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February 2007 Archives

February 1, 2007

Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

Imagine this… We’re at a bar, or say, a Mexican food place that has the best Mojito’s on the planet. (As an aside: I totally downloaded a ring tone from this website right here to alert me to Stacey’s calls… appropriate, no? Y’all download it too and then give me your number, I will call you and you can set that song as my personal ring tone.) As we sit down to the table and place our order, I ask you (and you, oh, and you over there with the shoes… can I borrow those?) to lean in as if I have the secret to the meaning of life (42*).

*Oh, come on.

We all lean in and I say, “Okay ladies and gentlemen, [pause for effect] this is just how I roll.”

And then I tell you of the drama.

Let me first begin with the hoopty. Yes, babies, I know. I know… she was sold to that nice young man (Thurrmon) at the dealership back in October (click here for backstory). The tags, registration and inspection all expired at the end of October so I didn’t feel bad leaving him with the tags. I had a bill of sale, I had the 4 dollars he bought her for… poor cheap-ass hoopty… and I had a new car. All was good no?

What do you mean no?

Oh.

What is this in the mailbox? A letter from the Harris County Toll Road Authority? Hmmm, Harris County is in Houston. I wonder if Thurmon, being the brilliant mechanic that I took him to be, fixed the hoopty and has been driving her around the Houston area.

According to the letter (with a picture of what appeared to be the hoopty’s ass end up in the upper right hand corner) Thurmon had been driving around the Houston area… on the toll roads… NOT PAYING THE TOLLS.

They want me to do what?

Three tolls in the amount of $1.25 each. Alright, I got that part. But the bill is for $36.75? How, pray tell, can that be? Ohhhhhhhhh… a $33.00 Administrative Fee? Thirty three dollars. Thirty. Three.

I picked up my trusty little phone (seriously it is totally not trust worthy, I caught it taking change from my coin purse** on Wednesday) and called Thurmon.

**And now? I am eighty-four.

phone: ring… ring… ring…
Thurmon: TC.
self: Mr. Thurmon?
Thurmon: Speaking.
self: This is Susan [last name] speaking.
Thurmon: Yes?
self: I sold the 1998 maroon Mercury Mystique to you back in October.
Thurmon: Oh, yes ma’am. How are you doing?
self: Very well Thurmon, and you?
Thurmon: Fine, just fine.
self: Thurmon?
Thurmon: Yes ma’am?
self: I received a letter from the Harris County Toll Road Authority.
Thurmon: …
self: They seem to have a picture of the Mystique on the letter, and they are stating three separate tolls that were run without paying.
Thurmon: They did what?
self: Well, they are saying that the Mystique ran three tolls, one on the 26th of December, one on the 5th of January and the last was on the 15th of January.
Thurmon: That car hasn’t been anywhere ma’am.
self: Is it still at the dealership lot?
Thurmon: No ma’am, I had someone take it to the house for me so that I could fix her up.
self: Would you mind if I faxed over these papers to you?
Thurmon: No ma’am, that would be fine.
self: The problem is that when I spoke to Helen at the Harris County Toll Road Authority she said that the only way to get this report/bill off of my name would be to do a Texas Motor Vehicle Transfer Notification.
Thurmon: …
self: And some of the information that the Transfer form is asking for, I no longer have, since the vehicle is in your possession… like the title number and the VIN.
Thurmon: Yes ma’am. I have been meaning to take the tags over to the Tax Register’s office and get them changed over, but since she isn’t fixed I figured she wasn’t going nowhere.
self: [totally loving how Thurmon is calling the hoopty a “she”] Yes sir, so you haven’t been in Houston?
Thurmon: No ma’am. Maybe someone stole her tags. Will you give me your number and I will call you this afternoon when I get home to check and see if the tags are still on her.
self: Of course.
Thurmon: I’ll do the transfer and take care of this for you.
self: Thank you Thurmon, I look forward to hearing from you this evening.
Thurmon: Thank you ma’am. I will be looking for your fax.
self: Bye now.
Thurmon: Bye.

So that evening, true to his word, Thurmon called me on my cell. The tags were still on the car, so they hadn’t been stolen. He said he would do the transfer on Tuesday and fax me a copy of the paperwork.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch…***

***insert lame Tonto on Lone Rider homoerotic action joke here.

I have been trying to get a report number from the officer that was on the scene of our little streetlight incident two Sundays ago. I have also been calling the insurance adjuster, the patrol secretary and the people in records.

#1) The officer that stopped with us on that (dark and stormy – not really, it was just a little chilly) night never filed a report.
#2) I have yet to speak with my insurance adjuster. I call him every day. Sometimes twice. And I leave a message and record the date and time I have called. Because, I am just that anal. Soon enough, I will crack and start leaving phone sex messages or telling him about my undying love for Insurance Adjusters named Kerry.
#3) I did speak with someone else at State Farm Insurance. They are just waiting on the report from the police.
#4) Didn’t I just say that the officer that stopped with us did not file a report.
#5) If they rule this an at fault accident, my insurance rates will probably go up.
#5a) I will totally cry. This was NOT my fault.
#6) I keep calling the police department. The officers I need to speak with work nights. 6 p.m. to whatever.
#7) The police secretary’s office hours are Monday – Friday 8 a.m. to 5 p.m. Guess what good that does me when no one will return my calls? NONE.

I finally got in touch with a very sweet woman in records on Monday. She looked and looked… and looked. She stayed on the phone with me forever. She finally found where Mister called in the accident. And she also found a report on the incident. It was taken by another officer about 10 minutes before we hit the streetlight. Our names? Were nowhere on the report.

Let me refer you to number #5 above.

If our names are not on the report, don’t you think that they insurance adjuster will be waiting a long time for a report that doesn’t exist to meet their criterion? I do. Do you think that they will get sick of waiting and call it my fault? I do. Do you think I will throw a fit? Oh, I totally do.

Mister went and picked up a copy of the report yesterday. Now I have the information, the officer’s name who filed the report and the ammo to get it changed.

Well, not really.
I got a call this morning from the Commander of the South Patrol Station. He was very nice and basically told me that he will order the two officers involved to give me a call this evening when they come on shift. Whether or not they acquiesce to my request or not, he said that was up to them.

Shit.

You know, oh you know that the first officer is going to be all mad because he filed his paperwork, so in his mind? He is done. He said in his report, “Unit #1 failed to control his speed and hit a utility pole in the center median.” Unit #1 is the drunk guy… but since they didn’t catch him? They can’t rule it as a drunk driver. “Failed to control his speed…” Gah. Policemen do NOT like to file paperwork. It is the bane of their existence. Well, that and hostage situations. I know this. I was married to one. But,he was lazy and kind of a dick, so I cant really say “ALL police officers… blah, blah, blah.” Because that would be casting aspersions and that would be wrong.

Hee.

Don’t y’all love it when I get all self righteous?

Y’all know I am totally going to lump all of these officers into the same pool as X… until? I get proven that these guys are different. And different in a good way, not different as in, “I will talk down to you and make it so your insurance costs you lots of money because I keep getting these stupid messages to call you, and now the commanding officer is ordering me to call you? I am sick of it!”

If you can’t hate people on an individual basis… project your anger from past experiences.

We need a t-shirt with that saying on it.

Someone, get on that, right away. I am too busy being passive aggressive.

