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July 7, 2006

Are you sure it isn't a rabbit? What about a rat?

Max: Lookit me. I am cute and cuddly and also quite a snuggler. I will love you and shed on you and make biscuits on your belly.

Self: I know buddy but your big daddy over there�

Mister: � What?

Self: Well, it goes like this Max, my little love�

Max: Oh shit. I can see where this is going. You would suck at poker� SUCK! Your face gives it all away.

Self: It won稚 be so bad my love.

Max: [releases a baleful puff of fur in response]

Self: Come on now Max, it isn稚 that bad. It is just a dog. A puppy. You値l grow to love him I promise.

Max: That痴 a pretty tall order there Dionne Warwick� why don稚 you tell it to your Psychic Friends Network.

Self: Oh. My. God. You are not even old enough to make references to some cheesy ass 1980痴 soothsayer.

Max: Soothsayer? SOOTHSAYER? Did you really just say soothsayer? And I am too old enough� and for your information Miss Traitor, I can watch VH1痴 I Love the 80痴 just as well as anyone.

Self: This is not about your VH1 addiction and we both know it. If you would just meet him�

Max: A dog. You brought a DOG into this house and you want me to be all cordial and shit?

Self: That would be nice. Yes.

Max: [sighs and turns his back]

Self: Look, you are going to have to meet him sooner or later.

Max: Do you not love me anymore?

Self: Oh honey, it isn稚 like we are trying to replace you. You are still our baby and always will be. No matter what you do, we will always love you and provide a home for you and brush you and give you nose rubs and you can head-butt us and make daddy sneeze�

Max: Is this about the ass-ing incident?

Self: N---

Max: Or because of my breath?

Self: N---

Max: Or because of my girlfriend?

Self: Boo, the ass-ing thing was an accident. You had no clue the lawn guy was going to start the leaf blower right next to the window when you were sitting on the back of the couch. And that stuff came out of the fabric anyways. And the breath? Uh, we-� no baby, your breath is fine. [gag] And last but not least honey� your girlfriend? Is a large, black leather tote. You have great taste in purses my little furry one, but in women? Not so much.

Max: So, where is this new member of the family? If I have to meet him, I have to meet him. Just expect to give me lots of brush time, attention out the ass (sorry, no pun intended) and treats. Lots of treats. Screw this Science Diet Prescription shit. Bring on the bacon!

Self: Mister? Would you bring the puppy over to meet Max?

Mister: Oh� sure�

Mister walks over and hands me the puppy.

Galen: So, you are the resident cat around here huh? Hmmm� may I taste your tail?

Max: What the fuck is that?

Self: Max, this is Galen, Galen this is Max. Galen, please stop trying to eat Max痴 tail. And Max? Watch your mouth young man.

Max: Is that a rabbit?

Self: No, Galen is a puppy. A baby dog. You have met dogs before.

Max: Are you sure it isn稚 a rabbit? What about a rat?

Self: Galen is not a rat.

Max: Can I eat him?

Self: No sir, you may not eat him. He is a puppy, he may just be two pounds of cuteness, but he is a puppy, not a snack.

Mister: This isn稚 going well is it?

I would like to report that Mister finally got the puppy he has wanted for years. Little Galen is a healthy, happy eight-week-old puppy that already has the basics of housetraining down after just a week in the SuzannaDanna household. Not one accident [knock on wood].

Max, however, is still not pleased.


July 13, 2006

I Got My Hair Did.

Something I read today that I am sure my grandmothers or my mother has told me at least a dozen times before: If you can’t be kind, at least have the decency to be vague.

I got my her did yesterday.

Ya’see. Here is the deal. Ya’ll know. Ya’ll KNOW that I have issues with my hair. Just last November and December I cut off over half a foot of hair. I have cut my bangs. I have let them grow. Ya’ll? I have been everything from highlighted to black cherry brunette. I have been copper penny and I have been au’ natural. But I haven’t done one solitary thing to my hair since the strawberry blonde debacle of 2002.

Let’s go back for a moment shall we?

I was all about changing things during that time in my life, this also happened to be during a time when I was trying new things too. I was turning thirty in May, so I was trying to get healthy and I was trying to lose weight. The healthy and trying to lose weight were both pretty constant. The new things that I tried were… whoring dating around. I trying to drink vodka more than beer. And trying to eat sushi at least once a week. I also tried to tan.

Tan? Yes, tan. As in placing my naked flesh inside of a fluorescent coffin and baking my skin to a crispy brown.

