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April 2006 Archives

April 5, 2006

THE HOUSE

Ok, a little update-a-roony before I get out of work early. I have been keeping secrets from ya’ll. Seeeeeeecreeeetths. (Uh, lisp much? – Shut up.) They aren’t really all that big.

Oh, wait. Yes they fucking ARE!

Mister and I bought a house.

I’ll let that sink in for a second. Especially for those of you who know that I am actually a twelve year old stuck inside a thirty-something year old body. Yes, I would still eat Ravioli’s out of a can and chocolate frosting for breakfast. Yes, the sight of Angelina’s boobies in Tomb Raider make me all starry eyed. I love me some Harry Potter. And yes, yes, Lord, yes… if I could stay up all night and watch VH1 Celebreality bullshit on Sunday nights I would… totally… except I have to go to work and all that. DAMN, this grown up stuff is for the birds, yo.

And. I just said “yo”.

Has it sunk in?

Well for those of you still stuck thinking about Angelina’s boobies… I’m with you. But catch up. We have some ground to cover.

For the past two years Mister and I have been living in this large ass house. Renting. Yes, the rent was a steal for the size, location and the partial cul-de-sac lot. But, but… it is enormous. Four large bedrooms, three full baths, a big den (living room), dining room, kitchen with breakfast nook, huge closets, two car garage and a gigantic covered patio (love the patio, want to marry the patio) with a ceiling fan. Wood burning fireplace and built in book shelves… oh, and a wet bar in the living room, complete with many shelves for all of your liquor.

Why, it sounds perfect!

Yeah, you want it? I’ll put you in touch with the landlady, she’s awesome.

Here’s the kicker. It is too big for us. There is just the two of us. Oh and Max*. So two adults who work full time and a cat that sleeps and shits full time. We do not need that much room. Seriously ya’ll.

I don’t know if you remembered or not, but when we moved previously we were coming from a one bedroom, one bath apartment. And we totally had enough furniture to fill every room of this monster house. How does that work, hmmm?

So, Mister has been all, “I want to finally put down roots, I want to have neighbors over for cook outs and take some pride in a home that we own.” And I have been all, “Stairs can bite my ass, and also cleaning three bathrooms and dusting… and AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!”

So we started looking a few months ago [::cough:: freaking November::cough]… so yeah, we had a little time. And our lease isn’t even up until June, but whatever. Roots.

So a few months ago we found this perfect little house. Three bedrooms, two baths, two living areas and a large kitchen. We were smitten. Until we realized the three no, no’s for resale. 1) It backed up to a busy street and street noise was loud as hell. 2) It faced down an alley, and hello, no one wants to look at your freaking recycling bin Marge! And 3) It faced east. Um, just no. I prefer a Southward or Northward facing house. No, it isn’t a Mecca thing. It is a sunlight in your bedroom window thing either early in the morning making it all hot and waking your ass up, or in the evenings… uh, making it all hot. What? I live in Texas ya’ll.

So we cried. Not really, we were just very disappointed. It was precious, the space was perfect (ie. Not wasted) and it had a LARGE KITCHEN! And a porch on the front. A cute little porch with white columns. Awww.

So I told the house when I walked off of its’ cute little porch, “Cute house? You are dead to me. Why did you have to be all facing east and looking down and alley and… the road noise? I am really disappointed in you.” And then I said to Mister, “Hey!... Let’s drive around this perfect looking street with all the cute houses just to the east of the bad location house.”

And angels started singing; because we went about two blocks and found it.

THE HOUSE. (Please imagine a timpani going off in your head… really, this moment deserves it.)

There it was an ideal little one story house, perfectly colored brick with another tiny porch with white columns. I turned to Paul (and our Buyer’s Agent - Bill… who is so awesome sunshine peals from his mouth when he speaks and negotiates awesome deals for people who are his clients. Namely… Mister and myself.) and I said, “I would like to see this house please. I want to go in. This house is cute.” And then I mimicked the house repeating back to me all Rudolph-y, ”I’m Cute, I’m CUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUTE!”

Surprisingly, Bill did not run screaming but yet, quickly pulled out his phone and dialed the number listed on the realtor’s sign in the yard. We were allowed inside the house later that afternoon and we? Fell in love.

It is perfectly spaced out. Three bedrooms, two full baths, monster closets, one dining area, one living area, a nice sized kitchen and a two car garage. New carpet, two inch wood (or whatever) blinds, freshly painted…. And here is the best part. It was empty. No one in it to screw up our visualizing mojo.

Long story very short, we placed an offer on the house that day, counter offered only once and then had to wait thirty freaking days (almost) to close. We closed last Thursday. Seriously. Closed, on a house. One with my name on the mortgage papers.

Do ya’ll know how absolutely fucking awesome it feels to be buying a home? Something that I can live in and say with a bit of snootiness, “Why, yes. This fine homestead is indeed mine. And I will take that mojito now, thank you my good man.”

Living in the four (five?) homes that my parents’ owned as a child. Theirs. Living in a dorm in college. DORM. Living in an apartment later in college. Rented. Living with my ex-husband in a 1976 Redmond double-wide trailer. His. (Thank the good Lord Jesus and Bill Dance.) Moving into another apartment, and another apartment and yet another apartment and then the home we are in now? Rented, rented, rented and fucking rented.

The new house? OURS.

We bought a refrigerator (Maytag Ice2O, stainless… oh, hell to the yes), a cook top, a beautiful light for the entryway, a light assembly for over the bar and some reading lamps… as well as new leather furniture for the living room (more on the furniture later).

