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September 1, 2006

Pros & Cons 9-1-06

Sometimes I just wish I could be ten again. Sometimes I wish I could just come home from elementary school, drop my book bag on the green, red, gold and orange shag carpeting and then haul ass out the back door. From the back door I would then bound down the steps of the porch two at a time, pausing only to watch a green lizard scurry underneath the board of the railing. I would turn left and head directly into the woods, into the lush green bushes and pine straw slickness of the ground under the trees.

Times like today… actually, times like this week.

Let’s do a list of pros and cons, deal? Ya’ll post yours too and I’ll link to them.

I cleared the air with the IT lady who was hateful to me Monday. Around noon yesterday Wednesday I asked to speak to her in the hallway and I told her that I thought what she said was shitty, she hemmed and hawed and apologized profusely.

The puppy peed on the carpet yesterday Wednesday morning. I stumbled out of bed when he started his, “Leeeet meeeee ouuuuuuut!” whine at about the ass crack of dawn. I let him out of his kennel and while I was fumbling with the door lock to the back door, Galen looked up at me with those sweet brown eyes and promptly relieved himself on the carpet.
Then Mister and I got into a spat because he told me that there can not be any lag time when I am letting the puppy out in the mornings. Lag time. Laaaaaggggg TIME. I was all, “It’s your damn dog, then YOU let him out if you don’t want any dangblasted lag time.” [on the inside] and pouty [on the outside].

Then we made up.

Two weekends ago I had to get the hoopty inspected and get her oil changed. It was a frillion dollars and they laughed at me and my faded maroon (now purple) car. They changed the oil and then decided to make sure I knew they meant business when they charged me twelve dollars for a new gas cap.
The old gas cap had one of those little leashes that let it just hang there while you were filling up, the new one? Not so much. I am convinced that I am going to lose the world’s most expensive gas cap.

The gas cap, because it seals properly now gives me better gas mileage.

The hoopty also passed inspection.

She has started to make a death rattle noises at drive through windows and stop lights.

It is cooling down. You know it has been hot when you think that 96 degrees (35.5 Celsius) is actually quite pleasant.

I charged my old ass phone all night Wednesday night… as I do most nights... and this morning Thursday morning she went into “WARNING, I am going to die soon” mode when I went to check my voicemail.
I called Mister and told him about it. It came as no surprise as I have been making an “I need a new battery for my phone” racket for about three months. He asked me to go pick out a new phone at lunch yesterday.

I actually love my old ass phone and just wanted to go see if they still had batteries for the hand crank models of the 1920’s.

No go on the battery for the old phone.

The lady said that I qualified for a new phone that was only $30.00 plus tax because I have been a Sprint customer since God was in short pants. I was all, “Sweet.” And then, “But I love my phone.” And then, “Well, this one is pink, how cool is that? Sign me up.”

When she signed me up and ran my credit card for the $30.00 plus tax… that was totally a mail in rebate (score!)… she called in to verify the new phone information with the Sprint Wizard of Oz or whoever that person is on the phone. Actually, this guy’s name was Jason and then she handed me the store’s phone.
Jason: So, you are switching phones.
self: Yes sir.
Jason: Ok, so let me just verify the information that FHuckanomHMCOhhhsahnnn gave me.
self: Alrighty, shoot. [Watching FHuckanomHMCOhhhsahnnn – or whatever her name was – enter my information into the computer.]
Jason: And… you’re contract has been renewed for another two years.
self: Wait, what?
Jason: Then you will just have to pay for the phone outright.
self: [Tried calling Mister, several times… and then ended up crying.]

I have a BlackBerry. With the BlackBerry, I have a BlackBerry messenger. It is awesome. With this BlackBerry messenger I sent Mister a message, “Next time? You handle the phone thing.” Because ya’ll? I am like a kept woman or something. A kept woman who does dishes and laundry and cooks, but a kept woman nonetheless. The last time? When the first awesome phone was purchased? Guess who handled the details? You are right. Mister. I am not a good handler of services when it comes to things involving contracts and minutes and overages and phone details. Give me a hotel contract any day.

Mister was all, “We are returning that phone. And they are going to cancel that contract. I know this because I am Mister, born of thunder and haver of really great thighs.” He went on to say, “They should have disclosed to you, before the transaction was made, that the two year contract would be renewed and that is why you were getting the discount… as a consumer….” I blanked out at that point because I probably saw something shiny and knew that he was going to take care of it anyways… why should I bother my pretty little head with the details? See? Kept woman. But… I knew that this contract cancellation and phone return was going to take a frillion years ya’ll. I knew.

I called FHuckanomHMCOhhhsahnnn to let her know that we were coming back to her store to return the phone and cancel the contract. She was all, “That is totally fine.”

We showed up at 5:50 to her store. FHuckanomHMCOhhhsahnnn was nowhere to be found. And? AND… she was new. Apparently she also totally lied to me. Returning the phone was no big deal… but canceling the contract? That was going to require a blood sacrifice, a trip to British Columbia and a vat of ceviche.
Mister got on the phone with the Sprint Wizard of Oz facility and tried to talk to someone reasonably calm. No dice. He asked to be transferred to a manager, was on hold for 50 minutes, the peon picked up and said, “I am transferring you now”, and then promptly hung up on him.


But… also? Boo.

Mister got the contract cancelled, the phone returned and the credit restored for the $30.00 plus tax. Then he asked for proof that the contract had been cancelled.

We then got on a plane for British Columbia with our vat of freshly made ceviche and also vials of our own blood for the sacrifice.

Just kidding.

Mister never got his proof. And by the time we left it was almost 7:20 p.m…. no big deal to us… but to a little furry badger with sharp teeth and a bladder the size of a dime? Big deal. BIG BIG deal. Ya’ll, Galen not only peed on the floor the morning before, but last night he peed all of his bedding in his kennel and then when I replaced his linens and toys (the others to be burned and or washed during the night) he promptly urinated on the replacement pillow.