I also tried to live in a one bedroom one bath apartment with a seven foot tall junkie that was de-toxing and very cranky.

A month or two before the junkie arrived I wanted a change. That change was my hair. I figured that it shines auburn/red in the sun… maybe I should just kick it up a notch. And while I was asking my stylist, “What do you think?” and he was all, “OOOhhhhh… a drastic change, how FUN!... Let’s add some highlights too! It will look fabuloussssssssssssssssssss!” I was still trying to picture myself as a tan (HA HA ha..ha… oh, me… that was funny.), freckled, sunny strawberry blonde with highlights.

Fun! Freeing! Yay, change!

I also decided to try a Brazilian wax.

So, you hear me… right? What I am saying is that not all of my fun, freeing, life and looks changes were all that fantastic of ideas.

Just so we are on the same page, let’s just review.

I am Irish. I am so white I am blue. I freckle easily and sunburn even easier. I was tanning myself at a local tanning salon in hopes of looking fun, fresh, just from the beach tan! Those hopes were dashed and replaced with the reality of bulb burns in the tale tale signs of red stripes from the top of my shoulders to the heels of my feet. Mmmmm sexy! Either I was trying to tan and failing miserably or… OR… I had a yet as unheard of rash that develops in vertical lines on the ass of its victims.

So on top of all of this loveliness, I decided to go strawberry blonde… with… highlights.

Hi… guess who failed the “You are an Autumn, a Winter, a Summer or a Fall” color charting class?

Sunburned… in stripes no less, with reddish blonde hair and highlights.

The evening before the junkie showed up on my door step I went to tan. I got home after a long day and took a shower. I looked at myself in the mirror when I got out of the shower and found a very red person staring back at me. My skin was red from the heat of the shower, I had red stripes from the tanning bed, my hair was reddish… and I was prune-y.

“This will not do pig.” I said to myself in the mirror. And then promptly called my girlfriend Kate to wail about the injustice of being pale and… apparently stupid enough to go strawberry blonde. “The last time Neal saw me? I was my natural dark headed self, I had on a hat, boots, jeans, I looked fabulous and I was twenty pounds lighter. Now? I have red hair, stripe-y red skin and my ass is HUGE!”

She promptly came over and brought with her a solution. Self tanning cream. “It will even out the red stripes and make you a more normal brown color… not so… reddish.”

We spread a sheet out in the middle of the living room, got naked and slathered ourselves in self tanner. We laughed and joked and smoked. When the lotion had dried a bit I could see a faint brownish glow on my freckled and red skin. I was so excited that I asked Kate to put another coat on my back, butt and legs while I did my front.

By the time she left I was so happy that I would be all brown and healthy looking for when Neal showed up. The house was clean. I was tan. The tan was making my strawberry blonde tresses shine… in a good way. All was good with the world. (Except for the size of my ass.) I knew that I had to get up early because Neal was coming by noon and I had to leave the lotion on for at least twelve hours.

I walked Kate to the door. She left and I turned around and went to pick up the sheet that we had put on the floor to protect the carpet from the self tanning lotion. I noticed something and turned on a light over my desk to get a better look.

Orange footprints.

Oh shit.

Either Chester Cheetah was traipsing around in my apartment or the tanning lotion was fighting back.

I decided that I was freaking out a bit and I just needed to trust that I would be a healthy brown in the morning. I went to sleep and woke up at someone pounding at my door.

I sat up and groggily looked at the clock. Six fucking a.m. in the morning? I threw on a t-shirt and shorts and went to peep through the fish-eye lens in the door.

Oh GOD. It was Neal.

I yelled, “Inna minute!” and checked over my desk at the mirror I had mounted on the wall. Facing back at me was a curly mass of red hair (with highlights) falling out of a messy ponytail, smudged mascara only under one eye, splotchy skin rotating colors between orange and red and the stripes from the tanning bed still clearly visible on the fronts of my legs all the way to my toes (which were also orange).

He pounded on the door again.

I shrugged at myself in the mirror and went to greet him. I pulled open the door and smiled at him sweetly hoping that he was too tired from his cross country drive to notice the fresh pile of hell standing before him.

All he said?

“I thought your hair was black.”

So, you guys can imagine the fear I have with changing skin color, hair color… hell even pant color (shhh… I own six pairs of black pants, someone call Stacey and Clinton!). I haven’t been tanning since I burned myself into Saharrahhhhh, the red zebra queen. I haven’t messed with my hair since the strawberry blonde (with highlights) grew out and I haven’t done much of anything drastic other than getting a proper stylist last year and cutting off that 6+ inched of fro hair at the bottom edges of my tresses.

