Suzanna Danna

I love Nora Jones. I have a girl crush. Pretty, long, flowing, thick, night-dark hair falling just so under her jaw. Full, pouty lips and the ability to sing with the sultry ‘too wise’ voice of a woman three times her age.

It was almost like discovering Bonnie Raitt for the first time again.

The following goodness was brought to us by Mimi Smartypants and the number 18.

THE BEST TYPO EVER
I am working on an article for a psychiatric journal, and the title mentions a treatment for "mooed disorders." Doctor, I am just so depressed. Hay sucks. Jumping over the moon sucks. Giving milk sucks. Moo.

What other diaryland diaryist can come up with two (count them TWO) verses of an impromptu song called dung beetle disco? I ask you… who?

She is so random. I really love to read her stuff.

Sometimes after work, or when Mister and I are on a road trip a nugget of Mimi goodness will come to the surface of my brain and I will giggle. Mister always asks what I am chuckling about and I try to tell him, I really do. But apparently he doesn’t find much humor in Mimi procuring a rhinestone setter and having the urge to make her own sparkly socks and maybe a t-shirt with the slogan “Gee! Your Hair Smells Ironic!” on them.

Is it just me?

Ok… fine.

Over this past weekend Mister and I went to my parent’s house for their 40th wedding anniversary. My sister, her husband (BIL), Mister and I planned to treat them to a full weekend. We planned 5 meals; breakfast, lunch and dinner on Saturday along with breakfast and lunch on Sunday. We brought them a cake from Central Market that looked like a tiny wedding cake (mmm butter creamy goodness) and a dvd player with two dvd’s for their present.

Sounds sort of over the top huh? Well, it was wonderful and they deserved every moment of it.

Last week my mother called my sister. They were talking about our plans for the weekend and my mother (due to the relationship* she shares with BIL (*scroll down)) said, “I can’t wait to see what you guys have in store for us this time!”

My sister called me to tell me what my mother had said. We did not have anything “gotcha!”-like planned for them. BIL’s powerful brain went to work and he came up with the perfect solution. He called this lady and arranged to have my parent’s flocked.

When I get the pictures developed, I will post them.

I was so excited Friday night that I didn’t sleep a wink. The flock was installed in my parent’s back yard Saturday morning at about 5 am. I stumbled out of my couch bed from hell (at about 6 am) and out onto the porch. My dad looked up from reading his paper and burst out laughing. He could barely contain himself from going to wake up my mother. She got up an hour or so later and went out on the porch to freshen my father’s coffee and squealed with delight when she saw the flamingos. She started calling all of her friends in the neighborhood an hour later* to come see her yard.

*We asked her to wait until it was past the ass-crack of dawn.

Gray (the nephew) was so excited. He was calling them a “buncha’ mingos!” How precious is that?

I am such a dork.

I had a dream last night that Henry Rollins was on the Tonight Show with David Letterman. And for some reason, David Letterman had an awful lisp* or stutter with the letter F.

David: So, Henry Rollins… hee heee! How do you like being FFFFFFFFamous with an almost rabid fffffffffffffffffffffollowing?
Henry: Well, David, I don’t see my fans as rabid followers.
David: Is that a ffffffffffffffact?
Henry: That is a fact David, I see them as more of an interesting and intelligent crowd that do not rely on fart and boobie jokes to make them laugh.
David: …… boobie…hee hee!
Henry: Take for instance this bright young woman in Texas who saw one of my spoken word concerts a few years ago. She still remembers the bit about my weightlifting neighbor who was so hopped up on steroids that she had a clitoral bulge. She even mentioned it in her diary online. The website is….

Then I woke up………. sweating.

Scary.

*Isn’t it cruel that lisp is spelled that way?

Good morning babies. I have returned to the land of responsibility and alarms that go off at 5:45 am.

Suck.

So, the vacation... It was divine.

I was planning on taking off early on the 20th so Mister and I could get a head start on our vacation, but alas, I had to work a bit later than I had planned to reconcile the books from my last conference. Since I was going to be out of the office until after the month closed out, I needed to get that done. No biggie. I got home around 2:30pm and we started the mad-dash packing that we now realize is the worst way to start off a vacation of any length.

Mister = a loving and kind man with the ability to prioritize event he smallest detail, systematic to the nines, with the mind of a programmer and the heart of an air traffic controller. Heavy on the controller part.

Me = a sweet and generous woman with a day dreaming quality applied to anything unpleasant, detail oriented but in a completely nonsystematic way... mind of an artist and the heart of an escapist. Heavy on the flighty.

The way Mister packs. Start with one objective. Complete objective and move on to the next task, only when the first one is completed.

The way I pack. Start with one objective, an object reminds me that I may need to pick up the film for the camera that reminds me that I may want to bring the Berry colored lip gloss in case we take some pictures in New Orleans, that pair of shoes would be great to wear in the car on the way, easy on and easy off... ooh look a butterfly!

Annnnnnnnnnnd repeat.

