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December 2005 Archives

December 7, 2005

Door to the kitchen? O-Pen. Cat? Nowhere.

Last Friday evening I came home from work a bit late. Mister was working his ass off and I had a project to finish and a hair appointment after work. I do most of my calling while on the way home from the office around 5:30 or so. So there I was chatting when I pulled into the driveway of our house at like 6:30.

I always hit the garage door opener when I am like two houses away because it makes me feel all warm and cozy to see the door already on its way up when I round the bend of the last fence and can actually see my driveway.

I was chatting away to my mother (who is doing quite well, thank you all for your good thoughts and prayers) and telling her that I just cut off my hair. She was very excited as she has been trying to get me to cut my hair off since Methuselah was in short pants.

As I was getting off the phone with momma, the other line beeped and I answered it with a hearty, “Holy CRAP!” It was Amy and I had not heard from her since… oh… 1975 or so. See? If you call me, I quickly hand over the soft core cursing as a greeting. I’m neighborly like that.

Ames and I chatted for a bit about her family and the kids’ school and how J. will one day cause her to go absolutely bat shit crazy. They are two peas in a pod, those two.

I gathered up my armloads of work stuff and personal stuff and Elvira – who weighs in at like 12 pounds – and got out of the hoopty.

I walked into the garage, still on the phone with Ames, and said, “Shit… the door to the house is standing wide open.”

I asked Amy to stay on the phone with me in case some crazed nut job wanted to put me in a well and tell me to put the lotion on my skin, or else I would get the hose. Also, because I was pretty sure that Max the fat grey wonder had escaped, I wandered around the first floor calling for Max while searching for the hidden serial killer.

Buffalo Bill did not come out of the closet at me or smack me with his creepy nipple ring or anything… so I only had one issue to deal with.

Max.

Damn cat.

I hung up with Amy and went upstairs to grab Mister’s mag-lite [Side note: Why does every man have one of these? Is it sort of like a rite of passage? When you get to be 25 or so is it mandated that you have to purchase a mag-lite or you will be thrown out of the man clan? Kind of like women and Corning Ware?] and I headed outside… in the dark… to look for a grey cat.

I started in the back and swept the alleyway with the beam from the flashlight and then headed west to walk the block. I came out of the alley one house down from mine, crossed over the street and looked in everyone’s bushes.

That sounded a little kinky.

I came to the front of our house and there, crouched in a ball of grey fur was Max. He was hunkered down next to the neighbors’ fence. When I spotted him, I called him to come to me and he… fucking… ran.

Gah.

He went along the entire front of our house in a modified crouch run and I swear I could hear him thinking, “hup hup hup hup hup hup”. He jumped into the flower bed and let out a tiny little, “meeeee?” and then took off again. He got to our fence, sidled up to the (other) neighbor’s fence… that is missing a slat… and dove through.

I followed him, I went through our gate on that side and when I got around to the back of the house he was in the garage, at the door to the house.

His tail was puffed out like he had just been posing for the arched back cat of Halloween pictures and he looked up at me and then pawed the door. “Meeee?” [purrrrrrrrrrrr] “Meee?.... mmrrrrrowwwww?” [purrrrrrrrrrrr] Like, “Let me in. I’m ready to go back inside. I had fun. It is cold. My tail is huge. Why are you swinging the tall man’s mag-lite like that?”

I let him back inside and he started immediately into his 2 minute aria of, “Gimmefood, Gimmmeeeee FOoooooooooooooOOOD! I am starving, can’t you see??? Gimmeeeeeeee! Mee?” All the while rubbing against my –


/small veer

Ya’ll? I started writing the above on the evening (9:30 pm) of Wednesday 11/23… I left the office in a huff that evening after putting the finishing touches on my nightmare of logistics that were to be the next thirteen days.

I had a wonderful Thanksgiving with Mister. We had dinner out. Out (!)? Yes, out. It was awesome and the company was amazing.

That Sunday (the 27th) I left for the first leg of my three city conference and I just got back last night.

