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April 2005 Archives

April 4, 2005

Get Out. Of The Trunk. Now, Please.

Have any of you seen the movie Cheaper By The Dozen? It’s a Steve Martin film, so by law I was bound to see it at some point or another because I loave me some Steve Martin, yo. And I do like Bonnie Hunt and … pphhhtt, this is not a movie review post. So yeah, anyway. Have ya’ll seen that movie or not? If so, please walk with me straight over here to crazyville population, me.

Follow me here… yanno how Hank (Ashton Kutcher) is all rockin the sock less Burberry loafers with his high-water maroon britches and calling his car the LABARON… like it requires capital letters? I’m paraphrasing here… ya’ll understand. “The dogs are touching The LABARON!” “They better not scratch The LABARON’s paint job, Nora.” Or whatever. And he said it totally without a trace of irony. Brilliant.

And now I? Want to refer to my hoopty as The MYSTIQUE! “There is Bird Poop on The MYSTIQUE!” “The clear coat is totally peeling off of The MYSTIQUE!” And I will say this without any trace of irony what-so-ever. I will take The MYSTIQUE to the CarSpa and ask for the full package and say with disdain, “There is an unidentifiable stain and brown matter on the floorboard of the passenger side of The MYSTIQUE!”

Mister thinks I have lost my mind. Not because I have told him about my plans to call the hoopty the MYSTIQUE! (Now with 100% less irony.) But because his Lincoln is in the shop getting fixed and they gave him this monster towncar for a loaner. It’s the size of a tuna boat.

He loves it because it’s luxurious and rides like a dream. I swear, we’ve turned 80 in the past three days.

We went to a cute little sushi place after we got our taxes done on Saturday. In the sushi place parking lot he went to put his briefcase thingy in the trunk. I saw the size of the trunk of the towncar and flipped my shit.

Me: Holy crap! You could fit a body or three in there!
Mister: No shit… it’s huge.
Me: Move over, let me get in. [crawling into the enormahuge trunk]
Mister: Baby… [looking around nervously] someone’s going to think I’m kidnapping you…
Me: Hee! [laying down]
Mister: Get out.
Me: This is actually very comfortable.
Mister: Baby… [still looking around nervously] please get out…
Me: Close the lid. [pointing up]
Mister: Baby… [motioning frantically with his hands and looking a bit sick] seriously… I’m not kidding. Someone’s going to think I’m kidnapping you… Get Out. Of The Trunk. Now, Please.
Me: Ok, ok ok ok ok. [crawling out of the trunk]
Mister: Thank you.
Me: [2/3rds out… screams quietly] HELP!
Mister: [looking around nervously] Quit it.
Me: Heh
Mister: Freak. [spanks my butt]

So… when we got home Mister parked in the driveway in the back and let me climb in the trunk. I asked him to shut the lid on me several times, so he did and I pulled the emergency release lever. The lever glows in the dark, you pull it and “snick” the trunk opens and you can hop out and flee if you are ever captured by bad men.

The only problem I see is if you are tied up in the trunk… and blindfolded. Then you wont be able to get to, or find the little release lever to “snick” … flee… and yeah, you’re screwed.

Hence the reason I keep a lot of shit in my trunk. Bad men won’t be able to put me in there. Also… No little glow in the dark lever. Stupid MYSTIQUE!

Yes, I am a dork. Moving along.

Overheard at a garage sale this weekend:
Greg: [coming around the side of the house] I lost a tool.
Stacey: How can you tell? There must be more than 500 tools back there.
Greg: Oh… [pointing] you can totally tell, and there’s more than that. It is the Flux Capacitator. (he used the real name but to me it sounded like flux capacitator)
Stacey: So, you’re stuck?
Greg: Stuck like Chuck. [sitting down] So, did I tell you I got screwed at the post office yesterday?
Susan & Stacey: [laughing]
Susan: That is the best sentence I have heard all day… that is so going in my journal.
Greg: Your what?
Susan & Stacey: [laughing]
Stacey: Her journal.

We all observe a Hispanic man carefully looking over an apron from Taco Bell. He offers a quarter, Stacey takes it. He gets in his vehicle and drives away. We all look at each other and try to decide whether or not laughter would be appropriate. Laughter wins out.

At said garage sale I got a little sun, but because I was hiding from the molten ball of fire in the sky (behind a fledgling tree if you must know, shut up… stop laughing) I got just a little sunburned. The little sun happens to be in a strange pattern across the left side of my face and neck. Sweet. I look like I have a weird case of hives… or rickets.

I hosted a bridal shower for some friends from church yesterday and a couple that I adore was there, they brought their three (and a half) children. The oldest ran up to me, jumped into my arms and then pulled back and sagely said, “Susan, you ear is red.” I replied, “Yes it is sweetie, I got a little bit of sun yesterday because I have very pale skin… but look…” I said turning my head to the other side, “My other ear isn’t red.” She corrected me, “As much.”

Mister and I are going over to that couple’s new home for dinner tonight… remind me to put powder or something on my ear. Or wear a ski hat. Or earmuffs.

April 5, 2005

Heartbreaks over expectations never verbalized.

There are three things I could be doing right now, productive things… work things. But I have this memory buzzing around in my head, actually a whole slew of them.

I made the mistake of listening to The Wolf* this morning while I was getting ready for work. (*you can follow that link and listen live if you so desire)

Mister went down to Houston last night to stay with some friends of ours. He has a job interview today at one o’clock, and another tomorrow back here in Dallas at 5 pm (please pray for him or send him good thoughts), so I was alone in the house this morning and I really cranked the radio while I was showering and putting on my face for the day.

My cat is really one hell of a dancer. Don’t let him tell you any different. He’s just modest.

The reason I said that I made a mistake by listening to the Wolf, not that it is a bad station, it’s really quite good… the reason I said that is because it is purely country music. If you have ever been a fan of country (and western! ha ha ha… bah dum chhh) music, if you have ever given it half a chance (move along gatsby) then you know the kind of hold it can have on your memory. The kind of pull it has on your heart when along comes a certain song on the radio and you are trying to apply your mascara just-so… but you have to stop… with your mouth half open… looking like a carp out of water while your mind races back to 1991…

No no no… I don’t have time for this. I don’t want to think about those steamy summer nights in Beaumont. Or that little saloon built off of county road 698 in Nacogdoches by a guy you could swear was lost in this century, a Wyatt Earp style mustache gracing his upper lip while a bandana encircled his neck. That little saloon where I could drink ice cold Lone Star beer night after night, while dancing on the shiny-but-warped floorboards, my head tucked under the chin of some good smelling cowboy named Tommy.