We threw our luggage in the Lincoln, grabbed the cat and his supplies and headed toward the boarders. Max doesn't like to go to the boarders. Yes, they take good care of him, and yes, he is a healthy boy when he gets home, but he'd rather stay at the apartment in his own environment while we are away.

If Maxxie grows opposable thumbs and can feed himself, give himself fresh water and empty his litter box by the next time Mister and I go out of town, we'll talk about letting him stay home.

Only if he promises to not throw any wild kitty parties.

So, Car... packed.

Cat... boarded.

Time... 4 pm. Shit.

Dallas traffic is not easy to deal with.

Mister and I were already ruffled from dealing with each other's packing procedures.

See above.

Mister was gritting his teeth and worried about getting out of town without getting stuck in traffic, I was worried about whether or not I brought the correct amount of underwear and thinking that I could use a cigarette.

Oh, did I not mention that little morsel? Well, no Suz, you haven't updated in eleventy-fourteen frillion years. WHAT'S The Friggin Morsel?!?!?!

We stopped smoking. Yeah, tomorrow will be a month.

I hate it.

And I hate you, if you are having a cigarette without me.

Let's recap on the things I have quit in the past year. Last August... beer. Middle of April... Dr. Peppers and most things caffeinated. May 7th... smokes.

The only things I have left in the vice category are shoes, makeup and Vodka. Lots of vodka.

So we got on the road and Mister finally relaxed somewhere around the Tyler/Lindale exit off of I-20. That's like two and a half hours people. We decided that in the future we would pack separately and at least the day before we leave. Good idea... no?

Earlier in the week I called an old contact of mine at the New Orleans Hyatt. I told him that Mister and I would be coming through and asked if he could hook me up with a good rate and a room for Thursday and Friday nights. He did, because... he is a rock star and the best convention services manager this side of the Mississippi.

Mister and I hit New Orleans at about 2 am and went to get checked in. The above mentioned rock star had set us up with a two bedroom suite on the 26th floor... AND he took care of the cost for both nights as well. Rock star? Yes... rock star. Needless to say we left his assistant with a box of Godiva Chocolates and we left him with a bottle of Stoli Silver and a very nice golf shirt.

So cool.

We so enjoyed our time in New Orleans. I love it there and I think it is fast becoming one of Mister's favorite cities. We wandered the French Quarter, ate the most delectable meal at the French Market Restaurant and Bar, and just completely enjoyed ourselves.

Oooh... we even bought a Christmas ornament that is a pretty crawfish. I am so excited about this ornament. We bought an ornament while we were on our honeymoon last September but we really didn't have any place to hang it this past Christmas because our apartment is too small for a Christmas tree. That is soon to change though, because on the 14th of May we signed papers to lease a house. Yep, a true, honest to God house. Four bedroom, three bath home right across the street from my old high school. We move in this month. I am so excited! So LuLu, when you and Mr. Tim come to visit, you guys can stay with us... and your little one will have their own room! YAY! You too Trixie. Come to visit soon!

We left New Orleans around noon and continued on our way to Destin, Florida. It's just about 4 hours and a great drive. We called my parents to let them know where we were because they arrived at the condo at noon. They asked if we had heard from my sister's clan. We hadn't but we all arrived at approximately the same time.

We unloaded and went straight out to the beach.

This is what I found.

Gorgeous huh? Yeah... the sight of that water takes my breath away every-time. My family has been vacationing in Destin since I was 14 years old. I have had many firsts on its white-sanded beaches and in it's turquoise waters.

It was the first place I ever had a flaming Dr. Pepper. Ugh.

It is the first place I ever went deep-sea fishing.

It is the first place I ever had sex on the beach. The drink and the act.

I was so excited to show Destin to Mister. It is a place that means so much to me; I couldn't wait to have him experience some of his firsts there too.

We stayed on the sixth floor. And walking to the door of the condo this is what you see if you look to the right.

That pool was the sight of many teenage carousings while we were there. The kids in Destin move in packs like wolves. All of those young tan kids having the time of their lives. I couldn't even be mad when they would keep me awake late into the night with their whooping and hollering. I remembered being one of them.

We spent the week on the beach, soaking in the sun and the salty air. Trying to get my husband to relax and enjoy doing nothing. He got the hang of it about Tuesday.

My sister was a bit sick on the way to Destin and whatever she had; she gave it to her son, who in turn gave it to me.

Thursday morning I awoke with water-poo. Yeah, I'll leave the descriptive commentary out of this entry to save you the visual. Later that morning I still had water-poo but I had also been upgraded to hurling my guts into the trashcan. Pretty.

I spent the majority of Thursday in the bed, when I wasn't on the potty or hurling into the sink or whatever I could find that could be burned, thrown away or flushed.

It was so bad that my family called my general practitioner (Dr. W) and he in turn called in a prescription for suppositories to help me quit with the hurlage.

I quit puking by Friday morning but I still couldn't put anything in my system. No water, no food... just a few sips here and there of Gatorade. I started eating solids on Sunday.

I lost 7 pounds and I am calling that the Destin Diet. I kept the water-poo as a memento until Sunday afternoon.

