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August 2005 Archives

August 1, 2005

Hotness in Six Steps

It has finally happened. I have been asked to publish a book and not just any book mind you, but a book on Hotness. As you all know, I have cornered the market on hotness, “Smooookin Hotness burning hotter than the surface of a thousand suns circling a supernova!” is how my soon to be editor put it.

But I don’t want to hide my light under a bushel (NO!) and make money off of the poor afflicted lukewarm souls of the middle class. I want to share my little light with the world, with the thriving metropolis of the Internets so that everyone may partake in a little bit of hotness happiness.

Let’s diagram the word hot. With giving special props to Dicitonary.com they list Hot as…
Pronunciation: 'hät
Function: adjective
Inflected Forms: hot•ter; hot•test
1 a : having a relatively high temperature b: capable of giving a sensation of heat or of burning, searing, or scalding c: having heat in a degree exceeding normal body heat
2 a : RADIOACTIVE; especially : exhibiting a relatively great amount of radioactivity when subjected to radionuclide scanning b : dealing with radioactive material
Um. None of this relates at all to my particular brand of hotness. So, I would like to start with my definition. Hot is as hot does. And my momma tells me I’m pretty.

Six ways to be hot.
(Start slow ya’ll, you don’t want to sprain something. Not everyone can be as hot as I am naturally. I just practice a little on the weekends to keep the hotness razor sharp.)

Number One:
Drive a hoopty. My hoopty is fine. Foooiine. She used to be maroon and with the help of the merciless Texas sun (also hot), her slight metallic paint has faded to a whore-y purple. Mmmmm. Hoopty-licious. I keep my bangin ride running smooth with the help of Exxon, Mobile and Chevron and sometimes Tom Thumb. These places usually have the cheapest high level gas. If I put low grade in she knocks and it sounds like I have a white boy in elementary school drum corp stuck in my engine. Not to mention the fan belt screaming that sometimes accompanies the drumming. Hotness.

Number Two.
Sweat. A LOT. This is very important. Especially to the ladies. Sweating keeps your pores clean and the toxins out of your system. When a bead of perspiration is making its’ way from your hairline to your eyeball, there is nothing hotter. Sure, it stings. But beauty is painful sometimes. You do not need to buy all of those glittery powders and lotions at CVS or Walgreens ya’ll. Just sweat. Live in Texas or somewhere that the mercury doesn’t dip below 95 from March to November and sweat it up. What? You have to wear a suit to work and you don’t have a/c in your hoopty? Bonus. Two for one baby. Back sweat and under boob sweat will set off your outfit like the perfect accoutrement.

Number Three
The HoFro. This tip ties in with number two. Because it is normally hot here in the lower continental 48 states we can usually do this one pretty easily, especially if you have naturally curly hair. And if you do, bless you, you may have this one already mastered. Point for you. Leave your house or the salon with perfectly coiffed hair and show up at your date, your office, your photo shoot or function with a HoFro (honky afro). People Love the HoFro. Remember Jan Brady when she wanted that perfect black afro in that episode of The Brady Bunch? The Half HoFro is an acquired taste that may win you some points if you can keep the top smooth but the underside a curled and gnarled mess and around your hairline frizzy. Perfection!

Number Four
Fall off of your shoes. We all love beautiful shoes, guys and girls alike. But this one may make you think twice… but trust me. To be hot, you may have to sacrifice a pair of shoes. The horror! I know. But listen to me. Just fall off one or two pair, scuff the sides of the heels and maybe even the top, ruin your pedicure, make your heels look rough… THERE. Belissima!

Number Five
Cry at Chili’s. When you are especially vulnerable, I don’t know if you have just started your cycle girls or guys if you just watched Celebrity Fit Club and you are very upset over the state of Jani Lane and his alcohol addiction. Or, if you have a sweet husband who cuts his corn off the cob for you to taste it and his little act of service touches your heart and you start bawling like a baby so hard that the little seventeen year old manager comes up and says, “Ma’am? Is your chicken okay?” And you reply, “It is f-hi-hiiinnneeee.” Because you are blubbering like an idiot. Yes, this is HOT.

Number Six
This is the Most Important. I can not stress this enough people. It may take weeks, months and even years to work up to this point but you MUST get here to reach a relatively safe level of hotness if you even want to think of pulling off wearing those Seven/Abercrombie Fitch/American Eagle jeans that you have your eye on, even though they do simply amazing things to your ass. You must do this. Ok, on a Monday… no wait, make it a Sunday, so you can rest afterwards… On a Sunday, after a perfectly lovely … pick one: (baby shower for the girls) (trip to Hooter’s for the game for the guys) you come home to talk to your loved one about your day. If you are so hard core that you don’t have a loved one, do this over the phone to a friend or even the operator. Hand gestures are still a MUST. While talking to said loved one, make a LARGE hand gesture really fast. SMACK yourself in the face with your OWN. DAMNED. HAND. And take a chunk out of your left eyebrow with your right thumbnail. Commend spouse for not cracking his shit up at your dorky ass behavior and announce that you are the hottest bitch in the world

Photographic evidence. (Click to make bigger, and to actually see the uh, evidence.)
So Graceful


Because with hotness, we can make the world a better place.