I can burn or wash that pillow too.

When does it end?

I think I am going to go make some mosticalli and have a drink. And also? Long weekend. Happy Labor Day Ya’ll!

And a shout out and a PS to my girlfriends in Chicago this weekend staying at Sesil’s house. I love ya’ll and will miss being there with you. Have a great weekend and Happy Birthday Sammie!!!!!!!!!!!

September 8, 2006

Who wants Stormy?

In lieu of a coherent entry or even something that resembles higher brain function I give thee… A photo essay titled, “I am a small, furry badger.”

Here we have one of the very first pictures we have of Galen. He was born on May 19th of this year so the “breeder” probably gave him to us WAY to early. And. We didn’t do the math. This one was taken on 7/5/06… he was approximately 6 weeks and 2 days, a mere baby.

In this picture he is a furry little bundle of love and fluffy, shedding fur. But he loved to snuggle and sort of hummed when he was chewing on your finger or a toy.

This next picture is of our little boy at eleven weeks. Notice please that he is still very lovable looking but that Mister is firmly holding Galen away from his face… so Galen would not chew it off.

Did I mention that Mister picked out the name Galen because it means “Calm”? Ha ha ha ha ha ha!!!! Oh, me… that is some funny shit right there.

The next two pictures are of Galen this past Monday. He is sixteen weeks today. My, how time has slowed to a debilitating crawl… er. I mean … my, how time has flown. Merely a few scant weeks have followed us bringing the baby home… when it really seems like a lifetime.

But look at this face.

The chewing. And the destruction of the carpet and the gnawing of the baseboards. Lord. It is enough to make me lose my mind.

Did I mention that one evening after a bout of peeing on his bedding because we “moved Galen’s cheese” Mister said, “Where is the ROI?” “The ROI? On a fucking DOG?! Seriously?” “Yes, seriously.” “Well, at least now we know that we couldn’t EVER handle a baby.”

But did I also mention… Look. At. This. Face.???

Good Lord. The cuteness. It is killing me. But, you should see my cuticles. And? How Max loves him.

Also, I am cheating.

Yes, I freely admit it.

I am cheating on Elvira.

Here’s is how the affair started. My director goes on trips with her girlfriends to New York and they buy fake purses in Chinatown like it is their job. Power shoppers. And she asked me if I would like her to bring back anything for me. A Prada? No, thank you. A Coach? Hmmm…

And since I have been lusting after only two other purses my whole adult life (the brown horse bit Gucci hobo and the signature patchwork tote from Coach – from last season) I asked her if she would keep an eye out for any passable replicas. She asked me my limit and since I am a cheap ass I told her, $50.00. I figured that I would rather just save up anything more than that and buy the real thing when I could.

Or spend that money on massages. Good ones.

Otherwise, Elvira is in great condition… especially after I have been carrying her every freaking day for the past two years. Well, it will be two years on the 26th of this month. That is her birthday.

Shut up.

So my director comes back to town and she was so freaking happy… giddy almost… about the purses she bought. She pulled the one she got me from its little sleeping bag (dust bag… whatever) and I almost recoiled in terror.

It cost her $50.00 and she was so happy ya’ll. It about broke my poor little miserly heart that she was so happy and proud of herself… and also that I was about to fork over half a c-note for this ugly thing.

But I did it. And then ate crow when I took it home.

My boss walked by my desk the next day and said, “So… are you going to name that one?” And when he said “that” he pointed at the fake purse like he was accusing her of stealing or wearing a padded bra. I shrugged and asked him what he suggested since she was a filthy fakey whore of a purse. “What are some good stripper names?” I asked him. “Well, she does look sort of bipolar with all of those different patches of fake Coach material glued all over her. How about… Stormy.”

And Stormy she became.

The next week my boss and I were in San Antonio working and we had a few hours one evening so he, another power shopper, said, “Let’s go to Dillard’s’ to see if they have those shoes I wanted.” I, being ever agreeable, said, “Ok.” And off we went.

We walked into the store and he stopped at this display and said, “You really should get this purse. And get rid of that other one.” He held up a beautiful brown purse with a great shape. When he said “other one” he wrinkled his nose to show his immense distaste for the counterfeit that Stormy is. I looked at the brown one… and then for some reason, I sniffed her. Then I put her on my shoulder to see how she felt there.

Stormy feels like I am carrying an underarm goiter. Very unwieldy and uncomfortable. The brown purse felt like nothing. She fit perfectly and hung like I would imagine a set of testicles would. (Not really sure why I just likened the brown purse to testicles… but go with it… and let’s move on.)

I said, “I’ll just carry her around to see how it goes while we’re looking for your shoes.”

My boss gave me a knowing “Pfffft.” and we headed off to look at stuff for him.

Of course I got her.

She is wonderful and I have been complimented on her by so many different people. Just yesterday she was complimented by two dental hygienists and a pizza boy. No shit.

So ya’ll. I offer you a picture of Chelsea. Isn’t she pretty?

Who wants Stormy?

September 12, 2006

It's 2:30 p.m. and I haven't vomited yet.

Ya’ll? I do not have the sense that God gave a box of hair.

Let’s look at my day in slo-mo, shall we?

Get up early, shower, dress, make up, hair… blah blah blah.

Take the dog out approximately eighteen (ok, three) times before I leave for work.

Grab a muffin for breakfast and a salad from Wendy’s out of the refrigerator to take to the office for lunch.

Stop by my chiropractors office twice in as many days to get an adjustment… cry during adjustment… feel like an idiot… take the handfuls of bio freeze and promise to come back tomorrow.

Get to the office… eat a muffin, turn in a project and then work, work, work.