I am beat.

Let’s see if I can even remember what I was talking about. All I know is that it was something about Max… the escape artist. /end veer


All the while rubbing against my – black pants, depositing as much of his fluffy grey fur as he could in one pass and then going back for the other side. I love this trick. He is good at the shedding, I tell you what.

I gave him some of his (::cough::) diet cat food and then went back to check on the door. Why had it been open? The twist lock works perfectly well. Then I pushed on it, and it opened with little to no resistance.

Max is always streeeeeeetching up along a door or wall and then he paws it like he is rolling up bread dough. As a matter of fact, when he sits on my lap he circles like a bird dog for a few minutes then he kneads my legs or my tummy. We ask him, “Maxxie? You makin biscuits?” as he works my thighs and belly into a suitably comfortable form.

So if he were to push on the garage door? If it were not properly closed… yeah, he could push it open with his kitty muscles.

On that Saturday Mister and I went to run some errands, get my left blinker fixed and to see Jarhead. (One word review… meh.) Mister followed me home from the dealership and when I turned the corner, the garage door was on its way up… and the door to the kitchen? O-Pen. Cat? Nowhere.

Gah.

The boo-kitty doesn’t have any front claws. He is not supposed to go outside. But he? Yeah, he thinks he is fucking Columbus. He stalks us throughout the house. He paws at us when we are coming up the stairs and he jumps out from behind the door and smacks me on the butt if I get up to pee in the night. Like, “Tag… you are it lady. Sleep? We don’t need no steenking sleep.” He is a dog cat. He fetches, he does tricks. He comes when he is called…. UNLESS he is outside.

So I went for the mag-lite and did the same sweep of the surrounding houses I did before. No cat.

Gato incommunicado.

I stayed out for a long time, and it was cold. I finally came back in the front door and Mister called to me from his office… “Baby, the cat just came in. He hollered at me from the garage and I let him in.”

I almost cried. I thought that he was really gone this time. Stupid door. Now, as opposed to using my garage door opener, I get out and use the key pad just so I can catch an errant kitty if need be.


Anyway, the past few days have been a beating. And I? I look like I took one.

Seriously. Thursday morning (12/1) I was in Houston and my wake up call came in at 4:30 am. I was struggling to wake up from a Tylenol PM induced haze and I answered the phone … quite aggressively. I grabbed the phone and promptly stuck my face with the pointy corner of the earpiece. I smacked myself right below my left eye… on the corner of my ocular bone.

I tell you what. I am one sexy bitch with this shiner.

It started out as a pretty good sized bump with a small blue bruise, about the size of my thumbnail. Since then, it has… uh… spread out. And the colors are quite impressive too.

I haven’t had a discolored face in a long time. Not since I caught a pop fly with my right eye while playing softball, thus ending my spectacularly short career playing any kind of sports with balls included.

Heh… balls.

And being a married woman the first thing out of everyone’s mouth is, “If you look like that… what does he look like?” It is hard to convince people that I am not a battered woman. Yesterday? While in San Antonio… a guy told me about the shelters in the area. I mean, after all… you have to be a special kind of stupid to crack yourself in the face with a phone.

One of my committee members actually said, “Yanno, I saw you Wednesday night… and Thursday morning you had this (points to my face). That is the only reason I don’t think that your husband did it. He’s not in Houston right?”

I appreciate all of the concern, really. And the joking, “Hey, tell him to hit you where it doesn’t show.” Well that? I really didn’t appreciate so much.

I’m back ya’ll. I’ll try to update again after I finish all this paperwork.

Much love and watch out for those phones, they are wily bastards.

Oh and please… send me your photos for the Cheese Off. I am thinking that I am going to pick a winner soon.
Go to this link here for information… and email the pictures to me at this address (just click babies).

December 15, 2005

Look! It's Me!

