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June 2007 Archives

June 1, 2007

"What in the world is that woman cackling on about?"

Hi. I am a spoiled brat.

Mister wanted to pick up a new flat screen monitor over the weekend. And as an incentive for him to work on tunneling through; all naked mole rat-like; the impressively stacked and strewn about detritus that is his home office (seriously, the door has been shut for almost a year, except when we want to stash something visitor vision unfriendly, like a shop vac) I was all for the purchase. And even more so when he was all, “And what kind of prize would you like?”

Hmmm. What would I like? Other than to sing “Paradise by the Dashboard Light” as a duet with Meatloaf, pre- “I'd Do Anything For Love (But I Won't Do That)”.

I know. I would like a new 80 gig frillion generation color iPod. Yes, barring the chance that I may get to sing with Meatloaf prior to even the wee early decade hours of the 80’s?... Yes, that is what I want. The iPod.

I can do what now?... I can play movies and television shows and cartoons and watch it on the pretty impressive screen of this thing? I can download Harvey Birdman Attorney at Law and watch it? Seriously. No, seriously.

Holy shit... by the way. Finally watched the last two new episodes of Ugly Betty and Grey’s Anatomy Sunday night until like 2 am. Y’all should have warned me. Seriously. I was a big ball of miserable wailing and snot (you want me, I can see it in your eyes) when the... You’ve all seen them right? Oh shit. I don’t wanna spoil it for anyone, so y’all... leave comments, let me know if it is cool to go on and on about these four episodes. Last two of each, Ugly Betty and Grey’s Anatomy. Tell me, quick.

I suck because I have been keeping them as a treat for myself for weeks and sticking my fingers in my ears all “LA LA LA!” when anyone even tried to mention them. Sorry mike.

So, got the iPod. His name is Spencer. He is Herschel’s big brother. And now Mister? Has Herschel. I upgraded and he got the hand me down. This is the first time in the history of ever (technology related) that this has ever happened in our household. And it? Is awesome.

My laptop? Is an Apple II that Mister purchased from a Mennonite back in 1977. And Mister’s all... “Why don’t you write your little updates here at home, as opposed to staying late at the office? You could write them on the laptop and then post them here. From Home.” Do you guys get the feeling he’s trying to tell me something? I do, but I just can’t decipher the code.

Anyway. So, I got Spencer, he is set up and I have like 12 episodes of Harvey Birdman, Attorney at Law already set and ready. I am just waiting to get on the plane on Sunday (headed to San Antonio... call me... love you) and put my little earphones in and watch them one after the other and laugh heartily and make people think that I have lost my mind. “What in the world is that woman cackling on about?” Like they do here at the office when I read stuff like... this, this or this.

So yes, I am spoiled. New iPod and... momma’s got some new shoes. Imagine this. Brown/Bordeaux-ish eel skin mules with 2.5 inched stacked heel. Are you imagining? Good, because I am wearing them on my feet right now. They are hot.

See? Look.

It is a bitch to take a picture of your own feet. But aren’t they the cutest ever?

Okay. I have a gajillion things that I want to tell all of you... and maybe I will on my Mastodon 2001 B.C. laptop over the weekend.

June 7, 2007

It was awesome and I have an ulcer.

So, it is Wednesday Thursday (so, I got lazy busy). I was sitting here thinking about all of the stuff that has gone on since last weekend. Yes, I got Spencer. No, I haven’t posted a picture of him. Yes, I am thinking of changing host journals because I am at like 95% for my picture uploads and I don’t want to delete any of my old shit. Yes, I have been with Diaryland for like eleventy years (okay, like four and a half) and yes, it would totally be a pain my large and very high ass... but Diaryland has been taking FOR-E-VER (spoken like that kid in Stand By Me... Jerry O’Connell?... fuck, or was it Sand Lot?, A Christmas Story? Y’all know... oh, you know.) to load an entry and to check stats and or edit or search or do anything really. It has just become non-Susan-friendly. Plus, the pictures thing? I re-upped because I wanted to post more... but... BUT... the space for pictures is cumulative. How much does that blow donkey?

Anyone wanna help me out here? Suggestions? Comments? Complaints? Offers to redesign me?

Anyway. Last weekend was all about getting the monitor and the iPod, the week was fraught with packing for a conference that I had in San Antonio over the past few days and also Happy Houring with five of my favorite girls. One in from Seattle (Steph), one from Ann Arbor, MI (Steph’s brilliant sister Jennifer) and the rest of us were from here.

That was Wednesday. I just want to tell y’all that my sister was there. Along with Stacey, Kerry, myself and the other two. We had the BEST time (to be continued).

You all would have had a blast with us. I also want to say that I don’t drink wine, also that I didn’t have lunch on Wednesday and that normally two or three mojito’s from this place will put me on the floor. And I also want to say that Kerry and Stacey left early and that the two pairs of sisters were left. We went bar hopping to Martini Bar and then to Crú Wine Bar. I had a flight of champagne, then we moved out to the patio, had bottle of red, and then ordered a bottle of champagne with chocolate fondue.

Hi, table for drunk please?

It was the “I love you... man!” drunk. Seriously. And yes, I meant it every time I fondled the waiter’s hair and took pictures of and hugged complete strangers.

We decided to enter ourselves into a make-over show. We are going to bill the four of us as the two put together sisters (the older ones) and their sidekicks. I was tipsy and thought they suggested “The Two ‘Put Together’ Sisters and Their Psychos”. I was all, “PERRRRRRRRRRFECT!” “It’s Brilllllliant!” Except I can’t roll my r’s or l’s so I was just slurring my speech. Then we took pictures of each pair of sisters kissing the each other.

It was very fun, and totally inappropriate and my sister would kill me dead if she knew I was typing about her on the internets. She is afraid that the three of you that read me (not including Stacey and her office) will come to her house and take her silver pattern and maybe her favorite shoes. Or at least leave unpleasant mail in the mailbox like “Wax Your Eyebrow!? Ten Dollah!”

(Continuing) Oh holy shit. This was the funniest part. Kerry and I were the first ones there on Wednesday so we secured the most awesomest table in the place. It was a long couch with a full wall sized mirror, and three mini tables that we smooshed together with chairs on the other side. Perfect for the six of us. And with the mirror the ones facing us could see the rest of the bar. So we were all discussing everything from what had happened from the Kerr Krew weekend.

Okay, disclaimer: What happens at Kerr Krew stays at Kerr Krew. Except for this part right here, because I am about to tell you.

The weekend was a great one. We had friends come from all over and reunions are always tricky and when the actual Krew got together it was so awesome as to be in the dictionary next to the word “Awesome.” There would be a picture of all of us sitting on the patio of the wicked huge house, next to the pool, drinking, smoking and laughing our fool heads off. Oh, and Jalena wearing lipstick and earrings.

Dun DUN DUUUUUHN!!!! Then. Came the other one. The one that is not an official Kerr Krew-er Person. We all knew her kind of because she was in this service sorority with this one and that one and roomed in a condo with this one and had been in touch with one of them and blah blah blah, she was invited as a gesture of niceness. But when she got there it was all about... (tell me if you know one of these people) “Oh MY GOD. I am in the worst marriage ever, I have been married to the same prick for forty years, I am a (insert job here) and I have no place to release my crazy so I came up here to basically use you guys as an alibi so I can go clubbing and hook up with random fellas... oh, and also? Let’s play the game ‘I Never’... I guarantee you, that I will make it uncomfortable by round two... FUCKERS!”

Do y’all know her? ARE you her?

So at Mi Cocina the other night Jen and my sister were all, “Tell us about the Kerr Krew weekend!” Heh. Riiiiiiiiiiight. So, Steph, Kerry, Stacey and I just looked at each other and said, “Drama.” So my sister and Jen were all, “Ooooooh, tell us!” So I started with, “It was totally the bomb until drama crashed the party.” Their eyes lit up at the thought of the dirt they were about to hear. So I just said, “There was an extra person there. She went a little crazy at being let off of her leash for the weekend and ended up making the rest of us very uncomfortable.”