I can barely turn my head in either direction. I feel like Joan Cusak as Geek Girl #1 in Sixteen Candles… just without the retainer, headgear and back brace. A scene that is burned into my memory is of her trying to get a drink of water from the water fountain without being able to bend at the waist or move her neck. Hi. That is me today, just without accessories.

Work, work , work some more. Go into the kitchen at lunch to retrieve salad from refrigerator. Hmmm… when did I buy this salad? Open salad. Look questioningly at salad enough that manager from another department offers to smell my salad for me.

I let her.

Smells ok, good even. Put dressing and various crunchy bits on salad.


Clean up desk and throw all trash into Wendy’s bag before throwing it in the trash.

Find receipt.

Receipt says 9/6/06.

Oh. My. God.

Send text message to Mister saying the following: “Hi, my name is Susan, I have Botulism and Salmonella.”

Now, ya’ll. I am sure, SURE that Wendy’s uses enough preservatives in their food to keep Joan Collins looking fresh as a daisy… but DAMN. Six days, SIX(!).

This does not bode well for my Mensa application.

September 14, 2006

I was finishing up college and needed an elective course for one of my semesters.

Let’s all breathe a collective sigh of relief. I haven’t told you guys what is going on because… well, frankly, I didn’t know how to express what I was feeling. Also, I didn’t want to put this in writing until I knew that she was ok.

Ok, I just wrote then promptly deleted like six paragraphs of stuff. The long and the short of it is; Stacey went into the hospital on Saturday. The doctors were worried that she had either bacterial or viral meningitis. She was put into isolation for three days and just got out yesterday.

The tests (spinal tap (!!! And also… EEEEEE!) ect.) are conclusive, it was viral. She is drained and still in a bit of pain but when I went to into see her either Sunday or Monday* (I think it was on Monday) she was still coherent enough to say, “Hey. Where is Elvira?”

Hee! But also, Awwwww.

*I got to wear a mask and scrub in each time I went. I totally was looking for a hazmat suit, but no one rocks the yellow hazmat and big silver hat thing like Renee Russo in Outbreak.

So yes, I have been praying and calling and calling and praying and Stacey, she is the toughest woman I know. And I love her.

Admit it, ya’ll love her too.

Ok, now, on the lighter side of things (I have 15 minutes to write this and then I have to leave… I am never gonna make it… and? I have to pee.) (Damn. Ten minutes.)

I would like to tell ya’ll a little story about a man. A man whose glasses were so thick he could see the future. A man with tee-tiny little chicken legs and a big fu-manchu mustache. A man… a myth… a legend. Seth.

(Next day… picking up where I left off.)

Seth was a permanent fixture in our college lives. We went dancing almost five nights a week and there he would be. He was always around. I could always see him out of the corner of my eye. He was bowlegged and he hardly ever took his hands out of his pockets. Well, they really weren’t his whole hands, just more of both thumbs hooked into the front pocket of his jeans, as if any moment you would be witness to finger guns or a point and a wink.

Seth was a slight, thin man with a dour expression a massive black felt hat that he wore regardless of the season or occasion and a distinctive heel first walk. Sort of like he was doing the first part of the Cotton-Eyed-Joe dance with every step.

He had a slight lisp and would spit a little when he asked, “Wanna dansh?” The spittle would form in the corners of his mouth or get caught in the hairs of his overgrown porn-stache.

He and Lee (Lee, also known as Tatanka) started giving free dance lessons to whoever would show up to the bar at on Wednesdays at 6pm. The dance class lasted an hour and they would give instructions on how to do the electric slide, the hustle (hi, these are basically the same thing… GET MORE MATERIAL) or (heh) the Cotton Eye’d Joe. Sometimes they would break out of the line dance symposium and try to teach some of the people to waltz or polka.

Most of the time, no one showed up so Lee and Seth would end up dancing in an empty bar with Brooks and Dunn’s “Neon Moon” playing in the background. The music would echo slightly because the place was deserted.

Seth had rhythm. I am not sure if he had music or could ask for anything more… but he did have rhythm, and once in a while he would run through the ranks of all the women in the bar trying to get one of them to dance to his favorite jam.

I would dance with Seth when he started to look frightened that the song would end and no body, not even Lee would dance with him.

Sorta sad.

Anyway, I was finishing up college and needed an elective course for one of my semesters. I picked welding.

Ok, I’ll stop right here for a minute to let the laughter die down.

Let’s ease you into this sorta slow. I. Took. A. Welding. Class.

Can you guess who the teacher’s assistant was? You guessed it in one (stop screaming at your monitor Trix.). That’s right. Seth. He of the glorious flannel/plaid shirts and a woven belt that he could tuck into the left pocket of his jeans. Yes, Seth. He was so skinny that the belt just about wrapped around his waist twice. He was to be my personal assistant during this time of learning about… uh… welding.

I learned a bunch in that class. It wasn’t at all like Jennifer Beals depicted it in Flashdance. That whore. It was mig, tig, arc, stick and learning to lay a nice bead when the weld site was above my head. Ya’ll. There was math involved.

There was also an Oxy-Acetylene torch that I made my bitch. I was the best cutter in the class. Including Seth.

Seth started calling me at home asking if I wanted to study.

Like I needed to study. Well, yeah, ok… I needed to study. That is not the point. Yes, math is hard. What? Yes, I failed my final. Shut up. MATH.

So around this time Trixie (Debra Jean) started leaving me messages on my home phone, “He, it’s Debra. Are ya’ll coming over for dinner tonight? Oh, and… you love Seth.” So I would call her back, “Yeah, we’re coming. Need anything, Seth Lover?” So this went on for a few months and then she let it drop… but me? Now, would I let something like that go? No, nooooo. Have any dead horses I can beat? I’m your gal. As long as it doesn’t include math.