We will be showing this picture for a limited time. Mister is not so much onboard with the whole narcissistic need in me to show you guys what I am wearing everyday. (I found the cutest earrings!... Look… millions of pictures ensue.) He says that it is for safety reasons… crazies on the innernets or something along those lines.

Me: “What? [big doe eyed blink of disbelief] You mean that there are people on the world wide web aren’t the bastions of mental health that they portray themselves to be? Nooooo. I don’t believe it.”

And then he points out that I dated several men I met online … and I quickly shut the fuck up.

Point made my love.

At the request of Anne… I give to you um.. this picture of me.

Picture removed... just cuz.

I would like to point out a few things.

1) Trying to "train" (and grow out) my mutinous bangs. It’s. Not. Working.

2) Hair cut short to show my bangs what could happen to them unless they cooperate.

3) Lovely pallor of … um… death? Er, I mean porcelain skin, soft as the morning dew.

4) The enormahuge bags (luggage?) under my eyes are handy for travel. They count as two carryon pieces according to the lovely people at Southwest Airlines.

5) And last but not least a lovely bruise that no concealer shall veil under the deceit of cosmetics! (Yes, yes… I tried. But it shines through like a beacon. Or, uh, bacon. Whatever.) I felt the need to point the bruise out to you so that you would be able to find it… after all, it is so unnoticeable. You see what I did there? That sarcasm? It’s a new thing for me.

Lord.

December 20, 2005

Administrative Nightmares Ensued

Hate.
Seethe.
Rage.

Er, uh… Merry Christmas!

Ya’ll? I am so mad I could spit fire and save the matches. I am all het up about so many small things. And… AND I have already completed my Christmas shopping. So it isn’t the capitalistic nightmare that “‘tis the fucking season” for dropping a boat load of cash on stuff.

I just have to vent for a minute or twelve. Not long. I promise. Just read fast or something.

Ok, Mister… the king of a man that he is… has this job, see?

Uhhgrrrrah!

Side note: Just imagine that that noise right there… yes the “Uhhgrrrrah!” one sounds sort of like a cross between a wildebeest screaming as it is torn in twain from a Nile croc, the sound a wood chipper makes when it is grinding up a large boar hog and a southern girl trying her best to hold her shit together when she is thisclose to drop kicking a kitten.

PETA… lighten the hell up. I love cats. I’d really never hurt one. A wombat or a small child maybe. Kittens? Never.

Back to Mister. He has this job where he has increased productivity… pulled a project that was 6 months in the hole out and into the black… AND has been doing the jobs of 2.5 people because someone in HR just can’t seem to fill the position that needs to be filled. But he asked his boss (a boss that seems to bristle at Mister’s height and seems to think that since Mister is a retired Marine that he needs to be constantly put in his place… An example? I am glad you asked. How about two??? 1) Mister calls in with a migraine. He still worked from home. The next day bossman says, “You may want to weigh the reason that you call in… [pregnant pause with staring gaze] the next time.” 2) “Mister, you need to be happy and upbeat. If you can’t do that by Monday, don’t bother coming in or don’t come back at all.” Mister asks bossman the next day a SATURDAY while Mister is working, “Sir, do you remember when you said ‘you need to be happy and upbeat. If you can’t do that by Monday, don’t bother coming in or don’t come back at all.’? Do you remember which one it was?” Bossman replies, “Uh,…. No, I don’t remember.” Buddy, if you are going to go around threatening people… your WHOLE DAMN STAFF… (Mister isn’t the only one) and then wonder why turnover is so high, you seriously need a beating. Uhhgrrrrah!) if he could have a few days off over the Christmas season. He has three weeks a year to take.

He’s taken like oh, 6 days, since April and one was to go to a funeral!

Bossman says; in a matter of speaking; “No slaveboy.” And then announces that he himself is taking off like three weeks.

I am about to go carnival psycho crazy on his young punk ass.

Oh, ya’ll KNOW.

No one… NO ONE should every treat people like fucking chattel. There is so much more…. SO Much more ya’ll about that little evil gnome. But most of it would come out very poorly in print… and I would be screaming “Uhhgrrrrah!” a lot.