Jen, “YOU were uncomfortable? Like how?” I continued, “Uh, sexually.” Huge eyes all around the table... so I continued, “Well, y’all know the game ‘I Never’?” Jen and my sister replied, “Nope.” So, I explained, “It’s just a drinking game. One where someone says something outlandish and if anyone playing has done that thing, then they have to drink.” Jen, “Like what? Give me an example.” “Okay, so someone says, ‘I have never been married to the President of the United States.’ But this chick who showed up got all inappropriate by like round two...” Jen, “Really? Like what?” “Well, something totally outlandish like, ‘I have never taken it up the ass while skydiving.’”

My sister reached for her drink.


Of course she’s never done that. She is the equivalent of Martha Stewart, but cooler and likes to karate chop people when tipsy. So, yeah, we all got a great laugh out of that little episode. It just so happened that when Jen and I were discussing the ‘I Never’ thing, my sister and Stacey were talking kid stuff. (Of course y’all were, I totally believe you. Freaks.)

So, this past weekend before I had to go to San Antonio, we had a houseguest. You see sometimes this person comes to stay with us and usually it is during my busiest time of the year. This person I call Pantsless Harry. Pantsless Harry is very jovial, and quite able to make his own meals, do laundry, watch movies... he only has one issue. He doesn’t want to leave the house. Why? You ask? Well, to leave the house Pantsless Harry would have to put on pants. And a bra. Yes, yes... I am Pantsless Harry and I get cranky when I have to put on a bra to go out and check the mail. Or when I have to put on pants and go to Lowe’s and buy ceiling fans and start projects (like putting up said fans) at 7:30 at night... when CLEARLY, Pantsless Harry should be downloading new music for Spencer, doing laundry and or packing for a trip the next day or watching Girls Next Door. Right?

mike just suggested that I need a camo shirt that says “commando hoooer” across the chest.

I’d wear it too.

Okay, just sprung another trip on Mister. He’s getting used to it I think. Just got a call from J.Ho and she (and Dave) asked Mister and I to come into town and stay with them this weekend. As Jay and Brenna are going to stay with Glo and D and it is the weekend of Steve and Linda’s annual crawfish boil... we are totally going. Called him, “Hey, wanna go to Houston?” He goes, “Sure!” So yes, he is totally getting used to me springing plans on him.

Speaking of springing shit on people, when boss man and I got to San Antonio on Sunday afternoon we were going to set up for my conference and then take our favorite CSM out to dinner. But lo’ and behold... the only boxes that had shown up were the ones I sent from the office and three small boxes from our printer that were shipped overnight and had the little notebooks for our attendees in them.

But where, oh where, could the pallet of 334 binders with (this is where I get screechy) materials; FOR THE WHOLE CONFERNECE; the ones I give to my attendees... be? Oh where, oh where could that fucking skid be?

I called the printer, I called UPS, I called the office, I called... everyone. No luck.

We set up as much as we could and then went to dinner. On the way back from dinner a storm blew in and caused some sort of electrical mumbo jumbo. It blew out some transformers and the power for most of the area was off from about 2:30 am until about 4:30 or so. Boss man and I chatted via blackberry because neither one of us could sleep for fear of not getting the wake up call, the alarm having no power, our phone and blackberry alarms not functioning, it was hot (no A/C) and the looming fear that no power meant no audio/visual, no food, no hot coffee, no lights... and we had no clue where the binders were. I was convinced that our attendees were going to come after us with torches.

It was awesome and I have an ulcer.

Monday morning came and I called everyone again. Finally getting in touch with the shipper he actually told me (and his name was Terry Bob... NOT KIDDING), “We had a bunch of drivers out sick and I know that your shipment was supposed to be there by Thursday, I just overlooked it. I am sorry.” I replied, “Terry Bob, I truly appreciate that you have been so honest and candid with me about overlooking my shipment. I also appreciate that you will understand that I will not be paying this invoice.”

The materials showed up at 9:35 and it took us 10 minutes with seven people to open the boxes, unpack the binders, place them on the tables by the break area and have the trash removed. The binders were in place and ready for the attendees to grab one between sessions. It was awesome. I have been through the comments on the evaluations and I haven’t seen one negative thing about the binders. Maybe it is because I kept feeding them and making sure that they were distracted. Or because they were just nice.

Either way, at about 10 am, my sales manager for the property showed up and handed me a gift certificate for an hour long massage. I booked that shit quicker than grease through a goose and had them extend the time for an extra half hour. And then? Because I am so thoughtful, I backed out on my dinner with the speakers and the committee, went upstairs when the conference was over for the day, dozed while my room service order was on it’s way up and then went for my massage at like 7:45 p.m..

My massage was supposed to start at 8:00 and I thought, “Oh, I will go downstairs, be let into this wonderful spa atmosphere, drink water with cucumbers floating in it and totally relax for 15 minutes before my massage starts.”



The spa area was inside the indoor pool area, the indoor pool area that had hordes of screaming, splashing and shrieking children swarming all over. Oh, how relaxing. I am in the seventh circle of hell, just with more humidity.

The sign on the door (to a little room with two chairs and a curio cabinet) said, “Massage in Session, please call blah blah blah to make an appointment.” Well, I had an appointment. So at like 5 till 8 when this guy (missing teeth) came strolling out of the “SPA” (said sarcastically) door and headed into the men’s restroom I was a little dubious. Then he went back inside the “SPA” and the gentleman he was working on, exited.... WITH A FUCKING LIMP.

Okay, I... on a scale of one to ten per dubiousness? I was all the way to eleven.

Jacked up tooth guy with the little belt to hold the lotion thingy came out and asked me to come inside the office. I did. He handed me paperwork to fill out. I did. He went to change the sheets on the massage table and when he turned I saw it. A graying comb over ponytail.

I knew I needed a massage, regardless of how skeevy the guy looked, or that they guy in front of me LEFT WITH A LIMP. So, I made small talk. “Hi, uh, [let’s call him Daniel] Daniel. I was just wondering about your previous client. Did he have a limp when he came in here?”

Yeah, I know. Smooth, right? If you want lessons, you have to massage me for them. Or brush my hair. I like that.

So Daniel was all, “Oh no... I almost got it all out; when he came in here he was like this...” And he demonstrated how a three legged giraffe would look if it had athletes’ foot and also wanted to limp slowly towards an ice cream truck.

Go ahead. Get up and try to reenact that. I’ll wait.

I replied (without laughing mind you... I am so good sometimes. Other times? Not so much.), “Oh, so you helped him out huh?” Daniel was very excitable, “Oh, yes, it was an hour and a half of deep tissue massage. The back of his thigh felt like stone.” This gave me the perfect opportunity to tell him, “Then my massage will be an easy one for you, as I like to be treated like I am ninety, fragile and that I bruise like a peach.”

He finished changing the sheets and asked me into the massage room and to undress to my level of comfort. (See above: Pantsless Harry) When he closed the door the noise to the pool area was muffled and I was surprised how quiet it was in the little room. So I stripped, got under the sheet, but forgot to take off my glasses. Daniel knocked and when I told him to come in I also asked him if he would put my glasses over by my stuff. He was very kind and his voice had dropped in pitch, then he coughed something up and sounded normal again.

Again. Awesome.

He started immediately at my neck and face. His hands were a little shaky*, so I tried to get him to relax by talking about himself.

*It’s the hotness. It unnerves men sometimes.

So I asked him how long he had been in the business (8 years), how long he had worked for the current spa (2 weeks... (!)), how he had gotten into the business (two RN’s, friends of his, would get foot rubs from him, “You have the best hands! You should be a masseuse!” and so... a dynasty was formed.) and anything else that I could think of.

