough Master Blaster memorabilia to choke a small Beluga whale. Or even a large one. His paper, touting, "It's raining men!" a picture of him and his hairy chest. We had even found out that he was in the process or had just (the memory… she is a-goin) purchased LeBare… to quote, "So please come back anytime and I'll set up a private party for you and your girlfriends." Translation: "I will put you on the guest list, you don't have to pay cover, you get a premium table, a cheap bottle of champagne and a picture with the guys at the end of the night, I will more than make up for it by all the tips and other drinks you buy." Which, in all honesty is not a bad deal… Call him, take him up on it.

We all went back to school after the holidays and things went back to normal. Until… Dun dun DUNNNN!!! Stephanie and I went back to our dorm one day after lunch to hear this message on our answering machine… "Suzanna, this is Randy last name… please call me at ###-###-####. Your mother gave me your number so I hope to hear from you."

Um, What?

Can you guys imagine that telephone call?

”Hello? June? This is Randy the Master Blaster, I am a male stripper for LeBare and I was given your little girl’s phone number at the club the other night. We’ve actually known each other for a while as we’ve danced at Good Luck. May I call her at SFA?”

”Well, hello young man, of course, I heard that you are quite the well oiled machine, why don’t you join us for church on Sunday? And Suzanna’s number in Nac is ###-###-####.”

So… yeah, I called my mom and asked her what transpired to have her give this guy my phone number before I called him. After all, I was slightly scared to death, and a little poor. Long distance call, yanno. I wanted to make sure that I really wanted to call this Randy guy back.

me: Momma?...
Momma: Hi Sue… how are you doing?
me: I’m fine… I just got a message from a guy that said you gave him my number.
Momma: Oh, yes, what a nice fellow. Isn’t he a dancer?
me: ::gulp:: Yep.
Momma: Did he dance with you at the Plano Academy?
me: (under breath) ::snort:: Ohhhh ::ahem:: Oh, um… no ma’am, I think you may be remembering somebody else. This was someone Kerry gave my number to over Easter.
Momma: oh, OH… Oh, Dear.
me: Heh.

So I balled up some confidence and actually called him back, it turned out that he and his troop of merry men were coming into town, or were planning on it and wanted to drum up some business. Always the businessman. Smart, that Randy.

Fast forward like 10 years, I’m back in Dallas… Kerry has come to visit from living in California and Stacey and I get a bright idea… we call ol’ Randy and let him know what’s goin down, he actually remembers us (or pretends to for business sake… see?.. smart, that Randy… S-M-R-T) and adds us to the guest list for a little private party thingy.

We walk in, they escort us to our table with champagne and …My EYES!... I still cannot get used to this shit! Can I be any more prude? Holy crap!... Here he comes, thank God he has on clothes! Damn he looks good, what is that in his hand? A magazine?

Randy comes over and kisses each one of us on the mouth (actually bites me on the lip (!)), exclaiming all the while how long it’s been, how good it is to see us… always the showman, and has uh, Garcon open our champagne. This guy is good.

The next thing we know, Randy takes the stage… no kidding. I thought he was like over the hill by this point, um… not so my little pretty. Check this out… the man could be 30 or 50, who would fucking care? And that magazine he was holding? Yeah, it was one of the Playgirls he had been featured in.

I saw his wiener.

The whole reason for this lengthy diatribe is that Stacey called me on Wednesday and was squealing into the phone.