August 3, 2005

100 Things I Like

Dear Jessica Simpson,
I covet your Gucci horse-bit hobo bag in brown and in black. However, COMMA, I saw that abortion of video and “music”* that you scraped out of Satan’s hoary ass and threw up onto VH1’s airwaves for the second time this morning and nearly deafened myself on purpose with a pink bubblegum cigar that says, “IT’s A GIRL” on it at the first come hither slither of your whispery vomitous, “Are you ready Bewwts?… start walkin.” Your over indulgent attitude and sheer… God… just the ickiness!
How much did you have to pay Willie to make him be in that video? I thought I saw shackles, were those shackles?
Please stop working out, your neck looks mannish and your tan makes you look dirty. A carb will not kill you… your skin however, looks like it is trying to attack your face. Water honey, hydrate. Oh, and bathe. It is not enough to just be next to the suds.
With love,
Me
*PS… We know you can sing. You used to have it in you before all of this over-enunciation stuff and trying to out-drama Whitney took over.
PPS… You owe Nancy Sinatra an apology.


I just read KristinTracy’s 100 Things I Like. Which was in turn inspired by Heeland Lass, and that in turn was inspired by… Jenny, who was inspired by the website Learning to Love You More and Erin. (Will it never end?)

And I started thinking about things that I like. Could I put a list of things together, 100 things that I like? Or would it be easier, as KT intoned at the end of her list, to put together a list of dislikes?

Yes, yes it would be easier. And I’m no slouch (sit up straight darling) I don’t want to take the easy way out. So, over the next – however long it takes (starting over lunch on 8/3) – I will formulate a list of things that make me happy. And I will try to do so without much thought or explanation.

I’m bad about explaining myself aren’t I?

On to the list.

The rules…
Make a list of 100 things you like in no particular order. Avoid the obvious (significant other, cake...) and be completely honest with yourself. If you try to think of things that you are curious about and inspired by, you'll end up discovering a lot about yourself and in doing so developing a sort of bank of your interests and ideas.

1. sound: the ocean in the morning
2. Q-tips™
3. pressed tin ceilings
4. Dictionary.com
5. the sound of quiet before a room erupts into applause
6. wooden railings worn smooth
7. oversized furniture
8. flipping the pillow to find the cool side
9. giving anonymously
10. smell: freshly mowed grass
11. smell: leaves/grass being burned in the country
12. skiing during a storm with lazy fat snowflakes falling
13. suspension of disbelief
14. personal mail
15. email
16. commercials
17. VH1
18. cedar blocks
19. Burt’s Bees lip therapy
20. strappy sandals
21. Old Navy flip flops
22. the lines in the carpet after you vacuum
23. being petted
24. road trips
25. fine point roller ball pens
26. Bonnie Raitt
27. bendy straws
28. candles that smell lightly like men’s cologne or sandalwood
29. feeling safe
30. waking up laughing
31. watching a project come together seamlessly
32. airline miles and hotel points
33. finding a cool spot in warm water
34. swimming
35. “grazing” as opposed to eating a large meal
36. freshly shaved legs and cool crisp sheets = heaven
37. mascara
38. Vitamin E lip balm
39. Rhodesian Ridgebacks
40. the bunnies that live in my yard
41. smell: coffee
42. Boodles gin & tonic (dirty) w/ 3 big olives
43. almond stuffed olives
44. olives apparently
45. the TLC show on Elephants that makes me cry every time
46. my deconstruction of an Arby’s sandwich
47. This brilliant, brilliant young lady. (So proud of you Jen!)
48. knowing how to work the office copier
49. post it notes
50. individually wrapped wint-o-green lifesavers
51. black and white film
52. those Lysolョ/Cloroxョ kitchen wipes
53. bedroom slippers
54. fluffy socks
55. action movies
56. making a friend laugh with my journal
57. dill pickles
58. popcorn
59. gentle kisses with little bites on the lower lip
60. sushi
61. black pants
62. jazz hands
63. honey shampoo & conditioner from The Body Shop
64. oranges
65. spinach salad with strawberries & poppy seed dressing
66. avocados
67. green bananas
68. Mexican and Tex-Mex food (salsa is a food group)
69. misty mornings in the spring
70. 78 degree weather
71. sweatshirt with shorts
72. Paradise on Platt
73. the tingle in my belly when I know I’m about to see my husband
74. New Orleans
75. shoes
76. dangly earrings
77. the necklace my father made for me (and one from my sister) with a diamond from my mother and a stone from my grandmother’s brag ring
78. two-stepping
79. harmony
80. the knowledge that I am tough, but I don’t have to be anymore
81. Kevin James
82. no school loans
83. Max’s big kitty body with a tiny little “meee?” meow
84. my Aquis towel
85. comments
86. pedicures
87. the Internets
88. transition lenses
89. Labor Day
90. lip gloss – cranberry colored…
91. p0rn hair
92. little black envelope opener that looks like a floppy disk
93. Elvira & Florida Evans
94. Clarins hand lotion
95. my intuition razor
96. tee-tiny hair clips
97. Revlon eyelash curler that has lasted for 20 years
98. cottonelle toilet paper (stupid bears ruined the whole thing for me.)
99. books, bookity, books, books
100. naps

Well, that took long enough. You wanna give it a go? Please, be my guest.
Just let me know in the comments, or backtrack to this entry to let me know that you took the idea and ran with it. Smoochies.

August 9, 2005

Six hours of my life that I will never see again.

Dude. Ya’ll?

Defensive driving.

Nay… Comedy defensive driving. ::sigh::

Six hours of my life that I will never see again. All because of 6 nanoseconds of stupidity. GreenlightGreenlightGreenlightYellowlightOneonethousand….
Annnnd Sue gets a ticket.

But? It is over. And I will never have to smell the body odor of Sven the close-sitter guy. And I’m not saying that my teeth are the most pearly and straight of all whites but my man Sven could bite a pumpkin through a picket fence.

Sweetheart? It is called orthodontia, look into it.