Number two. It is no secret that I do conferences. I just got done with one that about wore me the hell out. Within this conference there is a session that is usually very well attended by those who need this particular… let’s call it a class.

This class is offered online. It is offered eleventy billion times throughout the year for those who need it. And this year we decided not to have this particular class included in the circus conference that I just completed. The guy who cornered the market on this particular class, yes he has the exclusivity with our… company… he is a very shrewd little man. I do not begrudge him the fact that he cornered the market, or the fact that he makes about 16K for 12 hours of work… however comma… what I do begrudge is that he called someone in our company and threw an absolute piss fit that we would not be including his class in this circus conference.

He badgered that person and the decision was overturned. Or as that person likes to say, “Susan and I had a misunderstanding. Of course we’ll include your class in the circus conference.”

Clusterfuck of all administrative nightmares ensued.

I am still working out the details on the last city the conference was held in. Normally it takes me about four or five days to do this reconciliation. This year? Nine days. NINE.

And. Oh, yes… AND… I just got word that he sent little thank you’s (in the form of a $100 gift checks) to the woman he badgered, her other manager and her administrative assistant. Did my supervisor get anything? Did my coworker get anything? Did I even get a little note that said, “Thanks… or whatever.”???? I submit that Hell to the Fucking No… We did not get a got-damn thing. And WE were the ones who did all the work.

Oh. Ya’ll. It is just the principle of the thing.

So. [flaring of nostrils] Mad.

There’s more? Oh hells yes there’s more.

Barnie’s coffee. Mister loves. I hate. They shipped out my order (surprise for Mister for Christmas morning) twice. Both times, no tracking number. Lord.

The hot water faucet in Mister’s bathroom doesn’t work.
Shingles are falling off our house in droves.
The garage door opener doesn’t work when it’s cold.
My Seafood Newberg didn’t turn out correctly last night.
Cat hair… EVERYWHERE on the kitchen floor. ::shudder::
I haven’t gotten my 66+ Christmas cards in the mail yet.
Herschel won’t keep his formatting.
My mother is frustrated with the progress of her poor little knee and is crying (heart = broken when mommy cries).
My sister’s family has a carrier monkey (5 year old nephew in kindergarten) in their midst… everyone is sick.

And… My poor husband.

I’ll cheer up or I won’t come in or back at all on Monday. I keeed, I keeed.

December 21, 2005

I am going home to see Jesus.

Hi, uh.. baby? Yeah,… about that little rant yesterday. I am sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I was just so so SO mad about the situation and I realize that I was yelling. But I wasn’t yelling at you baby. Never at you. I was yelling at the situat- yes, the situation.

No, no baby, don’t cry. Your little bottom lip quivering and those big tears welling up in your beautiful eyes just break my heart a bit. And yes, I know… it is Christmas and I should be all holly, jolly St. Nick and all… but I was frustrated baby.

--- Annnnnd scene.

Yeah, I like to call that little piece “emotionally abusive college boyfriend”. It is my little way of giving back to the performance art majors.

It is Christmas after all, and that’s me… Giver McGifty.

Heh.

That reminds me. I got this message on my phone last night. It went a little something like this: “Yeah, this is Randy the Masterblaster calling for Susan Sweetcheeks, uh, just wanted to wish you a very Happy Holidays Season!”

The voice was low… but oddly feminine. I looked at the caller ID… and snorted.

Yes, snorted. I am so hot.

Dammit Kerry!

She kills me.

And just so she won’t go unnoticed around the Holidays…. I bequeath to you a picture of her. (Click to enlarge)
Too Much Cuteness aka Diabetic Coma
Kerry is the 6ft blonde on the left. (I have another picture on this PC of all of the Kerr Krew – well, not all – from this past year… and damn if I can find it.)

If you see her at the mall this Christmas season. Give her a big hug okay? She loves it when strange people approach and try to cuddle her. Heh.

