Suzanna Danna

I’ve never told you guys about the night in Houston with a bunch of friends from Nacogdoches did I? It was some random weekend in March when we were all in town for something. My memory, she is going. Well, that and I am too lazy to go search my archives. So if I have already told you this one, my apologies. I’m pretty sure I have referred to this, but I don’t believe I have gone into detail.

When I say “we” in this story it is in reference to the following people: me, Mister, Glo, D’, Jay, Brenna, Lisa and Tim. Lisa and Tim have since gotten a divorce so I will just refer to him from now on as Fucker.

Gloria and D’Wayne live approximately ten feet from where Lisa and Fucker’s house is (he no longer lives there… Fucker). So when Mister and I went to visit we stayed with Glo and D’.

Lisa and Fucker had the evening away from their precious child, Glo and D’ had the evening away from theirs’ and Jay and Brenna left their beautiful children to roam the wilds of East Texas… or you know, to be lovingly cared for at Grandma’s house.

We ended up going to a bar called Mo’s (which I have referenced a million and two times as I basically grew up there). We found tables next to the restrooms* and an amazing waitress showed up. She got our drink orders and to make a long story extremely short somehow the topic of conversation between Jay and I turned racy.

I know. I was shocked too.

Jay was asking if I had seen the movie Borat (which I had not… and still have yet to, and have no desire to see it) and he went on to describe how… okay, I’ll just give you the commentary.

Jay: Okay, so they are in a hotel room and Borat and some large hairy guy are wrestling around naked…
Susan: … Alright…
Jay: And somehow the fat guy teabags Borat…
Susan: Wait… what?
Jay: … He teabags Borat…
Susan: No, wait… I heard that part. Um, so… what rating does Borat have?
Jay: Rating?
Susan: You know, R, X, NC-17?
Jay: Oh, R…
Susan: And… there’s teabagging?
Jay: Well, they blur it out…
Susan: But… there is actual teabagging?
Jay: Yeah, why do you find that so hard to believe?
Susan: ::blink::
Jay: …it’s just some guy laying his junk across the other guys face.

Jay makes his hand into the international “bird” sign and puts his palm on his forehead so that the middle “bird” finger is pointing down along the bridge of his nose. His knuckles are almost in his eyes.

Susan: What the fuck is that? A Roman Soldier?
Jay: No… teabagging.
Susan: Seriously?
Jay: Seriously.
Susan: No. That? Is not teabagging.
Jay: Alright, then what is?

I tilt my head back and make the international sign for dipping balls into my open maw.

Susan: See? [dipping imaginary balls] Teabagging.
Jay: That is totally NOT teabagging…. Think about when you are at a spa, what do they put on your eyes to reduce puffiness.
Susan: Cucumbers.
Jay: NO! Tea. See?

He does the motion again. Wiggling his knuckles to make me see the tea part.

Susan: Um, no.
Jay: Fine, let’s take a vote.

And y’all? We polled the bar.

Consensus says that women all believe how I do and men, most of them believe what Jay does. And Mister? Was turning purple and trying to crawl under the table and be invisible at the same time as he was embarrassed to be married to the lady polling the bar about teabagging.

Jay: So, what else do you know that I don’t?
Susan: Oh, we do NOT want to go there.
Jay: Why?
Susan: Brenna?
Brenna: Yes?
Susan: Is this embarrassing you?
Brenna: Oh, honey, no… we’ve been married for over ten years. I do not embarrass anymore.
Susan: Well, Mister is positively purple.
Mister: I’m fine.
Susan: You sure?
Jay: Suck it up Sue Momma, c’mon… let’s do this.
Susan: Fine.
Jay: Throw some terms at me.
Susan: Um… Now you have to realize that the reason I even know half of this shit is because I was stupid enough to Google something I didn’t know the definition for at work one day about eight years ago and came upon a website designated to jacked-up sexual terms and urban lore…
Jay: Stop stalling…
Susan: Fine. Rodeo Fuck.
Jay: Know it.
Susan: New York Chili Dog.
Jay: What?
Susan: Too gross, later.
Jay: Gimme another.
Susan: Donkey Punch.
Jay: What?

Meanwhile the rest of the table has turned to watch the debate and they are quietly asking themselves #1) why do they hang out with us and #2) what in the hell were we talking about?

Susan: Don-Key PUNCH.
Jay: Not familiar.
Susan: Rock on, that’s my favorite.
Jay: So, what is it?
Susan: [I pantomime as I am describing the term.] Well, say you are fucking some chick from behind right?
Jay: Right.
Susan: Then out of nowhere you just punch her in the back of the head. [I am humping the air and then I take a round house swing at an imaginary girl’s head.]

Jay is laughing so hard he starts to choke. Mister simply asks, “Why? Why would anyone do any of these things?” I answered him, “No, my love, I just think that they are terms, not actual acts. Just jacked up stuff for people to ponder over, ect.”

