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July 2005 Archives

July 6, 2005

I have a multi-colored scarf and purple leg warmers.

Darlings, darlings, darlings… I must tell you a story, or at least do something to get rid of Earl.

Hmmm, roller-skating is in my brain for some reason. Let’s go with that, shall we poppets?

Roller-skating was a large part of growing up in the south for me. I had spent most of my youth skating on ice (usually thin - har har), roller-skating on driveways and around my mother in the kitchen.

I was born in the early 1970’s and I was all about dance and movement. Just like the Bee Gee’s and John Travolta.

I thought we had a deal, you and me… no making fun of the afflicted.

Of course my knowledge about Saturday Night Fever was relegated to what I saw on movie posters and television commercials as I was not allowed anywhere near the theater to see some poor chunky girl get handed her self-esteem in the back seat of a Chevy on a cold New York evening. I was five. I needed to save some of that mystery, yanno? So my knowledge of John Travolta was this ethereal man in a crisp white suit with a black shirt striking a pose on a lighted box dance floor. How cool would that be? His partner, who cared what her name was, thin and beautiful (Vaselineョ on the camera, yeah, I know that now… where the hell was her jockey?) being spun around to “More Than a Woman”. It was all so… so…

Ok, so maybe I just wanted to be twirled.

Little side note for ya’ll here: We (my little immediate family) used to go visit my paternal grandparents in a tiny North Georgia town just about every other weekend when I was growing up in Marietta, Ga. There was a little roller rink in that tiny town of Hartwell and my parents, my grandparents, my aunt, my uncle and my first cousin took my sister and I to go roller-skating one evening. Before we went in, after my sister and I had been begging to go for months, my parents, grandparents and aunt and uncle warned my sister and I that the reason that we had not been allowed to go was because the roller rink was a normal spot for rednecks to hang out and it was kind of a rough place, but that we would all go together.

We all loaded up in the trucks and headed up to the roller rink. Piled out, went inside, got our skates on and my sister and I took to the floor.

We made several circuits of the roller rink, looking around at everyone in the place and then we came back to my parents and the rest of the brood and announced loudly… when the DJ just took the record off the turntable…


Back on track…

A few years later in 1980 everything in Atlanta was all about Xanadu or this “hot spot” I heard about on Z-93 called Sugar Daddy’s. Apparently it was the dance club/skating rink for the cats in the know. I wanted to be a cat in the know dammit!

Watch my moves! Or, better yet, this painfully choreographed diddy that I put together for the 5th grade talent show. Performed to, no other than the title track to Xanadu. Yes, I am mimicking Olivia Newton John. Yes, I have a multi-colored scarf and purple leg warmers.

(We had a deal, no laughing.)

I was dying, DYING to be on a box-lit dance floor or on a smooth wooden roller rink with my friends.

I got my wish.

Our school had a Friday night Skate Night and most of the birthday parties that were had were either at the local put-putt or on a Saturday at the local roller-rink. We were so wee. But we were hot, HAWT. Flying around those smooth wooden boards with our brown rented (gag) roller-skates or our pretty white (yay!) roller-skates with colored pompoms with bells tied to the front of them (double yay!).

Tiny little Gloria Vanderbelt jeans, size 10 slim and a sailor shirt.

Did I just say sailor shirt? Yes, shut up.

Practicing on the figure 8 markers in the middle. Backwards, forwards, looking like an X. Praying that Neil Duncan* would ask me to couple skate when “Every Women in the World” came on or something equally as sappy or by Air Supply. Pounding our little fists in the air to “Stroke Man” by Billy Squire and having no clue what he was talking about. Squealing when the Gap Band came on with “You Dropped a Bomb on Me”… the best.

I am Iron Man. What? You are who?

Going into the arcade to play games. Pac-Man, Tron, Centipede. All the greats. But the real treat was taking off your skates and going behind the sound booth into the dance floor room. A raised platform with three levels, each one with lighted squares, mirrored walls and three mirrored balls hanging from the ceiling. If Deney Terrio could only see me now he’d shit his tight-ass pants.

We moved to Texas shortly after my foray into that awesome skating rink, but I never forgot it.

Actually, when I was in high school, I was actually a floor guard at a local skating rink part time.

Oh, Holy shit… ya’ll… ya’ll… Oh… Ya’ll. I was searching for… oh, it is still there. Look! Sparkles in Marietta, GA (link has audio, and… I may cry.)

*By the power of Google, Neil Duncan… if you find this and you were my first kiss in Marietta, GA... Holy shit.