Speaking of, did I hear that they have a new singer for Queen? (Heather, this is my little love note to you. The “Dead Fred” thing? Priceless. Irreverent yes, but priceless.) I can’t even imagine how that would sound. I watched this documentary on tv a million years ago (ok maybe four) that had this show on tribute bands, one of them being Queen. Those people got SO into it. And I must give props, where props are due. (I am so white.) The tribute band for Queen that they showcased rocked. And the lead singer? Sounded a bit like sweet Freddy Mercury.

My ex-step daughter would get all worried when VH1 would air the special, Queen: Behind the Music because I? would cry every time. Freddie’s strong, melodic voice coming out of that body that looked like it should have already given up the ghost.

I love Queen. I always swore that if I ever stripped* that I would do my first number to “Body Language”… and now they are using it for a freakin car advertisement. Gah.

*Again, poor, poor Stacey. Story for another time maybe?

Sorry tangent.

I saw Wedding Crashers this weekend with Mister.

::blink::

Maybe it is the fourteen year old boy that is currently residing inside my head; the fact that I really, really love to hear my husband belly laugh; I’m a sucker for a love story, regardless of the vehicle; the under the dinner table hand job scene OR that I am just one sick bitch… but that movie was hysterical. I laughed, I cried. It was better than Cats.

Guys. This is a little tip, from me to you, consider it a gift. DO NOT make this a first date movie. Regardless of how cool you think she is. Wait until the post-coital-high-fiving phase.

Take her to see something romantic and witty… like… Land of the Dead. What?

Is it really only Tuesday? Can I get a hall pass for this week? How about this month?

I have all of these worky things to do and I keep forgetting about the personal stuff. In the past two weeks I have spaced on two personal things and felt like complete and total chum about it. Oh sure, I had good intentions and all… but we know where good intentions lead right? Because the road to hell was paved with… linen and small pine cones or something.

Oh and speaking of my new lovah… said the queen of the non sequitur … I jumped in on the just the half end of The Closer last night and about peed my pants with excitement. That show is so damn good.

(ahem. This coming from a woman who was convinced that Ally McBeal, Boston Public, Committed, Medium and Scrubs should all take home all of the awards… in the whole world… for Freaking Coolest TV Shows of All TIMES! (This category does not include cartoons.))

What? I still miss Ally McBeal. She was like Jim Adler … a tough, smart lawyer.

Sooo… there’s that then.

I realized that Mister and I have been around each other a LONG time. Either that or I am becoming senile. A few weeks ago I was in San Antonio doing a conference. And all over the airport, the billboards, the street signs, the buildings and the whole city are signs that say “GO SPURS GO!” from the basketball championships. (Edited to note: I just spelled that championchips and now? I’m hungry. Power of suggestion much, Fat Ass? Sheesh.)

So I was talking to Mister the evening of my arrival after we set up our registration desk for the conference and did all of our worky stuff and had dinner and whatever else we did (::cough:: drinks ::cough::). I was telling him about the decorations still being up and when I said one thing it triggered a memory of being at this bar in Dallas called Cowboys Red River and running into a famous person that reminded me of someone else.

The conversation went like this:

Me: blah dee blah dee blah dee blah

Mister: [totally pretending to listen while he plays on his computer]

Me: …and so they still have all of these decorations up all over for the basketball championships… [thinking… “mmm chips… I’m hungry”]

Mister: .. yeah, they have been over for a while.

Me: Oh my gah! That totally reminds me!

Mister: What baby?

Me: Did I ever tell you about that time I was at Red River?

Mister: Which time?

Me: Well [pause to build the suspension… but really to let him forget what I was talking about… and actually that he was on the phone at all… ]… check this out. [hear a small startled noise when I start speaking again]… Ok… I was at Red River with Hot Barney or someone and as we were getting ready to leave I was walking out the door and Dirk Nowitzki walked in the front door, I about ran smack into his knee/chest/crotch(?) And I jumped back because I thought it was Neal (the bad one)…

Mister: Uh, baby? You weren’t with Hot Barney… you were with me.

Me: Really?

Mister: Really.

Me: Um, whoops. So, this story. Not so much on the “whoa, impressive!” scale?

Mister: Pretty soon, all of your stories are going to include me.

Me: And I’m not going to have any stories that you haven’t already heard, or that you weren’t with me when it happened.

Mister: Isn’t that cool?

Me: Yes, and no.

Mister: No?

Me: Yes, because of the whole [singing] You and Meeeee Have Historeeee! …thing.

Mister: Buuut?

Me: Kinda smacks my story tellin mojo in the ass.

Mister: Heh.

Speaking of story telling mojo. Kathy Griffin and her new show My Life on the d List is awesome. She parlayed her snark on celebrities into a little reality show. It was so cute. I saw it last week. And they are playing her stand up routine (as a matter of fact they are playing it tonight) before it, which is funny too. And yes, it was funny when Rosie O’Donnel did it back in the 80’s when she ragged on the ladies of the Now and Then set… but shit, any woman who can say, “Sharon Stone is the white Whitney Brown, she’ll cut you…” and get away with it gets an A in my book. APPLAUSE! (And that just made me think of applesauce. Fuck.)

August 12, 2005

It was a very surreal experience, almost synesthetic in nature.

I was looking [read: transfixed by] some pictures over at monkey0’s picture site located here at monkeywatching.

It was a very surreal experience, almost synesthetic in nature. As I scanned through the images… faces, nature, snapshots from someone else’s life, several thoughts occurred in my tiny uncreative brain simultaneously:

Number one. I SO need a new camera.

Number two. I wish I could pour my emotions onto film like that.

Number three. A picture is worth a thousand words. And in this case… then some.

