« March 2007 | Main | May 2007 »

April 2007 Archives

April 2, 2007

I feel like someone punched me in the vagina!

Settle around little ones. It is story time. I have mentioned this topic in passing (very briefly); once in 2003 and another time in 2004; but I have yet to give you the full version. Would you like for me to tell you the story? Yes? Alrighty, then.

It all started the year I hit puberty. No, no... come back here y'all. I will be brief (cha-right), if not a little gory.

I started my period at school one day, while I was using the ladies room. I did not have one of those embarrassing wearing-white-trousers-on-the-first-day-of-your-first-cycle-ever stories. I started my period quietly. I had already been told about pads and tampons, but I did not have any with me. I stuffed a wad of toilet paper in my sensible cotton panties and called my mother.

I was very excited you see, because I knew that once I started my period? I was a woman.

My mother picked me up from middle school, took me to the drug store to pick up my purchases of pads and tampons and then I went home and tried everything out. Yes, my mother was the one who taught me how to insert a tampon and use a pad. My sister had started years before me but was so painfully shy and modest that she wouldn't even utter the word "period". "Oh, Susan, shut up, you are embarrassing me!" "Mom! Would you make her stop asking me these awful questions?" My mother would lead me into another room and try to give me the answers that I had asked my sister, but I wanted a teenage woman's perspective.

When my father got home that evening I rushed into the living room and jumped into his lap exclaiming, "Daddy! I got my period today! I am NOW a woman [dramatic flair, back of the hand to the forehead or something just as gay]... can I get my ears pierced?" Luckily he did not instantaneously burst into flames with embarrassment but showed what I considered proper awe and the permission to get my ears pierced.

Rock on.

All the women in my family were blessed with heavy flows and monster cramps. We had prescription medication that was dolled out like it was manna from heaven. Little did I know that what I was taking would be released many years later in the form of Aleve (Aleve, recalled December 20, 2004 ... awesome).

So, the heavy flow? Check. The cramps? Check. The changing pads and tampons many times daily (sometimes wearing both at once)? Checkity Check Check. (Bitches.)

I remember one Christmas when my parents were living in Colorado that we all went skiing as a family. My mother and I clomped into the bathroom stalls in the warming hut after a run down the mountain. Our ski boots making our strides ungainly. She and I took stalls side by side and after tinkling, when I went to wipe (guys... seriously, turn away if you are squeamish) my lady parts a massive blood clot and a quite impressive amount of blood splattered the stall, my boots and my hands. I asked for some more toilet paper from my mother in the stall next to me (I was trying to clean it all up… quietly). She went to hand me some more paper, saw the gore on the floor and on my boots and quite frankly, she freaked right the fuck out.

"Are you hemorrhaging? Oh, Dear Lord, this can not be good... Honey, are you okay?" "Mom, I am fine. It is just a heavy flow day." "Heavy flow? HEAVY FLOW?!"

And it went downhill (heh, no ski pun intended) from there.

I was married in 1994 and got NoroPlant, then Depro Provera, then Ortho Novum 777, in quick succession. All made me throw up every morning, made me gain weight, made me lose weight or just made me sick. I was trying my best not to get pregnant. So along with the lower dosage birth control pill and a condom my husband and I had a normal* sex life.

(*shut up.)

One evening in May of 1997 I was up late chatting and smoking with a girlfriend. She was telling me about a miscarriage that she had a few months (or a year?) before. We talked about it, went over every detail, let her grieve and get mad and bonded over our shared secrets. She had left her car at the top of the red mud slip and slide that I called a driveway so at about 3 a.m. I took her back up to her car in my truck. We hugged and said good night. I watched her start her car and drive away.

I turned the truck back towards the house and the slip and slide of a driveway when the first cramp hit. It hit so hard that my foot slipped off of the clutch and I stalled the truck out. I breathed in through my nose and out my mouth for a few seconds to get the cramp back where it belonged (gone) and started the truck again. I made it halfway down the hill when another cramp hit. This one was bigger than the one before. I slid forward in my seat to make sure my feet didn't slide off of the pedals of the clutch and the break and I made my way slowly down the hill.

When I got to the bottom, I stopped the truck as close to the porch entry as I could and I basically fell out of the cab. I kept my footing and headed into the house. I knew better than to call my husband who was on night shift for the local police department so I thought I would just take an Ibuprophen or two and head to bed.

When my husband got home at 6:30 the next morning I told him about the cramps, what had happened the night before and that I did not think I could go to work. He handed me the phone to call my boss. I did so, with regret as we had several contracts to finalize that day. I told my boss that it was a girl thing and that I would be in as soon as I could.

After I hung up the phone I tried to make myself go to sleep. No luck. I had been tossing and turning with pain since I got back to the house just after 3 a.m. I kept tossing and turning and I even went into the office to the little twin sized bed that was my comfort place when I lived with the redneck mafia. Still no luck with the sleeping. I needed drugs. I needed ... I don't know, chocolate... I needed to not hurt. I gave my husband a few hours rest and then I asked him to take me into town to the drug store. You read that right. THE drug store. Gah.

He took me into town to an Eckerd's on North Street and I called my girlfriend who had been with me the night before. I asked her to meet me at the Eckerd's and that I thought something was wrong. In no time the ex had parked in front of the Eckerd's and had gone inside to mouth breath all over the things he didn't understand that I needed. Pain medication? Chocolate? Pads and tampons? Huh? Gah, just go. Here’s a list. Ask for some help, as I am having trouble staying upright and I don't feel like taking a face plant into the asphalt or the tile floor inside.

My girlfriend arrived and came to the side of the car I was in. She knelt beside me, asked me what was going on... while another girlfriend stood over us looking worried. I told her everything that was happening and she said, "Hold on baby, let me call my mother." She called her brilliant doctor mother and repeated all of my symptoms via phone. Her mother told her, "Do not wait. Get her to the emergency room right now... RIGHT NOW."

One girlfriend ran into the Eckerd's to collect the husband and the other told me to hold on. By this time it was about 6 p.m. and the pain had gotten worse with each hour.

They all raced around and got me to the emergency room and there I was triaged (is that a verb?... whatever) and then they sent me into a lab where they asked if I was pregnant. "No. pe-shaw." They sent me into another lab where they did a sonogram and then an internal sonogram. The radiologist or tech or whomever was shoving that thing so far up into my innards that I am sure she found New England. She also had a grim expression on her face. I am not sure if it was because of what she was seeing on the monitor, or because of the sheer force she was using and straining her arm muscles trying to find Nova Scotia in my uterus as well.

After the vaginal assault I was taken into another room. In this one my husband was standing in a corner, and the resident OB-GYN (Haskins?) was sitting on a stool. He told me that he was going to have to do a pelvic exam. Oh, joy. I had been in solid pain since 3 a.m. the night before, I had been through triage, an external and an internal sonogram (sonogram tech: "I found Hoffa!") and now he wanted to shove a speculum or maybe his whole forearm up into my princess. I took a deep breath, steeled myself for the pain and breathed my way through it.

When he was through, the doctor stood up, turned to me and my husband (after slipping off the surgical gloves) and said this, "I have some good news and bad news. The good news is that you are pregnant. The bad news is that we have to take the baby. You have a tubal pregnancy and we need to get you into surgery now."

First of all. Who says that? What part of that is good news? And why would he personalize what was basically going to be an abortion by telling me, "We have to take the baby." Huh?

So, yeah. I was sort of in shock. With the news, the pain, the ... well, everything. I needed someone to take my hand, or even touch my face and tell me that everything was going to be okay. I just needed a little bit of support. I turned to my husband and his face was blank. No, "It's going to be alright baby. You are going to do fine." No, "I am so sorry love." Nothing. Blank. Dead.