Little Update… 7/8/05

I wish I had something poignant to say and vast reserves of talent to pull from when trying to express my sadness about the bombings in London. I don’t, I don’t have any answers either. I wish I did. I wish I could stop pointing my web browser to the Londonist (fantastic site, blog-based reporting) and CNN.com to find out what is going on across the pond. I wish I could stop worrying about my parents' upcoming trip abroad in September. I can’t. I wish I could stop thinking of all of the beautiful and lovely memories I made in London. And the pictures I have of my mother in a red trench coat, standing on a stone bench in a rain storm with her umbrella acting like Mary Poppins out in front of the Tower of London. I cried at beauty of the architecture, I cried at Her Majesty’s Theater. I cried all over that city. I am sorry for your losses London. I hope your sleep will come more easily in the weeks to come.

And now, for something that made me choke on my orange juice. The brilliant Erin and her girlfriend Kelly regale us with tales of a Baptist garage sale. Ya’ll, you should have gotten the Jesus/Barbie phone.

July 11, 2005

The Road to Baton Rouge - Part One

As she drove to work fighting back the tears she tried not to go over their fight in her mind. She never knew how a benign little phrase like, “How was your evening?” could shatter her. She thought that he understood her feelings on the matter. It didn’t seem like he did at all. Either that or he just went against her wishes to keep hurting her. Couldn’t he talk to her about it first? No, he would just nonchalantly mention sleeping around on her after the fact like it was nothing more than a few scattered leaves on the porch.

Her heart was breaking. How could he? So callus, so cold, treating her like her heart or their bond didn’t mean a thing.

Like she was stupid.

That was what really got her. Even though it sounded cliché in her own mind, she was no stranger to heartache. She had a constant reel of Bonnie Raitt songs playing in her mind, and she had the wall around her heart for comfort. “Maybe that is why he’s going outside the marriage…”, her mind chided her. No. She wouldn’t listen. She was not going to let him get off that easy making herself the easy target for self-doubt.

But she did not want to feel like she had been taken for granted. She was not stupid. That thought made her blood boil.

She could deal with anger better than heartache any day. Anger was familiar. Anger was a constant companion for a long time.

Almost at work, Toni Braxton’s How Could an Angel Break My Heart came through the speakers of her car radio. An angel? Please. She refused to let another man break her heart.

She would get even. She didn’t know how as revenge wasn’t a strong suit of hers. And she didn’t know how far she should push this. The man was her husband after all. She would have to live with her consequences, even if he refused to acknowledge his.

She thought of her oldest friend CC. His face floated up through her tortured mind like a life raft and she grabbed on. With the memories of his face and gentle nature for company she pulled into the parking lot at work and began going through the morning routines of getting the office ready for a busy day.

The day was a scorcher as most summer days in Texas can be but the office was buzzing with activity and she didn’t have much time to ponder the newest bruises to her heart and deflated ego. She kept busy and was only reminded of her life outside the office doors when her husband would call or page her after he woke up. She dismissed each call and each page with the truthful, “I can’t talk now, I’m busy.”

Putting him off did not make her feel any better and she knew that she was going to have to deal with him when she got home from work. It was Friday and he had a few days off. Days to… she didn’t want to think about it.

She decided to make some plans of her own.

CC answered on the second ring and hearing his voice, she immediately started crying. She felt like a fool for crying, she had never been the girly crying type… not that anyone on the outside knew about anyways, but CC had been a friend since the 7th grade. He knew almost everything about her. He could read her so well, so there was no need to hide her feelings from him.

CC said the words she needed to hear. The conversation lasted all of 30 seconds.

Her: CC? (starts crying)
CC: Hi sweetheart, are you ok?
Her: ::sniffle sniffle:: N-n-n-nooo (still with the crying and apparently… the stuttering)
CC: Come to Baton Rouge.
Her: Now?
CC: Yes, now.
Her: I get off at 4 o’clock, I have to go home and pack then I’ll be on my way.
CC: I’ll be waiting for you. And it’s going to be ok baby.

He didn’t ask for or demand any explanations. He just asked her if she was ok. She knew CC would take care of her, and to be in his presence would be a balm to her battered heart and ego. The choice to go was instantaneous as soon as he said, “Come to Baton Rouge” she knew she would go.

The only question in her mind would be if she would tell her husband.

July 12, 2005

The Road to Baton Rouge - Part Two

The rest of the day at work passed at a snail’s pace. She pulled all of the contracts that she could think of to work on. She rearranged her desk. She rearranged her boss’ desk. She did the work orders for the service log. She called the manufactures about the upcoming inventory to make sure things were on track. She started in on the sales guys around 3pm and they called for mercy.