A few months ago my stylist said to me, “You aren’t a mousy woman. Your hair color is mousy. We need to warm it up a bit.” At the mention of ‘warm’ I broke out in a sweat and recounted to her my many forays into the world of hair color and how well they worked for me. When she got off the floor from laughing at me being a strawberry blonde and even worse, having hair so dark it was called black cherry… she said, “No, no no…. I would never do that to you. I would just like to go one shade darker, all over color to give it some shine and warmth.”

It took her almost four months to talk me into it but she finally succeeded. Last night she colored my hair and trimmed my bangs (which are now around the vicinity of my mouth/chin) and gave my hair a beautiful blow out. Ya’ll? It is gorgeous. It is shiny and healthy and if I didn’t say anything, no one would ever know that it is colored. It just doesn’t look mousy anymore.

Finally. Good hair.

I will take pictures soon enough.

July 24, 2006

All I found was some lame ass "note" in my Outlook called IDEAS.

I’ve been away ya’ll. I have neglected to send you love notes to tell you how pretty your hair is, that you are seriously rocking those jeans and that I really like how your homemade guacamole is all cilantro-y. But I do. I really do.

Ya’ll know this is my busy season and I… no baby, don’t be like that. I don’t want to neglect you. I just haven’t had time to sit down and write you a little love note. But this morning? I did just that.

Roses are red.
I love Blunt Man and Chronic
I would also prefer olives,
In my monster Gin and Tonic.

No, I haven’t seen Clerks II yet. Have ya’ll? No, wait. Don’t tell me. I would rather see for myself if they actually get away with a donkey show on my own. Or rather, I would like to see… well, just all of it. Don’t tell me… really. Don’t tell me if it sucks ass and you would beat Kevin Smith with a 4x6 to get the $7.50 you paid on the movie ticket. I love me some Kevin Smith, don’t be hatin.

Also. I love Kevin James.

Coincidence? I think not.

So I was looking through some notes that are hidden away in my computer trying to find the little slices of heaven that I call journal entry ideas. I put them somewhere while I was busy for the past month or so and even when I was out of the office I would open my trusty blackberry and add them to a task list called “Write about this.” Clever, no?

Well, no apparently not because I can’t find the folder. All I found was some lame ass “note” in my Outlook called IDEAS. I will post the gems of literary genius for you now. No, no… don’t all rush in at once to steal these jewels of brilliance to write an entry of your own.

IDEAS
1) DJ and Evan opening a Smoothie King... Power added to the Starbucks
2) The Last Unicorn / The Last Dragon ... first boy movie, first kiss movie... The Cook, The Thief, His Wife and Her Lover... fork in the cheek... use of color.
3) eyelashes used to fall out
4)
5) you already know what you are going to do in your heart... the worst part is how to tell the rest of the world.
6) "And now, for theatrical purposes, we'll let the moron play with the gun!"

Uhm… yeah. I am not sure where number four went but it must have been about the dream I had where I was in a contest because I was marrying Christopher Titus. Or when I was convinced that my ex brother in law was dead.

I called Debra Jean, “Is he dead!?” “What the fuck are you talking about?” “Little G… Is. He. Dead?” “No you freak. Did you have one of your dreams?” “[sheepishly… yeah.”

But.. BUT!!!! A day or two later she called, “This is your ex sister in law….” “Um, why are you calling yourself that?” “He’s having another baby.” “Lord.”

So… death? I wasn’t on the mark. But I knew something was afoot at the Circle K, by God.

I’m not going out of town for a while so I will post more as I get caught up on my shit.

Much love and little baby peas.

July 25, 2006

There... Instant Dial Up Access

Last night as Mister and I were eating dinner my cell phone rang. I hopped up to answer it because I thought it may be something important like Ed McMahon calling to give me buckets of money and to tell me that I am pretty. (Question: He’s not dead is he?) But when I got to my phone the number on the display was a 936 area code number.

I froze.

Did ya’ll know that Nacogdoches is a 936 area code? I know precisely two people who would call me from a 936 area code that I would be happy to speak to and they are married. To each other. (Confidential note to Jay and Brenna: I’m talking about ya’ll.) I know approximately eleventy people who would call me from a 936 area code that I would choose not to speak to if I had the choice. But for some reason, I pushed the answer button.

On the other line was a perky young thing that was calling from my Alumni Association and wanted $200.00 from me.

Honestly? I was sort of relieved.