So, as I had always done, I turned to the matter at hand and took over. "How long until I go into surgery?" "Immediately, we can not wait another minute, with you being in labor, your body is pushing to deliver a baby that is in your right tube. I don't know how you got this far along without your tube bursting and you bleeding out." "Okay, so... now." "Yes, now." "Alright."

I turned to my husband. By this time it was almost time for him to go back into work. It was about 9:30 p.m., "I want you to go on into work. Please call my parents, assure them that I am alright, call Lisa... actually, you just go to work, have Sil call my parents and Lisa." And with that I dismissed him. I only made one more request, that if Jay (a dear, dear friend) was working in the hospital that evening, I wanted him in on the scrub team.

I was wheeled out of the lab and into the OR, Jay was there and as I scooted my ass over onto that little crucifix looking table, he said, "It's going to be alright Sue." That was all I needed. They put me under.

During the surgery they made a small incision into my belly button and filled me up with CO2 or some type of gas. They tried to do the surgery via laparoscopy but when they got inside they found I was too far along in the pregnancy to do the surgery that way, so... they pulled out the equipment, pushed the air out (I think that is what they do after you have been blown up like a human balloon) and then gave me a c-section to work on my right tube that way.

I have no idea how far along I was. All I know it that it was about the size of a walnut. Or a pecan with its shell on. I haven't really wanted to look up how far along I was. I really don't want to know. So if you know the answer... please keep it to yourself.

When I woke up from (the second time, I was in recovery the first time) Jay was there. He was there to answer my questions and tell me why I was going to be sore. He was there to tell me that they had to shove all of my internal organs up into my chest cavity. He was there to tell me that my uterus was tiny, healthy and pink. He was there to tell me that the doctor did a good job on my tube. He said that the tube was very vascular and the blood supply was good. The doctor thought I could get pregnant again.

It was comforting knowing that I had someone on my team. That I knew someone that was in on my surgery.

What was not comforting was that I had no health insurance, so by 4 a.m. I was pacing the room, heedless to the twelve staples that traversed the skin of my lower abdomen from hip to hip and the IV stand that I drug around with me. I just wanted to go home. I was aware that this emergency operation was something that I could not afford. And I knew, I KNEW that even if my husband signed his name on the dotted line to take care of the finances that he wouldn't.

I called my husband and asked him to take me home... I called the nurse on duty and asked her to release me. I called in every favor, I begged, I pleaded, I still didn't get out of there until 11 am.

Two nights with no rest? No big deal. I got some sleep while under general anesthesia. I had stuff to do. I had to go back to work. I had hospital bills to pay.

And then? My mother came into town. She flew in from Denver the moment she heard about my surgery. She knew that my husband had to work the night shift and I had a six year old stepdaughter to take care of. She wanted to be there for me. She wanted to comfort me. She wanted to help me with housework, meals, laundry and driving me to and from my various doctors' appointments.

I? Didn't know how to let her. I was so hard, but so fragile. I thought if she showed me the smallest kindness that I would start screaming or crying or both and would never be able to stop. So instead? I made her cry. I told her that my friends could take me to the appointments. That I would make dinner, I would do the laundry. I am still not sure if it was that she needed to be needed and I didn't know how to let her that made her break down. Or the fact that I was so far gone and hard to everything that made her cry, but cry she did.

It will be ten years this May that I had that surgery.

One thing that I was right about, X didn't take care of the medical bill. When I divorced him I told him that I would take the majority of the bills but because his name was on the medical bills from the hospital that he would have to take that one. He agreed. Almost a year after I left and the divorce was final (three years after the surgery) he finally paid the bill. Only because I held the deed to his property when I took a loan out to keep us from going bankrupt. The deed that his mother forged his father's name on.

Awesome.

Anyway, the reason that I am getting all wordy about this is because I have dropped several hints about this in the past and... I also went to have several procedures done on Tuesday of last week.

I went in to get a tubal ligation, an ablation and a bladder sling.

The tubal ligation was a given, the ablation was a secondary thing that would make sure that I couldn't get pregnant... remember, when I got pregnant with X I was on the pill and we used a condom.

And the bladder sling? I was so incredibly sick of basically being incontinent at 34. Sneeze? I would pee. Laugh? I would pee. Run, jump on a trampoline, dance, orgasm, you name it... I would pee. Not a bunch, but do you know how self conscious it made me to believe I had a pee droplet on my britches somewhere? How I would have these awful daydreams that I smelled like a nursing home?

Family who knew us and knew of our plans were very supportive. One question kept coming up. "Why doesn't Mister get snipped?" Well, to be honest, "Fuck off" is not something that bodes good will and joy within a family. And also to be honest. My shit was broken. There was already a large percentage that if I got pregnant again, it would be in my tube... and I refuse to go through that again. I wanted to be sure that I couldn't get pregnant with the double whammy of tubal ligation (cut off the path) and an ablation (make the uterus uninhabitable). And also, Mister's shit wasn't broken, why mess with it? Hmmm? I like him just as he is. Perfect. And on a selfish note, the sneeze/pee combo was NOT a winner.

So last Tuesday, I went in for my triple threat operation: Uterus Barren... side note bladder.

To those of you who have had issues with getting pregnant and are taking offense at my cavalier attitude with being barren. You don't know me. You don't know all the decisions that mounted up to make this one the right one for Mister and I. You only know the one that I described above. This is nothing personal against or about you. It was our decision. Ours.

Everyone was so very kind at the hospital. They were friendly and kind and it was nothing like I had experienced before. The staff at Baylor Medical Center Frisco deserve 5 stars. They were comforting, they were gentle, they tried to put me at ease, they hovered around me like I was a queen. They did everything in their powers to do what they had promised to do.

My doctors, my OB-GYN and my Urologist were awesome and so very kind, they took care of me. I had taken off Tuesday and Wednesday and told my boss that I would like to keep Thursday and Friday in the hopper for Personal Time Off just in case. My boss knew I was having some sort of procedure having to do with girl stuff, but if I would have told him anything else, he would have turned purple and fainted.

So Tuesday Mister took me to the hospital and they triaged me, took my vitals, made me pee in a cup (for a pregnancy test!), weighed me, put anti-embolism stockings on me, took blood, hooked up my IV and all with a chatter, a pat, a smile, and talking sweetly to Mister and made us both feel very comfortable. By the time they rolled me out with a quick kiss from Mister it was a little after one.

They put me under after I scooted my ass onto the crucifix table with a little bit of déjà vu... and then I woke up.

The surgeries were supposed to be about two hours total... so when I woke up in recovery the second thing I asked (the first was, "Do you have something I may throw up into, please?".... see... a very considerate vomiter) was, "What time is it?" "Just past three thirty." "Shit, is my husband freaking out?" "He's fine honey." "Seriously, can I have something to vomit into?... BLARGH"

I had to stay in recovery part one ... and then recovery part two... where I kept throwing up. Mister said I was very polite about it. Held it in my mouth and everything until he could find something for me to spew into. See? I can be nice.

We were there until 6:30 p.m. and a little bit of the old panic came back, and I was all, "What's it going to take for me to get out of here?" Nurse replied, "First you have to stop vomiting and second, you need to urinate." I was all, "I'm on it." And rushed to get up to go pee. Not remembering that I had health insurance and a husband who was there to help and protect me and take care of me.

Then the bad news came.

"Susan, we were not able to do the tubal ligation." "What!?" "Well, there was so much scar tissue in there that we couldn't get the tube in for the gas for the laparoscopy. We tried twice... you will be a bit** bruised and you have two incisions in your belly button."

**a bit... AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA oh, my, that was funny. I feel as though someone cut off my legs and beat me with them. You should see the rainbow of bruising that is my tummy. Lord. I look like a Lifetime movie of the week.