me: Hello?
Stacey: Holy shit, holyshitholyshiiiiit!!!!! EEEeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!!!!
me: Stace?
Stacey: You are Never going to believe who I saw.
me: Shaq? Neil? Kim? Marcus? Jesus?
Stacey: Heeeee! I was at Jason’s Deli over off of MacArthur because I had just picked my parents up from the airport and…[heavy breath]…
me: slow down there Speedy
Stacey: You’re just never going to believe. Ok, so I was sitting there with my parents and out of the corner of my eye I saw this figure that looked so familiar… guess who it was… just guess.
me: Um… Austin Bur--
Stacey: No! …. It was Randy the Master Blaster! Ha HA!!!!
me: Holy Shit!
Stacey: Yeah! Holy shit… and if my dad wasn’t there I would have told my mom who it was, but I didn’t wanna do that with my dad there… because… ewwww. And…
me: Ok, so did you say hi?
Stacey: I don’t think he recognized me… but OHMYGAWD. Check this out HA!
me: What?
Stacey: [daughter] was sitting there dancing in her chair and he saw her doing it and he said to her, “I have some moves too.” AHHHHAAAAAAAHAAHAAAA!!!!!!!
me: Hee..
Stacey: Kinda skeevy…
me: Yeah… like guy?, give her 20 years or so.
Stacey: How about Forty years? Shit!!!!! But he still looks the same.

Postscript: I have to be honest with you guys, I totally searched my house for photos of that first girls night at LeBare. I wanted to scan them and post them with this entry. Alas, denied by my lack of organization skills.

February 21, 2005

Entry Number 150

Today is the 21st of February. Two years ago yesterday I started this journal with barely a hint at whether or not I would ever finish it out through the end of the week.

In the previous 29 years I had started and lost a half dozen locket-ed and bejeweled girly diaries with loopy and halting cursive hand writing with hearts above the i’s. Those were never the real me, those flowery and precious books filled with stories about princes (Donny Osmond) and true love. So I started spiral ring notebooks filled with pages upon pages of thoughts and stories of animals and angsty teens fighting the good fight, maybe finding love… maybe just finding themselves in trouble. That didn’t seem to fit either. So when I started college, I started a few floppy discs that I stored my stories on. My thoughts and my dreams on a little 3”x5” disc.

Who knows where those are.

If you have them. Don’t laugh. And if you have already laughed loudly and with much vigor... please do not sell them for posterity… or for my embarrassment, which may be one in the same… thanks.

Kisses… love you, yanno.

That left this little slice of weirdness. It has served as a place for me to vent when I couldn’t do so to friends, and loved ones… or when it was wisest not to do so because my brain wasn’t working in tandem with my mouth… and it has served as a place to put some memories in moratorium.

Kinda like Disney.

Heh. (Shut it… that was funny.)

I have written 149 diaryland entries… this will be my 150th and only six of those are hidden. I could have deleted the hidden entries as easily as I archived them, but I wanted to preserve my state of mind at that point, and yet keep a bit of myself hidden from the world’s prying eyes. Although I have put a lot of other things on display, dreams, aspirations, fears… extreme dorkitude.

To be honest I am completely flabbergasted that I have kept this up so long, and I am still enjoying every moment of it. Maybe it is because I do not worry too much about grammatical errors, punch lines, story boards or even correct tense throughout a journal entry and for that gentle reader, I do apologize… and in the same breath applaud and thank you for continuing with me along this journey.

Thank you.

February 22, 2005

Today. I have Barbados hair.

Yanno that colloquialism, “Well, I just got a wild hair so I just decided to…” fill in the blank? Shave the cat. Down twenty mini Reese’s peanut butter cups and snort a line of coke off of a hooker’s tittie (or is it with a y?). Or, twirl my parasol seductively whilst showing my ankles to the town parishioners. The Shame!

Anyway… That’s me today. Not the colloquialisms, the wild hair.

I used this stuff from TIGI this morning that was given to me by my director. (And you call that Acting!? Heh…sorry.) It’s called Control Freak Extra Extra Straight. And apparently it is supposed to be a hair straightener. To the 4th power. Like the Nth degree of hair straightening brawn. Notice the extra extra in the name.

Yes, yes… it’s all very dazzling to a moppy-headed curly-q lass like my self. But alas, I got out of the shower this morning and combed out my locks, sprayed a palm full of this stuff into my hand, smooshed it around to emulsify, and applied it to my hair.

Then I scrunched, yes… yes, Daisy Fuentes is going to kick my ass for scrunching, so what. I was running late, I needed to get that crap through my hair and dry it pronto.

Then. Uh, yeah, then… I used my hair dryer, and a diffuser.

