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March 2005 Archives

March 2, 2005

You. Are. My World.

I’ve been a bit on edge lately about Mister’s situation. Not because he is unemployed, nope. Not that. But because of how things were going, his self-esteem was taking a beating and his faith that things would turn around was just about negated. The mamma bear in me has been fighting really hard not to come to life and hunt down the man who laid out these pipe dreams to Mister not even two months ago. In turn, causing Mister to work his tail off for hours on end. Nights, weekends, you name it.

My husband puts 200% into every project he starts. He is an achiever, an analytical sort, and a pleaser who happens to be gifted with a genius IQ. So when he started this new project with this new company and this new boss heaped all of these demands; demands that were not originally part of the deal; onto Mister, of course Mister buckled down and started to work, I knew that the new boss man would be very pleased with the outcome of the project.

Little did I (or Mister or anyone else for that matter) know that the money that boss man had flagged as seed money to finance the payroll of the company was money that he stupidly left in another account for his ex partner to have access to. Access that said ex partner allegedly took, and has since been allegedly arrested for allegedly taking. ::eyeroll::

Puh-lease.

Anyway, the now ex boss man let everyone in the company go a week and a half ago. Mister was crushed. All of his hard work, all of the progress on the new website, all of the charts and the work on HIPPA and countless other tasks and headaches, all for naught. But when ex boss man wouldn’t answer his phone when everyone started calling about their last payroll checks, and ex boss had his wife email Mister’s partner with some cockamamie story blah dee bloo, things started to get a little interesting.

Everyone got his or her last paychecks on Tuesday; a full week after ex boss pulled the plug. When they got their checks, ex boss asked everyone to wait a full five days to deposit them because they wouldn’t go through. Sweet.

This is not the whole thing of course, but a brief (ha!) synopsis.

The reason I bring any of this up is to say that I have the most incredible husband ever in the whole entire world. Ever. Ever. Ever. Infinity, no tag backs.

Yesterday afternoon I got this happy little call from my sweetheart telling me that the ex boss’s check (that bastard… may he rot for hurting my baby’s feelings) finally cleared, so Mister cashed that bad boy post haste.

He then asked me if I would like a sursie.

A sursie (pronounced sur-see) is a little present for no apparent reason. The term was coined by my mother’s roommate in college, Marilyn who rocks most righteously. And if she has ever read this site I may as well just die right now, but Hi Marilyn, Love You!

I told my loving husband that I would be delighted to receive a sursie, that I needed an eyebrow pencil, and that I would prefer one from Clarins. (Psst… Clarins? Why haven’t you called me baby? I still love you yanno.) So Mister said, “Ok… an eyebrow pencil it is.” And we ended our phone call with a bunch of yay’s about the check clearing… and “I love you’s” and “I love you too sooo much’s” and all that stuff.

Let me give you guys a little back story on this incredible man. Ladies, you are going to want to kill me and take him for yourself after this… be warned.

When Mister and I had been dating for a few months (Who am I kidding? It was probably in the first month or so, we were basically living together after the first few weeks!) we woke up one Saturday morning to go to breakfast and then do what new lovers do on weekends… Catch movies, eat rich foods, make love all afternoon, you know… the usual.

Anyway, he was sitting on his bed watching me put makeup on for our foray into the real world for breakfast. I was sitting on the floor with his bedside lamp turned towards me and using it like a make up light. You ladies have probably all done the same thing.

I had my little makeup bag on the floor with it’s contents spilled out all over so I could get to them because we were in a hurry, we were hungry… and we needed to get to all of that other stuff, movies, making love… you get the picture. He leaned over and picked up this little scrap of a pencil and said, “What on earth is this tiny thing? It’s so small, what do you use it for?” I told him that it was my eyebrow pencil and showed him where it went on my face and how it worked. He asked me why it was so whittled down and I answered, “Well, this one is from Merle Norman and my mother bought it for me when I first went into college. They are about twelve dollars and I had just been using it sparingly ever since she got it for me because they are kind of expensive.”