So... they were able to do the ablation, and the bladder (neck) sling. I have vomited, laughed, sneezed, coughed and all!?!? With no pee. AWESOME!

But no tubal ligation. Booooooo.

On Monday next I have follow up doctor's appointments with my OB-GYN and my Urologist. I am totally going to ask for this.

Oh, and the sweetest thing. Jules sent me a card to console me on my break up with cheese. I have to admit. It has been tough, and I did have a few slices (tee tiny ones) of Havarti the weekend of the Kerr Krew get together (it was all Marly's fault... she is my cheese dealer) but other than that, I have been very good. And if the scale at the hospital is to be trusted, I am almost 5 pounds lighter than the Monday before last.

And about the Kerr Krew weekened? What happened at Kerr Krew stays at Kerr Krew.

Glad to be back, even though I feel like someone punched me in the vagina!

April 10, 2007

"If they find an olive on a toothpick in there you are going to have some explaining to do."

So, the updates and follow up appointments with both the OBGYN and the Urologist were yesterday. Both of them pushing for Mister to have his boys broken into and ransacked. Me? Not so much. I like his balls, a lot.

I have read up on the subject of vasectomy and the term "epidydimal (or vans) blow out" was sort of off putting. Why would I want him to go through that? Why would I want to deal with an Urologist who says, "Get that boy in here to have a vasectomy!"? Like the Urology guy was all excited about getting his hands on my husband's testicles. Also, "boy"? BOY!? My husband is 40 years old. And I sir, will be 35 in May. Don't you think we are old enough to make these decisions for ourselves?

This whole situational drama was first started to have one thing be the outcome. One thing. Okay two things. Thing the first? Operation Susan the Barrenness. Thing the second? No peeing when I sneeze.

I am not peeing when I sneeze, vomit, laugh or anything else that would normally cause a squinkle of pee to come out of my urethra during my "stress incontinence". Yes, that is what it is called. So when I was joking about being incontinent at 34? I SO was not kidding.

Stress Incontinence? Gone. Kudos for you Dear Urologist. Oh, and yes, of course I will take this mound of literature on the no scalpel vasectomy that you have thrust into my arms as I walk out the door. Your role in this play has now been dropped so you have no say in what we do with my husband's balls, or my uterus. Goodbye.

My OBGYN?

OBGYN: Why don't you get your husband to get a vasectomy?
self: Well, kind sir, the whole deal behind these decisions was "if it ain't broke, don't fix it" and my husbands gonads? Work just fine thank you. And as you saw from the carnage that is my internal topography, you know that my shit is jacked up. Correct? Right. Okay then, let's figure out if the tubes are even open, and then we can go from there.
OBGYN: Are you still on your birth control?
self: No.
OBGYN: What about an IUD?
self: My body has had some form of birth control in it since I was 16. My body has been fooled into thinking that it was pregnant for eighteen years. Eighteen years. I am done with birth control pills, IUDs and anything else that will make my body think it is pregnant. It is bad.

Yes, I said, "It is bad." And I felt good about it at the time. And then I was at WalMart standing in the frozen food isle picking out my latest vegetarian+fish meal selection. And I thought the conversations with both doctors over. I thought about how stupid I sounded, I thought of how emotionally driven I am to have the control over my body that I want. I thought of all of this while looking at frozen salmon cutlets and then I heard Joe Diffie's A Night to Remember and I started crying.

Clearly I am crazy.

Whatever.

I wanted a certain outcome from the surgeries I was having. Two were successful and the ringer, the third, was not. I was grieving for going through so much for nothing. Well not nothing. Bear with me. I am on a total emotional rollercoaster with getting off the birth control and things not going how I want them to go.

For fucks sake. Joe Diffie in the frozen food section in a WalMart.

Gah.

Anyway, so I told the OBGYN what I wanted. "Let's find out if my tubes are even open and then we can go from there." He agreed, so today, in like 30 minutes I am going to have this, an HSG test done to find out if any of this other shit is even necessary.

Think good thoughts y'all. Think good thoughts like "Your uterus is barren and your tubes are closed." Go ahead. I'll be the one over there at the Medical Center with X-Rays being taken of what looks like a martini glass with hair.

I'm off.

April 11, 2007

"Okay, you are going to feel a little pressure."

I went in for my test yesterday.

I had to be there at 1:00, the test was at 1:30 and at 3 p.m. a lady (nurse, whatever) came to get me. "Um, yeah, our women's radiology department has moved across the street, I will walk you over."

After I arrived across the street and got thoroughly lost in the bowels of the medical center, three more procedure forms and an hours' worth of who Anna Nicole's baby daddy is on CNN and I was taken into the room with the fluoroscope.

Yay for efficiency!

The tech went over all eleven pages of paperwork with me. I stripped from the waist down, put on one of those ever so popular open in the back cotton gowns and went out to wait for the female radiologist.

They asked me to hop up onto this thing that looked like the quickest luggage carousel at any baggage claim, ever and I did so. I sat there swinging my legs waiting for the female radiologist.

She finally came in, asked me to lay down on my back, bend my knees, open my legs and scoot my bottom down towards her. Trust me guys. It is not nearly as sexy as I have described here. I know y'all are all "Bow Chick-ah Bow Wowwww!" And I? Am all, "No."

So I did as she asked and then she uttered the infamous phrase that will make women everywhere suck air through their teeth with their eyebrows drawn together, "Okay, you're going to feel a little pressure."

I think that is the first thing that they teach Urologists, Obstetricians, Gynecologists, Female Radiologist Reproduction Specialists and every person that is ever going to come at you with a speculum (hot or cold, metal or plastic). "Okay... Today is the first day of the rest of your life. Your most important job will be to relax your patients, feel for them, sympathize with them. We do this with the help of one phrase known the world over in one hundred and thirty-three languages. Write this at the top of your legal pad and practice saying it hundreds of times a day. Ready? 'Okay, you are going to feel a little pressure.' Everyone got that down?"

So yeah, pressure was felt and I asked for my glasses so I could watch the fluoroscope. Y'all. I would go through that all again just to watch the drama taking place inside my princess. She was on TV y'all. She was a star.

They put a catheter in my cervix (Whee.) and then pumped up a little balloon to make sure it didn't come out. (Nice. Yeah, pressure was felt.) And then they injected this clear dye stuff that showed up as black on the fluoroscope into my uterus and deflated the little balloon.

It was so fast. The fluid filled up my uterus then practically FLEW out to the right and the left and out each tube.

The radiologist lady was like, "So, you say you had a tubal pregnancy in 1997, in your right tube right?" "Yes ma'am." "Well, it looks like the doctor did a great job of putting your tube back together." "Yes ma'am, it certainly does."

She asked me to roll to the right, I rolled up on my right hip, keeping my eyes on the screen. The fluid rocketed out of my right tube. Then she asked me to roll up onto my left side, the fluid shot out of that one like it was a slip and (fucking) slide.

I muttered, "Shit." And she goes, "Are you okay ma'am?" I lied and said, "Just feeling a little pressure."

So, yeah... if my tubes were any more open... salmon would be navigating my open waters to make it back to their spawning grounds. Fuckers.

April 13, 2007

I would have offered him a testicle if he needed it.

Oh Holy ripped-abs Christ in a birch bark canoe.

I was one of those people yesterday. You know. One of those people? And I am a wee bit ashamed. I work in a cube farm and today (like most days) I talked loudly and with much long-windedness into a phone. Cell phone/work phone, it didn’t matter bitches because I had some findin’ out to do.

Sorry cube neighbors, and sorry boss man. My boss was mortified as I said “Testicle” and “Cancer” several times, out loud. Did I mention that I was loud. And also a bit on the anxious side? Which makes ME TALK EVEN LOUDER!?