Number four. man: On a hot summer night would you offer your throat to the wolf with the red roses?
woman: Will he offer me his mouth?
man: Yes…
woman: Will he offer me his teeth?
man: Yes…
woman: Will he offer me his jaws?
man: Yes…
woman: Will he offer me his hunger?
man: Yes…
woman: [strongly] Again! will he offer me his hunger?
man: [strongly] Yes!
woman: And will he starve without me?
man: Yes!
woman: And does he love me?
man: [softly] Yes.
woman: [softly] Yes.
man: On a hot summer night would you offer your throat to the wolf with the red roses?
woman: Yes.
man: [sarcastically] I bet you to say that to all the boys.

Images of foggy nights, cherry trees blossoming in the bright Japanese sun, a large metallic giant that you know the moment you turn your back… red eyes will flicker dully beneath the three inches of metal to register your vitals and whether you are enemy or merely fodder for stomping, Harijuku fashionistas and their brethren and calm treed canopies in misty mornings viewed from a balcony seemingly so peaceful it makes me want to take up coffee drinking and wearing fleece.

So if you have a few hours to spend. Might I suggest….?

August 15, 2005

K

When I was looking to move back to Dallas and away from Nacogdoches [read: get the hell out of dodge] I put my resume together and sent it to anyone who would take it. I poured over the newspaper listings and called on old contacts.

I started calling on temp agencies when everything else failed to bear fruit, and they started setting up appointments for me. I asked them to line them up like dominoes so I could drive in from Nacogdoches and knock out the interviews one at a time. I usually had three and four in a day.

The three and a half hour drive was no big deal for me but in the summer sun wearing a cheap black suit, you could tell I was desperate.

A general construction company was looking for an executive secretary for their big boss. They loved me, offered me the job, I counter offered, we negotiated. I won, I left my husband (there is a longer story here… not gonna get into it) and moved (yee haw.) and started the job that Thursday.

The job entailed ass loads of filing (the bane of my existence) and for me to learn the Construction Specification Institute’s (CSI) Division List (link found here) (Dear. God.), for me to take care of Joe’s secretarial duties, make him look good (wasn’t hard… guy’s a genius), to take care of his two brilliant kids on the nights that he was taking his equally brilliant wife to the Stars game… and plan his golf outings with his buddies and get them nice shirts made.

Loved the job, hated the comptroller. But during the interim there I met a girl who worked for one of the contractors for Joe. We’ll call her K. K was young and exuberant. She bounded into the office and immediately demanded that I come out with her and her husband that weekend. Well, that’s not true. It took her a couple of weeks and a few phone calls back and forth for us to decide we liked each other.

Ya see, we were supposed to hate one another.

Joe and her father we locked in a pissing contest over this multimillion dollar job they were working on. And therefore, I was the enemy… because I worked for Joe. And she worked for her dad. Whatever.

She demanded that I come out with her and her husband, I went. And…..a good time was had by all.

Months went by, years went by. K was always there. Always demanding that I come do this, or do that. But she was always there to lend an ear as well. And as you, dear reader, know, I was one angry broad. I had a lot of anger. I was angry at myself… I was angry at X, oh how I was ANGRY… I was angry at Marcus, that little shit… (if you need a link for any of this crap let me know)… I was angry at Neal...I was just angry. But she was angrier. And more negative, and had more drama. It always seemed to be about her. If I was upset I could talk and then she could talk and it would always turn into this thought in my head of, “Well, yeah, K is more fucked up than I am… she needs the time and the spotlight right now, I’ll talk later.” Or whatever.

She took up all of the space in the room. She was negative and charismatic at the same time. How is that possible? I wanted to hang out with her but then I dreaded it.

She was always taking on projects. She had so much love (or control) to give that she would take on injured puppies, stray cats, men… she even took on a foster child… nay, a foster infant that needed an oxygen tube to breathe. She wanted to help or change or fix everyone and everything. (And yes, naysayers, I do feel perfectly comfortable throwing around those blanket statements.)

Her need to change things sometimes veered into the negative. And the negative would be verbalized with a quick jab and then laughed off as if she were delivering a punch line or stony as if she were reading a street sign. Her verbal opinions and objections were never offered with love and respect. Never with an “I feel…” opener.

And one afternoon I had had enough.

I was wearing a red dress. It was a red shift with a cute little jacket that my mother had purchased for me because she was thinking about me. I had spent ten years being separated from my parents with them being in Colorado and me being in redneck country Nacogdoches and my mommy bought me a cute dress. I was proud of it. And K walked in to go to deliver a check to me (This was three and a half to four years and two jobs after we had met, and I was moonlighting for her father organizing his office.) and said, “You really shouldn’t wear that dress… it looks like something your mother would wear.”

::blink::

It really isn’t so much what she said, although it was rude; it is more of the tone and the venom that she spat at me. She actually sneered.

I told her that I liked the dress and I thought it was pretty and that my mother would wear something like this thankyouverymuch. Later that day or that night she demanded that I come over or something and when I said a flat “no.” that led to a discussion about how I thought she should ask and not tell and that I thought she was very rude. She said that she was just honest about her feelings and I said that she hides behind the word HONESTY to be cruel to people. She said, “Well, this is just who I AM. Take it or leave it!” And I said, “I believe I will take the second option and leave it.”

And our friendship was over.

I was in the process of working on my nonexistent boundaries at the time. I was going through therapy and I needed to have healthy relationships and she was just an emotional vampire to my doormat. The relationship was not mutually beneficial and I burned the bridge rather than rebuild it.

Back in January of this year I received an email from K. It was very short and all it said was this…

I was at work the other day and a lady sat down in my chair who could have been your twin. She reminded me of how much I missed our friendship. I hope it's not too late to tell you how sorry I am for being so critical. You never deserved it.

