Suzanna Danna

As I was standing at the bus stop this morning waiting for the blueline, this monstrous bear approached me and started hovering around. He shuffled his furry feet closer and closer, sniffing the air. Finally he stood over me and mumbled, “HoneyHoneyHoneyHoney[sniiiiffffff]Honey.”

I put my hand on his massive chest to stop his advance and said to him (quite sternly, I might add), “Sir? If you are handing out terms of endearment I prefer ‘love’, ‘sweetie’ and the ever elusive ‘peanut’… but ‘honey’ will just not do. I am no Jessica Alba.”

He regained his composure but then continued, “Ma’am I must beg for your forgiveness for my abhorrent behavior, but I am being driven completely feral by the sweet and succulent siren’s song scent of your beautiful tresses.” He gestured to my hair with a large paw. And then added, “May I lick it?”

Of course I didn’t let him lick my hair, kind readers. He would have mussed the luscious smell I newly acquired from a sample of honey shampoo and conditioner I received at The Body Shop. [And angels started singing.] While I was there getting my favorite… (swoon)… the shea body butter… because, yes… now that you mention it… yes, YES! I am a hot house orchid and my skin does need to be dewy and soft as rose petals… luscious even.

Where was I?

Oh yes, apologizing to you about the misrepresentation of the title of this journal entry.

What?

Because number one, this entry has not one little thing to do with blow jobs (were that it did kind reader, were that it did…). And B, I have no idea what the hell “BJ and the Bear” is… I think I got it all mixed up in my mind with The Bad News Bears. And three… why in tarnation did I have Kenny Rogers wrapped up in my version of having something to do with that movie? I was nothing but a wee babe in ’76.

Ah… and as you all know (and my conscience pointed out to me that I must confess) I lied. LIED like a rug, or a dog or some really expensive linoleum. Because, I don’t take the bus. I drive an anal Mystique.

Good Lord, I need to lay off the crack pipe before 8 am.

Last little noteworthy piece of info before we adjourn our meeting of the crazy… My birthday is Wednesday. And if you are asking yourself. “Self? Would Suzanna Danna love something for her birthday? A card? A bucket of money? Maybe a nice vat of body butter?” Then the answer is wholeheartedly YES!

By the way, you ladies look really pretty today, those pants? Very slimming.
You mens? Smokin.

Well put me on a Ritz and call me cheesy but I am so excited I could just spit.

Ya’ll know how I have been going on and on and on about the Kerr Krew? Ok, one friggin entry… shut up… well, not one. But one and a half… well, ok… several… if you count this one too… because sheesh… Steph and I?… founding members… along with the tall blonde ones. [Editors Note: Stacey is in too many journal entries to link because I? Am Lay. ZEE.] Anyway. Point? We don’t need no stinking points around here.

Ah, yes, the point… heeeere point! Alrighty, the point is, I got all wacked out yesterday evening on Midol™ and salsa and decided that during an incredible hot flash that I would go shopping in my garage for shit that I know is in there but have no idea where in tarnation it could be found.

Sounded like a plan.

So armed with my lucky Gap sweatshirt I have had since Christmas of 1990 (Thanks Steph!) … (PS: I don’t throw nothing away Bitches!) … (much to Mister’s dismay) and a cramp the size of Wyoming I , (Could I BE anymore parenthetical here?) set out for the garage that has housed many a box but not one fuckin car since June of last year.

And guess what I found?

Aside from three pairs of shoes that I love and have been mourning the loss of since we moved. Love you Nine West leather black slides with stack heel and an open toe, love you dark red sandals with three little strappy things and kicky flower detail, love you wooden slides with bright red other stuff… anyway. Aside from those shoes? Guess what I found? Go ahead… guess.

No. Jimmy Hoffa is in Cheyenne, Wyoming happy, healthy and doing fine as the sole proprietor of the combination scrap metal wholesaler and tanning salon, called the Pull N Fry. Talked to him last week. He said ya’ll were pretty.

I found a whole box a LARGE (Marge, in Charge) box of my photo albums. My 3 foot long high school senior photo was rolled up in its little tube in that box, and no, I’m not kidding. The damn picture is ginormahuge. I graduated with 1267 kids.