Now ya’ll have to remember that I was a refugee from the Beverly Hillbillies for 9 years previously. Translation: I wore Cover Girl and anything from WalMart, face breakouts and silky skin be damned…. I was po’.

Mister got sort of thoughtful, he held the tiny little snip of an eyebrow pencil in his huge hand, turned it over, looked at it for a minute, and then gave it back to me and then we went about our day.

That Tuesday he picked me up for a date and when I went downstairs to get in his truck (he had the Expedition at the time) he opened the door for me and put me gently inside and then left the door open for a second, leaned in to kiss me and then said, “I have something for you…” and he handed me a little pale pink bag.

I squealed, “A Sursie!”

And he was like What the Fuck? So I explained the sursie thing to him while I opened the bag.

Nestled inside the little bag was a long narrow box with taupe eyeliner from Merle Norman.

Can you guys believe that? This big beautiful man went on his lunch break to a makeup store and told the lady working there what he needed and she picked it out for him.

How fucking thoughtful is that ladies? He got me an eyebrow pencil. He replaced the one I had been carrying around since God was in short pants. Don’t you just want to Die!? Well, I did… and then I called my mother, who squealed right along with me and then called all of her friends and then demanded that I marry him that instant.

(Psst… this is the same man who sent me roses at work on our two-week anniversary that caused me to fly into an incredible crying jag and when I called my mother she thought someone had died because I was crying so hard. She was like, “What did he do to you?” Heh. They were happy tears, but um… I was vulnerable… shut up.)

So, about yesterday.

I asked him for an eyebrow pencil because the one from Clarins that I’ve been using (I have been hording that one from Merle Norman like it’s friggin Fort Knox over here.) is down to its last two or three uses.

I am eyebrow-ly challenged.

Cough-IcutthemoffwhenIwas12-Cough

Yeah… so… annnnnyway… moving along… stop laughing at the afflicted Meanie.

So he told me that when I got home yesterday that I needed to make sure to go get more tampons before we left for dinner. I was like, “Baby, I have some in my purse because I’m a humongous whale of a period-y bloaty whine whine…. Blargh”

He kept insisting, “Sweetie, reeeeeallllly, you need to go upstairs and get more tampons for your purse.”

I was thinking to myself that, “my isn’t he being awfully sensitive and sweet about my cycle this month?” Then it clicked. Ohhh… He may have gotten me the eyebrow pencil! YAY! So I scampered upstairs and found the eyebrow pencil on my bathroom counter. YAY! I yelled down, “Thank you baby! This is perfect… I really appreciate you going to Saks to get this for me, or did you go to Foley’s? I’ll be right down! I just have to tinkle!”

He came bounding up the stairs and stood there while I pee’d like, “Woman… are you daft? I TOLD you to get more tampons.” So he said. “Did you get more tampons?” And I was all, “No, I have a few in my purse and look at the teeny little bit of eyebrow pencil left on the one I have, you were right on time, thank you love.”

Mister: Woman, for the love of all that is holy, would you please Look. In. The. Damn. Cabinet!?
me: ::blink:: oh… duh… sorry.

I opened the cabinet (where the tampons are coincidentally… heh) to find this awesome Saks bag FILLED with Clarins goodies. The tranquility lotion (divine!), my face lotion (luscious), the one step facial cleanser (yay!) a gift with purchase from Clarins with their gentle foaming face cleanser and a mirror and a make up bag and a bag from Saks… ROCK!

Hello? Husband? You. Are. My World. I love you, you so very much.

Strip away all of the gifts ladies and gentlemen and he is still the most priceless gem I have ever found.

March 9, 2005

My personal tragedy will not interfere with my ability to do good hair.