I got an email yesterday morning from my mother.

No, no, she wasn’t getting onto my about being fat. She just wanted to pass on that she had heard it through the grapevine that one of my high school buds was battling testicular cancer while his father was battling pancreatic cancer.

The fuck?

Okay. To give you a little background. Check out these entries right here.

Or not.

Here’s the brief version. There was a girl, she clicked with two boys/men… they stuck together through thick and thin all through high school, senior high and college. These boys/men had a group of friends that were awesome enough to accept the newest member and the only female into their click… and? They would laugh at the girl’s jokes. How awesome were they? So fucking awesome.

Then tragedy struck, the girl (me) had her head up her ass and ended up marrying a redneck local in the town she went to college in. The end.

I still think of them as my boys. I still think of them almost everyday, well, I still think of Bean and Steve almost everyday. Fleeting thoughts of the others come and go. They came and went like a brush fire in West Texas the weekend of the Kerr Krew gathering because there were pictures of the boys and their crew sprinkled throughout the photo albums that were shared… and some of the Kerr Krew went to Senior High with the group of my boys while Stephanie and I went to another school. Woe was me.

Woe. I tell you.

So years have come and gone. It will be 17 years this June since we all graduated high school. It will be 15 years since Bean made his way back to Dallas from West Texas. It will be 13 years since he married a girl I knew from church. It will be three years this June that his daddy passed. Steve and I are both on our second marriages; Shawn is still in his first, Mickey… has three kids. Jake? Jake has twin girls and has since divorced. Brandon finally got married and I think Bean lost a $20 bet on that one.

The last time I saw all of them (except Mickey) was almost five years ago.

There was a joint 30th birthday party for two of the Hawgs and it was awesome. Why haven’t we kept in touch? Life I guess but yesterday?

Yesterday.

Yesterday I got an email that was forwarded to my mother from one of my sister’s ya-ya’s from high school/college. Said friend (Ann) forwarded the email to my mother because she remembered that I used to hang out with that particular group of boys. One of the boys and his father are battling cancer.

Cancer.

I got a bit (heh, yeah, a bit) anxious and started calling all the numbers I had from the group. I called the home numbers, I called Ann to see if she had a number or an email to the matriarch of the family. I emailed the last known email from the Shawn and his wife Stef. The email bounced back. I started calling work numbers, ex-wives. I just needed to call and offer… I don’t know, food? Babysitting services? Errands run? I just needed to… well, to be honest, I needed to reconnect with my boys. I needed to offer support. I needed to hear their voices. I selfishly needed some reassurance.

No phones were answered. No calls connected. No voice mails returned.

Except one.

At about three o’clock yesterday afternoon my cell phone rang. I answered it and heard a familiar voice, “Hey Sue.” I breathed. I took another breath and said, “Bean, how are you sweetie? I just heard about Shawn. Please tell me what is happening.” Bean related the news and surprisingly, it was pretty good news. I will save the details for someone else to tell. Or maybe I will tell you when I get even better news from Shawn on the tests he had yesterday.

Bean and I talked for an hour. We went over how he was doing, his family, his newest baby, a little boy that he says looks just like him and his job. We talked about his momma, his career track, his brother and how his daddy passed. I apologized for not being there for the funeral. I apologized for being such an asshole when we were younger. I apologized for bringing Marcus (Dear Lord.) to a dinner we had with a part of the group and their wives at a Mexican place back in like 2001 or 2002. I kept apologizing to this man that I grew up with. He kept telling me that everything was fine, that he has always loved me and will continue to do so, that I am like family. He slipped into his old habit of calling me babe. And yet? I still apologized.

He told me about his daddy getting sick and giving up liquor and how their relationship healed.

He told me that his father died loving his mother.

Oh y’all. You don’t have the slightest clue how hard it was for me to hear that and keep my composure.

I told him all about Mister and that I knew marriage was supposed to be like this but I never thought I was worth it. I told him about my job and my momma and daddy and the rest of my family. He said, “Susan, you know, your father is the only man I have ever been afraid of?” When he said that I thought to the times when his father drank. Bean was in high school and the two of them would get into yelling matches and sooner or later it would end up with punches thrown. I remember one of them throwing the other through a wall. I can’t tell you to this day which was which, but I know that booze was his father’s identity stealer and Bean escaped to my house.

Sometimes I think that he mixed up fear for respect. He respected my father. I don’t know if he ever respected his daddy until he got sick and got off the booze.

We would go driving some nights just to get out. We would end up at a park or going to a skating rink, bowling, to the movies.

I think that Jacob’s Ladder is still one of my favorite movies because Bean took me to that show at the dollar theater. He had already been once but he didn’t get it. I think he really did, he just wanted me to feel smart. So we sat there and talked about the plot in hushed tones and his eyes would sparkle when he would make an act of getting something, “OH, so… that’s… okay….”.

Normally we would just drive.

We would drive from one side of our town to the other remarking on the changes in landscape and everything that had been built or torn down since we met. We talked about life in college and how different we would be. We talked about our futures a lot. Neither one of us could wait to grow up.

It was so cathartic to talk to him and for him to give me an hour of his time to just chat was one of the greatest gifts I have received.

At the end of the phone call I asked for Shawn’s number so I could call and check up on him and when Bean and I hung up I felt so elated and so sad that we had let so much time lapse between speaking with one another.

I called Shawn and when he answered I introduced myself as “Susan Maiden Name”. Shawn was so awesome, he is going through this battle but took the time to say, “Hi sweetie how are you?” I told him that I had heard through (grapevine diagram here) about what was going on with his father and with him and that I just got off the phone with Bean. Shawn caught me up and we discussed how he was and the tests that he just went through that morning.

I offered food, babysitting services, errands run. I would have offered him a testicle if he needed it. I love these men, they have always been so incredible to me and I never want to lose that connection again. Shawn said that they would take me up on the babysitting because things have been crazy and he and his wife have not had a moment to themselves in ages.

We talked about the past and some old friends and we laughed about promising to be one another’s back ups when we were younger. “Okay if we are not married by 40 (or was it 30?) we are totally getting married. Deal?” “Deal.”

I just hope that we all stay in touch. I don’t want to lose a one of them. I want to know their children and their wives and their new families. These men were my rock when I was young. They made me laugh during some of the saddest times in my life and I wouldn’t trade them for the world.

April 17, 2007

It is the goriest chick flick I have ever seen, and I loved it.

I got a message (Google Chat – check it out, add me, I’d love to chat with you. Yes, you.) from a girlfriend (Hi Amy!) yesterday asking me for a favor. Knowing her as one to say, “Hey, do me a favor… let me borrow a kidney and keep my kids for a year*.” I asked her, “What’s the favor?” before I agreed to anything including a 1700’s steam engine and one of my limbs.

*I am totally kidding. She only wanted me to keep them for 6 months… that one time.

She asked me to pray for two of her friends. One of them is an old friend of hers whose daughter attends Virginia Tech and the other was a survivor (and the mother) of an attempted double-murder suicide.

I told her of course I would pray for G’s daughter (as they had not heard from her at that point in the day, the cell phones were all busy with parents trying to reach their children) and for the 13 year old survivor of the shooting and her mother. The shooting happened here. It was a father who shot his two children (girls) and then turned the gun on himself.

Amy was distraught, clearly. She and the mother of the two girls who had been shot; the oldest child survived and remains in critical condition; were pregnant at the same time with their youngest children. They knew each other and were friends. And Amy is very close to G whose daughter goes to Virginia Tech. We chatted very briefly and then she had to run.

What did I do as soon as we closed our conversation? I prayed for the children and their families and then I buried my head in the sand.

I take a very ostrich-like approach to news such as this. London bombing? Head in the sand. 9-11? Head in the sand. Tsunami? Rita? Fucking Katrina? Head in the sand (with a lot of crying).