“Hi, my name is Susan and I have no clue who you are. We graduated together? Really? I got nothin. Oh… you know my mom? She was your substitute teacher, really? Awesome.”

And by “awesome”, I meant, “I’d like to die.” My mom was more popular than I was. And sadly, this is not a fabrication.

Moving on.

But also in the Monster Box was this little gem.

(And I am trying something new and if my code is all jacked… please forgive)

Click to make all of these pictures bigger.

I like to call this “For God’s sake… would someone give me a sandwich?”

This one is a favorite picture of mine. LuLu and I started out as mortal enemies ya’ll. Seriously. My daft ass just didn’t know it. Heh. She had to tell me later.
Aren’t we precious?

And the pièce de résistance…

I found albums of the trip that my sister and mother and I took to London and Paris in ’98. I found pictures of me when I was wee in a bee costume for a ballet recital. I found pictures of EVERYTHING. It was awesome. I love memory lane.

And… I love salsa.

So, I was over at Doxie’s site and reveling in the fact that she was telling me what a sexy motherfucker I am.

Wait a second… come back here. She was. Dukay was too. He WAS. They both have love for the Sue Sue.

That’s right. That whole post was directed at me and not the plethora of drooling hordes that descend upon her site every nanosecond pushing refresh to see if she’s updated yet.

That’s right bitches. Me.

Ok, so it wasn’t directed at me.

But. BUTT. And that’s a big ol butt. _{hell yeah} (heh.) It did remind me of New Orleans.

Mister and I were in New Orleans, his first time… my… millionth. I love New Orleans. I love the sultry sound of the tug boats out in the harbor. I love the way the haunting jazz notes coaxed from the horn of a lonely saxophone player on the corner of Toulouse and Royal Streets just hang in the humid air like they have a life of their own. I love the nightlife, teeming with so many voices, songs, dances and stories; everything blends together to make a perfect tapestry.

The food. The FOOD. Just reading the words will never do it justice. Most people eat to live, but in New Orleans they live to eat. And that particular motto shows in the way they cook, bake, broil, sculpt, prepare, conjure, construct, or bring forth their meals. Crafty… they are. The oysters don’t taste like the oysters you get from Joe’s Crab Shack ya’ll… they taste primordial and rich with life. The crawfish… oh momma… the crawfish. Park me in front of several pounds of freshly boiled crawfish… hot… with new potatoes and corn on the cob and some ice cold beer at a bar in New Orleans with a jazz band playing and I will be one happy woman.

Mister and I had partied late into the night the evening before at Pat O’Briens, at 544, at the Cajun Cabin (with Mitch Cormier and the Can't Hardly Playboys… Hey big Papa!) and several other clubs, so that day we wandered all over the French Quarter taking in the sights. We went into the art district and then over to the French Market and to Café Du Monde so my love could have a beignet. We walked around the square and then went back up to Bourbon Street to get a drink or seven.

When we got to Bourbon Street from St. Peter we decided to take a right. We found this little bar called the Funky Pirate. The Funky Pirate is about the size of the 1976 Vega hatchback that my mother drove for about forty-three years. There was a palpable wall of smoke falling out of the open door and the air conditioning was on artic. The tables were small, rickety and sticky and I immediately fell in love.

Mister and I walked in… no, let me correct that… Mister and I jived in… jukin to the amazing voice that the fellow on stage possessed.

The stage was the size of a package of frozen peas with a stool and a drum kit and this big black man took up the whole stool. He rocked that mic like it was his baby momma. (Holy shit. Did I just say that? I am so fucking white.)

We ordered a case of beer and lit up and relaxed in our sticky little seats. Smiling at each other through our sweat and sunburn. What? It was June. In New Orleans. Equals hot as hell, sticky, lovely and very sweaty.

The rest of the people in the bar were tore up from the floor up (Note to Anne… they were pissed, drunk as hell). They started a conga line that took all of seven steps to complete the circuit of the bar and they were having a grand old time. The drunken white girls were dancing all up on each other in front of the guy who was singing and he started to laugh a little and cheered them on.

The old lady who was running the bar (with her bun) kept trying to get us to buy more beer. We’d take three sips, and she’d rush over, “Have another sir? Ma’am?” The bartended was just watching the game on TV and the rest of us, including the guys in the band were watching the drunken people.

What a show.