I feel like I’m admitting to larceny and petty cash theft like Christina Applegate in Don’t Tell Mom The Babysitter’s Dead. Except without the larceny. Or peplums.


Do you guys remember when Monica and the rest of the cast of Friends went to Barbados? No? Just me? I’m the only loser here? Fine. Well, let’s just say that her hair was friggin huge.
Monica: [with her big fuckin hair] “Phoebes, I have some bad news…”
Phoebe: “What?.. You’re leaving the Supremes?”


Well, yeah. Today. I have Barbados hair. It’s a mass of ringlets, large and in charge on top of my head and the worst part is it’s a little crunchy. Crunchy! My hair is like KFC people. Or is that crispy. Either way.

Did you guys remember that people used to pay to have their hair done like this on purpose?

Oh, and this morning a memory arose… well, several did… while in the shower, like they normally do. Where I don’t have paper to write them down. Darn that paper for disintegrating in water! I normally just keep repeating them in my head until I can write thoughts down on paper, but then I normally mess something up like a jacked up version of Telephone only played between myself and… well, myself. It doesn’t work very well. I end up stumbling around sounding like a broken record version of Rainman with too much on his mind and a little too much Control Freak Extra Extra Straight in his hair.

This morning I was thinking about where those pictures of Randy the MasterBlaster’s ass could be, whilst thinking about where those pictures of the jaguars could be… because I was thinking about laundry because there was a towel over the chair in the bathroom and the laundry room is right next to the garage and the garage has a bunch of crap that we have yet to unpack (And did I tell you guys that we aren’t moving?… yeah, turns out the president of the company that Mister went to work for lied about his solvency. So yea, again with the unemployment. Boo.) and the garage holds many secrets of the universe like, where on earth is that large bowl that I like to put fruit in for the kitchen table?

Anyway… so while I was thinking about a few things this other thought floated to the surface. When I was young and relatively cute my mother had me listed with a children’s talent agency here in Dallas. I did some print work for places like Sears and Mervyn’s, I was an extra on Dallas a few times and an extra again for Dallas The Early Years. All of these bit pieces and parts were nothing. I wasn’t a shy child and my mother never pushed me to do anything I wasn’t comfortable with. I even did a filmstrip for science fair projects before filmstrips became obsolete… *ding*! Heh. I had my little portfolio and my headshot that was updated yearly and my labor license at the tender age of twelve so I could do these things and save the money for my college education because I was so very responsible at that age. Yes, gag, I know… shut it.

I just remembered auditioning for this movie role. An actual movie role when I was like 13 or 14. I remember taking a day off of school so I could go to the audition. I took a book with me and I hung out in the lobby with my mom with all the other girls and their moms. We were all there to audition for the lead in this movie called Desert Rose or Texas Rose or something like that. It was about a 13 year old girl who… angst… hard times… perseverance… some older person to love and watch over her… maybe dies or something… annnnd scene. Yeah, you can tell, I was really into it.

So, all these little weasels were so hyped up all nervy and freaked out. Worried, vomity totally posting their whole self worth on acceptance or rejection from the people in the room we were being called into. I just sat there with the moms and read my Stephen King novel (Word up Steve… call me… yo.) so when it was my turn, I put my book in my bag, looked over my lines one last time... yes, I had looked over them before… and went into the room. The casting director asked me to read a paragraph or two, then something completely different, which didn’t throw me at all and I left.

I got called back for a second audition either the next day or the day after.

It was down to three girls and I was one of them. Weird huh?

Well, suffice it to say, I didn’t get the part, maybe I wasn’t hungry enough… or maybe I was too hungry. I may have been going through a fat stage, anyway (maybe they didn’t like my crispy hair). I was just thinking that if I would have gotten that part. My whole life could have been so different. And I’m not sure if I would have liked that at all.

Not even sure if they ever made the movie.

Dudes, if ya’ll want to do a Desert Rose the Adult Years I’m your gal. As you read up yonder, we could use the extra cash yanno.

