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March 6, 2007

Weetacon '07 Part I

Alright, so the Green Bay weekend.

Y’all? It was like summer camp… with boobies.

I laughed, I cried… it was better than Cats… I want to go again, and again, and again.

Let me give you a run down of the awesome festivities.

I will start with a list of the cast and try to link to as many people as possible. Then I will move on in an orderly fashion with my story of how I got there… and as much as I can remember. (Which translates into massive amounts of run on sentences and/or tangents that lead to blank space… which will be taken up by many awkward segues.)

The cast in order of how they are listed on the 3tacon website. You may click to go to their pages from here or ... well, from the 3tacon site. I am not going to make a link to each one every time I mention someone because, I am lazy.

Ok… everyone that was there (in alphabetical order*… with their link if they have one):
JenTrance & Bullshit
Lisa & Frank
Mary & Joe
Poppy & Tam
Rachel & Mark
Scotty Boom Boom
Susan & Ed
SuzannaDanna (me)
The Jason

*Dude. I so should have done them in order of appearance.

If I have missed anyone, please let me know. MissBelladonna was supposed to come as well as MoreSarah and her hubby… but alas, they could not be there. Woe.

Also, woe to JenTrance who got scurvy and or the Hantavirus and could not join us for the festivities for Friday and Saturday, but I did get to meet her (and Bullshit) for a very brief moment on Sunday morning.

So Wednesday night when I should have been packing, I was standing outside the building at American Airlines Center and cursing Eric Clapton and my poor husband up and down. There was a fire alarm and they were not letting anyone into or out of the building. There was a literal mob of people that I was standing amongst and it was all very dramatic. Little did I know that as soon as I walked into the suite an hour and a half later that the sweet sweet strains of Robert FUCKING Cray would be serenading my ears.

Robert Cray.

He was opening for Eric Clapton.

Let me say it again. Robert Cray. Do y’all know how much I love Robert Cray? Anyone? Take my love for Stevie Ray Vaughn and Bonnie Raitt and dial it back half a notch. That’s how much. So I walked in, did my trophy wife duties and then stood there in the suite watching Robert Cray and his little 4 man band woo the crowd.

Remember how I said that arena concerts are impersonal and the music is distorted? I totally was talking out of my ass. I knew not of which I spoke… especially at American Airlines Center. Everything was crisp and clear and beautiful and the music was so good that the girls stood at attention for over three hours.

So Thursday rolled around, I went and got my herrr did after work and ran some errands. By the time I got home it was after 7:30 in the p.m. and I still had to pack. Luckily I had been stressing out about the packing for several days and had a list. A list, in category order with little places to check off each item. I know, yes anal… but I bow before the packing queen Weetabix who blows us all away with her packing spreadsheets that are labeled by date and afternoon and evening wear… plus accessories. She is the queen.

So I packed and went to bed at a pretty reasonable hour but I couldn’t sleep because I was so excited. My alarm went off at 4:30 and I got up, showered (messing up the perfect blow out done by my stylist the night before) and headed out the door to the airport.

I got to my Parking Spot and the shuttle took me to the gate. I hopped off, drug my hoopty ass luggage (I took Mister’s luggage, it has a broken wheel but is twice as big as my suitcase) and went up to the sky cap. It was by this time, 6:15 am.

“I have some bad news for you,” the sky cap said. “Both of your flights have been canceled due to weather.” I replied, “The fuck?” No… I really didn’t but I totally wanted to. I grabbed my hoopty ass luggage and hauled it upstairs to the American Airlines counter. I was flying on award miles so was aware that they were probably not going to take any pity on me.

“So, what is your last name?” asked the AA counter guy. I gave it to him and he was all, “Ut oh.” I spared him the drama and said, “I know, they are all cancelled. When is the next flight and how soon can you get me into Green Bay?” “Well, they are all cancelled due to the blizzard. I can get you into Green Bay tomorrow evening at 10 pm.” My mind was going ape shit wanting to scream, “But it is the Weeticon you FUCKER! It only lasts until Sunday morning! I would miss the Bad Bar!” But what I said was, “How close can you get me to Green Bay?” He replied, “Milwaukee?” Like it was a question.

I needed someone to be firm about the matter at hand so I asked him what time that plane left. It left at 8:10 a.m. That would put me into Milwaukee at around 10:30 a.m. and I could rent a car and drive the two and a quarter hours to Green Bay. Right? Right.

“Book it.” I told him.

I had to get to another terminal to catch the Milwaukee flight, no biggie. I did it. Then I started calling all of the car rental places and asking for a one way-er from Milwaukee into Green Bay. I won’t tell you the costs that Hertz was quoting me but since it jumped almost $200 from the first time I called, to the second time… I am pretty sure they were going to have me bent over the hood of that rental without the courtesy of a reach around or any lube. So I said to myself, “Self,” I said, “You are Columbus today. You will reach your destination and things do not have to be über planned before you get there. Just trust and then get a car when you get into Milwaukee.” So, that is exactly what I did.

I got to Milwaukee (pretty pretty snow) and hauled the hoopty luggage to the rental car counters. I noticed that they were all empty of customers except Avis. They are one of the only rental places that I didn’t call so I went to try my luck. I asked the lady, Pat, if she had any cars in her inventory that needed to be returned to Green Bay. She said, “I think so, one moment.” And looked in her system.

She did, it was a fourth of the cost the Hertz was quoting me so I was all, “Book it.”

Again with the “Book it”? Who do I think I am? Lieutenant McGarrett from Hawaii 5-0?

Oh, and what the hell is the deal with me saying, “Rock on.” all the time? Am I in the 80’s? Do I belong to Judas Priest or AC/DC? It is almost like I am translating everything from, “Truly I agree my darling.” to “Let’s get the fuck out of here.” Into my two syllable catch all, “Rock on.”


Anyway. Pat did have a car, she booked it for me, I went to the security booth and got into my rental. A Pontiac G6, white. Woo. Whatever, I was NOT going to be fussy. Oh, and also I asked Pat, “How do I get to Green Bay?” She did not know. “Do you have a map of Wisconsin or even the Milwaukee area Pat?” I asked her. After all, hi… you are a car rental place. Please tell me you have a map. She did, a small one and I got the general gist of how to get to Green Bay.

I called Weet while I was on my way, because she was kind enough to offer to pick me up at the airport, and told her that I would be at the airport but probably around 1:30 or so as opposed to the previous time of noon that I had given her. She said that would be fine as everyone was delayed and that Jake and Eben would be getting there at 2:00 p.m. so we could all just ride together.

I drove out 119 to 94 North towards Milwaukee then got on 43 North to Green Bay. The drive was beautiful and gave me a chance to calm the fuck down as I was allllllll sorts of keyed up. I started counting silos and then stopped at 34. The snow was going sideways and it was windy but the roads weren’t that bad and I made pretty good time.

I got to Green Bay right around the time I planned and had just dropped off my keys at the Avis counter when Weet pulled up. She came inside and instantly I felt as though I had known her forever. She was so gracious and warm and her eyes are so blue that the first time she looked at me full on I was startled by how beautiful her eyes are. Find pictures y’all. Go look now. I’ll wait.


So, we waited around for the boys and MissBelladonna and MoreSarah both called Weet to cancel. We chatted and put my luggage in her car and when Jake and Eben got there it was like someone opened the gates because as we were waiting for Jake’s luggage Mary, Joe and LA all walked in. I hugged them all as I had known them forever. LA and I eyed each other a bit and then we all fell into easy laughter.

We all got to the hotel and checked in. The Jason was in the lobby handing out programs for the weekend, our name badges, getting room and cell phone information and handing out hugs to welcome everyone. It was so nice. My room was on the 2nd floor and I loved it. The tub was huge and the shower was completely open on one side, big enough to accommodate four or five people and a rain shower head to top it all off.