Well, the holiday season is upon us and I feel all nostalgic. Maybe it is because I am corresponding a bunch with my ex-step-daughter, or maybe it is that I pulled out all of my ornaments from years gone by and placed a few on the tiny little Charlie Brown Christmas tree that is currently residing on my kitchen table… and weeping evergreen sap all over my damn tablecloth. Maybe it is that. Or the fact that I am still a bit emotional about how my husband is being treated at his office. (“No holidays for you! Get back into your well…put the lotion on your skin… or you will get the hose again!”)

But I am thinking about my grandmother, my mother’s mother. She was so tall and stately, her Georgia southern accent so warm and graceful. She was determined that any grandchildren she had would call her “Grandmother”, an elegant, gracious and respectful name. When my sister started speaking at the tender age of zygote, she could not say “Grandmother” and instead she started calling our grandmother… “Butter”.

Butter was thrilled with her unusual and sweet sounding moniker that my sister thought up for her. And as soon as I could speak (I am two years younger than my sister), one of the first things out of my mouth was, “Butter.”

She was so kind and gentle. Her class and elegance was as much a part of her charm as was her sense of humor and her Ferragamo shoes. She embraced both sides of my personality. She would not bat an eye if she found a frog that I put in her bed…because it was cold… and she would allow me to sit at her vanity and try on her 101 tubes of British Coat red lipstick.

Such a sweet woman she never had a crass word to say about anything or anyone. In meeting my soon to be husband when I was but 21 years old, Butter turned to me and said, “He has beautiful hands dear.” She could have said, “But Susan darling, you are young. He has already been married. His family acts like outlaws and he is not employed. Anything that you do to try and improve your situation or the situation of his daughter; if you choose to marry him; will be doubly as hard because you will have to pull him up with you. He is just not our kind.” And yet… she said nothing. Neither did my parents. My sister cried and cried… but as they all knew it would, her plaintive wails fell on deaf ears.

Butter was a champion for my independence.

She loved my mother with a ferocity and loyalty second to none, and she appreciated, respected and valued my father and the adoration he showed for my mother and my sister and I.

I was 22 when Butter was diagnosed with cervical cancer at Christmas. Freshly married that August to the redneck of my dreams (::eyeroll::) I was in Nacogdoches spending the holidays with my new in laws.

My parents (traveling from Denver) and my sister (traveling from Dallas) went to Atlanta to visit Butter. My sister called Christmas Eve crying. She and I had never spent a Christmas apart and Butter was sick. My family needed me.

My new husband had gotten knee walking drunk the night before (with a girlfriend of mine) while I was opening up Christmas presents with his daughter in the living room. He was dreadfully sick the next morning so I took his daughter to her mother’s parents’ house (following me?) for Christmas day, came back home… loaded up the car and loaded up my green husband and headed for Atlanta.

Thirteen hours later I was pulling in to Butter’s condo driveway on Peachtree Street in Atlanta.

My sister was squealing, my mother was crying and my father was hugging me very, very hard. And then I saw Butter. She; for the first time; seemed so small. She had already had one round of treatment and it really took it out of her.

My mother and Butter would spend the next three years going back and forth from Denver to Atlanta for chemo and radiation treatments. My mother would stay with Butter in Atlanta for six weeks while they did the treatments on Butter and then they would both come back to Denver for the healing periods.

My father, having a very stiff upper lip; told me one day that he was in the kitchen in Denver and our family cat, Lucy (who had kitty cat leukemia… and had undergone treatments as well… she went from 14 pound black and white cat to a 7 pound brown and white cat) was sitting next to Butter on the couch in the den. Lucy always sat with Butter, she never left her side while Butter was sick.

Butter reached over to Lucy, patted her on the head and said, “Yeah, I don’t feel too good today either.”

That was the only complaint my father ever heard from Butter. And she had no idea he could hear her. My big, strong father cried while telling me this.