He started to relax when I told him that I detected lavender in the oil he was using. Blah blah blah.... somehow we got onto the subject of Burning Man (which I always get confused with Wicker Man bad movie, even worse toupee) and he told me that he is going this year. That in Austin they just had some regional event ... blah blah blah and then he announced, “Yeah, I’m a dirty hippy.” And somehow he got comfortable enough to curse freely and tell me about the man-thongs a friend of his in Austin makes for him for the annual Burning Man trip.

So. Just to recap. Three legged giraffe with athlete’s foot, Burning Man, lavender, the word “fuck” and man-thong.

He worked on my feet, my legs, my arms, and then asked me to flip, offered me a pillow for the girls and then adjusted the head rest so it was high and nice. I was very comfy. He worked the backs of my legs and feet then moved up to my shoulders and when he went to tuck the sheet (for professional draping) into the band on the back of my britches, he found that I wasn’t wearing any. And then called ME a dirty hippy.

Whatever, he was very gentle, I was so exhausted that he could have coughed up a fucking mogwai and I wouldn’t have cared. I just wanted to be petted and have some muscles relaxed. He got some .... thing... a muscle thing to relax that has been sitting on the right side of my sacrum FOR-E-VER all knotted up... so that was cool. All in all, it was a pretty good experience. Maybe I was just too tired to care. Or too stressed out to worry about it.

When I came out some muscled up beefcake (shaved chest) with a bathing suit on asked me to come over and speak to him. (Seriously, the hotness, she is a curse sometimes.) He asked me if Daniel was any good. I said that he was, the man replied, “He sure is ugly.” I told the guy, “Well, he’s good, and you are face down most of the time, so that is not really an issue.” I wanted to say something like. “Are you just staring at my tits?” Really loudly or ask him, “Does the beauty or lack thereof really matter in the masseuse or service industry. Or just in P0RN!?”

Then I noticed his girlfriend (or whatever) was glaring at me and I walked off to go to sleep the sleep of the fully exhausted, fully relaxed and the fully secure.

June 13, 2007

J.Ho called Steve to ask if she could bring two more to the party.

Happy Wednesday!

Wednesday’s suck.

Who said that?

I did. And I’ll say it again, Wednesday’s suck.

And why, pray tell, do they suck?

It’s the middle of the week. It’s called hump day when I am sure that no one is getting humped while at work in the middle of the week, unless you work on the set of, “Oh, Cum All Ye Horny”.

Did you just make up a title to a Christmas porn movie?


Dude. You are so going to hell.

Moving on. So, let me tell y’all about the weekend in Houston.

Wait! First, to Lulu, Mr. LuLu and their precious gem. Yes, I suck. I am sorry I did not call you while Mister and I were in town. Accept my apologies? Please?

When J.Ho called Steve to ask if she could bring two more to the party, he was all, “Sure, who is it?” Jen: “Sue Momma and Mister.” Steve: “Woo hoo!!!!!!” Jen: “Don’t tell anyone. It is a total surprise!” Steve: “Okay, I promise.”

Five minutes later, on the phone with D’, Steve: “Dude, Susan and Mister are coming with Dave and J.Wo... whoops, I wasn’t supposed to say anything. Act surprised!” D’: “Whatever.”

Five seconds later D’: “Hey Glo, Sue and Mister are coming to Steve’s party. Don’t tell anyone. And... act like it is no big deal that they are there.” Glo: “Huh? Oh, alright.” D’: “And don’t tell anyone.”

Point five seconds later: Glo (on the phone with Brenna): “Sue’s coming to the party tomorrow! WOO HOO!! Oh, and don’t tell Jay.” Brenna (shouting though the house): “Hey Jay-bird!... Sue-Momma is coming to the party this weekend! Oh, but act surprised!”

So, Friday at about 3:15 I headed out the door. Already booking over 50 hours for the week before the day even started was a bonus. I drove over to drop Samantha* off over at Mister’s office and then packed the remaining stuff in the Tahoe and waited for Mister to come downstairs. We started off at about 3:30 and hit a nice little traffic jam on the way out of Dallas.

Who knew?

*My prized, dear little sassy Chevy Equinox. She was treated poorly while we were gone. Something that left poop the size of a chimichanga on my driver-side window was the tell tale sign of, oh... I’m guessing a turkey buzzard using my beloved car as its perch for its morning constitution on Sunday. Bastard.

So we made it to J.Ho & Dave’s house at approximately 8 or so. Great directions, by the way. And then we went to this teeny little bar in the Heights for food and booze. No booze for J.Ho as she is the pregnant. We talked a bunch and then headed back to their perfect home for a little napping (and from me: a lot of snoring**).

**More on this later.

A bit about their home. When I was wee and I couldn’t make up my mind between being a trucker or a ballerina when I was older, I imagined myself living in Manhattan in a brownstone walk up or a loft apartment. Their house? Was sort of what I always dreamed of with the hardwood floors, the awesome brushed nickel doorknobs, the fantastic accent lighting, the gorgeous marble counter tops, and the amazing toilet paper dispensers. And if you think that a toilet paper dispenser can’t be awesome? Well, then, you just haven’t been to their house now have you? HAVE YOU? I didn’t think so.

So we slept in, Dave made breakfast because he loves us and cherishes us and really appreciated the WINE I brought for a housewarming gift. WINE that his wife can’t drink because she is the pregnant and allergic to grapes.

Yes, we’ve been over this. I suck. Moving along.

So we all got dressed in our finest hanging outside in Houston when it is 111 degrees in the shade and has about 98% humidity wear. Wanna know what that looks like? Put on a pair of jean shorts (or jorts as my brother in law calls them) a tank of some sort, flip flops and sunglasses that are so scratched up that even if your vision wasn’t like that compared to some subterranean shrew you wouldn’t be able to see out of them. Perfect!

After we got dressed we went to a store to get a bathing suit for Mister and some more booze.

You can never have too much booze.

And then, we sweated a lot and got to Steve’s House.

They had changed the menu from Crawfish to Barbeque as to be more kid friendly and also because crawfish can stink like a bitch if the trash is not immediately disposed of. And spicy. And also, it was hot outside. So yes. Barbeque.

Did I tell y’all that I have started drinking beer again? I figured that it would be too hot and humid and also very pansy-like and a total pain in the ass if I would have gone for my normal liquid imbibement. (Is so a word.) “Dear sir, I say, would you mind terribly making me my sixtieth gin (BOODLES!) and tonic with limes for the day?” And then whoever the “sir” was would have punched me in the neck and that can call for a bad Saturday all around. No? Yes... yes, it would.

So, I thought to myself, “Self, what would Stacey drink?” And myself answered, “Michelob Ultra.” So I got myself a twelver of Michelob Ultra and commenced to drinkin.

Also, I got sunburned from walking from the truck to the back of Steve & Laura’s house. It was a hot sumbitch.

I am also translucent, pretty much, so white I am blue. So there you go.

Nobody was surprised when we walked in. Wonder why?

I went and changed into my swim suit and then applied the Neutrogena spray on cooling sun block in SPF 45 which was deemed by Dave as, “That smells like douche.” Lovely! So, I had everyone smelling me and my douche-ness all day. All the women, “Dave, you are so smoking crack, that does not smell a thing like a douche.” And all the dudes, “Yeah, you smell like a douche.” Then the lesbians chimed in. “Dave, she does NOT smell like a douche.” So it was considered a win/win. Lesbians smelling me and my spray on sun block and NOT smelling like a douche.

There were like eighty-four kids in the pool, seventeen families and about twelve sets of couples. It was a big shindig. There was an old fat dog, a couple of old (cute) fat men and babies everywhere.