So… again this morning. Thurmon called me. He called the Harris County Toll Road Authority and asked them to check the license on the car in the picture again. They pulled it up and it wasn’t the hoopty after all. They zeroed out the invoice and that was taken care of. Thurmon was all, “You can call them to confirm if you would like.” Oh, that Thurmon. He knows me well does he not? He also said that he was still taking care of the tags and would send me a copy of the paperwork as soon as he got it.

I thanked him, hung up and immediately called Helen at the Harris County Toll Road Authority (that woman is absolutely miserable, I don’t know if it is because she hates her job or assholes like me calling all the time, but she is surly) and verified that the invoice was zeroed out. “It is zeroed out.” “So, it is taken care of?” “It is zeroed out.” “So, do I need to do anything else?” “It is zeroed out.” “Alrighty then! Thanks for being so fantastic!”

So now, all I have to do is wait on the officer(s) to call me back on this report. I really hope that they make a new one or add us to the old one, because otherwise, we are going to have to sell the puppy**** to pay for our smoking habit.

****Oh My God. Is there anything else he can tear up? He chews on furniture and baseboards and ruins carpet and was eating shoes and won’t sit when I tell him too… unless I am standing up. He is going to be “Free to a good home.” In the next Dallas Morning News classifieds if he eats one more rug. The last straw was he was affectionately licking Elvira’s shoulder strap the other night. I got all neck wobbly on him, with one finger held up and everything. “Oh, I KNOW you di-in’t!” He cocked his head at me like, “I’m cute. Feed me a treat.”

February 6, 2007

More than a nun, less than a paid professional.

It is so gorgeous outside today. I actually left the building during my scheduled lunch hour. I went to the bank and picked up take out from Taco Bell (mmm healthy), but that isn’t important. What is, is this. It is currently 3 degrees in Green Bay. And according to Jim (what I have cleverly named the little weather channel at the bottom of the 3tacon page. See? Here, say “Hi” to Jim. Scroll down a bit.) it feels like -9 degrees. NEGATIVE NINE.

According to the weather channel doohickey on NBC51.com it is 69 degrees in Dallas. And it feels like… 69 degrees. If you know what I mean, and I think you do; you little cheeky monkey.

So. Negative nine huh?

When the weather gets like this (this = San Diego-ish) in Dallas people want to be outside. Everyone is walking to lunch. There are motorcyclists tooling around en masse. When the weather gets nice, and believe you me… it is a very short window. Texas goes from nice/chilly to wishing-you-could-take-off-your-skin hot in about four hours. That will probably happen the weekend I am in Green Bay for the 3tacon, I will leave wearing a sweater and the lime green wool pimp hat* so my head will not freeze clean off and come home to people wearing flip flops with red sweaty faces.

*I totally got a lime green pimp hat. My mother picked it out and I love it. I will be shunned… or commended; it could go either way really.

Y’all have read (orrrr… maybe not) about my history with motorcycles in the past… and my proclivity for being sorta** slutty.

**We’re speaking in relative terms here. Don’t judge me.

Seriously. This ties in together somehow.

Bear with me.

So I was riding around today during my lunch hour and I went to this branch of my bank that I have not visited before to make a deposit. There were motorcycles in front of me, motorcycles in back of me, several motorcycles passing other cars on the broken white line (STUPID) and about twelve parked at this shop (::cough::pawn shop::cough::) that I passed. I blinked and looked up at the shop’s sign while at a red light. And then I remembered. I dated*** a guy that worked there.

***We met at a dance club, used to email, talk on the phone, go dancing and have a lot of sex. If that is what you want to call dating. And for this example, I think it works just fine thankyouverymuch****.

****Shut up.

And in my head I was all, “Oh… no… did I include him on the list? Shit.”

So there I was, driving around North Dallas counting with my fingers the people on the list. I was thinking about what my parents would say if they knew. Hell, I wonder what I would say if they ever asked me, “So, before you married Mister and you were previously married to X, and that guy we caught sending you love letters in highschool…” My mother interjecting, “[Dad’s name], those were total porn letters.” “Okay, so they were porn letters and you probably slept with him… how many men have you been with?”

First off. I would run screaming. Because, ew. And secondly, I don’t think I would be quick enough to say, “More than a nun, less than a paid professional.” I would totally want to use the word “hoor” (who-er) instead of paid professional, but again… um. Ew.

February 7, 2007

I do not want to offend anyone with a boob.

The past few weeks have been a blur of activity.

My sister’s birthday (aka, the National Holiday) weekend was at the end of January. I got to see my ex-stepdaughter that weekend. By the way, she called me on February 1st almost squealing into the phone that she got accepted into Texas A&M. I am so proud of her.

I had a planning meeting for a project I am working on.

My parents came in last Friday to take Mister and I and my sister and her husband to dinner for Mister’s birthday then my parents hung out with us all weekend. We went shopping on Saturday and my mother ended up taking home several new pairs of panties, three new bras*, six pairs of new socks, two new pairs of black pumps (one sling back the other with a wee buckle), a black pair of boots (just like the ones I purchased after Christmas (rock on)) and… a vintage sideboard for her hallway (?).

*Ladies, please get sized for a bra every couple of years or so. Your body changes. My mother had on a bra that I think I actually purchased for her when I was working for one of the lingerie retailers that I worked for… in 1990 to 1992**.

**I just searched the archives. Have I NOT told ya’ll about working for Victoria’s Secret and Paulette’s when I was wee? Oh Lawd, Lawd.

Sunday we went to church (you hoor!) and then to lunch before my parents left so that they could be home in time for the Super Bowl. We had placed bets; as all good Christian (hoor!) families should do; about who would win. My mother and I were betting on the Colts and Mister and my Pop were betting on, “Da’ Bears.”

After my folks left for the day Mister and I went shopping ourselves.

We have a nasty habit of hording gift cards. In actuality, we get all “Squee!” when we get a gift card for a birthday, anniversary, Christmas present, Valentines Day… you get the idea… then we put them in the lock box so they won’t get lost (alright, alright, so I won’t lose them like I did our certificate to a local hotel for two nights stay and dinner in their wine cellar… I’m sorry, alright!?) and then we totally forget about them. So on Sunday we opened the lock box to find several gift cards to Bed Bath and Beyond, one to Pier 1, one for Best Buy, one from Target and one for Home Depot.

We knew we wouldn’t go into Home Depot anytime soon.

As an aside, I am searching my entries and comments to see if Stacey (or I) ever told y’all about the time she lost her shit at Home Depot and ended up yelling at an associate, “What about your DAMN COMMERCIALS!? Aren’t you supposed to help me build a tree house or something here!?” HA! – Um… just spent about an hour and trying to find it (didn’t) and also listening to Budweiser Beer commercials. I found a link in one entry for the “We salute YOU, Mr. Hot Dog Eating Contest Contestant…” and about fell out of my chair listening to the jingle. – Aside… over.

PS. Stacey, make with the story telling prowess and leave a comment, or send me a guest entry or something.

Where was I? Oh. Right. We knew we weren’t going to go into Home Depot because of our previous experiences with that whole chain, so we decided to go to Best Buy first. Let Mister spend his gift card on something fun. That something fun turned out to be the complete DVD box set of Band of Brothers. Wheee! World War II!

Actually, I kind of like war movies. The Big Red One, The Dirty Dozen and High Noon are some of my favorites. And I really like the Band of Brother thing. Maybe I am just warred out. I am currently reading “Flag of our Fathers” and watching Band of Brothers… oh, and did I ever mention that I am married to a retired Marine? No? Oh, yes? I did? About a frillon-eleventy times? Well, okay then. And you guys remember how Mister totally talks to movies right? So, let’s do an equation. War movies/series + Mister = takes a long time to watch, what with all the rewinding to hear what was being said in the movie while my husband was saying (totally yelling) stuff like, “Flank RIGHT, you maggots!” Or “Captain Sobel Sir, can I invite you to suck a root?”