A few years ago I realized that I couldn’t watch the news. I glean whatever knowledge I get from the radio, Mister, the ladies who chat over our cubicles at work and… well trying to avoid the news while Mister is watching it nightly. I can not handle it.

I was in Colorado a few years ago (more like a decade) when I was watching the news with my father. There had been a car crash and the news team was at the accident with shots of the carnage. The slick headed Johnny on the spot guy was all, “Accident, blah blah blah, critically injured and one dead…” and then the camera man zoomed in on a shoe. Not just any shoe. The shoe of the child that had been killed in the car crash. It was a teeny little blue shoe, the colors would change with the strobe red, blue, white and yellow lights of the emergency vehicles and the shadow that the teeny shoe threw behind it with each strobe of the lights was in sharp contrast to the grainy quality of the asphalt it was lying on.

A teeny empty shoe.

I excused myself and went upstairs to sob into my pillow because I didn’t want to upset my parents.

In November of 2004, again, I was watching the evening news (flipping through a catalogue and totally NOT trying to pay attention to anything other than the weather) while Mister caught up on Osama Bin Laden or whatever.

Mister is a retired Marine. He is expected to “Ooh-rah.” respectively when seeing other Marines in uniforms and blah blah blah military jargon (Future Weapons and Mail Call) blah.

So imagine my dismay when I heard the anchor going into incredible detail and playing the 911 call of the woman who cut off the arms of her baby girl less than two miles from our house.

I was physically sick.

I do not handle this stuff well. I do not handle reality well. I do not handle the babies with flies in their eyes well; I do not handle dogs that have been so neglected that the chains that keep them tied in their yards grow into the tissue around their necks.

Give me Zombies, give me witches, give me blood, guts and gore… In a MOVIE. Not real life. What the hell is wrong with people?

Oh, really quick. Let me go ahead and give a speedy review of Grindhouse… two words, Fuckin-A. You know what? Let’s go ahead and turn this whole entry around and talk about Shawn’s testicle and the movie… or the several that I saw over the weekend. Then I will round this out with a chat conversation that I had with my boss and we can stop thinking about bad stuff.

Okay, Grindhouse. Quentin Tarantino and Robert Rodriguez are geniuses. Geniuses. Do you all remember when they would have those cheesy 1960/1970’s slasher movies that were almost too cliché to be taken seriously? Or the vignettes that were put together like… well, like The Kentucky Fried Movie ? It was like that… but better, with 100% more zombies and boobs and Kurt Russell being beaten like a red headed stepchild by three pissed off chicks. And almost as funny.

It is the goriest chick flick I have ever seen, and I loved it. Both, all… whatever.

Eli Roth (director/sick fuck from um… Cabin Fever and Hostel?) Yeah, he directs one of the vignettes for the between scene “Coming Attractions”.

You know when directors don’t take themselves too seriously say, (like Tarantino) and play “Rapist #1” in one film (Planet Terror) and a cheesy bartender, “Warren”, in another (Death Proof)? Did you guys see From Dusk Till Dawn? Awesome character right? Same thing. So over the top that you are throwing a thumb at him like, “Can you believe the size of this guys nut sack?” He is AWESOME.

Speaking of nut sacks. Shawn’s tests came back negative. They will keep a close eye on him and test him every two months to make sure the cancer doesn’t come back. YAY! Go Shawn!

Mister and I also watched The Descent Friday night. Holy shit. Okay, I am going to give you a spoiler because it came out in freaking 2005. If you haven’t seen the movie, look away. Go to the end of the paragraph. The premise is six adventure seeking chicks go caving (?), spelunking (?), rootin around two miles below the surface of the planet… whatever. They go, they think they are going into one cave system, their leader (Juno… cool name) takes them into another, so whatever flight plan thingy they filed with the international caving association of cavers (I totally just made that up) was totally off the mark. The cave system that they were in? Was unmarked, unexplored, unspelunked (shut up) by anyone ever in the whole universe. But was it really? Um, no. There are these crawler things that are blind, have sharp pointy teeth and are a little hungry. The best part about this movie: 1) watch the behind the scenes, making of the film thingy… then 2)? Watch the outtakes. Hysterical. Okay. So the director… a brilliant bloke by the name of (something, I closed the window already and am lazy) kept the crawlers from the actresses until it was time for them to show up in the movie. The actresses had no clue what they looked like, when they were going to show up in the movie and/or what they were going to do in their first scene. The actresses’ reaction? Was real. So were mine and Mister’s. We screamed like 12 year old girls and I clutched my pearls and he joined me on the couch. Heh. Awesome.

Spoiler OVER.

So Saturday we went to a play being put on by a local high school troupe and they were rocking. Not going to mention it for fear of Google. And also because I am going to relay a chat message conversation between my boss and I that happened yesterday morning as he was traveling to (somewhere) to visit his parents.

Heh.

(See? Subject changed?... Head in the sand. Diversion. Look! Over here, something shiny.)

First off. Love my boss. Lurve. He is awesome. He lets me do my job, he does not micromanage and he has great taste in clothing. If it weren’t for my boss, my mother and Mister. I would be naked or wearing my little rubber ducky pajama bottoms with a blazer to work today. I enjoy his company, sometimes he thinks I am funny and he embarrasses SO easily. He is 42, single, never been married and has the voice of an angel. Okay, enough about him.

Back to me.

And my chat to him.

Y’all he would so kill me dead. He fires me at least three times a year if I embarrass him. So please, if you know him. Be kind. Do not tell him about this site, for the fear of my hedonism tendencies and the urge to use the word Fuck would surely strike him (a very sweet and Godly man) blind.

Blah Blah Blah – we talk about his flight to Houston and it leaving on time…. And whether or not his other one will leave from Houston to get to his parent’s house… it was late, he had no way of contacting them. My goal? To make him laugh out loud in a sea of people. Ergo, embarrassment.

boss man: flight is leaving late out of Houston, no way to call mom and dad, oh well, they’ll just have to wait
self: go find one of those massage chairs
boss man: some lady just waved at me, must be from [church he attends]
self: told you, you are famous
boss man: no clue who she is, not so rich and famous
self: fay-mouse, er, fay-muss…
self: next time some person comes up to you and I am standing there… if they start fawning all over you I am going to throw money at your feet and ask you to sing Mr. Bojangles
boss man: I totally believe you
self: you would do one of three things… well, four
self: 1) turn purple 2) run away 3) faint or 4) kick me then run away
boss man: then I’d fire you
boss man: again
self: okay, FIVE things….
self: or I could hold onto your arm and look adoringly at you, maybe cry a little bit… then tell the person praising you that you heal me every time you open your mouth

Break in communication here for a little clarification: There is this woman (he totally brings out the crazy) in the church that told someone on Easter Sunday that, “Every time [boss man] walks onto stage to sing, I just feel healed… he doesn’t even have to open his mouth, he just heals me

He is awesome, but he takes it all in stride. We were chatting during American Idol and Mister found the broadcast of boss man’s solo from Easter Sunday online. I told him we were listening to him. He said, “Are you healed yet?” I said, “No, but Mister has grown back some of his hair.” And on Saturday at the play, people were all “You are awesome, you have such a gift, blah blah blah…” and he just smiles… and turns purple…. And tries not to run away.

boss man: laughing
self: wait, six things… you’d throw your blackberry at me if I were sitting right there. Oh, and guess what you did last night?
boss man: what
self: well, to preface this weird answer, you have to know that I have been having very dark, strange, work related dreams lately.
boss man: you??? Never!
self: you helped me hide on the stairs of a beach house from some zombies
boss man: it’s those crazy movies you watch
self: heh, the best part was that you kept shushing me, “shhhhhhhh” like I was going to break into Liza Manelli’s “Sheeeee’s THE ONE!!!!!!!!” or something.
self: I love zombies.