Love:
1. Constantine the movie… yes, yes, I know… there is only so much wandering a script can do from a (line of) graphic novel(s) and this one wanders far and wide… but hello, Constantine the movie… I love you. I don’t care how badly you raped the story line of Hellblazer . I understand the notion of two hours = movie and eleventy four frillon graphic novellas do not a script make. Sequel please?
2. Mandarin Orange Chicken Salad from Wendy’s. Hi there, how you doin? I love that peanutty dressing stuff that you put in that package that is so hard to open that a graduate from MIT couldn’t open it without a miter saw and a incantation from a Wiccan high priestess, or the fact that my arteries harden at the sight of the roasted almonds and the fat content of the said yummy dressing on a FUCKING SALAD you whores! But, still… My love will go on.
3. My new haircut. I will from now on call it my hair-cute, because it is so effing cute. I have good hair. I wanted to flounce into the den this morning and proclaim to Mister that, “Miss Truvy, I promise that my personal tragedy will not interfere with my ability to do good hair.” I have bangs. I have cute bangs. And apparently bangs are in. What? Are they the new black or something? I didn’t get the memo… but then again, I haven’t gotten my hair cut since … Good Lord… Last AUGUST? I should be shot. I had long ratty hair that was all knotted and uuuugh. Why didn’t ya’ll tell me? Stacy and Clinton from TLC’s What Not to Wear would have crucified me in the 360 mirror. And I would have CRIED.
4. Member how I was telling you guys what a rocking husband I have? Well, here is more proof, not like you need any more or anything… but yet… here I am, always at the ready to atoll his awesomeness. I have had this little lamp since my Mommy changed my bedroom from little girl Raggedy Ann motif to a big girl cream with little pink and blue flowers motif (awwww) when I was still wee, but old enough to know that Raggedy Ann sucked. (Those big black eyes… so dead and empty… eeeeeesh.. gah.) Anyway, I have had this stupid lamp forrrrrreeeevvvvver. Remember that I am as old as Methuselah. Um, O-L-D. I keep it on my bedside table and whenever I am trying to read it flickers on and off and I curse it, “Stupid lamp, I hate you. Nobody loves you, yanno. Your lampshade looks all cracked out.” It would never stay on for more than like 4.36 minutes at a time and it would go off during the most inconvenient time. Like when I would be trying to find matching socks in the morning? Flicker out. Reading a book and come to the place where the killer is sloooowly climbing the stairs to attack his prey? Flicker out. And it would reFUSE to come back on. Fucker. So… my husband never wanting to part with anything that is a tie to my childhood (because that is a tie to me) took cracker-lamp™ to the lamp place and bought all the parts to rewire that sucker. He did all the work himself and fixed her up right. Then Monday we went and got a nice new lamp shade that is so modern and nice. She’s so pretty and she works! I love my new non-cracker-lamp™!

Hate:
1. Budgeting. I am not a numbers goddess. I am creative and flowery and like music, movies, escapism, massages, laughing and puppies. Budgeting is none of those things, therefore, it sucks. It is that time of the year … which sounds like we are all in the midst of menses… why can’t I get paid for talking on the phone, taking people to lunch, wearing cute clothes and having cute hair? (see #3 above…)
2. Sleeeeeepy. Although, I am sure that my sleepiness is mostly due to boredom, which can be directly traced back to… you guessed it. Budgeting.

Convinced that:
1. That new Dr. Pepper commercial where they do that Manamana thing was the brainchild of my little journal here as I started linking to the song like a mad bastard back in August of last year, in this entry (first link), and also over at MATH+1. Never mind the fact that like 2 people read this.
2. I may be the only non-pregnant woman I know. Everyone on the internet is expecting and most of the people (women) I know in real life are expecting or just had babies. Except for my office mate… oh, and my mom.
3. I also may be certifiably insane or extremely well adapted at exaggerating.

Pardon me while I go eat this Mandarin Orange Chicken Salad from Wendy’s.

March 15, 2005

Thine Hath Had It Up To Here!

Ya’ll wanna know something?