Sales Guy#1: Bossman!!!!
Bossman: (gruffly) What?!
Sales Guy#1: She’s riding us about our contacts and contracts…
Sales Guy#2: … and my work orders…
Sales Guy#3: and my closing coming up on Tuesday…
Bossman: (gruffly) That’s my girl.
Sales Guy#1: Man, it’s Friday and it is dead out there. The heat ran everyone off after 11 am.
Sales Guy#2: And she’s really cranky.
Bossman: (gruffly) Ma’am?
Her: Yes sir?
Bossman: (gruffly) May I see you in my office please?
Her: Yes sir…

She followed her boss down the hallway to his office and when she went inside, he closed the door behind her. Her eyes got huge immediately.

Bossman: (not gruffly at all) You ok doll?
Her: Yes sir??
Bossman: Bullshit. I heard you on the phone. Do you need to leave a bit early?
Her: ::sniff:: yes, sir.
Bossman: Now… if you needed anything… would you tell me?
Her: …yes…?
Bossman: I didn’t think so either. ::sigh:: Just know the offer stands.
Her: Yes sir…
Bossman: Ok, now, get out of here. And be careful.
Her: thank you…

She packed up her stuff, shut down her desk and went out the door while the salesmen were in their respective offices, as not to get any friendly ribbing about her leaving so early. She headed home and wished for a mental tick board. Pros and Cons as a list was a big part of her decision making process. And whether or not she was going to tell her husband about leaving for a weekend trip to Baton Rouge was weighing on her and she could physically feel the pressure building.

Her mind went in circles.

Her thought process almost verbatim: “Should I tell him? He never tells me a damn thing. He waits for me to find out then says, ‘Oh, that?… I was going to tell you…’ Gah. My biggest harping point about this relationship, this marriage, is communication. Two wrongs don’t make a right… or is that a left? (bah dum chhh) Shit. No time for jokes. I always promised I would tell him if someone even flirted with me or whatever. He promised the same. So much for his promise. It has been broken way too many times, it is basically shattered. Why does this have to be so hard? The righteous indignation martyr part of me is screaming for me to tell him so I can say with a small snort and a look down my nose at him, ‘I always told you EVERYTHING. But nooo, you never told me ANYTHING!’ Yeah, throw those blanket statements around. ::eyeroll:: Maybe this underhanded shit is the only language he speaks. We have been over this for years. Years. It is not like he is mentally disabled… and hears everything else I say except, ‘Please do not mess around on me and make me look like a fool. This town is minuscule, everyone knows everyone else’s business, if you must be a whore, be discreet, but for the Love of PETE, tell me FIRST!’ Gah. Not too much to ask? No?.. That settles it. I’ll tell him that I am leaving for the weekend, he is not to know where I am going… and I’ll discuss it with him when I get back on Sunday evening.”

After making up her mind, she felt so much better.

She took a deep breath and pressed her foot down on the accelerator, she wanted to get home, pack and let her husband know that she was leaving for an impromptu mini vacation. He would only be privy to that information. No other. He had lost that right when he had broken his promise to her again.

She reached the county road and slowed down, itching to fly along the blacktop and have the canopy of pine trees be a blur. She crested a hill and saw a log truck in front of her and was glad for her foresight to slow down.

She turned into the property drive and went down to the house, all sand flying and dogs chasing her car. She stopped the car in front of the house, noted that her husband was home and, after pausing briefly to greet the dogs, she went inside.

She did not call out for him as she normally did when she entered the house, she went straight to the bedroom and grabbed a bag and started packing. With the noise of the closet door opening, her husband appeared in the doorway.

Him: Hey, you’re home early…
Her: Yes, I am.
Him: Can we talk about this morning?
Her: I’d really rather not.
Him: Really? Why not? And what are you packing for?
Her: I don’t want to keep rehashing things that we’ve said so many times over,
Him: ...
Her: and I’m going away for the weekend.
Him: Where?
Her: I don’t think I’ll tell you until I get home on Sunday.
Him: But…
Her: …(talking over him) BUT I will check in with you and let you know I am safe when I get there, and when I leave for the trip home Sunday afternoon.
Him: Why won’t you tell me?
Her: I don’t think you want to push me on this. I’m going to leave now and I hope you have a nice weekend.

And with that, she walked out the door.