Post scripty thing: This is totally not what I wrote down at all when I finally got to some paper this morning. Maybe I’ll write about that tomorrow. Oh, and thank you all for the kind words yesterday on the #150 post. I appreciate each and every one of you for reading and sticking with me.

February 28, 2005

"There are special angels for children and drunks."

Good afternoon poppets. I trust everyone is in the midst of a lovely Monday? The weather here is perfect, if not a bit cool, which I do prefer. This morning it was around 47 degrees and a little brisk. Perfect for a sweater and some flat front tan trousers and my Pliner mules. But I know that in a few weeks the sun will be baking the thoughts of every single thing but, 鉄hit it痴 hot.� from my sweating brow.

I really enjoyed my weekend too, even though it was dreary and rainy. I got the bestest gift. One of my girlfriends was in town from Chicago visiting her parents for a while and two other girlfriends from Houston came up for the weekend (these are all esteemed YaYas) and we all got to hang out on Saturday.

It was awesome.

I got to meet the Chicago girlfriend痴 new baby (new baby� yes, that is redundant, shut it.) who is absolutely stunning. Such a beautiful child, such amazing eyes� and her skin� Ya値l� I wanted to chew on her. And these little knee dimples! I melted. I値l see if my girlfriend will let me link to her family website so ya値l can view this little piece of exquisite beauty for yourselves. Chicago girlfriend is a beauty as well, a tall Filipino woman from Rusk, TX living in Chicago with a southern accent� what an enigma! Love it.

We had the best time going to lunch early Saturday afternoon at this little Mexican dive restaurant south of Dallas and then we just hung out at Chicago girlfriend痴 (oh hell, I can稚 keep calling her Chicago girlfriend� I call her Sil� sounds like 都eal�)� so we all hung out at Sil痴 parent痴 house on their awesome leather furniture for hours talking and getting caught up on what痴 been going on in all of our lives. The other two from Houston were Jen and Jo.

We all knew each other from college. So, really, since the time of the great flood if you are playing the home game, and coincidentally� thanks for playing along.

Jen just had some recent relationship woes so that was the discussion topic of a better part of the afternoon because Jen is a psychotherapist� also read, smart as a whip and twice as witty, with really great hair. And Jo is normally the quiet one (also our resident crafty Martha Stewart). But if you are in a large group, sit next to her. She doesn稚 say much, but when she does, you will be rolling around in your Cheerio痴 laughing and wiping tears from your eyes and no one else will of heard a word she said. She痴 quiet� and funny, that Jo. Oh, and borrow her lipstick. It痴 pretty.

I love these ladies. Love them.

We got ready around six and went to meet a friend of Jen痴 named Carol. Everyone else knew her pretty well except me. Sweet lady, awesome accessories. I almost tackled her and swiped her purse. Oh, and can I mention her skin? Hello? Peaches and cream.

We met up at Humperdinks� in Addison for beer. We ordered a round and an appetizer to share and by the time the cheese fries were delivered we had already begun a raucous discussion about the shit we thought was a secret when we lived in East Texas. Who slept with whom, who was a raging slut (answer: all of us), who was drunk for basically three years straight, who called whom a fucking bitch (yeah, we all hated that girl too Jen), what happened to that eighteen thousand dollars anyway?, who saved my life (thank you Sil)� and on and on and on.

We decided that verily verily I say unto you� the man upstairs was looking out for our little band of outlaws.

The sheer terror that Sil had in her voice when she said, 的f I did all of that, I can稚 even begin to imagine what [daughter] will do when she goes to college.�

Jen hit the nail on the head when she replied, 典here are special angels for children and drunks Sil.�

And I added, 鄭nd sluts.�

I am sure we really weren稚 as bad as I make us out to be. But for a period of a few years we were all pretty cavalier with our attitudes and our reputations.

I am so glad we have grown up to be the women that we are.

Cheers ladies.

About February 2005

This page contains all entries posted to Suzanna Danna in February 2005. They are listed from oldest to newest.

January 2005 is the previous archive.

March 2005 is the next archive.

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

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