I have about had it up to here. And the here that I am so empirically speaking of is right above my collarbone and below my chin. Not so much my chestal (is so a word, shut it.) area… and not so much my nostril area. More of the royal version of, “Thine Hath Had It Up To Here!”

Not to evoke the doocing or anything, but shit… The job, she is a-sucking.

And when I say sucking, I am not implying polite spaghetti Lady and the Tramp dinner served by the kind wifebeater wearing chef bearing leftovers kind of sucking.

Nay, I say. Nay.

I mean the Greco Roman column Hoover’d through a fiber optic sucking.

The Jenna Jameson jealous of the power of a dyson and it’s Root Cyclone™ (tell me that’s not phallic… please.) sucking.

The “gravity is just a myth, the earth really just sucks, hardee har har” kind of sucking.

Full on Jeff Goldblum in The Fly speyaking on a donut and sucking it into his misshapen maw type of sucking.

I have had it.

I’m tired. I am tired of the dreams and the not sleeping and the restless nights and the bags under my eyes, Dear Lord… the bags alone are awful enough. I am tired of biting the head off of my poor husband when I tell him the latest saga of the week (or the day… or shit, the morning) and he says, “Baby, you need to…” and I don’t even let him finish his sentence… I hiss into the phone… “Please stop telling me what to do.”

I hissed.

Who hisses anymore?

I thought only Catwoman* did that… and poorly I might add. *Circa 1960’s… I never saw the Halle Berry movie … so, I can’t compare… moving along, sorry.

Am I menstrual? Who knows… it’s a few weeks until I start again, so I doubt it. I can’t claim nature has anything to do with this poor mood, although I just sneezed and almost peed all over myself and if that isn’t nature’s way of saying, “Bitch, get to the gym.” I don’t know what is**.

**Other than the sight of my own fat ass in the morning when I get out of the shower. Thankyouverymuch.

Ok… this is deteriorating.

I’ll try to come up with something positive later.

March 16, 2005

Internal Convict Conflict

Self: Hey there Squinty McNotAttractive.

Also Self: Bite it, mean girl.

Self: What??? What did I do? Huh? It’s not like I went off and left your glasses on Mister’s bathroom counter where he can clearly see them and mock you later about all the squinting!

Also Self: Like I meant to leave my glasses at home, sheesh. Have a little compassion. It’s been a rough one already.

Self: Oh, what… wah, did your soy latte have a bubble in it or something you spoiled little bitch?

Also Self: You are so hateful. Gah. And you of all people should know… I don’t drink soy lattes. Eeesh. I like caramel frappacinos.

Self: Princess, that’s why your ass is the size of a VW bus. And if you aren’t upset about the soy latte thing… then what is your problem, huh? You got all bent out of shape yesterday about Every. Little. Thing.

Also Self: I did not. The tire thing was a viable complaint.

Self: Just because your tire went flat does not give you the right to shake your feeble little fist at the sky and yell “Damn You Stella!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”.

Also Self: But….

Self: And you are not like that chick on Men in Black II where every time she got sad, it rained…. Only with you… your tires go flat… sheesh… Please… GET that sick egomaniacal bullshit out of your dramatic skull.

Also Self: But they do go flat when I’m sad… with alarming frequency.

Self: Coincidence only. And that Stella thing? Not original. As a matter of fact, half of your “funny shit” is probably not your funny shit. You couldn’t original yourself out of a wet paper bag.

Also Self: Um, original is not a verb. And hello, this talking to yourself thing is so not original either.

Self: Point taken. [grumble]

Also Self: Why are you being so mean to me? Oh… do you want special credit for that Greco Roman column thing because of your ‘sucking’ capabilities in college?

Self: Stop it right there…

Also Self: What?! *blink*

Self: Look… I know you’re cranky and all because you have to go get your chassis oiled and lubed today at the special lady doctor and because this has been a hell week and all that but…

Also Self: You really are being mean though.