I would stealth call her house or send her a text message via ICQ, Yahoo or whatever. “You love Seth!” “Seth and Debra sitting in a tree… K-I-S-S-I-N-G.” Yes. Very mature. I would also leave her notes around her house, her car and in her purse. She wouldn’t find them for weeks and sometimes months at a time so I took to dating the little notes, “6/8/94 – Oh, and did I mention?... You love Seth.”

So the next time you see or talk to her, remember to tell her, “You love Seth!”

Up next? Buffalos!

September 18, 2006

It was his world, I was just living in it.

Speaking of buffalo, I have a little story. What? We weren't talking about buffalo? Yessss (yeth?) we were. Weren't we?

Either way. Do ya'll remember me telling you the story of dating that very charismatic man-child in college? Let's go back a little shall we? (I can actually hear the Kerr Krew rolling their eyes. Stop it ya'll. These people want to be entertained.)

This man-child's name was Mike Gibson. Oh hells to the yes, I am going to use his real name.

I met him through a friend of a friend. Mike and his family had just moved to Texas from California and you could just tell, he wanted to be a cowboy in the worst way. He wore boots and jeans and was very handsome. But no matter how he tried... he just didn't fit the cowboy role. He had a horse, but still... no dice. How he carried himself and his cadence of speech fairly screamed cityboy.

He sauntered over to me one Wednesday night (while I was telling dirty jokes... at the bar.. in between dances... with my friends (mainly guys)) and asked me out. I nodded and asked him when. He said, "Saturday night." And walked off smiling.

By the time Saturday had rolled around Mike had called me and backed out on our date. I gave him a verbal shrug with the patented, "Whatever." the first time, so the second time he called I started getting pissed. "Look, Mike, if you want to go out, fine, that is totally cool, but if you don't... that is okay too. Your loss, but just do us both a favor and make up your mind so I can make other plans if you are going to back out." He countered with, "Well, I really want to take you out... it's just that I don't date women who are already taken."

"Pardon me?" I could not believe my ears. Already taken, my ass. "And just who am I supposedly taken by?" I asked him. "Troy. He told me you two were an item." "Well shit."

I called Troy and gave him a verbal lashing and asked him to go clear things up. Now that drama was part of the mix, I was intrigued.

Mike picked me up Saturday night in his black Ford F-150 extended cab (see? Poor thing wanted to be a cowboy) and took me to dinner. We enjoyed ourselves immensely and the dinner seemed to take all of 45 seconds when in all actuality it was over two and a half hours. We talked and laughed and joked and on the way to drop me off he asked if I would like to go to the park. I said sure. As soon as we pulled up to Pecan Park (FYI... They have Awesome swings there.) it started to drizzle.

I asked if he minded if I smoked. He said no, so I cracked the window. He told me, "Sue, you really shouldn't smoke you know. It is bad for you and sort of looks trashy." Little did I know, this would be the first of many "you shouldn'ts" to come from Mike. We sat in the cab of the truck for a little while; him talking and me smoking (purely out of spite) and then he got serious.

"So," I asked, "what brings you and your family to Texas... and how in the world did you find Stephen F. Austin?"

"Well," he started, "I was going to school at Loyola Marymount. I had a full ride for voice when my parents decided to move to Texas. My brother still goes to school there, he was the one who got me the audition for the scholarship... but when my parents said that they were going to move to Houston, I wanted to come along. Our family is very close."

"Wait. What?"

"Our family is very close."

"No, no... got that part.. the other. You were at Loyola with a full ride... on a voice scholarship... and you dumped it to come to SFA?" I am sure I blinked several times. As this is how I show my disbelief. It is endearing. Shut up. It is.

"Yes, I had a scholarship to Loyola Marymount for voice. Opera."


"Here, I'll show you. I'm going to roll down the windows because it might get a little loud. Is that okay?"

And ya'll? The man rolled down the windows as I flicked my smoke onto the blacktop of the parking lot and turned towards him. He opened his mouth and the purest angelic loudest most nipple hardening baritone belted forth with Ave Maria*. A Capella.

*scroll down and play the Andrea Bocelli one.

When he was done, I whispered, "No. Fucking. Shit." It was my way of eloquently saying "Duuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuude."

We started dating from that day forward. We had the "exclusivity talk" only days past our first date and then it was on.

The happy couple.

I was loud, crass, fun, a dancing fanatic, a smoker, taller than him and had curly hair. Mike's perfect woman was everything that I was not. Small, blonde, quiet, polite (What? I was fucking polite.), was to be seen and not heard, prim, proper and had straight hair. So, I see ya'll asking yourselves, "Why in the hell were ya'll dating then?" And I? Honestly do not have an answer for you.

Although, he was hot and looked like a young Al Pacino. Oh, and I loved his dog.. Mousse. She was a chocolate lab.

Mike was not the best dancer, and ya'll know how much that meant to me. He was charismatic and could talk me into almost anything. Yes. Anything. He wanted to ride bulls or broncs (see also: time he was mad at me for riding better than he did) and would use my fear for his safety as a bargaining chip to get me to quit smoking. He would ask me to tone down my humor and my voice when talking with our friends.


And. He had a tendency to throw chairs.

Mike's mother was 100% Italian and his father was 100% Irish and.. let's just say that he had a bit of a temper.

He had me so trained that I was even embarrassed of my own family. MY FAMILY. Of course they didn't take it seriously. I can remember the evening that his folks were coming over to my parents' house for drinks and to talk about our futures. (Pardon me for a moment while I guffaw heartily.) Our futures, Puh-Leeze.

Anyway, we were all over across the street at the neighbor's house having dinner and waiting for the Gibson's to show up. Mrs. D was (and still is) a fantastic cook and a great decorator, and that evening we were having bar-b-que so Mrs. D rolled up some bandannas for us to use as napkins. As the drinks flowed and the dinner wound down the time for the Gibsons' to show was coming closer and I was watching out the window like some cocker spaniel waiting for her master to come home.

