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March 2006 Archives

March 1, 2006

If I cooked a largish yeti...

For the past several days I have been putting off the inevitable. I know I must pack up my desk and my little belongings. I know this. I know we are moving offices and I can not just crawl inside one of these orange crates* and hide until it is all over. Ya’ll know how I feel about moving. Well, it really isn’t the moving that bothers me… it is the freaking packing.

When I started here at White Guys with Ties (TM Crazy Aunt Purl) over two years ago I was placed in an office with full file drawers, full bookcase with eleventy four three ring binders and several tiny little drawers with… well, just stuff crammed inside. I did not know what I would need because I was taking over the job of the dude who had just been promoted. But the guy who had previously inhabited my desk went west (young man) and left behind everything from mini cassette recorders to a bottle of rubbing alcohol(?).

Little by little I have pared down the files so that the ones I use regularly all fit into one of the file drawers in this tiny desk. I have weeded out the three ring notebooks with stuff like Correspondence 1999 and (Random State – not ours) Membership Guidelines and the like. I have thrown out file folder after file folder. But today was the first day that I took the tiny little drawers to task.

The one on my right? I suppose that if I cooked a largish yeti (boiled, baked or braised) that I would have enough condiments to please just about every palate. Ketchup packets galore, hot sauce and picante, enough soy, duck sauce and hot mustard to supply a local Chinese food restaurant for a week and the little mints? Lord. The little mints are running amok in my drawer. Salt and pepper packets too. And enough plastic covered forks and spoons and knives to keep me from washing a utensil for the next few months. I kept the condiments that I wanted inside little Ziplock™ bag so I know the ones that are mine. To think that these condiments that other guy left have been fermenting in my drawer makes me all squinky.

The one on my left? Post-It™ notes of ever size shape and color. Lined and unlined, accordion like to fit in one of the desktop dispensers and regular with little bits of fuzz stuck to the adhesive. Approximately eighteen yellow highlighters, seventy pencils (that I never use) and at least a dozen blue, black and red pens.

The tiny drawer on the second desk was filled with legal pads and a pen, highlighter and pencil selection to rival the drawer to my left. What? Did this guy have a pen issue? We have a supply closet. Really we do. There are little bins full of black pens, blue pens, red pens, highlighters and pencils. The bins are full. It isn’t like he was going to take a note while he was on the phone one day and turned around not able to find the little nub of a charcoal pencil that he used to jot down information while his tiny little gas lantern flickered in the window. No need to hoard it Abraham, there are plenty of writing apparatuses (apparati?) for everyone.

So here I sit today, listening to REO Speedwagon (don’t judge) and scratching tiny little marks on paper with each pen/pencil/highlighter I find. If the pen works I place it in the blue pen pile, the black pen pile, the red pen pile, the pencil pile or the highlighter pile. Why you ask? Well, I guess I am just that way. I have thrown away all of the condiments and the napkins. I have found about four dozen little binder clips and two Mary Kayゥ catalogs. (Yes, those were mine.)

I don’t want to pack. I don’t want to take down my yearly planner calendars that I have tacked to the wall so I know what city I am supposed to be in on what day. Granted, I have three of these things on my walls. 2005 and 2006 in front of me and 2004 behind me. What? Is that a little excessive?

I can’t even take my desk with me. Or the divider that splits this office in two. I will be moving into a sea of cubicles and will be able to prairie dog along side everyone else, God willing, with a little practice by the 13th of March.

*Maybe I have seen The Fifth Element one too many times but every time someone says the word crate(s) I have the following dialog run through my noggin…
Aknot: You asked for a case, we brought you a case.
Zorg: A case with FOUR STONES in it! Not one or two or three, but four! Four stones! What the hell am I supposed to do with an empty case?
Aknot: We are warriors, not merchants.
Zorg: But you can still count! Look, it's easy. Look at my fingers: four stones, four crates. Zero stones? ZERO CRATES!

March 2, 2006

I looked like a monkey humping a football.

Yanno how when you can’t sleep and you are laying there willing your brain to just shut the hell up already with “What made me think of this?” “Oh, maybe it was this sequence of events, orrrrr…. This one?”

No? Just me?