After our journey into Best Buy we headed over to Pier 1 and got this awesome bronze-y/reddish massive plate thing to go above our fireplace. Here is a picture of it, they call it a tortoise platter. I am not sure how a tortoise fits into the picture, but… apparently that is what it is called. Then we went to Bed Bath and Beyond and got two pictures, one large abstract on wooden blocks for the large wall in the dining room and one framed abstract for the smaller wall in the dining room.

We are finally actually making our little house look so homey.

I hung some butterfly pictures (antique prints that look like pages out of an Entomology book) in the guest bathroom. I hung my favorite naked trees (winter landscape photos of trees) pictures in the guest bedroom and I am itching to hang some other things.

We have mirrors out the ass. Long ones, narrow ones, oval ones, rectangle ones, ornate ones and we haven’t hung any of them yet. I have gallery opening posters from when my sister, mother and I went to Paris in 1998. They are very different. One is mostly blue while the other is a very angry red with an abstract face. They are in the same type of frames and I love them dearly. I think that they actually startle Mister.

He purchased some reprints for me off of the internet and we have yet to hang them. I have a large print of the naked red-haired lady on the Gladiator Bicycles poster. And one of this pretty lady (1940’s era) with red hair and she is smoking. But I haven’t even framed them yet. I totally wanted to hang those in the dining room, but because we have young ones in the house sometimes, I do not want to offend anyone with a boob.

Slight veer: Oh, My GOD. Hee. I sent out this huge email yesterday about the planning meeting we had back in January. I sent them a program matrix, several forms and blah blah blah. I got this email back from one of the committee members (a sweet sweet man, let’s call him Bob Smith) who said, “Susan, Thank you for the information. I spell Bob with only one ‘o’. Please check the spelling on your [blah blah blah] Program spreadsheet.” I checked the spreadsheet that I had sent out to the whole committee; and my boss; and it turned out I had called him Boob Smith on the document. End Veer.

Also… heh.

So the flurry of activity continues as tonight Stacey and I get our drink on at one of our exclusive Happy Hours where you can’t come unless your name is Stacey or Susan.

Mister is going to the Mavericks game and is so excited that he was contemplating getting a haircut at lunch. He is going with one of his business vendors and I think they have a suite. Which is very sweet.

Tomorrow is Mister’s birthday. He will be 94. We are so pleased that he is doing so well with his new teeth and the hip replacement he got for Christmas. (Actually, he’s the big four-oh.) I am taking him to the Melting Pot for dinner, showering him with gifts and maybe a blowjob afterwards.

Next week is Valentine’s day and we are going to PF Chang’s for their Chilean Sea Bass.

Mister is always so thoughtful with a gift and he spends hours looking for the card that says just the right thing (I have a jewelry box full of the cards he has given me… awww) and I? Well, I just kind of suck in that department. I am totally like a guy, running to Walgreen’s on the way to the restaurant so I can pick up a hastily grabbed Valentine card, some candy, a pack of smokes, a gift bag and some tissue… I stuff all the “gifts” into the bag, floof up the tissue paper around it, sign the card while doing 70 mph on the toll way and show up out of breath and sweaty to the venue because I don’t want to be late. Maybe I’ll just give him another blowjob.

February 15, 2007

Happy Valentines Day to all of you. And yes, I should have posted this yesterday.

Cowgirl: oh, Happy Valentine's Day!
Suzanna: to you as well!
i should have brought you flowers
or at least a card
how about a letter
Cowgirl: ech, why??
Suzanna: i've always liked K
Cowgirl: how about a nice instant message, that's sort of my speed
Suzanna: ok....
then check this out
um
a poem
for Valentine's Day
to Jules
from me
Cowgirl: you're making me crack up already
Suzanna: Roses are Red
Violets are sort of Purple
Cowgirl: Raisins are brown...
Suzanna: You should be joining my ass
in Green Bay in March
oh
Cowgirl: ha!
Suzanna: that didn’t rhyme
Cowgirl: I sooo wish I could
Suzanna: i know
how about a haiku?
Cowgirl: if you can pull a Green Bay haiku out of your ass...
Suzanna: i can pull anything out of my ass... it is a veritable magicians hat
Cowgirl: it's not the talking one from Harry Potter, I hope
Suzanna: nah
not as wrinkly
ok
ready for your haiku?
Cowgirl: because that could get embarrassing in public situations
Suzanna: right... with all of the ass singing
Cowgirl: bring it, baby!
Suzanna: ok
a haiku to you... from me
Happy V.D. Jules
And not the bad kind
But the one with Hallmark shit.
Cowgirl: that is all kinds of awesome!

So… Happy Valentines to all of you.

Also? Last night on the news Mister and I were watching them talk about buying old homes and remodeling them for a tax rebate here in a suburb of Dallas. And this one guy who had done just that… taken an old home and remodeled it… used the word “Incentivize”.

Twice.

I kept trying to get Mister to confess what it would take to get him incentivized but alas, I had no luck.

Last weekend… wait let me back up. And for those of you who have already heard this story (ahem… Jules ) then just skip down a few paragraphs.

Since I have known Mister he has been cold. Seriously. You know how those (to steal a term from LA Chihuahuas (the dogs and people)) are always shaky and cold? Ok, now think about a 6’5” man shivering and trying to crawl under me to get warm as I am his personal furnace. Just last night he put his feet on me to warm up. I am like a fluffy, person-shaped, electric blanket… that sweats occasionally. Ok, who sweats a lot. Do not judge me. I glisten.

I am so hot natured that people in my office ask me to warm their hands in mine when they come back from lunch.

Not kidding.

So, poor cold Mister has the house set to like 72 or 74 degrees in the evenings. All of the heat? Is concentrated into the master bedroom. I sleep naked, with the covers mostly off and a fan pointed at my ass (literally, my ass). The dog loves it in the master bedroom. His kennel is kept in there and he begs to go to bed. (So hot… I must love that man of mine an awful lot. Why yes, yes I do.)

And since I have known poor, cold Mister he has been without a proper coat. He has had a leather coat, windbreakers and some puffy thing that was awful and didn’t fit properly. So? Two Decembers ago, I bought him a nice zip-up black wool car coat with pockets and a turn up collar. He loves that thing. He hardly takes it off. He may relinquish it to the coat closet in June, July or March… but as soon as it dips below 68? He breaks that fucker out and refuses to take it off.

He wore it for most of his birthday dinner. Inside. Inside the restaurant, with a boiling fondue pot and cook top built into the table. I had stripped down to a t-shirt and my panties* and yet, there sat Mister bulking up his sizeable bulk (see also: FUCKING 6’5”!) with a thick-ass black wool coat in those teeny booths.

*Well, just about.

I always ask him, “Want to take off your coat and stay a while?” He’s all , “N-n-n-n-noooo it’s cold in h-h-heerrrre.” He leaves his coat on during dinner, at home, while in the car. His coat is always on him.

He tells me all the time, “Baby, thank you so much for this coat. I really love it.” My response? “You are welcome. Please take it off when you get in the shower.”

So… A few weeks ago… after many days and hours and minutes and infinite time of zipping and unzipping his precious (the precciouuusssssssss) black wool coat, the zipper broke. Surprise!

