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May 8, 2007

He was flingin that chainsaw all over the place.

Tuesday of last week I had an all day meeting here in the Dallas area. I had to be there to help with registration at 7 am so that morning I was up at like 4:30 am freaking out (why do I do this?) that I would leave too late (because the weather was turning bad rather quickly) so I just got up, showered, dressed and left the house at 6 am. I got to my destination a full thirty minutes early and had to be on for almost ten hours. All smiles and gracious nods to the committee members and board of directors in attendance.

I also was blackberry chatting my boss trying to get him to guffaw loudly at inappropriate times... while we were sitting right next to each other.

I have been told that I am a trouble maker. Don’t let the twin set or the pearls fool you folks.

And then Wednesday I went to San Antonio for a planning meeting. I traveled on Wednesday after a full day of worky type stuff and then had the meeting on Thursday. While I was holding court with my committee, Mister was driving to Houston to have a meeting of his own. I knew that we would start doing this ‘strangers in the night... exchanging glances’ thing sooner or later, but it doesn’t mean that I have to like it.

I got home Thursday evening, three hours late (8:30 ish – stupid weather) and tried not to watch Ugly Betty or Grey’s Anatomy as I had missed both of them (but recorded!) so I wound up doing laundry, watching the weather channel and downloading stuff from Limewire. I had nightmares all night that included a very riveting mind-made-up movie that featured Lindsey Lohen, Forrest Whitaker, Michael Madsen and someone else that I can’t quite remember. Oh, and there were zombies.

Mister and I have one of those sleep number beds. My side is set to “firm and wonderful” and his side is set to “hole that I fall into and can not crawl out of while I am partially asleep.” Keep in mind. He is big, it is a big hole. Grave sized hole. Wonderful fodder for more nightmares.

So I would have a bad dream, fall into his bed-hole, crawl out, curse, get my pillows straightened, kick the cat off the bed, go back to sleep, have a bad dream, fall into his bed-hole, get stuck, crawl out, curse... ad nauseam. It was so exhausting.

Friday after what seemed like the longest work day ever, I went home. I stopped at a wrap sandwich place to grab dinner as Mister would be late and then went home to clean up the kitchen. He got home and it started one of the strangest weekends we have had in a long time.

We started out with a little S&R (Smoking and Relaxation) on the porch, got caught up with one another and then decided to go to bed and watch The Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Beginning.

Normal right?


It freaks me right the fuck out.

I have always had a bad anchor with the original. I saw the (have I talked about this before? Must search archives.* No, I have not.) trailer for the original when I was like, oh, I don’t know... seven? eight? When did it come out? 1974? I was two... alright, so by the time it aired on HBO I was... I don’t know. Six? Seven? Let’s guesstimate and say I was wee.

*By the way... what the fuck diaryland? Seriously, what the ever loving fuck? Posting each entry like three or four times, taking forever to load... ANYTHING. Get it together diaryland. Be a team player diaryland.

I was staying at Julie Jacquote’s** house. She was one of my bestest friends in the world when I was that age. Her parents had a big home in Indian Hills neighborhood. She had a younger brother and a huge basement. The home was multileveled with the great room on the first floor, the kitchen and the den on the second floor, her parents’ master bedroom and bath on the third floor and her brother’s room, her room and another bathroom on the fourth floor. From the back you could see a small lake, their swing set and a porch that was level with the second floor. And the basement was below the kitchen and great room.

**If you are Julie Jacquote and you are Googling yourself and you know me... dude, please leave me a comment or your email, would love to get back in touch with you! Indian Hills right? Not Fox Hills.

Yes, there is a reason I am telling you this.

One evening I was spending the night with Julie. We were normally relegated to the basement whenever we had sleepovers as we were wanton, giggly girls prone to fits of laughter and squealing. We would bring our snacks downstairs because to get to the kitchen we had to go up these creepy stairs and the creaking of the stairs would wake one of Julie’s parents who would inevitably get on to us for being 1) up so late or 2) being so loud. We would bring down mounds of pillows and blankets to snuggle up into and make forts.