Thanks to some random quote you heard Samantha from Sex and The City say, “You can have sex with someone you don’t like, respect… or even remember.” You find yourself making lists in your head of all the guys you have ever kissed… ok, Ok… I said OKAY… kissed, or slept with (Whore).

Still just me? Fine.

But I can not… just can not for the life of me remember that one guy’s name. Started with an S… Shawn, Stuart, Shane? Uh, almost six foot with brown hair. Thanks, that narrows it down. All I keep remembering was that his dad had this total 1970’s van sort of like a mix between Scooby Doo’s Mystery Van and a total rolling love nest for a hippy and I have to, have to, have to remember this guy’s name or I am a total skank for not remembering all of my lovahs.

Then a memory surfaces.

He said that his dad used to be the drummer for Buddy Holly and the Crickets. Or so Shawn/Stuart/Scott/Shane and his brother; no-name told me and my girlfriends. For bragging sake or to impress us? I am not sure we really cared at that point. We were young and they had motorcycles.

Seriously. What the hell is that kid’s name?

Speed Racer? That starts with an “S”.

Let’s call him Speed Racer. Deal? Oh, stop looking at me like that. I was young… and curious… and apparently a complete trollop.

My girlfriends and I went over to their house one evening. How did we know them? Friends of a friend? Lord, I so need to call Stacey tonight to see if her husband knows who I am talking about. (Stacey, Do NOT show G this page, please for the love of all that is holy… or whore-y. I will die of embarrassment. I just want to drop it into casual conversation, “So, uh… Mark had some buddies that were brothers and uh, they had motorcycles… maybe their dad is Jerry Allison from Buddy Holly and the Crickets?” – Yeah, because I’m smooth like that.)

Anyway, we went over to their house one night for some action… some motorcycle action. And my parents would kill me dead. Twice. Once for going on a motorcycle with a high school boy (college? Lord, the memory…she is gone.) and once for being such a sleazy tramp. “Before Marriage?! SUSAN! We are so disappointed in you.”

Speed Racer asked me if I would like a ride on his bike and I was all, “Sure. Whatever.” When inside I was all, “Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

So he gave me a helmet and I put it on, fully aware that it was summer and 110 degrees at 9:30 at night and my head would be a sweaty mass of fro hair when we got back from our motorcycle ride.

IF we made it back, Dum DumDUUUUUUUUUUM!

The suspense, she is building, no? What do you mean “no.”!?

So we went on a nice little ride all over the sweet suburb of Dallas we lived in. At stop lights he would turn to me and yell through his helmet to me such gems of poetry like, “Have you ever been on a Ninjaゥ before!?!?!!?” and I would shout back, “NO!” My angelic voice getting lost under the revving of the engine.

Ah, young romance.

We made it back safely and that is where the story ends. Well, not really, but I really don’t want to turn into that kind of journal.

After I went through that story in my mind as I lay there trying to sleep another sort of list formed. A list of stupid things I have done on motorcycles. Now, I am no Harley Momma. I have never owned a motorcycle of my very own. I prefer things with four wheels if they have the added value of having a motor.

During my college years I came home to my parents’ house the first two summers to work and to go to school. A friend of mine from college collected motorcycles. Well, he and his father collected them. They had Harley’s and BMW bikes. David and I had a very relaxing friendship. We could sit for hours out by my pool smoking and making up songs that he would play the music to on his guitar. We would crack ourselves up so completely with the hilarity and the sheer brilliance of our lyrics that we would sooner or later break out the boom box (I’m old. Ok, I admit it, now let’s move on.) and record our masterpieces.

We enjoyed a friendship that was able to sustain comfortable silences so he would ask me to join him on his motorcycle rides into the country. It was so peaceful and I never got tired of feeling the tingle on my skin from the wind whipping my tee-tiny arm hair and the sound of the engine.

My ex-husband’s whole family was born to ride motorcycles. My father in law rode a police issue Harley for funeral details, wedding processions and anything else required of the hog. He was also the first motorcycle cop in San Antonio in the 60’s.

My ex-husband rode (probably just to piss his father off) a Kawasaki Vulcanゥ, which I always pictured having little anthropomorphic ears. I named him Spock, which yes… was terribly clever.