We went to the tailor to get some of his pants seamed, or something, and to get a pair of my jeans twinched**.

**To be twinched: To have the waist lowered on a pair of trousers and/or jeans as to remove the twelve inches of material dangling from my crotch to my mid thigh. I do not need that material. I end up rolling the waistband of my trousers/jeans over and over to get rid of the ‘low crotch effect’. And the roll move can only be done when not wearing a belt. I like belts. So, I have the waist lowered to get rid of this excess of crotch material. When rid of the excess material the remaining zipper is about two inches in length. Hence, what Mister refers to as twinches. Two inches. Twinches.

When we dropped off his pants and my jeans he asked the tailor if he would replace the zipper in his precious. Bong (seriously, the tailor’s name) said he would order the zipper and Mister could leave the coat (OH NO!) with him for a few days to repair it when the zipper came in.

The zipper came in on Sunday. The weather guys had been touting all week, “It’ll be 70 degrees by Tuesday! Break out your flip flops and your shorts people, it’s gonna be a warm one!” So, I convinced [read: pried the coat from Mister’s clenched up fists] Mister to leave his warm, wool coat [Please also note: under the coat, Mister had on a white under shirt, a long sleeved button up shirt and a CARDIGAN SWEATER. Not kidding.] with Bong and we’d pick it up Tuesday. After all, it would be 70 degrees by Tuesday. Right? Right.

Wrong. Yellow-bellied lying perverted weathermen!

Oh ya’ll. Mister has been SO mad at me!

It was like 34 on Tuesday. Yesterday and today? Snow.

Hee!...
But also awww… because he got sick.

But I went to pick up his jacket on Tuesday evening on the way home from work. When I got to the house and presented him with his precious. He was all, “My Jacket! My Jacket!” and he put it on and wouldn’t take it off until he went to bed.

Cute? Yes? But also, please take the coat off when we are in a booth in a restaurant and I have four inches of the bench to sit my four foot ass upon because his big shoulders and massive COAT are taking up the whole side. It is like sitting next to a very well behaved, nicely dressed and extremely attractive Kodiak bear.

Oh…

I told y’all about calling one of my committee members Boob… right? Right? Ok. Guess what happened yesterday? After my short (ha ha ha) chat session with Jules my boss came into my office (cubicle) to see what I was doing for lunch. I had this awesome idea to search on this place that has chicken and dumplings as a lunch special one day of the week. The place is called Jen’s Place and it is not far from my office.

With my boss standing directly behind me with his eyes on my monitor screen, I opened an explorer window and typed in Jen’s Place dot com.

Oh. My. God.

It was Jen’s Place alright. And I saw all of her places. They are all very tan. And very porny. My boss squealed and ran out of my cube so fast that he created a vacuum and my hair followed the wind effect that he left in his wake.

What I was looking for was Jen’s Place Café and Bakery dot com. Don’t look up the first one. It will definitely NOT tell you that Thursday is chicken and dumplings day.

February 16, 2007

My love for muscle cars/vehicles is kept pretty much hidden.

Let me tell y’all a little story about a car named Samantha. Well, it starts out with her anyway. You all know of her horrendous run in with the streetlight, no? No? Well, then here is the backstory.

Go on. I’ll wait.

Ok, so I left her with Charles at the dealership body shop area. And let me say this right off. Charles, God love him, is one charismatic old guy. He had sparkling personality and wit… so sweet that he would give you cavities.

Yeah, smell that fuckers? It’s sarcasm.

Charles was crotchety, caustic, used one word sentences and was so very, very old. I usually like the old part when it comes to men. But come on guy; give me a little compassion here. I shouldn’t be in your body shop. I am happily (ok, not so much with the happiness, but I wasn’t grudgingly) giving you the $250.00 deductible for the car to be repaired. I haven’t pushed you on time or specifics. Be nice.

He? Was not nice.

I turned Samantha over to him for the second time in a few weeks so he could complete the body work on her. And I ambled over to the rental car place, as I felt like I would be putting Charles out to ask for a ride. The dealership is a HUGE place.

I had made a reservation with Enterprise previously in the week and so I didn’t have any issues getting a rental. The one they gave me? Y’all. It was a Chrysler Aspen.

Now this may confuse you on why I am linking to this car as it seems to be a mild mannered SUV cross over type vehicle.

Eight words syllables for you. 5.7-liter HEMI® V8.

I caught a chirp turning left to get on an access road.

This may surprise some of you, but the Vroom in that vehicle made me a little tingly in my no no parts.

I have always loved animals, jewelry and make up (oh and shoes… can’t forget the shoes) and I talk about these loves freely. But my love for muscle cars/vehicles is kept pretty much hidden except from Mister and my father, neither of which care.

The love for fast cars goes back to when I was wee and my grandpa had an old Dodge step side truck with a massive engine in her. My grandmother had an old Chevelle coup that was beautiful. Ivory exterior with black accents and black leather bench seats inside. Lovely. I can remember standing on the backseat hanging over the front bench to be between my grandmother and my aunt.

me: Aunt Jean-y? Where are we going ?
Aunt Jean: Well, we’re going over to Royston* to visit Mr. Lamb.
me: Mr. Lamb?
Aunt Jean: Yes baby, Mr. Lamb, he has some upholstery that I want to take a look at.
me: …
Aunt Jean: … Why love?
me: Well…
Aunt Jean: Yes?
me: What else can he say other than “Baaaaaaaaaa”?

*Elberton, Anderson… whatever. Somewhere in North Georgia.

I was probably three. And it goes without saying, totally cute.

An old friend in high school had a Mach I and I loved the way that thing felt when he started her up. She was never all one color. Bondo in some places and red in others, her tiny little steering wheel belying her speed and power.

Oh, Lord… and that 1967 Camero SS from the movie Better Off Dead??? Come on.

My mother had a 1979 Buick Regal for many, many years. It had a silver exterior and a maroon interior. The interior had faded after almost a decade to a very unattractive purple and there was a lingering odor of spoiled orange juice that I had spilled on the floor board of the front passenger side when I was little. We were on one of the many runs for “someone’s had a baby, has had a death in the family, is getting married, has been in the hospital” food deliveries that my mother used to do, and still does. A corner was taken sharply and over went the orange juice, or whatever it was that I spilled.

The Buick had a V8 in her and would fly. She was the first car that I drove for any length of time. (The second was a 15 passenger Econoline van. Sexy.)

My sister had, as her first car, a little 1980 Ford Mustang, red, with a teeny little four banger engine in her. My sister has always been tough on vehicles and I didn’t take that into consideration when she; at 18; got a hand-me-down company car from my father to take to college. I was given a choice. My mother was getting a new car, her first new car… EVER… (a 1988 LaBaron Convertible, red with black top) and I was able to choose from the 1980 Mustang or the 1979 Buick Regal with the nasty orange juice smell and the faded maroon interior.

I took into account that the Mustang was a lot cooler than the Buick. I took into account that the Buick was an old person’s car. She had been dubbed the Gray Ghost and I figured that was definitely not as cool as the little red Mustang with the 4 cylinder engine in her that I could fill up for $5.00 and drive for two weeks. Sure the white vinyl seats in the Mustang were all cracked and the dash had a crack right down the middle of the center speaker. A Mustang was cooler, right?

