Suzanna Danna

Up In The Air (PreWeetaconPost)

2010-03-10T20:51:54Z

3/4/10 I am in the air somewhere, am guessing over Oklahoma. "Crash Into Me" by Dave Matthews band is playing through the earbuds and my iPod and I am on my way to Green Bay for the annual Weetacon. We just crossed over a particularly deserted part of the landscape and for an odd reason I felt the prick of tears threatening at the back of my eyes. The throat tightening, and the fear that I would startle the elderly woman sitting next to me if I were to burst into sobs and couldn't tell her what exactly (if anything) was wrong, were she to ask. Happy tears? Sure. I am headed to spend four days with my chosen family, my tribe and I feel (yes, I am a sap) particularly blessed to be a part of this group. And yes, I will regale you with tales and linkity links when I get back. But is that the only reason? Wander lust tugging at my internal make up? Maybe. The urge to just run and start my life over (I am pretty sure that the "Lucky Penny"* post gave away a little bit of that mindset)... Yep. A few months ago I startled myself by driving North along on 75 (Central) Expressway and thinking, "What if I just kept going?". I called Mister and the exchange went like this: Me: hi Mister: hi back Me: I am on 75 on the way back from the doctor and this though occurred to me... Mister: what thought? Me: what if I just kept going? Mister: well, how long does it take to get to Oklahoma City? Me: a little over three hours. Mister: and after that? Me: Kansas, in another three hours or so to Salinas. Mister: so..... You'd be in Kansas by the time I got home from work. Me: um, yes. Mister: okay Me: ... So, there's that then. Could it be just a general sense of maliase? Let's go with that. Random, odd things are making me cry more and more lately. Ever since I dropped my basket a few months I have been delicate as a butterfly wing. And here's the fucked up part. RIGHT NOW is when I am supposed to be the strongest. Lessee.... Um, nope. Not happening.

I typed the above on my blackberry “notes” section on Thursday, last week. I was on my way to something I look forward to every year and I rend flesh and wail and gnash teeth when I don’t get to go. (See January of 2008.) It was wild, it was wonderful, it was a crazy and beautiful time. I hugged, got hugged upon, laughed, almost cried, drank A LOT, wrestled in the snow, got hit on by a 30 year old Frat Boy (the term motorboat was used… Seriously.), ate poorly, used (to the utmost ability) the restorative powers of the St. Brendan’s Bloody Mary**, not once… not twice… Okay, I can’t remember how many times exactly, but a couple of times. I slept well, I bunked with a fellow Weetacon-er well (she really doesn’t snore that loudly… I promise), I got kissed on the face and the lips more times that I can count, saw many boobs, giggled until I snorted, named a woman Bruce, wore a dress that showed more cleavage that I have EVER worn (I wore a tank top under a corset on Halloween… because I am prude… and yella), had an Out-Southerning at the Bad Bar complete with neck wobbling and “YOU NEED TO TAKE CARE OF YOUR BABIES!”, gave away shoes, bought shoes, received a pair of shoes and I promise that I will come back in the next few days (or whatever) to give you all of the details that I can. To those of you who were there, you know who you are, you know I love you and that I can’t wait to do it all over again, and none too soon. PS.. I am SO off my freaking game it is insane. *Sorry this made you cry Mary. I love you. **The St.B’s Bloody Mary has a stick of olives, a pickle, a lemon, a lime, a cheese stick and a fucking meat stick. They are certifiable meals in a schooner (with a Spotted Cow beer chaser)… FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY.

Promiscuous

2010-02-10T21:45:35Z

Looking around her desk at the mementos she had collected over the years Catherine was satisfied that she was doing her job well. Known as Cat to her friends; and one special person who called her “Kitten”; she looked around at the cards from colleagues, notes of thanks from volunteers, drawings by coworkers, photos of family, friends and pets and her wall calendar covered almost every inch of her tiny, ill constructed cubicle. She had been with the company for ten years so she had letters of accommodations framed her five and ten year plaques mounted along with her odd collection of dictionaries that she loved to smell. Opening one of the older dictionaries she fanned the pages and stuck her nose in the small breeze created and inhaled deeply. The scent was one she loved. She loved old book stores, second hand book stores, new book stores… and she absolutely cherished walking into an old library. The smell was unmistakable; paper, ink, care, her grandmother’s family Bible, age and the knowledge that with words a whole new world could be created from most any combination that someone could and can think of. She fanned the pages again and let the book fall open on its own accord. Pages 682 and 683 of her Webster’s Seventh New Collegiate Dictionary published in 1969 stared back at her. Starting with prolong and ending with proportion, the pages practically begged for her to grab a word, any word and start a story with just a little push in the right direction. Cat started on the left page and passed prolongate, prolontherapy, prolusion, prom, promenade, Prometheus, ect and stopped on a word that set her head spinning with ideas, thoughts, recollections, wishes, fantasies and she decided to start writing. pro⋅mis⋅cu⋅ous [pruh-mis-kyoo-uhs] – adjective 1. characterized by or involving indiscriminate mingling or association, esp. having sexual relations with a number of partners on a casual basis. 2. consisting of parts, elements, or individuals of different kinds brought together without order. 3. indiscriminate; without discrimination. 4. casual; irregular; haphazard. Cat had never really been the promiscuous type, but deep in her heart, she secretly longed to be. She longed to be anything but average. Being of average height, average weight, with average brown hair and an average wardrobe, Cat wished to match the only thing that stood out about her average countenance. Her eyes. Her eyes were the deep forest green of pine, where kudzu flourished and the smell was loamy and fertile. Cat’s eyes were exotic and she longed to match them, so she wrote stories of star crossed lovers, alien encounters, long voyages, lingering kisses and passionate embraces.

Secretly they would meet in back alleyways, in parking garages and even at the local mall. They tried to hide in plain sight but they figured that the naked lust that showed in their eyes for one another would belie their actions and ever so careful cultivated carefree attitudes towards one another around their spouses. It would never work.

No good, Cat thought to herself. Not promiscuous enough. Not clandestine enough. Not … it just doesn’t have… that something. It is just too safe. I need to throw caution to the wind. I need to step out on that branch, regardless of the danger. I am going to put this out there. I am going to be… promiscuous.

With a flourish Carol flicked open her phone to read a text that had come in while she was with a client, now in the elevator, there was no one to hear her deep inhalation at the words on the teeny LCD screen of her high tech phone. “I have been thinking about you all day long. I cannot stop. Please meet me again, and soon. The smell of you on my hands is driving me mad.” She thought back to that morning. She had met with Chance at a tiny corner coffee shop to chat before work. Just to chat… right. For the past three months she and Chance had been seeing one another on a regular basis. They had friends that were mutual and so they, all being single, got together at least two or three times a week for a happy hour downtown by their offices after work. She and Chance hit it off, but he was supposed to be a set up for one of her friends’ sister. Chance and the sister never had an opportunity because as soon as Carol and Chance saw one another from across the room. All others disappeared. Carol wanted to pretend that she wasn’t interested in Chance and she knew that he had just gone through an ugly break up so she was sure he wasn’t looking for something long term. But they just couldn’t help it. Their eyes locked, and they both smiled. From that first Happy Hour, they exchanged texts, friended one another on FaceBook, emailed and left each other questionable voice mails. The even had an arrangement. It would be casual. No questions, no pressure, no worries. But with each additional meeting, it was harder and harder not to give into pleasure, passion and all the trappings that lay within. They kept their secrets from their friends, sure that if everyone knew that they would be happy for them, but push for more, and Carol and Chance never wanted to mess up the group dynamic. So they just kept their tête-à-tête on the side. They met in the evenings and on the weekends. Soon, Chance was asking her to meet him before work, or even to stay over and go to work from her place. It was almost too much, but the sex was incredible. Carol couldn’t believe her good fortune. She had never been much into casual sex, but if this was what it was like, then she was beating herself up for not joining the party sooner. The evening before, the whole group had gone to happy hour. Carol and Chance left separately, but before she could even get the key into her apartment door, Chance was texting her, “One more drink? A kiss for the day? Meet me for breakfast? Can I convince you that any of these are good ideas?” She laughed as she opened her door, kicked it shut behind her and called him back. “Chance, you are going to get tired of me if we keep spending so much time with one another.” He replied with one of the longest replies she had ever heard from him. “To me,” Chance said, “you are incredibly fun, like the antidote for dull and boring. Life with you, even simple chat, is always exciting to me. I never ever get bored with you and can talk with you forever. You renew every day; you're not a habit or some mundane thing that leads to a rut. You, above anyone else I know, keep life fresh.” Carol was stunned. It was probably one of the nicest things anyone had ever said to her, so she agreed to coffee in the morning before they headed to work. That morning they met at a small little mom and pop diner that was between their two jobs. They couldn’t go to Starbucks or Seattle’s Best because they would run into mutual friends and that would lead to too many questions. They settled into their little booth and as Chance slid an arm around her shoulders and pulled her in for a quick peck he tilted his head and laid a kiss under her jawbone, eliciting a small shiver from her. They chatted for a bit and Chance called for the check thirty minutes before their agreed upon time to leave. Before the waitress could come over to deliver the check, Chance slid his hand under the table, pulled her business skirt up a little and played with the tops of her stockings. She tried to keep her chest from flushing, her breath from quickening and her face from turning red. All to no avail. Chance put Carol’s skirt back in place, threw a twenty dollar bill on the table for their three dollar coffees and then drew her out the door and down the alley. He braced his hands on either side of her head and leaned in. He nibbled at her mouth, kissing and licking her lips. He nipped at first her top lip then the bottom while sliding a hand down her bottom and pulling her left leg up against his hip, exposing her stockings to his eyes only. He kept kissing her, pulling small moans from Carol’s mouth as she slid her hands around his waist, down his narrow hips to cup his buttocks. He slid her panties aside and drew one finger against her and then licked his finger and kissed her one last time before putting everything right. Making sure they were both presentable and then walking her to the end of the alley so they could both go to work.

Cat reread the story and smiled. She thought that Carol and Chance would be seeing a lot more of one another.

white bits of (lovin)... WHAT?