All? Ours.

Neither one of us have ever had our own home and getting the keys the other day and then going over to the new house and laying on the carpet was sort of awesome. Kind of like that real estate commercial where that lady is watching her kids play in the backyard of her new house and she’s all weepy and, “I never had a back yard before.” Except with more cursing, picture taking and no children.

So, for the past several weeks I have been sitting on a cactus the size of a bearded yak worried that for some reason the sale of the house wouldn’t go through. I refused to let myself get excited… but now? It’s on. It is SO on.

I will post more tomorrow about the furniture and all of the appliances and the utilities and all of the stuff that most of you have already been through, but you know what? I’m gonna tell you anyway… because I am a home owner now, dammit.

*Holy Rotisserie Christmas, have you ever seen anything so cute?


April 6, 2006

"Took a bunch of little naugas to make that couch."

Let’s talk a little turkey. Or cow. Whatever. I just want to discuss my new furniture.

A few weeks ago (during the wait of indeterminate time of suck [read: waiting to get the damn keys to our new house]) Mister and I went on a little shopping trip. We had discussed this particular shopping trip for weeks, months… nay, even years.

We’ve been discussing getting new living room furniture since we realized that we were meant to be together forever and destined to intermingle all of our worldly possessions.

Here are two little hints if you are the new kid to this journal:
1) My husband is so Type A that he would have an aneurysm oh, say if I tied him to a chair and folded a map in front of him… and FOLDED IT WRONG! On Purpose.
2) Me = “la dee da… oh, look… something shiny.” [wanders off into a pasture… barefoot… with a messy ponytail and a piece of banana hanging from one hand that I had forgotten to either finish or throw away.]

And our furniture reflects our personalities.

Oh, and I’m only going to talk about living room furniture… because if we get into pre-marriage kitchen possessions it could get ugly.

His: Seven piece living room set. Matching three cushion couch, love seat and over stuffed chair in the muted tones of cream and taupe. Two ivory colored, glass topped end tables and a matching glass topped coffee table. End tables and coffee tables reflect the swirling patterns caught in the artful design of the fabric of the couch, love seat and chair. One Large Oriental area rug in tones of red to set off the olive, gold and russet pillows thrown on the couch, and finally one three panel silk pillow in matching tones for the chair.

Mine: Dark green 1994 sofa sectional with reclining ends, a coffee table that was basically brass loops with a glass top that my mother found for me at a garage sale for $15 and an end-table-standing-lamp combo (oooh, fancy a combo) table that had been sitting next to my father’s “relaxin’” chair since I could remember.

Hi, who wants to sit where?

In the rent house his stuff went downstairs in the living room. And my stuff? Upstairs, where it wouldn’t be seen except by those who already loved us and could not Indian-give their love because of the sins of one ugly couch. Well, except the loopy coffee table, that didn’t survive a move.

So when we went on this shopping trip a few weeks ago we pretty much already had in mind what we wanted. Large, dark brown, expensive looking, leather, man furniture.

Those were seriously the criteria: It has to be large… Mister is 6’5” and is tired of having his knees hit his chest when he sits on a sofa. Dark brown. I am sick (oh Lord, so very sick) of cream and taupe. I want something that says, “Come here, be comfy, do not be afraid to sit on me… I will not stain if you drop your crouton on me… like oh, cream and taupe maybe? Hmmmm” I want it to look very nice. I am not in the market for naugahyde* or pleather or chitlin covered furniture. I want it to be beautiful and look like we are grown ups. And finally I want it to look like man furniture, not some fairy little tea-cup Chippendale sofa with its dainty little legs. I want MAN furniture. Something that a gaggle of my girlfriends and I could curl up on and plot the coup of the Sephora at the Galleria. Something that would be perfectly at home in a new living room where we could entertain and serve many gin and tonics… good lookin stuff.

So we went on a search. We looked at Haverty’s, Bassett, La-Z-Boy and many other places that had been suggested to us. We spent all day one rainy Saturday afternoon running in and out of furniture stores and sitting on all of their sofas; sectionals, group sofas, three-cushion, four-cushion, chair and a half(s) with storage ottomans. Sweet Judas Priest in a tutu, I have never seen so many pieces of furniture.

I thought Mister was going to cry when we left the last store. In every single place we would walk in and sit on the first thing that appealed to us. A salivating salesperson would saunter over and ask if we were looking for anything in particular. I go so tired of being led all over the store(s) all for naught that I started just asking Mister, “Baby, would you mind standing?” And when he would stand up, I would gesture to him and reply to the sales person, “I want something that would fit [points] him.” The salesperson would usually say something like, “Oh, we have some very tall couches right… over… here” as they were walking away quickly to show us the most extravagant furniture they had.

We found a few things we liked, but everything was too short for Mister. His knees would be all pointy as opposed to nice relaxed knees and the sales person would brightly offer, “Put bricks under it! That would make it taller!!!” while nodding enthusiastically.

Gah.

I asked each (of the fifty frillion) stores if they could customize furniture. “Oh, yes… of course!” Each one of them replied. And when I asked about couch leg height as opposed to just fabric, they got this ‘I smell something akin to Limburger’ look on their face and denied me. “So, you are just offering fabric choices, really not customization, correct?” I asked one sales person. She said, “Well… uh, right. The average person…” And that is where I stopped her because I felt this… heat behind me that told my spidey senses that Mister was about to lose his shit completely and roar, “Do I look average to you lady? Huh?! DO I!?”

Finally soaked with rain and very frustrated, we headed home.