(edited to delete a bunch of work related boring chit chat)

boss man: airport is really crowded, people are testy
self: it’s the zombies
self: remember, if you have to take one out, aim for the head.
boss man: they are only after you.
self: no.
boss man: they’ll be hiding under your bed when you get home.
self: They are after EVERYONE. Hey!
boss man: And in the closets.
self: Not cool man. Along with those creepy ass clowns.
boss man: behind the shower curtains
self: shut it sir (I said respectfully)
boss man: Max will scare them off
boss man: They are afraid of cats.
self: No, vampires and mummies are afraid of cats, don’t you know your monsters?
boss man: Ew. Hopefully there wont be cat stew cooking when you get there.
self: HEY.
boss man: I am ornery today.
self: You are totally PawPaw**… I am so going to embarrass you on purpose the next time I see you.

**PawPaw is code for him being an ornery old man.

self: I will say vagina loudly or something.
boss man: people are staring because I am laughing
boss man: stop
self: maybe hand you a large pack of condoms, “are these the ones you requested Mr. [LastName]?”
boss man: SSSTTTTTOOOPPPPP
self: “It says right here… Ribbed….” What?
boss man: Stop making me laugh
self: Okay, okay… you take back the cat stew thing and I will stop threatening you with condoms.
boss man: Ok
self: Deal
boss man: white flag is waving
self: Trojans back on the shelf at CVS
boss man: I said stop.
self: I totally did.

April 20, 2007

I am mean.

Okay, so the gossip. You all know that I am queen of Google, or a slave to it. I also have a Blogger account, this DiaryLand account, a MySpace page (really, it is just for stalking purposes) and I may even have something on WordPress. Not sure.

So the other day during lunch I was adding my favorite musicians to my MySpace account. I thought to myself, “Self, why do you see who these awesome musicians call their friends?” And holy shit. That is where I found it.

I have told you guys all about my ho-ness. I have told you about the boyfriends, the freaks, the ex-husband and the various random lovahs. Yes? I totally have. I have told you about my chatting on IRC phase and I have told you, well, let’s just get down to it. When you are all very familiar with the workings of my uterus, there pretty much isn’t a thing I haven’t told you.

Well, except for that. THAT? Goes with me to the grave. And yes, Stacey totally knows.

So I opened up this page on MySpace. Heh.

I want to link to it like I want a huge block of cheese served to me cold on a platter, sliced, right now. But someone here would totally blow my cover. My MySpace page doesn’t have one leeetle link to direct traffic to this page. It is my little secret. Well, yes, of course, it’s on the internet, so how secret could it get? Not very, but still. I don’t want to link. (Email me if you want it. I will totally give it to you, but you have to call me so we can giggle over the pictures. Deal?)

I will tell you who I found.

Do you guys remember me telling you about Marcus? No? Yes, you do. Okay, a few quick excerpts:

From this link here:

“In the year of our Lord 2001 I was dating a whiny little princess named Marcus. I don’t know if you could call it dating. It was more along the lines of me trying to run him off with a stick and him thinking I was trying to play fetch. He just showed up one day and wouldn’t leave until I got him his own apartment and moved him myself.

Marcus was good for several things: dancing at gay bars, movies, introducing me to View Askew Productions and the joy of Henry Rollins Spoken Word comedy. He also had a fabulous fashion sense* except that his hair was trapped in the 80’s.

*I swear… this guy was so in denial about his sexuality.” (Also, nice vest. Smell that? It’s sarcasm.)

From this link here:

“After a failed attempt at marriage and a move back to Dallas I took on a project named Marcus. He was content to move in with me and allow me to pay his legal bills, car payments, groceries and to put a down payment on an apartment for him when I could not bear for him to live with me any longer. I am not sure why I selected this type of man to “date” [read: raise]. Many a colleague, friend and psychologist offered that I selected the same type of man that I had just divorced to see if I could succeed this time.

After one of many insufficient funds fees (yes, he had my debit card… yes, I was stupid) I realized that I resented him with a passion almost akin to hate. Anything nice that I had done for Marcus before I wanted to rip his eyes out was lost in resentment. The eye rolling quality of “what do you want now!?” really changed the tone of anything kind I had done previously for him.

I was not a nice girl, kind of heart and generous with love, money and patience. I was a bitter woman waiting for the next person to take advantage of me. The pendulum of my trust swung WAY to the right and I waited it out like an ant in a rainstorm. Pissed and scared but almost helpless to change my situation. I was surprised at the depth of my wrath, my need for affection and my desire to make it alone. Walking contradiction? Table for one please. It was then that I realized that my boundaries were off kilter and that I needed to make changes to what Co-worker C calls “my core”.” (Hi, dramatic much?)

Annnnnnnnnnnnnd from this link here:

“I logged into IRC, did the password thing, hopped into channel and immediately got bombarded by a bunch of newbies with private messages asking “Age? Sex? Location?” I ignored them or told them to collectively fuck off and found my girlfriend Amy, she was an operator in the channel and she was the one who asked me to come in when I got home.

Amy: Hey chica.
Me: What’s up?
Amy: You’re never going to believe this…
Me: Try me..
Amy: First… how was your trip?
Me: Stop stalling… it was fine… give up the gossip sweets…
Amy: Well, M was in here earlier and he was asking about you.
Me: Marcus? No shit? I thought he’d given up. Last thing I knew, his ex-wife moved back to town and brought his kids with her.
Amy: Well check this out….

Amy told me that he had been in the channel and she was curious, so she pinged his IP address and did a “whois” on his nickname to see if it was him and what channels he was in. Some very interesting information came up when she did that.

He was visiting some “married-but-bi” channels or something.

I was aware of M’s leanings hence the ex term in front of the boyfriend moniker. There was more, so very much more as to why we weren’t together but I was done with him and not really worried about his sexual orientation.

Amy: That’s not really the reason I asked you to come online.
Me: What’s the deal?
Amy: Did he ever take a picture of you?
Me: Ames, how long was he hanging around? Since God was in short pants right?
Amy: Riiiiiiiight.
Me: Oh, no.
Amy: Oh yes.
Me: What did he do?
Amy: Well, he’s in some gay/bi/married channel or something and he has a picture of you that he’s sending out as himself with the name of Amanda on it.
Me: Isn’t that his ex-wife’s name?…. Oh shit.

So, a fun filled evening of finding out what pictures of me were floating around some sleazy channel (and the Internet) was the order of business. I called him on it and seriously considered putting an ad with his real home phone and address in a gay men’s magazine or just making neon flyers and passing them out down in the gay district of Dallas… but alas, my nice side won out and I just placated myself with thinking of him working at Burger King.” (Oh, this one kills me every time… hee!)

Yes… I totally found him.

Not really on purpose… but I was just kind of doing my lunch hour scroll through my blogs of choice and chatting a bit. When it registered in my noggin that he had sent me an email (with a song… and that is it… very Say Anything of you dear) to my work address a year or so ago.

I had no clue that he knew where I worked or what my new name was. If you search my old name you will find. Well, I think I was some sort of Kansas Rodeo Queen in the 80’s or something. So yeah, not me.

So when I got the email from him I was perplexed, and a bit paranoid. Perplexed because… how did he find my new name out unless he has been searching through the public records in our county or if… anyway, I don’t know. And paranoid because the last time I saw him, he threatened suicide if I broke up with him. We weren’t dating then anyways so I (callously) told him to be sure and slice vertically.

Yeah, not so nice. Well, apparently I’m still not nice because I totally sent an email to Stacey with one word, “Doooooooooooooooooooooooooooode.” And a copy of the link. She called me at work, we giggled over the pictures, decided that bangs weren’t a good look for him and many other such childish (but damn so much fun) things.