2010-02-04T21:49:21Z

Huzzah! I finally found a free moment to do something that has been harassing me since Christmas Eve. At the children’s service at my sister’s church they do a candlelight lighting… thingy, and these three youngish boys sitting behind me accidentally dropped three drips of wax on my new black (duh.) wool pea-coat. I didn’t notice until I hung my coat up and it looked like I had been molested by Bill Clinton. I am in Austin, I have a planning meeting tomorrow and since I am in a hotel room at the airport and I purposefully didn’t pack anything cool to wear out on 6th Street, I am sort of stuck here. I turned on the iron, snagged a washcloth and viola! Transferred the white bits of (lovin) wax from the back of my coat to said wash cloth. Speaking of … oh, nothing in particular. Last week, while in The Woodlands for a MidYear Board meeting I woke myself up from a sound sleep with a brilliant idea. I am thinking of writing a little diddy (maybe the trend will catch on) in book form with a title along the lines of “Know When To STFU”. Of, maybe I won’t actually put “Shut the Fuck Up” in the title. Anyway, the premise is such... um, knowing when to shut the fuck up. First example: The little * thingy shows you when to stop speaking. Or you know, STFU. “I love your thighs. They are as creamy as butter*… freshly churned butter, pale, dimpled and full of fat.” Second example: “Your parents are wonderful, they are so happy and warm* when they have had a few too many, WOW, they can really kill a bottle!” So you get the idea. In keeping along with the theme of this entry… in that there isn’t really a theme. Weetacon is in (as of this exact moment… ) 26 days, 7 hours and 31 minutes from starting. I am so excited I could pee. The roster has one spot left as of yesterday. This is going to be the largest one ever, and we won’t talk about the one I missed in 2008 when Mike called my cell phone (I didn’t answer because I thought I would cry) and yelled into the voicemail, “ Donkey Punch! Where the hell are you!? Answer the damn phone! We love you!” So I listened to the voicemail… and cried. I still have that freaking voicemail. I am going into Milwaukee on that Thursday, driving up to Green Bay with Kev and Mel and the good times will commence. Oh YES, they will. And yes, you have to follow all of those links. It’s in the fine print. I have so much to tell y’all. But because of legalities, I can’t. Let’s all meet up for a beer soon and we’ll discuss it. Hey, I didn’t say “porn” in this entry. Porn. Now that I have been banned from most of your work computers, I am going to unpack and do some actual work. By the way, thanks for the kudos on the short story from the last entry. It is because of emails and positive comments like those that I feel completely comfortable opening a blank Word doc and just typing what comes pouring out of my head. Like the lovely dribble you just read. Cheers!

Lucky Penny

2010-01-12T19:03:28Z

Alexandria (Alex to her friends) gathered her new coat about her, her breath fogging in the frigid air and she shoved her hands deep into the pockets where she found an “inspected by #13” tag and a small pouch of silica. She stood outside the restaurant she was just about to enter and looked up into the sky. The sky was that dark winter blue just starting to fade to black. She was as new to town as the jacket was new to her body and she felt as fresh and as crisp as the air pressing to her face. She wanted to savor the moment. Had it always been like this? This excitement that felt as if her stomach and heart had traded places for a few moments, it was intoxicating. Alex looked at her car; it had been her steady companion over the long months to get where she was going. She didn’t know until today that she was already here. She had found a place to call her hometown. The word felt different in her head, like there was already more weight to it, knowing that she would stay. Knowing that this wouldn’t be just another place to rest her head and stay with friends while she worked at meaningless jobs and smiled over the dim roar of wherever fate was taking her. In the past few months she had been in Dallas where she waited tables at an all night truck stop out on Interstate 20. She stayed with friends in their incomprehensible normal home with their perfect decorations, their perfect children, the perfect dog and the perfect lives they seemed to lead. She had been in Las Cruces where the heat and long days working in a small retail shop off of the main town square made her feel boneless and weary. There she had rented a small one bedroom efficiency apartment above the garage of an older woman who seemed to collect things; cats, china tea cups, TV Guide magazines and Alex felt she needed to leave before the kind widow decided to collect her. Alex moved north through Las Vegas where the bright lights and loud noises in the casino where she worked the second shift never seemed to lift the sad lifeless spirit of the town during the day. She had stayed with an old friend from college, Casey. Casey had sworn she would never grow up, never grow old, she would come skidding to a breathless stop at the end of her life never having regrets. Casey would never be like their friend in Dallas who had all of those responsibilities, a husband, kids, a home and a job. When Alex packed up her bags in to her trusty car Casey had just accepted an engagement ring from her long term boyfriend. Through Denver and the fall perfect weather Alex stopped in Boulder and bartended at a low key (very environmentally friendly) pub near the college. She watched as the college kids seemed to get younger and younger before her very eyes. She stayed with one of her oldest friends from high school, Gary and his partner Kyle. They doted on her, they adored her, they tried to fix her. Alex packed her bags once again and started out as she always did, with a flip of a coin. Right or left. The same thumb worn penny that was normally in her right front pocket slipped between the gear shift and the floor matt sticking straight up on its’ end. North it is, Alex thought. Alex travelled north through Colorado and at a gas side fill up in Cheyenne, she noticed the coin had come out of its’ perpendicular hiding spot and was resting on the floor mat, heads up. At the next major interstate she took a right and travelled across Interstate 80 heading east. She felt as though something was pulling her forward. She flew through Nebraska, couldn’t even remember the drive through Iowa and the only time she slowed down in Illinois was when she got pulled over for doing seventy-two in a fifty-five. She stopped in small motels, showered in teeny bathrooms the size of airplane restrooms, slept the sleep of the restless and kept moving toward where she thought she should be. When she finally hit Chicago and Lake Michigan, she thought to herself, “Well, is this it?” She couldn’t find her coin in her pocket so she stayed one night in Chicago and in the morning when she went to get in her car, there was her penny, in the middle of the driver seat. She rubbed the coin to get it warm then flipped it. Tails. She turned left on Interstate 43 and headed north. At a small intersection in Milwaukee she realized she needed a coat. Winter was coming and a winter coat was not included in her meager belongings. She eased her foot off the gas and pulled into the next shopping center she found. She bought a basic black wool pea coat. The coat was perfect. For the first time since she left Boulder she felt like she needed to stick around a while. She picked up a newspaper at the market, got a pint of milk, a trio of bananas, some cheese crackers and stopped at the next motel she saw. In the motel office was a sign, “Help Wanted”. Alex had been everything from a mechanic to a farmer, she figured she could do whatever needed to be done at the motel if she could barter for a room. The manager, Marty, was leaving because his mother was ill and the owner of the hotel didn’t live in state. Marty jumped at Alex’s offer as the manager’s position came with a small apartment attached to the office. He took three days and gave her a run down on all the employees from housemaids to laundry service to the window washer. The manager gave her the number to the repairman, called and introduced Alex to the owner over the phone and the hurried to his mother’s side. Alex took all of it in stride. She worked the hotel like it was a home she never had. She made friends with the transient customers who used the hotel as a stopover and made sure that all of the rooms were tidy and clean. She stocked the small refrigerator inside her apartment with a few basics and was overjoyed to find a full sized washer and dryer that was hers to use whenever she wanted. One evening a few of the employees from the restaurant adjacent to her little motel asked her to come over afterhours for a few drinks and to get to know everyone better. Alex finished her days’ work, turned off the vacancy sign for the motel and headed over to the little grill. She walked into the greasy spoon with shouts of “Alex! Glad you made it!”, “Alex, over here!” “High five, girl!” And “Hey Alex, there is someone over here I want you to meet.” She pushed her way through the crowd to the head cook, Randy. Randy was standing at the edge of the bar next to someone she felt immediately drawn to. Randy said, “Hey, Alex, this is my old friend,” “Jeff.” Alex finished for him. Randy blinked then stood back and said, “Hey, you two know one another?” Jeff nodded with a glint to his mischievous eyes. Jeff stepped away from leaning on the counter and reached out to shake Alex’s hand. She reached out and took his familiar hand in her own and said, “It’s nice to meet you Jeff.” Jeff grinned and asked her if she would step outside with her. She nodded and let him pull her gently out to the waiting night. Standing in the parking lot, Jeff turned to her and said, “What took you so long?” She had so many questions. How did he find her, how did he know where she would end up when she didn’t even know herself and most importantly, did he still want her? She smiled up at him, his dark hair and dark eyes glittering in the night. He was really standing in front of her. She slipped her hands underneath the parting of his jacket and felt the warmth of him against her, as she stepped forward he cupped her back in his arms and rested his chin on top of her head. The snow began to fall in beautiful fat flakes. It rested on her new coat and in her hair. Jeff cupped her chin in his hand and turned her face up so he could see her eyes. She answered his question, “The penny you gave me is very fickle.” He leaned his head down and kissed her gently at first then pressed his mouth to hers harshly then leaned his head back and laughed a full throated masculine laughter. She couldn’t help but laugh with him. He said, “Tag, you’re it,” then walked back into the restaurant. She stood in the crisp winter air, with the snow falling on her shoulders and in her hair. She shoved her hands deep into the pockets of her new coat and found an “inspected by #13” tag and a small pouch of silica… she reached into the right pocket of her jeans, found the penny that had brought her this far and pitched it into the night. She never heard it fall.

Last entry of 2009. I am nicer this time, I promise.