We all swam and played toss the kid and then at sundown the adults called, “ADULT SWIM! All munchkins out of the pool!” And they played water volleyball and my handsome (and tall) husband, along with Jay and Dave wiped the other team out 5-2. So while they were all being “Oooh-rah!” and spiking the ball, the women were up on the porch, smoking, drinking, talking and visiting with one another. It was an awesome day that I wish could have lasted at least another 48 hours.

The hostess had made some lovely desserts in the form of Jell-O™ shots with rum (for the first round) and with chocolate liquor for the second round. I had twelve (okay five... six?). There were also buttery nipple shots which I thought was something that you only do if you are really getting shit faced. Well it turns out that I only had two beers in the cooler when we left at midnight, so. Well, you do the math.

After we left we went to the 59 Diner and I made inappropriate exclamations over the sprinkles on my vanilla shake and then brought up tea-bagging and mimed a donkey punch again, after apparently hitting on our waitress.

You cant take me anywhere.

Sunday was for sleeping in, packing up and getting everyone together for lunch at Star Pizza. Which was awesome. Everyone left from there for home and I already miss them.

Thanks guys!

Oh, and Mr. Lulu... D’ said, “Tim said your diary was like crack.” That’s a compliment, right? Or were you talking plumbers? Hairy and unsightly.

Remind me to tell you guys what I did yesterday. It involved my nostrils, and I know that everyone is always up for a good nostril entry. Right... RIGHT?

June 15, 2007

I prefer the term noncompliant.

I know. I promised hot nostril talk.

Okay, let’s go back in time for a little bit. You with me? All the way to July of 2004. Do you guys remember when my left pupil got all jacked up and was fully dilated all by itself? This is what I posted.

So, the ophthalmologist, Dr. Rugwani, gave me the test results yesterday for the MRI/MRA’s that were done on Tuesday and I’m not sure about what I should think. There is a bunch of mumbo jumbo radiologist speak and then these few nuggets. [They are all capitalized to add to the level of scary I think.]


Wait just a second. What does that mean? A booger? Or something a little less cute?


Are they talking about my butt?


Ok, so it is a booger… just a very stubborn one. ?????


The DESCRIBED ABOVE information looks like sand scrit or hieroglyphics.

So yeah, you see that third part of the report from the MRI? This one, “SOFT TISSUE INTENSITY MASS IN THE RIGHT MAXILLARY SINUS, MOST LIKELY INSPISSATED MUCOUS IN A RETENTION CYST OR POLYP.” Yeah, that one. Sexy right? Okay, so just keep that in mind.

I have been snoring like a trucker for about two months. It is so bad that I wake myself up and Mister has taken to sleeping in the guest bedroom. I even snore when I am lying on my side. This? Is not normal. I used to do that sweet light snore thing when I was laying flat on my back but this? This is grounds for divorce snoring. This is trucker sleeping off a four night binger snoring.

I thought to myself: “Self? Why are you snoring so loudly? You are a petite flower who never sweats, just glistens... who never curses, just says ‘Mercy me!’ and who never poots... EVER.” So I called Dr. Eduardo, the hot (Argentinean) GP, and got a referral for an Ear Nose Throat guy.

Ear Nose Throat guy was referred and I called and set up an appointment for Tuesday. This Tuesday past.

Whoo hoo... what a hoot! First off. The office? The reception area held the highest wheezers and mouth breathers per capita than your average assisted living community. I love old people... and I get it... I was in an Ear Nose Throat guy’s office. There were bound to be some messed up sinus passages in there... or an ear infection or two. Maybe a tracheotomy? At least an oxygen tank. Sure.

So when I got there, there was this elderly gentleman in a wheelchair, his son and his grandson. The guy in the wheelchair was totally cute with his little socks on. The grandson was listening to music via his headphones and breathing so loud I could hear him over my own music through my headphones. There were three young Asian women there, one who had a head(ear?) wound and massive bandages, two other women, annnnnd me.

I filled out the paperwork and waited my turn. It was thirty minutes past the time of my appointment when I finally got called back into the examination rooms. I looked at this machine which had a sign stuck firmly upon it that said, “DO NOT TOUCH MACHINE” and I wanted to touch it. It was old... or looked old. Had a knob that went all the way to eleven and these tubes and glass viles and all these things. Several drawers were tempting me to open them.

Okay, is it just me or do y’all always want to read all the charts, play with the model of the inner-ear canal, open drawers and cabinets and look into them when you are in a doctor’s office? Just me? Well, I don’t have that urge when I am at someone’s home like other people I know. Just in doctors’ offices. I promise. Oh, stop it. I did not look in your medicine cabinet when I was at your house last time... but you are almost out of Q-Tips.

So this soft spoken teeny little Asian doctor walked into the office. He asked me several questions and when I saw that he was trying to work his way around to sleep apnea, I told him, “No, I have not gained a significant amount of weight in the past two months. No, I do not stop breathing when I am snoring at night. No, I have not had a sleep study done, but I am on _______ medication to help me sleep as I have been an insomniac since puberty. This snoring is new, NEW. Two months new, I don’t think I could gain enough weight in two months that would make me have a fat esophagus.”

So the sweet, soft spoken, soft handed man stood up, turned a light on over my shoulder (Y’all. He was wearing one of these on his head, and I am so not kidding.) and started feeling around on my throat. I wanted to ask him if it felt FAT, but I restrained myself and instead tried to stop laughing at the head mirror thing.

He opened a drawer on the DO NOT TOUCH MACHINE machine and pulled out a tongue depressor. I tilted my head up and he looked at my mouth, and my uvula. “Your uvula does not seem swollen.” (In my head... “It’s not FAT!?”) Then he opened another drawer on the untouchable machine and pulled out these little reverse tweezers with rounded tips on them. He tilted my head up and put it in my right nostril(!) and pressed on the tweezer thingies so they would open the nostril further for a better view. He did the same with the other nostril. Then he checked my ears, deemed them fit and asked me if he could scope my sinus cavity and my throat.

I had told him earlier in the appointment that I had had surgery at the end of March and had been intubated. I wondered if that could have caused any damage and or make my snoring so unbearable. Or if my soft pallet had gotten so fat... what with all of the four pounds I have gained since getting off of birth control and starting to eat meat again. (I was actually very polite to the poor man.)

When he suggested that we proceed with the scoping he turned, opened the door, yelled, “Scope Please!” and then turned back to me. He turned a knob on the untouchable machine all the way up to eleven and then came at me with the nostril tweezers. He shot some medicine into my right nostril and asked me kindly to breathe in. “NO!” I replied.

Mister has always said that I am a combative patient. I prefer the term noncompliant.

The cute little old Asian ENT guy said, “Please breathe in.” So, because he said please, I breathed in. He then moved on to the right nostril and then grabbed another vial of medicine, and with the air brush sprayer from hell shot that stuff up my right and left nostrils. One was numbing and the other helped open the sinus cavities, I am guessing here. I could feel the medicines dripping down the back of my throat and wanted to throw up on him. But he was so nice, and said “Please.” that I didn’t want to ruin his perfectly white lab coat or his head mirror thingy. So I just blew my nose loudly instead.

See? The sexiness. You guys feel it don’t you?

One of the nurses walked in with this thing that looked like a ham radio and plugged it into the wall. The doctor was holding something that looked like a car charger with a light on the end of it and plugged it into the ham radio. He came at me. “I need you to lean forward with your chin out and your head tilted back... ever so slightly.” I wanted to say, “NO!” but I complied. He showed me the tube, “See? Very small tube. Will not hurt you, most say that it tickles. If you have discomfort, please let me know.”

And he started feeding this tube with a scope and a light up my right nostril.

Let’s let that sink in for a moment.

Let’s also remind those of you playing the home game that I have an issue with saliva, snot, mucus and everything related to the three.