Self: Tough love chickie… tough love.

Also Self: Well, quit it… Let me ask you a question… Do you enjoy the week we’ve been having?

Self: No.

Also Self: And that reverse jaws of life thing that the OB-GYN uses to get all up in our business to check on our spleen…

Self: Yeah, that sucks too.

Also Self: So… why are you all over my ass about getting out of my funk? And what is with this tough love stuff? We have a reason to wallow and eat chocolate and whine a bit. And it’s cold outside… ooohh… we could do a post about winter.

Self: You’re gonna gank gatsby’s idea now?

Also Self: Hey… I thought you said I couldn’t “original my way out of a pa-”

Self: Ok, ok… truce?

Also Self: Truce.

March 17, 2005

He has the bedside manner of a heavy handed Harley Davidson grease monkey.

So, as I sat there yesterday in the waiting room of my friendly OB-GYN, patiently filling out the updated insurance paperwork, I had my husband sitting beside me playing solitaire on his IPAC. I noticed that my vision was a bit blurry. It wasn’t because I didn’t have my glasses… (Mister brought those to me when we met at the Discount Tire to have the flat tire replaced on the hoopty [I drove the Lincoln yesterday while he took care of the manly car stuff])…and I didn’t have a migraine coming on, sanks the good Lawd… but my vision was a bit blurry because I was so nervous that my heart was beating fiercely. So fiercely, in fact, that while trying to fill in the “date of last menstrual cycle” information my vision was affected with each heartbeat.

It was like some giant was stomping around on the second floor of a rickety building while I was filling out a Scantron.

#1 A … Feeee Fi Fo Fummm! … [Thud.] [Thud.] [Thud.] [Thud.] ….#2 B

Hi… anxious about the OB-GYN much?

Let’s review.

Guys, you can just move along now. We’re just gonna talk about boobies and girlie bits, and not in a sexy way.

Time before last that I was in Dr. Goatee’s office, he called for a mammogram. Yeah, that was a fun trip down mammary lane no?... No? Really?... No? Anyway… My boobs are fine. I have this little lump that I affectionately call my “bean” in my right breast at like 5 o’clock. So it’s not in the “death quadrant” in the armpit area or anything. It is just a bit of hardened tissue or fiber or hell, let’s just call it a special stockpile of fairy dust and angel kisses.

Whatthefuck ever.

It still makes me want to vomit whenever I find it while doing my monthly examinations.

Who the hell am I lying to?

I don’t do monthly examinations. Maybe tri-monthly or something. If I’m lucky and not feeling all squicked out.

I’m also a lucky lucky superfly girl who has this very dense breast tissue at the base of her breasts. So that fact always gives birth to the following conversation (every damn time)…

Dr. Goatee: [smooshing Suz’s boob into her spine and noting the grimace on her face] I know that this is uncomfortable, but it is necessary.
Sue: I’m aware.
Mister: [stony silence]
Dr. Goatee: [still with the smooshing… Jeeezus] I found what you call your “bean”, and the ridges under each breast.
Sue: Yep.
Mister: [stony silence]
Dr. Goatee: It doesn’t seem to be anything to be overly concerned with, however, with saying that… I must make you aware that the only way we can be sure that it is not cancerous is going in and removing the masses.
Sue: *blink*
Mister: [stony silence]
Dr. Goatee: [continues to expound on cancer and blah blah blah] … the positive thing about the ridges under your breasts are that they act as natural underwire.
Sue: um… thanks?
Mister: [picks up a bat and maims the doctor]

Mister really didn’t kill Dr. Goatee, or even maim him for being such a tard. He (Dr. Goatee) really is very thorough, but he has the bedside manner of a heavy handed Harley Davidson grease monkey.

I won’t even go into detail about the pelvic exam other than the good news is that my uterus is not retro.

We’ll have a party on the 2nd of April.

Oh, and my ovary didn’t shoot out my nostril when he pushed a little too hard on the right one. Sweet.