2009-12-31T15:43:06Z

How to be a jackass. Step one. Call into the office “inclement weather line” (I did this yesterday) and hear “Today is Wednesday, January 28th, 2009, the roads are icy and the office will open at 10:30 am.” Step two, call back to confirm. Step three, only hear, “Wednesday” and “10:30 am”. Step four, show up at 10 am all early and chipper and shit and ask why everyone is there before 10:30 am. See also… it is December. JACKASS. The epitome of douche-y. It was 74 degrees the other day (yes, in the middle of all of this weird Texas snow) and on the way home from work was the very essence of douche driving next to me in his little boxy Porsche/Miata/Sunburst/Sorry About Your Small Penis, Sir/Whatever car. I believe that I have come up with the formula for douche-iness. The first ingredient is the convertible top… it MUST BE DOWN so everyone can admire the douche, add in a pinch of WAY too much hair product on thinning dark hair with … (deep breath) frosted tips, include extremely elaborate facial hair. We are talking AJ McLean from the Backstreet Boys* (in the 90’s) elaborate facial hair. And yes. I had to Google that. Also, hee… some of the images that popped up are priceless. On top of the elaborate facial hair, the frosted tipped thinning over-producted hair (really, it is the frosted tipped thing that gets me) and the expensive compensation car, please add three very crucial things. Bluetooth earpiece and expansive hand gestures while darting in and out of traffic like a teeny pissed off bee. I don’t know about y’all, but with any sort of earpiece for my phones I can’t even have the window cracked, or else the sound is horrible. I can’t imagine what it is like in an open convertible, doing 70mph. Yes, I totally took a picture with my blackberry, it turned out poorly. *Backstreet’s Back ALRIGHT! Right eye, why dost thou forsake me daily? I do not poke or prod you, I do not line my inner eyelids with makeup and I do not shoot aerosol hairspray into you while fixing my hair. I pamper you and put eye drops in you but yet you refuse to quit watering ever day… yes, just you right eye, in the outside corner… for hours. Why? You realize that with the dabbing of the Kleenex into that corner and the consequential removing of any traces of makeup that were around you, that I look like a lopsided goober, right? What is your motive? Update on dropping my basket (see a few entries ago). No, I have not called Terry or sent him an edible arrangement of honeydew melon. I do not plan to. I did send him an email (many days after said dropping of basket) that simply said, “you are thought of often with affection, hope you are well.” Or something to that effect. I received emails asking me to call so we could meet for a milkshake (as that is his only vice now, chocolate) or something and catch up. I have not done so. Nor, do I think I will. We already know I am crazy. This poor man has NO IDEA. At fredlet’s suggestion I have been reading the Merry Gentry series by Laurel K. Hamilton**. I bought the first two books last summer (hubba hubba, Gah, HOT) and for Christmas, Mister bought me the rest from Amazon. Not that I needed any help in the mental fantasy realm. But thanks. Now I have nonhuman men to lust after in my brain. Also, until recently I was mispronouncing one of the main characters’ names in my head. I was corrected, but I will continue to use the wrong pronunciation and he will like it. **If you don’t like her as a writer, that’s cool, I do. No judging. Tonight is New Year’s Eve. For the past several years (this will be our eighth) Mister and I have made it sort of a stay at home function. Normally there are steaks and champagne and sometimes we even make it (and by we, I totally mean HE) to stay awake to watch the ball drop. Yes, we are very exciting. There are booked safari trips that roll through our pad to study us weekly; kind of like the lions of the Serengeti, but with less antelope. Tonight, I am not sure what we will do. Ideas were batted around and they all came back to staying at home, keeping it a “just us” function. Let’s be honest here. You guys remember that Operation Smiling Spouses thing that Dre and I cooked up to get a little bit of LIFE back into our lives? Well, that petered out after the San Antonio trip. We’ve done a few dinners here and there with the four of us but things with Mister have been kind of egg-shell-y. So the plans with Dre and his wife have suffered and Operation Smiling Spouses is kind of a bust. I miss Mister and I love him and I want to see the man I fell in love with shining out through those blue-grey eyes again. Please disregard my rant over 2009 yesterday, I am worried and heartsick. If you would, please pray/send good vibes and or energy towards Mister and I. Yes, I sort of hid that little nugget in the midst of an entry that makes no sense. I am clear that I am trying to hide from the truth. Just let me have a little hope and maybe an “oh baby” in the comments. Love you all… bunches. With hope and love, I bid you all adieu, until 2010.

2009 Can Suck It.

2009-12-30T23:24:37Z

Happy Holidays, Happy New Year, Merry Christmas, Happy Festivus and all of that. Yes, all of that to you and yours. I for one am extremely glad that 2009 is coming to an end, quickly, quietly… with a whimper and not a bang. In my numerology report I would like to imagine (I’ve actually seen several, and they don’t tell me a damn thing, either that or I am not intuitive enough to figure them out) that the past couple of years have been made for “building character” for “toughening my skin” for making sure I can “take one on the chin” and all that kind of shit that people say when you are going through a rough patch. But guess what? I am tired. My character is just fine. My skin, even though soft and supple, is as tough as it is going to get. And taking it on the chin just sounds dirty. So fuck you 2009. You and the stupid months that go with you. You are dead to me 2009. Dead. You hear me? No, no. I am not going to take it back. Sure, it may be harsh, but you know what 2009? I have had enough of your pathetic excuses, your weak assed attempts to be personable and engaging. You suck 2009. Even worse than 2008 if that is possible. If I were to take a poll of years that flew by and sucked serious monkey ass you would be right up there with, let’s say… oh, 2008, 1999, 1997 and a few others. Goodbye and good riddance 2009. 2010, you better be ready to bring your A Game.

October 16th Part Two.

2009-11-02T20:48:30Z

AKA “The Day I Dropped Mah Basket.” For the first part of this entry, clickety, clickety HERE. Or scroll down, or click over on the right hand side of the page … whatever. I went into the living room to try and zone out on some mindless television program. I was trying to recover from my bout of anxiety induced vomiting. I needed to calm the fuck down. While I was scrolling through the menu I happened upon the movie “Say Anything” with John Cusak. If you have to IMDB search to find out about this movie and you are not familiar with which I speak. GAH. You may be too young for this movie to mean anything to you. If so… then this post won’t either. UNLESS YOU AREN’T HUMAN*. *Or you know, female. And very emotionally fragile. I thought to myself, “Huh, I haven’t seen this movie in ages. It’ll be nice to see something that is familiar.” This… right here was my first mistake. And I settled in to watch it from the beginning. Let’s tie in a little personal info that makes this movie extremely relatable to me. Number one: I dated this guy when I was young, his name is Terry and we dated for about two years. He was a big influence on my life and we were very close for a very long time. Yes, I have written about him here before. Use the searching thing up there on the right. I don’t feel like linking to everything. Suffice it to say one of the reasons I feel like I totally KNOW John Cusak; and therefore totally love him as an actor; is because he and Terry share a similarity in looks and in personality. Terry is tall, lanky and looks sort of like the love child of John Cusak and Tommy Lee. Exhibit A: Picture courtesy of Mike. (scroll to bottom) From left to right; me, Terry, Mike and that girl whose name I don’t remember. This is from a Valentine’s dance. We are all precious. And I believe Terry and I lost our virginity the evening that this picture was taken. Number Two: I adored Terry, I thought that he hung the moon, stars and the blanket of sky that they lay within. He was smart, funny, not overly gregarious, ambitious at a young age and very independent. We had our futures planned out in very vague details. Yes, we were going to get married. Yes, we were going to have children. Twins, I believe, with androgynous names. He was going to be a lawyer and I… a something. Very important stuff. Also, very fuzzy. My parents did not like him from the first moment that they laid their eyes upon him. At the time I thought it was insanely unfair (“KAAHHHHHHHNNN!” [fist in air]) and I rallied against their wish that I not see him anymore. They thought that his quiet nature and how crazy I was about him were a dangerous mix. I believe they saw the quiet (around adults) thing as a reason to distrust him. And, in hindsight, they probably knew that we were both pretty smart kids and anything we wanted to do (re: see evidence of “evening we lost our virginity” above) we would figure out a way to do it, regardless if we had anyone’s blessing or not. Terry was only welcome in our home when both parents were there (most likely in the same room), we had to sit in the living room, NO SLOUCHING OR LEANING!, and every word that we said to each other was to be in normal talking. No whispering. I could go to his house if my mother cleared it first with Daddy and they talked to Terry’s parents. It was like being on house arrest. With no phone privileges… and I couldn’t close my door… OR (God Forbid) have a boy in my room. Yes, we did things like sneaking out, he came over once when my parents weren’t home (OH MY GOD! We were heathens. We made out. Ring for the jailor!), the neighbors ratted us out, and he knocked on my bedroom window once when my grandmother was visiting and… therefore sleeping in my room. (Heh.) So it was spread throughout the adult kingdom that Terry and his friends were not welcome around me or my friends. Exhibit B: Picture courtesy of Steph.
This is Terry and Mike jumping the fence of Stephanie’s house because her dad had just come home and they were not allowed at the pool party she was hosting. Also… HAAAAA. Or also known as, “Crap, the freaking gate is locked.” So there I was, watching “Say Anything”, curled up on the couch trying to forget about the phone call from IT. I was already totally into the movie when this scene comes on that I had totally blocked from my memory. Apparently. Diane and Lloyd (Ione Skye and John Cusak) are in his car, they are parked somewhere (Lord.) and they are having sex. This conversation takes place: Diane Court: Are you shaking? Lloyd Dobler: No. Diane Court: You're shaking. Lloyd Dobler: I don't think so. Diane Court: You're cold. Lloyd Dobler: I don't think I am. Diane Court: Then why are you shaking? Lloyd Dobler: I don't know. I think I'm happy. The scene is sweet, it is heart breaking it is perfect. My mind went into overdrive and I remembered a similar conversation that Terry and I had. Things started unraveling inside my head, memories resurfacing, heartbreaking recollections and a tidal wave of emotion threatened to flatten me. I hit pause on the remote control. Exhibit C: I promptly dropped my basket, lost my shit, started sobbing hysterically and tried to reason with my crazy ass self about why I was so freaking upset. It went somewhere along the lines of (and really, don’t try to make sense of this, just kind of read it and cast it aside, or your brain will break) “He looks so much like Terry.” “He was that sweet.” “I wonder how he is.” “I lost my virginity to him.” “Why did Satan have to lose all of my personal folders?” “Terry was so kind to me, why did … why did… ?” “It is so sad that things turned out like they did.” “I don’t have a uterus anymore.” There were thousands of wordless images and thoughts swirling around my noggin. Annnnnd commence bawling. Number three: In these hallowed halls I have mentioned Terry a few times (here’s one) because he was such a major part of my developmental stage as a young woman. Did I also tell y’all that Terry and my best buddy Dre were best friends in high school? No? Maybe? Well, since the wonderfulness that is having Dre back, we’ve both scoured FaceBook for Terry. Internet stalking? Surely not. Okay. Yes. We found him a few months ago. He friended us both (and Mike too) and he sent me the sweetest email telling me that “your parents were right about me” and that he is doing well, never married, never had kids, is now a chef. And then a few weeks ago he finally posted a picture of himself. Fucker (she said sweetly) hasn’t aged a DAY in twenty years. Exhibit D: Number four: He still looks like John Cusak. And if you will direct your attention to the screen shot I made of the movie you will notice that there is a timer. Scroll up and look. Yes, it took me over FOURTY-SEVEN plus minutes to regain composure. I hopped onto Google Talk and hit up my old buddy Dre. I told him that I had lost my damn mind and he talked me off the ledge and away from the “all cards on the table” approach of failure. One instance in where I was fully committed to sending Terry an email to tell him about my breakdown. (pause for laughter) Yes, I am insane. Let’s all take a moment to find Dre and tongue-kiss him with gratitude. Thank you kind sir. You have yet again kept me from making a complete ass out of myself. (rounds of applause and standing O’(faces)s) - He loves innuendo. Leave a comment for him, and make it dirty. I did not message, call, text, send a homing pigeon or a CandyGram to Terry. I have yet to do so. And hopefully will retain full use of my mild sanity to keep from doing such. When I got my shit together I called Mister and warned him of my fragile emotional state and why. He gave me the appropriate, “Oh baby!” and didn’t try to fix my problem (YAY!), he just listened and brought home dinner. I’m SO glad that I didn’t send Terry (poor man… if he only knew) a massive email detailing things that happened back then and why I was crying now. It would have been worse than drunk dialing. WAY worse. So, thanks guys. I love having a place to put my crazy. MWAH. Ps. Satan never did replace those files. Pps. I have the song “Sweet Transvestite” from the Rocky Horror Picture Show in my head on continuous loop. Awesome.