The guy who was singing kept telling us that
“BIG AL CARLSON will be coming on stage two hours….”
A little later…
“BIG AL CARLSON will be coming on stage one and a half hours….”
A liiiittle bit later…
“BIG AL CARLSON will be coming on stage in one hour and seventeen minutes….”

Um. Ok. The guy singing was already pretty darn large. How BIG could BIG AL CARLSON be? And we were already enjoying the show, especially when the sets would line up something like this.
1) Ain’t No Sunshine When She’s Gone – Bill Withers
2) Let’s Stay Together – Al Green
3) She’s Gone – Robert Cray
4) Jesus Loves You – Traditional
5) You Sexy Mother Fucker – Prince
The man was a genius.

I danced I sang, I got all sorts of sweaty. And damn if I can’t remember that guy’s name. But every time we’re at church (or anywhere really… this is an anytime fun affair) and the kids sing “Jesus Loves You” Mister and I turn to each other with a glint in our eye, wink at one another and mouth the words… “You sexy mother fucker.”

Oh, and on a side note? BIG AL CARLSON? Fuckin huge. Bigger than a package of frozen peas, I can tell you that much.

Mysfit, our little precious fish from over at Following My Fish started this Interview last week. I told her that I was up for the challenge and she posted these questions into my comments box.

So, let’s play along, shall we?

1) What flavor is blue?
I believe that blue can have certain flavors associated with it. It does not have to taste cool or minty like those bastards at Life-Savers want you to think. (Or is that green?) And I do not think that it has to be associated with blueberry because blueberry has “blue” in the name either. To me, blue will always taste like homemade vanilla ice cream. Not that crappy store bought kind either. The kind that my grandfather would make by mixing milk and vanilla extract and sugar in a churn on the back of his old ass Dodge truck. He would turn the crank on that handle while my sister and I would alternate pouring ice chips and rock salt down the sides of the cylinder to make the churn colder. I can remember how blue the sky was and how we would sit in the cool Georgia grass that was so green it was almost blue, eating that ice cream that my grandpa worked so hard for. It was the best thing in the world.

2) What is your favorite childhood memory?
Well, there I was running off at the mouth about the color blue and I got to thinking about my grandparents. So let me tell you a bit about them. I can not single out one childhood memory because I truly had a wonderful growing up experience. My sister and I are the youngest of 6 grandkids and my parents were high school sweethearts in a very small town in North Georgia so we knew everyone in that small town even though we didn’t live there. When we went to visit Moms and Pops (my father’s parents) it was like taking a step back in time. Norman Rockwall, eat your heart out.
Ok… favorite memory time. Well, my sister was a redheaded tornado… really… a whirling dervish. And when my father would get home from work, I would usually be asleep already, so… my folks would wake me up to play with me because, “You were so sweet and cuddly.” I guess because they never got any alone time with me because my sister was so wild. So, as you can guess, I developed a real knack for not sleeping. So when we’d go to visit my grandparents, I’d be up at 3 or 4am and Mommsie would get up with me and we’d go into the kitchen and sit at their big humongous table and have Saltine crackers and milk and have “Us time”.
Moms is what I wish I could be as a woman. If I would pull my head out of my ass and stop being so lazy, maybe I could be that person.
Did ya’ll know…???
Ok.. no more Mommsie stories… later.

3) Why, Suzanna Danna, why?
My father started calling me that when I was little. My given name is Susan and Daddy would call me everything from Turkey to Peanut to Susie-Q to Suzanna Danna. I’m not sure where he got it. I think he used to rhyme it with Suzanna Danna banana… I don’t know.

4) If you could go anywhere in the world for a month- where would it be and why?
Anywhere? For a month? Hmmm… this is a good one sugar pie. I may be stumped. Or then again, I may get all sorts of wordy. Heh. Well, I love to travel. I like cold climates, and I like warm climates. I like to snow ski and I like to water ski. I love the beach at the ocean, and I love to see the leaves change color in New England. I would love to see all of the shows again in London at the Strand or go and spend days and days at the Louvre in Paris. I would love to go to the coast of Australia and dive for pearls or maybe to Africa and dig for diamonds or … the Grecian Islands…. Mmmmm.
Hell, I could probably be happy just hanging out for a month in Destin, Florida.
I’ve only been out of the country to Mexico, London and Paris. There are many more places I would love to go. But if I had to stay in one place, I think I would like to go to Fiji. I have always wanted to go on a diving trip in Fiji.