July 13, 2005

The Road to Baton Rouge - Part Three

She got into her little green car and headed towards Baton Rouge. She had her cd case with her with all of her favorites, but she kept coming back to that Toni Braxton cd that she had loved so much just a few weeks before. She was so mad at her husband about so many things and on so many levels. She wanted to lose herself in the music, Bonnie Raitt wouldn’t do, too much pain in that woman’s voice. She couldn’t listen to country, no crying, cheatin and drivin songs would do. She couldn’t listen to Metallica, she would likely get a ticket for speeding. So, she popped in the cd Secrets.

Before she knew it she was crossing the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway and the sun had long since set.

She was nervous about seeing CC. What was she going to say? What the hell was she doing anyway? Driving across Texas and into Louisiana just because she was hardheaded? Showing up on an old friend’s doorstep at 10 pm on a Friday night?

Oh Lord, she was going to hurl.

This was a mistake.



It wasn’t a mistake. CC wanted her here. She was wanted here. He said everything was going to be ok and she believed him. He had never lied to her.

She made the turn into his subdivision, parked on the street and quietly walked up to the door and knocked.

She took a deep breath.

CC answered the door with the largest smile she had ever seen; he enveloped her in a hug and said, “Wow, girl. Are you ever a sight for sore eyes.” She fit into his hug and after a few moments noticed a small excited puppy dancing around their feet. CC introduced her to Lucy and then asked her inside. She scooped Lucy up as she stepped inside the door and laughed as Lucy gave her little wet kisses on the nose.

CC and Lucy gave her the grand tour of the house and then CC perched her on a bar stool in the kitchen. He then put a turkey sandwich, some chips and a cold beer in front of her and asked for her keys. She handed them over and watched him as he went to unpack her things with a warning not to feed Lucy any chips, “No matter how cute she is.”

She sat on the barstool with Lucy sniffing around her feet. She nibbled at her sandwich and sipped on her beer amazed that she was even in CC’s kitchen. She felt so drained. The trip was refreshing, sure. Driving always allowed her to collect her thoughts and put her priorities in order. She was just drained emotionally. Not being upfront with her husband about where she was going and the fight from that morning was bearing down on her.

CC came in from getting her stuff out of the car, put everything in his room and then grabbed a cold beer from the icebox. He leaned a hip on the counter, and crossing his long legs he took a pull of his beer. He asked her, “So, how was your drive?”

She looked at this kind man standing in front of her, a man who she’s known for over a decade. And she broke down into her sandwich. Twice in one day a simple kind word from him had brought her to tears.

He gathered her up into his arms, smoothing her unruly hair away from her face and wiping the tears away from her eyes with the rough pads of his thumbs and rocked her. He rocked her and shushed her in soothing tones, rubbing her back and squeezing her when her sobs broke. She wept until she had nothing left and then he offered her the hem of his t-shirt and wiped her nose.

She gave a small weak laugh and he led her quietly into the bathroom and sat her on the closed toilet lid.

He ran her a bath and then undressed her as if she were a child, with such care and tenderness. He helped her into the bath and then he gently washed her face and her hair and then left her to soak and relax. He came back in a little while and heated up the water for her so she wouldn’t get cold. And when she was done with her bath, CC carefully dried her off and combed out her hair. He dressed her in his t-shirt and a pair of shorts and they sat on the bed together and he, occasionally touching her damp hair to move it out of her face, waited for her to say something, anything.

Her: Thank you so much for taking care of me tonight.
CC: You’re welcome, is there anything you need?
Her: I’m not sure, I’m just sorry for being such a mess.
CC: It is ok, and you don’t have to talk about it… know that ok?
Her: Really?
CC: Really… I just want to take care of you.
Her: It is just so nice to be here…
CC: I’m glad that you are.

They watched movies and caught up on his family and hers. Since they had known each other for so long, their lives were intertwined like grapevines… that is, until a few years ago when his parents left Texas. She missed him so badly. The hour long conversations at all hours of the night didn’t make up for the face time that they once had.

In the subtle shift of the hours past midnight and dawn, finally relaxed and happy to be near her friend she decided to tell CC what happened with her husband. But he stopped her. With a kiss.

“I’ve wanted you for fourteen years, let me love you.”

And she did.

July 14, 2005

The Road to Baton Rouge - Part Four

They made love for the rest of the night. And in the bright sunlight of the early afternoon, driven by the need for food, they finally left the comfort of each others arms and the warm cocoon of his bedroom and got ready for the day.

He took her to lunch at a little Cajun restaurant and they had po’boys and cold beer. They acted like young lovers without a care in the world, cuddling and stealing kisses from one another and enjoying each other’s company.

They toured the college campus and he showed her sights of places that were important to him.