It’s too late… lost… lost in the words of some Kenny Chesney song about how some sweet, tall drink of water said those words to me and more… pledging time, love, honor and to move the mountain the earth and the stars if only… if only… if only what?

The memory surrounds me …. of being at a bar called Boomers one evening with the rodeo club. A handsome young buck approached me at the bar and asked me if he could have the honor of knowing my name. He removed his hat and bowed slightly to address me and I, within moments was completely smitten by the unassuming charm of a young man with the unlikely moniker of Joe Glenn. He bought me a beer and asked for a dance, I obliged, finding a wonderful and strong leader. When he led me back to my seat and my friends, he placed me in my chair with such care and manners that I stood on tiptoe and placed a small kiss on his cheek. When I turned around, Joe Glenn was laying on the floor with his hat over his heart saying, “I can die a happy man now.”

A song nags at my memory and threatens to open the closet of all of the “Dancing with Jason, D’Wayne, Troy and Chad Memories” and throw them all over the floor. Really, I do not have time for this mental enema right now, thankyouverymuch… ::sigh:: Doug Stone’s In a Different Light… fine… fuckity fuckity FINE.

But you are only getting the short version. I am in no mood for crying at the office. Do you hear me?

So much time is lost thinking about this stuff. But I can not help it…
Have you guys seen that Old Spice deodorant commercial where that chick and her friend are sitting at the kitchen table and in the background their retarded (not literally) boyfriends are jumping around like Mantled howler monkeys on crack about some football game or something. Then one of the girl’s boyfriends runs in and hugs her. She smells him. This triggers all these memories of them on a ferris wheel, eating brie, throwing feces together (what? He’s a howler monkey.) and the tag line is something like, “Scent is the strongest link to memories.” Or something. I call bullshit. I think it is music.

These four men Jason, D’Wayne, Troy and Chad shaped me, shaped the way I dealt with college stressors, the way I dealt with disappointments and victories and the way I felt about my loyalties and loves. They helped me through and were part of budding relationships and relationships that could do nothing but end in disasters. But every time I hear that song I can think of more than one time that I spent in each one of their arms dancing, laughing, crying or talking. One of the most special memories, I will tell you about soon enough.

The first. Gah, Jason. For some reason I fell for this guy so hard, but refused to really tell him what I wanted from him. I would try to act like, “Sure… whatever you wanna do is fine man. Spades tournament? Cool. I’m gonna go dancing at the Garage. You’ll just meet me there for the jitterbug thing? Yeah, that works… whatever.” Ya see, here’s the deal. This guy was the best fucking dancer I had ever danced with in my life, up to that point. I met him the first day we moved into the dorm and since he was rooming next door to one of my buddies from high school (Greg from the previous post… Stacey’s husband… yeah, that story is for another time…) I was like… Bonus. Interesting looking dude from Beaumont. Right on.

I was fresh off of my long time relationship (ended almost a year before) and swearing off men pact and the only crush I had had in a long time was on … get this… Richard Lewis. And here comes this brooding coonass from Beaumont with a grin, incredible rhythm and a cute little ass. Order of one please.

I weighed in at like 115 pounds and Jason could throw me around like a rag doll. One night we busted a move and he forgot to drop his elbow. WHAP! Right in my eye socket. Nice, a black eye right in time for parental visitation week. But when my parents saw us dancing and the level of athleticism, they had no doubts that it was a little risky. It was awesome… I guess I just assumed that the level of athleticism would continue into the bedroom.

Now I realize that I am a grown woman and I should have no shame for what I am about to say because it has nothing to do with me, because at the time Jason and I were in no way in any kind of wanton action but… I’m still mortified by the fact that he fell asleep on me. I was in his room, I snuck into his room to be more precise. He asked me to be there and it took a lot of doing for me to get over there without getting in trouble and the bastard fell asleep on me! I felt so unimportant and unloved and everything was UN! I snuck back out of the boy’s dorm and broke up with him the next day. I’m not even sure if he realized that he was dumped.

Thereby finalizing the education I received through Jason. I would continue to receive heartbreaks over expectations never verbalized though… because that’s the kind of gal I am dammit!

Troy… ah… the hillbilly, and I say that with affection. Troy wanted to play with me like a little doll. He was a big 6’3” bruiser with a mop of unruly blond hair and big blue eyes and this huge grin. I met Troy and his roommate D’Wayne through the rodeo club. Troy was from New Caney and loved to dance… SOLD! Boy can shake it like you can not believe. He can move that big ol body to anything with a fuckin beat! Jitterbug? Hello, Mr. Jason’s replacement… (Troy was my parent’s favorite to watch me dance with) and his waltz?… like buttah. All stiff upper torso with travel underneath. He acted like I was this little girl with the big wounded eyes and the Georgia peach smile wielding the power of rhythm, sweat and suggested sexual prowess all through music and proximity of hip to hip. There was only one problem with Troy’s theory… I’m just a big dork. Myth? BUSTED! (See?... Discovery Channel dork even. Heh.)

D’Wayne. (Sue = tearing up) D’Wayne equals my heart. That is all. Oh, the memory that I talked about earlier… D’Wayne has this voice like… like… Ok, imagine. No, better yet. Do this for me. Go to this link scroll down… click on the song called In a Different Light and then imagine your best friend in the world singing that to you when you have had a bad day. Or in that same sweet soothing voice singing If* by Bread to you when you have such bad dreams that you can’t sleep. Or… ::sniff:: when you get so blasted drunk at the bar (maybe to forget or maybe just so I could sleep) that you can’t even get your own pants off to pee, he helps you pee and then puts you to bed and sits next to you, watching vigil over you until you wake in the morning to make sure you are ok. (big breath) D’Wayne taught himself to dance in the mirror of his dorm room before he stepped a foot on the dance floor and he is one of the smoothest dancers. He can really polka too. And you get the added bonus of listening to him sing while you dance with him.

*you can follow this link the same way to hear the If song too.