During a brief lull of making up dances to the theme soundtrack to Fame for one another (or whatever) we snuggled in to watch TV. Julie’s parents’ had cable and it was a treat for me to watch TV over there as we had the big four (five?), NBC, ABC, CBS, PBS and the budding TBS or TNT or whatever. We turned the channel to HBO and watched the coming attraction previews for the movies to choose from. (Remember when Ringo Starr in Caveman was on like seven times a day?)

We watched for a few minutes then the trailer for the Texas Chainsaw Massacre came on. Just the trailer. Movie trailer. Nothing big. Nothing that bad (if you are already desensitized to brutal slayings and murder and furniture made out of human bones and chicken feathers...). But we screamed so loudly when Leatherface went to go impale that girl on a meat hook that we woke up Julie’s dad. He came down to the basement and asked us to be quiet. We, round eyed with terror, nodded silently. He said, “Girls, now... if I have to come down here one more time tonight, we’re going to have to separate you so the rest of the house can get some rest.”

Julie took the TV remote (fancy.) in her hands and turned the volume down on the television. Her dad nodded solemnly and headed back upstairs.

We were scared. So very scared. What if this chainsaw guy wanted to put us on meat hooks? The sliding glass doors in the basement led to the backyard and the lake. We spoke in hushed tones and figured out a plan. We would escape through the sliding glass doors if the killer came to get us she would run one way around the house and I would run the other way so at least one of us could warn the rest of the family and then run to safety.

It said it right there in the trailer, “THE EVENTS ARE TRUE....” anything that came after that was just icing. All we had to know was that this shit was for real.

We were talking so quietly that it frightened us even more when her father came stomping down the stairs, “Alright girls, I have had enough. Julie, you go into your own room, Susan, you take her brother’s room.” Julie and I blinked at one another as we knew we hadn’t made a sound that could travel up the stairs and into her parents’ bedroom.

Her brother was already sleeping in her parents’ room so I snuggled into his tiny toddler’s bed as Julie walked silently to her bedroom.

I laid there for what seemed like hours. We were basically three floors up from the ground, two floors from the second story porch that was off of the kitchen and the den.


What was that noise?

That noise sounded a lot like... a ladder being placed upon the side of the house.

What ladder could reach to the third story? Well, duh, of course... Leatherface has put the ladder on the porch and is leaning it up against the house right under the window to Julie’s brother’s room. The window under which I was sleeping in a toddler’s bed. I just knew that the killer chainsaw guy was coming to get me so he could put me on a meat hook.

That creepy, high pitched, evil laughter and the gunning of his chainsaw would be the last thing my ears would ever hear.

I had to get away from that window. But I had to do it quietly, I couldn’t risk waking Julie’s father again and I could NOT risk drawing the attention of Leatherface (thanks, Gunnar Hansen) where he was perched precariously on his ladder right outside the window just waiting to take my skin off and wear it.

I crept out of bed and tiptoed down the hallway to Julie’s bedroom. I was quiet as a cat. I stayed on the balls of my feet just waiting to flee. I thought, maybe if Leatherface busts a move through the window, I can get a head start on him if I keep on my toes, nimble and ready to be quick and dart in any direction (namely, down the stairs and out the fucking front door).

When I got to Julie’s room, she was in her bed fast asleep. I tried waking her with a gentle nudge. “Jooooleeee?” I whispered. “Hey, Julie?” I tapped her on the shoulder. She was fast asleep. I made sure she wasn’t dead by holding a hand in front of her mouth to feel her breath. Then I thought better of it and decided to hop onto the bed just incase Leatherface (that bastard, I was really starting to hate him) had already killed her and was laying in wait under the bed for me.

Oh, yes. Even then, it was all about me.***

***Shut up.

So I hopped on the bed, made sure I wasn’t snuggling in with a dead person, and then tried to get under the covers. I wanted to hide from that guy, and when you are young and stupid and moving a micrometer a second and trying to be all quiet and shit it takes a LONG ass time to try and get covers from someone who is wrapped up like a burrito and sleeping like she had been tranq-ed with a rhino dart.