The next day I started looking online for the furniture stores I knew to be out there, the ones that would make furniture to my specifications, without requiring a kidney donation and maybe a sacrifice of the hoopty. I put together a spreadsheet (oh, don’t look at me like that. I can be Type A too… just sometimes, maybe… when the weather is right… and my hair is perfect.) of all of the stores that we needed to go see next.

At the top of my list was a little place over here behind my building in the decorating district called The Leather Sofa Company. On their website I noticed that they had several selections for stitching, nailheads and most importantly, legs. All different sizes of legs. So I called Mister and asked him to come to my office after he got off of work. We drove over and walked in. It smelled wonderful and a nice guy named Marc came over and asked if we needed any help. I pointed to Mister and said, “Have anything to fit him?” He said, “Sure do.” And wasn’t lying.

We looked all over and I fell in love with a sofa on the floor. It was already pretty tall with little one-bun (little round wooden sofa legs that look like – well, buns) legs on it and I asked if they could change the legs to the three-bun. “Sure.” I was so happy I may have made out with him a little.

But the best part was yet to come. I asked him if he had a chair to fit the couch, he did but he didn’t think it would be large enough to be comfortable for Mister. Mister went over, sat in it and asked, “Could we make this a chair and a half?” “Yes sir.” “Bring it up about three inches?” “Sure could.” “Make the cushion about three inches deeper?” “We could, yes.” “And put those three-bun legs on it? And even make the back cushion a little firmer?” “Yep.” And Mister was so happy he may have made out with Marc a little bit too.

So, we found my dream sofa… it really is awesome ya’ll. And a chair, made for a king. I am so excited. It is all being delivered on Saturday. I may make out with the delivery guy too.

I will definitely take pictures. I have a piece of the leather in my tote. It is called casino mink. And no, I don’t make out with the piece of leather. That would just be sick.

PS. Shout out to Sil and her husband and all of their beautiful leather furniture… for they made me a leather convert. That stuff can stand up to nuclear fall out** ya’ll.

*“Took a bunch of little naugas to make that couch.” Name that quote. Heh.
**(a toddler)

April 7, 2006

Anyone levitate or have an urge to rebuild a carburetor?

Ladies, I want to conduct a poll.

Sorry guys, you can participate only if you want to talk about the menstrual cycles of the women you love/know/stalk. Would that be totally talking out of school to discuss the workings of your loved/known/stalked ones plumbing?

Am I the only one who doesn’t like to call it plumbing? When you hear someone calling your uterus “plumbing” do ya’ll think of some guy named Bruce bent double under your “sink” with his crack showing and mumbling something about 3/8ths fitter joints?

Just me again?

Fine.

Alright, so. Yeah, the poll. What I would like to find out is if any of you ladies have strange characteristics that come about when you are either menstruating or when you are ovulating. Say for instance that you crave apple butter on grilled asparagus and always purchase more light bulbs than necessary when you are on your cycle.

I am really not that interested in the “I hate men and everything is YOUR FAULT!” side of a woman’s cycle because sue me ladies, but I have never been one of those. I know, I know, we all have cramps and all of that. Common knowledge. What I am interested in is the weird shit it does to your personality, buying habits, different senses, sleep cycle and eating/craving behaviors.

Like this morning? I was listening to Herschel on the way in to the office. El Cerrito Place by Charlie Robison popped up out of nowhere. I listened for a little bit and then had to make a mad grab for the iPod at a stop light before the tears started flowing. It would have been unsightly. I felt it coming on and I knew it wasn’t going to be one little fat tear trickling down my cheek and brightening my eyes while I brushed away the traitor to my feelings and of course it would leave my makeup perfectly in check. Oh hell to the no. It would have been a full on snot flinging sob fest. Pretty!

So I know I am a bit more emotional, yeah… whatever. Boring.

The fun stuff?

My sense of smell goes off the freaking charts. Last night I walked into the house after being at the new place for most of the evening. I practically gagged and rushed to the fridge, trash bag in hand, to throw away everything that was in a to-go container, some condiments and a bag of carrots. And some bratwurst. Because it was looking at me funny. I am sure that most everything I tossed was perfectly fine, but it didn’t smell that way to me. Then I freaked out and had to physically restrain myself from some strange nesting instinct to do all of the dishes and clean the kitchen right then, it couldn’t wait.

The hell?

I dry mopped before Mister and I even left the house.

And just before I went to bed, I came flying out of the bathroom in a panic, “Something is on FIRE!” Mister replied, “There was a candle burning, and I blew it out. Downstairs. By my office. Thirty minutes ago.”

So, I know that my sense of smell is all bloodhound when I am ovulating or on my cycle and that I have a strong urge to have everything clean, clean, clean… Go to your closet and pray!

What about ya’ll? Anyone levitate or have an urge to rebuild a carburetor?

April 11, 2006

Oh, Hi Morty.

thanks to all of you who participated in the poll...

i am posting directly from the "add entry" box within diaryland... so for any spelling mistakes and as always, the grammar (and extra commas), my apologies.

To: mister
From: me
Topic: earrings
you know those cute little stylish blue "pearl" earrings that I put on this morning before I fastened you with a smooch and headed out the door? those cute, little, stylish, blue "pearl" earrings with the necklace to match? they are now the cute, little, stylish, "pearl" earrings Of DEATH!
member when I yelped when I put the right one in? yelped twice? well, i am stupid because there is a good reason for yelping and i should have headed it directly.
when i got on the elevator this morning and cunningly checked my reflection in the mirror in the back of the elevator out of the corner of my eye (as not to seem totally vain) i noticed that my right ear was had something on it... i touched it and drew back fingers spotted with blood. the cute little stylish blue "pearl" earrings have a lever-back and the spring on both of the earrings has a pointy metal spike that comes out when you close the back of the earring. perfect for piercing an already pierced ear. stupid earrings... Of DEATH!

that was an email i sent to mister this morning. and all day i have been saying "earring, of Deasss" like Muerte (aka Morty) from undercover blues.

if you haven't seen this movie, i suggest that you find a copy and see it today... hysterical (is that spelled correctly?) and you have the added bonus of clips like this.

earrings of deasss!