Oh… holy shit, I almost forgot… I lost almost ten pounds. By accident. Which is even better.

Have a great Thursday and remind me to tell you guys about the shit flinging monkey and what happened on Sunday.

Bye!

March 21, 2005

I will give you money... and kittens.

Rain Rain
Go Away
Come Again
Some Other Day like when I’m not wearing the cute pink sweater, my hair is bangin and I have to go to the dermatologist at lunch. Bastard.


So… making appearances in my dreams last night were (in no particular order):
1) Miss Piggy, trying to sue me for libel because I wrote a letter to her using her surname.
2) Stockard Channing trying to run over me with a bicycle because I wouldn’t go to a charity event… Miss Piggy was going to be there, that bitch.
3) David Hasselhoff holding me on his hip while we were talking at a bar because apparently he is the very tall and I am the short. We were arguing because he wouldn’t buy me a red pin with white letters at a street/mall vendor for 95 cents that said “FUCK TAXES” and a very ugly ankle bracelet. I refused to call it an anklet because it had bells on it. Don’t ask. It was a very heated argument. The bouncers were almost involved.
4) I bought three books for 35 cents [What is it with me being a cheap ass in my dreams? With all these things for cents?] from someone who looked suspiciously like Dennis Miller yelling at Andy Dick. A BALD Andy Dick. It was very uncomfortable because Not-Dennis Miller would be all sugary sweet to me then be fire-breathing evil to Bald Andy Dick. I suspected the reason I got the books from Not-Dennis Miller for that bargain basement price was because they were Bald Andy Dick’s favorite books and he was just being mean to Bald Andy Dick.


I have Annie Lennox’s album Diva in my cd player right now and Little Bird is playing. I want to dance around the office. The urge only gets worse with Money Can’t Buy It comes on.

Although, I have to admit… my mind grabs onto things.

This album came out in 1992, my sophomore year of college… so I have a bunch of stuff that I relate this music to. But when Striptease came out in 1996 and we all saw Mrs. Moore ripping that white button up shirt off of her bod and throwing that hat when the song picks up the pace in Money Can’t Buy It… I have to say… sometimes my mind still thinks about that scene of the movie rather than my exploits in 1992 and 1993 in my little 4-door Oldsmobile.


I went to the dermatologist at lunch.

And quite unlike the (second to) last time I went to visit Hacky the Ginzu Monkey… er I mean Dr. Winn… Medicine Woman, heh… when she hacked me to death with a scalpel and it took (seriously) over six months for the wound to even close (Friggin hack. Hate her. Hate.) Dr. T was competent and very gentle.

When I went back to get my follow up appointment to show Dr. Winn… Medicine Woman… the (HORROR!) (And DAMAGE!) progress me and my pitiful little leg had made after the slashing and the stabbing! I asked her staff to, “Please for the love of all that is good and holy, can you switch me over to Dr. T’s roster? I will give you money… and kittens. Whatever it takes. Just don’t let Yoko stab me anymore!”

That was back in 2003.

So when I called in a few weeks ago to make an appointment to have an angry freckle/moley thing looked at, they said, “Dr. T will see you on the 21st at 11:30 am.”

And I wept. With joy.

So, in I went to see Dr. T. My appointment was for 11:30, and holy shit… I was in the office at like 11:45. Dr. T was looking over my whole body like I was Bonnie and he was looking over the ocean. ??? What the hell? Sorry, must be the Tourettes. Or the tards. He was So efficient. And at like 11:59 he was already prepping me to take off the scary angry moley/freckle thingy on my left arm.

It was brown and mad. Kind of like a weasel.

He deadened it, shaved (eeew) it off and poof… it was done…. No need for hacking and drilling Ginzu-bitch! No need for stitches either… see? This guy is good… You? You suck Dr. Winn Medicine woman. Go back to… whatever charm school you flunked out of mean woman. Hate you.

Oh, did I already mention that?