So I have this little Asian man shoving a tube up my nose while he is looking through a scope. He goes, (Not kidding) “Oh, you have a polyp in your right sinus cavity.” He then turns the scope to me, puts it up to my left eye and asked, “Can you see it?” Thank you, kind sir for trying to show me the wonderful and magical workings of the human body, but... when you turn the scope so that I can see it? Well, let’s just say that you kind of poke my brain. I now know calculus.

He also kept talking to me. He wanted me to answer him with this THING in my nose! I could feel it in there. It was not comfortable. It is sort of what I would imagine a penis fish would feel like... but in my brain. He pulled it out and started feeding the tube up my left nostril.

Now, I know we are close and all, but let me tell you... when I am checking for bats in my cave I can not see up my left nostril, as the sinus walls are basically swollen shut. So, yeah, this was not an easy, breezy, beautiful nostril exam. LAM (Little Asian Man) said, “Oh, so swollen.” And I had to agree with him... Verbally, because he had a TUBE UP MY NOSE.

When he got done with the nose part he fed the tube further into my throat. I could feel it hitting the back of my throat just about parallel with my uvula. He goes, “Say or sing, ‘EEEEEEEEE’.” I rolled my eyes for good measure.. and also to cover up that I was crying like a big pussy. “EEEEE-hee-HEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”

I asked him if he was done, he said he wanted to look around a bit more and I actually begged him, “Please take that thing out of my head sir?” He nodded, his little head mirror bouncing light off of my glasses, and started to remove it. He was going So SLOW. And I appreciate the thoroughness and thoughtfulness, but COME ON... Get that out already!

So when we were done, LAM asked me several questions about having a broken nose, “No.” Chronic sinus infections, “I wouldn’t say chronic.” And told me that my throat was in perfect order, and that I had a deviated septum and the polyp in my sinus cavity that he had mentioned before. He thinks that the polyp is from chronic sinus infections and put me on nostril spray, some antibiotics and a decongestant.

“Come back and see me in two weeks!”


So, yeah, I’m taking all the stuff and the drainage is making me want to hurl and yesterday I played hookie from work and slept off and on until 3:15 p.(fucking)m., baby! I don’t know what I am going to do about this snoring. Apparently it is a little better. But I really don’t want to have someone rooting around in my sinus cavity looking for stuff to cut out. AND, I don’t want plastic surgery on my nose. I like it, just the way it is.

Will keep you posted.

Woo hoo! Nostrils!

June 20, 2007

Adopt a midget.

Spencer (my iPod) was jacking with me this morning on the drive into work. He played all most of the stuff that used to rip out my heart and make the back of my throat sore from the heaving sobs and the ropes of snot falling out of my face onto my perfectly cute twin set. This morning? I was all, “eh, over it.”

That is progress people!


I am happy to say that Rascal Flatts’ Movin On, Matchbox 20’s If You're Gone, Bonnie Raitt’s First Night Alone Without You*, Charlie Robison’s El Cerrito Place, Keith Urban’s Raining on Sunday and Anita Baker’s You Bring Me Joy no longer make me feel like I am going to vomit, cry, rage against the angst... one at a time or all of the above together. And Spencer, that little shit, played them back to back. I did not vomit, cry, rage against the angst nor were there any ropes of snot involved.


Here’s a little story.

(Dear Lord, please stop her now.)

When the 7 foot tall junkie was living in my one bedroom, one bath apartment ... when things were... let’s just say, “Not good.” and leave it at that. I woke up to my clock radio (the same one I have now... that I have beaten so mercilessly that it gave up the snooze button... so now every morning, I have to fumble for that teeny little switch INSIDE THE CLOCK to make it shut the fuck up already) and the station that I had programmed was playing Bush’s Letting The Cables Sleep.

I remember laying there as the song played and hit the first chorus: “Whatever you say it's alright / Whatever you do it's all good / Whatever you say it's alright / Silence is not the way / We need to talk about it / If heaven is on the way / If heaven is on the way.” I sang along softly to the lyrics while a sleeping giant lay next to me. Not knowing which would wake up that morning, the mean Fee Fi Fo Giant? Or the Ben, the gentle one.

He and I rarely spoke about the disaster that was our relationship, choosing rather to let everything ride, let it lie, leave it alone. We let those cables sleep until I lost it one afternoon and the fucking cable snapped in half (as referenced in the link above). The bridge of our relationship teetered to the side letting most of the good stuff slide off unnoticed and leaving a cracked and ragged shell of the previous structure.

It was a metaphor. Dammit.

I knew that communication was the key. I just didn’t know how to talk to this guy without a reasonable conversation ending up without me sighing, giving up and shutting down, or him going on about some conspiracy theory and how he was the messiah** or something.

**totally not kidding.

It turned out that communication wasn’t the key with that particular relationship. A heavy rhino tranq dart and a straight jacket, sized 4XLT would have been better because that motherfucker was certifiably insane. (Totally just tried to Google him. Found some pictures of him in High School Basketball... but nothing on whether he is stalking my neighborhood right now.)

But I didn’t know. I had no clue that it wasn’t my fault. I didn’t know that the problem didn’t lie even within my very DNA. Just because I was female I thought I was weak and that any outward sign of softness of being vulnerable was worse than, no saying... I can’t do this anymore. Admitting defeat.

I think what made me think of this again was the whole music deal with Spencer and also this conversation that I had this morning with a co-worker.

Neal would appeal to my nurturing side. He would say that we would make beautiful babies. He would tell me all the things that spoke of permanence, stability, solid foundations and someone taking care of me for a change. I responded and showed him my softer side. Never fully taking down that wall, but showing him my soft furry underbelly... if you will, and I know you will.

I had never wanted children in the past, wanted to have that permanently taken care of when I was in my twenties. The doctors always told me I was too young, I would change my mind. I did. I changed my mind about the government, doctors, God, your parents telling you what you could and couldn’t do with your own body.

Neal did bring that brief, “A baaaaaaby?” [le audible sigh] to the forefront of my mind. But I realized I didn’t want a baby. I wanted a cat. I was approaching thirty and lonely. I just wanted something warm to squish.

So, Neal eventually left and I? Got a cat.

Much more time went by and I met the man of my dreams who was tall, handsome, stable, had the same core values that I did, and he found me incredibly hot and desirable... which (ah, the follies of ego) in turn, made me feel incredibly hot and desirable. Win/Win situation, No? I thought so too.

When Mister and I met***; and soon after got married; we had discussed the children that we would have. They would have curly hair like me, perfectly round nostrils like his, both of our height and long legs, his incredible smarts, my smile and creativity. Of course they would be perfect.

***I’ve never told y’all this story have I?

But our flights of fancy into the, “Well, maybe we’ll have a baby.” Were few and far between. We are coming up on 5 years together, and 4 married and when we decided that, “No. We aren’t going to have any children.” It was a sure decision. It was level headed and very well thought through. We were certain. We had a plan and it was sure to work.

Ah, HA! Oh, Arturo, Prince of Irony... you ass. Leave me alone. I have had it.

The tubal ligation didn’t work and if my tubes were anymore open then I would have salmon spawning.

We haven’t yet decided what we are going to do about how to get that last ounce of assurance that I need to make sure that we don’t get pregnant. Hey, have ya’ll noticed that I am a little bit of a control freak? No? Good. Then my secret is safe.

I still haven’t really told anyone at the office about my surgeries except the boss man because I needed his help lifting something before I was fully healed and he was confused... as I am of sturdy farm stock and can easily lift (and throw) the required 50 pounds that our job descriptions call for.

Also, in one of our departments (that is all of oh, six people: 1 dude, 1 lady over 50, 1 lady I suspect as being family, 1 who gave birth in December, 1 who gave birth in October and one who is pregnant with twins.) a woman wanted me to come see her brag book to appropriately ooh and ahh over her new pictures of her precious little baby boy.