He also had a tiny little Honda 50cc motorcycle that is about the size of a small dog. They bought it for riding around camp grounds and such but when my ex had a child; they thought they would save it for her to ride when she got old enough. I would ride it around the farm and my ex father-in-law said that with my long legs sticking out from the sides of the bike, I looked like a monkey humping a football.

Yes, dreadfully attractive... I know.

The stupidest thing I ever did. And boy howdy, let me assure you, there were many… was riding to the zoo with some friends and my ex-husband.

It was Chasen, Sesil, X and I. Chasen had a Ninjaゥ and he had Sesil riding with him. I was riding with X on the back of Spock. X had a rule that whoever rode with him they MUST wear a helmet. He had lost his first cousin to a drunk driver (his cousin was on a bike and not wearing a helmet) about ten years before. Chasen didn’t have such a rule.

We went to the zoo, had lunch at a restaurant and on the way back the guys decided to switch partners. So Sil rode with X on Spock and I rode with Chasen on his bike. I gave up my helmet to Sil and climbed on the back of Chasen’s Ninjaゥ. We headed home at a nice leisurely pace, doing the speed limit. We went around the loop and the boys decided to take Hwy 21 East to the house. As soon as we passed an invisible marker they started racing. I heard the whine of the engine below me and willed myself to be weightless as not to throw off the balance between Chasen and his bike.

X was on a touring bike, not a street racer like Chasen so I could hear Spock screaming to keep up with the Ninjaゥ.

I was leaning over Chasen with my hands on the gas tank. His little waist was so trim that he had plenty of room to move within the circle of my arms.

Then I made a mistake.

I looked over Chasen’s left shoulder at the speedometer and noticed that we were doing 110 mph and I knew there was a hill and beyond the hill a curve coming up swiftly. I shouted for Chasen to slow down. He laughed. I told him that I would take my hands off of the gas tank and apply uncomfortable pressure to his no no parts if he didn’t slow down. He laughed, made a motion to X and we all slowed down.

I yelled to Sil, “These fuckers had us going 110! And I don’t have a damn helmet on!!!”

It is a wonder that we lived through the nineties. Seriously.

Now, what was that guy’s name?

*Cheese ball table for one? Ya’ll during this whole post I kept having these lyrics cycle over and over in my noggin. Extra credit to whoever can name the song and artist.

I guess I shoulda known
By the way u parked your car sideways
That it wouldn’t last
See you’re the kinda person
That believes in makin’ out once
Love ’em and leave ’em fast

Etcetera etcetera ad nauseam.

March 7, 2006

I have NO CLUE what to title this one.

I am so distracted. I am supposed to be packing up my tee-tiny office so that we can move. I even have Friday off of work this week, but I can not seem to focus.

I am tired and headache-y and I am about to start my period.

You are welcome. I knew you wanted to know.

But the impending menstrual cycle is not the only thing that is bothering me. And I hate that I am feeling all possessive about my journal now because I know he has/think he has/wish he hadn’t found it. By the power of Google… dammit.

Ok, ok OKAY. I will tell you what I am all het up about BUT… but. If I am right and he has found this page, I will just be falling into his little trap. A trap of, “Susan, don’t reply to that email. He is getting a rise out of you and that is exactly what he wanted.”

I was going to tell ya’ll that Stacey and I went to this amazing show on Saturday night. We left our respective husbands at home and I picked her up at like 8:15. We drove around town for a little bit and then headed to a local bar. Our favorite band (purrrrrrrr-mrow) was playing and they were supposed to go on at 9:30.

Stupid Duke vs. UNC basketball game went WAY over and the guys didn’t even get set up until 10:30.

But all was right with the world while those guys were playing. Blues, R&B… soul. Delicious, I tell you. Really.

As J.Wo would say, “This? Right here? This is like an auditory orgasm.” And I totally agree.

So Stace and I drank a few drinks, smoked a couple of cigarettes (I Know.) and listened with rapt attention to the beautiful music being played. It was getting late and I had to get up early the next morning and Stacey did too so we decided to leave at their first break, at around midnight. They ended their set and we walked over to congratulate them and welcome the new drummer and basically oooh and ahh over their musical prowess.