April 17, 2006

A massive case of pee shivers.

So… a few weeks ago, in the midst of the closing for our new house, the furniture purchases, getting our taxes done and all of that hoopla, a friend of mine handed me this paper and said, “Look at this posting, you would be perfect for this job.” I looked at the paper and sure enough, on the paper in front of me a job was listed that would utilize all of my past experience and then some. A job that would challenge me and develop other keen senses. Like my sense of smell? Of Irony? No, but maybe challenge my velvet hammer theory (getting others to do things and make them think it is their idea… especially in the work place… and it is your boss or a committee of hard headed volunteers that you are working on.) and I wouldn’t travel as much and get paid more and have more vacation days.

Sweet, right?

But then I say to you. Hey you, I am comfortable in and with my job. I appreciate the association and nonprofit type of situations. The money is eh, but you usually work with people who are passionate about what they do. Right? Right. I appreciate coming into work everyday. I like my boss, I like my coworkers. My commute is tolerable. I like that I have been coming here for almost three years. I like my little nest. (And I love my blackberry phone. Work Perk. Love.)

I have always strived for the next big thing. I have always looked for what was coming down the pipe per se. I have never been this content. And yet? I like being this content. It is very comfortable. But I ask myself, “Self? Is this comfort zone a dangerous place to be?” And I answer, “Uh… dunno.”

There is no place for me to go professionally while working here. My boss? He has been here for 10 years and I don’t really foresee him going anywhere anytime soon. And above him… my director who has been here since Nixon was in short pants. Seriously, like twenty-seven years or something. So there is not really any room for advancement. The question is do I care?

Honestly, at the moment? I can’t really say that I do.

But yet… what did I do?

Did I submit my resume? Oh hell yeah. Did I get a phone interview, a personal interview (that lasted almost two hours) and then a final interview last Friday that was between the top two contestants? Well, yes. Yes, I did.

Here’s the deal. I like to consider myself friends with my boss, so I asked him about this comfort level thing. I was trying to get an answer out of him that would tell me, “Susan, you are comfortable now. But, it will only last another 1.7 years and then you will be miserable and by that time you will have given up your only chance for happiness with this other company!” Yeah, I really didn’t get that kind of answer. And yes, I did tell my boss that I was looking at another company and that I have had interviews. And yes, I was cheating on my association with another buffer, more attractive and attentive association.

Um, I think I have wandered off target here.

Anyway… I told him about my interview for that upcoming Friday (last Friday) and he was very nice about the whole thing. He told me about other jobs that he had worked and tried to answer my comfort level questions. He was pretty astute in figuring out that I was torn (torn, like an old sweater) between the two positions. On one hand, I had not been offered the new job yet, and on the other hand, I am just so damn comfy in my present role I didn’t know if I should even consider the other position because I was sure that the other candidate wanted the job badly.

So, I did what any employee would do. I asked my boss to pray that God would make it completely obvious what I should do.

What? I am convinced that my boss has an inside track with the Big Guy upstairs.

Yeah, you can start pointing those “Crazy!” fingers any moment. S’ok.

So… Thursday of last week rolled around. At the end of the day my boss man asked me to call him after the interview on Friday morning to let him know how it went. I told him I would because I had Friday off for the Easter Holiday so I wasn’t going in to the office after the interview.

I’m getting all ramble-y.

I headed home Thursday evening. I was driving and talking to someone on my cell phone and I noticed (well, it was sort of tough not to notice) that the hoopty died at a stop light. Hmmmm. Interesting. The “Check Engine – You Moron” light came on and the oil pressure gauge light came on when she died. She didn’t knock or make any strange noises. She just died, a quiet little death.

I was able to restart her and limp along another mile or so until she died again.

I started to panic. I had to be at the (old) house by 6:15 for some people to come pick up our existing furniture. That morning (between talking to my boss about entertaining the notion of a new job, one that wouldn’t involve working for him, hence leaving him in a lurch because we are ramping up for our busy go-go-go-travel-travel-travel period of the year, and actually working) I posted pictures and descriptions of our furniture on Craig’s List.. I posted Mister’s furniture as an eight (?) piece living room suite with all of the matching (matchy matchy) coffee tables, end tables, lamps, couch, love seat and chair, and mine was just posted as a sectional with reclining ends. Ya’ll I posted about four pictures of each set and by four o’clock (in the pm) both sets were sold!

So, I was heading home to sell Mister’s furniture out from under him. (What? The new stuff was delivered to the new house last Friday. And PS? It is Awesome.) And… the hoopty died. Yes, I know she is old and busted. Yes, I know she is over 100,000 miles. Yes, I know she is maroon/purple and needs some TLC. But she is over 200 miles away from needing an oil change, the sticker thingy says so.

So, she died. And I kept restarting her and calling Mister, “Are you almost home?... Holy crap, she died again. I’ll be there as soon as I can!” Mister beat me to the old house and we rushed around and made sure there were no embarrassing things sitting out for people to judge us… and yes, I am talking about the Precious Moments figurines.