I was completely incorrect. My father sold the Buick to a kid at our church and he happily drove the Gray Ghost away. She is still seen sometimes in my hometown and I yearn for her and her power. The Mustang? We had to replace parts of her engine and transmission FOUR TIMES. The starter? Two or three times. She fell apart on me so much that when it was my time to go to college? My father let me take her for one semester then demanded that I trade her for his then current company car, or one just like it. A four-door Oldsmobile Cutlass Calais.

Yes, it was still a red car. But it was a sedan. With a lousy 4 cylinder and four doors, like an old person’s car! I was so embarrassed.

Not quite as embarrassed as I was when my shitty Mustang would drop dead at a stop light and I would have to restart her, throw her in neutral and give her gas until the light turned green.

Yes babies, yes. I was very lucky to even have transportation when I was young. A lot of people didn’t have their own cars. I know this. And yes, crawl into my lap love and I will reminisce about what kind of traumatic experience for you it was to have to take public transportation or to beg rides off of friends. Yes, shhhh baby… it’s ok.

Back to me. It is all about me today. Okay, everyday. Your point?

Anyway.

I made a mistake. I should have taken the Buick. She was timeless. And I could have had the carpets redone, or torn out. Who cares if she had a purple interior? I ended up with a fucking purple car with the hoopty anyway, right?

Oooh… did I tell y’all about the time my ex-husband sold my truck out from under me when I went to see LuLu one weekend? Let me search the archives. Okay, the term Z-71 does not show up… so please, excuse me if I repeat myself. And feel free to point it out to me as well.

Not you people. Those of you who know me, really know me, have heard this story a gajillion times. Repeated with much venom and a lot of cursing. Y’all don’t have to tell me I am repeating myself to YOU… I know. This is why I will be so much fun when I get Alzheimer’s. Everyday I will tell you about the time I hit that cow. Oh, you’ve hear that story? Well, what about the time I hit that cow? I slept with the law? Oh, yes… that is a better story, but did I tell you I hit a cow… with my truck!?

Moving on.

Wait…

Let me state for the record that I ended up LOVING that Olds Cutlass because it had four doors… more people could comfortably go on road trips. And AND… get out of the back seat faster when they had to puke. So, good times all around.

Back to the truck stealing ex-husband.

So, when X and I got married we sold off some stock and bought a truck outright. The truck was for me as he already had a half-ton red Chevy 4x4. It was my first new vehicle and I was totally in love with it. It was a 1995 Chevy, extended cab, Z-71, 4x4 that was emerald green with a taupe interior. She was classy. She was paid for. She was BIG. She let me get up and down that mud slip n’ slide that my (then)husband called a driveway.

I was so in love with this truck y’all. She was my first truck. TRUCK. She could tow shit. And run over things. There was enough room for travel and with my first job (X was totally not working) out of college, travel I did. I was gone for about 5 nights out of 7 those days and the truck and I made a great team.

One weekend R (my ex-step daughter) went to visit her momma so I made plans to go visit LuLu in Houston. We wanted to go out dancing, have a little fun, hang out with friends and forget about the world for awhile. I took X’s truck for some reason, I think he asked me to because he was going to need the extra room in the Z-71 for something. So, off I went.

LuLu and I had a blast. We partied, danced our asses clean off, laughed, joked and enjoyed each other’s company. When I got home I noticed that my truck wasn’t at the house. Nothing was at the house, but there was this tiny little green car at my in-laws’.

I stopped there because if I wasn’t home, you could bet that X was at his momma’s house.**

**This issue? We will cover in another entry all together.

I stopped and got out of X’s truck and went inside. X almost squealed, he was so excited. He started talking fast and all that I heard was “…in exchange for your truck…”. Wha? What is in exchange for my truck? Where is my big beautiful green truck? Where is it? It was paid for! PAID FOR. As in, no payments… only gas and maintenance. There was no good reason that I could fathom that my big truck would be gone, unless it was in a wreck.

Nope.

No wreck.

Dumb ass had taken the truck into the dealership, asked them what they would pay him for it. They quoted $21K. He was all, “SOLD!” and then got me something to replace the truck.

That something was a two door Hyundai Scoupe. And oh how I wish I were kidding.

It was a shoe skate with an engine.

He put $3K down on the Scoupe, put the rest that was owed as payments and took the $18K in a cashier’s check.

I was told the $18K that was going to cover bills. I was told he sold my truck because the gas that was needed for my beautiful PAID FOR green truck was too excessive since I was traveling for my job. No need to add the words, “As the only fucking bread winner in the family!” right? I was told the truck was too expensive to maintain.

The $18,000? It was gone within two and a half months. Did I ever see where it went? No, no I did not.

Every time I think about this, I get madder and madder. I have really got to let this go. It has been over twelve years. But the more I think about how naïve, trusting, inexperienced and fucking stupid I was and how much my ex-husband took advantage of my kind and generous and trusting and STUPID nature I just want to punch him in the vagina.

February 20, 2007

We clearly could not handle having him.

Hello babies. I hope your weekends (and President’s Day) were wonderful and that you had singing unicorns, bright rainbows and multiple orgasms to keep you company. I hope that you were entertained by a loved one, a good book or a movie of your choosing. I hope that you were able to browse the local Z Gallerie for snarky cards and Restoration Hardware for that ceramic spoon rest that you have always wanted.

What I don’t hope for you is that you spent the better part (and by better I mean most, not better better) part of the weekend sobbing over pictures, small pieces of fuzz, a teeny coat (hung on a teeny hanger in the coat closet) or sleeping for hours at a time because you just couldn’t bring yourself to get out of bed.

Friday night Mister and I were watching one of our Netflix movies (Manhunter, thanks anne.) and I shot to my feet and yelled behind me, “He’s chewing on the baseboards!” as I ran towards the front of the house. My bat-like hearing alerted me to the dangers of destruction that Galen was reaping upon the baseboards of our home. You all know of the holes in the carpet, the shag bathroom mat plucked bald and the shoes that have been demolished. You know of the corners of my desk and the bottom of a bureau that have been sacrificed to Galen’s tiny little teeth.

What you may also know is that Mister has been campaigning to find Galen a new home for… oh, the last four months or so.

We have had him for eight months.

Mister admits his massive mistake in wanting a puppy. He had no idea what kind of time, costs, energy and tolls it would take on us. Feedings every four hours and potty breaks every two for the first several months of his time with us? Destruction of property? Staying home all day on a Saturday because the puppy ingested the upper sole of your shoe and you need to watch for poop to make sure there was no blockage in his digestive tract?

Mister was really caught off guard.

The hundreds of dollars spent in the first months alone for his well puppy checks to make sure he had all of his shots? The hundreds of dollars spent on kennels, collars, chew toys, antihistamines, fish oil capsules, special “smart puppy” dog food and treats? Hundreds and hundreds of dollars spent on grooming (cutting his toenails) and boarding him when we would travel? I think it really threw Mister for a loop.

And then there was the fact that regardless of the one or the many chew toys littered around Galen’s little 12 pound body, he would chew on the rugs, the carpet and the cat.

The nail in the coffin for me was Galen chasing Max so hard on Friday night that he pushed the cat head first into the wall. The resounding thud was heard all the way at the back of the house. Mister was all, “What was that!!?” I said, “Max’s head hitting the wall.” Mister, “Well, is he ok?” I replied, “Not sure, he’s old and he hit the wall pretty hard.” He asked, “Why did he hit the wall?” I told him, “Galen was chasing him and pushed him into it.” Mister said, “That is IT! We are going to find a new home for Galen this weekend.”

And for once, I didn’t argue.