He asked her to go dancing with him later that night. She almost squealed at the prospect of having her own dance partner for a date. She dressed with care that evening and when she emerged from the bedroom after applying her makeup and doing her hair CC whistled low told her she was beautiful. And for the first time in a long while she felt beautiful.

The date was wonderful and the following romance found at CC’s home after they returned was even more so.

CC asked her to find a cd that was right for the moment and she put in Secrets and cued up You’re Makin’ Me High. CC’s eyes lit up when he heard the erotic strains of the song and after it ended he hit repeat. Then he hit repeat again. Again, and again… and again.

The next morning after showering together and a large breakfast, CC turned to her and said, “I know that you aren’t happy in your situation honey. And for that, I’m sorry. I wish I could help. You know my door is always open. I know you have to leave today, I wish you didn’t. Just let me know when you get home safe, ok?” She nodded, numbly aware that reality was about to crash back in.

They packed her belongings together, Lucy acted as the comic relief.

She walked to the door. He hugged her, she swore in her head she wouldn’t cry. She didn’t. The wall around her heart; that steady, constant companion; was already bricking up and getting ready for the trip home.

On the way home she called her husband and alerted him to the fact that she was on the road. He teased and goaded her asking her what seemed like a million times, “So… where were you this weekend?” She didn’t tell him. She said, “I’ll talk to you about it when I get home.”

She knew that she was going to have to tell him about where she was and also about her infidelity. She was going to have to tell him about CC. The knowledge that her husband had been wearing the shoes of the adulterer longer than she had was of no comfort to her in those six long hours on the road. She still had the hot, heavy weight of guilt riding in the pit of her stomach.

She rehearsed what she would say when she got to the house. How the conversation would go, what her husband would say when she told him she had been in Baton Rouge. Would she wait for a while and let him relax in the fact that she had just gone to another town to blow off steam before she told him she had slept with CC? Or would she give him all of the information at once?

She never knew how her brain would let the information flow. Quiet and controlled like an agent for some secret company sent to deliver only a few bulleted points? Or a rush of a verbal flood with no secrets left standing, all cards on the table?

She pulled into the drive and sat at the top of the hill. For a few moments she gripped the steering wheel tightly; hating the town and the land and her decisions that had brought her to this place and everything that she was tied to. She wanted to fly, she wanted to run, she wanted to be young again and revel in the knowledge that she had no responsibility to anyone but to herself.

Too late for that now.

She sighed and drove slowly down the driveway, parked, grabbed her bag and went inside.

Her husband was watching TV when she walked in. She put her bags in the bedroom and he came to greet her. He hugged her and she allowed it. Still mad at him even though she was just as guilty, he chuckled a little at his own little private joke and then asked her if she had fun.

Him: So, did you have a good time on your little weekend away?
Her: It was ok.
Him: Did you get over your mad?
Her: Did I what?!

She couldn’t believe he was going to try and joke his way out of this.

Him: I thought you were going away to get over being angry at me.
Her: Actually, I went away to try and prove a point.
Him: And what was that?
Her: That not being up front and communicating with your spouse can have terrible ramifications.
Him: Just because I slept with that girl and didn’t tell you about it first you thought you could go out of town and teach me a lesson?
Her: Always the gentleman. Good Lord. (trying to keep her composure) No, you dick just because you put my reputation and your reputation and possibly your health and my health on the line and … Good God man! You are a police officer! And you are Married!
Him: (hand up in defensive gesture) Sorry, sorry, sorry. So. Where did you go? Hmmm?
Her: Baton Rouge.
Him: Oh. Did you see CC?
Her: Actually, I stayed with him.
Him: Awesome. How is he doing?
Her: He is doing very well… he took very good care of me.
Him: Good, good.
Her: …...
Him: What are you not telling me?
Her: I… I slept with him.
Him: Hey, that’s cool… I slept with Leann W. last night.
Her: ::sigh:: …. I wouldn’t have expected anything less my dear.

The brick wall around her heart was almost complete before that night. By the end of that conversation nothing could penetrate it.

July 15, 2005

The traffic just parted in front of me like I was Moses.

I left a little bit late for work this morning and as I was fiddling with the air conditioning and radio while turning on to my first main surface street something registered with me.

Hmmm, not that much traffic.

I ventured further into my paltry 10 mile drive (that usually takes 45 minutes) and saw a tumbleweed blow across the six lane parkway.

Where the hell is everyone?