Chad… sweet Chad. He calls me Sue Mamma (still). He came to college at seventeen on a scholarship from fishing. He’s smart as a whip and his momma raised him right. He is respectful and has wonderful manners. But shit, if you got the two of us together when we were in the mood to get tore up from the floor up? We would get in So much trouble… (please see the above paragraph about drunken behavior). When I hear Shenandoah’s Next to You, Next to Me I get a big ol grin and think about Chad. Maybe fishin in the dark or doing something retarded together at a bonfire… or his big heart. Dance with Chad ladies… if you are in Dallas… call me. He has this long legged slow moving grace that really travels. He can two-step, three step and waltz. And Chad can fix most anything mechanical. If a friend was in need of something, if their car broke down, Chad would fix their car for them, spend his time and energy to make sure they were taken care of… if they would just get the parts. Poor thing, married a mean ol girl... a local from Nac, just like me. Thank goodness we both got out.

These men were friends and confidants and sometimes lovers, but the music takes me back to them. Damn you 99.5 the Wolf, wasting my day. Not like I had anything to do with wasting my day… no siree bob!

April 8, 2005

It was so beautiful we had to get out and...pee.

I’m listening to techno, Shakira and Prince so… um the country and western music (see last post) is not responsible for the latest rounds of pop-up* memories that are running around my noggin like little dirty kids in a dusty driveway with Kool-Aid mustaches and sticky fingers from their melting ice-cream sandwiches.

*(Sing the jingle for Pop Up Video with me!)

I think the responsible parties would be the black Sebring and the little, black 4-banger Jeep Wrangler I saw driving side by side westbound on Frankford road yesterday afternoon on the way home from school work.

Actually, I know that they were, because at the light Coit and Frankford I snagged a napkin from under the mirror of my sun visor and started furiously scribbling notes.

I know I talk a lot about the college years like they are some lost episodes of fuckin Friends or something. And I know that I talk about my college girlfriends a lot of the time too. But the ones who held truck with me throughout the hazy and crazy after college but before I left Nac for Dallas years really take the cake…

Case In Point:

Sesil and Melanie were holding Girls’ Night at their condo and we were supposed to show up promptly at 6:30, bring either bread or salad to go with their Chicken Spaghetti and then we were going to drink a lot and maybe get into some trouble. Orrrr play cards. Whatever.

Sil and Melanie were expecting 12 women to show up and break bread in their tiny two bedroom condo and I had received a call earlier in the day. A call from Brad asking me what my plans for that evening consisted of.

Brad, Annie and I would get together periodically and hang out at my house (or his or hers) and watch movies, scratch backs, brush hair, do our nails, gossip, drink a lot (do you see a pattern emerging here?) or do other various things. My husband (at the time) worked nights (cop) and Brad’s brother was on the nightshift with my husband. Brad was not gay with the brushing hair, scratching backs and doing nails thing. Brad was smart, very attractive, tall and had that “shucks me?” quality. All of my girlfriends knew of Brad’s propensity to pamper and he slept with most of them… see? Smart that Brad… S-M-R-T.

I told Brad that Annie and I were going to be going to Sesil’s and Melanie’s for Girls’ Night, he asked if they were fixing their famous Chicken Spaghetti… I said, “Oh hell yeah.” Brad asked me to call him later because Greg and “girl” would be coming by his house.

Here is where you would cue an evil glint in my eye.

Greg (not Stacey’s husband… another cop on the night shift) and Sesil used to be an item. A Three Year Item. A living together, closeness with family and stuff item. And it ended poorly. Not on Sil’s side, she is a class act. But in my oh, so humble opinion Greg could have handled it much better. Greg was dating a peach (pit) of a girl that we called … “girl”. We had all been awfully nice, for an awfully long time and she snubbed us every damn time. She made going to any of the police department functions unbearably uncomfortable… scowling at anyone who smiled at her or Greg… ugh. She was rude, snotty and acted like a humorless bitch. She snubbed her nose when anyone tried to be genuinely friendly… ergo we dubbed her “girl”. She did not have the common decency to be courteous to any of us, so we wouldn’t call her by her given name. That cunt. Whoa. Sorry.

During the awesome chicken spaghetti dinner, I revealed to the ladies that Brad (everyone say Awwwwww) had called and that Greg and “girl” would be going over to Brad’s to watch a movie later.

Cue evil glint times eleven.

After we drank some beer and cleaned up, played cards and sang off key to the radio while looking at pictures, Brad called back and said, “The eagle has landed!”

Twelve women piled into three cars (one of them being Sesil’s black Sebring… I drove… ???) and we all headed to Brad’s. I called him to let him know I was on the way. I heard him tell Greg, “Sue is on her way over with some of the girls.” I heard Greg chuckle low and say, “Cool. Tell her to pick up some more beer if she’s bringing more than a few friends.”

Oh we brought beer alright. We brought more than beer.

Ya see, Greg and my husband worked very closely together but not closely enough that Greg knew that I hung out with his ex-girlfriend. My husband knew. Brad knew. And everyone else knew. But not Greg.

We pulled up, and Brad came bounding out of the house like Big Bird while twelve women were piling out of three cars in his driveway. He stopped mid-bound and said “Fuck” and spread it out for like a minute and a half. The smile stopping on his face.

“FuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuCK.”

We all lined up in front of him in three rows and then the fun of the evening dawned on him and his big goofy grin returned with a vengeance.

He didn’t like “girl” either.

We all followed Brad’s example and bounded into the kitchen though the side entrance, putting our beer in the cooler on the way into the living room as we went. Chatting happily and flirting with Brad. He led us into the living room which was not much bigger than a box with a futon, a fluffy chair, a coffee table and the television. Greg and “girl” sat hunched over on one side of the futon. As we filed in, circumventing the room, Greg’s smile, that was large to begin with… slowly faded. As soon as Sesil walked in he gave her a halted wave, “girl” gave him an “I HATE YOU” look and then looked at the floor for the rest of the time.

It wasn’t long before they left Brad’s place.

“Girl” spent months making everyone in that room uncomfortable, we made her uncomfortable just once, and it wasn’t even in public. But it still felt pretty good.

One More Case In Point:

Girls’ Night was usually every Tuesday night for some reason and it mainly consisted of me, Sesil, Siska and Annie (and sometimes Brad, heh).

The venues would never be the same. They could be anything from playing Atari or going bowling to a dollar movie. But mostly they started with the basics…

Stealing my husband’s Jeep from the police department parking lot.