I changed to go downstairs for the meet and greet and that is where I met Melinda, Kevin, Mo, Fredlet, Amy, Mike, Lisa-Marie and Poppy. Mo handed me a WINGO paper, it is sort of like BINGO and was meant to be an ice breaker game. I had to get people to sign in the squares that said stuff like, “Refuses to do karaoke.” “Writes under a pseudonym.” “Has more than one website.” “Has never had cheese curds before.” “Has never been to Weeticon before.” “Just kissed me.” “Has married someone they met online.” “Has made out with someone from Weeticon.” So I walked around, introducing myself to people and asking them questions.

Kevin took me aside and told me a little bit about who was who and what place they should sign on the WINGO card. I was trying to push myself out of my comfort zone. I could have easily hid in a corner (behind a potted plant) and just had a drink, a smoke and then I could have just followed the group from place to place, but I was the new girl, the one who didn’t know anyone there and had never been before. Well, Mary’s husband Joe had never been before but he had Mary to guide him. (And the rest of us to pin the Booyah button on him. :) )

So I introduced myself to each person and talked to them about which site was theirs, if they had travel issues getting to Green Bay, which place on the WINGO card they could sign and had a great time. About an hour before we left the hotel/bar to go to dinner Weet’s husband Esteban came in. I had heard that he was particularly knowledgeable about liquor and that, “He is a fucker.” He would give people the nasty shots and laugh when they grimaced. So? I decided to make him my ally. (As most of you know I am a wimp when it comes to drinking… well, I am now.)

I asked the bartender for a gin and tonic and then asked him to give me a shot of his choice and to sign the square on the WINGO card that said “Will sign this after you do a shot of their choice”. (It didn’t say that I had to stay within the people at the minicon. I even had some random guy at the bar sign the box that said “Has never been to a Weeticon.”) (Also,… heh.) The bartender signed it, gave me my gin and tonic and then handed me a shot of whiskey. I tasted it, winced and … this is where Esteban comes in. He walked over, put his beer down, lit a smoke and said, “You’re drinking that all wrong.” He tried to school me in the arts of drinking whiskey. “Take a deep breath before, sip it, swallow it, then breathe out your mouth. If you inhale it will burn your sinuses.”

Ah… So that’s what I have been doing wrong for the past 34 years. Ok, 16 years… because I didn’t drink before I turned 18, no sirree Bob.

So I tasted it his way. Not too bad. Then he gave me something called a B&B… some brandy and whiskey/bourbon (seriously can’t remember for shit) thing and told me the same rules apply, no inhaling. I tasted it, it was sweet and not too bad at all, but I will still stick with my pussy drinks, thank you. Gin and tonic with a lime anyone?

Alright. This is long as hell. I am on page five and I still haven’t even touched on dinner and the Bad Bar Friday night. And there is still Saturday and Sunday to discuss as well.

Much love and more later. Pics are being posted everywhere as we speak. I didn’t bring my camera, but I have a link here that is being updated several times a day.

Weetacon Photo Pool. Clickety, Click, Click Bitches.

More tomorrow.

March 7, 2007

Weetacon '07 Part II

YAY! It is tomorrow and I should be working on my speakers’ gifts… but NOOOO… I am going to clickity clackity on my little keyboard until I get some of these great memories about Green Bay down on (virtual) paper.

So, we were in Paris dancing on stage at the Crazy Horse… right? No?

Damn. Ok, so we were still in the bar at the hotel, the group was getting riled up as the liquor flowed, the cigarettes were smoked and old acquaintances were rekindled and new acquaintances were made. Oh, and one more thing about the WINGO card? There was a spot on it that had these words, “This person will sign after watching you perform a Weeticon cheer that you just made up.” I asked Eric (a local) to sign that spot as soon as he took Esteban’s place between Amy and I at the bar. He blinked at me, raised an eyebrow with a look that said, “Make with the embarrassing cheer missy.”

I did my little cheer, he smirked and signed my WINGO card.*

*Cue foreboding music.

Weet wrangled us all together and we all gathered out coats and belongings and headed outside to basically cross the street to go to the restaurant. There is a $10 rule that is strictly enforced while you are at Weeticon. Ten Dollar Rule: “You must eat at least ten dollars of food before you go to the bad bar, otherwise death awaits you in the form of a hangover that will not expire… EVER.”

So we all went to Victoria’s. It is a quaint little Italian food place that had portions bigger than a 12 pound baby**.

**Perfect for that Le Creuset 13 Quart cooker, really.

We all ordered and munched on the most delicious bread this side of the world. Okay, that sounds a little extreme… maybe I was just hungry. But it was good. The waitress came by to take our orders and I asked her what she suggested. It was something I couldn’t pronounce that was basically tortellini, stuffed with cheese, spinach and veal, covered in a cream sauce with mushrooms the size of my fist. One please!

Everyone trickled in and Mo took up all of the WINGO cards (okay only two, one from me and one from The Jason) and I won first prize, which was three drinks at the bad bar!


But then boooo… Eric yelled out, “Make her do her cheer.”

Y’all? My mouth went dry. It was just like that time in fifth grade right before I went onstage to do my solo dance routine to Xanadu. I was totally smoking in the purple leotard and those tangerine, white, pink and purple scarves that my mother lent me did fill out the dramatic effects and added just enough pizzazz*** to O.N.J.’s silky voice.

***These are jazz hands, [whapuh!] THESE are spirit fingers.

Or maybe it wasn’t JUST like that time. But it was enough to make me very nervous and do that really high pitched laughter thing and be all, “noooo… I couldn’t”. That’s when from across the room I heard the beautiful bell-like voice of Jessie ring out in the darkness that was closing in fast and say, “I’ll do it with her!”

So? We went around the corner, I gave her the pitifully short Weeticon cheer that I had pulled out of my ass a scant hour earlier and she was all, “Got it. Let’s go!”

Love her. Jessie, love you. Mean it.

We went back into the private room where Weet was holding court and Mo announced that we were going to perform our cheer and then she’d give us the instructions to the games “Drink Bitch” and “Booyah!” So Jessie and I, side by side, her strong voice ringing out and mine barely a squeak commenced to do our cheer.

W-E-E-T, Weeticon – WOO!
W-E-E-T, Weeticon – WOO!

Go ahead y’all. Do it.

I then dubbed Eric “Traitor” and wouldn’t call him anything else all weekend.

The games were awesome. Drink Bitch is basically where you yell out the artist’s name of a song that is playing on the jukebox and make everyone around you drink. If you are wrong, two drinks for you… and if you are challenged. Um… something else happens. It’s basically like playing “Love Boat” where you drink every time your character comes on screen. “GOPHER!”

Or playing “Bob” with The Bob Newhart Show. PS… the lushes always want to be Bob. Or while playing “Love Boat”… the ship.

Mo also told us about the Booyah game.

If you noticed in the pictures from the link I posted yesterday… posted again here for your convenience: Weeticon Photo Pool. Clickety, Click, Click Bitches.

You will see Tam, Joe, Jessie and Traitor with fuzzy hats on their noggins. They won these by being Booyah’d. Weet had four pins made with “Booyah” written on them. They were stealthily hidden upon someone’s person and then that person would be told that they had been Booyah’d quietly or with much fanfare.

If you were in possession of the Booyah button when the bartender came over the loud speaker and yelled, “BOOYAH!” you would have to take a shot of Esteban’s choosing… and he’s a fucker, dontchaknow?

We danced, drank, sang along to everything, performed choreographed dance moves to “Sweet Caroline” (with Eben as the lead… so good, so good, so good), saw boobies, watched Jake make a snow angel, smoked in the blizzard, kissed LA, kissed Melinda, sweated, danced some more, avoided the Booyah button, flirted with the Israeli bouncer, kissed everyone else, oh, and played a game that included the following: glow bracelets and stickers with names of famous people on them. If you guessed who you were (which sticker was on your back) you got a glow bracelet… or glow cleavage enhancers… as it were.