A few weeks later I am chatting with Mike and I am telling him this story and all of the sudden he goes, “My grandfather had a donkey. His name was Mordachai. I used to ride him when I was little.” I was laughing so hard that was asked to quiet down and then I had to go wash my face because I was crying with laughter and my mascara had run. So from then on, Mike and I have greeted each other with the term of endearment, “DONKEY PUNCH!”

It get’s better.

Cut to the Halloween in Chicago trip. Mike and I are telling Sasha, Heather and Fergal the Donkey Punch story and Fergal says to his lady love.

Fergal: Darling, shall we show them the Dirty Pirate?
Sasha: Of course.

Fergal mimed coming in Sasha’s eye, she slapped a hand over the “injured eye” then he mimed kicking her in the shin. She yelled out in mock pain and with her hand over her eye hopping on one leg, she chased Fergal around the pool table screaming, “ARRRGGGH!”

Heh.

And it get’s better.

Jay and Brenna are coming to stay over at our house tonight, they went to the Cotton Bowl today, and we are meeting up for Happy Hour this evening.

I get to show him the Dirty Pirate.

May 2009 be better than 2008. Happy New Year y’all.

*A story for another time.

Back in June of 1999 I moved back to Dallas. I found a wee little apartment that was barely 500 square feet and had a dumpster parked in front of it but I didn’t care. It was my first place to call my own. Sure, I had an apartment in college, but I wasn’t paying for the whole thing. It wasn’t mine. THIS little piece of shit? Was mine. It has one bedroom and one bath, a wee little kitchen and stackable washer and dryer and a small porch that was big enough for a chair, but not for you to sit in and have you knees together, well facing forward anyway.

Mine.

I loved that little apartment. I smoked in it. I watched television until my eyes were blurry and I went out until all hours of the night and didn’t have to answer to anyone for anything. I had a job, I had friends and I had my little apartment.

What I didn’t have was a bar.

In my previous town I had a bar. The bar was where we held counsel, we debated politics (not really… but it sounds better than to say we debated whether or not so and so was truly a prostitute), we talked about the weather, our jobs, our spouses and if anyone wanted another round. The owner knew each one of us. The bouncers or door guys knew each one of us. The DJ or whoever had the cash for the jukebox knew each one of us.

Because we were alcoholics. (I kid, sort of.)

In Dallas I searched high and low for that “NORM!” bar that when I walked in, the bartender would have my drink ready by the time I got to him or her and I wouldn’t have to hand over a credit card, I would just have a tab and then cash out and leave a fabulous tip at the end of the evening when it was time for me to go back to my little apartment.

Stacey and I used to meet almost every Wednesday evening for Happy Hour (before she had a child and her husband was on a bowling league… shut up, I am not a home wrecker). We tried several bars but ended up normally going to Carson’s until it got kinda sleazy (and loud) and then over one street to Cape Buffalo, where it was also loud, but less sleazy.

Over the years our Happy Hours have been whittled down to once a month, if we are lucky. And we still go to Cape Buffalo. It is the only bar in the ArOkLaTex (quad state area) where one (and I mean me) can still smoke INSIDE a bar.

I had the pleasure of joining an old friend for Happy Hour back on December 19th at a local bar. Mister went with me and we joined Brent and his friends after my hair appointment. I’ve known Brent since I was in the 6th grade and haven’t seen him since… well, since I graduated high school in 1990 or before.

Meeting him at this little bar down the street was kind of nerve wracking to me as he looks the same as he did 18 years ago, just a little salt and pepper added into his hair. And I? Well, we all know that I don’t look the same I did last year, much less almost twenty years ago.

But? I was excited about the bar.

Brent talked about this bar (we reconnected through FaceBook… also, shut up.) like it was his second home. There are friends, and friendly people that you haven’t met yet that go to the bar regularly. The list of beer choices is huge and the best part? It is less than two miles from my house.

Mister and I walked in after I got repeated texts from Brent telling me to quit dicking around and hurry it up already. They had been there since four o’clock. He and his friends were out on the patio where all the cool kids went to smoke. We pulled up a couple of stools and settled in for a few hours of talking, drinking, eating, laughing, meeting and greeting and all the good things that go with a fabulous neighborhood bar.

It was so enjoyable that I have been trying to get Stacey over there for a Happy Hour. No, we can’t smoke inside, but it’s not all that hot or cold outside and we have coats. I think it will be a nice place and maybe someday I’ll get the “NORM!” reaction from a bar that I’ve been looking for.

Maybe it will be this one, maybe not. But I’m looking forward to finding out.

Apropos of nothing… I was just talking with Melinda about elephants and this little video excerpt is from a National Geographic movie aired on PBS called The Urban Elephant. Go ahead. I dare you not to cry.