There is just something about a steamy summer night in East Texas with the top off of a little Jeep Wrangler. I drove a Dodge Avenger at the time… it had some umpff, but the Jeep had… no roof. Perfect for howling and playing music loudly and …

And….

And…

Ok, if you’re gonna be a country girl, you have to be a country girl sometimes.

Here’s the story.

One evening after we stole the Jeep from the PD parking lot we got situated. We had our in the little (big) cooler in the back, iced to perfection and overflowing with beer. (What? Drinking and driving in Texas is encouraged… now someone give me a loaded weapon.) We each had a pack or two of our smokes of choice placed in various places in the Jeep for easy retrieval and lighting. We had our koozies so our beer would remain cold after it left the confines of the cooler. And we had our tunes. We were set.

We tooled around town, riding up and down Main Street, North Street, driving the loop. Then we went out to Jitterbugs and drove right past it on the packed sand and blacktop of their pseudo parking lot into a small break in the tree line.

The temperature dropped slightly because the trees were so dense. We followed the little sanded road for about half a mile, twisting a turning, up and down small hills and valleys. We stopped at a clearing that bisected our little westbound road to the north and the south. The pine trees were cut away so neatly and with such precision that it seemed a surgeon cleared them and placed the transformers every 500 yards or so.

It was so beautiful we had to get out and… pee.

We piled back in the Jeep and headed onward. The little path continued for a while then opened up into a sand pit with huge holes and commas and cliffs of sand piled up just aching to be jumped off of… or driven off of. We played in the sand pit for an hour or so until it got too dark and was no longer safe to be in a place where you didn’t know if the bottom of the path you were treading was going to fall out.

We headed back out the little pine tree lined path to get back on Loop 224. It seemed that we were in the trees for an awfully long time and I was getting nervous that we had taken a wrong fork in the trees, as there were several. Annie said she had to pee, and I wanted to get out before it got any darker. We made a compromise that only two half-lit wonderful girlfriends can make.

Me: “Ok, then what we’ll do is… you just hang your ass over the side and pee…”
Annie: “Awesome.”
Me: “Here’s a napkin… and I’ll go slow enough so you won’t fall out.”
Annie: “Rockin. And if I fall out… I swear I’ll kick your ass Sue… HEE!”
Rest of the Jeep: [laughing hysterically]

Annie, of course, doesn’t fall out and we have a story to tell her children.

And then we flashed truckers. The End.

End Note: Yes, I know I didn’t go into detail about stealing a vehicle from a police department. But… maybe next time. And then there’s the fact that I’m painfully cute and we had a scanner too. So, there ya go.

Questions? I’ll answer them.

Go.

April 9, 2005

Royal (second) Wedding

Whilst watching the Royal (second) Wedding this morning on CNN with Mister he grandly proclaimed…

Mister: I hereby pronounce thee Charles, Prince of Wales and Camilla, Duchess of Corndog… husband and wife!

Heh.

Mister actually made us an image to go along with his colorful commentary.

Original image credit to this guy . Thanks guy!


Below is a picture taken while Mister was waiting outside of Windsor Castle. Prince Charles and Camilla are in the car. If you look closely, you can see that the guard is showing his support for Captain Morgan Spiced Rum. I thought they had a rule about not drinking before going on duty!


April 12, 2005

Linkity Link Link Bitches!

I know I have had a link (up in the header part… [points]) to my LINKS PAGE up since Oz did my redesign and I have yet to fix it. Here is my first attempt.

Diaryland Diaries that I frequent on a regular basis. These are in alphabetical order. Or they are starting out that way.

juddhole
ladeeleroy
mimi smartypants
momolade
packsawallop
porktornado
spanklin
squirrelx *does anyone know where she went???
sundry
trancejen
weetabix

Here are some others that demand mention. Them’s good readins.

Robyn over at A Damn Thing.
Amy and her beautiful self at Amalah.
Nat-Nat at Cats In The Tub.
Jette at Celluloid Eyes. *This is the first journal I evah read!
Heather and her family at Dooce.
Doxie Um.. Monkey!
Mary at Fly In The Honey.

The amazing prose written by my friend and part-time partner in crime gatsby.

AB and Camp Chao over at Hashai.
Coleen to the D and her hussy self at Hussified.
Invincible Girl
Preston at (heh) Lactating Power.
Molly Kath at Les-Cadeaux*** AWESOME!.
The gallery of regrettable food… indeed. Heh Lileks.
MATH+1.
Pamie.com.
Pineapple Girl.
Tami and her bad self at Reflectivity.
Anne at SomethingUnderTheBed may or may not be drooling… go check for yourself. Oh, and she promised to switch places with me if I ever got tired of Texas.
Julia at Tequila Mockingbird.
Martha at The Random Muse.
Sars at Tomato Nation.
The fabulously witty CR at Witt and Wisdom.

Oh, The girls over at Snarkywood.


And this... this is my new favorite lunch time show... He Looks Like. Seriously, click on the link, but beware, you may pee a little.

I would also like to give a mad shout out to Oz who did my fabulous design.

Deleted the original Links entry from Aug/04 and replaced it with this one due to Diaryland not letting me edit the old one.

April 13, 2005

Squire of the Alley

This morning I went and had that pro-seeeee-jure done on my arm. The place on my little t-rex* arm. Where Dr. T had previously shaved off the top of the mole was all healed up and pretty and new and pink. Shiny. Smaller than the circumference of the top of a pencil eraser… and yet… YET… they got all stabby with me.

Three stitches underneath and seven on top.

That’s ten stitches for a mole that was no bigger than a booger. And my arm is hurty and I’m pouty and don’t want to be at work. But, thankfully I am caught up. So I think I will tell you guys a story. Yeah, that’s smart. Use my arm for typing a bunch. See? I’m smart, S-M-R-T.

Mister and I live in a beautiful older home. Pure 1976 cheese. I love this house. I love the Dutch roof. I love its wooden beams across the living room ceiling. I love the large windows in the kitchen. I love the corny wet bar and cracked glass globe lighting fixture. I love how the hallway floor upstairs is uneven and makes you feel a little drunk when you are walking towards the guest bedroom. I love the big backyard and I love the half cul-de-sac we live on.

When we moved in my best friend from high school alerted me to the fact that I was living next to the father of her high school (and college) sweetheart. It is funny how things seem to move in a circle the older you get… no?