Oohing and ahhing completed we kissed their faces, promised to see them again soon (as we frequently do) and left.

That is where the story ends right?

Nope.

Here is a little backstory for you. I know how you love the backstory. It is like E!’s True Hollywood Story without anyone famous.

About, oh… say a frillion years ago in December of 1999 I met a guy.

On the Internet.

A guy who would remain a part of my life (no matter how much I fought it) until 2001 or so (little help? Stacey? Ames?). Off and on, fights and good times. Whatever. He was around… a lot. He even lived with me for… um… a long ass time. We were friends and lovers and then enemies. You may remember me mentioning him as my lap dog. No, not a terribly attractive term. But hell, if the collar fits…

Anyway. This guy and I used to frequent bars all over town. And one evening in January (February? March? or something) of 2000 we stumbled into a bar called The Blue Mule. It used to be downtown Dallas in the West End next to Dick’s Last Resort. We were walking past and I heard a strain of Robert Cray’s The Forecast Calls for Pain (or something equally as wonderful) coming from within the bar. The guy and I looked at one another, grinned, and trotted inside to find a table and listen to the live music.

This would become a big part of our time together, going to hear this band and loving the music and the lead musician. The lap dog even (ya’ll I am sorry for the “this band” and “the lap dog” terms, I have mentioned them both here before in full name detail – how stupid – and I just don’t want to turn up in anymore Google searches than I have too… I have a feeling the guy has found the site… and if so… Gah. And if not… then bully for me, another literary bullet dodged.) got the band to sing at my 29th(?) birthday party. It wasn’t a big of a deal as you think. They were playing at a bar and he had some friends come to said bar for my birthday. A cake was there and they sang Happy Birthday. Meh.

So we associated our relationship with this band.

I haven’t talked to this guy in oh, four years or so.

I have moved (twice), changed jobs, changed my email addresses, gotten married and changed my freaking name.

This morning at 8:22 I got an email from the guy.

At work.

With an MP3 of a song from the band attached.

How very dramatic no?

Lord.

Uh, did I mention that he is re-married to his ex-wife? Has two children. And, AND, oh yes… AND used to use a picture of me to represent himself as ‘Amanda’ when he would visit married/gay/bi chat rooms on IRC?

Sweet.

March 15, 2006

Long days and pleasant nights...

I was driving home yesterday afternoon at about 6:30 and as soon as I turned east I was faced with this enormahuge orange/yellow harvest moon. It was gigantic y’all. It looked like one of those Hollywood scenes that they superimpose into a scene. Kind of fake looking with all the clarity and detail of each crater and each lunar mountain visible. And I am kind of wavering on how I feel about the first thing that popped into my mind.

T-O-M spells moon.

Are you guys following me here? Or am I the only person on the planet to read “The Stand” and own the movie? If so… then damn, my literary choices may be considered questionable.

Actually, I know they are. I like smut. I like mindless drivel and novels that are purely entertaining. I enjoy Patricia Cornwell, I enjoy Dean (R… heh) Koontz, I enjoy Elizabeth Lowell, I enjoy Janet Evanovich and I enjoy the hell out of some Stephen King. No, let me make that I enjoy all*, not some, of the stuff that Stephen King slaps into any medium. Books, movies, web novels, tee-tiny novellas that end up making on hell of a book (“The Green Mile” for instance), collaborations and the like.

I really just enjoy the man’s brain.

His books make for a very fast and pleasant read for me.

Two weeks ago Mister and I went to the Half Price Books by our house. I wandered around aimlessly. First I forayed into the new releases and then I wandered around in the hardback section and then into the Horror section.

I found three things.

#1) The 4th installment of the Harry Potter novels “Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire”… and yes, I know. The movie has been out for nigh on a frillion years and it is being released on dvd (or it already has been) in the next few days. What can I say, I am late to the party.

#2) “The Dark Tower VI: Song of Susannah”

And

#3) “The Dark Tower VII: The Dark Tower”

Numbers 3 and 4 are in a series of novels by Stephen King. I started reading the first installment shortly after it came out in 1982. It was 1983 or ’84 when I found the first one so reading this series until the end (“The Dark Tower” is the last one) and taking about twenty some odd years to do it is very comforting for me.