People came and took away the living room suite and the sectional and they were all so nice. So Mister and I headed home, to the new house, in his Lincoln LS* to pack for the next day (we went to my parents’ house for the Easter weekend), made lists of things we needed to do and laid out my clothes for my interview the next morning.

The next morning (Friday) I got up, got dressed, fretted about my outfit and left the house driving the Lincoln. I got about four miles away from the new house and the “Check Engine Temperature” information came on the read out panel. A fan that sounded like a jet engine fired up. I got in the right lane and pulled into a residential neighborhood and then the little engine block light came on and the read out panel shouted, “ENGINE POWER REDUCED!” And the car shuttered like it had just about had it… or had a massive case of pee shivers.

I called Mister, “You will never guess.” He did. So I headed to the old house and jumped in the hoopty. Thank goodness I left plenty of time for traffic and piece of shit car antics. I headed to my interview and the hoopty didn’t die until I got on the street that the company is headquartered off of.

I got there with about 20 minutes to spare until my interview. I called a coworker to see how she was, called Mister to let him know I made it safe and sound, a little jittery and pissed at the vehicles, but safe and sound, then headed inside to the interview.

The interview was like a firing round. Four department heads, the CFO, the COO and the President sat me at a chair and fired questions at me. It was so uncomfortable ya’ll. I would answer a question and they would just sit there until someone decided to ask me something else. The president made a “Oh, this was well thought out and planned now wasn’t it?” Un-Com-For-TABLE! Lord.

I was only in there about 50 minutes and when I got out to my car I sent my boss an email to see if he was available.

To: Bossman
From: Me
You prayed that my car would die this morning, didn't you?

To: Me
From: Bossman
I prayed to the Lord, and he answered my prayer....

I promptly called him and told him he was a shit. Then I told him about the “Ode to Discomfort” that was the interview. I have to say, I think he was happy about it. Yay, uneasiness, anxiety and distress!

Mister thinks that I nailed the interview. I told him about all of their questions and repeated back to him my answers, and he thinks that I was very professional and right on the money. I tend to see the glass as half empty or very spotty and needs some Jet Dryゥ. But he tried to assure me that I was the one that they wanted.

Who knows?

I will let you guys know as soon as I either get an offer or… not… and whether I am going to take it… or… not.

So after the interview we went and dropped off both of our cars at the dealership, picked up a Big Huge loaner car, finished our taxes and paid out a frillion dollars, put the check and the tax return in the mail, packed and headed to my folks’ house.

What a beating. The taxes, not going to my parents’.

*The LS is so cute and sporty, but such a POS. We have had her in the dealership shop about six times for transmission issues and she is a 2003 model. Hello? Lemon? Yeah, we had our Lemon Law court date on Wednesday and we’ll hear if the manufacturer has to buy her back or not in 30-90 days.

April 19, 2006

You do NOT need a bigger boat.

Ya’ll. Seriously, I am so happy. Apart from the whole ‘packing and moving gives me diarrhea’ thing… I am so happy. And content. I slept like a baby last night. No, no… I didn’t wake up every three hours and cry for a boob to suckle. I just slept. Slept hard.

Apparently this whole interview/job offer thing was weighing heavily on my mind. Who knew?

Yesterday afternoon I got an email from the COO of the company that I was interviewing with. The email said, and I quote (seriously, I am pasting this directly from the email):

Dear Susan -

Thank you for coming in and meeting with members of the management team last Friday. Unfortunately, you were not selected for the position of Convention Manager. Although you have a great skill set, the consensus of the team was that it would not be a good fit for the office.

I wish you all the best in your job search,
[her name]

Remember how I was praying that God would make it abundantly clear what my decision should be regarding this job? Well ladies, and gents… it really can not get any clearer than that.

I didn’t realize that I would be relieved not to get that job offer… I am. I got the affirmation I was looking for by making it to the top two job candidates, and didn’t even have to make a decision. Talk about an answered prayer.

Also, I got the hoopty back. Almost $800 later, but she is back and feeling great. So, everything is rocking along smoothly. Thank you all for your good thoughts and prayers on all of this drama.

I didn’t tell you guys the details about the Easter weekend. Mister and I went over to my parents’ house on Friday afternoon and it was a wonderful and relaxing weekend. Mister sleeps at my parents’ house like he doesn’t sleep anywhere else. We both employed the use of earplugs Friday night and it took us a while to get to sleep… he in his double bed (complete with feet hanging off) and me on my blow up mattress on the floor. Once we did get to sleep it was nice and Mister slept until almost eleven am Saturday morning. That is a huge deal for him.

He is so relaxed at my parents’ house that he visibly goes from wound up to peaceful as soon as we get about a 1/3 of the way there.

While Mister was sleeping Saturday morning my sister said to me, “Hey, wanna come for a walk with me?” I stupidly said, “Sure.” So we laced up our shoes, put my niece in a stroller that looked like it was built for off-roading and took off.

My parents’ live on a lake (well, next to, they aren’t stilt people or anything) in East Texas, the surrounding neighborhood is hilly and full of trees. People love their lake lots and their close-to-lake lots and they take pride in keeping their lawns lovely and the trees pruned and the flowers blooming.

I. Have allergies.

I am allergic to pollen and grass… which is ironic because my father used to employ me to mow the grass and trim hedges and edge walkways and all things outdoorsy. Hi, ::sneeze:: how you doin? ::eyes watering and smearing mascara:: Aren’t I sexy?