He was a perfectly trained little boy. He was kennel trained and he would go to the bedroom door and sit there at 9:30 every night because he was ready to go to bed. He only had one (or two maybe) accidents in the house, and those were because he had bad poo or something. He knows the commands for, “No.”, “Sit.”, “Stop.”, his name, “Potty.”, “Outside.”, “Inside.” And would not get on the furniture unless you invited him with an “Up” and two taps to your chest. He also knows, “Down” and “Load Up” for getting in his kennel.

Mister and I both read up on the subject of training puppies. We used positive reinforcement and he was a very happy little guy. Our problem… and I know it is our problem, not his… is that we didn’t spend enough time with him. He was kenneled from 8:15 a.m. until we got home around 6:00 p.m.

I left the door to the bedroom open so the cat could come visit him during the day and I left the TV on animal planet while we were away at work. It could never be enough. He craved attention and he wanted to please so badly. He would wiggle all over when praised him and his little tail would just thump, thump, thump while he looked at you waiting for you to invite him into your lap. He loves the ladies and responds to the lower registers of men’s voices.

We could not give him what he needed. Max is so good. Max is the consummate gentleman with polite manners and it even sounds like “Please” and “Thank you” when you feed him. He can be left alone for hours, days even without doing one thing that would be considered destructive. Galen? We couldn’t turn our backs on him for five minutes or he would come running out of Mister’s office with a clear push pin that he pulled off of the corkboard. What if he would have swallowed one of those? When we went to shutting the doors he would just tear up the carpet or chew on a chair or a baseboard.

We clearly could not handle having him.

Saturday morning Mister and I put an ad in Craig’s List for the DFW area. We extolled what a good boy Galen is and that all of his accessories came with him… that his shots are up to date and that he needs a home with supervision. We posted four pictures. We had phone calls starting at ten minutes after the ad was posted. I left Mister to handle them and I fled for the relative safety of my boss’s house to watch him cut and color a co-worker’s hair.

Mister decided on a couple that is engaged. They wanted to drive up from Grand Prairie and visit Galen. When I got home from the boss’s house Mister told me, “They are coming at two, two-fifteen at the latest.”

He had pulled Galen’s kennel out of the bedroom and Galen was playfully hopping in and back out of the kennel as if he were excited, “See this bitches? This is MY house. Are we going on a trip? I like trips.”

(By the way, SO losing it right now.)

Galen and I went outside to play for a few minutes and he ran around me in the sun like he was a teeny greyhound. He really likes to lean into his turns and actually grins when you say, “Oh my! You are just so very fast!”

The couple showed up.

The reason Mister picked them to come see Galen was because the girl lived with her mother and her mother wanted a companion for when the girl and her fiancé are off at work. She wanted someone to be there all the time for her… just like Galen wanted someone to be there for him all day. I know he loves his kennel, it is his secure place. But I am sure he will love being the in the lap of a lady all day long as well.

When they knocked on the door, Galen barked. He only barks when someone knocks on the door or when the doorbell is rung. He didn’t even bark back at the four big dogs that live in the surrounding yards of our property. I scooped him up and Mister invited the couple in. We showed them his commands and the things that he is so cute for. He jumped into my lap when I invited him, and immediately jumped down when I said down. The lady asked him over and he almost caught on fire he ran to her so quickly. He plopped down at her feet and turned over so she could scratch his belly… his little body wiggling as his tail thumped back and forth below him.

The man said that he had just recently adopted a 3 year old beagle, named Milo, and that they were so excited to find Galen that morning. They explained that the mother in law (or soon to be mother in law) was so excited about Galen and the daughter, basically being mauled with love by Galen said, “I really think Mother will love him.” Her fiancé asked her if she thought Galen was the one and she said, “Oh, of course, yes.” So Mister went to show the man how to fold up Galen’s kennel. I showed them Galen’s bag of stuff: his retractable leash, chicken tenders, toenail clippers, rawhide chews, his blue nylabone that he has had since he was a baby, his “baby” (a natural fiber “bear” that has a squeaky in it, his towels, a new bag of food, his water and food bowl, his special shampoo and his conditioning mist.

We walked them outside, they put all of his stuff in the trunk and the girl held Galen. I leaned down and he gave me a kiss on the lips.

(Totally crying like a bitch right now.)

Mister patted him and turned back towards the house before the couple could see his face crumble in a mess of big man tears and sobs.

We went inside and well, the rest of the day was a blur.

I woke up on Sunday and felt like I had been hit with a bat. We had planned on going to church but I was a mess, so Mister let me sleep. At like 10:30 or so, I got out of bed and tried walking to the bathroom. I collapsed in a mess of tears, snot and sobbing uncontrollably when I came across this.

While I went and tried not to throw up, Mister vacuumed the carpet so the vestiges of Galen’s crate marks could be removed. But what about the chewed furniture, the baseboards, the desk? What about the little puppy whisker I found on the floor while I was laying there naked like a pathetic asshole? What about the tee tiny puppy hairs on mister’s beloved woolen coat?

I couldn’t even talk to my mother when she called. I was a wreck. I kept going back to the millions of Animal Precinct shows that I had seen on Animal Planet… and The Dog Whisperer… “There are no bad pets, just bad owners.” I kept wailing on and on to Mister, “We made a covenant with Galen when we rescued him…” Mister, “What covenant? We didn’t rescue him. We BOUGHT him.” And my watery hitching reply, “So, that makes him what!?!?! A SLAVE?!”

Gah. The drama.

The tears.

I know, I know in my heart of hearts that he is better off being with someone who will spend all the time in the world with him and give him treats and teach him how to balance a ball on his nose like a seal. I KNOW. But it still doesn’t make it any easier knowing that we failed. Failed miserably. We gave him the best care in the world, the Greenies© and the love… but it was not enough.

Mister downloaded this for me to be able to show y’all how much fun it was to share our life with the little badger. If only for a little while.

Galen playing with a balloon from Mister’s birthday. Please click to see video at YouTube.com.

And for those of you who are just itching to write me a nasty email for “rehoming” or “abandoning” the puppy. Go ahead. Write it. But just do me a favor and don’t send it for a week or two. I called in sick to work yesterday because the tears would not stop. And today? Still with the crying. So just go ahead, write your little nasty email. But save it as a draft and send it when I am a little more stable and am able to fire back with a “Fuck Off you Judgmental Whore!” Deal?

February 26, 2007

I did not stick to the paper on the examination table.

I? Have a new gynecologist.

How is that shit for an opening statement?

I have finally traded in Dr. Goatee for a real doctor. Not like I was going down to the Greyhound station, putting my feet in the stirrupy things that the shoe shine guy uses and asking him to take a look. I have just moved on from the guy I was referred to by my (HOT) Argentinean General Practitioner and I am very happy about it.

I have been seeing Dr. Goatee for about six years (seven? eight?) and I have never been quite comfortable with him. He looks like Freud and every time I see him he gives me the same “cover your ass” spiel about… “Can’t say it’s not cancer until we take out the lump in your breast and have the pathologist say it isn’t cancer.”

So, yeah, he wasn’t very comforting and that added to the whole sweaty, shaky, high blood pressure thing I had going on every time I would visit him for a well woman appointment or to go over the results of yet another mammogram he had ordered for me.

I figured that I would try to find someone that didn’t make me pucker with just the words, “Okay, you are going to feel a little pressure.”