Mister and I went around meeting some of our neighbors.

We met the old man next door, such a sweet old guy and I refrained from telling him what a complete dick his son was to my friend for the last two years of their relationship. That’s the swell kind of gal I am. I’m sweet like that, yanno?

We met a family that lives directly behind us. The guy is a retired Marine and I actually went to school with is wife… (can’t remember her, sorry) and their two kids. We met a few more men who the Marine guy hangs out with on the weekends when they are finished doing yard work or talking about their tools (not like that ya’ll ew… or I don’t think it’s like that).

The main group of guys who hang out in our alley are Dave, Mike and Mike. (Ed. note: I’m not changing their names to protect the innocent, I can only remember one of them… and I’m not really all that certain about that one.) And yes, they hang out in the alley like they are trying to relive some sick and twisted King Of The Hill episode.

About two months ago Mister and I were in the driveway unloading groceries from Sam’s from the car and Dave and his family pulled to the end of our driveway and Dave rolled down his window to speak to us.

Dave: Hey.
Mister: Hey, how are you guys doing?
Me: Good afternoon.
Dave: We’re fine. I was just wondering… did either of you happen to see anyone messing with my recycling bin last night?
Mister: No why?
Me: No, sorry.
Dave: Well, somebody set it on fire and left it in the alleyway.
Mister: Well, come to think of it I did see some ash in the alley behind our fence, but I didn’t think anything about it.
Dave: Well, ok… if you see anything else, let me know.
Mister: Ok, have a good day.
Me: Bye ya’ll.

A few weeks later Mister and I came home from church and Dave, Mike and Mike were huddled together up against the far northwest corner of our fence, almost like they had been caught doing something. Mister and I, ever friendly, smiled and waved as we pulled into our driveway. As we got out of the car, we heard a bunch of, “SHhhhhhhhhhh!!!!”s Like they were shushing each other from talking about the big galoots that were getting out of the car… namely US.

We got out of the car and went inside. I shook my head sadly and Mister looked at me like, “What?” I asked him what he thought their problem was. They being the three grown men outside, standing on our property acting like teenagers. Did they think we had anything to do with the sacrificial recycling bin? Were they upset that our garage wasn’t in pristine ‘Tim The Toolman’ shape like theirs were? Are they opposed to renters? Do they not agree with us delegating out our yard work to other people whilst they work so hard on their own? Mister was like, “Who knows and who gives a flying fuck?”

This brings us to the latest.

Sunday, two weeks ago, Mister and I came home from a wedding shower I was doing for some friends from church. We drove into the alley and there was Dave and his little family of four in his driveway. I smiled and waved and he… looked straight at me then turned his prissy ass nose up at me and turned away.

And Oh, how I wish I was kidding.

We parked and I barely got inside before my voice jumped up about nine octaves and I launched into my lovely rendition of, “What the fuck was that?” I went almost sonar and the dogs in the neighborhood were barking and Mister got me calmed down enough before…

Get this…

My wimpy ass started crying.

Because a neighbor snubbed me.

I was all, “Why? Why? Why? Would someone be so mean? We didn’t do anything to him!”

I told Stacey about this the other night over margaritas and she was laughing her ass off at me because she gets it. She understands. We can be all tough and try and handle everything, we can even try and save the world or at least fix it dinner, but the moment someone is deliberately mean and we don’t know the reason? Shit? Yeah, it’s Lost.

I wanted to march over and ask that scrawny fucker what did I ever do to warrant that kind of behavior from him… but that would have just given him all kinds of ammunition against me. It’s better to not care. And as you can see, I’m doing a great job of not caring.

Fucker.

He hurt my feelings.

*The t-rex arm description comes from the fact that my legs are all long and in comparison it seems that my arms are iiiittty biiitttyyy.

April 14, 2005

Story Crossing

Story Crossing

Lucretia over at Life As A Carrot started the ball rolling with this, and then Ten Miles Beyond The City snatched up the baton and ran with it for a good pace.

At the request of Anne at Something Under The Bed, I am going to take a flying leap at the story-crossing. If you would like to do the same, Please, give credit where credit is due and link to all of those involved in the development of this story, starting with Lucretia of course. Thank you.

Without further ado…


It was hot and sticky inside the club, the air hung thick with smoke. Overhead lights threw a sickly, seedy pink hue over everything. Mike was stoned. Way too stoned. And now he was drunk. Very drunk. He leant heavily against the grimy bar counter, the stench of stale urine from the nearby public toilet hung in the air and clung to the walls, insidiously working its way into his nostrils. He grimaced and attempted to focus on anything in his immediate vicinity, anything that wasn’t moving. It was hard. People crushed and crowded against him, all trying to catch the barmaid’s attention. Faces became distorted and stupid looking. He sniggered to himself at the grotesque images around him, he hated it here, he loved it here. The noise and heat engulfed him and for a few moments he felt almost happy, blanketed in the common bond he shared with all the other restless, lonely, souls. Then he remembered where he was and almost immediately, the blackness came rushing back into his head.

He gave up trying to focus on the people and stared instead at the brown bottle in his hand. Nine Inch Nails’ “Closer” throbbed suggestively from somewhere deeper in the club and a bunch of Goth chicks began gyrating in time to the beat, behind him. They were all drunk as skunks and teetering crazily all over the place. One of them lost her balance and crashed into the bulk of Mike’s slouching body, half rolling off his leather jacket. He wasn’t sure if it was deliberate on her part, he was past caring. He turned slowly and gave her an icy stare.

“Oops, sorry!” She blurted, giggling at herself. “My mistake.”
She stopped abruptly, taking in his violent gaze.
“Chill, dude.” She said casually.

She looked about eighteen, so Mike reckoned she was probably fourteen or younger. Her face was plastered with thick white makeup; her eyes, heavily black from the Kohl eyeliner, looked like piss holes in the snow. She was wearing a black mesh top and no bra, her nipples poked through the strands of black string. He sneered at her.

“Fuck off.” He said in a menacing tone. He was so sick of adolescent girls. They were all so full of shit. Cock teasers and sluts. The last thing he needed tonight was a potential statutory rape probability

“Fuck you too, shit head!” she spat at him and swaggered off unsteadily back to her mates. Her friends gasped in unison when she told them what he’d said to her. A chorus of “arsehole!” and “dickface!” assaulted his ears; they made gestures with their middle fingers.