So? I crawled under her. Figuring if Leatherface was gonna meat hook anyone or get a little frisky with his chainsaw? He’d get her first.****

****Julie, I am so sorry. I was yella. A chicken. A hyped up super freak imagination chicken that was giving you up as a shield.

She’s totally not going to leave me a comment or email me or anything now, even if she does find this by the power of Google is she y’all? I thought not.


Something weird just occurred to me. Do y’all remember the hand cutting off mother of that troubled kid on Boston Public or the Biscuit’s date a few times or something or another on Ally McBeal? That is the same sexpot redhead “That was the single most thrilling experience of my entire life” from Edward Scissorhands. Coincidence Kathy Baker? Nope.

So I had a negative anchor with The Texas Chainsaw Massacre for a long time. I had never even seen the damn thing and yet it gave me shivers and nightmares for about twenty years... or shamefully, even more.

I went to a haunted house during Halloween one year with a bunch of my teenage girlfriends. They shoved me in the front and we all held on to each other for “protection”. We went through the caves, bridges, Frankenstien-y, creepy, jumpy-outty people and then we came to the last room. This room was all white with “blood” splattered everywhere. A strobe light made every movement seem surreal when all of the sudden a man stood out of the way and a large man came out from behind a partition.

He may have been wearing a mask made of lady skin like Leatherface, he may have been wearing the standard “Jason from Friday the 13th” hockey mask or the mask of Michael Myers from the Halloween movies. I have no clue. All I know is that I took in several things at once. 1) This guy was huge. 2) He had a chainsaw (!). 3) I couldn’t see his face. And 4) there was no way out of the room.

He was flingin that chainsaw all over the place. His partner acted like he couldn’t hold him back and I knew, y’all I knew that this was a haunted house. There was no way that they were going to let anything happen to any kids, much less a bunch of squealing girls that may or may not have been cheerleaders. But I did know that I was in the front of the pack, and I knew that the guy was coming closer to me.

And then he did it y’all. He touched me on my leg with the chainsaw. The chainsaw had no blades on it. It was completely harmless (unless he were to smack someone upside the noggin) but it didn’t matter to me. That one leeetle gesture, just meant to scare the pants off somebody triggered two things in me, the fight and flight adrenaline rush that you can get in some situations and the need to get out.

The fight part. I kneed the guy in his thigh (was always taught not to knee a man in his jewels... regardless of the chainsaw situation) and while he cursed and stumbled backwards I saw the smallest bit of light in a rectangle formation behind him.

The flight part. I ran at the rectangle of light. This light just happened to be a board of plywood that was being held up by at least two, maybe three men. When they got the signal, they were to drop the board creating an outing into the parking lot. What they did not expect was a sixteen year old girl freaked out on chainsaw adrenaline that had been building up for about a decade. They also didn’t expect me to knock the plywood and them down, run over them like I was in a Three Stooges movie and keep running into the parking lot like the freaking roadrunner.

But guess what? That is exactly what I did. Not sure when I stopped running, or when my friends stopped laughing at me, and the rest of the patrons stopped laughing at the men I ran over but sooner or later I stopped, had a smoke and a good laugh about it. (Yeah, ha ha... very funny mother fucker.)

So a few years ago.

Lord... is she still rambling? Yes... and I would like to ask you very kindly to shut up. Diaryland is not letting me post stuff on the regular so I have to cram it all in now. See? Warning you that I am going to cram it all in again. So polite.


So a few years ago Mister and I were at Hollywood video and he saw the thirty year edition DVD for Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

Mister: OOH! Let’s get it!
self: Have you lost your ever loving mind?
Mister: No.
self: You’ve heard the stories... seeing the trailer has caused damage.... DAMAGE.
Mister: Stop being so dramatic. That was like thirty years ago. You could totally handle it now.
self: Do you remember who was screaming like a twelve year old girl during The Grudge?
Mister: That was you.
self: Right. And remember those poor men who I ran over at the haunted house because of the...
Mister: Chainsaw... right. But, also...
self: Ut oh.
Mister: Right, logic. Also... remember how after you finally watched that guy peel his face off in Poltergeist it wasn’t so scary anymore?
self: ::snerk:: Yes.
Mister: Again I say, OOH! Let’s get it!
self: hmmmpf, fine.