I have read and re-read each of Mr. King’s novels and serial novellas and short stories over and over, but none more than the Dark Tower or as they are also called the Gunslinger Series. I have sold and repurchased the books dozens of times over and each time I open one of the books of the series, as a filler before I read something new, or just as a re-read, it is almost like I am visiting again with old friends.

The Dark Tower concept and its characters are threaded through most of Mr. King’s novels so when I would come across a Randal Flagg reference (in “The Stand”) or a Cort (in “The Eyes of a Dragon”) reference it always made me feel tied to the story because I had a whole other layer of back story already in my noggin.

I read “Song of Susannah” in just a few days and I kept reading other things to put off the opening of the last of the series, “The Dark Tower” because I just don’t want this familiarity to end.

As with each of Mr. King’s novels there is a distinct flavor to the Dark Tower series. The characters have a different dialect and a different cadence of speech that I find seeping into my thoughts. I find myself referring to others as “sai” and the pleasantry of “long days and pleasant nights to you” has almost slipped out on more then one occasion in the past week or two. I mentally add “big-big” to phrases I hear others say when they speak with conviction. “Oh, I love that house!”… in my head “big big”.

Gah.

I know. I know.

But the context and the visuals within each novel and the sheer fucking size of the task blow me completely out of the water. These are not 200-300 page novels. They are like 600+ pages each. Can you imagine trying to take on that kind of project? And to make things a little bit more woo-woo King goes ahead and writes himself into the last book. (!)

He writes himself into the book y’all. And it works. It works.

Yeah, what kind of egomaniac or genius does that? The man is either certifiably insane or brilliant. I am going to split the difference and say both.

*Except for “Kingdom Hospital”. Holy crap, that was bad.

March 17, 2006

It's not like I had a meth lab in my room.

Dark hair, soft and feathered, brushed with a comb. Brown eyes so deep with a dark dusting of black lashes. An easy smile with thin lips and a slightly crooked grin. Tall and lanky with a walk that was rolling in its' gait. A mind that would easily quote anything from Robert Frost to Metallica. A small and neat script that wrote words of love and of the future.

This was my boyfriend when I was fourteen.

From the end of fourteen to sixteen I shared my paltry experiences about school and life with a man/boy named Terry.

Terry was funny, engaging, smart (Lord, he was so smart), kind, jovial, sensitive and above all, he was a good friend to me. I met Terry when we were both in the seventh grade at the end of the school year. He was a head and shoulder above most of the other boys in school, at six foot plus in the eighth grade he stood out.

He was labeled a rocker because he preferred shirts with Van Halen or Motley Crue emblazoned on the front. And during that era if you didn't listen only to Duran Duran, Boy George or Madonna you were considered a heavy metal freak. Being a freak had its apparent advantages as Terry was constantly underestimated and thought of as a dull witted pot smoker.

Our English and History teachers loved him as he wrote beautiful and thoughtful papers on the subjects they asked for, but the coaches were hard on Terry and his equally as tall (but thicker) friend Mike. The coaches would mistake these boys for the men they seemed to be, and when the boys would act goofy or take an extra second to make the lap around the gym, the coaches came down hard on them, yelling and demanding laps or push ups. The boys would comply but sometimes, an eye roll would be seen and then it was off to the dean's office for punishment.

When I started dating Terry my parents were mortified. He was quiet and shy around them and around my sister as well. He would answer questions with a "Yes" or a "No" and not the "Yes ma'am/sir" or "No ma'am/sir" my parents had come to expect from children and teenagers alike. The thoughtful and intelligent wordsmith I had come to love was sorely lacking in verbal skills when it came to visiting with my parents. He was from up north so his lack of southern genial charm (AKA shy as hell around grown ups) was seen as being stuck up and rude.

I was grounded for most of my middle, high and senior high school career due to not applying myself to my grades and� well, yeah... I snuck out. A Lot.

I snuck out to go hang out with friends. I snuck out to go smoke out on the bicycle trails. I snuck out to go watch movies at friends' houses. I snuck out... just to be out.