We also watched the local wildlife come alive in the forms of skankalicious women with mall hair and no rhythm try to hump every man on the dance floor. It was awesome.

That evening which was Friday I felt the tiredness creeping in early. I am so ashamed to say that I called it an evening at eleven o’clock because clearly, I can not hang. Scotty Boom Boom was sweet enough to shuttle people back and forth to the hotel so that they, and by “they” I totally mean ME, would not take a header into a snow drift. I accepted the ride gladly and little did I know that he would be my chauffer for much of the weekend. He’s a nice one, that Scotty Boom Boom.

I left before Mare, Rachel and Mark got to the bad bar and before Hot Jason and Hot Nancy pulled Weet back behind the bar and made her play bartender. But I knew that the next day would be a long one.

I got up at seven (what was I thinking?) because I popped up wide awake at 5:30 and just sort of dozed until my alarm went off. I ran around in the shower (seriously, that thing was very big) to get clean and get the smoke out of my hair, dried (sort of) my tresses, brushed my teeth for about fifteen minutes and then put on my outfit and some make up.

Did y’all know that there are costume changes at Weeticon?

I didn’t. I should have brought more outfits. On Friday alone I saw LA in three outfits. And she looked hot in each one. Weet? Three outfits. One for knocking around and picking up people at the airport, one for the meet and greet and dinner and one for the bad bar. Oh, the bad bar shirt is now called the vagina shirt. I’ll let her tell the story. It’s a good one.

So I went downstairs to have some breakfast and that’s where I got to talk to Kari for the first time. She came up for the day and was my bus buddy on the Door County Bus Tour. She is so teeny and such a sweetie.

We left at 10:31 a.m. and our first stop was at Joe Rouer’s where we picked up high maintenance hamburgers, fried cheese curds and spuds for our trip out to Door County. Renards Cheese Factory. Oh. My Ever-loving God. I called Mister as soon as I walked in the door and as soon as I read the contents of the store to him he was all, “Ship one of everything home.” And y’all? I got my order today at the office. Havarti cheese, real mozzarella string cheese, cheddar cheese curds, alfalfa honey, champagne mustard, two jars of chopped cherry jam and two jars of cherry spun honey.

Yes, cherry spun honey. Two. Jars.

I spent $32.00 on cheese. And I am not kidding.

Our next stop was at the Simon Creek Winery. I have never cultivated a taste for wine (or whiskey or scotch) so I was interested in going on the wine tours as I knew there would be tasting involved. I am pretty sure that is why I have never acquired a taste for wine as it is normally sold by the glass or the bottle and if I didn’t drink it all I would feel wasteful, so I didn’t want to waste something that I was just going to try a little bit of.

I did like this Cabernet Franc that Roy’s used to have. It was incredible and I have only had one glass… and now that they don’t have it anymore, I may cry.

Back on track, rambling, sorry.

So, at the winery we all went belly up to the bar and started tasting everything on their list. The list was like “The Blah Dee Bloo is very oaky and has a hint of pears when they first bloom in the summer, it also likes long walks on the beach, men with hairy chests and the color mauve.” I have no clue about wines so I was all… um, can I try the reddish one? So they learned me about wines. The lady behind the bar was very nice and said that I should go from dry to sweet. I know I have heard the term dry in regards to wine, but, come on. Dry, for a liquid? Is this going to hurt like that whiskey?

So I started tasting the wines one by one. By one. By one. Seriously, this is all you got bitches? My momma has more wine than this in her pantry!

Kidding. I didn’t get drunk or embarrass anyone (except for myself and the non adult thing of knowing squat about wine). So I kept trying them and about eleventy two glasses down the line I found one or two that I thought were passable, either that or my taste buds had given up, put the white flag out and were going home for the day. And this was at like 11:30 a.m. I’m HARD CORE FUCKERS! Wooo Hooo!

(My mother totally steals glasses from wineries. Did I tell y’all that? Seriously, she gets all klepto with things that she loves… public things that she loves. She’s taken plates – okay, whatever, saucers – from Bed and Breakfast places and restaurants. “No, that waitress totally gave this plate to me!” That Statue of Liberty thing? Will totally be in her front yard one day. Ps. Mom, sorry I called everyone a fucker and then ousted you about your stealing ways.)

I picked out two bottles (oooh, shiny) and totally copied Eben on what he was getting because, how would I know the difference? I got those bottles for Mister (couldn’t call to get his take on it, no cell service) and then I saw some walnut flavored grape seed oil. Now, that is something I can get behind****. So I made my purchases and had them shipped to my office with the eleventy dollars worth of cheese and cheese products from Renard’s.

Weet loaded us all up and we then went to ANOTHER winery. Door County Winery. And I got their stuff and the stuff from Renard’s TODAY. Here… in the office. Wine and cheese bitches.

Ok. Time to pack it in****. More tomorrow.

****That’s what she said.

March 8, 2007

Weetacon '07 Part III

So, yes this is taking a long ass time to write and, yes babies, even longer to read. I am Talky McSpeaksALot and I want to remember every moment of the Green Bay weekend.

Every moment except for the hoopty luggage… that piece of shit was drug around so much that the reinforced wire that is wrapped in fabric to create stability for the body of the luggage? It was worn right off and then, me dragging the luggage over asphalt, tarmacs and concrete ripped that piece of metal in twain. I had a weapon of mass hoopty luggage that would catch on Every. Single. Mat. In front of Every. Single. Door.

I got caught on rubber “wipe the snow off-a your feets” mats. Every time I would go into and/or out of a door. And there were door, oh yes… there were many doors. Stupid luggage. Samsonite, I curse thee.

So, back to the debauchery.

After we left the Simon Creek Winery we stopped for a photo op of this red barn right here. (Photo courtesy of Mo.)

It had snowed all of Friday and Friday night. The weather was temperate with those big fat fluttery snow flakes while we were at the Bad Bar. Saturday’s weather was perfect; sunny with fresh snow on the ground and a nice brisk wind.

Or next stop was the Door County Winery. I followed the mob to the back of the retail area where they had the wine not in bottles but in… boxes (? Coffee pots maybe, Igloo coolers? I really don’t know) and they would just pull a tab forward to let you taste that batch. It felt weird drinking wine on tap, but I went with it. This is where I (after hearing many a Weeticoner exclaim about it) found the Cranbernet. Cabernet and Cranberry wine married in one beautiful concoction. Not sure it is really something that should be found in nature, or in a winery, but it was good.

I purchased the Cranbernet for me and a Chesun Plum wine for Mister… as well as a half pound of cherry wine fudge. Seriously y’all. That stuff? The fudge? Is totally how chocolate covered cherries should taste. No lie. I had the winery ship all the stuff to the office as well and that is the wine that showed up yesterday along with my purchases from the ark of the covenant, also known as Renard’s Cheese Factory.

I am totally distracted by Boy Named Sue by Johnny Cash off of Weet’s mix cd that she gave out for swag. I have heard the line, “My name is SUE! How DO YOU DO?” since I was wee, just about every time I introduce myself. Yes, very original fuckers… let it go.

I am so scattered. Nothing to worry about… I am just offering an explanation for this entry and the four years of writing before it. Gah.

So, cheese, honey, chopped cherry jam, champagne mustard, four bottles of wine and a bottle of walnut flavored grape seed oil later and we all boarded back on the bus… only to stop at Storheim’s Frozen Custard. God.

I can totally feel my arteries hardening and actually hear my ass getting bigger… it is loud. It sounds sort of like a timpani, like a big build up in Fantasia or something. Maybe the music to the dancing hippo in her little pink tutu. So yeah, there’s that then. I will always have part of Green Bay with me… in the form of a larger ass. Go me.