One afternoon a few years later while I was working at my menial job at JM Clipper in Nacogdoches, cross training a big burly man from the plant, Butter called me to tell me, “Susan, it’s Butter, I just wanted to tell you that I love you. I am going home to see Jesus. Be a good girl now. I love you so much! Take care of your mother. Bye, bye.”

I told her how much I loved her and held on until she hung up. I then promptly lost my shit.

My mother called me a few days later to tell me that Butter had been put into Hospice Atlanta. I headed to Georgia as fast as I could. I made my flight head out of Houston since it was closer than Dallas.

On my way to Bush International Airport in Houston I felt my grandmother in the truck beside me.

I stopped at the next gas station (no cell phone dontcha know) and called my mother to see what just happened. My mother was crying and she said, “How do you always know?” I asked her what she was referring to and she told me that Butter had just had her first white light experience.

I got into Atlanta, took the MARTA to a station close to the hospice and my mother picked me up. As soon as we got to the hospice, I crawled in bed with Butter. She woke up and grabbed my face with strength that belied her condition, told me I was beautiful and went back to sleep. I had the privilege of staying with Butter overnight and watching her helpless gestures, her breathing turning into a death rattle and all things associated with dying. I helped bathe her and massaged her little wasted leg muscles, until I had to head back to Texas a few days later.

It was the most precious gift I have ever received. Being with someone who was so strong of faith and watching them pass was beautiful. I can not tell you guys that enough. She was a strong Christian woman who was ready to go. Her body was just too strong to let her go when she was ready with her heart.

Great. Tears in the office. Again.

Her funeral was sweet and attended by a frillion people, as she was involved in so much while living in Atlanta. The whole church turned out, her usher’s group, all of the people that she knew from Trust Company Bank (she was a VP… smart, smart lady) and many, many others. The tribute was perfect and we got to have a private service the night before for just family.

I miss her terribly.

Anyway. This Christmas with my mother being under the weather with her knee reconstruction and… just all of that… is really making me long for when I was a bit younger. I wish that Butter could have met Mister. She would have loved him like the rest of my family, immediate and extended. She probably would have complimented more than his hands, I can tell you that much right now.

So, cherish your loved ones. Tell them that you love them as often as you get a chance. You never know when your traditions will suddenly change and you won’t get the chance to express your feelings.

Love you all. Really. Thank you for reading and making this little space of webdom so special to me.

Merry Christmas ya’ll.

December 30, 2005

There is No Arizona

I have Herschel strapped to my belt today as most days at work. He is hidden by the sweater of whatever twinset I am currently wearing and I have the earphones (new ones from Mister that sit around my neck as opposed to those little earbuds that came with Herschel and fell out of my ears and the little spongey black covers were forever getting lost in my purse… ::breathe::) on and I am listening to song after song while I complete some paperwork.

The phones are dead here at the office so no worry about answering question from people about stuff I have no clue about.

A song just came on. I stopped mid-reach for a binder.

He promised her a new and better life, out in Arizona

I’ve been what my parents call a smart cookie my whole life. I scored well on most tests, and I normally gave people the benefit of the doubt… a trusting soul, I figured that if someone said they were going to do something, then it was good as done.

I have told you all about my little heartbreaks due to expectations never verbalized and I am sure I have mentioned a time or two a few tumultuous relationships I have had in the past.

Underneath the blue never ending sky, swore that he was gonna

I was never really one to push an issue or a boundary. I wanted to be the cool girl. I wanted people or men to like to be with me because I wasn’t the nag their previous girlfriend/wife/gay lover/mother was. That was a nominal success throughout my teens and into my twenties. Then I got married to the X and ya’ll know what a success that was.

Get things in order, he'd send for her

I know I have mentioned Neal to you, dear reader, at one time or another. Maybe just in passing. Maybe just to throw out that he was a seven foot junkie. Nice shock value no? Well, I don’t think I have ever told you how we met. Yes, dammit, it was on the internet. But that isn’t important.

Well, sort of. But let’s move on, shall we?

What is important is that he was a large reason of why I am the way I am today.