My mother, my father, my sister and the rest of the D family all decided that they were going to use their napkin/bandanna as doo-rags to meet the Gibsons. I was mortified. "Ya'll, please take those off. And for the love of all that is holy, stop throwing gang symbols. We live in SUBURBIA!... Gah! I am so embarrassed, I may throw up."

I can not even tell you how the rest of that evening went. I may have passed out from fright. I am not sure.

Back at school I was never seen by my girlfriends. "Where's Sue?" "With Mike." "Gah." "I hate that guy." "Me too." "Well, if she's happy..."

I wasn't happy ya'll. I was miserable. I was quiet for almost a YEAR. Me. Quiet. I stopped smoking, I never joked with my friends, I wasn't allowed to hang out with my guy friends unless Mike was there. I was a Stepford girlfriend.

We went out with our "couple friends". One night my friends Lisa and Cully asked us over to their apartment to have dinner and drinks. I had known Cully since he was practically a baby and Lisa for a year or two before I even met Mike.

We had dinner and were hanging out at their apartment. The tv was on and we were talking and drinking and the movie Dances with Wolves came on. Mike sat transfixed on the television screen with the intensity of a thousand fiery burning suns. Personally, I thought it was rude since we were there to visit and hang out with our friends, not to watch a movie and shush people when the dialogue was a little low.

Seriously, he shushed the host and hostess. Come ON.

I finally had enough and asked him if we could get going. He looked up at me like I was insane. He said, "I am watching this movie, Susan." He totally spoke in italics like that all the time. He had a total flair for the theatrical.

I politely pointed out that he could watch the movie later as our hosts were ready to go to bed as Cully had to get up at five in the morning. He didn't even flinch, just kept on watching the movie. So Cully, Lisa and I started talking again, he asked us to please be quiet. I said, "Mike, it is just a movie..." And he yelled back, "But it's my HERITAGE, SUE!" I blinked and then pointed out, "Mike, sweetie, you are Irish and Italian. This is about American Indians." And then I walked out the door.

I think that was the beginning of the end. He seemed like such a caricature of a person to me. Not even real. But he knew how to push my buttons. He had this whole entire thing about fighting for our relationship down pat. And we would fight, Lord, would we ever fight. I cried more then than years later when I was going through my divorce. He had this hold on me and it didn't break until one morning.

By then I was living in an apartment off campus. Lisa (of the Lisa and Cully fame) was my roommate and Mike, and his roommate Steve, lived in the same complex, just down at the south side of the building.

I woke up one morning and felt this hole where my heart should be. I felt hollow, used up and very tired. I kept saying to myself, "What am I missing?" I felt heavy and weak. "What am I missing.. why don't I feel whole?" And then it dawned on me. It was already 11 a.m. and I hadn't cried yet. I was missing that burning feeling that I would get in the back of my throat when I was trying to fight the tears.

I broke up with him that day.

I had lost myself and I knew that I had to get back to the person I once was. Happy, joking, laughing, dancing, carefree Susan. Not this jittery, nonsmoking, miserable shell of a person who hung her whole self worth on some guy... And a fucking SHORT guy at that.

The feud was bitter and long even months after we broke up. He started rumors and would drive by my apartment every time he left his just to see what I was doing, he would beg alliance from my friends to turn against me. They would look down at him and say, "Mike, please, we knew Susan first, and we like her better than we like you." It was an ugly battle, but it was worth it.

Mike kept one friend, a person that he met after we broke up. That person introduced Mike to his cousin. Her name was Fern. She was quiet, shy, timid, blonde and was normally seen and not heard. Mike talked Fern into selling all of her worldly belongings, including her grandmother's antiques, and moving out to California with him to get married. She went. I often think about Fern and wonder how she is.

September 22, 2006

My Evening with The Mary Kay Lady - And Steph.

Ok. Let’s put aside the fact that I talk about my past a lot. A. LOT. And I get all mushy when certain songs come on the radio or I catch certain scents on the air like a deer testing and tasting the wind for signs of trouble… or a mate.

Um. What the hell was that? A deer. Riiiiight.


Yes, I did liken myself to a deer smelling danger, or sex. Can we move past that? Really, move along. Let it go.

I’ve gotten boring and quite predictable since I reached 30… And, to be honest it is kind of cool. I know that today when I leave the office I will race home to let out the badger before he befouls his linens. (My, how very Victorian of me.)

Sue, it is a dog. (Where’s the ROI?... Heh.)

Right. Right, so before the furry munchkin pees in his bed or has anymore discomfort from being left in his kennel (yes, we kennel train, let the hate emails pour in) for eight hours I race home. I make a stab at something edible for dinner and usually start a load of laundry then I look at the menu from Time Warner Cable to see if anything remotely promising is on tv then I either watch tv, do more laundry or read a book.

As opposed to say, six years ago when I knew I would be at a bar with about eight four beers in my belly and a whole half a pack of smokes in my lungs before 8 o’clock in the p.m., actually contemplating going out with someone who was trying to pick me up with this line, “You have the most beautiful face, you look just like that woman on tv. What is her name? Uhm… Camryn Manheim… And… AND… I used to play for the Mavericks. Wanna go out?”

Confidential to that guy, “Fuck you douche. Just because I am fat doesn’t mean you have to say I look like the only fat actress on tv.”

Let’s look shall we?

Camryn Manheim

Photo by Steve Granitz - ゥ WireImage.com - Image courtesy of WireImage.com


The Photo that you are looking for has been deleted. Yeah. I deleted it. Remember... I bring out the crazy.

Photo by Suzanna Danna and her short ass arms. Also, picture to be removed at my whimsy. (See? I removed it at my whimsy, my whimsy happened to strike at 3:19 on 9/28/06.