It took me a while… a while a chewing on my own face with indecision. I don’t have to tell you guys that I am one big bucket of crazy, but I did not know if I wanted to step my foot back into that ring. All I could think if was that hurt and confusion and sorrow that was caused when she was in my life. I knew that there were good times, I knew that there were laughs and nights of pizza parties and trips to Hot Springs, AR and pictures of us vogue-ing with wax lips and pool parties… but was I ready to even see where this would lead?

I knew that K had had a little girl, a beautiful little girl and that maybe she had softened around the edges.

I knew that she was no longer working for her daddy, a BIG source of her crazy. That she had gone through cosmetology school so maybe she was getting that need of hers to change to help to fix met in that field, and getting paid for it.

I didn’t know if I could step out of the relationship again if I wanted to. But then I remembered.

I am not the same scared young girl afraid and angry and torn up inside, in need of love and acceptance in any form. I can stand on my own two feet and I can do this if I want to. [little stomp of a tiny foot]

Just to be sure, I talked to my darling acorn, Anne. She said, “Hell, why not? If she turns out to be crazy as a shit house bat, you don’t have to hang out with her. Just tell her, I’m sorry, this was a mistake, and haul ass.” I’m paraphrasing… of course, Anne was definitely much more eloquent. She may have even used thee’s and thou’s.

Heh.

Anyway.

Over the last couple of weeks, K and I have been emailing back and forth. And last night she called me and we talked on the phone for an hour. It turns out that she did enter therapy and that she seems to be a lot softer now. She is calmer, not as manic or hysterical.

I hope that when we get together for lunch or dinner in the near future that it goes well.

Wish me luck!

August 17, 2005

I Blame My Sister

I’d like to take a moment to discuss the finer attributes of ZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz…

[SnnerfK] Wha - huh? ::blink::

I mean… [yaAAAwn]… that the esoteric use of the ZZZZZzzzzzzzz…

What time is it anyway? Only one fucking-twenty two in the p.m. huh? Are you sure it isn’t nap time yet? No? Shit.

I blame my sister. And I can do that because she isn’t reading this journal anymore.

Maybe it was all of the f-bombs. No? Maybe it was the fear of the Internets. Maybe it was the rampant James van der Beek humping in the days of yore. Oh, quiet down you… yeah, you with the clown shoes, it was a dream for goodness sake.

Anyway, she isn’t reading my journal so I can blame her all I want.

I can also blame her awful taste in books. She has this predilection for odd literature. Sure, she loves the standard fare but give her a novel or a memoir with the author or the main character coming completely unglued and my darling sibling is a happy, happy reader.

The same books that seem to make my sister hop about with maniacal glee leave me feeling sorrowful and very pensive. I tend to latch onto characters, seeing them as friends and or family and their undoing or demise makes me very unhappy. I want to help them or at least offer comfort (The Cider House Rules was almost the death of me… Damn You John Irving!).

Yeah, yeah… yeah… I’m aware of the level of crazy. Move along Maude.

My sister called me two (three?) weeks ago and was all but jumping through the phone. We were to go to a girlfriend’s baby shower that Sunday together. She asked me to be at her house at 1:30. She said that she had some pictures for me. I was very excited, as I looooove pictures. (Ya’ll, send me pictures. Love them.) Then she delivered the punch line, “And I have a new book for you! You are soooo going to LOVE IT!”

My response? “Oh Lord.”

Every time we talked before that Sunday (as we are likethis we talk just about every day… sometimes several times a day) she would mention said book. The book started taking on anthropomorphic characteristics in my head… laughing menacingly in the background with that deep Hexxus like laugh, rubbing its little booky hands together evilly or um, making me not sleep when it finally got into my house. So, I really did not want to pick up the book when she gave it to me that Sunday.

But ::sigh:: I did.

I did not open it or even look at the cover for a good two weeks though.

Do ya’ll know what book she gave me?

Running with Scissors by Augusten Burroughs.

Now I… by design, am not a book cover (front or back) reader. That whole, “A book should not be judged by its cover” thing has been burned into my psyche so completely that I barely even read the titles anymore. (Hi! I’m Captain Literal!) I look at the author, look at the title, make sure that I haven’t read said book before (it is a danger with stuff being re-released nowadays) and then purchase, borrow or check out.

So the book sat on the kitchen table laughing like Tim Curry in Fern Gully every time I went into the room. I had other stuff to read. Three new (well old… but new to me) books from Half Price Books just waiting to be delved into. But Nooooo… There was that damn book. Someone else’s book. So there was added pressure of reading and returning. And it was a My Sister’s Crazy book to boot!

Gah.

I opened it.

I started reading.

(SPOILER ALERT!)

I got to the chapter called “The Masterbatorium” and called my sister to tell her that I hated her.

When young Augusten walks into his house and finds his neighbor, the preacher’s wife, with her face buried in his mothers crotch… and … um… yeah… I called my sister and, “Haaaaaaaaate you.”

And then the gay p0rn started.

Now mind you that my sister DID read the back cover (link above goes to Amazon where you can view said back cover… in all its glory) and found nothing wrong with picking up a book about a child (he was 13), “who befriended a ped0phile who lived in the backyard shed”. I don’t really hate my sister. I love her, I just hate her for knowing my weakness for finishing books.

My sister called me yesterday while I was at work. She was in the car with her mother in law. She said, “Hey, go to www.” And I shouted back, “No! P0RN GIRL! I am not going anywhere on the web that you send me! Does your husband know that you are trafficking in p0rn!?” She almost wrecked she was laughing so hard, and then she sent me to a website with some beautiful pictures of my niece that were just taken. And then she had to explain to her mother in law what all the laughter was about… Heh.

The book is well written. It is just a train wreck.

You know that thing about someone is always worse off that you are? Dude, Augusten? How did you survive man?