October 16th Part One.

2009-10-29T16:44:12Z

I am eye twitchy like a mother fucker. Hi, yes, so good to see you as well. So the last time we spoke I tried to bribe someone with a blow job to find some shoes. It didn’t work and I am wearing the sensible (gasp!) substitute ones that I got instead and they feel like I am giving birth through my feet. No, Blanche, I don’t know how it is possible for three inch pumps to be uncomfortable. Moving along. Okay, so, yes. I have been gone for a while, but this time (baby) I actually have a good excuse. Well, not really. It sounds good on paper. I mean, it sounds perfect on paper. Kind of like that guy you accepted a date from online and when you met him in person he wasn’t the 6’2”, dark haired, green eyed, athletically built, from old money with a huge… trust fund that he had billed himself to be. More like a 5’7”, dirty dreds, one left cast eye, built like a star fruit and living in a van down by the river with a really huge… goiter kind of guy. Excuse = I had surgery. Send wine… and a really large (mute) Samoan with talents in massage therapy. (This is not the first time I have requested this. I will continue to do so until I have said Samoan on property.) That excuse sounds pretty good right? But then you factor in that I was at home recovering for the better part of 4 weeks… then the excuse unravels into a poorly thought out concept filled with days of HGTV, all the books I could get my hands on. Oh, and a twitchy right eye. Not one little blog entry (or blog read) in sight. Seriously. The 140 characters of Twitter were too much for me to handle. I am fragile. I have a theory about the eye. We’ll get to that in a minute. So, yeah, I am back at work and was on FMLA while I was out. I wasn’t supposed to work, or check email, or talk to people about work… or do mail merges and put together a packet of stuff for my speakers that was collated by someone at the office and mailed out. So, yeah, I definitely DIDN’T do that… or anything. I was a model patient. Sweet, caring, kind, quiet… Ha. If you are new ‘round these parts here’s an FYI… I mentioned it before but my plumbing was jacked so they went rooting around amongst my innards and decided to remove my uterus. I do not miss it. It was kind of like a couch surfing cousin with the tendency to overstay their welcome, speak of inappropriate things at family dinners and borrow your car and return it with the fuel indicator reading “EMPTY! BITCHES!”. Yes, my uterus was a parasitic frat boy on the 7 year college plan. Clear, concise, perfectly worded entry. Yes, coming right up. (Riiiiiiiight.) So in the few weeks that I was home I worried about work a bunch. I was all butt clenchy and doing laundry and dishes and short of re-shingling the roof, SURE, I totally took a break. I completely relaxed. Except for that time, like a day or two after I got out of the hospital and my mother and I cleaned out my closet. What? Okay. Yes, I did over do it. I over did everything enough that my doctor ordered me to sit the hell down. He also made me stay out of work for seven business days longer than I expected. I went back to work on Monday the 26th. You know when I relaxed? On the 20th. I finally GOT it. I finally realized that they don’t just tell you shit like, “Relax, rest, sleep, don’t lift anything over five pounds, no bending or stooping, take it easy.” just for the sheer fun of making you change purses. There is a reason. And if you have surgery, I don’t care what kind, please… follow your doctor’s orders. This is how weak I have been y’all. I have played ONE game of Rock Band 2. ONE. On to the eye twitch. So yeah, I totally worked when I was out on leave. I was only planning on being out for two weeks. And when the doctor was like, “Listen, sister, if you do not follow my orders, I am going to keep adding days, NAY… WEEKS, to your leave time.” I finally stopped checking email (sort of) and calling coworkers, ect. But nothing, seriously, nothing prepared me for the day of the 16th. I have been working at my current job for just about six years. On December 1st, the reign of Sue will reach that six year mark. I’m kind of proud of it in a weird way. Kind of like being proud that my marriage has lasted this long. Shut up. It is the little things that matter. Anyway, I save certain things in my Outlook folders. I have many subfolders under my personal folders. The IT department harps on us to keep our Inbox empty as possible and keep everything that we are not currently working on under our personal folders. On top of the stuff that I need, but am not currently working on, I save three years of past conference stuff (that I totally reference ALL the freaking time) and I have other folders of conference stuff that I have planned out through 2012. What? I am a planner. That is what I DO*. *It is not who I am. So I was hanging around the house the morning of the 16th. During my post surgery sabbatical I took to getting up when Mister did, just so I wouldn’t be on a wacky world of Susan sleep schedule (this, if I had my druthers, would be 2am – 9 am, maybe the preferred 3 am – 10 am or something weird like 3 am – 7 am with a nap from 2-3:30 pm). I was reading one of the many books that I devoured along the way and my personal cell phone rang. I looked at the number and it was coming from the office. I answered and there was a man from IT on the line. Little fleshing out the story with a bit about my personal relationship with this man. I affectionately refer to him as Satan. He makes my life SO complicated sometimes. For some reason (oh, YES, I will totally give you a reason) he can push my buttons like nobody’s business. And NO, not in a good way. Case in point; a coworker and I were in San Antonio and we were trying to get connected to our system remotely, so we could get some work done. We had an IP address, yadda yadda yadda, all I wanted him to do was to white flag it with the security system, wasn’t happening… three hours later and with almost a full day’s help from the resident audio visual/tech guy on site, Satan actually told me, “Get your facts straight before you complain.” I put the phone down and walked off. (Leaving the poor AV guy to try and salvage what tenuous thread of patience he had left.) I believe in customer service…. Internal and external. This guy and I are not on the same page. At all. So when I picked up my phone (my personal cell phone… the number that he shouldn’t have) I was completely surprised to find Satan at the other end of my hello. The following conversation** took place: **maybe with a bit of creative license but not much Satan: Susan? self: Yes. Satan: It’s Satan. self: Hello. (I said trepidatiously.) Satan: I have some bad news. self: … Satan: I have lost all of your .pst files. self: Excuse me? Satan: I was repartitioning your hard drive and something happened with the backup. self: Something. Satan: Yes, there was an issue and even with the backups from Carbonite, the backups, (which were current) come in corrupted. self: You have been telling me and the rest of the company to put everything under our personal folders for years. Satan: Yes. self: And we have. Satan: Yes. self: And now it is gone. Satan: Yes. I must apologize. self: Okay. Satan: … self: … Satan: Um, I apologize. self: Do you realize that you have lost over three years worth of past conference materials, all of my sponsorship information, speaker reference emails and all of the conferences materials that I have planned out through 2012. Satan: Yes. self: Yes? Satan: Yes, and I apologize. self: Satan, you will find and replace that material. All of it. Satan: I will try. self: [I started to get that scary calm voice, but I was shaking SO hard.] I need to go up the chain of command with this. Satan: I understand. self: This must be fixed. Satan: I understand. self: You… do? Satan: Yes. self: Bye. So I called my boss and left her a message, called the IT demi-god out of Austin whom around certain circles is referred to as “The Wolf” (because he gets shit done, yo) and told him about the issue. He was all, “Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck, seriously?” I said, “Yeah, seriously, is there anything you can do?” He said he would poke around ect. I got a call back from my boss, Satan had just left her office. He admitted to her that he had made two grave mistakes, one when doing the back up, and one somewhere else. He forgot to mention these to me. Apparently he didn’t have his facts straight before he cut me off at the knees. She basically said, “Well, if they can’t find the backup, just rebuild.” And then I threw up. Now, I don’t know about y’all. But when I get angry… I mean, really really angry… two things happen. Well, three. Number one, my eyes turn blue. Number two, I cry. Number three, I get even angrier because I am being such a pussy and CRYING. How cliché. But I have never gone straight from full blown rage… to vomit. Twas a first. Yippee. So I was all Fra-Gee-Lay and went into the living room to channel surf. I think I will end this one here and pick it up again with the next part, I like to call, “The Day I Dropped Mah Basket.” Imagine me saying that all hiccuppy, crying with a thick Southern accent.

Do you really need more black shoes?

2009-09-16T20:21:12Z

I have jacked with the shopping gods enough to know when I have met my match. I am not a big fan of shopping (contrary to what some who walked around with me (MIKE AND POPPY) for eleventy two hours in Chicago looking for a pair of comfortable shoes). Yes, yes… I do like to look at products. Sephora and Lush are my personal waterloo’s. The Clarin’s (Smashbox/Kheil’s/ect.) counter at most high end department stores. Fuck, even the lipstick isle in a CVS pharmacy gets me all a-twitter. Yes, so there’s that. Then the whole shoe and purse love. Okay, I sort of like to shop. For products and shoes… and purses. Fine. No, I do not want to go shopping with you to look for, well, anything really (MIKE AND POPPY EXCLUDED). So, I guess, that is really the thing. I sort of like shopping… if I am already in a mall like place, do not have to go out of my way for anything and can look at purses, shoes and make up … for me. Yeah, it all boils down to being a selfish hooor. Here’s a little history. A few years ago (like in June of 2007) I hemmed and hawed over these shoes: Forever. And they were like twenty-five dollars. Andy (prior boss extraordinaire) was practically chewing his face off (MIKE was too) over the mere thought that I wouldn’t buy the shoes (were originally a billion dollars… and were on clearance in my size for TWENTY FIVE DOOOLLLLAAARS) just because before I left the house to go shopping with Andy, Mister offhandedly said, “Don’t buy anything.” So. I didn’t. But I did ask them to hold them. With my name and my number. And I approached Mister about the twenty-five dollar dilemma and he was like, “Good Lord woman, go get your shoes.” Then he rolled his eyes (across the floor) and made some hmmpf noise about me being so literal. Me. Literal. I use words like eleventy and say shit like “The MOST awesomest in the WHOLE WORLD!”. And, I… am literal? Eh shrug. Whatever. Cut to the now. Well, not THE now. More like July of 2007. In Montreal. At ALDO in the mall attached to the Hyatt. I was just “looking” at… purses, and shoes and these really cute sunglasses. Shut up. And I had promised myself that I would get one thing as a sursie (a prize) for the trip. What? I was in Canada. I couldn’t go home empty handed. And DEFINITELY not without that fabulous red purse over there (Scarlette, yes, I am crazy and I do name everything… even pants) so it was between Scarlette and these perfect black pumps. I figured that I would use a purse more. But Oh HO! Black pumps? When I wear freaking black almost every day!? [Looks down… Yep. Black-ish. I have on gray pants and a pewter ¾ sleeve jacket. That counts. ] So apparently I do love the red purse. But oh, how those shoes have haunted me. They were perfect. Pointed toe, 3-4 inch heel, open arch on both sides and a little toe-cleavage*. And the other part was that they were comfortable… AFTER I had been on my swollen ass feet all day. Imagine me doing the Bernadette Peter’s song from Young Frankenstein… but about shoes. *(I am totally trying to upload a picture of these shoes and woe… am denied. Here is a link, don’t know how long it will last. Who Do I have to Blow to find these in a 40 US 10 M?) Holy crap, it finally let me upload a pic. As you can tell, I didn’t get the shoes. I have been looking for them ever since. They elude me like a rainbow colored unicorn humping a glittery Cher. That’s pretty fucking elusive. So I keep trying to find them, all for naught. Finally I was like, “Hey Mister.” “What?” “I am still trying to find those black pumps from ALDO?” “Huh?” “Those… Black [start to drool slightly] … Heeeeeelszzzzz….. (purrrrrrr).” “Do you really need more black shoes?” “….[blink… blink… blink]” “Fine. How much?” I can’t find them. So I went to the ALDO outlet and ordered the closest thing I could find. They were delivered today. I am excited. They are very cute… but the heel, she is not teeteringly high. They are almost.. (gasp) sensible. So if someone could please find me those others (link listed above) I would be most grateful. And yes, I did talk to the customer service people and they were most unhelpful via emails and phone calls. BUT… The lady in the store was fabulous. But she did all she could do. I mean, after all, I am trying to find shoes… in my size… that were on the shelves over two years ago. Sparkle-Cher-humpicorn?