I had an issue with not having any privacy.

My sister and I didn't have locks on our bedroom doors. And it was frowned upon to close your door for any length of time. Something heard often around the house (following the sound of a door being opened quickly) was, "If you need to hide to do it... you shouldn't be doing it anyway."

True, true. But. Um y'all, can I read in here? Maybe without the bonus soundtrack of my mother vacuuming or my sister yelling at someone? It's not like I have a meth lab in my room, brewing up some serious smack to sell on the streets of our Beaver Cleaver neighborhood or in the pews at church.

We could not have boys in our rooms. And if we were sitting in any position (when a boy was near) other than ramrod straight spine, hands in our laps, and knees touching... we were told to "Sit up. Now."

Oh, and also... heh... this one is awesome. Our family had a phone that was in my parent's bedroom. One afternoon while I was playing Atari (shut up, don't judge) in their room, I heard my sister on the phone. I was sitting a good six feet from the phone but I could hear EVERY. DAMN. WORD. Now, I have bat ears (not the shape meanie... just the sensitivity to sound) and I could hear everything. The phone was on my mother's side of the bed. I was sure that she happily sat there and listened to our phone conversations.

When my sister hung up, and audible mmmweep was heard signaling the severing of the connection. They heard every word we said. They monitored our phone calls y'all.

Oh, and the neighbors watched us too.

See? No privacy.

So? I snuck out. And I would get grounded for sneaking out. And then I couldn't go anywhere and then I would want to sneak out again. Hi, um... vicious cycle much?

I couldn't go anywhere while I was grounded but Terry would still come over. He would help me with my chores when I did the yard work and he would help me clean the pool. We had such an easy way with one another that I am sure it made my parents nervous.

Yeah, my parents had a right to be nervous. My sister was a little rebel with straight A's and I was waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay too honest.

Terry and I dated for about two years. That is a pretty good chunk of time when you are that young. But we really were very comfortable in our relationship. I wasn't demanding and neither was he... but... we were both curious about sex.

When we finally decided to "do it" we planned it for about a year. I was turning sixteen (SLUT!... Hey now, be nice.) in like three weeks and there was a big dance coming up at school. His parents were going to be out until late that night and my parents expected us to come home late anyways... Perfect! Right?

Well, it was very stilted, scientific, and sort of emotionally void like a couple of nerds working on a science fair project, but we got through it. He was very kind and ... well, enough of that.

My mother had picked me up from driver's education one afternoon. She let me drive home (and I can remember this like it was yesterday.) and we were at the corner Custer and Park about to turn right and my mother blurts out like a Tourette's sufferer, "Areyoustillavirgin?!"

Lord. I about wrecked the car.

I recovered quickly and turned right. While making the turn I answered her, "No." And she promptly lost her shit, "Wait until your father gets home and hears about this. Oh SUSAN!... she wailed, I am SO DIS-A-POINTED In YOUUUUUUUUU!!!!!"

Yeah. See? I couldn't keep my mouth shut then either.

Sure, sure, I can keep other peoples secrets. But if someone asked me something about me or something I did? "It is in the creek by the bridge." "It was the one armed man." "Omarosa!" "Sure I ate your Twinkie." Whatever it was, if the question was point blank, I answered it and answered it honestly.

Since then my mother and I have come to an agreement. She doesn't ask unless she really wants to know. And I? I have learned to self edit. It is a gift that comes with age.

The funny thing is that I heard a song yesterday on my way to work that reminded me of all of this. It just flashed through my head like a mini after school special on ABC. The song was "There's Just Something About You" by Level 42. Terry always said that there was something about me. He dubbed that our song when we were very young.

It is sad how things go by the wayside. Water under the bridge and all of that. After this unfortunate incident I didn't see Terry all that much. He hung out with my best girlfriend Stephanie's cousin for a while so he would show up from time to time. But by the time I got to the twelfth grade, Terry had dropped out of school. I saw around working at convenience stores and gas stations and it always made me sad because before he started doing drugs he was so sharp and charismatic and he always did well in school.