It is April, and for some reason the weather has decided to reach an all time high. It was 99 degrees Fahrenheit (37.2 Celsius) yesterday and this unseasonably warm weather has caused everything to bloom early.

So, off we went, trudging up and down hills… but mostly up.

Fifty minutes and sixty-seven hills later, I was breathing like a walrus running a 10K. (hee. A walrus running.) My face was red, I was sweating buckets, sneezing every minute or two and my eyes were watering like I was being forced to listen to Sade. I’ll tell you what, talk about sexy... I could have been the cover of Maxim for May.

We have our family trip to Destin, FL coming up in June and my fat ass needs to shape up before I put on a bathing suit and parade around in public. I am not so much worried about being so white I am sort of blue. (Let’s hear it for the clear people! Can I get a ‘What What’!?) But I am worried about some haggard fisherman trying to harpoon me in the shallows. (Fuck you, you do NOT need a bigger boat, buddy!) So my sister and I have decided to hold one another accountable for our work out regimen. I have to call her and make sure she drinks her water for the day and she has to call me and make sure I have done some sort of aerobic exercise for the day.

Last night we sweated and packed up parts of the old house. I am going to count that as my aerobic exercise. She drank wine and I’m going to call that her water intake for the day.

What?

Oh, yeah. I haven’t shown ya’ll the new furniture have I?


This? Is the new furniture. Preeeeettttty.

And for size reference. Here are the delivery guys with just the chair part. That huge thing? Is Mister’s chair. Dwarfing a perfectly normal sized (three hours late) delivery guy.


April 21, 2006

I've never sent him to a prison and had him drown for my entertainment before either.

A few Sundays ago Mister and I moved our bed over to the new house so we could actually stay there. So the past few weeks have been a litany of packing stuff at the old house and moving it to the new one. Every day on the weekends and every night when we leave work we致e been going to the old house to knock out a closet here and pack up the pots and pans there.

The cat (formally known as Maximillian MaGillikitty the Third) has been very meow-y and mournful. He hates that we sold the old furniture last Friday and is all, 展ho moved my cheese, bitches?!�

We talked about when the best time to move the cat would be and decided that he should stay at the old house until we get everything situated in the new one so as not to freak him out any more than he already is.

The actual MOVE (it deserves capital letters) is tomorrow so I called a local cat place that specializes in the caring and grooming and boarding of the feline persuasion and booked Max a Cat Condo for tonight. I will pick him up tomorrow when THE MOVE is complete and we have his litter box all set up and there aren稚 scary movers coming in and out and leaving the door open and all of that noise.

Let痴 look at this for a moment shall we?

The cat is old, as far as cat痴 go. When I got him from the Irving SPCA they said, 徹h, he痴 uh� two. Or five.� And he has been my little kitty companion for the past four-plus years. His teeth are not attractive, one fang is broken in half and his breath smells like buzzard barf (tm Sars). We brush him almost daily and he loves to bite the little slicker comb and he has been accused of having a sordid affair with the Furminatorゥ grooming utensil. We feed him expensive prescription cat food to help with his urinary tract propensities and he gets his shots all on time. We have had his teeth cleaned and his breaks and pads rotated.

What I am trying to get at is that we take very good care of our little boy but damn, there is only so much I can do for the poor guy without the help of a professional.

So I asked the cat people if they could bathe him.

I know that I致e never bathed him. I know that Mister has never bathed him and I am going to lob a fairly good guess out there that the Irving SPCA people never bathed him either (what, with all the poop in his tail-fur when I adopted him). So, he痴� an older cat, around 9 years of age (at the vet痴 best guess)� and he痴 never been bathed. I asked the cat people what all is entailed in their grooming and their process sounds quite benign. They don稚 clip short haired cats so there won稚 be any loud, buzzing noises close to him and they dry them; after their three step bathing process; in a walk through dryer, a fairly quiet machine. So quiet in fact that the lady said most cats fall asleep during the drying process.

Have any of you had experience with this kind of stuff? Cat bathing? We致e moved Max twice already and he痴 never been one to mark/spray or act out� but then again, I致e never sent him to a prison and had him drown for my entertainment before either.

I am sure that is exactly what he is thinking right now.

This morning when I went to the old house to pick him up he was all, 滴ey, hey, hey� Hi. What痴 up? Wanna brush me? Look at me, I can run to the fireplace and pointedly look at the cat brush. Wait a second, why are you putting me in that box again?� I felt so bad. Ya値l Know.

He has been so sweet. Well, I致e been lucky and he痴 always been sweet� but he has been so happy to see us every day when we come over to pack. He normally meets us at the door to the garage when we come in as he has since we moved into that rental house so, meeting us at the door is no biggy until you consider that we have been in and out, moved and sold his furniture and generally jacked up his Kool-Aid. He is so forgiving that he has put away his great distaste for black garbage bags and has remained in my lap while I flap the bag around to throw something away or put together a bag of clothes for Goodwill.

He is such a sweet boy, I feel guilty for boarding him and getting him bathed before he moves into the new house. I know it is the best thing for him but damn� ya値l should have seen him holding on to my neck with his little front paws when I put him in his cat condo this morning. Talk about breaking a girl痴 heart.

April 26, 2006

"Dear Packrat Jr.,".... oh, I know you didn't.

The move? Honestly? It really wasn’t that big of a deal. I fretted and sweated for over a month… and packed and packed and sweated some more for days and days before the actual move. My sleep? Was interrupted by bad dreams that I was the supposed girlfriend of Biz Markie. He didn’t do anything… at all. He would just sit there and breathe with his mouth open. Also that Puff Daddy/Puffy/P. Diddy/Diddy found some pants in my suitcase that weren’t mine (total Hammer pants) and told me that he was going to tell my mom. It was a nightmare.