Does a lack of Viatamin C give you Scurvy?

2009-09-01T20:44:17Z

Oh Arturo, Prince of Irony…. Fuck you. And I mean that in the sweetest way possible. A few months ago… and just bear with me here people. I don’t know what I have told to whom and if I have posted any of it but here is the short version of the back story. A few months ago my buddy Dre’ and I decided that we would introduce our spouses, that way they wouldn’t be A) jealous if we went out for happy hours with one another B) make new friends (but keep the ollllllld, one is silver and the other GOLD… God, I am gay… and not in the good way) and C) we figured that we’d be able to hang out more if they were involved. Happy significant others equals happier us. So we introduced them in a military-like planned maneuver that we called Operation Smiling Spouses. We introduced them, Mister really likes Dre’ in one of those, “Hey, let’s play a lot of golf, smoke cigars and drink scotch every weekend” kind of ways and Dre’’s wife M thinks I am precious. Really she does. Win win situation, fuckers. So I had this idea. Yeah, whatever, I totally should have stopped there but the sweet siren song of ROADTRIP! was calling my name. So at one of our weekend get togethers I sprung this idea at them all like I was some psycho jack-in-the-box. “I have this conference coming up in San Antonio in August. It is at this (blah blah) resort. I would work the Wed-Friday thingy, the boys could play both the (blah blah) course and the (blah blah*) course on Thursday and Friday, M and I could spa on Saturday, we could have one hell of a dinner on Saturday night, then come home Sunday! How does that sound!?” *the name of the second course brought orgasmic sounds of joy from both of the men, I took that as a positive thing. We were all in. It was so exciting planning everything and getting all of the ideas filed away into a “we could do this, or this, or this” type of mental (and paper, Dre’… he is the OCD) dossier. We even planned a mini road trip out to southwest Texas just to see how we all worked as a team. Answer… AWESOME. We went to M’s parents’ ranch and rode four wheelers, ate amazing food, smoked out on the porch with those sky chairs, visited with neighbors and relaxed completely. So we were all assured that the “Big Trip” as everyone was calling it, was going to go swimmingly and without a hitch. Last week I was all butt puckered about one of my speakers who had yet to send me his materials. A presentation that was due on July the 29th … got it Friday after noon. RAWK. But I got all of my planning out of the way, got stuff packed the week before for my big conference (had to go to Houston on a work trip with a coworker, sorry Houston babies, I didn’t mean to leave you out in the cold, just had no time to see you… love you, mean it!) AND I got all of the laundry in the house done. The reason for all of this preemptive cleaning and laundering was because as soon as I got back from Houston on the 21st I had to make sure things were all set as my folks were coming in to stay the weekend so we could take them to Kenny’s Wood Fired Grill in Addison for their August Birthdays. Kenny’s was awesome as always that Saturday night and we all ate and drank way too much. It was a great evening. So Monday and Tuesday of last week I spent doing my last minute stuff for my conference that was set up on Wednesday and took place over Thursday and Friday. Tuesday night I asked Mister to lay everything out on the guest bed that he wanted to take on the trip. I packed like I was going for work and put the rest of my “resort wear” in his suitcase. We had everything packed and ready to go and went to pick up Dre’ and M to drive down with us at 9 am Wednesday morning. The drive was nice, we all laughed and listened to Hair Nation on XM and talked about the things we were most excited about for the trip. The only teeny little rain cloud over Mister’s head was that he didn’t really grasp the notion that I would be working Wednesday to set up the conference, at the actual conference Thursday from dawn’s ass-crack thirty until late in the evening (I have a dinner for some peeps) and then all day Friday. We stopped a few hours north of San Antonio and let M run in to get something at a local HEB grocery store. A few minutes later a nice young man knocked on the window, Mister rolled it down, “Are you Dre’?” Dre’ answered, “I am.” “Your wife has fallen, please follow me.” We all looked at one another and Dre’ bolted from the car to go find M. She was okay, just bruised, abraded and embarrassed but she handled it like a champ. We got to the resort at three and my preconference meeting wasn’t until 4:00 o’clock, so I wheeled my little backpack with all of my conference shit down into the meeting area and started working. My prior boss (seen singing in a few videos I posted an entry or three ago), Andy, came downstairs to help and we got everything situated in record time, including my little pre-con meeting. Wednesday night we went to Kona Grill for dinner and I ate everything on the menu and one very large puffer fish in their massive aquarium behind the bar that was not on the menu. It was a fabulous end to a very nice night. To be honest, we all brought more liquor on the trip than a small caravan of carnies would need for three weeks, but we were bound and determined to have enough of whatever whoever wanted, whenever they wanted it. We also had grand delusions of taking massive amounts of liquor, cigars and enough smokes to choke a medium alpaca down to the hot tub every freaking night. So, Wednesday night after a long drive, a fall, a set up, a precon, an amazing dinner and Mister starting to feel icky, we all went to bed. Thursday morning my cell phone alarm went off, my blackberry alarm went off, the clock radio alarm went off and two wake up calls came in quick succession. Don’t look at me that way. I don’t like to be late. I looked over at Mister and he looked like shit. No, I am not bashing him. He is one hell of a handsome man, but if he was going to pop out of bed with a whistle in his step on the way to the golf course, I would have eaten my hat. He actually said the words that made my butt clench so tightly I could have cracked walnuts with one flex. He said, “I need to go to the hospital.” I had to be downstairs in twenty minutes so I could be early. When the conference brochure reads, “6:30 am Registration and Continental Breakfast” there are always early birds. We went into M & Dre’’s adjoining room and told them what was going on. Well, Mister did as I had to put on pants. Dre’ offered to take Mister to the ER and off they went. I went downstairs after they left and sort of stumbled through the morning answering questions, registering attendees and talking to committee members as my better half was in a strange city, in pain, at a strange hospital with someone who wasn’t me. Dre’ messaged me as quickly as he could with updates… and Black Berry Messenger I owe you (and Dre’ you too) a long deep tongue kiss for keeping me connected to those I love. Hell, Dre’ deserves a medal and a cape or something for taking care of Mister the way he did. The ER gave Mister an XRay told him everything from it being a parasitic twin to scurvy. Then they admitted they didn’t know what was wrong and sent him home with two different prescriptions that did nothing to ease his pain. Mister’s description of it was, “It feels like someone broke a 2X4 off and stuck the jagged splintery edge into my lung.” Descriptive, no? So as he lay hurting and building and breaking fevers, Dre’ and M made the best of the day. Thursday evening I took the committee, the speakers and some guests to an appreciation dinner and I wanted to get out of there so badly, but it would have been in poor form to jump ship just as the wine was being served. So I stayed then met everyone else later. We ended up hanging out for a while then everyone crashed, the next day, same thing… conference for me… but the Dre’ and Mister went out to the pools and started drinking so by the time I was done for the night and everything was packed and shipped home, everyone was ready for dinner. I called the maître d’ (the same one who helped me plan dinner from the night before) and asked him for reservations. Number one, he is probably the nicest person on the planet. I am SO not exaggerating and number two, he truly wants you and your guests to be happy. So.. dinner = SCOOOOOOORE! After a lengthy dinner and a visit to the cigar lounge, Mister was shivering so violently that I was worried about his teeth. We got him all settled into his bed then I went and crawled into bed with M and Dre’ and M and I took turns brushing each other’s hair while Dre’ watched something on HBO about Hard Knocks. A football show I believe. The next morning (Saturday) Dre’ (after the three of them having lunch at the orgasm course on Friday) made sure he had a tee time and Mister went along for the ride. M and I had plans to spa. And yes, fuckers, it is a verb. Well, the way I do it is. Dre’ played golf, Mister rode in the cart and M and I spa’d. It was divine. That evening we were all so happy and kind of tuckered out from the day that we decided not to go to the Riverwalk downtown. We decided to take the suggestion of the maître d’ from the night before and we went to a fabulous restaurant that was about 4 miles away. It was amazing and the VIP treatment was in full swing. It was so awesome. When we got home M and Mister were both zonked from their various illnesses and sundries so Dre’ and I went down to the cigar bar and just hung out for an hour. Sunday we drove home. We did stop at Inner Space Caverns for Dre’ and M to root around under the earth for about an hour while Mister napped and I read my book. Yesterday I took Mister to the doctor. We were in and out in no time at all including a CT Scan. He has pneumonia and pleurisy. The fuck? Pleurisy? Seriously? Here’s a link and it is pretty fucking gross. But there ya go. He had two shots put in his butt yesterday, a round of pain killers, some antibiotics and some steroids and he went back today for another round of shots. He is out of work until Tuesday and did y’all know this? Pneumonia is contagious. I am working from home right now because I do not want to pass this shit around the office like a white elephant gift. In conclusion. We are a bunch of old ass lame cranky shits who can’t even vacation correctly. I kid. In light of the circumstances, I think we all had a pretty good time. The End…. Or is it? Not really. Here’s one little twist. Mister was supposed to have surgery on his FrankenKnee on the 10th of September. Because of this little twist of fate that is going to push his surgery back. But oh HO! I … my darling little poppets am supposed to have surgery (hysterectomy… rock) on the 29th. So if they put off his surgery much longer because of his poor lungs, then what will I do when I am not supposed to lift over 5 pounds the first month? Mister’s tall ass weighs more than five pounds, I assure you. Random fact: Did you know that a gallon of milk weighs 8 pounds? Me neither. Send booze (and a large, hot, male Samoan massage therapist).