I saw ambulances and police cruisers going the opposite direction that I was headed with sirens blaring and their bubblegum lights running hot. A wreck or two? Hope everyone is ok. Then the traffic just parted in front of me like I was Moses or something.

Everyone turned off into different side streets or got on the toll way or something because the sound of crickets became loud enough to hear above my radio.

I’m gonna leave late everyday if it is like this. I made it to work in like 20 minutes. Boo-yeah.

Oh. Speaking of… something completely not related, but I can’t hold this in any longer… I would like to introduce everyone to the newest member of mine and Mister’s little family.

Internets? Meet Herschel.

Herschel?… Meet the Internets.

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Hi, I’m Herschel, nice to meet ya’ll.

Isn’t he the cutest little thing you’ve ever seen? He’s a 20GB 4Gen IPOD and I totally love him. Mister got him for me on Friday evening. I have been lusting over this particular one since they came out and Mister has been working on this surprise for me for three months. I am a lucky, lucky girl. Hee!

Also, I have been meaning to do this:
Someone – yes, I’ll tell you who in a minute… pipe down you.- sent me a gorgeous card for my birthday along with some awesome postcards and then when she went to Edinburgh she sent my beautiful (of Scottish descent) husband a postcard from there… I can’t get everything in the shot. And the postcards keep falling, because I am not an awesome photographer with mad eBay photo skillz this is the best I could do.

So, without further ado. A proper thank you goes out to… your friend and mine, the beautiful and always sassy. Miss Anne.

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Pretty, No?

If I were smart I would probably partake in one of those Friday meme’s. As a matter of fact, let’s make one up right now. Post your answers in the comments and feel free to copy, paste and or track.


Friday Five 7/15/05

1) What is the last movie you saw? What character in said movie would you like to take the place of in which scene and why?

2) Does your favorite quote come from a book, movie, someone you respect or other (please tell what the other is… talking horse?) and have you ever gotten to use it?

3) Last blog, journal or website that made you actually laugh out loud? Please share the link.

4) Could you really ever have a paperless office?

5) If you could have a limitless supply of one thing (that thing not being money) what would that thing be?

So, to end this post with some incredible cuteness, I give you a picture of myself and my sister. (Have I posted this one before?) I am 2 or so and she is 4 almost 5. My sweatshirt says, “May I have a hug? I’ve had a bad day.” How friggin cute is that? And yes, I am the one that looks like a boy. Shut it.

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July 18, 2005

The Power of Google

Angelina Jolie is my new pretend girlfriend. She kicked Joan Jett out of that coveted top spot this past Saturday night as my husband and I watched Mr. & Mrs. Smith at the local Cinemark theater.

Can I get a hearty “Hell Yeah!”?

No? Really… No? I can’t? Scrooge.

Sure, sure… I know what you are all saying. How typical. Right? Well, yeah. I’ve been aware (and drooling) over Miss Jolie since Hackers (shut up) and Gia. But seeing her in this role made me appreciate her (and her boobies) even more. Maybe it was the sense of humor thing shown off in this movie. Who knows?

Orrrrr… it could have been my immense love for popcorn and action movies talking.



Ya’ll? Do you guys remember a few days ago? Ok, maybe a few weeks ago when I got all nostalgic and went off on- no… not that… the other thing… the roller skating. Yeah, that.

Member that?

Member when I um, mentioned some dude by his given name. First and last? Well… if you don’t and you are not familiar with how to work the archives… please follow this link here – this one right here… click on THIS to go to that entry – name of dude is at the bottom… So, I mentioned some guy. And by the power invested in Google I found the roller skating rink that I used to go to Friday night skating parties and such. And also, um… (the notify listers already know this because they are aware of the extreme limits of my crazy… and like it says down there “the notify listers get the dirt first!” Seriously ya’ll sign up! It’s fun… like fuzzy puppies and rainbows, except not as squee.) I found said guy via Google.

Well… whom I thought was the guy who I used to partner skate with and who was my boyfriend in the 5th grade. And, um… how serious can you be in the 5th grade? “With you go with me? Yes or no?” “Go where?” “Apparently skating you skinny freak… and what is it with you and sailor shirts anyway?” “Shut up… whaaaaaaaaaaaa”

Annnnnd Scene.

Oh, yeah… um…. Point.

So. Yeah, I found this dude. (Notify listers got the website address… I love notify listers.) And I emailed him. We will now refer to dude as… Indiana Jones as he is all archaeological and PhD and smart and digging for stuff with his 18 degrees. I sent Indy this benign little email saying, “Hey man, did you go to so & so school in GA in the 5th grade and do you know who in Sam Hill I am?” Except for less dorky sounding.