Of course I went to look. I do like children. I like to play with them, I like to talk to them, and I love to hear a good full-body chuckle from a toddler. Also, I like to chew on them. Their little chubby legs just cry out for sweet and sour sauce. And babies normally love me. I am like baby Prozac. Need your child to sleep? Put them on me. I also sweat whenever I hold a baby. It is hormonal, yes... whatever. Leave it alone.

I also like to give them back to their parents the moment either snot, drool or anything sticky comes into play.

Regardless, that doesn’t explain the cruel and very poor behavior that two words can expose so quickly, especially if the words (or particular phrase is) are said twice.

To wit:

me: He is such a handsome boy!
coworker showing brag book: I may be partial, but I think so too.
me: No, I am speaking as an unbiased party and he is a very beautiful child.
csbb: Well, thank you.
me: You are welcome.
csbb: So, when are you and [Mister’s real name] going to start trying?
me: ::blink::
csbb: ::head tilted to the side in questioning way, small smile playing on her face::
me: Well, we have decided not to go down that path.
csbb: For now.
me: No, seriously. It is not in the cards.

Here is where I was hoping like hell she would think to herself, “Oh, foot in mouth, FOOT IN MOUTH! The poor thing is barren!” and let the subject die. But, no, poor etiquette ruled the morning.

csbb: For now.
me: No. Not at all.
csbb: ::Still smiling sweetly as if talking to an addled senior citizen... head tilt and all.:: So, you guys have just put it off?
me: No. We are not having children.
csbb: ...
me: We couldn’t even handle a dog, okay? ::I got up and walked out of her cubicle::

I could still hear her talking as I walked off.

csbb: You gave your dog away?

If you are wondering what two words I was latching onto as being poor behavior... I meant the “For now.” comments. Number one, that was extremely rude and number two, I don’t see how it is any of anyone’s damn business whether or not Mister and I have decided to add to the gene pool. And the whole mess about, “When are you going to start trying?” That always kills me. Like we don’t know what goes where.

So I found the following extremely fitting for the subject matter at hand.

From the brilliant Jay Pinkerton:

Like most sane people in their twenties who don't get married out of high school and start families before they're allowed to buy beer, I maintain a healthy dislike of children. Oh, I recognize the need for children on a purely biological level, certainly; I'm just glad it's not me having to lug screaming miniature idiots around to restaurants and supermarkets just so I can keep my bloodline in the gene race. Children: they're cute at first, sure, but they're also loud, destructive, not very bright and frankly horrible conversationalists. I don't adopt retarded, violent midgets and invite them into my home for decades at a time, either, and I fail to see the difference in principle.

So if you are riding the fence on whether or not you want to start a family. Adopt a midget. A retarded, violent midget. Or, you know... a dog.

June 22, 2007

To be fun, I am also going to add some questions at the end.

Good Friday to all of you. Not that it is actually Good Friday, Good Friday. But it is Friday and... it is good.

Give me a stick, this dead horse needs a beatin'.

So, onto the topics at hands.

Oh, there are not actual "topics at hand"? Well, shit.

I just looked through my trusty little notes section of outlook and came up with nothing. The same things I listed last time and haven't gotten around to writing about or either have completely forgotten. I did come across a very vivid and detailed description of a dream that I had in March. But I won't bore you with that.

Then there is the "How did you and Mister meet?" thing... but that's for another time. Oh, and I also get lots of requests for pictures of my ex-husband and/or those of the ex-boyfriend(s) that I have spoken of. I guess I just whetted your whistle when I showed you that picture of the Omaha guy. Huh? You cheeky monkies.

Let's play a game*.

*I am totally going to pass this off as a game, even though it is one of those Friday Favorites, or also known as... a meme. Can you believe the gall of me? I know, I know... I have absolutely NO shame whatsoever.

And to further the shame, I am not even going to be original about it.

The meme is this:

It is exhaustive and I found it by searching for music memes on Google. Seriously, I am reaching here. But... to be fun, I am also going to add some questions at the end that were asked by J.Ho (formerly J.Wo) and Sil during our Labor Day Chicago Trip 2005**.

Name your top 10 most played bands on iTunes (Or MP3 player or whatever ... online radio, the ones that make you go "Ooh Ooh Ooh!!!" Like Horshack on Welcome Back Cotter and don't even ask me what Welcome Back Cotter is or I will have to sit on you and make you watch an episode.) AND NO JUDGING:

1. Bryan White
2. Anita Baker
3. Anna Nalick
4. Bob Segar
5. Chris Daughtry
6. Christina Aguilera
7. Counting Crows
8. Dave Matthews Band
9. Destiny's Child
10. Eurhythmics/Annie Lennox

1. What was the first song you ever heard by 6 (Christina Aguilera)?
I am going to say either "Genie In A Bottle" or "What A Girl Wants". I was (twenty)four or something.

2. What is your favorite album of 2 (Anita Baker)?
Rapture - She has such a range of emotion form sultry singing siren that makes you all warm and tingly in your no no parts and then she rips out your heart, stops that sucker flat and then puts it in a cross cutting shredder with the memories and passion she has in her voice. Bitch.

3. What is your favorite lyric that 5 (Chris Daughtry) has sung?
I'm really surprised he showed up on my list as I have like two of his songs. I think. So probably, "I'm going to the place where love / And feeling good don't ever cost a thing." From Home.

4. How many times have you seen 4 (Bob Segar) live?
Never.... dammit.

5. What is your favorite song by 7 (Counting Crows)?
Round Here or Colorblind.

6. What is a good memory you have involving the music of 10 (Eurhythmics/Annie Lennox)?
Everything from "Missionary Man" to anything off of Annie's album Diva takes me to a slice of 'back when'. Tell the truth, you heard her music as the soundtrack for Striptease and you tried to dance around your apartment with only a towel on your head and tried to strut your stuff like Demi Moore did to Little Bird and Money Can't Buy It while your cat stared at your naked body and gave you the "I've seen better." look. What? Because I never did that. Nope.

7. Is there a song of 3 (Anna Nalick) that makes you sad?

8. What is your favorite lyric that 2 (Anita Baker) has sung?
"When you love me, I smile / I feel your hands and you feel mine / You bring me joy"

9. How did you get into 3 (Anna Nalick)?
To be honest I had VH1 on at home one morning and she was on their "One to Watch" list. I watched. Found her... loved her voice and frank honesty.

10. What was the first song you heard by 1 (Bryan White)?
Love is the Right Place

11. What is your favorite song by 4 (Bob Segar)?
Oh, Rowr... Come to Papa. It reminds me of a bright spot during a very dark time.

12. How many times have you seen 9 (Destiny’s Child) live?
Never actually

13. What is a good memory you have involving 2 (Anita Baker)?
I made a CD for Mister when we were first dating. Shut up, seriously. Yes. I made him a mixed tape and You Bring Me Joy was one of the songs. He turned the meaning of that song around for me.

14. Is there a song of 8 (Dave Matthews Band) that makes you sad?
Yes, Gravedigger off of "Some Kind of Devil" I believe.
"Muriel Stonewall
1903 to 1954
She lost both of her babies in the second great war
Now you should never have to watch
Your only children lowered in the ground
I mean you should never have to bury your own babies

When you dig my grave
Could you make it shallow
So that I can feel the rain

15. What is your favorite album of 5 (Chris Daughtry)?
Well, I think there is only one released. So, um... Daughtry...?

16. What is your favorite lyric that 3 (Anna Nalick) has sung?
From Breathe
"2 AM and I'm still awake, writing a song /
If I get it all down on paper, it's no longer inside of me, /
Threatening the life it belongs to /
And I feel like I'm naked in front of the crowd /
Cause these words are my diary, screaming out loud /
And I know that you'll use them, however you want to"

17. What is your favorite song of 1 (Bryan White)?
Tree of Hearts... warning: will make you cry.

18. What is your favorite song of 10 (Eurhythmics/Annie Lennox)?
This is tough because do you realize how long this woman has been making music? Unapologetically beautiful, strong, raw, soft, angry and everything that I always wanted to be when I grew up. But give me anything off of the album Diva and I will be shaking a tail feather, or crying... or um. What? Bipolar? No. Look, over here!... Shiny!