Well, you should see the scar. And I haven’t even mentioned all the time I spent sitting on an old towel soaking my leg in peroxide and Neosporin. The gauze and the bandages and the band-aids (that make me vurpy anyway) Oh My. Hours I will never get back. I even had to take my “medicine bag” on my honeymoon you bitch!

Hi… She hacked into my leg on June 18th… I got married on September 27th.

But… to conclude… love Dr. T. Hate Dr. Winn.

March 29, 2005

So.... Where have You been?

"Carrier Monkey"

ACT ONE

FADE IN:

INT. Copier Room of Workplace – MORNING – The copier is humming loudly running through its paces.

Coughy McChokesOnPhlegm stands over the copier keypad like a bulldog over a favorite bone, wheezing slightly.

The heat from the overworked copier, the small space and Coughy’s ill health combine to make a slight sheen of sweat cover Coughy’s brow. She doesn’t even notice.

(Camera cuts into a tight shot of Coughy’s watery red-rimmed, almost colorless eyes.)

INT. Suzanna Danna’s desk as she puts together a folder of paperwork to take to the copy room. The camera follows Suzanna Danna down the short hallway from her desk to the copy room. Suzanna Danna enters the copy room, and finding it occupied stops short.

SUZANNA DANNA

(stopping suddenly)

Oh, hi… I’m sorry…


COUGHY MCCHOKESONPHLEGM

(turning from the copier and coughing into her hand)

Oh, that’s ok… I was just finishing up in here.

SUZANNA DANNA

(head tilted to the side a little)

Thanks, so, how have you been feeling lately?

COUGHY MCCHOKESONPHLEGM

(smiling)

Soooo much better, thanks for asking.

Coughy finishes her copying and exits with her papers, coughing the whole way.

The camera zooms in on a little speck of spittle that becomes airborne from one of Coughy’s many hacks (a la the movie scene in Outbreak) as it finds its way into Suzanna Danna’s lungs.

FADE OUT.

END OF ACT ONE.

ACT TWO

FADE IN:

Slap a clock at the bottom of the screen, count down to 72 hours for incubation.

INT. Suzanna Danna’s bedroom at 2:15 am the next evening.

SUZANNA DANNA

(tossing and turing… NOT SLEEPING)

Whine… whimper…. Blargh

FADE OUT.

END OF ACT TWO.

ACT THREE

FADE IN:

EXT. Outside Chick-Fil-A on Tuesday when Mister comes to get Suzanna Danna for lunch. She loves Chick-Fil-A. Yay, he’s sweet. Show them walking up to the double doors.

SUZANNA DANNA

(turning green)

Uggh… I don’t know if I can go in there.

MISTER

(blink)

What’s wrong baby?

SUZANNA DANNA

(hand to mouth in classic speyacking style)

The smell.

MISTER

(following her back outside… then back in, then back out)

Um… are you ok?

SUZANNA DANNA

(pouty lip)

I don’t feel too well baby.

MISTER

(nodding)

Why don’t you come home early from work. Can you do that today?

SUZANNA DANNA

(still with the pouty lip)

I think so.

INT. Watch as Suzanna Danna changes her mind several times on her menu choice. Decides she doesn’t like what she ordered. Orders chicken soup, doesn’t eat that either.

INT. Back at the office, Suzanna Danna finishes up her pressing matters and tells her boss she’s feeling “icky”. She goes home.

INT. At home Suzanna Danna sits in the big chair freezing, wrapped in blankets with the heat on a frillion degrees, her temperature keeps rising from 101.4. Mister declares that he will be taking her to the doctor on Wednesday.

INT. Wednesday 2:35 am Suzanna Danna flopping around in bed, whining.

INT. Wednesday 10:00 am @ PrimaCare (because Dr. W the family physician is always on “Emergency” when we call) but the cultures are done for strep and flu. Suzanna Danna calls her boss with the news.