So, I did. Well, not me really. This is another thing to thank Stacey for. I called her and asked, “Do you like your OBGYN?” When she started squeeing all over this guy, “I love him! Oh… My… God, he is the sweetest man and so nice.” So I figured it couldn’t hurt to give him a shot. So I scheduled myself an appointment and Mister and I went in last Wednesday.

He spoke to us in his office for about 15 to 20 minutes then gave me an exam in one of their posh-ly appointed examination rooms. Y’all? I did not shake, I did not have high blood pressure, I did not perspire… I did not stick to the paper on the examination table! It was a miracle.

I was just sticking with Dr. Goatee because he was in the same office complex as (HOT) Argentinean Doctor and I thought that I should have all of my Doctors aware of my [::ahem::] issues or at least be on the same page.

But you know what? I am so much more comfortable with this new Dr. He and I graduated from the same high school, he is a total smart ass (in a good way) and he makes me feel good about my choice. I felt all ashamed for changing doctors… but after being subjected to Doctor McScratchyPants I figured that I should have no qualms about my loyalty to a doctor who is going to be all up in my business for the rest of forever. Right? Right.

So? We love him. He and (HOT) Argentinean Doctor and the new Dermatologist guy (Dr. McG) will all take care of me and I will love them and send them cookies at Christmas.

More later as I am het up about something and can totally not talk about it here as I would get fired if someone from my job ever found this page.

(Good Lord. I just went a full week without someone at my office asking about Galen. The first one who asked – just now 3:54 p.m. on 2/26/07 – , shrieked when I told her, put her hand on her hip and said, “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself!?” “Well, no, actually I am not… but if it makes you feel better to try and guilt me into tears about it…” Gah.)

February 28, 2007

Crazy. Also, overly worried about her teeth.

Okay kids, I have several things I want to get off of my chest. You may need a sack lunch for this one ya’ll. And no, babies, this isn’t about that… or that. Just a few little things that I am sure you already know, but I would like to discuss them further.

Number One: I admit it. No need to point fingers y’all. I am a bit high strung. No, no, no. It’s ok. We can all talk about the dead moose on the table. It’s been out there for a long time (as of 2/20 – four freaking years of a long time). I know that you may have suspected that I am a little on the “wound tight” side… but it is okay to talk about it. I get a little anxious surrounding some things.

Okay.

Fine.

I get a lot anxious surrounding A LOT of things.

And I? Actually have medication prescribed to help me get out of those little death roll thoughts. It is called Nirivam. It is basically the oral dissolving tablets of Xanax. I have it prescribed on an as needed basis. But let’s go ahead and call a spade a spade. I need it every day.

Take for instance… oh, today.

Back story goes here: (I’m a bit format happy today as well. Go with it.) (Also? Someone is eating Vienna sausages and I can smell them. I may barf.) So, last week I got my teeth cleaned by Diana. She was sweet, complimentary and gentle. All things you should ask for in your dental hygienist*. My teeth are healthy and when the dentist guy (unfortunately not Hot Dentist) came over to do the check-over before I left he asked me if I had any concerns. I replied, “No, not unless you count that I really, really, really want razor straight blindingly white teeth. No, I don’t.” He was all charming and said, “You have good teeth girl.”

He called me “girl”. Let’s move on.

*I also (y’all please, do not run away after you read this) confessed to Diana that I have been known to use everything from a vigorous tooth brushing, to floss, to… a… thumbtack (I know) to get rid of tartar. So, she gave me my own set of dental tools. How freaking cool is that! Move over, curiously long thumbtack, your replacements are here.

So I thanked him/them and went about my week.

Over the weekend I was sitting in Mister’s Tahoe and reapplying lipstick with the help of the sun and a compact mirror while he was filling up the tank with fuel and I noticed this little discoloration on my tooth between one of the front ones and the canine on the right side.

My mind immediately went into overdrive, “Your teeth are going to all fall out of your head. You will be toothless by sundown. It’s a CA-VI-TEEEEEEE! Oh, NO! A cavity!? I’m not a good steward of my teeth!”

Okay, yes. Maybe a little dramatic and over the top, but whatever. You guys know my teeth are a big hot topic button for me and if that button is pushed, it sends me over into crazytown, population: Me.

Monday could not come fast enough. I waited until the dentist office opened on Monday and then called, breathless trying to get a viewing of the gaping hole in my maw as soon as possible. That ‘soon as possible’? Was Thursday (tomorrow) at 12:30 p.m.

Today, I happened to be in that part of town dealing with the company that shorted me (bastards.) on 12% of my swag order for Green Bay (squeee!). I thought to myself, “Self? The dentist’s office is only around the corner. Seriously… Just around the corner. Over there… yes, there. Why don’t you just mosey on in, see if that hot dentist with the beautiful smile has a moment to look at the hole in your tooth the size of Manhattan

So, yes, I listened to the crazy and waltzed into the dentist’s office and met the receptionist. “Hi, yeah, um. This may sound a wee bit nuts but, I uh, I have an appointment with [hot dentist] tomorrow at 12:30 and I was in the area and wondering if he had a quick moment to take a look at the tooth that I have questions about. And if he does and we have to fill it… if (God forbid) it was a cavity, we could fill it tomorrow during that 12:30 appointment that I already have scheduled.”

And I said it all in one breath like “Hiyeahumthismaysoundaweebitnutsbut,Iuh,Ihave anappointmentwith…” blah blah blah. So by the time I finished the receptionist lady was almost physically restraining herself from running away. She smiled all sweet and said, “Sure, let me check on that.” And y’all? A dental assistant came out into the lobby and got me right away. I must have, “Crazy. Also, overly worried about her teeth.” listed on my file or something.

So while I was sitting there with that stupid little paper neckerchief thing on and wondering if I was going to lose all of my teeth at once, or if I may keep a few until I turn, oh, 40 and if I would have to get dentures**, the assistant guy comes over to take my blood pressure. The little wristlet cuff thingy was all “beepbeepbeepbeep” like it was trying to win a race and my blood pressure was way up. I realized, “I may vomit.” It is a little dance you can do with me… I get het up, keyed up and then I want to throw up.

**I’ll get to this later. Or make it Number Two or something. Really, you do not want this ‘aside’ put here. It’s not one to move along quickly from after reading. And, could that sentence be anymore ungainly? Answer: No.

That is when I knew that I had made a mistake.

Last night while getting ready for bed [sex] I was taking my medications and I said to myself, “Self, why don’t you just take an Advil PM along with your 87000*** mgs of Sonata to help yourself sleep tonight. You do not need the Nirivam. Also, you only have a few left, and then there was that one time [Galen] that you took one and a half before you went to bed, but you are also going out of town this weekend and what if you needed them and they weren’t there and the TSA may take your luggage and you may not have your medications and and and…”

Yeah, so it spiraled out of control from there and I should have taken one anyway because I think the medication actually lasts all night and then all the next day and keeps part of my crazy at bay. (That totally rhymed.)

***Total exaggeration. It’s only 86000 mgs.

I was sitting there with my heart racing, freaking out on the inside that my teeth were going to fall out of my head and it took me that long to realize that I may have missed my medication. And more than just missed, I MISSED my medication… if you know what I mean and I totally think you do.

Hot Dentist came over after what felt like an eternity (maybe six minutes) and looked at my tooth, “Oh, this here? It is just a bit of calcification. You have a little shallow groove here that may have collected some plaque in the past and it has just discolored your tooth a little. No problems. It is not a cavity.” I let out a sigh of relief so immense that it blew back his perfectly coiffed hair.