19. How many times have you seen 8 (Dave Matthews Band) live?
Again, sadly, not even once.

20. What is your favorite album of 1 (Bryan White)?
The Right Place

21. What is a great memory you have considering 9 (Destiny's Child)?
After my divorce from X, singing Bills Bills Bills and having more money than I did when we were married... making the same, more bills, but knowing I was taking care of myself and RAAAAAWR! I AM SHE-RA!

22. What is your favorite cover by 2 (Anita Baker)? My Funny Valentine

Okay, now for the fun stuff. And NO, my face is not red. I am not ashamed of my musical diet. Shut up. Seriously. Seriously. No judging.

Fine, I'm sort of (A WHOLE LOTTA) ashamed. No poking fun.

**Also, I am totally going by memory and a sketchy phone call that I just made to J.Ho.

1. Best song to make you smile/laugh.
I'm The Only Gay Eskimo by Corky and the Juice Pigs - go on, click me to watch the video.

2. Best song from the 80's.
What genre? This is so unfair. Do I have to pick just one? And which part of the 80's? Let's say Blasphemous Rumors from Depeche Mode.

3. First song that you knew all the words to... without singing along on the radio. Smuggler's Blues by.... Glenn Frey? Yes, Glenn Frey. Nice huh? I was like what, thirteen? No... I knew the words to Rhinestone Cowboy a LONG time before that.

4. First song you made up a dance to.
Full choreography? Fame baby.

5. Best song to make you feel like driving really fast!
Anything off of Metallica's Ride the Lightening or And Justice for All.

6. Best song for a good cry.
I would have to say Almost anything off of Bonnie Raitt's Collection album. But I particularly like Guilty and First Night Alone Without You or not on that particular album Nobody's Girl (Off of Nick of Time). Oooh, or I Don't Know Why by Shawn Colvin.

7. Best song to start off a party. Hey Ya! - Outkast / In Da Club - 50 Cent / Baby Got Back - Sir Mix-A-LotT / Love Shack - B-52s / Crazy In Love - Beyonce w/ Jay-Z / Get the Party Started - Pink / Strokin - Clarence Carter / Crazy Bitch - Buck Cherry / Hella Good - No Doubt / It's Raining Men - Weather Girls / Blister In The Sun - Violent Femmes / Lose Control - Missy Elliott ... I've got a bunch of ideas. Depends on what kind of party it is. Easy, laid back dinner party? Little Jason Mraz, or Gavin DeGraw. A Barbeque? With college friends? There has to be some country in there somewhere... and something raucous.

8. Song that is stuck in your head right now.
I'll Never Let You Go (Angel Eyes) by Steelheart. Hi, I am a product of the 90's.

9. Best soundtrack ever.
This is a toss up between about sixty-eleven of them. So I will just list some of them and y'all can do that ME TOO!!!!!!!!! thing. Grease and Grease 2 of course. Then Cruel Intentions, Saturday Night Fever, Blade Runner (I love Vangellis, shut it.), Moulin Rouge, Garden State, Dirty Dancing, Xanadu, Almost Famous, Flashdance, Footloose, Forrest Gump, Pulp Fiction, Kill Bill (both I & II), Ray, A Star Is Born... okay, you get the picture. Oh, wait... two more. Rocky Horror Picture Show and Empire Records. And High Fidelity and PCU. Okay, I'll stop.
Oh Brother Where Art Thou?

10. Best "Bow chicka bow wow" song.
This is so cliché... but, You Can Leave Your Hat On by Joe Cocker.

You babies know the drill, copy, paste and let me know that you played along in the comments and I will linkity link link to you.

Playing along right now...
6/25/07 @ 1:16 pm

1) Trance Jen on her livejournal: Linkity (and stop sending her pictures of your penis!)

2) mike (the one, the only): Linkity for first part, Linkity for second part (and totally send him pictures of your penis!)

June 27, 2007

I may be a bit over taxed.

Warning: Hardhat area. Swinging moods, unstable emotions and maybe even a little weeping. 30 degree; grade decline. Put vehicle in Low Gear as not to burn out your breaks. Handle with care. Fra-geee-lay.

This morning I was all WOOOO! because of the extra 21 minutes (in seven minutes increments) I slept in each had a full awesome movie with famous people who were totally in love with me. One was scored with soaring strings and an incredible instrumental by an orchestra that I would like to follow me around on a daily basis so that my life would have a soundtrack. Another was something to do with working at a roller skating rink. I was thin and fabulous with the obvious adorations of Kevin James as he leaned on the snack bar to buy some of my splendid nachos. [Nachos... suuuure.] And the other was something mythical, but I am pretty sure that I was marvelous and my beauty was without contest.

Now?... A full oh, two and a half (maybe a bit more) hours later? I am all dabbing at my right eye because of... allergies or some shit. Shut up. It is pollen season. I am NOT crying.

I totally noticed in the mirror at the back of the elevator on my way up to the office that my right eyebrow is just about a full centimeter below my left. Awesome.

I have cramps that feel like the weather looks outside. Unstable and very angry.

And... ANNNNNNND. My poor baby, Max (the cat, shut up... he is my furry little child) had to have four teeth (a canine and three molars) pulled yesterday. He was drunk and disorderly when I picked him up from the vet at 4pm. He was all stumbling around, shaking with the after-effects of the anesthesia and growling at anyone who spoke to him.

I brought him home, brushed him softly, spoke soothing words to him and held him up as he leaned on me. He was miserable. Kept trying to lick his feet and then he'd remember that his mouth hurt and then he'd try to shake the stitches out of his mouth. I gave him a bit of canned (soft) food when his anesthesia was wearing off so I could give him another pain pill and when I opened his mouth I accidentally put my finger where his (half)fang used to be. He said, "Ow".

Seriously. His mouth was open so the "Me" part couldn't be formed. So what Mister heard from the kitchen was, "Here's your pain pill baby." Max, "Ow!" Mister, "What did you do to him? Did he just say 'Ow'?" I kept apologizing to the cat... he ran to the safety of Mister, who is allergic to him and pets him with a Kleenex.


I just tried to post this teeny little entry and it absolutely crapped out on me. WTF diaryland? Seriously. No, seriously. It was like Sanskrit. I immediately deleted it and thought to myself, "Oh well, I'll post it later... maybe I'll have more to say." Yes, very passive of me ... and now, I'm mad about it.

I am mad that it takes such a long time to post an entry, I am mad that if you click submit more than once you will have the same entry posted eleventy-ninehundred times and it jacks up your "latest five" at the bottom of the page.

I am...

I am, full. I just had a baked potato and I am full. And crampy and would like to go home now. But I just remembered that I have to go to the Ear Nose Throat guy again this afternoon and I don't know if he is going to ask to scope my sinus cavity/throat again, but if he pokes me in the brain and I learn how to read hieroglyphics I am going to be one angry (I almost typed she-male here... why? Not sure.) lady.



It is now Wednesday. The melancholy, she is not lifting. I had a weird experience this morning and it has left me feeling unsure of myself. To make matters worse, I am reading a John Irving novel, A Widow for One Year. Talk about your bipolar moments. One minute I will be laughing outloud enough for Mister to be all, "Oooh, tell me, tell meeee...!" So I will read him the passage. The next minute I will be, "Oh, holy shit, he did not just put that in a book and print it for millions of people to read. Why you wanna make me cry John, why?"