On the way to Storheim’s we drove by (“This lake is Great.”) Lake Michigan and played Trivia. The two teams were the Starboard side and the Left Si-yeeeede! The Left Si-yeed kicked our Starboard asses and Weet handed out the most coveted of all prizes. The “Drink Bitch” magnets that she had made special for the trivia game. Only half of the Weeticoners got them and the other half were teased mercilessly about the massive awesomeness that were the magnets and the powers that they who held the magnets held within their grasp. They held the magnets aloft like He-Man all, “We have the powerrrrrr!”

I wanted a magnet.

Also to crawl inside Mare’s investment purse and to go home with her.

The flavor of the day at Storheim’s was, and I am not kidding, “Death By Chocolate”. I tried for restraint and ended up somewhere near begging for a small scoop of the Death By Cellulite Chocolate. I should have just stayed on the bus and made out with LA or something. It was good though, the custard. As a direct quote from the Weeticon program (yes, I know… how fucking awesome that Weet made an 8 page program for us?) the frozen custard is, “A sinfully rich form of ice cream made with real cream, real eggs, and real good! Not to be confused with ‘soft serve’, true frozen custard bypasses the digestive process and converts directly to body fat.”

No kidding. Can y’all hear my ass getting bigger from where you are? It’s like Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies but only louder and with 100% more hippo.

We returned to St. Brendan’s Inn to wrap up and warm up and layer up because next stop bitches? Was the sleigh ride. We all piled into the bus at 5:00 p.m. and headed off to the Circle K Ranch. We passed around the Doctor and laughed and told stories and I commented on the bar after bar after bar that we passed. My bus buddy, Scotty Boom Boom gave me a lesson on local bars and skiing in freezing ass water, “Wear a hat.”

Upon our arrival at the Circle K Ranch Weet’s in-laws had laid out the biggest spread of food that side of… Canada?

Like we needed to eat again. I had, over the course of a single day, ingested enough calories to keep a team of sumo wrestlers feeling full and sleepy.

We all laid out our swag on the back tables (I have a few bookmarks left, if you want one, email me) and everyone “ooh’d” and “ahh’d” over all of the trinkets that everyone brought. There were cookies and fudge, recipies, glow sticks with lollipops on top, bookmarks (mine), chap books, six mix cd’s, hand warmers and teeny bottles of Bailey’s Irish Cream, a whoopee cushion, nihilist gum and so much more. Everyone did such an awesome job on their swag.

Weet’s mother in law handed out to go cups of rich hot chocolate with whipped cream and shaved chocolate (the good stuff) on top. Most people added Bailey’s and even Doctor to their hot chocolate.

Poppy, Tam, Fredlet, Amy, Lisa-Marie and I all headed to the barn to check out the barn cats and their undying love for anyone who will give them attention. And one really fat Beagle puppy. I felt like that dog looked. All wagging his ass and boinging around on stumpy legs while his belly remained taut and full. The kittens were in heaven, crawling all over each other and all over us to get some lovin.

And then a big horse farted on us.

Percherons are huge draft horses and their butts hit me at like eye/mouth/nose level. If I would have been standing behind that one horse? I would have gotten a face full of horse fart. Smelly horse fart. Long, drawn out, wet sounding horse fart. Pleasant.

So we did what all normal girls do when a humongous horse farts in your general direction. We squealed and ran for fresh air while laughing our fool heads off. It is protocol. Mark that one down in your books under the chapter called, “When Animals Fart”.

At six on the dot we loaded up into two sleighs. The ones with Drink Bitch magnets were on one sleigh (well mostly) and the ones without were on the other. On the way through the forest the trees were all sparkly with new snow and the fresh powder under the sleigh squeaked when the horses drew it forward. On the front sleigh (I was probably the only one without a magnet) we got clever and even made up a cheer, “We have magnets, yes we do! We have magnets, how ‘bout… oh, I’m sorry….”

We stopped in this beautiful clearing (the one in which Kevin proposed to Melinda two years before… awwwww… did y’all know that? No? Well, it is fucking awesome.) and everyone got off of their respective sleigh and congregated around, smoking, passing the Doctor, laughing. It was such a beautiful night. The moon was almost full and the snow was blue and sparkly. It was so quiet… oh except for the howls of laughter that pierced the night every other millisecond and a half.

We got back into our sleighs and the horses took us back to the ranch where we warmed ourselves by the fire, ate a wonderful meal and then had time to get to chat with one another. Mike, Lisa-Marie and I talked about the South and “Who are your people?” Mike and I are so Southern that we are probably related. What a great conversation, we were discussing the term redneck and why that term is not favorable in the south. Mike would give an example and then I would, then we would move on to crackers, hillbillies (why some of them really are blue), how certain nationalities came to be where they are and all the while Lisa-Marie was, “Hmmm… really?”

It was at that moment that I realized that even if I didn’t know these people when I showed up on Friday, I sure as hell would know them by the time I left.

On the way back to the hotel to go freshen up and primp a bit before we left for karaoke I was sitting next to Scotty Boom Boom with LA across the isle from us. Scotty and Esteban has made some home brewed beer and I had not tried a taste of it. He was kind enough to fetch me a bottle and a cup, “It may have yeast in the bottom.” So that I could try their beer. While he was away, LA slid into the seat next to mine and we started this discussion about men and their strange ways.

Scotty returned, poured my beer, I tasted it, “Mmm yeasty.” And then he slid into the chair behind us. LA was asking about how to address the nice boys. And I, basically raised as a nice boy, offered, “Be direct. They will never assume anything because they don’t want to 1) feel rejected if they assumed the wrong thing or 2) make you or any women feel objectified or sorta slutty.” She asked, “So, can you flirt with them?” “Oh, yes. You can definitely flirt with them, just be direct because they won’t read between the lines because they are worried of taking things the wrong way.”

She turned, draped herself across the back of the seat and asked Scotty the same questions, when he answered back basically verbatim what I said, she turned, cocked a knee up and said, “Well holy shit, you were right.” I love LA.

She was having a tough time (as you may have read) with the first boy she put in her shopping basket. She thought she was done (shopping) for the weekend and her ego was taking a beating. So right before we left for karaoke she and I were standing on the steps of St. Brendan’s with Rachel having a smoke and I saw her face fall. So I did what any good friend would do in that situation. I spanked her until she followed my orders and yelled, “I am a pretty pretty princess!!!!!” So the next time you get the chance… tell her that she is a pretty pretty princess.

At karaoke we basically took up most of the Mikey’s Pub except for the eternal regulars; Bearded Randy, Drunk-Stumbling Jerry, and a party of girls there celebrating Catherine “With a C”’s birthday. The karaoke guy passed out the books, the slips of paper to make your request for a song and some pens. We were all just getting started with our drinks for the evening when karaoke guy called up “JAKE!” Jake bounded onto stage and did a killer (heh) rendition of… Mr. Brightside by the Killers. It was on then.

Jake, then Jerry, then Randy, then Weet (awesome voice), then a regular that looked like Samantha Fox but had the voice of Speedy Gonzalez, then Eben, then Mark (who knew?), then Mare… oh y’all… Mare rocked the freaking hizzouse! We all danced to Mare. Then Eben again and this time Mare came over to the table I was sharing with Rachel and Mark and said, “Let’s dance… but I get to lead!” So she dragged me out onto the dance floor and we danced and danced and danced. Holy shit, can that girl lead.

Hands down my favorite time of the whole weekend was a toss up between dancing with Mare at Mikey’s Pub and the girl fight that broke out there between two locals at about 2 a.m. Klassy.

Scotty Boom Boom came to the rescue that evening again and drove BettyBigHead and her husband and I back to the hotel. We love you Scotty!