So we got it home, set it up in the bedroom, turned all the lights on... during the afternoon and watched it. And it was scary as shit.

So why are we watching the prequels? No clue.

And why can’t I finish a thought and tell you people about the rest of my weird weekend? Okay, one thing. Text message to boss on Sunday: “I am sitting astride a riding lawnmower in Lowe’s, holding several downspouts for our gutters while [Mister] is contemplating a wet/dry shop vac. Can my life get anymore glamorous?”

This weekend is rockstar weekend. Will take pictures, or just say I am going to take pictures and then send you to someone else’s flickr page. This weekend? Also my birthday. But y’all already knew that.

May 25, 2007

It was official. A Rockstar weekend was being born.

Hi. Miss me? Have I been gone long enough from your warm (and furry) embrace that you are starting to sing Donna Summer songs into a hair brush and weep openly because of that spot in your heart where I used to be?



Okay. So, yes. I have been gone for a while. I think the last post was 5/8/07 and today is 5/24/07. That is like a bunch of days, and while I have never been one to post daily or even weekly, this large gap in time makes me want to create a place on my site for travel schedule (maybe in place of the guestbook? because that thing is shit.. and no one can even sign into the members area page to edit all the spam because you get a ERROR page and.... ::sigh:: ) so you guys would know when I was going to be gone and maybe even which city I would be in so you could call me for drinks and we could get tipsy on long island iced teas (mike – mint juleps) and make fun of my hair in the humidity and then say inappropriate things loudly so that old ladies suck their breath in through their teeth because we are absolutely ghastly (mike – British Clergy in tittie bars). But then I thought that you guys really wouldn’t care about my travel schedule... you just want to hear about the stuff that happened when I got back (I am updating! Melinda... See?). And this run on sentence has been brought to you by the letter R as in ROCKSTAR Weekend in Chicago and the number eleventy.

Oh, I also downloaded Google chat onto my blackberry so I CAN and WILL open it up whilst traveling and see if anyone loves me. They normally do. So I feel all justified and then start singing “My Love” from JT’s FutureSex/LoveShow album. People who are around me are lucky if I take em to the bridge and bring my “Sexy Back”, and then get I get my sexy on and then my boss fires me... again.*

*Oh, the Thursday before we left for Chicago, my boss very proudly showed me his new phone. I noticed it had a camera feature on it and tried to take a picture of my hand flipping off the phone so that could be the screen that popps up when I call him. He snatched it away from me muttering, get this... “Dirty Baptist.” Hee!

So, enough with the wasting time.

Chicago rocked my face off.

Let me walk you though how this whole thing went down. On 4/26/07 this one Google chatted me and was all, “What are you doing on the weekend of 5/11/07?” I replied, “My birthday is 5/11.” She was all “I didn’t ask when your birthday was, bitch.” She didn’t say bitch, but it was implied. She continued, “I asked what you were doing that weekend.” I admitted that I truly did not know, nor did I know if Mister had anything spectacular planned for my birthday. MY BIRTHDAY THAT WAS ON THE 11th? Did I mention that part? Did I also mention that I turned 35? Did I mention that this was a big deal? THIRTY FIVE. It deserves caps bitches. Yes, I just said bitches. And I meant it. I’ll say it again. I have the power.


Okay so I was all, “Alright, I don’t think anything is planned, why?” She said, “Because you and Mister can come to Chicago for a Rockstar weekend with us.” So I called Mister and sprung it on him.

self: “HI!”
Mister: “Hi?”
self: “So... I was thinking...”
Mister: “Should I be nervous?”
self: “No, this is going to be awesome.”
Mister: “O...kay....”