He shrugged and went back to his beer, glowering at the faces around him. The place was starting to close in, he felt claustrophobic. ‘Fucking bitches,’ he seethed inside. ‘I fucking hate them all. Only good for one thing.’ He continued to drink heavily and ordered another beer from the frazzled bar lady.

“Geez, Mike,” she said, eyeing him warily. “You’re sure as hell putting them away tonight, hey? Slow down, dude.”
She was fond of Mike, he was a regular patron at the club but she hadn’t ever seen him this tanked up, or as surly before.

“Just give me a goddam beer, Claire and leave me the fuck alone with the lectures, okay?!” His voice was heavy with booze, yet even in his inebriated state, he managed to speak clearly.

“I’m not lecturing you, Mike.” Claire said, uncapping the beer and slamming it down hard on the counter next to his outstretched hand.
“Just take it easy, okay?”
She tossed his loose change close to the beer bottle.
“Give me any shit and I’ll get Bruce to throw you out.”
She glared at him threateningly and then spun around, before he could say anything abusive. A crowd of people on the opposite side of the bar were clamoring for refills. She didn’t have time for arguments.

Fatigue pulled at Mike, dragging him down. He tried to shake it off with a few gulps of the fresh, cold beer but it wasn’t helping. Bruce, the massive bouncer, had always been friendly but Mike knew that it wouldn’t be impossible to overstretch the boundaries and get turfed out into the street. Bruce didn’t take crap from anyone – friend or otherwise.

Mike was getting sick of the place, sick of the babies, the endless parade of schoolgirls.
‘Why the fuck do I come here?’ He mulled to himself. ‘It’s not like I even enjoy it anymore. Always the same bunch of losers and wannabees. They all think they are so cool but they’re just a load of posers, trendies.’
Vivid images erupted in his head – he was striding through the crowded club, gun in hand, taking pot shots at whoever put a face in front of him. Graphic pictures of bloodied bodies and screaming teenagers, flooded through his mind. He was enjoying this day dream; a deep secret smile in his eyes, when he saw her standing across from him. His heart almost stopped beating.

She'd been dead all of three years, but it was still a breathless fall to sobriety every time he saw her. Well, not dead three years, but died three years ago........shit, he couldn't even wrap his head around it in the cold, clear light of day, let alone with the fog that was currently loitering in his mind.

He watched her walk toward the bar, a clinical stride that didn't seem to belong to her; or maybe it did, maybe the warmth he had always associated with that movement was the real illusion. As always, she was dressed plainly in a black garment that shifted unnaturally, almost as if the touch of her skin would leave some dread taint.

"Michael."

How could he bear to hear that voice speak his name, that as it had been stripped of any notion of intimacy, so was he stripped of the last vestiges of sanity every time he heard it.

"You're looking well." She could have at least made an effort at candidness, but Mike reckoned once you'd been to the other side, sincerity was an expendable commodity.

Who would have guessed that science would beat Christ to the resurrection? When they successfully brought that boy back 10 years ago, Mike had not an inkling of the impact it would have on his life.
Why had she just not told him? He could understand the right of every individual to request the procedure, if it were possible, yet it angered him that she'd concealed her decision. She should've been mangled by a train, not that fucking pussy of an aneurysm that left her in such 'pristine' condition.

R.E.S.C.O.R. He couldn't even think the word without feeling the bile rising in the back of his throat. You thinking of donating your organs when you kick it? Fuck that! Resurrection is the way to go, provided you have enough cash and have managed to keep yourself from splattering all over the pavement. Why no-one seemed to be bothered about the secrecy surrounding the procedure was beyond him. Could the joy of being re-united with a loved one truly blind you for so long? Surely they could see that what came back was like an image in a mirror, that something was lost in the transition?
Perhaps that was why he hung out at the club so often; it was as close as he could get to the sheer desolation, the intoxicating loneliness of death. Here, he could worship at the feet of his beloved Mistress. He was sure that She would whisper to him Her design for vengeance against those who would dare defy Her will and encroach on Her domain.
For a moment he again saw himself, gun in hand, blowing away these pathetic freaks. Rescor would have a bloody field day.

He tried to straighten up, to stare the true freak in the eyes.

"Kira, my darling wife." The sarcasm peeled from his voice like burnt skin. "What do you need this time?"

Kira slid onto the barstool next to him like it was a well worn saddle. She was totally comfortable in her surroundings whatever they may be, a characteristic that was completely foreign to Mike, in his own life and in the life of the woman he once knew as his own. Once she was brought back, it seemed she was made into some sort of chameleon as well.

As she edged closer to him he noticed the pleasant effects of his alcohol induced haze retreating into a mild numbness of his senses. However, his eyesight was on alert and he noticed the standard Rescor barcode tattooed on the inside of her right wrist when she reached for his bottle of beer.

“I’m just a bit parched my love, mind if I have a sip?” She said as she took his beer and downed what was left in one fluid motion. Kira motioned for Claire to bring Mike another bottle. Claire stepped over to the pair, aware of their history and of the potential for disaster whenever the two were together after Kira’s transformation. They were both as volatile as gun powder next to a grease fire and Claire wanted no part of the fireworks.

Claire set Mike’s new bottle of beer down in front of him and retreated quickly as Kira swiped it and took a long pull, placing it back in front of Mike with a teeth-jarring thud.

To think of putting his mouth to the same place this thing beside him had just touched her lips to, made the acid in Mike’s gut rise. He eyed Kira warily and said with great disdain, “Keep it sweetie.”

He couldn’t stand this back and forth banter she insisted on every time they were in the same zip code. It was almost like she had some sort of tracking device on him and she knew when he was vulnerable and when his soul was raw from life.

She found him. She taunted him. She made his life hell showing him that he could never have it the way it used to be.

It tore Mike’s heart out to think of the love he once knew with Kira and that it all was boiled away when the mad scientist bastards at R.E.S.C.O.R. woke her from what should have been death.

Kira swung towards him on her barstool, seeming to almost float in her supernatural way of moving, and Mike; lost in his thoughts; inadvertently flinched. She laughed low and throaty and sprung from her perch, rabbit punching Mike in the back of the head and leapt away to taunt, tease and harass a group of burly bikers in a darkened corner.

‘Those guys have no idea what they are getting into.’ Mike thought to himself as he rubbed the back of his head. Claire stepped over to him to ask if he was ok. “I’m fine Claire, thanks for asking.”