Susan (BettyBigHead) was all, “I feel so fulfilled! I have never seen a bar fight!” She is so pretty y’all… you just don’t know. Those huge eyes and her beautiful smile and her sweet husband. Aw. Love them. And Rachel and Mark… I think I may just want them to adopt me. I would always be in good for sweaters and show tunes. Or, I could move to California with Kevin and Melinda because Mister would enjoy the temperate weather and I would enjoy the sweet yet snarky company. They have this five year plan to move to Green Bay. I may just have to go with them.

I had the best time, and Sunday morning was bitter sweet. We all had breakfast and then migrated to the bar to get ready for the trek to Lambeau Field. We said goodbye to some and good morning to others. I met JenTrance and I wanted to sit there and listen to her talk for hours. I have been reading her for a frillion years and it is kind of surreal when you meet someone you feel like you know… but you really have no clue about.

I had been reading Weet since 2001 or so and speaking with her on the phone before the trip really helped solidify what I hope to be a lasting friendship, but meeting some of these people that I call the Diaryland Royalty was such an amazing experience. She was so gracious and beautiful and shared her time, her life, her in-laws and her husband with a bunch of crazy people from the internet.

We headed off to Lambeau Field and got lunch at Curly’s. I sat there and looked around at some new friends. I knew I had to leave in a bit and I wanted to dig my heels in and stay forever.

I finished my lunch and hugged everyone and then Scotty, the loyal, once again chauffeured me one last time. To go home.

I wanted to thank each and every one of you that were there this weekend. Every one of you somehow made it the best weekend I have had in a long time. I will definitely be back next year.

Much love and green pimp hats, Susan

March 12, 2007

Weeticoners, call me, I love you.

Hi babies. Hi, yes… I have left that long ass three part entry up for a while now. Is it time to move on? It is? But what if I don’t want to? Hmmm? What if I keep fondling my airline ticket stub from my flight from Green Bay into Chicago as I read another one of my sister’s crazy ass books, and use said ticket stub as a book mark? What if I keep going back to the photo pool and looking and looking at every picture as they are posted? What then huh? What if I don’t even care that I have seven chins and my eyebrows took a leave of absence in every photo? I like it in Green Bay!

Okay, I will fondle the ticket in the privacy of my own home and try to keep up with this journal but no one warned me that it would be this hard to move on from the weekend in Green Bay. No one told me that I would go as a complete stranger and then never want to leave the company of the people I just met. You guys didn’t warn me. You never said… “Hey Sue? You’ll be talking about moving to Green Bay the moment you get home. Your little house? Your perfect little house? It would be perfect in Green Bay too. You could have cheese curds whenever you wanted… and lunch with Weet and visit Kari in Milwaukee and be closer to Sil in Chicago.”

Fine, I’ll work on moving on, but I am not promising anything.

Weeticoners, call me, I love you.

Let’s talk about the past for a moment. To those of you who have just started reading this diary/journal/place for a mental spill, you may not know that I was married when I was young. I was married to a Jedi Master Redneck. The Jedi Master part was because he could talk me into almost anything. The Redneck part? Oh, that was pretty self explanatory.

If you need links to help you understand (or waste time at work…. Oh, you know who you are….) I would like to suggest reading this one, this one about where Trix and I fell in the pecking order and/or the four part series “Road to Baton Rouge” that starts here.

That last one is kinda sad. Not telling if it is real life or fiction, you figure it out.

Or… not. I just kind of wanted to set the stage for the fascinating headline on the front page of the Lufkin Daily News the other day. Trix went to pick up the boys (her sons) from Nacogdoches and our ex-father-in-law gave her the paper that proudly displayed this as the headline on the front page. And if you aren’t fond of links, I will go ahead and give you the title of the story, "Known suspect: Clerk IDs alleged robber as her baby's daddy”. And I am SO not fucking kidding.

I have millions of stories about living out there in East Texas. I have millions of memories, most of them good. Some of them so bad that I forget about them (on purpose) until someone else brings them up. I have triggers that can lay me to waste in an instant (I smell bacon.*) and I have things that make me laugh so hard I almost pee.

*Trying to give up my daily bacon fix. Have y’all seen the size of my ass lately? You could serve a buffet on the shelf o’ass that my butt has become.

I think I tried to hold on to that little town for all of the wrong reasons. I lived in Nacogdoches for nine years. Four years going to Stephen F. Austin State University and then the rest I spent married to X, the Redneck Master Jedi.

My college years were incredible. Full of laughter, pain, humiliation, lessons, wonderful hours and hours of dancing and the friendships I made were ironclad.

For example:

Click to make biggie.

Kerr Krew 1992

As a matter of fact these lovely ladies and I , aka The Kerr Krew will be gathering at a massive home in Dallas the weekend of the 23-25th and there will be drinking, there will be dancing, there will be story telling and photo books poured over. There may even be some line dancing… just to take us back to the years when it was cool. (Or at least a three month period when it was cool.)

I haven’t seen some of these ladies in twelve plus years. I see Stacey, Kerry and Stephanie the most. Steph just moved to Seattle (boooo) and I have been trying to get her set up with Linda over at All & Sundry. We do get to see Jalena occasionally but that is it. The rest of them? In Houston, in Ohio, spread out all over the place.

So, yes, I am very excited to get to see everyone.

I was also going to tell y’all the story of a man named Bucky from Allen, TX. But, my heart isn’t into it right now. I am forced to do worky type stuff. So, remind me later to tell you about the cross dressing cowboy. Alrighty?

And since I have been linktastic in this entry… one more for humiliation’s sake. Click here to openly make fun of my hair.

March 13, 2007

He said in a very small voice, "Well, it would be for me."

I am going to a wedding this weekend and I am thinking about wearing the wrap dress that Mister got me for Christmas. I totally need to go find the appropriate undergarments and decide if I am going to go all sandal-y or boot-y.

I have a problem you see. I have never been one to be put together when I needed to be. I do the best when I am given an outfit or if I am shopping with one of three people (Mister, my boss or my mother) and they put an outfit together for me. Otherwise I have a wide tacky streak that just will not quit. I love accessories, I love it when an outfit comes together, but I have a problem with keeping that outfit together. I take pieces and parts and try to marry them with something completely uncalled for.

I am not that girl. I can never remember to do light lips when I have done a heavy, smoky eye. I can never get my blow outs to stay blown out. I get hot, the neck gets warm and the curls start from the bottom up. It is not a good look. It is more of a triangle hair look. All sleek* on top and fuzzy underneath.

*And by sleek I totally mean flat.

I have fine hair. Fine, curly hair. I have perpetual escapees. If I have my hair back in a comfortable and yet partially stylish twist, those little baby hairs at my hair line will break away from the pack and stick straight out with a little kink… just so you know that they and their cowlick mean business. If I spray them down? Oh, that just means a whole herd of hair escapes and I have this crunchy curl action sticking out from the side like an antennae.

So, yeah. If you followed the link, the dress is fabulous. The girl has on knee high boots. I could work knee high boots, but this year all of the designers went with a two inch pipe from a bakers rack as their model for the calve width of the average woman. So, yeah. Um. No. So sandals or boots? I have a plethora of many. Black strappy sandals, berry colored wedge heeled sandals (cork wedge with black? No… right?). Satin-y open toed sandals with a little bow on the back, is satin too dressy for a 6 pm wedding?

Where the hell is my Southern Woman Protocol School Training? I think the relationship with the redneck X sucked the polished right out of me.

I need your help Obi-Wan-KenoInternets, you are my only hope.

Oh, and if you tell me Spanx? I have already thought about it... Good idea Internets. One question though, do they have plus size?

Also, what will the weather be like in Houston on Saturday? High: 71° Low: 53° Thank you Internets… I love you.

I will try to be put together and sassy at the same time in Houston on Saturday, I will try to make you proud. Many thanks.

If you know me or have known me since I was 18? You have heard this story. Come back another time so you don’t get bored.