April 23, 2007

Anyone else? Should we start a support group?

Hi, remember me?

Yes, I know… make with the funny, circus girl.

First off. Ladies, (Gentlemen, you may look away for a moment, unless you have something to add.) do you ever go to work, or anywhere for that matter and for some reason your boobies, nay, your nipples decide to be all porny? You aren’t the least bit aroused by anything (except the thought of cheese*) and yet they are all sticky-outty. Normal shirt, normal bra, normal day… just with nipples that could help you out by being those teeny hammers that you keep in your car just in case of a water landing and you need to break your window to escape while your car sinks to the bottom of a watery lagoon. Right?

Right.

*I want some cheese.

So, today I get dressed in my normal garanimals for adults uniform. Black pants? Check. Black trouser socks? Check. Black loafers? Check. Sea Blue 3/4 length sleeve v-neck t-shirt from Jones New York Sport? Check. Brighton accessories? Check.

I got on the elevator, pressed my floor and while I was turning my little 180 in the corner to get out of the way of those boarding I caught a glimpse of my bosoms in the back of the mirrored elevator. I was forced to cover my boobs with Elvira and a wayward flyer on a credit card offer because I was about to poke out the eyes of the not so devilishly handsome although quite spritely security/car tow-er guy that was getting on the elevator with me.

DANGER WILL ROBINSON, DANGER. Your boob may just poke out the eye of the short security guy, or at least mess up his comb over!

And it’s not like the girls are huge mind you, they are average for a girl who is… girthy. But Cheeze** Whiz on a Ritz Cracker, please. This is embarrassing. I don’t want to look like I am trying to hide my boobies. I am not ashamed but I know, y’all, I know that what most men think when they see a woman who has (hate this phrase) her headlights on. “Oooh, she must be one hot momma, a hellcat in the sack I tell you. Lookit them hooters, she’s just raring to go ain’t she?”

**There it is again.

And for those of us who have been gifted with… let’s just call it Over Active Nipple Syndrome (OANS) we get the look. The patented, “Hey, how you doin? Holy Christmas tree lookit them nips! They’re pointing right at me. Is she cold? Does she want me? She must want me. Otherwise, there is NO way she’d be all aroused like that. Hell, it’s even warm in here. Should I tell HR? Approach her in the parking garage? Send her inappropriate text messages? Blurt out my phone number?! What do I do, what do I dooooo?”

All the while you are completely oblivious to the mind fuck you just pulled on the quiet IT guy that eats Vienna sausages*** in the lunchroom.

***Oh the irony.

So OANS struck this morning and as not to be obscene and/or cause a scene or a moral dilemma for anyone in the building I have donned a jacket. A windbreaker. An ugly windbreaker that has my company logo on it and makes that “zoot,zoot,zoot” noise when I walk and swing my arms.

Anyone else? Should we start a support group?

Okay, moving on. But listen, here’s the deal. You don’t tell a soul about this alright? My daddy would disown and then bury me if he knew what I am about to spill. I know, I know babies, shhh. It’s alright. My momma always did tell me, “Never write down something you don’t want published.” But here’s the deal. It has already been published. It happened about a decade ago and if there are any traces of this left, I would like a bucket of one hundred dollar bills, because I earned that shit.

Okay, once upon a time there was a little bitty girl with long legs, wide eyes and a very bad marriage.

Yes, we are going to talk about my boobs some more.

Within this bad marriage things were tried to “spice up or liven up” the boudoir relationship. If you know what I mean. And I totally think you do. (Remind me to tell you about breaking a vibrator.) So, a digital camera was purchased, borrowed, stolen… whatever, don’t remember. And some photos were taken. Of… ME.

Anyway, I was thin, my breasts were standing straight up (while I was lying on my back) and they are natural. I was proud. My husband (at the time) was proud. Our little secret.

Who cares, right? Not me.

Until. UNTIL. Dum, dum DUUUUUMMMM!

My asshole of a husband was jacking around with the computer one day while I was at work and sent some files to me. I looked up to see an email from him, opened it and WHAM! MY BOOBS and some other pictures of me doing stuff.

Also, shut up.

If I described even one of those pictures, you have probably seen it. And dammit, I want some cash for that. Don’t people usually get paid to pose naked, if anyone other than their spouse is supposed to see said pictures? Those were MY boobs on display. And, my makeup did look smashing.

So, I immediately deleted all of the husband’s emails that were pouring into my computer. It was like trying to put pajamas on an alligator. I would take a call, place an order, delete an email, call him, the phone was busy because we had dial up, freak out, answer a call, place an order, delete an email, send an email, “For God’s sake, stop sending those!”, answer a call, place an order, get an email, delete an email, get another email, “But you look hot in this one.” start to cry, take a call, place an order, delete an email… and so on ad nauseum.

Finally I sent him an email with 72 point type that was all STOP, I WILL GET FIRED. And since he was a lazy prince he finally stopped… when he ran out of pictures. I shift+deleted all of that shit. Oh my Lord, my face was red, and I had my emails set up on autoview any second someone, anyone could have come around a corner and my whole world would have shattered.

I got home that night and was all shaky mad. Y’all know how when you get so mad and embarrassed and pissed off that you just shake and fantasize about drawing and quartering the one who has caused you such grief, such embarrassment, such anxiety? Yeah, I was shaky mad.

And he was laughing at me.

Hi. Death by mockery table for one please?

He had NO idea what he had done and the worst part about it was that when he finally figured it out, he didn’t care. And he thought I shouldn’t care either. “What? You’re hot, those pictures are great. Who cares if anyone else sees?” So, to add insult to injury he wasn’t even a bit protective of me and my virtue.

Looking back I am TOTALLY sure that the whole entire Police Department where he is still working has seen or has heard stories of those pictures.

When I got fired from that company a year or so later (for being late… seriously), it was my perfect chance to escape back to Dallas. I had cleaned out my computer of everything personal; it had been plenty of time since the asshole sent those pictures. I packed my little box of notebooks, books, special projects that I worked on, packed my stuff into my truck, got a Dallas Morning News paper on the way home and started looking for jobs.

I had separated from X and asked for a divorce on our 5th (6th?) year anniversary (because that is how sweet I am) and I found a job in Dallas. I moved. We divorced. I got a call from a dear, dear friend of mine. She happened to be my boss when I worked for the company where X sent the pictures.

Cookie: Hey baby girl.
self: Cooks, what’s shakin bacon?
Cookie: Honey, I have some bad news.
self: What? Who? Who died?
Cookie: No, no, no…. not like that.
self: O…. kay. What’s wrong?
Cookie: Well, when you left Reggie got your computer.
self: Alright, how is that son of a bitch?
Cookie: Well, he’s a lot better now that he has some uh… um…
self: Cookie?
Cookie: What?
self: Spit it out.
Cookie: He found those pictures that your X sent to you.
self: …. What?
Cookie: THOSE PICTURES. The ones of your….
self: … [sound of gagging and choking and maybe the death of my dignity]
Cookie: Honey?
self: … Wh-What?
Cookie: That sneaky bastard heard something about those pictures and did some sort of uninstall program on the computer himself.
self: What? He KNEW?
Cookie: Yeah, he may have even requested your computer after you left.
self: Oh God.
Cookie: You are now the porn queen of [random company where we worked].
self: Oh, how… pleasant.
Cookie: What can I do for you?
self: Can we do anything about it?
Cookie: Not really. Not that I am aware of anyway. But he was reprimanded for sending private work documents outside of the office.
self: Oh… no…. really!!!??!? He sent something … My Pictures?!? OUTSIDE THE OFFICE? And got Reprimanded? But that’s all?
Cookie: Yes, let’s go ahead and call you the porn queen of Nacogdoches.
self: Fuck.
Cookie: Hey, they looked pretty good.
self: Shut up.