5) The chicken or the egg - what's your take?
I think that chickens are nasty as hell. And eggs aren’t that much better.
Sorry. I have issues.
If I eat chicken, it really can’t resemble chicken in any way, shape or form. And eggs? Whites only please.
I lived WAY too close to a bunch of nasty ass chicken houses when I was living in Nacogdoches. And I think that they all were spawned simultaneously from the ass of Satan*.

*(I accidentally typed Stan. That was funnier.)

The Official Interview Game Rules:
1. If you want to participate, leave a comment below saying "interview me."
2. I will respond by asking you five questions - each person's will be different.
3. You will update your journal/blog with the answers to the questions.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview others in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

Do ya値l remember when the lovely and talented Amalah used to do this? Well, I am officially giving her props and a mad shout out for letting me borrow her 堵ah gah gah� idea.

And not a moment too soon I might add. Because� in no particular order�.

Yesterday morning whilst strutting into work in my cute little business casual attire, all the while chatting happily on the phone to my sister, � (Choose one of the following):
A) A photographer captured my beauty in its complete essence on film and offered me insane buckets of money to pose for Paris Vogue� the Fat Edition. Shut up.
B) A bird swooped down, lit upon my finger and started singing 滴ello my baby, hello my honey, hello my ragtime gaaaaaaaal�� like that frog on the cartoon.
Or
C) I was walking along minding my own sweet ass business and stepped upon a rock� a wily rock, mind you that had it out for me and wanted to add my demise to its crazy plans to rule the world. When I stepped upon this wily, good-for-nothin rock, I fell off of my got-damn shoe and cursed up a purple streak, bruising the sweet and sensible eardrums of my sister with words that may have included WhoaHolyShitMotherFucker! And then caught myself on the trunk of a blue-green Buick Skylark, but not before twisting my pertly and feminine ankle like a breadstick.

If you chose C you are smart and also sexy. I knew I always liked you.

This morning I broke a mirror. A mirror that has been with me (in the family� if you will, and I know you will) since before I graduated from college. So. Let痴 see here. I graduated in 1994. That mirror in all of its� musty and streaked beauty has helped me put my face on roughly 4015 days since I purchased it at the Eckerd痴 on North Street in Nacogdoches. Shit. And I broke it this morning.

After breaking the mirror this morning and putting my face on (imagery makes it seem as if I am a blank canvas every morning when I get out of the shower� heh� I like that) with a tiny shard of a reflective surface (because I am too retarded, or near sighted to just use freakin bathroom mirror already!) I left a bit late.

How late you ask?

Oh late enough to get pulled over by Collin County痴 finest� for a traffic violation. What kind of traffic violation you ask kind reader? Well, let me see if I can make out dear Officer Elliott痴 chicken scrat--- oh, here it is� 擢or being too damn Sexy!�

No. No. That is not what the kind motorcycle cop wrote on my citation # 1038623458719. Yes, Motorcycle cop� and it wasn稚 Eric Estrada my lovlies.

The actual offense is 泥isregard of a red light.�

Red light, I disregard you. You are of no consequence to me.

And the red light said, 的 will make you my bitch. I will turn red quick while you think I am still yellow, you and your smarmy MYSTIQUE!... I will take away eight hours of your Saturday while you complete a Defensive Driving Class and I will hike up your insurance payments.�

The red light demands respect ya値l.

Hi humidity, where have you been?

Member the tiny shard of mirror I used to do my face this morning? How could you not? See like two paragraphs ago. Yeah, anyway. I just went to put on some lip gloss and the eyebrows are like� totalitarian.

I will be away at a staff meeting all day tomorrow. And then doing a conference Monday and Tuesday. So I will not be able to play in the sandbox with you lovelies for a while. Play nice. And please, stop at the yellow lights. The red light will get you.

Mister and I were dining at a fine establishment last Friday evening and as we gazed with wonder at our surroundings I caught the name of the artist at the bottom of the beautifully appointed teakwood frame to my immediate right.

As we sat there quietly discussing the paintings we made up a (mostly one sided, ok… entirely one sided) conversation that the artist would be having at that very moment.