SUZANNA DANNA

(stuffy sounding and not at all happy about it)

Hi boss man, I have good news and bad news.

BOSS MAN

Good news first please?

SUZANNA DANNA

Well, I don’t have strep.

BOSS MAN

And the bad news?

SUZANNA DANNA

It’s the flu… the doc put me at contagious for five days. Tell the whole gang to boil their work stations. I’ll be back on the 29th… that’s Monday right?

BOSS MAN

Tuesday actually. Well, don’t push yourself and get well.

INT. Mister gets the prescriptions filled for all of the medications that it will take to get Suzanna Danna to feel better. She naps on and off for five days. Misses getting to go to her parent’s lake house for Easter and the celebration there, but gets better. Her first day back in the office she runs into Coughy in the hallway outside the copy room.

Suzanna Danna screams and runs in the other direction.

FADE OUT.

END OF ACT THREE.

THE END

March 31, 2005

Did you guys see my little tangerine turtle?

For date night last night Mister and I dressed in our best. He in a beautiful Armani suit with a silk shirt and a monochromatic tie and me in a gorgeous and fitted sheath from Badgley Mischka.

A driver picked us up from the house in a town car and rushed us to Nana’s at the top of the Wyndham Anatole Hotel.

The night was beautiful and a little bit windy.

We had succulent shrimp cocktails for appetizers and some incredibly fresh fruit and our entrée was an amazingly large Maine lobster that we shared as we drank Stoli for me and cask-strength scotch for him until late into the night.

Ok.
Not really.

We really just went to Weinerschnitzel and had $.25 cent hotdogs then went to the dollar movie theater to see The Life Aquatic with Bill Murray and Owen Wilson. Mister and I talked to each other and the movie quietly a few times while some asshole (across the theater from us who answered his phone loudly over and over)… and his rude ass had the balls to tell us to shut up?

Mister eloquently replied, “Bite me.”

It was beautiful. I wish Mister would have tacked on the word “sir” to the end of that “bite me”.

That tiny little Hispanic man was all het up about something and I’m sure that it wasn’t Mister saying, “He’s what?” (referring to the movie) quietly to me while the other 11 people in the theater were hooting loudly.

‘Shut up’ guy was on the phone blocking one of the entrances when Mister and I showed up and he kept answering his phone and leaving the theater to talk loudly in the vestibule thingy. I barely kept Mister from sneaking over and sitting in ‘shut up’ guy’s seat.

'Shut up' guy was (wisely) gone before we got out of the theater.

Not that Mister is a big beat ‘em up type of dude, not at all, he’s very peaceful. He just doesn’t take kindly to people being rude for no reason. Especially when ‘shut up’ guy was being very disruptive with the whole multiple answerings of his phone and his many comings and goings of the theater.

But overall, the movie was great and date night was still a success! :)

Did you guys see my little tangerine turtle?

Look below. Go on. I’ll wait.

Oh… I almost forgot. I have the most incredible urge to smoke right now. It is seriously killing me. The other night, Monday I think, Mister went to the store around 9 pm. I was sitting on the couch with the cat waiting for my latest tv crack (Medium isn’t that shit the best? I just Love that show.) to come on and I picked up the phone to call Mister. I was going to say to him, “Hey baby, while you’re out… will you pick up a pack of smokes for me?” Like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like I didn’t quit a frillion years ago (shut up, it will be ONE stinking year on May 7th). Like it wasn’t a freakin bitch to stop cold turkey and like I don’t still dream of myself all skinny with a smoke in my fingers every night.

*blink*

On the smoking thing… ok, so it’s totally not related… my sibling called me a while ago and this conversation took place:
Me: Hey…
Her: Hey…
Me: Whatcha doin?
Her: I’m on my way to have the baby right now.
Me: [shitting in my pants] Holy CRAP! Ok.. I’m on my-
Her: I’m totally kidding… [laughing heartily]
Me: Freak.

More later.

About March 2005

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

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