Who whispered ‘bat shit crazy’? I can hear you, you know… I am sitting right Here.

The first night Neal and I met I was a nervous wreck. I was supposed to meet him at Cowboy’s Red River to go dancing. I came in late and before I knew it this huge man (think Dirk Nowitzki) was sweeping me off my feet and onto the dance floor.

He smelled divine and he danced well. He would pick me up and whisper, “Now, twirl pretty” before setting me gently down and twirling me around and around. He requested song after song to the DJ he knew and we danced all night.

When the bar closed down he offered me his arm and we left, hardly looking at anyone but one another.

We dated on and off for a while. It was always 100% or nothing with him, and I was stuck in his web. He was so sweet and gentle and he was always promising me the world.

And then he told me that he was leaving. He was moving to Arizona to work for an old colleague of his, he needed the job and he wanted to be close to his parents.

He would call sometimes in the evenings, drunk and tell me how much he missed me. Ask about every aspect of my life in Dallas and beg me to come to him. But not yet. He wanted everything perfect for when we got married. He wanted to get me the biggest and most beautiful diamond that Bailey Banks & Biddle had to offer.

When he left her behind, it never crossed her mind

I was flattered by his offer and his seemingly sincere wishes.

The next thing I heard from him, he was living on the beach in San Diego. “Just doing the job babe. I just need to get this one more certification for _______ and we are on our way.”

He lived in San Diego for a brief stint, all the while calling me during the day, in the evenings, in the middle of the night to tell me how much he missed me, how much he wanted to be with me. “Could you come spend Valentines Day with me at my parents’ house so you can meet them? I’ll get your ticket this week babe. Come see me?”

Valentine’s Day came and went. No ticket. No call… until 3 am.

There is no Arizona

“Hey babe, you know… I miss you so much!... By the way, what did you do tonight?”

I went along for a few months. I would hear from him sporadically. He would call and sound so sad, tell me he missed me and then one evening in June he called and said, “I’m coming back to Texas Susan. I can’t wait to see you! We are on our way babe. We’ll get bags of money with my new certification and then get married and move to Arizona.”

Whether or not I wanted to marry him did not concern me as much as the bags of money he promised. I told him he couldn’t come unless he was clean. Over the past year or so I had found out he was using drugs and he knew (because I told him over and over) that I did not want any part of that lifestyle. He could not be using and stay in my apartment. At ALL. He said, “I’m clean babe, and I appreciate you letting me stay for a few days until I find my own place.”

He told me he loved me.

While he was on his way I had enlisted the help of a girlfriend to slather me with self tanning cream to get rid of the red stripes I had up and down my legs, back and ass from the tanning bed.

He drove all night and the next day. It took him about 23 hours to get to Dallas. After a brief rest stop… he showed up at my apartment at 7 am.

I was orange.

No Painted Desert, no Sedona

He came inside and hugged me, picked me up and swung me around and then promptly went to my bedroom and fell asleep diagonally across my bed. He slept for the rest of the day and I made him a big dinner. I was so excited to see him, but he seemed so gaunt and cranky. I figured he would relax and be back to his happy Neal self after he recovered from his trip.

He woke up enough to eat and then make a few phone calls and then he went back to sleep.

If there was a Grand Canyon

He woke up the next morning at 6 am and set out to go to work. He would get off work around 4 pm and then go out with the guys and come home drunk, eat dinner and go to bed.

She could fill it up with the lies he's told her

I started planning outings to see friends. And my nephew was only a few months old, so I went to my sister’s house a lot. My parent’s came in one Saturday afternoon and I asked Neal if he would come to meet my folks. He was surly, but agreed. He was nice and my mother took pictures and my father was reserved and they said, “Well, he seems nice dear.”

The gentle lovemaking or vigorous sex life that we experience before his first move was nowhere to be found. One evening while in bed I reached over to stroke his hair and he turned on me, “What?! WHAT???! Is it time for me to perform!??” I drew back, blinking and he left to go sleep on the couch.