This book, I could not put it down until I finished it because it hurt my heart to read it… and it is a memoir. NOT FICTION. Jesus. Oh, holy shit… it is going to be a MOVIE?

[deep breath]

Anyway, I stayed up last night to finish the book.

Tired, and I blame my sister…Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Update (later the same damn day)... Gah.

What the hell is up with my comments? Why are they temporarily disabled? I did not do this. Do I have gremlins? Is HaloScan sort of like the NotifyList of the comments world? Sometimes worky and sometimes not? Ya’ll? Sorry. Please come back and post your comments… you know I love them like Buffalo Bill loves the soft skin of the fat girl and Eric Cartmen loves the tears of his victims.

Sorry, I went to a dark place there for a moment.

Ya’ll know I love you.

It leaves a comment or it gets the hose.

August 19, 2005

Most incredible BarBQ you have ever put in your face orifice.

My father is turning 65 on Monday and this weekend my mother is throwing one hell of a shindig for him. She’s having the party catered by this crazy guy named Sam who makes the most incredible barbeque you have ever put in your face orifice. The mouth one.

I normally call barbeque “barf-EEEEEEE!-que” because a fan? Yeah, not so much. But I am coming around.

But it wasn’t always this way.

I used to love barbeque when we lived in Marietta, GA because every year this family up on the corner, the Steeles, would go hog hunting and then come back and have a party to roast the hog. Now they wouldn’t just get the hog quartered and processed and then prepare it. No no nooo… my little lovelies. These people did it riiiight.

(please imagine my Georgia accent creeping into my voice as I get into telling this tale)

They would dig a pit on their property.

Ya’ll we lived in a Beaver Cleaver neighborhood. Somerset was its name. We each had easily a シ acre or more, and the Steeles were on the corner, so a pit that was large enough to bury a full sized man… in a coffin? No problem.

They would dig this pit, stack wood and coals in the bottom, light the fire and let it get really hot. They also had this iron grate that they would slide across the mid point to act as the rack. And then they would just place this gutted whole hog (or hogs) on the grate and then basically bury it and let it cook all damn day.

The whole neighborhood would show up with cucumber salad, beer, potato salad, Jell-Oョ, all these different desserts and we would have a party.

You could smell that hog cooking all day and it was divine. When dusk started falling, Mr. Steele and his son and who ever went hunting would uncover the hog(s) and they would start chopping the meat and serving plates. No sauce was needed… it was so succulent.

But this crazy Sam guy makes this ribs that… just… damn they are tasty. He has a place in Tyler and another right outside the city limits that he “experiments” with recipes.

My mother is getting a bit nervous because she is going to have about 40 people in her house on Saturday and Sam is the food guy. When Momma gets manic, everyone gets manic. Well, ok. Maybe I just get manic.

It’s contagious.

She’s worried about what to wear, where everyone will sit… Don’t Use the Bathrooms before people get here! Come already dressed! Can you bring some Valium? I’m askin ya’ll… can you?

Well, that and Mister is stressed to the nines at his office. He has a project that is six months behind schedule. It was probably further behind than that when he took it over, but because of the Type A (pun) blood running through his veins, he is wound tighter than an eight day clock.

He has been coming home for the past several weeks, around 7pm, and we’ll sit in the living room and I’ll ask him about his evening. This is always par for the course… but what isn’t par is the cursing and frothing at the mouth when he tells me about his day. I am sure his blood pressure is well over eleventy million right now and he is not sleeping.

I told Anne the other day that I had a new outlook on life. She asked me what it was and I told her that regardless of how bad my day is, I am glad that I have a job and that I am a low man on the totem pole. My ambition is lower than it has ever been because I figured out that the higher you are on the food chain… the more stress you have. My director just about driven insane by her low self esteem and the crazy politics and she is a cool lady with a lot going for her. Same with Mister… he’s awesome and yet he’s being eaten alive by the stresses of the office. Poor thing... keeps asking me when we're going to sell everything and go and live in a van down by the river.

Everyday I hear about what is going on in his office and I want him to download, but the constant wear and tear is getting to me…

[read: I’m hormonal.]

Yesterday Mister and I went to lunch, we were sitting there and the topic of conversation turned to… dum dum DAAAAA!!!!... his office. So after Mister finished talking and I asked a few questions and he answered them… My Mother called and asked Mister if he would give the prayer at my fathers party, “Oh, I am SOOO glad I caught ya’ll together! I would have hated to call Mister at work!” (she’s so cute.)… I thought I would talk about something other than work… And the fact that I left my wedding ring at home.

I took off my rings yesterday morning to put on Jergens Natural Glow lotion after I got out of the shower and left them in my little ring box that Amy got for me. I also left my glasses at home and I was one blind bitch all day. But at lunch Mister was teasing me and my little ringless finger with this comment, “What type of message are you trying to send out?” He was kidding. But my little feelings… yeah, that one over there on my sleeve? It was a little bruised.

Oh! I know! To lighten the mood I will bring up my upcoming trip to Chicago over Labor Day with my good girlfriend Jen to see my good girlfriend Sil! Yaaay! Sil! (Mini Ya Ya trip) It is a happy topic of conversation, it has nothing to do with my work, or Mister’s work… it is…”safe”.

BUUUZZZZER! Wrong!

Mister had forgotten that I was going, forgotten that I needed some petty cash for the trip as my ticket has already been purchased… forgotten that he had told me that he would take and pick me up at the airport.

Threw out a bunch of, “It’s okay, we’ll talk about it later.”s When he said, “I am not in a good place to talk about this right now.” I shut down because I knew what was coming. My bad brain was already saying stuff like, “not like I’m asking daddy to get another tattoo here fellas” and my good brain was noticing the straight set of his mouth and how utterly exhausted he was and trying to just get through the fucking day.