The last time I saw him he sent word that he wanted me to meet him for lunch at a Burger King by the high school where I was about to graduate. I went and there he was sitting in a booth, gaunt and hollow eyed. He greeted me warmly and we caught up a little bit. I asked him if he would like something for lunch. He reluctantly accepted and I bought us lunch. He inhaled his food and I (absentmindedly and quite rudely I know that now) asked when the last time was that he had eaten. He explained that he had coke for breakfast, an incredible amount. And not Coca-Cola either. But blow. I knew then that he was gone forever, the Terry that I used to know. His mind would never be the same.

Now, that I have moved back into the area... when I hear old songs like something from Paul Jones or Level 42 (or Celtic Frost... heh) I think about what a waste it was for such a promising young man to end up like he did when I last saw him. I hope that he cleaned himself up, got his GED, went to school or got a good job or something. I just hope he is okay. He was a very kind soul, even when things were not right between us. And I guess you never forget your first puppy love.

March 28, 2006

Happy Birthday Punkin!!!!

Have you guys ever just wanted to flick someone in the nipple for no apparent reason? Like maybe… a person in your office? Say that this person hypothetically is going on and on about oh, I don’t know… a video of a cat meowing in a weirdly anthropomorphic way? A video that they allegedly sent you via email and then rushed over to see if you received it a mere millisecond after they pushed the send button?

No?

Me either.

Alrighty… down to business. First thing’s first. Today is LuLu’s birthday. She is sixty-seven and we are very excited that she still has all of her own teeth. Actually I believe she is a mere thirty-two(three?). The reason I am mentioning this here is that she and I have been bestest of girlfriends since the early nineties and neither one of us ever remembers the other’s birthday. Normally I call her sometimes in March and she calls me sometime May and we say, “Hey, you know I love you but I can’t remember when your fucking birthday is… so… uh, yeah, Happy Birth-, uh…month

So Happy Birthday LuLu! For today is the actual day. (A soothsayer told me.)

And because it is her birthday I will commence to tell you a story about her. Heh. Well, a story with her in it. Or something.

Lessee…

Ok, ya’ll know my love for the big mens right? Okay, there was this big ol’ boy named Ira that LuLu introduced me to and I went home with him when my blazer, my jeans, my shirt and my hair all smelled like one big caramelized onion…

Oh, wait. That would be a story about me.

Let’s just talk about her Okay?

The first night we met? She haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaated me. H-A-T-E-D. Hated me. It’s not like I wasn’t sociable. Actually, I was totally friendly. And I am sure that that friendliness is what cemented her complete and utter loathing of my cheerful disposition.

Oh, and the fact that I was dancing with Troy.

Let’s go back shall we?

When LuLu was a wee lass she had a thing for two types of men. Type the first: Men who could dance their asses clean off and Type the second: Bass players. If they could dance and play the bass? A smitten kitten was she.

LuLu met Troy one evening at VC. VC (Virginia City) was a country and western dance bar in Houston that was pretty popular in the early nineties. (If you Google ‘Virginia City dance club’ now? You get many sites for gay bars. Sorry ya’ll.) You had to be 18 to enter and 21 to drink at VC. It was a drive and a half to get there from her house, but went she did and dance she did, because if there is anything that LuLu can do, it is dance. So she met Troy and he innocently swept her off of her boots and she decided that she was going to be wherever this man was.

He was going to school at Stephen F. Austin in the fall, or on break over the summer when they met and LuLu had yet to make up her mind about where she wanted to gain her college education. She had friends going everywhere to school and she had her choice of where she could go but I think that she figured if they grew them like Troy out at SFA then she was as good as there.

Correct me if I am wrong in any of this LuLu (and Mr. LuLu).

So that Fall she packed up her little GMC Jimmy (Chevy Blazer?... shit I am old.) and headed for the piney woods. She was living in a dorm called Kerr Hall. Funny enough I used to live there too. Troy and D’Wayne (and Jason, this guy that ate like he had a flip top head) were living out on the north side of town in this precious little yellow house and I had an apartment on the North Loop.

We (several people [read: cowboys] and myself) started a Rodeo Club…..

What? Shut up.

Ok, I’ll just pause here until you stop laughing.