I asked him the next evening why he was so angry. He had a place to sleep. Meals to eat. He had not gotten the place he said he was going to after staying with me for a few days, and he did not contribute to the rent. What did he have to be angry about?

He said, “Fuck, Susan… this is the real me. I am cranky and surly.” I asked him about all the times he was sweet and kind and gentle. The words of love he professed, the plans he and I had made. The answer? “That is me when I am high Susan. I am a nice fucking guy when I am high.”

But they don't exist, those dreams he sold her

He worked hard, everyday up by 6 am, home by 4pm and no gentle caresses, no sweet words from him.

She'll wake up and find
There is no Arizona

He left in August. We had had a disagreement the night before. I was tired. Tired of his tirades about how so and so will be sorry if they don’t pay him for the job he did. About how he knows the secrets to the governmental hypocrisy (??? WTF ??? ) and on and on. I started crying. Crying tears of frustration and because I had just realized that I actually thought I was in love with this man.

But the man I thought I was in love with? Was a lie, a falsehood. He was only that way when he was chemically altered by smack.

I was tired and frustrated of this angry and very unstable giant living (and detoxing) in my little one bedroom apartment with NO common courtesy, no affection, no visage of the man I thought he was.

I lost it. He threatened me and I went carnival psycho crazy on him. We started the yelling match in my bedroom and I (barely 5’9”) used my little pointer finger on his sternum and backed that crazy ass seven-foot-tall loony out my bedroom, through the hall, the den and the living room until he stopped with his back against the front door.

The next day, when I got home from work, there was a manifesto. No, I am not kidding. He titled it “my manifesto” on a yellow legal tablet that he left for me on the back of my couch so it would be the first thing I saw when I came home.

In the manifesto he swore things would “change” but he used the fucking delta sign. Lord. He said I was too much man for him, he was going back to Arizona and that… well, blah blah blah.

She got a postcard with no return address, postmarked Tombstone

He called a few weeks later and tried to appeal to my maternal side. “But I thought we were going to have babies!”

It said "I don't know where I'm goin' next but when I do
I'll let you know"
May, June, July, she wonders why
She's still waiting, she'll keep waiting 'cause
There is no Arizona

I stopped taking his phone calls when I realized that there was no Arizona. I was duped. Completely and totally taken for granted. I needed it to wake up. To grow up. But I can’t help thinking about him when I hear the song from Jamie O’Neal.

To hear it for yourself, please go to this link And click on number 2 “There Is No Arizona”.

That was a special treat just for me.

This Christmas season has been full. Full of joyous occasions of being with family, candlelit services filled with the sweet and harmonious sounds of children singing “Happy Birthday Jesus”, great times cooking enormahuge Smithfield hams and opening presents with the ones I love dearly, and nights and daytimes threaded with bouts of vomiting and diarrhea.

Joyful, joyful we adore thee, God of glory, Lord of love;… ::blink:: what? Oh, the vomiting and diarrhea?

Yeah, that was a special treat just for me, hidden deep in my stocking… the gift that keeps on giving. An intestinal or gastrointestinal siege of terrifying proportions.

Christmas night at my parents’ house I got up at a little after midnight and, “Ut oh.” I was up all night ya’ll. Merry ChristmaUUUUUaaaaahhhhgggggg-GGrghhha!

I think I may have even seen my spleen.

Monday afternoon was more of the same. Did I mention that my folks live oh, a good two and a half hours away? Three or four with Christmas traffic.

Siiiilent niiiiight, hooooly niURRRRGGahhhhhh-Huuuah-t.

I had my first solid food… a banana… on Wednesday afternoon. It’s what? Friday? And yes I am still on the BRAT diet… bananas (B-A-N-A-N-A-S this shit is bananas), rice, applesauce and toast.

Judas Priest.

About December 2005

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

November 2005 is the previous archive.

January 2006 is the next archive.

Many more can be found on the main index page or by looking through the archives.

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