But yet?

Mister: What just happened here?
me: Nothing.
Mister: I just noticed a distinct shift in the force.
me: [praying silently to not cry… all the while looking at the table like it is interesting] It’s ok sweetie, I know you are strapped at work and everything.
Mister: But…
me: Nothing really… we’ll talk about it later. [bad brain: Or he can talk about his Director or his Project Manager or Lauuurra some attention starved lunatic on his team some more… Shut UP Bad Brain!]
Mister: Baby?
me: yes?
Mister: Is this because I forgot about your trip?
me: [openly crying … in a fucking restaurant again.] well… that and… ::sniff:: and I’m tired of hearing about David and Laauuurraaaa… and I forgot my ring at home this morning and my glasses and you don’t like my liiiiippppssttiiiiiiccckkkk [sob]

(Yes ladies and gentlemen… I’m pathetic.)

Mister: Baby, I’m sorry that I teased you about leaving your ring at home, I know you would have never done so on purpose. And it isn’t that I don’t not like your lip stick, it is just a little too bright before you blot.
me: ::sniffle::

Anyway… we finished up our meal. Decided to talk about all of my trips last night at home. Did so. I got my foot out of my ass. Stopped being so melodramatic and I should count myself lucky to have a man who even notices lipstick for goodness sake. Gah.

So… moral of the story? Full moon and raging hormones do not a pleasant lunch with a stressed out spousal unit make.

But damn I love cheese fries.

August 23, 2005

The Portfolio

I was surveying my nephew run screaming through my parents’ home on Sunday afternoon carrying a plastic golf club. He would make laser beam and shooting noises and then hurl himself in the opposite direction all the while keeping up a 40 mph conversation with anyone within earshot about Billy Blazes. I got an education on Billy Blazes this weekend, I’ll tell you what. And as he ran through the living room where I had (my constant companion) the television on, my nephew stopped dead still… to watch a commercial and my mother turned to me and said, “He’s definitely related to you.”

I have always loved the television. Everything about it. From the way our old (197?) model used to smell like ozone after being on for more than an hour and a half in the winter to the way you could either entertain yourself or educate yourself in its many facets. My mother would limit me to two hours of TV on the weekends just to get me to go outside and play. I was always watching PBS or cartoons, and the commercials would delight me with their creative ways of trying to manipulate you to buy their materials, services, food items or toys.

When I was in elementary school my mother did some side work for a market research company and ended up getting a commercial for Chef Boyardee Pizza Mix. I can remember my mother calling us from New York, telling us all about the limousine ride and the hotel she was staying in. I thought it was all so glamorous. It was so exciting to see her face on national television during daytime soap operas hawking pizza sauce as if she were Julia Childs.

My sister and I went to college on the royalties from that commercial.

Before she went to New York, the agency sent her to get her head shot done. My father was out of town and was not too keen on his bride being sent to a motel to get her “picture taken by a professional”. If you know what I mean, and I am sure you do. But my mother took a friend with her and it turned out that everything was totally legit. The pictures are still lovely, if not for the 197? over-sweep, suburban housewife hair do my mother was sporting.

So when I showed interest in modeling/acting/dancing (triple treat yanno… I can NOT sing for the life of me) my mother knew all the steps because she continued on her little journey into the forays of being an extra and whatnot. The whatnot includes being on the MRI videotape the doctors show you before you have the test. Glamorous No?

It all started when we moved to Texas.

I was anxious and I could only take so many dance classes, go to church so many times a week or have so many extracurricular activities. I wanted to work. So, my mother helped me and we applied for my labor license. I received it when I was twelve. Hello, over achiever. How you doin? (Don’t worry, that burned hot and fast… then burned out when I was in college.)

My mother and I researched children’s talent agencies in the Dallas area and found one that routinely sent kids on a bunch of auditions, print work jobs and extra jobs. I did not just want one area. I wanted to work in the modeling arena, the print arena, the television-movie-stage arena and apparently filmstrips*.

*Shut up.

My only problem was that I had no clue until I unearthed this little gem this weekend that I was being billed as a 12 to 13 year old Lolita.

Check it.
(Click to make all of these pictures bigger. And really… please click on them… it is so worth it.)

Little Lolita

Make a little list of thirteen year old-isms, gold ball earrings… check… frizzy hair… check… Cosby sweater, NAY, make that a VEST. (What the fuck?) … check… Oddly applied Cover Girl (with Noxemaョ) makeup…. Checkity check check bitches.

Um, who picked this photo? Was it the best one? What did they do? “Ok honey, make like you are going to sneeze… now pull your chin in and… LOOK SEXY!”

I found my portfolio this weekend while I was at my parents’ house. And that little slice of heaven up there isn’t the last of them.

I also found some old scripts and my resume of experience. Experience. At 13-15 that term is laughable. But apparently the photo above, and this one…

The A Side

And alternately this one…

The B Side

They got me a few jobs. It doesn’t say on my resume if any of those jobs were for jumping rope, or being Marianne from Gilligan’s Island or for having the WORST HAIR AND HEAD SHOT THIS SIDE OF THE MISSISSIPPI… but. ::sigh:: That is what “they” wanted. And ya’ll know I cried when they picked that honky-afro shot for the A-side of my head shot right? RIGHT?

Because … Oh My GAH.

But the jobs I do remember were for stuff like catalogs. Sunday mailer type stuff, and no, we didn’t get to keep the clothes… and we had to bring our own accessories. I was an extra for Dallas and again for the movie Dallas the Early Years. I did the 1950’s scene out by the pool.