Why is he so suspicious?

self: “Do we have any plans for the weekend of my birthday?”
Mister: “Well, I was thinking that we could go to dinner and look for your bike...”
self: “Wanna go to Chicago?”
Mister: “What?”
self: “Chicago... go to... for my birthday weekend.”
Mister: “Just like that?”
self: “Why not? We have points to stay for free, we have award tickets to fly for free.”
Mister: “It’s like two weekend away.”
self: “Right! And we’ve both already taken off that Friday for MY BIRTHDAY. Right?”
Mister: “Right, okay.”
self: “So, you’ll go? Wanna go... can I go ahead and book it?”
Mister: “I don’t see why not.”
self: “YAY! Okay, will email you with specifics.”
Mister: “Bye...” [he said unsurely]

It was almost like I was saying. “Hey! My love, my life, my darling, I would like to have a fruit bat for dinner and then apply leeches to my forehead for a good old fashioned blood letting this evening, are you in?”

Mister may not like for people to move his cheese, is all I’m sayin.

So, within moments of the initial squee, I had free parking lined up, two free plane tickets lined up and two free nights stay right next to the Hancock building on the Miracle Mile booked. I am fast (bitches).

She called me on the phone at work with this one on the other line – conference call style. I was squealing and they were squealing. I sent my information on the flights and the hotel to them and we tried to convince this one to come. Yes, it was Mother’s Day, yes she had to go to Vegas in a few days... pah... COME TO CHICAGO! WE LOVE YOU! And that’s when my director walked around the corner and whispered, “I can hear every word you are saying.” “Oh, sorry.” I whispered back and continued to squeal and squee.

The next day I got a Google chat from this one with this message, “I may not kill you for not mentioning the Chicago weekend.” I was all, “I would have told you if it had been more than 12 hours since I decided to go myself...” and tried to talk myself out of the wrath of the pocket gay. He is feisty indeed. Do not cross him, you will be sorry. And then you will want to put him in your pocket at take him and his fabulous blazer and shoes home with you. Just a warning.

So we talked him into coming. It was official. A Rockstar weekend was being born.

Squeeing was in the cards.

My CA twin was in, so were these guys, this lovely woman and her beau, and I would also got to meet and hang out with this chickadee.
The Chicago contingent was labeled out as such:
Poppy and Tam.
Jen Trance and Bullshit.
This lovely lady.
There were a few others coming but most of them I had not met before unless they attended the Green Bay shindig back in March.

Before I could even wrap my head around the fact that I was going to see my favorite people (as Melinda calls us, her tribe)... my tribe, I had my parents in for my birthday dinner, and then my niece’s birthday party, I had a conference to attend, a planning meeting to facilitate, a staff meeting to attend, have my birthday pedicure and dinner with my darling sister and then pack for the trip.

I refused (quite haughtily) to take Misters hoopty ass suitcase as I didn’t want him to bust another knee and I didn’t want to drag the behemoth around at all. So we packed quickly and quietly on Friday morning the 11th. I used my Eagle Creek® Black Pack-It® Folders in medium and large and got all of our stuff shoved into one suitcase, a duffle and a carryon for each one of us.

While on the plane the seat attacked Mister’s ass and ripped the pocket almost fully off of his jeans, (thank goodness he was wearing boxers) so on our pit stop in St. Louis we both whipped out our blackberries and went to work finding a Big and Tall men’s clothing store near our hotel in Chicago. We found one and called them, found out if they had the Polo jeans in his size, what time they closed... yadda yadda yadda. We landed in Chicago, grabbed a shuttle (hung on for dear life) were dropped off last, checked into our room and then hauled ass across the street to make it to the store before it closed.

Rochester Big and Tall.. and their super sales lady Cheryl? We love you! Mister got a pair of jeans that fit him awesomely, a jacket because it was freaking cold ya’ll, and then two pairs of shoes. It was a whirlwind shopping trip and we hadn’t been in the city for an hour.

Later that evening we met up with mike, then picked up Melinda, then hopped on the blue line to take us over to the Pontiac bar for live band karaoke. We stopped at a noodle house for dinner and then walked across the street at like 10 p.m.. The gang started arriving and as I gazed around at my tribe, kissing and hugging all of them and introducing them to Mister I felt so at home. I was in a cold garage somewhere in Chicago, but wherever the tribe is, it feels like home.