But the move went pretty smoothly. I hired ABC Relocation Systems and Tammie and her crew did an amazing job. She and one of her crew packed me (mostly the kitchen and breakable stuff) while three others moved out the big furniture and the stuff that was already in boxes (everything else). They brought a huge truck, filled it up and even went back to the old house to get a second load. The guys put my bed back together, hooked up the washer and dryer and all of the things that really don’t seem like a big deal but after a full day of moving really make a difference.

I boarded the cat and had him bathed/groomed. The lady at the Cat Connection place said that Max did fine with his bath and when I picked him up Saturday afternoon he smelled so good. He was a little pissed and was shedding like a dried out Christmas tree, but he warmed up to the new house pretty quickly.

I have this thing. When something huge happens like: a baby is born, someone goes into the hospital, I have to make dinner reservations for 600 people or whatever you consider large… I am so cool, calm and collected. When something small happens like: a movie rental is late, or… (well, let’s just leave it at that. It works with the analogy.) I completely lose my shit.

“Rent? What rent? Oh, rent is due? Ok. Oh, we don’t have money? It’ll be fine. I’ll donate plasma or whatever.”* ::shrug::

“OH MY GOOD N’ PLENTY LORD… You can NOT be serious. You ARE!? We have had that library book since WHEN!?!??!?!?!” (Commence with gnashing of teeth and rending of clothing.)

*Please note: This has never happened since I have been married to Mister. Before that? Heh. Well, let’s just say I had my priorities a bit skewed. “I’ll buy tonight!” “Sue, the bill is for five people.” “S’ok, ya’ll can spot me next time.”

So, yeah, my sense of propriety is a bit jacked when it comes to my reactions sometimes. I always freak completely when I move. I am so attached to things that don’t mean a shit to anyone else.

I went to the old house one evening while Mister was working late and I cleaned out the space under my bathroom sinks and the drawers.

Ya’ll? I threw away Clairol hair curlers (rollers, whatever) that I have had since the sixth or seventh grade. They were those brown ones with the three different sized rollers and the little dot on the top that would turn from red to black when the curlers were ready.

Let’s pick this apart for a minute shall we?

I will be thirty-four in about two weeks. What age are you in the seventh grade? Thirteen? Yeah, thirteen. So, those curlers, with their lightly (“brown suede”) flocked surfaces had about twenty-some-odd years of dead hair built up on them. That is fucking foul. Yes, yes… I would de-hair them when I used them, the curlers mainly, but those metal rods that did the heating… not so much. By the time you got around to letting them heat up, separating your hair into pieces to be rolled onto a hot ass wax filled curlers (that burned the shit out of your ears) and then went and did your make up and got dressed so the curlers could cool down… an hour (::cough:: TWO) or more had passed. The last thing I wanted to do was to burn my fingers on those metal rods just to get a few stray pieces of hair out from between them. So, it built up. Gross.

I threw away a billion tee-tiny little bottles of shampoo, conditioner, lotion, mouthwash… tiny little sewing kits, shower caps and the like from hotels across the nation. I travel so much and for some reason I always take the toiletries. I think it started when I was younger. My daddy was a travelin man and my mother fixed this little lined basket with all of the shampoos, conditioners, little tiny things of floss, mouthwash and sewing kits. She would put it in the bathroom when we had guests staying at the house in case they wanted their “own” toiletries. Sure, it was a nice gesture, but hi, I am a DINK (dual income no kids). You’d think we could afford some damn shampoo.

Goodness gracious. Do NOT get me started on the eleventy normal sized (and some Jumbo from Sam’s) shampoo and conditioner bottles that each still had a dollop of product inside. “But I’m going to combine all of them and use what is left!” Shut up Scarlett, you do not need to make a freaking dress out of the curtains. Go to Wal*Mart for Martha Stewart’s sake.

I threw away bags and bags inside of bags. What the hell is the deal with me and bags? I found several silver Saks bags with other bags inside them. Each one would have a whole little armada of travel necessities. It was like I would pack one, take it with me on the trip, come home and put it under the sink without unpacking it. The next trip? I’d pack another one and do the same damn thing.

I opened my make up drawer with hesitation. Inside I have an organizer, just like one of those fancy things you can purchase from the Container Store to keep your entire make up collection or utensils handy and organized. Um, yeah. Not so much. Let’s just say that I packed what I wanted and threw away over thirteen lipsticks, glosses and liners… six tubes of mascara, an old ass powder brush, foundation (three bottles) for a shade of tan I will never be again, blush, several containers of face powder, liquid eyeliner that I can not get even for the life of me, green eye shadow (GREEN!... as in a shade of green not found in nature), three things of perfume and innumerable liners, sticks and liquids of this of that product.

What the hell is wrong with me?

My mother… MY MOTHER who has saved twenty years of Southern Living magazine and makes my dad pack and move that shit… is calling me a pack rat. In an email from last Thursday, her salutation was as such; “Dear ‘Packrat Jr.’”… oh, I know you didn’t.

Several moves ago… when I moved in with Mister was a comedy of errors… and rich fodder for Mister to make fun of me for years to come. His favorite? “Baby?” He says with much trepidation. “Uhhhhmmmm, do you need seven phone books?” I replied, “What?” “These seven phone books in your pantry.” “Seven phone books… in my… pantry?” “MmmmHmmm, do you get calls from people on Who Wants to be a Millionaire needing a lifeline? ‘Susan, this is Earl, do you know the phone number to the Ace Hardware on 14th Street in Plano… from 1976?’” Heh.