April 25, 2007

They are fired. Bad genes.

This day has sucked eight kinds of ass… including platypus. And that’s saying something. I have also noticed that I have been cranky lately. Have you guys? You think it might be the vegetarian diet or that I may just waste away on my wheat noodles and veggie marinara? Maybe just maybe….

But check this shit out. I went back to get my blood drawn on Monday. Y’all knew that right? Right. Okay… so I went to see (hot) Dr. Eduardo yesterday at 1:30 for a late lunch appointment. Right? Right. Whatever, y’all just want me to get to the good stuff right? Where I say that (hot) Dr. Eduardo told me that I could live in a vat of cheese because my triglycerides are so low. Right? Right… me too. Where he would say, “Why Susan, your bodunkadunk has nearly worn away in the six weeks that you have forsaken meat, you must get back on that Bacon Wagon and ride it until you have junk in your trunk once more… this is a travesty I say… [shaking fist] A TRAVESTY!”

Yeah, well I wanted that shit too. But this is what actually happened. Long story or short? Short?

… Fine.

I lost almost 6 pounds and when he opened my chart to look at the blood results he fucking laughed.

He looked from one set of results to another. He kept laughing. I started getting tingly in my no-no parts… I was thinking to myself, “Mirth? Merriment? That must be good news right? He is going to give me the green light on dairy and I can stop singing that freaking Hymn and getting all Moses-y, ‘Let my dairy goooooooooooooo.’”

But nay my darlings, naaaaaaay.

Remember that my triglycerides were like 464 and shit?

Yeah, go on and guess what they were yesterday. Go ahead. I’ll wait.

[Theme Song from Jeopardy]

EEEEEEEEEEEEEhhhnnn!

Wrong bitches. My triglycerides were fucking 600.

I looked at (hot) Dr. Eduardo and just sort of blinked at him and he goes, “Soosahn… you must call up your mooothar and your fahthar and fire them immediately. They are fired. Bad genes.” And he kept laughing.

Yeah, ha ha, very funny mother fucker. I gave up cheese for this shit. CHEESE. So, he put me on two medications and asked me to come back in three months. I guess so he could laugh again.

Dammit.

I am like an anomaly or something. I lost weight, I ate healthy, I watched fat, cholesterol and caloric intake for six weeks and my triglycerides went UP TO 600!

And yeah, my fault, my bad… I called my mom to tell her she was fired. You know what she said? I will give you three guesses and the first two don’t count. “Well, at least you lost some weight… and Susan, exercise DOES help.” She got all caps lock-y on the DOES like I wouldn’t believe her. Started citing what she had read, friends who had high cholesterol. And all I wanted to do was scream at her. Not really anything in particular.
Just more of an “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!” And then hang up. But, I didn’t. I just listened to her tell me what I should be doing to get myself right. And then I hung up when she was through and called Mister.

FUMING.

I was p-i-s-e-d (pised?) no… (Sweetest Thing humor) I was pissed.

He listened, he did not try to fix my feelings, he appropriately did the, “Oh baby!” thing that I need to hear every now and again and then he goes. “You know. I am aware that you like for your parents to know what you are going through and that y’all are close, but baby… if your mother can not keep her promise about leaving you alone about your weight, or if she relates everything back to scooterville or something then you are just going to have to stop talking to your parents about your health, your surgeries, your cholesterol, everything. If you don’t want to hear her drone on and on about this that and the other thing* then just stop telling her about it.”

*This that and the other thing is code for = my mother is embarrassed by my size.

And y’all know what? He is totally right. I know she can’t help it. She is just… that way. And to keep telling her shit over and over and expecting her to react differently is just not sane, so… I will remove that factor from the situation. And in a few months when she asks me about it (if she does) then I will do the, “Great… great, everything is just great.” routine.

That Mister is smart. S-M-R-T.

Fucking 600. It went up.

Lord.

But this morning, I called her, apologized for snapping at her, listened to the, “But Susan I am just so worried about your health!” blather and then hung up.

Remind me… no more.

April 30, 2007

What's My Name Beeeyotch!?

A rose by any other name.... is probably a cheap ass carnation that your date bought for you at Kroger just before he picked you up for prom because he thinks he may get lucky.

Okay. Here’s the deal my babies. I have been working at this here worky place for nigh on four years. Well, I am at about 3 and a half years. There is this very nice man who works in shipping. Sweet, funny, very polite and never goes a day without greeting me.

The issue is that today I was Sandra. Yesterday I was Saundra, the day before that Shannon, the day before that Suzanne and the day before that Sarah.

The worst kept secret on these here internets pages is that my real name is Susan.

If you are new, hi by the way, my name is Susan.

In three and a half years the man has called me Susan... once. And that was only because he had a package to deliver to me. That had my name on it. Like twelve times. In huge letters on the side of the box like “FRAGILE” (Fra-Geeee-Lay) in A Christmas Story.

The package delivery? Oh, about a year and a half ago. Not that I mind being Sabrina, Sasha, Sade, Sage, Samantha, Savannah, Scarlett, Selma, September, Serena, Shaeleigh, Shaine, Shana, Sharon, Shay, Sheila, Shelby, Shelly, Shoshana, Sierra, Sigourney, Simone, Skyler, Sloane, Sonia, Sophia, Stacey, Stella, Stephanie, Summer, Sybil, Sydney or Sylvia... but don’t y’all think that this man is bound to run out of “S” names before he retires or I get fired for something?

Speaking of names. My parents came in this weekend for a double header. 1) My birthday* dinner at the Melting Pot Saturday night and 2) My niece’s birthday party yesterday.

*My birthday is on the 11th. I like buckets of money, jewelry, hair, face, cosmetic and skin products, long sleeved shirts that look like tattoos and Marlboro Light 100’s in a box.**

**What?***

***Shut up****.

****Holy fuck, I am going to be 35.

When we all met for dinner my sister gave me a present that turned out to be a book “from the children” by Augusten Burroughs called Side Effects. May I remind you that when I read his previous book (Running With Scissors - that my sister also loaned me) I went on a rant about the chapter called “Masterbatorium”? A gift from the children indeed. You should be ashamed of yourself.

Y’all know how I like to use shock value on my mother just for spite... and also because she asks a lot of questions? My sister does the same thing to me. But she is passive aggressive enough to use literature. Awesome.

My parents handed over a beautifully wrapped box that I slipped the card from under the ribbon and went to open it. My mother said, “No, wait... open the present first!” So I did and they had picked out the cutest sweater/shirt combo thing. So when I opened the card and it said, “We’re proud of you Suzanna Danna!” My heart almost burst out of my chest until I realized. Oh, wait, these are the people who gave me that name.

Y’all. I totally though that I was being journal-outted to my parents on my (ALMOST... remember, you have 11 buying days left) birthday. How bad would that have sucked?

Okay, so I have had some cheese. And at dinner Saturday night I had meat. And then I got totally sick. Fantastic. Now that I want to go back to my cheese lovin ways, my body is all nay, NAY... for thou wilt not partake in the cheese or thine agony and tummy issues will be many.

Oh. I am totally going to Chicago for my birthday for a rockstar weekend with some very cool people. Mister is going with me and I will try to get him drunk and plead with him to sing some hard rock, head-bangin karaoke song in the tune of Grandpa. He does this awesome imitation of a grandpa when he is singing something from like White Snake or Led Zepplin or ... God Forefend, the Bulletboys “Smooth Up In Ya!” Oh, how awesome would that be? Verily I say to you, verily.

About April 2007

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

March 2007 is the previous archive.

May 2007 is the next archive.

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

Powered by
Movable Type 3.35