So. I was eighteen and home for Christmas during my freshman year in college. I had worked for Victoria’s Secret in the past. (If you look at the last post… I am at the bottom left of the picture. I was totally cute, and very humble. Heh.) I was their floater for the DFW area. Whenever they needed a boost in sales they would send me to that store. I had a gift for looking at a woman and putting her in something that would flatter her features and hide her insecurities and or flaws. I was the rain maker of lingerie y’all. But did I ever wear any? Nope. I was boobie-less and not all that concerned if my underwear were satin or cotton. Also, the money that I was making was going to college funds… books, beer and the like.

So when I found a lingerie store close to the house who wanted to hire me I thought I would give it a shot for the Christmas holidays. The store was a great little place called Paulette’s. They sold lingerie, bath products, European chocolates and champagne with the matching glasses. My favorite thing to do would be putting baskets together for whatever festivity was being planned.

A man would come in and tell me about his wife’s birthday/second honeymoon/he was in the dog house/whatever and I would help him pick out something that his wife (or whomever) may actually wear, we’d pull together some bath products or products from the Karma Sutra line and then round it out with a bottle of wine/champagne, the glasses that matched, some chocolates… cellophane wrapping, tied up with a beautiful bow and voilà! Perfect gift… and return customers.

I was working one afternoon. I had just finished putting a nice window treatment together in between customers and because it was a Sunday we (well, I … as I was working alone that day) were going to close at six o’clock in the evening.

A very, very, very tall woman (over 6’2”) came into the store. She was going on a second honeymoon with her husband and wanted to take some new lingerie to surprise him. She had her daughter with her. The daughter was six and was so interested in everything we had in the store. The lady had a great rack but was worried about her hips and thighs. I put her in the dressing room* measured her, set her daughter on the chair inside the dressing room and told her I would be right back.

*We had a double dressing room. A set of swinging door to enter the dressing room, a comfortable wing back chair and a three sided mirror was in the first part, then two curtained off rooms were inside of that. The idea was that a woman could try on the stuff behind one of the curtained off areas and then be able to show her husband, or whomever (who was sitting in the chair inside the first part) what she was trying on in the privacy of the dressing room and everyone was happy.

I went out and got a selection of gowns for her to try on. They covered her “problem areas” and drew the eyes upwards with a deep v-neckline in the front and a very dramatic plunge in the back. She was so excited and felt so sexy that she asked me to wrap everything up and then she and her daughter went to look at the matching panties and bras.

I took her purchases to the front counter to ring up later then went to help her find her size in the styles she was interested in. She handed over a coloring book to her child with a few crayons and her little girl happily sat on the floor while her mother and I discussed the merits of full coverage versus demi-cut bras.

It was about that time that a tall, handsome cowboy type walked in. He took his sunglasses off and slid them into the pocket of his shirt and let his eyes adjust to the store’s lights. I called a hello to him and asked if I could help him find something special for someone. The lady’s daughter took that moment to stand up and show her mother the picture she had colored. The man asked what time we closed, I told him and he said that he just remembered an errand he had to run and would be back later.

The lady bought several panty and bra sets and I wrapped those and her gowns in boxes with tissue papers and beautiful ribbons. She left with her arms full and a big smile on her face.

I was in the dressing rooms re-hanging things that had not been selected by the lady for her second honeymoon trip when the entry bell rung. I absentmindedly touched the panic button remote that I had in my pocket and went to see who had come in the store. I always carried the panic button remote with me, especially when I was working alone. You never knew when someone would come in and make a big fuss, “My girlfriend is about your size, would you mind modeling this for me?” [eyebrow wiggle]

Guys? Don’t do that. Really. It isn’t funny, everyone has heard it a thousand times and it makes the women who work in lingerie retail regret that they took the job, even if the discount is rockin. Plus? It is totally skeezy. You do not want to be that guy.

So I walked out of the back room, saw the same handsome cowboy guy and he did the same move. Sunglasses off, stuff them in his shirt pocket and then a look around.

As I was walking toward him I said, “Hi, welcome back. You just caught me straightening up. Is there anything special I can help you find? Is this for your wife, your girlfriend, somebody special…?” By the time I had finished my questions I had reached him. He was about 6’4” and looked like he belonged in Urban Cowboy, all denim and dark hair. I kept my eyes on his as I watched him become slightly uncomfortable. I put my hand in my pocket on the panic button and waited for him to meet my eyes.

He said in a very small voice, “Well, it would be for me.”

I took that moment to look down to think. I had never been in that kind of situation before so I looked at his boots and then came to a decision. I let my eyes travel up his tall lean body and on the way up I noticed that he had a hole in the right knee of his jeans, where a pair of black fishnet stockings were visible as well as at the deep v of his denim work shirt a red teddy was barely able to be seen. I met his eyes and asked, “You’re about a 38 to a 40 right?”

He relaxed and said, “Yes ma’am.”

I asked him why he left earlier. He said, “I didn’t want to scare off your other customer, and besides, she had a little girl with her.”

I decided that he couldn’t be all that bad if he was so aware of the sensitivity of other customers, and their children.

“So,” I asked him, “what are you looking for?”

We spent the next fifteen minutes going through his likes and dislikes. The color that he was looking for and that he was mainly looking for an outfit, not just bras and panties or a teddy, he wanted the whole shebang. I led him over to a four way rack of merriwidows and pulled the size 40 out in an electric blue color. I also pulled out the g-string that went with it, the stockings and the garter belts that would attach the stockings to the bodice. His eyes lit up and he asked in barely a whisper, “Would you mind if I tried this on?”

I said, “Why not?” and led him to the double swinging doors that were the entrance to the dressing rooms.

I straightened up around the store as he struggled to get the hook and eye closures closed on the merriwidow. He finally gave up and came to the swinging doors and poked his head out, “Would you mind helping me with this? I can’t get the hooks closed.” So I walked over, reached over the swinging doors and hooked the bodice up. As soon as I was done, I turned and went back to straightening the racks.

He walked over to the mirror and asked me to come and see. “Would you come look and give me your honest opinion?” I walked over to the swinging doors and pushed one open. There stood a very tall cowboy with an electric blue merriwidow on, black fishnet stockings and the smallest pair of pink women’s panties that I had ever seen. His junk was falling out all over the place.

I took in the sight of how the merriwidow fit on him. It fit very well, any larger and he would have been hitching it up all the time. Any smaller? The fit would have been all off. So I told asked him, “What is your name? I make it a priority to know the names of all the men who try on lingerie in my store.” He blushed then said, “My name is Adam**, but everyone calls me Bucky.”

**Can not remember his first name to save my life. We’ll go with Adam as he was just about nude.

“Alright Bucky,” I continued, “The bustier looks great, but we have got to get you into some new underwear. You have parts falling out all over the place and that can not be comfortable.” He agreed, and bolstered by his agreement I kept on going. It was like I had diarrhea of the mouth, I could not shut up. “And honey, black fishnets, a red teddie and pink panties? That just will not do. Where are you getting your stuff?”

He told me that he wears his wife’s things sometimes. I asked him, “Two questions, 1) does she know? And 2) how small is she?” He answered with, “Yes she knows and she is tiny.” So I made a stand right there that if he was going to wear women’s under things that he must wear ones that fit and that were his. He agreed and then we found him some things that fit and were comfortable.

He was there about 45 minutes by the time he got done and I went to the front of the shop to wrap up his purchases. He dressed and came to the counter to pay.

“How old are you?” He asked me. “Eighteen.” “You seem pretty worldly and very comfortable in this situation for an eighteen year old.” My reply? (And yes, I could have just as well swallowed my tongue.) “Well, Bucky, your money is green right?” He grinned and said, “Yes ma’am!”