When I left I called Mister, “You know I am crazy, right?” Without missing a beat, he replied, “Yes.” So I told him all about how the crazy took over and somehow I ended up at the dentist. “I thought your appointment wasn’t until tomorrow.” So I went over the whole, “Well, I was in the area…” thing. “Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight.”

That poor man. Good thing he thinks I have a bangin rack.

Okay…

Number Two: Also known as ** or the artist formally known as “**” or just plain “Ew.”
When Diana was cleaning my teeth the other day, between scraping and polishing I asked her what made her want to become a dental hygienist. She told me that she went to school for being a dental assistant but then she wanted the one on one interaction with her patients, she didn’t want to just hang over the shoulder of the dentist and take notes, she wanted to do the cleanings.

This was all well and good until I mentioned that it must be disgusting to have your hands in people’s mouths all day. She said that the only thing that bothers her is when men leave spinach or broccoli or some leafy green goody in their teeth for her to clean out. She said, “For some reason, it is only the men.” And then she said it… “Want to know the grossest thing I have ever seen?”

Oh, y’all… more beautiful words have never been spoken.

Except this is where I totally forgot that I am all teeth OCD and it may color my world view if she actually told me something completely disgusting that she found in someone’s mouth… or something.

She said, “I’ll tell you when we walk you to go have your x-rays, in case you squeal.”

I knew this was going to be incredible.

Do y’all want to hear it? Huh? If you do, please read… if not, catch up after the break.

Okay. Lean in closer.

Diana said, “When I was first out of school this man came in to the office where I was working. He was an older gentleman, about seventy or so. He was complaining of a tooth ache and the dentist asked me to take him for x-rays to see if he had a cavity. So I take him back to the x-ray room and in the course of trying to get the x-rays it was found that he had dentures. So I told the dentist that the man had dentures but was still complaining of a toothache.”

Here she raised an eyebrow as if asking if she should continue.

“Please continue.” I said. So she did, “It seems that the man has had his full dentures for over ten years and in all that time he had never taken them out.”

This is where I was all, “Nooooo….” She replied, “Yes. When he had first gotten them he said no one ever told him to take them out and brush and soak them overnight… everynight.” I asked her, “So… what was hurting him?” I thought maybe he had a corn hull stuck up there or something but she totally threw me for a loop. “No, when the dentist took the man’s dentures out his gums were rotting and he had a worm burrowing through his jaw.”

::all over body shudder::

My face squinched up and I asked her, “Did you totally vomit?” She said, “No, I wanted to but that old dentist just laughed and laughed… thought it was the funniest thing he had ever seen!” I said, “Did he have gangrenous gums or something? How did the worm get in there?” She just shrugged and laughed.

So now you know what I was REALLY thinking while I was sitting there in that chair waiting on the dentist to check out my tooth. A) Did I have a worm burrowing in my tooth. Or B) Did the dentist just see someone else who did and is he about to put his hands in my mouth!?

Eeesh.

So. Yeah. Sorry about that.

Ok, last thing.

Number Three: Wait… one more little thing first. On the way to the dentist this morning I saw a guy on a Harley making total fun of a dude on a Vespa. There. That didn’t really count as thing number three did it? No? Good. Okay.

Number Three: Music.
I was not raised going to concerts. I begged and pleaded to go. I wanted to see Journey SO BAD in 1990 (89?). They were on their Raised on Radio concert tour and I was a senior in high school. I was old enough. Lord, my sister went to Monster Jam when she was a scant seventeen years old! So, yes, I wanted to go to see Metallica that summer when they came to town, but I knew (or thought I knew) how to choose my battles.

I brought up the concert to my mother. I told her that I would pay for my own tickets and that she could even come as my chaperone. I just wanted to see Steve Perry and his pointy nosed goodness singing. I didn’t care if Raised on Radio sucked ass. I just wanted to go for the sheer pleasure of MAYBE hearing him sing something from Frontiers or their Greatest Hits. I didn’t care.

My mother? “Oh Susan, you are too young. You don’t need to go to a concert.” She said “concert” the way most people would say “genital warts”. She said I was too young. I was ready for that one, “But Maaaaahhhhhmmmm, Reb went to the Monster Jam at Texas Stadium when she wasn’t even a senior!” “Susan, this is not up for discussion, it just doesn’t suit that you go this year. You can go next year.”

That summer? Fucking Journey split up.

Blast! ::fist in the air… villain stopped in his tracks moment::

Up to that point I had been to two concerts. TWO. And I was eighteen. (Or would be that May.)

One of the concerts, oh, the shame… was going to see a ‘surprise concert’ with my parents. My mother dressed me up in my best Laura Ashley pastel, sailor necked dress and freaking off white stockings to see Barry Manilow at Reunion Area when I was fourteen. My sister was probably off watching porn or seeing Iron Maiden in concert. I? Was sitting between my father and my mother, with a bow in my hair listening to Barry Manilow do a benefit concert for the Ronald McDonald House.

Could I go to Winger?

Oh helllll no. But, “Susan, George Strait is playing at Six Flags on Saturday. Why don’t I take you and Stephanie to see him and you can use your season’s passes to get in.”

Fuck.

Steph, do you remember this? We went to see George Strait play oh, all of four bars of “Amarillo by Morning” and then we were off to ride roller coasters and smoke at the top of the observation tower. Okay, I smoked at the top of the observation tower, but you went with me.

I love live music y’all. I really do. But for some reason not going to concerts in my developing years I just never really cultivated a taste for arena concerts. They are loud, the music is distorted, it is impersonal, people are touching you, it smells bad, is usually as hot as Hades on the 4th of July and the beer is expensive.

Live music in more intimate settings such as ice houses, watering holes or bars of any kind are my speed.

One of my favorite bands to go see live is Chant (awww suki suki… PS, go to their MySpace page… downloads available… yummy). Chant is scrumptious. Chant is delicious. Chant is wonderful and can be loud and crass or slow and seductive and all bluesy. In an arena? I would totally lose the closeness, the intimacy, the sound of Chant. Now, they do play some pretty big houses and some outdoor venues but they make it intimate. They MAKE it so you want to go see them anywhere they play.

I just can’t see Joan Jett coming up to me after a set and giving me a kiss and saying, “Glad you could make it. Thanks so much for coming.” Although I would probably die where I stood if that ever happened because of the curiously strange girl crush I have on Miss Jett.

Take tonight for instance.

Mister took me for sushi last night and we were talking about our plans for the next few nights/days.

Check it. The man scored some tickets for a suite at American Airlines Center to see Eric Clapton tonight.

I don’t know of one person (ok one, my father) who wouldn’t give their right arm to go see Slow Hand play… and for free? In a suite? Free beer? Air conditioning? People not touching me? Well, that sounds mighty fine Sir. Thank you, I will have another.

Where was I going with this?

Oh my GOD. I am on page seven.

Ok, quick, to wrap it up… I am a little miffed that Mr. Clapton (the genius that he is) is playing tonight. Tonight I had planned to do a dry run for everything that I needed to pack for my Green Bay weekend. It is eighty degrees here and minus eleventy there. I may die. I need to pack everything and then at least twelve pairs of shoes for two and a half days.

This will just not do. Mr. Clapton, you are jacking with my packing schedule.

In conclusion. I am crazy.

About February 2007

This page contains all entries posted to Suzanna Danna in February 2007. They are listed from oldest to newest.

January 2007 is the previous archive.

March 2007 is the next archive.

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

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