Oh, something else. I was talking to mike via Google chat this morning and my boss came by. Bossman said something ... he was totally cranky ... so I showed him a pin from Miss Doxie that has a little doxie dog on it wagging his tail and it reads "Butt Likes You". I told bossman that he should wear it. He reached for it and I, Mistress of Smooth, accidentally stuck him with the pin. He dropped said pin, I bent over to get it and he goes, "Um, you need to uh... you know..." and he made the motion to fix the neckline of my shirt. I looked down and it was cleavage city. So I fixed my shirt and told my boss he owed me a dollar.

I told mike about it after bossman walked off and appropriately mike thought it was hysterical.

Which it is.

Laugh, damn you.

If you don't I will have to tell you my theory on how one person can be your personal beet. Their (for lack of a better term) juices run all over and taint EVERYTHING they touch.

Yes, I have lost my mind.

Okay, not really lost my mind. But I am having a bit of a quandary and because of my vault like status of never telling anyone's secrets and because I haven't had the pleasure of Happy Hour with Stacey since MAY THIRTIETH... I may be a bit over taxed. I am traveling with my job in earnest. I have shit on my mind and nowhere to put it. I can't put it here, like I normally do because of the delicate matter at hand.

Subject change.

My daddy sent me an email with seventeen pictures of cute stuff. Like Cuteoverload.com type stuff. The message was, "Thought you'd enjoy seeing these! Love You, Dad". Who are you and what did you do with my father? Normally he will delete anything with attachments, and he has never (to my knowledge) forwarded anything that wasn't purely informational. For example; A message to him from my sister, forwarded to me so I would know a weekend schedule.

That is the extent of it.

Now he's sending me pictures of puppies?

I just called him and asked if he really sent them. Yep. He's officially sweet.

I should really stop typing. This is going on three days of blathering and I am about fed up with myself. The last post was a meme for God's sake... and now I am just typing to be typing.

Oh, and the Ear Nose Throat guy did NOT scope my noggin/nasal passages again at yesterday's appointment. He said, "Let's schedule a CT scan and then evaluate if you need surgery." Hi. Fuck, you. It is just Snoring. I will sleep in the guest bedroom for the rest of forever okay? I am sick of being poked, prodded and cut upon.

Apropos of that, I got a cartilage piercing last Tuesday in my left ear.

I need a beer.

June 29, 2007

Pinky Swear - Part I

The hum of silence was loud in her ears. She knew she shouldn’t hold her breath for very much longer or the exhale that followed may be loud enough to give her position away.

She closed her eyes for a while hoping that when she opened them she would be more accustomed to the darkness and would be able to see in what seemed like an ink black environment.

She let a breath out through her nose, softly and controlled. She opened her eyes and slowly put her right hand in front of her face. She could see the outline of her pale skin even in the darkness.

Eyesight, check.

She still didn’t know if she was deaf or if the silence was just so loud that it was a void that refused to let noise in. She raised her right hand to her right ear and swiped the pad of her forefinger against the pad of her thumb one time. The resulting ‘shhhh’ of skin on skin was a relief, it was also louder than she expected. She had been straining to hear a noise, any noise for so long that her ears were hypersensitive to even the slightest sound.

Hearing, check.

She could partially see in the dark and her ears were very alert. She pressed her right hand alongside the surface her back was resting against. She could feel wood paneling and the dampness that comes to a house, or building with age. She tried to move her feet and found her legs and what lay below them fast asleep. She took a breath and detected an unpleasant smell of neglect. Mold, rat droppings and an unpleasant chemical smell that she could not identify.

She closed her eyes and took a mental inventory of her body starting with her feet and her legs that were asleep; she shifted her weight and found that she was crouched in a very uncomfortable position. One that would make her almost invisible or a very small target, which would explain why her thighs were burning, her legs asleep and her feet were numb with cold and lack of circulation.

She concentrated on the rest of her body, ticking off each extremity. Feet cold, at least I have feet, she thought. Calves and thighs, cramping... must move soon or will have trouble standing... if I can stand. Back... sore but not broken, right arm and hand... good... left arm and hand... ow.

She lifted her left arm and tested the shoulder, making sure to make small movements, small sounds, small tests of her mobility or lack thereof. Her shoulder was fine. She lifted her left hand to her face and tried to see if the outline would tell her why her arm was throbbing. Oh, she thought to herself, would you look at that? I’m missing my pinky.

The loss of the digit on her hand didn’t concern her as she could also see that the wound had been dressed in gauze that stood out whiter than her skin in the dark. She ran her right hand over her head, face and neck looking for wounds. Five wound types, her brain told her as she gingerly felt her own clavicle and around to the back of her skull. Abrasion, puncture, laceration, crush, incision.

Her left shoulder may be a bit bruised but she didn’t have any wounds except the missing finger.

She lifted her right arm above her and felt for the top of whatever she was in. A room? A closet? An oven? An oven? Why would she think that she would find herself in an oven? She felt no clothes hanging down from above but did find a bar that clothes may once have hung upon.

I’m in a closet, she thought. This, I can handle.

She knew that standing up too quickly or exploring her space without a bit more information may be her ticket to fatality.

She inched up along the back of the wall and when her head softly touched the bar at the top of the closet a few wire hangers to her right softly chimed their presence.

Now that she was standing upright she began working her right hand along her thigh muscles to help alleviate the cramps she thought would come from being crouched down in a closet. For how long she had been in the closet, she did not know.

She didn’t know her name, she didn’t know why she was missing the pinky on her left hand and she didn’t know where she was or why she was crouched in a closet for that matter. She didn’t know why she had the foresight to be quiet or to take a mental catalog of her body, senses and her injuries or why she was in this predicament. She just knew that she needed to get out. It was instinct.

Running the tips of her fingers lightly along the door frame in front of her she saw the closet door in her mind. Standard door, it did not feel reinforced, no extra locks or heaviness. She longed to knock lightly on the door to test for thickness. She wanted to know if the door was locked, latched or otherwise secured and would not open for her from the inside if she would be able to brace herself against the moist paneling behind her and kick the door open. She hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Entering a blind room after making a loud racket by kicking a door down was something she knew not to do.

How did she know these things?

How was she so sure that she could even kick the door down? Where were these thoughts and decisions coming from? She didn’t know if she was a regular woman with a job, a cat and a boyfriend. She didn’t know if she was something that someone was looking for, for good reasons or bad. She didn’t know why it didn’t bother her that she was missing a finger. And the biggest question that she didn’t know the answer to was, where she was, and why.

She found the doorknob inside the closet and tested the give in the lock. It didn’t rock to the right or left, up or down. The door to the closet wasn’t as brittle as the paneling behind her, neither was the hardware for the doorknob. She lightly gripped the handle and turned it clockwise, it turned smoothly under her hand and a small ‘snick’ was all she heard when the lock was disengaged.

She took another deep breath and closed her eyes. She opened her mouth and let the breath out slow, as she exhaled she slowly pushed the door to the closet open. Just a crack at first, she put her eye to the crack and looked into the darkened room before her. No movements, no sense of another person or being waiting for her on the other side. She then closed her mouth and placed her nose close to the opening. She drew in a controlled breath, smelling the other room.

The room smelled like nothing.

There was a complete absence of smell. Was it just the closet that smelled like mildew, neglect and that unpleasant chemical smell? She could pick up on other peoples’ pheromones. Her sense of smell was very acute and from what she could remember, each person had their own signature scent. She didn’t smell any animals in the room. She didn’t even smell the lingering odors of clean laundry, dirty laundry, ozone, food from a kitchen, gun oil.

Gun oil? Why would she be testing the air for the scent of gun oil?

These questions kept popping into her head and she needed to stay focused if she wanted to stay alive. The reason she felt like her life was in danger and how or why she instinctively knew what she needed to do next shouldn’t be of any consequence. When she got to a safe place she would search her pockets and her memory for the answers to the millions of questions circling her brain like bees buzzing around a hive.

She shook her head once. Twice. Focused her gaze on the darkness in front of her, took a deep but silent breath and opened the door.

About June 2007

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

May 2007 is the previous archive.

July 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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