I don’t know why I save all the stuff I do.

Here’s a secret. In the trunk of the hoopty are enough books for boredom material and to make a fire if necessary, empty bottles of water (so that I can melt snow for drinking water if I am ever stuck in a snow bank… duh.), a jacket, packaged crackers and tissue for if I ever need to potty in the woods (because… I am a bear).

I think it may be the whole poverty thing from Nacogdoches.

Speaking of…

Monday I took off of work. I wanted to relax after the weekend move and my sinuses were stuffed up and running at the same time. Neat trick huh? I was planning on leisurely unpacking a box or two while sitting on my new furniture, maybe taking a nap… drinking plenty of liquids and generally just recuperating. Mister decided to stay home to so my plans of a leisurely day went straight out the window.

We hung a television with a wall mount/bracket thing. We hung pictures. We adjusted the height of the fan in the living room. We unpacked boxes. You name it… we were workin it and by 6:30 pm I was worn out.

My phone rang and the following took place:

Ring Ring…
(The phone actually said “UKNOWN CALLER” because whoever it was called with a blocked phone number.)

Self: Susan speaking.
Unknown Caller: Is this Susan?
Self: (thinking ‘Yes, dumbass, I just said ‘Susan speaking.’) Yes, it is, may I help you?
Unknown Caller: Do you know who this is?
Self: No, I don’t.
Unknown Caller: You really have no idea who this is?
Self: (starting to get annoyed) No.

By this time Mister has his eyebrow cocked so far up his forehead it was sitting on top of his skull.

Unknown Caller: This is your ex-husband.
Self: Oh,… Hi, [real name].

(Pointed look at Mister at this revelation.)

X: How are you?
Self: Fine… and you?

(Look at Mister and mouth, ‘What the fuck?’)

X: Well, I was just in town and I wanted to just call and see how you are.
Self: Doing well… What are you doing in town?
X: I’m here for a homicide convention.
Self: Sounds… fun?
X: Not really… how have you been doing?
Self: Fine, my husband and I just bought a home, it is my first home ever and I am very excited.
X: Really, where are you living?
Self: Plano.
X: Which part?
Self: The North part.

(Look at Mister with an “I am very uncomfortable with this” look.)

X: Well, I am staying over here at [hotel] right off of [street and highway] and I just wanted to call and see if I could take you and your husband to dinner one night this week.
Self: Dinner?

(Mister looks over with a “please do not invite him here for the love of Pete Rose” look.)

X: Yeah, just to catch up.
Self: …
X: So, how are your momma and daddy?
Self: They are doing well.

And the rest of the conversation was him asking how my parents are, my sister and her family, what I was doing for a living (Answer: Same thing that I have been doing for the past five some odd years.), if my daddy was still fishing and blah blah blah.

X: So, here is my number, and check with your husband to see if he is free and let me know if you would like to go to dinner this week.
Self: O…K?
X: Bye, now.
Self: Bye.

(Debra Jean is so going to kick my ass for not calling her immediately.)
(My sister is still cackling that I had no clue who he was and didn’t recognize his voice.)

So, I got off the phone and realized that I probably came off sounding totally like a rude ass because I was so thrown off by the call. I retold Mister about the side of the conversation he didn’t hear and then we went back to unpacking or whatever. About twenty minutes later we went outside to smoke (I know.) and Mister said to me, “So… do you want to have dinner with X?” And my answer, “Oh, shit… I had already forgotten all about that.” Then after about 45 seconds of ponder time was, “You know, not to be a bitch or anything, but you? Are mine. And I do not want to share you with my ex-husband.” Mister said that whatever I wanted to do he would stand behind me.

I thought about it a little more and concluded, “Here’s the deal. X is really a nice guy, a likeable guy. He wants everyone to like him… and I… I really don’t want you to like my ex-husband.”

So Tuesday afternoon I called Sil (my g/f in Chicago who was THERE for the whole first marriage debacle) and told her about the phone call. She listened and “Holy SHIT!”-ed and “OH My GOD!”-ed in all the right places and then she gave me a gift. I was feeling all sorts of pressure for calling X back to tell him “No.” on the dinner thing, but not wanting to get that phone call from his present wife when she sees his phone bill all, “Why are you talking to my husband, bitch!? I saw that he called you and YOU CALLED HIM BACK!” and I’d be all, “Look, lady….” And it got ugly… in my head, and I have grown out of that drama. So Sil gave me the gift of, “You do not owe him anything. You do not have to share your life with him anymore. You are under no obligation to have dinner with him or even call him back. Sue, you don’t have to call him back At… All.”

I knew that ya’ll. I knew that. But it was so nice to hear someone say it out loud. Mister is mine. I will not share this wonderful gift that I have been given with someone like X.

And this afternoon after I filled J.Wo (of the Houston Wo’s) in on the situation she sent me this awesome email (copied and pasted for your enjoyment and for my account):

I agree and approve of your decision, Sil's advice, et al.

Good for you!!! You don't owe [X] anything!!! You do owe it to yourself to nourish the relationships that matter to you... with [Mister], your family, and your friends who are will do whatever they can to help you be the best Sue you can be (Go Army:). [X] doesn't fall into any of those categories.

[Mister] may like his personality, but [Mister] is smart enough to differentiate between the surface [X] and the crap you put up with!!!

Love you, You ROCK

Of course she used their correct names and all of that. I love my friends.

And, I love you too.

About April 2006

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

March 2006 is the previous archive.

May 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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