Yes, yes… Camryn Manheim is very a pretty lady. But gah. When I was younger and because I have curly hair people used to say I looked like Andie MacDowell. Hello? I do not. And. AND. You did NOT play for the Mavericks, Roderick Hampton, and yes, again, I am going to use his real name. And yes… I did go out with him… Once.

What the hell was my point? Oh, yes, …Music. iPod. Herschel. Bonnie Raitt’s First Night Alone Without You. Dear Lord.

You know what? Forget that. I am not going to get all sentimental about some song. I just got off the phone with Stacey and I am feeling a bit ranty. (Can you tell that I had caffeine today? I’m all Grover-y “Heyyy YOU Guys!!!!! [arms flapping wildly]”) So we are going to go with the following:

My Evening with The Mary Kay Lady… And Steph.

Hi, ya’ll know I love make up… and jewelry and animals and … well, shoes. But make up? It is wonderful… and the products that go with make up… the lotions and serums and gels and balms… mmmm… balms. I get a little product crazy from time to time and I have been accused of being a lay down sale. This past weekend I had a good half hour conversation with a woman hosting a wonderful dinner about the best products in each price range.

So. So, a few weeks ago when I went out with the girls Kerry let it slip that, “Oh, and ya’ll? I signed you up for a pampering treatment with one of the ladies in my networking group.” And we all replied, “Yeah, ok, uh… sure.”

A few weeks (or maybe a few days) go by and I totally forget all about it, until (dum Dum DUM!) I get this long very high energy voicemail from this lady we will call JD. “Susan? Hi, it is JD. I got your number from Kerry and I wanted to call and schedule your pampering appointment. Just let me know what time is good for you and I’ll do the same and we’ll get together! Won’ it be fun!?” She went on for a while about…well, I don’t remember… but the point was, she called, she is Kerry’s friend/business associate so basically I was bound by law to call her back.

So, I did.

I called her back while I was on my way home from work. Her outgoing message was so excitable, like on the upswing if you are bipolar excitable, and at the end of the 75 second ramble it was all, “You can do anything you put your heart into…. GoooooooOOOOO Jesus! YAY!” Of course I am paraphrasing.

I’m all for a Jesus cheer now and again, so I left her my information and my number and hung up.

She called back while I was taking the dog out, fixing dinner, doing laundry, massaging your grandmother… something, so I didn’t hear the phone. When I checked the message it was another Declaration of Independence preamble of incredible length and I finally just pushed the delete button before she was through. Oh, sure… I felt bad about it. But Lord. Queen of short attention span over here. Snappy, people, snappy. Message = 1) name 2) phone number 3) maybe a reason… a SHORT reason why you called and 4) repeat of name & phone number.

No throwing stones in this glass house missy, I know I ramble on and on… paragraph after paragraph… but it is in written form. Therefore my logic is impenetrable.


Oh, yeah… GoooooooOOO! Jesus!

So JD and I finally reconnect after playing phone tag like four times and having to listen to her two minutes outgoing message each time. And NO pressing 1. That just restarts the damn thing. “HIII this is JD with Mary Kay, you can do anything… blah blah blah….. GOOOOOOOOOOOO JESUS!”

We decided on last night as the night of the pampering. Wednesday night, 7:30 p.m. Got it. I had no idea what to expect. All I knew was that she was going to do a facial or something with Mary Kay products. I’m good with that. Mary Kay makes an amazing oil free eye make up remover that is never far from my person. I’m down with MK. So when I saw an email message from Steph saying that she would be there Wednesday night as well, I was all “rock on.”

Stacey was more in the “Hell to the no, I ain’t going” party but, BUT… Kerry was supposedly coming to the little pampering make over appointment with Steph and I.

I showed up at 7:15 as I am like that. Steph showed up at 7:20… JD showed up… well, late. She ushered us into this strip mall office thing and put on some music. She told us when she scheduled the meeting on the phone and in emails (2) to remind us; that we didn’t have to worry about eating because she would have snacks available for us. I thought that was pretty nice of her.

She asked us what we would like to drink while holding a plastic pitcher with tea bags in it. I asked for water, as I am a water drinking girl and Steph said, “Ooh, yeah, water sounds good to me too. I’ll have water as well.” JD scrunched up her face and said, “REALLY?!” Like we were the craziest (and most freckled) girls she has ever encountered.

I said, “Oh, um… then I guess I’ll take some of that tea.” Knowing full well that I don’t do caffeine and that I would be vibrating like a washer out of balance before 10 p.m.. Steph agreed and said, “Sure, tea sounds fine.” And JD trotted off, calling over her shoulder, “Great, it is cold brew. It will only take a few minutes.”

When she got back she took a bowl of salad, two small containers and a bag out of the fridge, she opened the salad bowl and the containers saying, “This one is the dressing and there are some croutons as well. Stephanie, why don’t you heat up these bread sticks in the microwave?” Steph obediently did as she was told.

(Picking up from yesterday as it is now Friday… GOOOOOOOOOO Friday! Ahem, sorry. Remind me to tell ya’ll about the most uncomfortable dermatology appointment ever. I just got back to the office and let’s just put it this way. It was so disturbing… that I wrote a letter.)

I picked up three plates and JD said, “Oh, I won’t be joining you.” So I put one of the plastic plates down and asked Steph if I could serve her. She said sure so I turned to look at the salad. JD piped up, “It’s from Olive Garden.” I love Olive Garden (shut up) salad. Really. I could live off of their salad and breadsticks alone. So when I looked in the bowl of salad and noticed that most of the lettuce was turning brown around the edges I wondered if she had this shipped in from Oregon or if the Olive Garden just around the corner was trying to save it’s bottom line with using week-old lettuce.

I served Steph and I and sat down as Steph was bringing the breadsticks out of the microwave.