Really. I was nice and professional and spelled school without a K.

Indiana Jones emailed me back over the weekend and I got it today. It is him.

Ah, the power of cheese Google.

July 26, 2005

Weird Hairs.

We’ve all done it at one time or another, I can almost guarantee. You’ve shaved, plucked, waxed or cut them haven’t you? No? What? Don’t tell me you are some cave dwelling fur-man with broadband in Borneo.


You’ve plucked at least one weird hair.

Women have them too. Oh, come on ladies. Let the mystery go. They all know we do it.

I am blessed with having almost no hair on my legs or even arms. My underarms? Nary a hair. I shave maybe twice or three times a month. And no… I don’t have a mustache to wax or bleach and I have never had to pluck a toe hair… praise be to Jesus.

But, yeah. I have a weird hair.

I quit “delicately shaping” my eyebrows a few years ago. Ok, I admit it. I was plucking the hell out of them and I looked like I was constantly surprised or had just been witness to a flashing in the parking lot on my way into the office. I had twelve very delicate eyebrow hairs left and I decided to let them cultivate.

I couldn’t support my eyebrow pencil habit.

And after the shaving incident* when I was twee, I didn’t want to push things too far with the little eyebrow hairs I had left. (*Stop laughing Stephanie.) I tried shaping them but then I got all OCD, and ya’ll know how that goes… Oh yes you do.

First it starts with a margarita, fajita and waxing party… just you and the girls. Or, maybe just me and Trix, dancing around in our underoos whilst the depilatory worked. Then on to finding the perfect razor… the one that worked with the shaving cream the best, no wait, the gel!

Then it spiraled out of control in the early part of 2002 and I found myself still in search of perfect hairless Chihuahua-ness. I did it. Oh yes. I went for. A. Brazilian. Wax.

I have no idea how it happened. One minute I was a perfectly insane woman approaching thirty, the next moment, I had my leg thrown over the shoulder of a women I had just met ten minutes earlier and she was chatting me up like it was perfectly normal to be ripping my hairs out by the root whilst looking into the secret depths of my princess.

I may have blacked out, I’m not sure, but I am pretty sure I paid someone some pretty hard earned money for that treatment.

And yeah, it lasted. And I felt like a dirty, dirty girl with a little secret that no one knew about (except the waxing masochist, the receptionist at the spa and of course Stacey… poor Stacey) – for about three weeks. Until it started to grow in. And then I went through puberty all over again. 12 hairs at a time. Yay.

But that still doesn’t explain the weird hair.

I was in Crockett, TX at a salon doing advertising sales and the topic of conversation came up about electrolysis, whether or not to put it in the ad… (for the record, bad idea.) and the salon owner made the comment, “My momma swears that if you have a weird chin hair or knuckle hair or whatever, if you pluck it at a full moon and bury it… it will NEVER come back.”


Have any of you ever done this?

Dudes? You can weigh in too. Cuz ya’ll get them crazy eyebrows when you start getting older and then there is the ear and nose hair issue. What about those extra long chestal hairs in the midst of the normal ones?

When I was young and got away with dancing in a little tank top with my Rocky Mountainョ jeans and little else… I remember going out to the concrete “patio” at Bullwinkles one evening in Nacogdoches with Troy (a dance partner & buddy) to cool off. We were hanging out and I dug my smokes out of my pocket and lit up and we were just hanging out talking and he goes, “Hang on, you have something on you…” and went to wipe something off of my chest bone – not the boobage area mind you. But like right where someone would poke you if they wanted to be a meanie and uh, poke you.

He wiped.

And wiped. And then bent down and lifted my chin with a finger and crinkled his eyes and said, “Um, it’s attached.”

I was all, “WHAT?! What is ON MEEEEEEEEE???!!!!!”

Ya’ll. I had a chest hair.

My face is so hot telling you this.

It was no bigger than an eyelash. But the little fucker was all mine. Hairy-Chest McSue.

I left it alone and within days it fell out, I must have been all testosterone-Y or something that week or something, but I had a hairy chest.

And now? Yeah, I have a beard.

Well, not a beard. Just a tiny little beard hair. Or a misplaced eyelash. Whatever. It is on the left side of my face above my jaw line. My beard. Oh, how proud I am.

But I could NOT leave this one alone. I plucked it. And now? I have to pluck it every month or so. Maybe it disappears for three months and then comes back, but… my beard. It’s my weird hair.

July 28, 2005

I've never smelled Britney's perfume... really.

At the present moment I feel as though I am about to spontaneously combust.