Thirty-Five Plus ... the Humpenning.

2009-07-29T22:02:31Z

I have decided that Bai Ling completely ruined Crank 2: High Voltage for me. I cannot believe that the same dudes wrote and directed it as the first Crank film. Just me? Whatever. Suck it. It was genius in a very odd, “holy crap, that is exactly how everything looked when I got high that time” but other than making me want to hold the TV still for the entire movie, Bai Ling’s “You are my shiny lunch box!” and “That my boyfriend, he going to jack you off!” (“Wrong expression” deadpan’s Jason Statham, heh.) were more annoying than helpful to the … plot. ? Is plot the right word here? I know, you didn’t come here to hear a movie review, so … ONWARD. This is going out to the women over 30… the rest of you, go, slather yourself with body butter and make sure that you are wearing SPF and never fail to moisturize and take care of yourself, get a real hair stylist, dress for your age/body type and don’t be afraid to tell someone that you think they are attractive. Also, send me dick jokes. Yes, I think they are funny. As you were. For the rest of you Mister has decided that he is married to the unholy union of the Progressive Insurance commercial lady. And Kathy Griffin. Yes, I pussied out and put in the Safe For Work video. Gah. So, this is all fine and well if you want to think of me of someone who has a very foul mouth and gets WAY too excited about name badges (and tacos), but it does not help my plight with… Middle Age Cougar Syndrome, or MACS (pronounced “max”) for short. Here’s the problem. I just turned thirty-seven (shut it you whippersnappers) in May. Some switch got flipped and now all the sudden it’s like I am an 18 year old boy hormone wise. Yeah, I know… we’ve discussed this a little bit before but, Holy Shit…. Y’all just don’t KNOW. And for you who do, I need a crash course in “not humping your office chair during business hours 101”. What the hell? Seriously, this can NOT get any worse. One minute I’ll be calmly working on specs for a conference and the next I am all, “MROW! Hey, How YOU durin!?” Regardless if I am alone or in a room full of people. Working or silently trying to keep my composure at dinner… or you know, sleep. Good LORD. It does not matter. And if this doesn’t go away, I may have to I don’t know… is there such a thing as taking up porn as a hobby? I can’t listen to the radio… country music turns me on, thrash metal turns me on, alternative music turns me on, classic music… you see where I am going here right? It’s like, if the radio isn’t on the XM/Sirius Spa channel, then I am in trouble. Distracted? Don’t even get me started. I have been trying to substitute an insane amount of reading and an even larger amount of time spent playing Rock Band 2 so I don’t accidentally kill anyone (sorry Mister) with my overdose of sexiness. Mister and I are going to a ranch outing with another couple this weekend. We are supposed to go four-wheeling. I am already nervous. Does that tell you anything? I have nightmares about being called to the front of the class to work a math problem on the blackboard… then humping the teacher. I am having the most inappropriate thoughts about people that I would never dream of even flirting with much less riding them like Sea Biscuit. Men, women, that couch over there… it Doesn’t Matter. Tell me what to do y’all. Seriously, I am asking for your help and advice here. Yeah, yeah, it’s all fun and games until someone gets arrested for indecent exposure.

Pure Nacho

2009-07-21T16:15:26Z

A quote from the Galactic Cowboys song “If I Were A Killer”: "This is just a hypothetical story... 'bout someone - let's just say it's me." Yes, boys and girls it is time for another one of those “Fiction, or Is It?” stories. And by the way, you are welcome. A few weeks ago I was chatting with an old friend, let’s call him Nacho, and we were discussing some of life’s amazing little coincidences and follies. Let me tell you a little bit about Nacho. Nacho is a beautifully handsome man. He is perfectly tall. Not too tall that your neck aches when you reach to kiss him but tall enough that you feel safe with his well muscled arms wrapped around you. He gives the perfect hug, strong and laughing so you can hear his voice rumble through his chest. He is broad through the shoulders and narrow at the hip with marvelously white teeth and green eyes that are a color only found in nature, the color of pine trees and of the depth of the ocean. He is kind and gentle and most of my memories include him. His deep and soothing voice still invades my thoughts because growing up we shared a common sense of humor as well as curiosity for life and all the wonders it offered. Nacho has not always been as self assured and relaxed within himself as he is now. Now that he is a man, the voice fits, the height fits, the broad shoulders and beautiful smile fit. But when he was a much younger man, he was a little insecure and very much willing to try to blend into the background when it was almost impossible. His charm, wit and gentle heart could never be overlooked. So he made jokes. That was his M.O. Humor. And it worked on almost everyone. With razor sharp wit and a quick sense of humor he could turn almost any situation into an amusing one. All except one. We were very young and very close and one day after school the subject of kissing came up. Nacho had never kissed a girl, and always being happy to oblige and help a brother out, I offered to teach him. Oh, sure, very Mother Teresa of me, … yes it was a selfless act of mercy. No you idiots, he was still very cute back then but he just had no clue. We stood in an alley (because we were hoodlums*) and he asked me, “So, what do I do?” *Please. I, being the expert (*see above) told him to put his hands around my waist, he obediently did as he was told. I asked him to pull me a bit closer as I slid my arms around his neck. He did so, and then I told him to keep his mouth soft, turn his head a little to the right and to follow my lead. I pressed my lips against his and he did the same, I pulled back a little and told him to part his lips a little and that I was going to lick his lips. He opened his eyes and looked at me, briefly shook his head then assumed the position again, this time with his mouth partly opened. I licked his lips softly then asked him to do the same to me. He licked my lips hesitantly then I told him that I was going to French kiss him and he could use a little more pressure or to do as he felt but to be careful as he was wearing braces. He pressed his lips against mine and parted them with his tongue, I licked over the tip of his tongue and he pulled me closer into him and really kissed me. He moved his arms around my back so one was around my waist and the other was between my shoulder blades, he deepened the kiss to almost maximum make out level. Whoo-boy! To this day I think he totally knew how to kiss… because he didn’t need any direction at all. Sneaky, that Nacho. When it came time for us to graduate we sadly went to separate schools, he to his parents alma mater and me to… well, y’all know where I went. I called him one day a few weeks into my fall semester of my junior year to ask him if he would come see me. I had a formal to go to and I knew that he would be the perfect date. We didn’t get to see one another that often and I knew that we would have a blast that weekend. I could introduce him to my friends (the ones he didn’t already know and love) and he would be perfect arm candy with a side dish of awesomeness all in one handsome package. We could catch up, we could laugh and watch movies or just go around to different parties and hang out. The formal was an excuse, but it was a good one. He came up that weekend and we started off that Friday night at a party with some of my friends. I introduced him to all of the single women I knew. He was a big hit being tall, handsome, in a fraternity and gregarious. He drew people to him and in short time they were sitting around him like he was a bon fire, listening to him tell stories of his college and our days of growing up with one another. That evening, back at my apartment we got into our standard college pj’s (gym shorts or boxers and a t-shirt). We brushed our teeth at the same sink, lounged around on the bed talking about what had been happening lately, who had seen whom, what was going on with so and so, the success of the evening. We also discussed what we were going to do the next day and the particulars of the formal. We would go to dinner with a small group then head over to the formal. Our parents had made sure to make us promise to take pictures to send to them. He jumped up and hung his suit coat, pants and tie near my little formal dress then walked over, laid down and snuggled in beside me on my little twin sized bed. We had always been comfortable around one another. There had never been any tension or weirdness that sometimes happens between boys and girls. While growing up we would normally share a chair rather than sit next to one another on the floor or couch. Our parents thought we were adorable. So sharing a teeny bed with him was not out of my comfort zone. Nacho started kissing my neck. The back of my neck. Damn you, Nacho! He slid an arm under my neck, and wrapped arm around my waist and pulled me in his strong embrace (he wanted me to mention the massive bulging manhood here… so). I could feel his massive bulging manhood pressing against my bottom, almost pushing me out of the bed **Nacho note: seriously? SERIOUSLY??? Don’t believe it, folks.** **Susan Note… Oh Nacho totally wanted me to talk about his huge prowess and that I was all scared and shit… Having it push me physically from the bed was about as far as I would go… and it painted a picture, no? YES.. Yes, it did.** I quietly giggled, swatting his hands away and said, “Quit it Nacho.” He said, “Oh, alright.” We went to sleep and the rest of the weekend went exactly how we planned it. The story in itself is not atypical. But sixteen years later as we were chatting via BlackBerry Messenger he mentioned the time he came to visit me at school. We talked a bit about it and then he dropped a massive bombshell. Nacho: I tried to offer you my virginity that weekend. me: Wait, what? Nacho: I said… I tried to offer you my virginity that weekend. me: You. Did. Not. Nacho: Yes, truly I did. Don’t you remember? me: Oh God. Nacho: What? me: What did I do? Nacho: I got a little handsy and you swatted at me and said ‘Quit it.’ me: Was I mean? Nacho: No. me: Oh, how awful… this is … (complete meltdown, worried that I had hurt his feelings ect.) Nacho: (lots of text missing but basically him making me feel better about the whole scenario) me: So, that was it and you were okay with all of it. Nacho: Sure, I figure that we were too good of friends to make a big deal out of it. me: But that is a once in a lifetime thing man. Nacho: I know, but … me: There was a reason for it I am sure. Nacho: There’s always a bigger picture that we don’t see. me: You’re awesome. We still see each other, but most often it is texts, emails and phone calls at completely random times. Normally ending with, “Like a BOSS.” He’s still in my heart, he is still one of my closest friends, he is still hysterical as shit and he is still the same Nacho I know and love. He is still as gorgeous as ever, he has an elegant wife and a beautiful child so yeah, there is always a bigger picture that we don’t always see.

This has been in my head for two days.