We chatted for a bit while I rang up his new pretties and I (seriously, I could not shut up) asked him, “So, how did you get into wearing women’s lingerie?” He told me that his wife had asked him to wear her underwear when they were first dating in college. He liked the feel of the satin on his… package… and just kept wearing them off and on. She was his wife now and they had been married for over 10 years. Then he gave me his card and said, “You seem cool. If you are ever looking for some entertainment that is different, my wife and I put on lingerie shows at people’s homes if they are open to it. I’m the model of course. Thank you so much for everything. I will tell all of my friends to come and give you their business!” I took his card, thanked him and gave him his receipt.

Bucky left and I closed up the shop. I drove home and when I walked in my family was just sitting down for dinner. My mother chatted happily and my father informed me that Bean had called and would be around shortly to collect me to go to the movie that we had planned to see. As I sat there and watched my family talking happily and eating their dinner I began to shake a little.

I thought I was worldly and that I could handle anything. But no, I was a young Southern Belle who had not been exposed to much of anything except a little WWF at the hands of my friends like Bean. I was small minded and very immature. Yet, I had just helped outfit a man in women’s lingerie.

My father noticed that I wasn’t talking (an abnormality) and said, “Susan, honey, are you alright? You are shaking and you are white as a sheet.” “Daddy, I am fine, thank you.” “Oh, horse crap, what happened? Tell me honey, what happened today. Tell me right now.” So I commenced to telling my father what had happened at the store. I was proud that I found the right fit for the man and that I had given him something to be happy about. But my father was not pleased.

About a millisecond after I finished telling my father what happened, the doorbell rang. It was Bean. My father escorted Bean into the kitchen, sat him at my sister’s evacuated seat (my mother immediately tried to feed him a side of beef) and Daddy said, “Go on, tell him what happened.” So I retold the story, as briefly as I could – totally leaving out the part about the small pink panties and the man’s junk falling out of either leg hole at the telling to both my father AND Bean – and as I told Bean, watching him get redder and redder in the face, his eyes a blazing blue, my father said, “Do you still have the card he gave you?”

Ut oh.

“Susan. Do you still have the card he gave you?” “No?” “Give me the card.” I reluctantly held the card out. My father took it, looked it over and looked at Bean. “Call the boys. Let’s go roll this mother fucker.”

Now mind you. I had heard my father say no more than “shit” on one occasion before this. I was a bit taken aback. Why would my father want to hurt this man? Why would Bean be so mad as to be silently steaming under his freckles?

I pleaded for my father to call off the posse, to leave the poor man alone. I told my daddy and Bean time and time again that Bucky had been nothing but polite and kind to me and that the sale was huge. My father cooled off a bit (Bean was still red as a beet) and finally said, “Okay fine. But that was your LAST day working at that place, do you understand me?” “Yes sir.”

So I called my manager that evening before I went to the movies with Bean and quit my job for the Holidays.

Sadly, that is the last time I got to outfit a cowboy in women’s underwear.

March 19, 2007

I am literally a big block of cheese.

Let’s talk about my hot doctor, Eduardo. Or, more importantly, let’s talk about me. At this point I am basically a big block of bacon flavored cheddar cheese. I weigh 256 pounds, my blood pressure is normal but I just got back from seeing Hot Eduardo and my cholesterol is so high that they can not get a reading on my LDL because my triglycerides are so high.

I mean, if it were earlier in the 16th(?) century, I would totally be Peter Paul Rubens’ queen because my ass is enormous, I am curvy, I have curly hair and thin feet. I look like a cherub when nekkid.

But yet?

Let’s look at the figures shall we?

My cholesterol numbers are such: triglycerides 464; CDL 35.

I am literally a big block of cheese.

Hot Eduardo is Argentinean, he loves the cows. He thinks that they are cute and loves to eat them. He is a carnivore to the nth degree. He is thin, he rides a frillion miles a week on his bike, and did I mention that he is hot? He is always trying to justify my weight… I think because I am the cute, happy, fat girl. Today? The quote was, “Did you know there was a study done and there is a lower percentage of suicides among people who are chubby?”

So cute isn’t he? Oh, and hot.

So I replied. “Yes, that is because we eat what we want; we do not deny our cravings.” He goes, “Exactly!” And then he looked at my chart and actually looked sad. It broke my little clogged heart that he looked so sad.

This is where it starts to suck.

He told me about my cholesterol and asked me if I wanted medicine for it. Since I am trying to detoxify* my body I said, “No thank you.”

*And you say… “But Susan? What about the smoking and the drinking?” and I reply, “Kindly shut up, please.”

So he said, “Ok, you have to go vegetarian.”

And then the world stopped.

The fresh, refrigerated, vacuum sealed packages of cheese curds, havarti and mozzarella cheese that I have yet to touch from my trip to Green Bay flashed before me in a millisecond.

“Vegetarian means no dairy, right?”


I think I may have fainted.

Hot Eduardo: You can have all the fish and tofu that you want.
Self: Oh. Yay.
Hot Eduardo: But no dairy.
Self: No bacon either, right?
Hot Eduardo: Noooooooooo bacon.
Self: And no eggs?
Hot Eduardo: No eggs.
Self: So… what do you people eat for breakfast?
Hot Eduardo: Heh, “you people.”
Self: Seriously.
Hot Eduardo: Oh, you can have oatmeal.
Self: No. Slimy.
Hot Eduardo: ...
Self: Seriously. Can I have cream of rice?
Hot Eduardo: Sure, sure…
Self: But I have to cook it with water?
Hot Eduardo: Yes, unless you want to…
Self: What about soy milk?
Hot Eduardo: Oh!… [eyes brightening] Soy milk is good for you!
Self: Oh, thank God.

Eduardo is fit, he is thin (and hot) and his cholesterol was as high as mine was even though he is a decathlon type of guy with the priorities and shit. So he has been vegetarian for six months and is relating to is as such, “Oy, and they say alcoholics have it bad… feh.”

So. It has been decided. I will be a veggie lite (what with the fish and sushi that I can eat). Oh, did I tell y’all that I have to stay away from shellfish too? Gah. Basically nothing with a face, except fish.

I am not really a meat eater in the first place, but dammit, you take away bacon and dairy? What did I ever do to you? Although I probably would eat anything if it tasted good. People? Mmmm… good. Dolphins? MMMMM… good.

I have no moral qualms about eating something just because it has a face. Or something that is smart. If I had an issue with eating smart things… where would I find retarded cows or slightly unhinged sea bass? Okay, this tangent will get me nowhere.


So, the good news. Y’all know that the Kerr Krew weekend is coming up, no? Yes. I am very excited. There are rumors and emails flying back and forth about the photo albums and the mix tapes that some are bringing.

And this past weekend? Mister and I went to the wedding of J.Wo and Dave. J.Wo is now J.Ho and I am so excited for them.

We had the best time over the weekend. We stayed with old friends, ate, drank, went to bars, did karaoke, danced, sweated, laughed our asses off and stayed up until past three in the a.m. both Friday and Saturday nights. It was fantastic. There was also an cause for the definition of “What is a donkey punch**?” to be discussed.

**Nothing to see here Googlers.

More later. I need to go smell cheese one last time. Mourn for me.

March 21, 2007

Beer has nothing in it like meat!! Right?? Ha!!.... Huh?

Well, shit.

I went and told my father about my cholesterol issues the other afternoon (Monday) when I was on the way back to the office from the (hot) doctor’s appointment. I should have known better. I wanted to laugh it off with him and just let them know so they wouldn’t be all, “Susan, darling, why are you not eating the ham?” when Mister and I go over there for Easter the weekend after next.

Don’t know if I have ever let this little secret slip but my mother has been in straight panic mode since I gained weight back in 1995. Let it go momma, that ship has sailed. I will never again be a size 8 (or 12, or even and 18). She has always been very conscious of her weight… annnnnnd everyone else’s. As I have mentioned before, she is about the size of a small parrot, and might weigh as much if said parrot has been weighted down with, oh… say, a balloon or a ball point pen.