I know, I know… North Texas had a cool front move in early Tuesday morning. But all that did was result in a bunch of BAM BAM BAM BOOM! Rumble… rumblerumble FlashFlashFlashholycrapmyeye FLAAAAAASH! Storms, and drizzle. And more humidity. Yay.

My internal thermometer is set somewhere between Yeti-wearing-cashmere-in-a-rain-forest and harvesting-watermelons-in-Texas-while-wearing-a-dive-suit.

I love me some cashmere, but that shit is a bit warm. Kind of like wool… in a dryer. And on the watermelon thing? Well, why don’t you gather around kiddies, let me tell you a little story.

One summer a friend of mine named John W. asked if X and I would help him haul watermelons for the weekend. His normal workers were on holiday visiting their families and he needed some cheap labor, namely a couple of buddies that he could count on for pretty much anything.

X and I said that we’d help John out and we planned on meeting him at 7 am that following Saturday morning.

I need a nametag that says “SUCKER” in huge red letters. Can any of you guys hook a sister up?

I got up at six am that Saturday to just sit for a bit because, DAYUM, six AM? That is the ass crack of dawn ya’ll. I know that my alarm is all up in dawn’s proverbial ass now but this was a few years ago and I was all about, “If I get three hours of sleep, I’m good. I HAVE to be in bed by three ya’ll. Have too!” So, yeah. It was early. I dressed in boxers, soccer shorts, tennis shoes and a t-shirt and then woke up X. He fell out of bed and put on some of my old cut off jeans (ps, fucker… I used to hate it when he would wear my clothes…. REALLY HATED IT.) and a shirt, a hat and some shoes.

We drove over to John’s house and he had his trailer set up with all the watermelons loaded in. He had harvested them in West Texas the week before and we were going to make deliveries to the grocery stores in the surrounding counties.

I had driven by his house every day that week going to and from work and I had seen the amount of watermelons in his trailer, but nothing really prepared me for standing next to the vehicle, seeing the sheer volume of watermelons and the realization hitting me that with the oppressive Texas sun already starting it’s path West and with each moment I could feel the moisture collecting on my skin from my own perspiration in the heat and that I would be on the feeble three man/woman team responsible for unloading the freaking truck I was standing next to.


Off we went…

The first grocery store was a local Brookshire Bros. and John pulled around back and backed the truck into the loading dock. X opened the door and hopped out. I swung over the door frame and onto the big honkin pile of watermelons while John went to go find the produce manager. The produce manager was located, a bin for the watermelon was located and I started to bend, grab, turn, heave and throw the melons to X who in turn, threw them to John. John would then put the melons into the bin for the produce manager who would then put them on display for the customer.

These melons were on average 11 to 15 pounds.

We left that store at 7:45 am.

I was wet with sweat. I immediately lit a cigarette, we all did.

We traveled all over East Texas. Center, Lufkin, Reklaw (not really), Jacksonville, Rusk all over and at every Brookshire Bros. grocery store, it was the same. Bend, grab, turn, heave and throw. Or catch. And I’m not so much for the positive experiences with humongous spherical objects being hurled at me though space. While the mercury steadily climbed the thermometer to over 103 degrees. The humidity was like…

Have you ever been playing in a pool and you have your towel in there with you to cool it off…(stay with me here) and you lay the towel out on the surface of the water and then you go under the water and then come up under the towel and make a little bubble fort? The “SPLORCH” noise the air makes when it is being sucked in through the wet towel was the noise we were making that day trying to breathe.

Now I have done hard manual labor in my day ya’ll. Normally I don’t mind it. I don’t particularly like bailing or throwing hay, it’s itchy.

But this was bad.

The sheer weight and repetition of those damn smooth, therefore slippery melons. Good Lord. Not to mention the fact that most of the delivery docks were located RIGHT NEXT TO the dumpsters for the grocery stores which, is not pleasant to say, but smelled like hot ass, sour cat breath and death.

Much like Curiousョ.

The last city was something on the other side of Rusk, Cushing or something. The rhyme or reasoning behind Johns pattern was beyond me, but I didn’t care if I ever got home, I just wanted a cold shower.. from somewhere. A hose? An errant benevolent elephant?

After that last load we piled into the truck and John fiddled with the knobs on the dash. It appeared that the A/C was broken. Even though it wasn’t his fault… I looked at X and laser beams shot out of my eyes and I burned all of the hair off of his head and just left him with a slightly askew mustache and goatee.

True story.

About July 2005

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

June 2005 is the previous archive.

August 2005 is the next archive.

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