2009-07-01T16:13:25Z

I have been out of town for the last two weeks. The first week I was in… wait, let me get my head straight. The first week I was in Galveston for a conference and last week I was in San Antonio for another. I am a little bit worn out and my twittering is sorely out of date. I haven’t updated my FaceBook status in ages and I haven’t sent you lovely people a love letter in the form of a journal entry in a bajillion years. My apologies, please forgive me. But I come bearing gifts. I come bearing good news. I come bearing interesting stories. Oh, come back here. It’s all good, baby. For those of you who care. I have on the cutest pair of strappy brown high heeled sandals. For those of you who don’t… See the next paragraph. While in San Antonio I was with my prior boss, oh he of the voice*, the shopping and the turning purple and running away screaming when I speak of anything… inappropriate in nature. He is the best shopper for me. So is Mister and my mother of course. If it weren’t for the three of them, I would be lucky to have on pants. So of course, in San Antonio we were basically sleeping in a mall (well, okay, next to a mall… on top of?) and so prior boss was dragging me around and throwing stuff at me to try on. Found THE cutest top(s) and some fabulous earrings, but the shoes… Lo’ they are strappy, a few inches high, brown leather and incredibly comfortable. Love. *Third dude from the left. He would kill me dead if he knew I posted this. Please don’t tell. Go to 2 minutes 59 seconds in to hear him SANG. I love this song. It makes me cry. Shut up, I am Southern. And this poor man has to work with me. He is a saint. So while I was kinda butt clench about this time of year (see last year’s post of suck … Click here for suckage) I am happy to announce that at the conference in Galveston nobody died, or had any kind of seizures or anything. Score. The meeting in San Antonio was good, as good as being out of town for two weeks can be. But here’s some fabulous news. Things are SO looking up for Mister and me. I am happy, relieved and also a little bit smooshy. Like if you say something nice, I may hug you. And/Or cry… with happiness. Just letting you know. It was nice to miss him and to be missed. Kinda gets you right here (pointing somewhere in the vague vicinity of my sternum). One large detail of HULK SMASHiness is that we had to give up Zeke. That is it. No more dogs. Max is fine, but Zeke went on (more than once) a one (90+ pound) dog rampage through the house during a thunderstorm. Yes, the storms were bad last month, and yes, we lost (a portion of) our fence due to a storm… but the poor thing, the older he got (was OLD) the more frightened he became. One day we were both working and a big storm blew through… here’s the rub, yeah, he tore the blinds off the back door and tore up the ones in the dining room, who cares. Yeah, he tore off the dryer hose looking for somewhere to hide. You have a dog, you expect expenses. But, the thing was he also chewed through the dryer electric cord to where both wires were exposed. He could have killed himself. And he doesn’t do well with small confined spaces for any longer than a minute or two, so crate training was out. Do not cross me on this people. I am fragile and may stalk you and come sit in your lap and bawl for about an hour, completely interrupting your work flow. So the good news is that the same place we got him placed him (same day, we were told) with a woman who just lost her elderly GSD and is a stay at home person. So, win, win. Except the part where I cry when I find a Zeke hair. And where I miss him terribly and (excuse me, I need to go… um, blow my nose… there may be pollen in here or something). Um… This has been in my head for two days. WARNING: Language/Lyrics may ot be safe for work. Please use your earphones. And then, please rock out. Thank you. Please to enjoy. < Yes, I am aware of the irony of the two videos I have chosen for this particular entry. Your point? This post has taken me two days to write and I haven’t even given you guys the goods. One little note. I think I may have a problem and an intervention should be staged. At my house. Bring your own axe. I stayed up last night past midnight playing RockBand2. I was connected online and got to play some of the strangest stuff I have ever heard. I failed out for the first time and I truly have renewed respect for musicians. Pushing 4-5 little colored buttons on a guitar/bass shaped controller while using the “strum button” is totally not the same thing. But I love it so. Apparently I am a 13 year old boy, cleverly disguised as a 37 year old woman. No one tell. Or wait, do TOTALLY DO. I will register at rockband.com and then we can all be 13 year old boys together. Leave comments with your band name and stats, ect… or email me. This is gonna be fabulous. Mister got me the cutest little HP Mini because I rule a few weeks ago and I am trying to work up the nerve to actually write something to get published. Wish me luck! Dirt later, I promise. We (and by we, I mean me and the other party involved) have not even come up with a good pseudonym for them to use in the story we are going to tell. It is going to be AWE(wait for it)SOME. PS.. If I don’t talk to y’all before the weekend. Happy Fourth of July!

...feathers flying, lotsa yelling

2009-06-01T23:19:39Z

I have so much to tell you guys and the most incredible wall of writer’s block that my brain feels constipated. I think the last thing I wrote was about all of the stuff we had planned for the week of my birthday and that I had to put on pants. (Woe.) So I am going to start there with a quote from that week from my darling cousin, Andrew. And No, he does not know about this site and I will personally skin you alive and wear your flesh if you show this page (or anything from my site to him). So, Andrew came into town and my sister and I (please, for the love of God, do not tell the authorities or my mother.) played a wonderful game called “Getting Andrew Served”. It was a lot of fun and, to be honest with you, she and I (and my father) are much better at the game than my brother in law and Mister. The trick is (and yes, I know I haven’t even said the quote from Andrew, but I will come back to that in due time) to just order, “I’ll have a Belvedere Citrus and Seven,” then point to him and say, “Want the same?” he nods, the waitress or waiter brings two… easy peasy. Do NOT do like Mister did. “I will have a Blue Moon, what do you want Andrew?” My father also seems very competent at getting booze for minors. “I’ll have two glasses of red wine.” Delivered, he hands one to Andrew under the nose of the wait staff. The quote… When Andrew got to the house I showed him around, “Here is the kitchen, this is the living room, most of the technology works from this remote…. Follow me…. This is your bedroom, here are your towels, your washcloths… there are extras in this closet here… and this is your bathroom. THIS… (handing him a container) is your Oust. You are a boy, this is YOUR Oust.” After he relaxed enough to have a few drinks with us, at a bar one night he said, “I am so glad you gave me that Oust. I AM a guy and one time I didn’t close the door to my bathroom and consequently my room and one of my roommates asked me if I had shit in the hallway.” Heh. When he left, we packed it in his luggage to take home. I thought about that on Friday and sent him a text telling him I had just thought about what he said and that it made me laugh. I got this text back, “I’m sorry, I just got a new phone and don’t recognize the number, who is this?” I was like, “Dude, it is your cousin, SUSAN. How many people in the DFW Metroplex do you know who would actually say that to you?” So, suffice it to say, we had a good time. My favorite was the last night he was here. It was Wednesday the 13th. I got home around 6ish and we had a bite to eat and then went to a local hangout… the NORM! bar… if you remember. They served us. (woo!) And we started chatting. He would say more to me in private than when the rest of the family was around because I had already opened that “no judgment here” door a few weeks earlier on a Monday at like 2:30 am on FaceBook… don’t ask. We were chatting, my sister called and said that we were losers because we wouldn’t go over to her house, and she couldn’t come to where we were, having children and all. And we looked at our full beers, our smokes and were like, “Dude, you’re calling US losers!?!” Then another call came in. From Dre’, “Sue, man… I’m here with Doug at (random bar in Irving) y’all come out here.” I replied, “Nope, we’re getting served at the NORM! bar and we aren’t leaving.” His old college roommate (whom I graduated high school with) grabbed the phone, “Susan! You Whore! I have an expense account and I am not afraid to use it! Bring your fucking cousin and meet us in Addison!” “Wow, Doug. Even if that were an even remotely attractive offer, all bets were off as soon as you called me a whore. So, um, no…. fuck you, put Dre’ back on the phone.” Dre got back on the phone. “Dude, what the hell is up with Doug? He’s already trashed isn’t he?” “Yeah, sorry about the whole whore thing. You can call him names all night to his face, meet us at… I dunno…” I hopped in, “We’ll meet you at Cape…” “Dude, that is MORE than half way!” “Dude. I didn’t call YOU.” “Okay, fine.” “And he’s buying right!?” I looked to Andrew who was nodding with a big grin on his face. “Yes, Doug is buying,” Dre confirmed. I conceded… “Fine, but our goal is to put Andrew on the plane completely hung over in the morning.” “Deal.” Andrew and I paid our wee tab and went out to the car. We drove, and it is pretty close and Dre and Doug were more than 15 miles away, we were like seven, and they called us in five minutes. “We’re out on the patio!!!” “How fast were y’all going to get there in five minutes from Irving?” “Over a hundred on the tollway.” You see… these boys (men, they are totally men now, and it freaks me the fuck out.) went to college at OU and used to come to Dallas for weekend trips, racing each other the whole way. So there is history there. A few weeks ago I went from not seeing Dre in twenty one years to seeing him like every other day/week/whatever and definitely BlackBerry messaging almost every day. Now me, Dre’, Mister and Dre’s bride MKP hang out a bunch. We did this past weekend and the one before. It is so great to have another couple to do stuff with, that (this sounds awful, but whatever) don’t have kids and can just go do stuff at the drop of a hat. I love it. Andrew and I got to the bar and went right through the DO NOT ENTER gate to bypass the ID checker girl and found Doug and Dre holding a table. Doug, dude, he is a total man now. I need to bust out the yearbook to even remember what he looked like as a kid. And of course, Dre was as handsome and gentlemanly as ever. I hugged Doug and called him a whore and then introduced both of them to Andrew. We all said our hellos and then out of the bar walked the waitress from the BIG BAR tab. The night of “Oh SHIT I am in SO much trouble!” Falling off my shoes night. “Jenny!” “YAY!” “I have been under strict orders from home to never start a bar tab on the credit card again.” “Yes ma’am. So, what are y’all drinkin?” “Citrus Vodka and Seven, double tall, bourbon and coke, double tall as well for Andrew and boys (I gesture to Dre and Doug), will you be drinking Scotch?” “Separate or one tab?” We all looked at Doug, “I’m buyin.” Heh. We started telling stories and I had already told Andrew on the way over, “Whatever they say about me isn’t true.” “::Snort:: Sure, Sue, whatever you say.” “What!?... Gah!” I was like, “Okay, look… fine… maybe some of the stuff is true.” Doug and Dre started talking about old times, interjecting new stuff, “Guess what someone has a picture of your cousin doing to our waitress?” “Shut up Dre’.” “….So while Doug was in his room with some girl we threw in a whole box of geese…” “No shit, we were sleeping and, “HONK!”… What the fuck? Baby, what was that? “HONK!” (click <- a light) “Holy shit GEESE!... What the fuck are geese doing in here?” “They shit everywhere. We finally rounded them up, put them in the elevator, hit LOBBY and then ran back to our rooms.”* Andrew, being in college, asked me, “Why didn’t you tell me this shit when I was fifteen?” “Oh HELL no.” You could see him taking metal notes for pranks with his frat brothers when he got back to school. Dre and Doug gave him some pretty good material. We closed the place down, drove home and on the way Andrew was asking me about the X, how I met Mister… he asked me about a lot of things, and we promised not to lose touch. He said he wanted to come back next summer when he was a viable 21 year old and I promised to fly him back out if he could get to Atlanta-West (Birmingham). We promised to not turn into our cousins in North Carolina who are closer in proximity but don’t really take or have the time to spend with family. We promised to keep tabs on one another and when we got home, we went out on the back porch and had a smoke. He asked me about my ex-step daughter (they were both in my first wedding (to X)) and as we talked about her and I told him about her parents and the things she learned at an early age and etcetera he took this huge deep breath in and then blew it out saying, “Oh man, I SO love my parents right now.” I told him, “They are the best Andrew, and just wait… in a few years, when you guys cross that parent/child boundary and you can truly become friends with your parents it is the most amazing gift ever.” I gave him a bottle of water and three Advil and we went to bed around 2:30 or three am and his flight was at seven. We had planned on leaving at 5:30 am from the house, but I woke up at 5:30, looked at the clock and bolted out of bed, “Shit Andrew, wake up, wake up!” We threw all of his stuff in his suitcase and flew out the door. We laughed, bleary eyed and tired (still reeking of cigar and cigarette smoke) all the way to the airport. I dropped him off and I can’t wait until he comes back next summer! *Clarification from Dre’ on the geese… from BB messenger like 5 minutes ago. And I quote, “Geese was indeed Doug. In his room while he was in bed with a chick naked with the lights out. We tossed the ducks, slammed the door and listened quietly through the door… “Did you hear something?... I think someone or something is in the room with us… WTF was that?!?... (We see the lights flick on from under the closed door and ALL HELL BREAKS LOOSE.) Quacking, feathers flying, lotsa yelling and screaming, shit everywhere! Afterward we set the ducks on the dorm elevator, pressed L for Lobby and sent them down. A minute later… faint screams from below. Heh heh!”