JD perkily announced that, “We had Olive Garden Monday, so I thought I would just save that salad and breadsticks for you ladies and serve it tonight!”

I paused, fork halfway to my face, flicked my eyes to Steph who was all, “O…kay.”

Ya’ll, seriously. Poor little withered salad. I am sure that it was old enough to still have some EColi riddled spinach in it. Whatever, I ate a few bites (it didn’t hurt me the last time) and made all the appropriate, “mmmmm” noises. A’la Friends Thanksgiving show, “It tastes like feet.” Thanks for the visual, Ross.

So with the music in the background; “Get Outta My Dreams, Get Into My Car” – Billy Ocean, “We Are Family” – Sister Sledge and the like… stuff to really get us pumped up to be part of the little MK family… JD asked us to follow her to the bathroom to do the Satin Hands and Satin Lips treatments.

With that done we came back into the training room and sat down at our little fold up mirrors and Styrofoam plates. There was a cotton ball. A. Cotton. Ball. On each of our little Styrofoam plates that would definitely come into play later. And JD gave Steph and I each a damp mauve washcloth.

She put a dollop of cleanser into each of our plates then instructed us on how to best remove our make up, “Just your faces, leave your eye make up on.” So Steph and I washed our pink little faces and then JD asked us to rinse with the washcloths. I picked mine up and that is when the smell hit me. Mildew. So there I am, soapy shit all over my sensitive skin and nothing but a mildewy washcloth to wash it off.

Yes, I used the washcloth. And no, I didn’t make any rude comments. I save that for you guys, because I love… and I like to give. I am a giver.

So there I was face first in a mildewy washcloth, peering at Steph over the edge of it. I have it sort of pinched in my fingers because, Hi. I don’t want my hands, that I know I am about to rub all over my porcelain skin, to smell like mildewy sneakers worn without socks. Eau de boys locker-room. Mmmmm sexxay!

But, I did it.

After the cleanser and the washcloth came the moisturizer and the … well, the other stuff… I was sort of distracted (MILDEW!) by the, “How long have you had rosacea?” comment. My reply? “Um, it’s not rosacea. I drank a lot in college.” So I don’t remember everything she put on our faces… but I DO remember that she said, “If we just had a product to SUCK OUT THE FAT….” like six times. I don’t have a problem with being large lady, do you? (::Ahem:: Also read as: Yes, I do, stop bringing it up.)

She gave us each a dollop of makeup to cover our faces with after the moisturizing MILDEW! cream. She put Steph and I in the same color. Steph. Red head, fabulous green eyes, beautiful skin… cute as a button with her freckles, but she can tan. And me. So white I am blue. With… uh, rosacea or something. Same color of makeup.

We both obligingly put it on then used our ONE cotton ball to put the pressed power (from a flap of paper) on our skin. We looked positively… well, the word cakey comes to mind. Then DJ used a brush and commented on my chipmunk cheeks. “To make ourselves look thinner we need to create shadows.” And she put some bronzer under my cheekbones. And gave Steph bright Barbie Doll Pink blush. Heh. Now, granted, Steph could wear blue eye shadow and red lipstick and pull it off. She is that gorgeous. But pink cheeks on a redhead. She worked it, but I would have given her more of an earthen tone, not something found only in post-it notes and Barbie Dream Houses™.

May I just tell ya’ll that Kerry never showed up and JD kept us in her tentacles loving embrace for two hours. And. AND? I had a migraine. Sitting in a fluorescent lighted room with a migraine and a chirpy Mary Kay saleslady for TWO HOURS.

Two hours.


Seriously. Two hours. I could have been watching Harry Potter and eating non-EColi wilted salad… also known as Dove Chocolate.

Stacey called me yesterday, which is when I got all ranty, because she was laughing her ass off at the retelling of my story from the night before. Laughing… and laughing HARD. She was all, “HA HA HA HA!! Oh, my God… HAAAAA! I am soooo sorry, but this is funny as shit. AH ha… HA HA HA!” And then she would laugh some more. I think her favorite parts were the salad, the mildew, Kerry not showing up and did I mention TWO Fucking Hours!?

Lord. Seriously. I would totally sell Mary Kay for a living if I needed a part time job to supplement my income or work really hard at it and have my husband retire in three years like JD has (that part? Rocks) but, come on. Two hours. Yes, Mary Kay has good product and they sell fine and well, free cars. But I still can not see taking two hours out of women’s busy lives and calling it a pampering session.

Up next? Mr. Scratchy Pants.

September 29, 2006

Nice chairs, sure, but I have been out here for almost an hour.

Work Phone: [ring ring ring]
self: (Workplace), Susan speaking.
Stacey: Hey.
self: ‘sup?
Stacey: Well, I was just calling for two things.
self: Thing the first?
Stacey: You gonna be able to come to happy hour tonight?
self: I think so. (Mister) has the Hantavirus or something so he is home sick. I’ll call him to make sure he doesn’t need anything but I am sure I’ll be able to come. Where are we going and can I smoke there?
Stacey: Cool. And the Fox and the Hound… yeah, you can smoke, Erica smokes.
self: Rock on. And, thing the second?
Stacey: Huh?… Oh, yeah.. uh, there’s this lady in my office.
self: ‘umkay…
Stacey: And she just got signed up to sell Mary Kay part time and I was wondering if you would like to come to one of her pampering sessions .
self: …
Stacey: So, would you?
self: … Seriously?
Stacey: ::Snort:: BWAH HA HA HA HA HA… no…. Ha… hee… no, not seriously. I was making a funny. Heh. Wouldn’t you just die though?
self: Good Lord. I thought you were being serious.
Stacey: Heh.
self: …[blink]
Stacey: Hee… heh.
self: Ok, well.. uh, call me later before you leave work.
Stacey: Right.
Work Phone: [click]

That Stacey, she slays me.