I noticed a pretty, tiny little thing at the end of the table. I had not introduced myself except briefly so I went to go say hi and found out how she had fallen in with our merry group. She said that she and this one had been corresponding and I (stupidly) asked her, “Are you on the web... do you have a journal?” She told me who she was and that is when I did a quadruple take, cursed three times fast and probably spit on the wee super star with my eloquent surprise. I had been reading her since before Moses parted the red sea and there she was sitting next to me wiping my peasant spit off of her diaryland royalty glasses.

I can not tell you guys how cool she is... so I won’t try. But, meet her, drink with her, share a smoke and a joke with her... you won’t be sorry. Love you mimi... sorry for spitting on you!

After the live band Karaoke (which rocked) we all hailed a cab for the ride home. Mister, mike and I left early because we are pussies, but we made plans with Melinda to catch her in the morning for breakfast/brunch/whatever.

We all met downstairs that next morning and walked over to the Cheesecake Factory (taking a break here... will pick back up tomorrow morning 20 minutes before I have to leave for the long weekend on Friday)....the Cheesecake Factory is in the bottom of the Hancock building and is decorated in what mike deems, “The Early Vulva Period”. Seriously, it was like eating lunch enwombed in a large vagina. That sounds so vile when I look back at that sentence but seriously. No. Seriously. The pillars were all tongue-like and the booths were like sitting in a Georgia O’Keefe painting.

But Mister, mike, Melinda and I happily ate our munchies and then made the decision to forgo the aquarium (we have Sea World in Texas, Melinda has the freaking San Diego Zoo and some other animal stuff where she lives... and mike didn’t care) for the Art Institute of Chicago.

We walked over, Mister ran to get some cash, smokes and I think mainly to just be able to walk around on the streets of Chicago looking all bad ass without his wife... who was at that moment trying to get mike to hump the brass lion (well, just one of them) in front of the museum.

I did not succeed in getting mike to hump the lion. It is a pretty big lion, so I just wrapped my legs around its tail and humped the tail and smelled some brass lion balls while Melinda happily clicked away with her little camera.

I am very shy.

We did a very quick tour of the Art Institute** and then went to meet Weet at the Hootchie Store where everything is awesome and like four dollars. Mister thought we were going to get shanked*** in the store and was very uncomfortable because of the ladies pushing and shoving to get to the cash register. “The line is back THERE, bitch.” No, no... no one ever said bitch. But it was totally implied. I almost got this awesome belt and some cute shorts and some sunglasses, but we had to get back to the hotel and eat dinner, iron a shirt, reapply makeup, get dressed and get a cab before 6:35. Well, that and the whole notion of getting shanked at the register, so I put everything back and we broke for the door.

**Quick like bunny, small veer. Okay, you know how you feel that you have to see everything in a museum sometimes. Traveling with my mother and sister in Paris they patiently went through the tour at the Louvre and then were all “Alright, Let’s go SHOPPING!!!!!!!!” I was very adamant about staying for a whole day... by myself... so I could soak up the art and where I was and not have to be rushed. I would have liked to have done that at the Art Institute, but alas, we had to run. Speaking of running... I don’t know why I thought about this... but one time we were on a road trip and my mother was watching the map as my father and I drove. She yelled out from the back of the van, “OOOH! Can we just drive a little bit up highway [whatever]? Kansas is right over there and I have never been to Kansas before.” By this time in our lives as a family we had been to almost every state except ND, SD, WA, OR, AK and I think KS. (Since then, I have spent more time than I wanted to in Kansas.) So my father dutifully drove over to highway [whatever] and when my mother saw the state line she squealed and bounced up and down in her seat. My father? Pulled over onto the shoulder. I looked at him, he winked and said, “Momma? There’s your state line. You want to go to Kansas?” She replied, “YES!” He told her to get out and run for it. And. She. Did. We picked her up on the other side of the state line and she and my daddy were both laughing, “Y’all are SO mean!” Heh.

***Also, was schooled today by Weet with this explanation. Weetabix: “the correct term is ‘shank’. That's the verb. A shiv is what you shank someone with.” Also, that “All Bitches Must Tip.” Remember these words my little loves. They are wise.

So Mister and I went back to the hotel, did our cleaning up, ironing and we ate room service while rushing around as we had tickets to see the Blue Man Group while everyone else went to a fancy schmancy dinner.