Claire thrust out her chin determinedly and said, “Mike, I don’t know why you let her do that to you. It is like she hurts you on purpose every time she sees you. Either she hurts your feelings or hurts you physically or both. She is just a cruel woman, no… scratch that… She’s a Monster! I don’t know why you don’t turn her into that group of Blade Runners that have popped up over in Dallas. I mean, man… I know she used to be your wife and all… but dude… that thing ain’t nobody’s wife!”

Mike thought for a second and then replied, “I guess I just feel a little responsible for her Claire.” He shook his head sadly and walked out of the bar.

If only he had read the fine print on the medical release form at the hospital.

April 20, 2005

Update on the Story Crossing.

Several more hip cats have taken the literary ball and run with it.

What started off with Lucretia at Life As A Carrot, sprouted wings with ForgottenMachine with his post here at Ten Mile Beyond the City… I took up the gauntlet thrown down by Miss Anne with my go at it then lovely Miss Anne at Something Under the Bed grabbed the story by the horns and wrestled it to the ground here…… then the lovely and talented Fence over at Firefly smacked the story and made it cry here… and the latest player to the ring to give the story wings is my partner in crime, gatsby… please follow the link to engorge your literary tummy on the turn of phrase that he has posted right over here clickity click click.

Fun, ain’t it?

April 21, 2005

Let's play the question game.

Ok� so, yeah� I have just a few weeks left of freedom. And by freedom I mean months of not traveling and getting ready to travel every other week. So this posting every few days (and every day last week) is quickly coming to a close so I need to get while the getting is good.

Thing the first� drum roll please. No, really, I mean it. You, there� in the chair with your hand on the mouse� yeah, you. Drum roll please. Ahh� much better. Ok.. now that we have significant drum roll cover� Thing the first, Mister got a fucking job! Can I get an AMEN!? Yeah, you can stop the drum rolling to amen and hallelujah. It is allowed. Encouraged even. He started Monday and there will be no moving. There will be no taking massive pay cuts to go work for some start up in Botswana. There will be no lying muthafuckin scrubs who aren稚 even solvent starting their own companies and hiring people when they have no business (literally � back story found here) doing so and then laying off everyone a month later. So, Yay Mister! Good luck and God speed my love!

Thing the second... I burned my neck with a curling iron this morning because I am twelve and can not work an appliance without causing bodily harm. If I知 working the toaster?� back away. What? Oh, you can work household appliances and farming machinery without harming yourself or the cat? Well why don稚 you just build yourself a large ladder so you can get the hell over yourself then, huh?

Whoops� snippy much?

Sorry. It痴 the neck wound. It makes me crabby. Well, that and I couldn稚 make breakfast this morning� toast requires a toaster yanno.

Ummm�C� I went to go see my sister痴 best friend痴 baby yesterday afternoon in the hospital. He was born Tuesday at 1:19pm. I walked in and my uterus started sweating. Um. Physiological behavior much? By the by� he痴 beautiful and perfect and smelled like cookies and sunshine.

D, I had a dream the other night that I was � what? You don稚 wanna hear about another dream? Hey, listen. I値l make it short ok? And I promise, it ties in with C. Sort of. So� there I was. Hey� come back. I値l just give you the bullet points and you can tell me if you want the long version okay?


    Matthew McConaughey
    Pregnant-about to give birth @ noon.
    Following MM痴 Jeep in a Ford Ranger
    Golf
    Bed & Breakfast
    Cat poop on the porch.
    Lady in a small car driving onto the porch.

There.

Let痴 play the question game. I opened up the forum for questions at the end of this entry but I didn稚 set a format. I don稚 want to gank Coleen痴, Ask Me Anything Thursday� and I don稚 want to rip off Amy痴 Wednesday Advice Smackdown� I致e just gotten some interesting and fun questions via email and comments (phone calls, carrier pigeons and smoke signals count too yanno) over the years, and it was fun to do the interviews with The Other Chad before diaryland ate his diary. So ask the questions in the comments sections (found below) and I will answer tomorrow.

Kisses.


Update 4/25/05


Ya値l as soon as I posted the above journal entry, I received a frantic call from my sister (ETA: actually it was on Friday that I received the call.) that her father in law just had a heart attack and to come get my nephew. I picked up my nephew and my sister headed to Ft. Worth. Her father in law did not make it. (Funeral was 4/26.)


My brother in law had been sick with the flu all last week and he just closed his biggest deal of his business career on Thursday after they had a flood in their house on Wednesday night� and my sister is about to give birth any moment. [Sis is convinced the baby is a girl� so much drama is surrounding the baby's arrival.]


My parents came in town Friday afternoon and we (my nephew, my parents, Mister and I) have all been holed up at the house all weekend waiting to see what we could do for my sister, her husband and the rest of the family.


So, the questions game (whose only contestant was sweet Anne) was apparently not meant to be. But I will still answer her thoughtful questions.


So, without further ado�


Anne asks:
You're very late for work, because you've just spent forever looking at stuff. What excuse do you give? (careful, I'll be using that).
What advice would you give someone who's getting "ready" to stop smoking?
And how did you react to the news of Matthew and Penelope?


And my answers:

There was a traffic jam on Preston Road at the G.B. Turnpike. Which is always plausible because everyone in Texas drives their own car (carpooling be damned), and the traffic in the morning is atrocious. I live less than 10 miles from the office and it takes me over 30 minutes to get here. Crazy. But for anyone who does not live in the greater Dallas area� and tell your boss that you either 1) had to get gas 2) air up the tires on your hoopty car or 3) (only if you are female) had cramps.


To stop smoking I used the 叢are it down method�. When I was wee, around 16 year old or so, I had worked up to a pack and half a day habit. Mmmmm snazzy. Considering that I started when I was 13, it took me a while to work up to that (and I miss it so). It took me a while to work back down too.
So here is what you do� After you get out of college, marry a redneck� and become poor. Like poverty level. Where beer and smokes (and food) are luxury items. You will cut down your habit to maybe five smokes a day. When you are the only one working in the household and your husband steals your smokes, fantasize about his demise. Really work on the details. Go out with friends who love you and will let you have a few of theirs. Feel guilty about bumming ciggies. Divorce him. Move to Dallas. Get a better job. Still smoke sparingly, unless you are drinking and dancing like a wild woman. Realize that your hair smells icky in the morning after a night in the bar. Start smoking only outside or in your car on road trips. When smokes go up to like $9,856,539,485,619 a pack, stop. See? Easy plan.