Join me… won’t you?

Me: Shade…Adin Shade, world renowned impressionist… or something.

Mister: I am so sorry that I can not stay and join you. I have a showing this evening. Oh, yes, please do stop by. It is a lovely little place.. they will be serving complimentary chilled water with lemon wedges…

Me: … and a fine assortment of international confectionary sauces.

Mister: My paintings will be displayed at this sheik little eatery. They will be displayed on each wall and highlighted by the cheap canned lighting and the fake potted ivy…

Me: …prominently displayed between each set of streaked windows and set off by the red haze of the emergency exit sign.

Mister: My impressionistic desert landscapes in shades of …

Me: bruise and tapioca…

Mister: off-set the bad dye job of the ever-friendly waitress, Helda.

Me: But please… wait to be seated…

Mister: Tell the hostess that you know me and the complimentary chilled water with lemon wedges will be served posthaste…

Me: I’m a …Star! I’m featured all over the United States!

List of shit I found sitting in my drawer… Apparently I am supposed to write an entry or something.
It reads as such:

“Purple Reign (of Suck)
To add to the suckalicious (Shut it. Is too a word.) week I had with the red light, the falling off of the shoe and consequent twisting of twee lil ankle, breaking of the mirror and the totalitarian eyebrows…
1) I burned my hand in the oven
2) I have been late (7 to 8 minutes late, but late nonetheless) for work at least twice this week.
3) I flung my hair in the car and lost an earring. Talented… No?
4) The Mavericks lost to Phoenix. Shut UP Steve Nash.
PS… Steve Nash, cut your fucking hair.
5) 101 degrees… what?”

Maybe that was a few weeks ago. I’ve lost count of the days and weeks and um…

Look over here… shiny!

I also found another note in my purse that states quite plainly at the top, “Damn you 99.5 the Wolf! Damn you for playing El Cerrito Place by Charlie Robison.”

That song tears me up.

Or or or… Oh, my God… The Wedding Song… shit… kill me now. His duet with Natalie Maines? (Hi. Um… Neal… yeah, the seven foot tall junkie? Yeah, he used to sing that shit to me. How fucked up am I to fall for and be all “awww” about that huh??? HUH?!)

I can barely handle it when the Wolf plays Fast Cars and Freedom by my boys, Rascal Flatts. (If you want a good one?, download that one gatsby.) It hurdles me back into memory lane so fast… even when I am sitting beside my husband in a Lincoln LS on a Dallas parkway with our windows rolled down on a humid summer evening. I still feel like I am twenty-something and running a big Ford 4x4 down a dirt road with the windows rolled down and the stereo blaring.

Don’t even get me started on when The Wolf decides to get their panties in a twist and get all Tim McGraw on us. I’m not saying anything against the man, don’t take it like that ladies _{(what a beautiful ass!)}.

I’m just saying when I hear Just To See You Smile…. I just die a little. Ok. A lot.

Lyrics found within that last link… or if you follow that link, whatever.

A little back story? Ok. If you insist.

I told ya’ll about D’Wayne a bit on my first rant about the Wolf… (link found here)… but I didn’t tell you guys about the years this guys stood by me while I made bad decision after bad decision. He was the kind of man you would tell your girlfriends, “He’s too nice for me.” Strong, not wimpy… he had backbone and could put me in my place. But I was stupid and was drawn to dangerous men. Hello stupid. Hi! And then years later when you (ok when I ) wizened up you’d kick yourself (or I kicked myself) squarely in the ass for being such a fucking idiot for not seeing what was staring you (or me) in the face. Ok, well I did.

You know what I’m trying to say… oh, yes you do. Don’t play coy.

When I walked up to him in the Summer of 1993 with my current boyfriend in tow, he knew what was coming. D’ and I always had that nonverbal communication down pat. So when X* told D’Wayne that he had asked me to marry him, D’Wayne turned to me and said, “And you said?”

It was the perfect out. And he was giving it to me.

Even though he knew I was marrying the wrong man, D’Wayne sung at my wedding… beautifully… God, so beautifully… and then told my best friend (LuLu) that that was the day he fell out of love with me.

Fuck You 99.5 The Wolf. I could just listen to hip hop.

*If you didn’t know that I was married previously and would like to read about the carnage, please see this link.