And the most glamorous of all jobs… I hoped and I prayed…. And it finally came true.

I was cast to be in a film………….strip.

I weep for my dignity.

I remember it was me and three other morons. We were to shoot a Science Fair Film Strip. As in “*dong* Please turn to the next slide” film strip. We went to this school out in the middle of nowhere. It was summer, so the building was empty, and HOT. We were all supposed to wear fall clothes. Again. HOT.

So, we had me… another girl and two geeky guys.

Lord.

I was handed a cat skeleton was tried to act alluring.

Camera? Easy Peasy…

Hire Me Kodak!

See? Easy.

Cat Skeleton. No. Hot, dead, cat… bad scene. “*Dong!* Please remove this memory from my cerebrum!”

So, if you run across (refers to “experience sheet”) a science fair filmstrip made by Northwestern Telecom, Show Works out of Dallas, TX with a geeky ass chick gingerly handling a cat skeleton. I’d love to see that piece of filming genius.

The last headshot I did was not that awful... Major pun with the denim and pearls, thanks Brooks and Dunn… shut UP.

Neon Moon

I left my little bit of the bright lights behind when I stepped off my high school stage and put up my cat skeleton. It was great practice for interviewing when I got older having already been through about a frillion auditions by the age of sixteen. But I don’t ever think I will give up the little bit of drama that will always lurk inside of me.

I think I will always like to loose myself in movies, and even tiny little commercials.

August 30, 2005

Goodbye Sonny

While in San Antonio I got a call from Gloria. She left a message that said, “We need to chat.” My brain ran through many things, all the possibilities of what Gloria would want to chat about. She did not sound happy, so I knew it wasn’t good news.

Was it Siska? Is she ok? How was her pregnancy going? The last I had heard (last week) Sis was just fine, glowing, radiant and happy as ever. Was D’wayne’s Momma alright? She was always working herself so hard. Did Glo find something in my journal that she didn’t like? I had no idea, but I wanted to be prepared and the possibilities were endless.

I called her back when I got back to my hotel room and tried to keep it light.

Gloria answered immediately and said, “Hey Sue, Troy’s daddy just died. D’Wayne is taking it pretty hard and we are headed up to [small town] tomorrow or as soon as we hear when the viewing and the funeral are. D’ knew that you would want to know.”

She gave me the particulars that she knew.

D’ had talked to Troy’s wife(S) and Troy and S were headed to East Texas to take care of the funeral arrangements. Glo said that D’ would call me as soon as he knew more information. I told her I loved her, to send my love to D’ and that I would talk to her soon.

Whoa.

I immediately called Mister and he said that he wanted to support me and stood behind my decision to go to the funeral and the viewing. I talked to my boss, even though I didn’t know all of the information, and started rounding up the troops to see who could come to the funeral to help support Troy and his family.

Chad was already on the way to another funeral and Trixie’s boys just started school so they couldn’t come. And LuLu has a tee-tiny one and works a frillion jobs, ditto for her husband.

Mister, myself, D’Wayne and Glo were the only ones that could go.

D’Wayne called me Friday morning to give me the details and made sure to tell me that Troy wanted me there.

When I called Troy … ya’ll… it had been almost eight years since I had seen him or talked to him.

I got home from San Antonio late Friday night with blisters on my feet from running in the airport with Poloョ flip-flops on (stupid, I know). Mister and I made the decision to do some laundry that night so that I could sleep in my own bed and that we would leave in the morning and head to East Texas. I also needed to be alone with Mister for a little while. He comforts me and as soon as I got home, the stiff upper lip that I had going shattered like one of those tiny glass horses I used to keep on my windowsill when I was a young girl.

I had heard from D’Wayne that the viewing would be on Saturday from 6-8pm in a small town next to Lake Fork and that the funeral would be on Sunday at 3pm almost to Texarkana, TX.

We would be doing quite a bit of driving.

Saturday morning we packed and hit the road… a little later than I intended, but it was really rough getting started. I almost cried at McDonald’s and I asked Mister to cut my bangs. Damn bangs. He did such a good job, but he declared me a hostile patient.

D’Wayne and Gloria decided to get a hotel room in Sulphur Springs at the Best Western because it was the halfway point, they reserved a room for Mister and I across the hall from them and I was soo excited to see them.

D’ and Glo and I kept calling each other from the road, “Where are you?” “Are you close?” And we decided that regardless of the circumstances that we were so excited to see each other.

Saturday evening at the viewing as soon as I saw Troy’s mother she hugged me soooo hard and thanked me for coming and talked to me about how long it has been since we’ve seen each other and that Sonny (her husband) would be so glad that I had come. I introduced her to Mister, she hugged him too. Then Troy’s oldest sister walked in… and she did the same. She introduced me to her children whom I had not seen since they were wee. Then Troy came in. I almost lost it when he came over to all of us and with a shaky voice said that, under the circumstances, hopefully we will not leave here with such a long time in between seeing each other again.

Since I have seen him, Troy went through seminary and has really become a very solid man. I have been keeping up with him through D’Wayne, but when he performed his father’s graveside service on Sunday…(man… that was rough)… I saw another side of my old friend. And I am so happy for him.

I could talk about how the power almost went out during the viewing and how I would have been sitting in a dark room with a dead person and try to lighten this up a bit, but I just wanted to get the details down on virtual paper so I would remember this for the future. I want to remember how sweet and supportive my husband is and how much I love my friends and how I don’t want to go that long without seeing them again.

I also want to say that along with grieving for Sonny, I am sick over this Katrina business. Ya’ll know how much I love New Orleans. I must stop with the obsessive CNN.com watching. That is all.

About August 2005

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

July 2005 is the previous archive.

September 2005 is the next archive.

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