Monday was my birthday and I had to put on pants.

2009-05-13T21:01:27Z

Yesterday I got so freaking worked up and pissed about something that I opened up a Word document to start typing and (immediately got interrupted by a bajillion things and ) completely forgot what I was going to type. I was SO mad… I was mad that I was mad about not remembering what I was mad about. Then I got in my car to go home… and of course I remembered. [eyeroll] My right boob totally broke another bra. This is the third one. She broke the underwire again. I leaned over to get a binder for a conference and “SNAP”… Oh, fucking hell. For those of you new to playing the home game this isn’t the first time my boob has decided to conspire against me. Nay. She is wrathful and gleefully destructive. DAMN YOU RIGHT BOOB! In other news, this past weekend was packed full tilt with things to do and places to go and people to see. We started off with Friday… okay, wait, skip Friday. Let’s pick this shit up from Saturday. Saturday we mixed my birthday, my sister’s birthday (we normally do pedicures and dinner for each other) and mother’s day all in one shot and took the Moms to a spa for a mini massage, a foot wrap and lunch. My cousin came in from Georgia. We had my nephew’s 8th birthday party then headed downtown to Club Dada for the Ultra Violet Rock for CF show. It was quite a busy day but it was awesome. The mini-spa was a huge hit with Momma and we all had a great time and getting to see my cousin has also been extremely awesome. My nephew’s party was fun and the number of bands that showed up for the Ultra Violet Show downtown was insane. Artists donated everything from photographs to oil paintings to cakes and jewelry. We came home with the most beautiful picture from Ange Fitzgerald (called SmokeBreak) that I am so completely and madly in love with. It is framed beautifully and the concrete has this metallic patina to it. It’s so beautiful. (ps.. if you know me on FB, there is a picture of me with the (FABULOUS) artist on my page.) Sunday we all went to P.F. Chang’s and sat at the chef’s table in the kitchen as a family for my birthday dinner. Lovely food, lovely company and the most thoughtful gifts from my family. My niece and nephew gave me a gift card to a book store and a new book and my mother busted out this familiar looking (old school style) Neiman Marcus jewelry box. It was a necklace that was previously my grandmother’s and it is gorgeous. My mother (I don’t believe) has ever worn it and I have rifled through her jewelry drawer enough times, I should have seen this particular piece years ago, but to be honest, if my mother had searched for a more perfect necklace, it wouldn’t have matched up. My grandmother’s style was impeccable and I absolutely love this piece. Consequently, I wore it yesterday to the office, trying to send a picture to my dear friend Miss Meg and I only got a few blurry cleavage shots, so I gave up. Will get a picture soon and post it. Monday was my birthday and I had to put on pants. I worked from home and had to leave for an appointment* pretty early but my cousin and Mister (he took off Mon-Wed of work to hang with my cousin) slept late and then we all just kind of hung out. We watched movies, we rocked the Rock Band 2 and we drank. It was a perfect birthday if ever I had one. Mister left for a little bit in the afternoon and came back with his hair cut all handsome-like and he handed me a card and a gift certificate to my favorite spa place. ROCK. He also told me that I could get some piercings that I have been wanting. To be honest, I have wanted to get my nose pierced for quite a while, but my mother flipped her shit when I mentioned it in passing. “That is DISGUSTING! Oh SUSAN! How COULD YOU!?” Like I had just kicked a puppy, flashed a nursing home, ran with scissors, sat thisclose to the TV and then set fire to a needlepoint pillow that my great aunt had made. So I pierced the tragus on both ears last night. Heh. Little does she know that if I had my way I would have full sleeves and some multicolored hair, No, no… NOT like the strawberry blonde debacle of aught two. Also, shut up. I am on trays 8 of 9 for the bottom and 11 for the top. Invisalign… DING! *Alright. Time for full disclosure here. Monday marked my one month and a week anniversary of going to therapy. Mister and I have been going through a rocky patch for a little over a year and a half and we needed help. Fuck, I needed help. I didn’t know if I was/am going through a midlife crisis or I was/am just a big bucket of especially spicy crazy but this has been extremely rough going. Before my life with Mister I was aware that reality was not all glitter and rainbow humping unicorns, but damn if it didn’t feel like perfection when we were dating, courting and then throughout the first few years of our marriage. So, there’s that then. I feel like last Monday we turned a corner in our relationship, in a good way, and God willin’ and the creek don’t rise, we’ll be back to our rainbow humping unicorns soon. Also… I am just about to embark on my crazy travel schedule and I will post when I can. But please, leave comments if you feel compelled to do so, or send emails. I cherish each one like it is my own little pearl. On my way to San Antonio I met Kinky Freidman at the Chili’s inside Love Field in Dallas. He was extremely polite and very gentlemanly. I took a covert picture. Check it. I am not a huge political animal, so his politics are really of no consequence to me, but his writing style is genius in my opinion and so I told him so. He stood and tipped his hat when I introduced myself and was very nice and extremely kind when I gushed all over myself about his turn of a phrase. I went all fangirl on him but he was so kind. And when I left, I slid my card on the table, told him, “It was very nice to meet you Mr. Friedman.” And he replied, “Thank you Susan, very nice to meet you too.” And he put my card in his wallet. (!) If you are reading this Mr. Friedman… I love you, call me. Also, thank you for remembering my name. A few weeks ago someone sent an email (seriously, love the comments and emails) telling me that I was a massive cock tease leaving things like I did…

“I have this list of shit to discuss with y’all… but I think I will cover one more thing and then wrap it up, because… I want to continue the whole Shelby and Tom series without turning into one of THOSE journals, but I kind of want to go there once, you know? I also want to talk to y’all about this weird deal that happens in my office when I wear anything slightly different than my normal black pants, black shoes, top (adult geranimals) bullshit. …. So I want to talk to you guys about that. I also have been reflecting and want to reword some of the things I said about one person in particular. Oh hell, I just want to apologize. I was wrong. We’ll talk about it later.”

So to give some closure… #1) I will “go there” with the whole Shelby and Tom thing. Once. And I need some guidance. A little help with my soft core porn here? #2) I had on a nice cranberry swing jacket and matching shell the other day with my illegal black britches (they do wonders for the shelf butt) and heels… anytime I stray from loafers, knit pants from Land’s End and a twinset I get asked multiple times by this woman, “Why are you all dressed up? Where are you goin? What’s the special occasion?” Look lady, just because I refuse to wear a sweater with a picture of fucking Pooh-Bear on it, does not mean the world is coming to an end. I normally end up answering, “Your mamma.” Which makes no sense, but it shuts her up. What the hell is up with that? One day I wore a fabulous black wrap dress from Igigi and I thought her head was going to explode. Guess who was the first to notice my piercings this morning? Yes. HER. “What did you go and do THAT for?!” And then I punched her in the vagina**. **not really. #3) Okay. This one is a little tougher. I shouldn’t have opened my gaping maw in the first damn place. But here goes. The reflecting and rewording part… I have, in these many, many, many pages talked about a gentleman named Kim, my old lover from Omaha. (Yes, I do see the recognition light bulb going off over some of your heads… and the others of you, yes, I see you heading towards the search bar. Go ahead, I’ll wait.) Anyway, I really don’t want to reword so much as sort of explain. I have been all over the place concerning Kim. I just want to tell you guys some truthful shit here. We had an on again off again on again love affair for a pretty long stretch of time. He was kind to me and there is no getting around that. I have been less than kind with my words about him and even if he never reads this I want to be straight with you, dear readers. We were lovers and friends and when it looked as if things may go further than I was comfortable with at the time, I pushed and forced and was mean and shooed him back to Omaha to be with his exwife and his sons. We haven’t talked in over six years and when we reconnected on FB, he was so kind and gentle I couldn’t keep up the whole charade of “his education wasn’t high enough”, “he worked at XYZ” or any of that because when it came down to it. It really didn’t matter. I was scared. And I have been less than forgiving in my descriptions of him, which really, is not cool. It was/is my problem, not his. He’s still kind, he is still generous and he is still a very good friend even after all of these years and all of the mean words that passed between us. Even if we don’t talk (another one of my issues) then I wanted to clear the air, here, in my virtual head space to let you know that he was a gentleman, he was very loving, he was gentle and sweet and he never did anything to deserve the kind of treatment I gave him. Yes, it ended up nicely with him back with his exwife and raising his sons. But that is beside the point. He was never unkind or stooped to my level, and for that, I applaud him and utterly apologize for my behavior and words. There***. ***Shut up… it wasn’t vague. Look, the next time we meet up for beers, you and I? I’ll tell you the whole story.