We had THE BEST time. Mister is a drummer or was while actively in the Marines so he is all about the percussion and he thought it was fantastic how these blue painted men who wouldn’t move their faces or speak even one word could convey emotion, will, humor and everything else. The show was great. We sat on the back row with Mister on the end (no seat in front of him, room for his legs) and when the time came for the toilet/crepe paper parade, one of the men in the group basically sat in my lap to get to the toilet/crepe paper. So they unfurled these huge rolls of paper and it was up to the audience to move it all forward while the black lights were on and it was all very surreal.

I was yanking paper and handing it to [read: throwing it on] the people in front of me. Mister was doing the same thing. I had turned to my left, and with Mister on my right we unfurled and unfurled and the next thing I knew Mister accidentally grabbed a (large) handful of my hair and was trying to pass me, my head, or my hair up to the front of the theater. It didn’t all come out, and I didn’t fall over and he was very apologetic about trying to pass my head to the front of the audience. But over all we had a great time... I highly recommend that you all go to Chicago and see it at the Briar Street Theater immediately.

I saw it in Vegas with my mom at Luxor, so this was a much more intimate show.

We left there and with the help of Mister’s Blackberry 8800 and its handy dandy GPS (hate) system we were on our way... to being lost for like the third time. We finally turned around and walked back the way we had come, down a street and looked over to this Starbucks (I am not even kidding when I say you can not swing a dead cat without hitting a Starbucks on almost every corner). Inside of this particular Starbucks were a group of our merry little tribe. (PS, Melinda, that is the perfect word for our group. I miss all of you. Call me, love you... mean it!)

Mister and I popped inside to say hello and to grab a coffee. They were closing so we got kicked out. We were just up the street from Club Berlin (which had a serious crush on Björk) where we were going to meet the rest of the crew as some of the Chicago locals were meeting us there and the boys that went to a baseball game were meeting us there as well. So we all shuffled down the street, losing mike in the process of him going back to the hotel (::sniff::) and we got to the door. I think we were the first people in the place.

Everyone showed up eventually and we all danced and got sweaty and took pictures of Weet trying on the gloves of a cross dresser (Wendy, in her smokin red dress, totally pulled off the black leather gloves better than he did), we smacked asses**** and got nondancers to dance or at least act like it. When it was late, Mister, Melinda and I shared a cab back to the hotel.

****Now mike calls me a “Dirty Ass Smacking Baptist”. Totally going to start a new site and call it that very thing.

Sunday morning found Mister, mike and I back in the big vagina for brunch.

Not sure why we were so drawn to that place, but I am sure it is Freudian. Or at least because it was close.

Then mike, Mister and I went to Bloomingdale’s where I got the lipstick that I was coveting from Melinda. (Surprise!) And a glorious pair of Merrell shoes with teeny zippers. Mister took off to go to the Field Museum and mike and I headed to get his mother some chocolate from the Godiva store.

After the shopping, mike and I went back to the hotel where Weet picked him up to take him to the airport (noooo! Don’t go!!!!) and I waited for Mister to get back from his Tsavo maneater mission. We packed up in a cab, got to the airport and had a very uneventful flight home.

I... never wanted to leave.

It is strange. I had never met these people until March of this year in Green Bay. And a few I met for the first time during the Rockstar weekend in Chicago. One thing is for certain, I miss them all and have since the moment I stepped foot into the airport.

I want to build a commune somewhere with temperate weather where a wealthy benefactor will give us shelter and amazing food and drinks and a bar for dancing and karaoke. Where we can be creative and write down our ideas, dreams and thoughts without the pressures of everyday life. Where everyone is a rockstar. Where we can sleep in and order caramel frappacinos and have discussions until 5 am if we want. I want the drama free love of these people around me. I want the healthy relationships that start from these kinds of friendships.

So, thank you. Thank you all for being such wild, crazy, lovely, kind, generous, deeply thoughtful, anal retentive, glorious, beautiful and most of all... my friends.

I love you.

About May 2007

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

April 2007 is the previous archive.

June 2007 is the next archive.

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

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