She would totally DIE if she had any inkling that y’all knew my actual weight.

And a few years ago she told Mister and I that if we didn’t lose any weight we would end up in scooters by the time we were forty.

Ah HA! Mister just turned forty in February and he is in full non-Rascal mode. I have a few years left to hit my benchmark… but I think I may miss that one by a bit, seeing as how I am fully able to run, jump, walk, dance my fool head of AND get my freak on… I think I am safe for the time being.

It is not like fucking Dr. Phil has to knock down a wall to get me out of my house when I go to work ever morning… for God’s sake.

So I got this email from her a few minutes ago.

Hi Sue:
I am worried about you!! That is scary to have your triglycerides that high!! Please do stay on the vegetarian diet for the time he said and try walking everyday when you get home. It doesn’t take long and really does help. You are heading down the road toward diabetes and please do try to keep yourself healthy!! You are only 34 and too young to be having so many health problems. I hope your sweet doctor can get you straightened out!!
Well, you will have fun this week-end and lucky, beer has nothing in it like meat!! Right?? Ha!! I know y’all will have such fun!!
Talk to you soon.
And love you a whole bunch!! MOM

This is her original email. Cut and pasted for your review. I didn’t touch formatting, spelling, punctuation or the complete and utter humiliation that settled upon me when I finished reading it.


She has felt that it was her duty to comment on my weight or dance around the topic to say anything and everything she could without actually saying, “Oh goodness. You are just so fat and I am embarrassed that you are my daughter.”

My favorite was, “But, you just have so much potential!” Potential to be thin you mean? Thin and miserable like I was back in elementary school/middle school/high school/college?

I told her a few years ago that I was relieving her of that responsibility that she felt that she had in regards to my weight. That I was a grown* woman (*no “overgrown” remarks, please) and that she did not have to talk to me about diabetes, heart health, exercise, the newest fad diets, Jenny Craig, NutriSystem or the size of my ass.

She hasn’t mentioned much in the past few years. I was so pissed about the scooter remark that when I finally got enough balls to “relieve her of that responsibility” I was so calm that I am pretty sure it freaked her out.

Hi. You may not get this, but I am perfectly aware of my size. I am perfectly aware that I gained weight (rapidly, oh, so very rapidly) back from November of 1995 to April of 1995 (60 pounds in 5 months… shut up… and close your mouth… seriously. No, I am not kidding… really, close your mouth.) for one or more of the following reasons – we’ll let you guys guess… but keep it to yourselves, alright?
1) Change in diet (ie… eating red meat as a staple for the first time)
2) Change in activity (ie… from being very active to very sedentary)
3) Change in hormones (ie… NoroPlant birth control)
4) Change in hormones (ie… tumor on my pituitary gland)
5) Change in attitude (ie… wanting to hide and a nice layer of fat being the easiest route to take)
6) Change in latitude (ie… major lifestyle change that did not suit me)

It can be one, a mix or all of the above.

The one thing that will NEVER convince someone to lose weight is if they are doing it for the wrong reasons. Also known as … for a reason other than they have decided it was time. Or… AKA, You. If a girl loses weight for a guy, she will most likely gain it back (and then some) in the near future. If a person loses weight because they are trying to look better in the clothes that they optimistically bought two sizes too small. They will probably never wear those clothes, and most likely gain a few pounds guilt eating because they spent money on clothes that they shouldn’t have. And the A#1 reason that people (and I totally mean me) will not lose weight is by having a mother hound them into a sobbing mess.

“Oh honey, you used to be so pretty.”

I have the same face… it is just rounder, the same legs, they are just thicker, the same ass, it is thicker too… and the same eyes, nose, mouth, non-eyebrows. Does a layer of fat disgust you so much that you feel it is your duty to remind people in a picture to stand up straight (also known as “Suck it IN!”) before the shutter clicks?

When I was little… and I mean LITTLE, not young… I never got the “diabetes” talk. Even though people in my family were dropping like flies because of diabetes and heart disease. I know I am at risk. I KNOW. Lord, give it a rest, please. I also know that high cholesterol is partly hereditary just like eye color. My daddy has high cholesterol… my mother? High blood pressure. So, you don’t think I know I am at risk for these things?

I just got the blood pressure under control. (By not talking to my mother… I kid. Sort of. Well, that, and anti-anxiety meds.) I can go off the blood pressure meds if I want. My (hot) doctor is pleased as punch. This? Is just something new to work on. But people (and I totally mean me) will not lose weight, start an exercise regimen or become vegetarians just because their mothers force them to with words that they (I think) totally believe come from love, but are in all honesty bitter sharp little daggers that hurt, regardless of how thick that layer of fat you have or how thick you think your (and again, I totally mean me) skin is.

March 22, 2007

Bon Scott played the freaking recorder before he joined up/made/whatever AC/DC.

Samantha (my car) sounds like all Ren-faire all the time with Audio Visions (channel 77) from XM Satellite. Have you guys listened to this thing? I was listening to Hear Music (channel 75 – the Starbucks channel) but apparently decided that I needed more pan flute. Cow bell? No. Pan. FLUTE.

Like if the pied piper, Enya and the composer for Robin Hood: Men in Tights got together for a jam session. This is the shit I am listening to.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

Ian Anderson*, a flautist (flutist?... oh, don’t start with me) was on yesterday morning all “dooo dooo dooo!!!!!” on his little flute-y thing and I was seriously questioning my sanity. I get the, ‘But Sue, it is relaxing!’… yeah, I get that. But I have held true to several things in my life, musically speaking. One? An organ does not a Doors song make. And two? I still can not get over that Bon Scott played the freaking recorder before he joined up/made/whatever AC/DC.

No, that really has nothing to do with any of this… just go with me. Patronize the crazy, if you will… oh, and I know you will.

*Holy shit, who knew… this is the guy from Jethro Tull. Oh, yeah, and by the way Aqualung? Come on. Scotty Boom Boom sang this song at karaoke in Green Bay (and sang it very well, might I add?) and I had never listened to or read the words before. I really shouldn’t have either way; they are creepy as all hell. Hi, song about a homeless pedophile with tuberculosis , how you doing?

Yes, Audio Visions sounds like an extended version of that birds chirping and water cascading shit that you listen to when you are getting a massage. A LEGAL massage you sick bastards.

Also, whenever I think of a pan flute or a flute in general, I have that whole flutist? flautist? Debate going on in my head… then I see something shiny and then I think of flautas, because I am all about the Mexican food baby.

Except not anymore. Do they make vegetarian flautas?

I would like some cheese.

And maybe a nap.

Okay… so the very dramatic post yesterday vilifying my mother. I called her last night on the way home from work. She was all, “I know, I’m sorry, I promised never to bring up your weight again…. But… blah blah blah…”

Y’all, I think it is a compulsion. She did it directly after she promised not to. I said, “Again, mother, I love you and I think that you meant to send that email with nothing but love and the best intentions… but, I am again releasing you of the responsibility you feel that you have to discuss my weight, diabetes….blah blah blah…”

And? She gets it because I said, “Momma, I know that you are saying, ‘I love you, I am worried about you, I don’t want you to die…’ but seriously? All I hear every time you broach the subject? Is, ‘You’re gonna be in a scooter by the time you are 40!’” She was very apologetic… and then brought it up again. So… she gets it, yeah, but will she leave it be? Nah, probably not.

Anyways, she and I are good. I just need to ignore her verbal diarrhea. After all, the apple does not fall far from the tree, right?

Also… I have a very big weekend coming up tomorrow. My bestest girlfriend since the seventh grade is in town from Seattle. I will pick her up at her parents’ house when I get off of work and we will head to the festivities over at the Big House. (Not prison, just a very big house.)

I am so excited to see these ladies. It is going to be such a blast.

I will come back with lots of stories and fun stuff.

About March 2007

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

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