I’ll explain about that later… yes, yes, very Hee Haw of us. No, I don’t barrel race. I’ll explain later I said. This is supposed to be about LuLu.

So we had this Rodeo Club meeting once a week on Wednesday (or Thursday?) nights and when it was over we would all head to the club (Bullwinkle’s – Lord, what an unintelligent name for a bar.) to dance and have a few beers. I have belabored the point many many times about the amount of drinking and dancing we did while we were supposed to be learning and earning our degrees, so I am sure you guys were not surprised when I said, “… headed to the bar.. blah dee blah.”

This one night in particular I was on the dance floor being lead by Troy and I felt these eyes on me. They weren’t appraising eyes. Ladies, you know how those feel; some of you men do as well. That feeling that you are being categorized and undressed? That wasn’t the gaze I felt. The sensation that someone was wishing I was dead and boiled in a copper kettle filled with tar, only after being sheared of my hair and having my upper lip pulled over my left knee cap was more along the lines of what I was feeling.

During a spin in a corner of the dance floor, I snuck a peak to see who was wishing that I would fall over dead. At the edge of the floor was this striking red head with the most beautiful neon green eyes I have ever seen. She had her arms crossed over her chest and was trying to bore a hole in my head with the look of DIE! DIE! DIE!

I whispered to Troy, “Who is that pretty redhead that wants me to keel over?” He took a look and answered, “Oh, that’s Lisa, I know her from VC.”

The song ended, Troy twirled me and led me off the floor. As soon as I was off the dance floor I headed in her direction. She saw me coming and put her hands on her hips. I walked up to her and said (very chirpily I might add - I knew she could have kicked my ass if she wanted to), “Hi! I’m Susan. You must be Lisa.” She reluctantly shook my hand. I held onto her and pulled her over to our group. Troy and I introduced her around and from then on (well, when she realized that I didn’t have designs on Troy) she and I have been best friends.

Troy left town and LuLu (Lisa) fell for a bass player named Mark. He was eleven years her senior and truly adored her and her wonderful sense of humor but he knew that he wouldn’t be settling down anytime soon and LuLu is that type of girl. She was definitely a monogamous serial dater. She didn’t mess around. She fell for one man and that was it. Mark and LuLu never even dated. They spent countless hours together and he even took care of her during a very trying time, they even shared his bed but he was gentlemanly enough to remain above the covers. Since she never kissed her prince I dubbed her “Punkin” (as in turning into a pumpkin at midnight because she didn’t receive her kiss) that night.

She left East Texas to go back to Houston and go to school and work. She and I traveled back and forth quite regularly and her parent’s house was a place of solace for me as my parents were a thousand miles away in Colorado.

One weekend the boys that were in the band that Mark played in came to Houston. I had piled several of our friends into my car and we all went to hear them play. LuLu’s parents said that we could all stay in their house after the band finished playing and the band ended up sleeping on their floor. There were many weekends when LuLu and her parents opened up their home to a rag-tag group of college kids and musicians.

In 1995 or 1996 I got a call that I didn’t expect. LuLu had been working so very hard as a manager of a company, hardly going out at all and not giving a second thought to men in general so when she said she said she had met a very handsome and gentlemanly guy while at the dance club one night and that she really liked him I was so excited for her. He was a fire fighter and they had been out on several dates. Her father even liked him!

In May of 1997 Mr. LuLu took my friend to have and to hold from that day forward and has been a wonderful husband, friend and now a father to their first born child, a beautiful little girl (18 months old) who has her mother’s stunning red hair, a mixture of the neon green eyes from her mother and the bright blue from her father’s eyes and the best parts of both of their personalities.

And I will just tell ya’ll this for free. If you ever see the little one in a club in oh, I’d say about seventeen years and she has her hands on her hips and is looking at you like she wishes you would just go to hell and die? I would approach carefully, hold out your hand and be sincerely happy to make her acquaintance.

After all, I have heard stories of her mother setting firecrackers off in the bed of a truck that was parked in a barn once … Once.


Old ass picture, but I still love it. Ain’t she pretty?

About March 2006

This page contains all entries posted to Suzanna Danna in March 2006. They are listed from oldest to newest.

February 2006 is the previous archive.

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