As I hung up the phone (after laughing heartily at the Alumni Association girl for thinking that anyone who graduate from our college would have an extra $200.00 to donate to the collegiate programs) one thought occurred to me.

I am afraid of 936. I used to be afraid of 409 (not the cleaner) as it used to be Nac’s area code as well.

It was so amazing how much I loved the place when I was in school there and how I came to fear it as soon as I got out.

Little side story. I was talking to Stacey yesterday afternoon on the way home. That is the time of day I do my catching up.

If you want me to call you it will most likely be between 5:45 and 6:45 p.m…. Send me your number and we’ll chat.

Anyway, I was talking to Stace and she mentioned that she turned off her Comcast (cable) account and was waiting to get her Verizon account.

The very thing that popped into my head when she said that was a voice saying, “I can get cable in any room in my house, all we gotta do is runna phone line unner the house.”

Let’s go back about oh, ten years shall we? I was living in a 1976 Redman double wide trailer. There was one phone outlet in the house. The phone outlet was in the kitchen above the dishwasher. Handy? Sure. But to get satellite television to the living room an extremely long phone cord was run up the wall, along the ceiling, stapled in several places (and painted white to camouflage it from standing out from the white painted ceiling) and then run down the length of the doorframe into another room… it was then run around the periphery of the room, shoved under the carpet and plugged into the satellite box on top of the television.

When we got dial up access a year or so later I figured that my then husband would do the same trick to get the wire to the “office”.

Nope.

He attached a splitter to the phone cord that was hooked to the cable box and ran the wire out the window. He peeled off two sections of aluminum siding/skirting that went around the trailer and unpacked a 50-foot phone cord. I watched in abject horror and slight amusement as he got his bow and an arrow, tied the phone cord to the arrow and shot under the house in the direction that he was setting up the “office”.

After a few tries and several lost arrows and many uses of the word fuck, he made the shot he was looking for. He went around the house, untied the phone cord, threw it through the “office” window and then slid the window shut.

“There” he said… puffing up with pride…, “Instant dial up access.”

I SO wish I was kidding.

July 27, 2006

Five Random Things and Something About Eating Hotdogs

Ok…
First thing’s first.

I finally took a picture of my hair. Well, my hair with me attached.

There was some technical difficulties including (but not limited to):
1) crappy camera belonging to my office
2) with a flash I look positively blue… well, lavender really
3) it is tough to get your hair color to come out correctly on film when you are photographing yourself at arms’ length (member T-Rex arms?) under florescent lighting and last but not least
4) making sure my scorching hotness comes across correctly as more of a “My GOD woman, you are absolutely breath takingly foxy!” as opposed to a Paula Jones post nose job who is about to sneeze vibe.

picture removed

Second thing is second.

The picture will only be up for a short while due to my uncanny ability to find all the crazy on the innernet and date them pre-Mister.

Third thing is third… but really should be the first.

Stacey and I are going to happy hour tonight. A real honest-to-God happy hour with booze and cigarettes and $3 shrimp ka-bobs. Thank you Jesus for letting me live in America (land of the free home of the Whopper) where I can drink and smoke and show my ankles if I damn well want to wear capri’s on a Thursday night!

Thing the fourth.

I took Galen to the vet on Friday. He has gained a whopping セ pound in the past three weeks.

The vet was calling him “Whistle Britches” and he was sitting for everyone in the office and generally being very charming and precious. The vet would give him a vitamin and say, “Sit.” And he would sit.

The vet tech was all, “Can you sit for me big boy?” And Galen would plop his little bottom down and then cock his head. One ear would be all floppy and one ear would stand up and the vet tech actually melted into his tennis shoes because of all the cuteness that Galen was throwing at him.

If I could bottle the cuteness (and also the bite-y-ness and the puppy breath) I would be a contestant for world domination.

Thing the fifth.

Saying (typing) the word “contestant” totally makes me think of that Budweiser commercial on the radio for the Real Men of Genius, we salute you Mr. Hot Dog Eating Contest Contestant. (Click on link to listen. You may need to refresh and hit the "go" button to the right of the browser adress bar.)

And… oh, yes… AND “My left arm is tingly..” is the best line EVER.*

For all of the Real Men of Genius commercials click HERE and scroll down a bit for a list.

*I sing it at inappropriate times quite often.

July 31, 2006

It can never bode well for the slutty one.

Hi. I love Kevin Smith.

Yes, and I love you too… but we’ll get to you in a moment.

First…

If ya’ll haven’t gone to see Clerks II… may I say?... “Holy shit, what the hell is wrong with you? Hie thee on to a movie theater, STAT motherfucker!” (Sorry for calling you a motherfucker, I am channeling Jay.)