Okay. Right, so. On to Mr. Scratchy Pants. I told you guys I would tell you about the worst dermatology appointment ever didn’t I?

I’m not sure if I should set the scene or just dive right in. Let me just get to it. You guys are busy. It’s a Friday. I have some drinking and smoking to get to.

Ya’ll remember a few years ago when that little Asian woman (my dermatologist at the time) hacked into my poor little chicken leg right? And then because of that precious unicorns, sunbeams and rainbows type moment, (She was SO mean.) I started to go see the man who owned the actual practice. He removed a mole on my arm after a biopsy reported that the tissue was dysplastic and the scary word on the papers fairly screamed melanoma.

So, I have been watching my skin, wearing SPF 50 (aka flannel) and trying to stay out of the sun. (But Sue, you went to Destin… FLORIDA. Yes, I know. Kindly shut up, please.) But I knew it was time to go see the dermatologist again when a new little mole sprang forth fully formed like Athena out of Zeus' head… but more like a mole on my arm than a full human person… of Greek Mythology… or something.

So I made an appointment. But ‘lo and behold, Dr. T. sold the practice! To a young whipper snapper named Dr. Doogie Houser… er, Dr. S. So, I made the appointment and went to see him last Thursday. This also may be why I was a bit ranty when I posted the last entry.

My apologies.

Dr. S. took over the practice so Dr. T. could retire and fish or wear overalls and grow tomatoes, whatever… when Dr. S. took over the practice he fully redid the office. The waiting room has new magazines as well as two flat panel televisions which run Cirque du Soliel on a constant loop as to distract you from the amount of time that you have been waiting, waiting, waiting in this guy’s freaking office. Nice chairs, sure… but I have been out here for almost an hour you fuck.

So they called my name and I went back into the newly designed hamster cages with the new little orange plastic chairs and the walls painted sage green. They gave me a paper belly shirt (what? It was SHORT.) and a little paper “drape” to place across my thighs.

Do ya’ll remember all the classy, sexy things about me like… oh, I don’t know. Like that when I get nervous I tend to sweat like a monkey and that I have a beard hair?

Those things are pretty irrelevant, I was just checking to see where I was on ya’ll’s hot meter. Paper belly shirt? Check. Paper “drape” to lie enticingly over my thighs? Check. Nerves? Check. So because of the nerves I am slightly clammy and sticking to the naugahyde death chair that has that oh-so-important butcher paper strip down the middle of it? Checkity check check, bitches.

Epitome of hot, right there.

Hot, is all I’m sayin.

So Doogie Houser DG (Dermatology Guy) walks in after he made sure to wait until I was good and stuck to the butcher paper, he shakes my hand while not even looking at me (limp hand shake…. Eeesh) and then makes a “Take this down” gesture to his physician’s assistant. “So, you are allergic to Neosporin and polysporin… ?” “Well, I seem to be as I broke out last time when Dr. T cut out a mole and used Neosporin and polysporin. And also… um, Band-Aids.” “I see, I see… [hand to the chin in thinking pose] And why are you here today?” “Well, this little guy right here [I point to the Athena mole] has just popped up, it gets red sometimes and itchy… and it worries me.”

Ya’ll he grabbed my arm and pronounced, “BENIGN!” Like he was the ruler of my arm skin. He asked, “What else?” So I pointed to various things and these three freckle/mole things on my thighs. Two on the right, one on the left.

He stood to my left and yanked down my little paper drape to look at the freckle/mole thingies. He pronounced them “NORMAL!” and then while he was dictating information to his PA to write down in my chart he… started… well, absentmindedly scratching at my left thigh…with his fingernail. He wasn’t looking at me. He wasn’t looking at the mole. He was looking at his PA (whom he treated like chattel) and scratching at my mole/freckle thingy like it was his own personal scab.

No, I can not believe that I typed the word scab, and that I am going to leave it there. But. I am.

Scratching me like I was a scab.

I said it again.

He said, “I am going to freeze these three moles off and make you an appointment to cut out (Athena).”

He froze (by the way, OW.) the mole/freckles off and then walked out. He was in and out in less than seven minutes. SEVEN.

I asked the PA for some gauze and tape to cover the place where he burned/froze (whatever) things off (because I was BLEEDING from where he was scratching me, uuugh) and she, (deep breath Sue.) she put polysporin and Band-Aids on the freeze/burns. Hi. I am invisible. Does it not say “Allergic to Neosporin, polysporin and Band-Aids on my chart?”


I was so upset that while I was paying my co-pay and a lady scheduled me for Dr. S to cut off the Athena mole. I just operated on pure adrenaline. I got in the car, came back to work, then promptly got sick… twice… because I was so freaked out about the scratching and the dismissive-ness and the polysporin Band-Aid thing.

I was so upset that I wrote a letter ya’ll.

I called the place, cancelled my appointments, wrote a letter telling them everything, faxed it and requested my records to be faxed to me.

It was awful.

A lady from the office called me the next day inquiring why I cancelled my appointment and I wanted to scream at her, “HE SCRATCHED ME LIKE A SCAB!” but I just politely said, “I faxed a letter over this morning, thank you, goodbye.”

Good news is that I found a new dermatology guy who has come highly recommended by… um… some person, somewhere. And I went to see him Saturday. Yes, he has Saturday hours. The man was THOUROUGH with a capital “He just looked between my toes” thorough.

Bad news is that Dr. Thorough biopsied eight places. Several places that Dr. Scratchy Pants deemed “NORMAL!” and five of them came back as dysplastic. So… because of my history with melanoma Dr. Thorough will be doing five mini surgeries on me in October.

I’ll keep ya’ll posted.

And um. Scab.

Yeah, that was gross.

About September 2006

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

August 2006 is the previous archive.

October 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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