(Side note to Anne, if there is anyway you can forgo the whole redneck marriage thing� do so. Thanks.)


Third and final question� how did I react to the news about Matthew and Penelope? Well, that little filly is a serial dater. She dates all of her leading men. So I knew it was only a matter of time. And he? Is a swarthy, sweaty, hot-blooded American male (nekkid bongo playing and all that jive aside) who lives in (Austin) Texas� so of course he would jump at the chance to get all up in that little Latina痴 business. Match made in publicity heaven, for Sahara fans. Oh, and on that note, the movie was fun. Mister loved it.


Maybe I値l bust out The Question Game some other time. But until then. Ya値l have a good Monday. And keep my family in your prayers ok?

April 27, 2005

April is freakin weird.

Over the past few days I have laughed, I have shed tears and I have danced in the kitchen to Keith Urban’s Making Memories of Us. I have played endlessly with matchbox cars, I have watched Thomas the Tank Engine and I have gone on monster hunts through my neighborhood. I have been anxious; I have been lost on the west side of Ft. Worth (after taking 380 West as opposed to 380 South) and I have been amazed at the kindness of family and friends.

April has been one hell of a month. We have lost a loved one. My husband got a job. Stacey just called and Greg got a job, congrats man. Hot Barney got a promotion, congrats to you as well goober. Hot Barney’s step mother was in one hell of an accident. We have had a flood (inside). We have had hail and tornadoes (outside). The weather on Saturday was 49 degrees and later this week it will be 90. Things are crazy.

I also realized a few other important things. Before all the craziness started, when Mister finally got the call that said, “Dawg! You’re going to Hollywood!” Er… wrong show. I don’t even watch American Idol. No really. Stop looking at me that way. (back on track) When Mister got the call that said, “We want you to be the Big Poppa of our Blah Dee Bloo Division for Company X.” and Mister accepted we decided to invest in his appearance and get him a suit or two and some slacks. He already has some nice shirts and a nice suit. But a man needs a few suits, some nice wool slacks, some awesome shoes and some other things to round out his wardrobe. Right? Well, we had some of those things already. Mister dresses extremely well. Hott-cha-cha-cha. Add to that fact that he’s 6’5” good lookin to boot and I’m one lucky lady.

The 6’5” thing is sometimes a problem when shopping. Big and Tall Men’s stores sometimes want to dress every tall man like Uncle Bruce. Slap a polyester/rayon mix collared shirt with a waist band on it so Old Unc’a Bruce doesn’t have to tuck that bad boy in and some of those snazzy Sansabelt slacks… Mmmmm boy. Gah. Just GAAAAHHH.

Who, under the age of 96 wants to dress that way? Seriously? Do they really sell that much of those things to facilitate the need to have multiple colors? [shudder] Which is why we spend time and money and tailoring on Mister's clothing. It is nice, it is purchased from nice places, it is tailored to fit him and it does, nicely. No waistbands on shirts found here… ick. Gah.

Which brings me to the next thing. Let’s say, for instance that your name is … Oh, I don’t know… Mark Ghani… and you own the Big & Tall Fashions at 901-B West 15th Street, Plano, TX 75075 and your phone number is (972) 424-8788. And let’s just say… for instance, again… that these two nice people, these two nice, tall people casually walk into your store looking to drop some serious cash on some new clothes for the aforesaid Mister. And you, Mark Ghani, appraise these two people, these two nicely dressed people and say to yourself… “This April in this United States of the Americas has sucked large camel schlong. I will finally make my quota and can send the money to my family back in the [wherever]… I will make money, tonight aaaaaiiiiyeeeeee!”

Now, would you… Mark Ghani… [who owns the Big & Tall Fashions at 901-B West 15th Street, Plano, TX 75075 whose phone number is (972) 424-8788] say to this large, 6’5” man, who dwarfs you by a foot and a half… after he has tried on several suit coats to find the correct fit of one suit coat that he likes and you do not have something that fits him, you have too big, and you have too small… but you ask my adoring, loving husband, “How hard would it be for you to lose a size?”

That floors me.

This man bought a business outright. (I called and checked the other stores in the area and they verified that Mr. Ghani is the owner.) A business of selling clothing to men of size. Size that could be tall or could be wide, or both, either way… one thing is for certain. He is an insensitive prick. And as soon as my husband went into the dressing room to try something on, I stepped up to this man, and stood up to my full height and with barely contained rage gave him a verbal dressing down… minus any curse words, ya’ll would have been so proud!

Now, my husband is not as sensitive about that kind of thing. He, being a big guy, has had to deal with the advantages and the disadvantages since he was in high school, annnnd he dealt with drill instructors in the marines so…. I think he’s fairly desensitized to the whole, “Look! A Giant!” thing. Me? It hurt my feelings so bad ya’ll. This is the man I love, and if anyone even looks at him cross-eyed, I will come UN-Fucking-GLUED.

Mister and I got in the car and he said, “I kinda liked that you stuck up for me, but I’m sorry you are so upset.” Awww

Suffice it to say, we went somewhere else (Cough::Men’sWarehouse::Cough) and they had much nicer clothes and a better selection and a tailor on hand and we almost made out with the guy who was helping us he was so nice!

Mark Ghani is nothing but a low-down, double-dealing, backstabbing, larcenous perverted worm! Hanging's too good for him. Burning's too good for him! He should be torn into little bitsy pieces and buried alive! (tm Hanover Fiste)

So… I’m off to get out my stitches… but before I go…
To answer gatsby’s question:
How can I better use my sexuality to advance my career?
Um. Well. I never used my sexuality to advance my career… just my incredible good looks and double and sometimes triple entendres. Oh, wait. Maybe that is using my sexuality. Okay.

Editors Note (added 4/28/05)

Ya’ll? When did I become so moody and freakin serious? I used to be fun! Frolicking even. Check it. For example… this entry about my many travels (includes pictures) last September. Or this one where I am a 12 year old boy. What happened to those days? What happened to the rampant James Van Der Beek humping for the love of Pete???

Note to self: Lighten the hell up.

About April 2005

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

March 2005 is the previous archive.

May 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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