It? Was so awesome that Mister and I went home and like View Askew dorks we are we watched the first one in its entirety.

And now I would like to give a shout out to my girlfriend Amy and her husband Adam from Mythbusters Wes for giving me the dvds (psst, the dvds are SO much better than the VHS tapes) of all View Askew movies several years ago for my 30th birthday (?...was it for my birthday Ames?). Ya’ll rock!

Ya’ll know the part in the first one where Dante and Veronica were sitting behind the counter? He was painting her nails and he was extolling the talent it takes for a man to bring a woman to orgasm.

Note: Warning. Seriously, if you are under eighteen and this site has not been banned from your computer (hopefully by your parents) for the copious amounts of talk on these pages about boobies, humping James van der Beek or naked horseback riding. Stop reading now. Really. Come and see me when you have at least one divorce under your belt and you have a little bit of bitterness in your bones to age you to perfection.

(Back to our regularly scheduled TMI.)

Veronica is all, “Oh, I am so glad you think of women so highly.” And Dante is all, “Women just have to be there… (totally paraphrasing)… Men just need to stick it in, somewhere preferably moist, thrust and repeat.”

Then they get on that discussion of, “How many women/men have you slept with?” Him? Twelve… which for some reason makes him a pig. Her? Three… but then the information comes out that she’s gone down on a few guys. “How many?” “Thirty-seven.”

“THIRTY-SEVEN!?!??!!?!?”

A customer comes to the register…

Dante “I just found out my girlfriend sucked 37 dicks!”
Customer “In a row?.....”

This is the part in the show where smart people shut the hell up and do not even give their significant others/spouses/partners/pets a sideways glance… or even an appraising one. But ya’ll? It always turns into, “So… how about you?... How many?”

Do not answer. For the love of Pete… (or Pete’s brother, RePete…. HEE!) do not say anything. Now would be a good time to:
a) tie or untie and retie your shoe,
b) cough and make a hasty retreat into the restroom and blow your nose,
c) ask, “Baby, would you like another beer/bag of Cheetos™/lap dance/slice of beef brisket?"
Or d) scream “BEEEEEEES!” and run around the room flapping your arms wildly as if to warm off an attack from a swarm of Africanized Killer Bees.

Here’s the thing ya’ll. The answer, if it is numerical (could it be any other way? “Niner mambo banana patch.”), can never be a good one. If you answer, “Honey, you are and have been my one and only love. I have saved my flower for youuuuuu!” Then your lover/partner/significant other/chef will think that you are one step and a bucket of blood away from being Carrie. But if you are all, “Fuck… I’m surprised my shit ain’t worn out from all the use it’s gotten in the past 15 days/weeks/months/years.” Then your true love will douse you will Lysol, boil his or her privates and then run screaming from the house… directly to a free clinic to get checked for Ebola.

After school special moment (for free): Please make sure that you use a condom, dental damn and any other sort of safe sex protection when engaged in being slutty, get tested regularly for all things from AIDS to chicken pox and practice general hygiene ya’ll. Seriously. Brush your teeth and do NOT expect anyone to kiss you when you have a dip in.

Annnnd…. We’re back.

Where was I?

Ah, yes. How Many?

You went through this oh so special moment of, “Good Lord, if I can not remember the name of that one guy!” with me a few months ago. I now know his name… (thanks Stacey) so my moment of total skank who knew not the name of her fair (brief) love was short. But the other night while watching Clerks? Yeah, we did it. We went there.

Mister: So, uh… how many?
self: Um… how many… Oh… uh…
Mister: Anywhere near thirty-seven?
self: In a row?
Mister: Heh… no… never mind.
self: How about you?
Mister: How many dicks have I sucked?
self: …. [blink]
Mister: None.
self: Wow… this has suddenly become very uncomfortable.

Ya’ll. Seriously, ya’ll. Even when you are totally comfortable with your spouse/lover/significant other/chef/hairdresser/pet/plumber… do not, Do NOT get into this conversation.

It can never bode well for the slutty one.

This is where ya’ll come in. Tell me about (no, you don’t have to go into detail about your past per se) your weirdest, “How many?...” conversation you have ever had. I wanna know because I am a sick and twisted puppy. Extra points goes for the person who when recounting their tales of, “Well… I was very experimental in college…” or whatever actually included the words, “Yeah, I slept with your brother/sister/rabbi/mother/father/grandparent(ew… but also, no kidding?)”

About July 2006

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

June 2006 is the previous archive.

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