My father got it, my mother got it and my brother in law got it. Poor BIL, he was the only other one to hurl though. The only one still standing is Mister. My mother has dubbed him the "King of Mean... too Mean to get sick."

Mister and I left Saturday with the rest of the family. We wound our way back to I-10 and decided to stay another day or two in New Orleans since we both had Monday off for Memorial Day.

We went back to the French Quarter and even bought a watercolor (SO BEAUTIFUL!) on the square from one of the artists. It is our first art purchase together. I think we池e going to hang it above our new fireplace.

We ended up getting into Dallas late Sunday night.

All in all it was a wonderful trip. I look forward to it again in 2006.

Back to the grindstone.

Let me hear from you guys... just click on the Extra Extra link below to sign the guest book.

Kisses.

This morning I stumbled out of bed, walked into the restroom and turned on the light. The cat was following me with his quiet, early morning “mmmrrrow?” punctuating the steady rumble of a purr coming from his chest (or where ever it is those purr things come from… throat? belly? whatever.). We stood quietly staring. Me staring in the mirror, and him, staring at me.

He kept questioning me with his quiet “mmrrrrrrow?” which I think means, “Geeze woman, I know you are smooshy-faced and sleepy, but could you hurry your lazy backside up and get me some fresh food? The food you put in my bowl last night has gone horribly awry and I am a feared that I will faint lest I gobble up a fresh cupful of Nutro pronto. And I mean NOW missy.”

Or… he could just be saying, “Good mornin’ to yer.”

Why must I give my cat an impatient attitude and an awful Cockney’d accent?

::blink::

Anyway, I just sort of stood there and tried to wake up. I looked on the corner of the counter and there sat a book that I have been reading for the past couple of days. The book is Eliot’s Banana. My sister gave me that book with a smile and said, “No. Really. It’s good!”

And I… like a tool, believed her.

This is the same woman who buys and asks for O-frah’s book club listings for Christmas or birthday presents.

I was sucked in to two books by this guy. One was a book about some chick named Delores that was so mentally unstable that she tried to drown herself next to a beached whale. And the other was about a pair of identical twins and their struggles, one to be like his brother and the other to be anything else but like his twin.

Both of those books disturbed me deeply, in several ways. I found myself sucked into the sickness of Delores and her unhealthy self-image, because she was fat, she had to be crazy. Right? And because the only man she ever loved, her daddy, left, she had to eat and eat and eat to make herself fat. Right? Ugh. And the other one… the twins. Shit. One hacks off his hand because God told him too? Co-dependant relationships are not a joy to read about.

And both of them… Both of them. BOTH. Of. The. Books. Ended poorly. Sorta like… blah-dy blah-dy blah Big POINT. The end. No denouement, no “In Conclusion”… Nothing. I’d like a little closure with my poorly written bucket of crazy, Thank You.

Um hi.

Yeah, Reb. I do love you. Really, more than my luggage.

I love your sense of humor and your ability to make people feel really special with your attention.

I love how you research and complete the smallest detail when planning something for somebody or a group of friends.

I love your huge brown eyes and long eyelashes and that precious little birthmark hidden in your eyebrow.

I love how you go from calling Mom and Dad repeatedly on the phone to karate kicks when you have had a few glasses of red wine.

I love your loyalty to friends and loved ones.

I love that you are both my older sister and a best friend.

I love that you have anal tendencies that run amok when you are coordinating a trip or an event, but that your closet could be hiding Jimmy Hoffa or the missing Monkees and you’d be okay with that.

I love how you treat your son with the utmost care, love and respect and how he has gleaned the best parts of you and your husband to make the most perfect little boy.

I love how you chuckle with that deep belly laugh when something strikes you as particularly funny.

And most of all, I just love you.

But please. No more books. Kay?

I sat down at my vanity this morning because I had like two chapters left to read in that Eliot’s Banana book. I had already grimaced at the sodomy with fruit and the painful way the main character deals with her brother’s death… but THAT is how you end it Ms. Swain?

::heavy sigh::

Spoiler ahead… seriously. I give it all away. If you want to read that book without an inkling of what the end is all about… Scroll down past the second line.

Dear Ms. Swain,

Regarding the end of your book:

Handing your dead little brother’s cleats to your lover that you cheated on with some guy who has a diabetic cat is not the way to leave a smile on someone’s face. It is almost a surefire way to guarantee your spot in literary history will be right up there with Mr. Lamb, under the heading of “Had pictures of O-frah canoodling a goat… so she had to feature my book on her show.”

Sincerely,

Me.

In conclusion, Yes, I know that Ms. Swain and Mr. Lamb have enough money from the sales of their collective books that they could have my gender reassigned and put me out for rent in Tijuana, and that my entries suck some serious gorilla wang occasionally but alas…

No more, please.

Note to self: regardless of how cute Reb is and how much she assures you that a book is, indeed, good. Run the opposite way. Screaming.

This past weekend I had the pleasure of providing food and shelter for my parents.

They have stayed with me before in my apartment as a single woman, both of them refusing to sleep in my king size bed. Instead they insisted on the following… sleeping on either leg of my ugly ass green (lost in the 70’s sofa pit group) couch.

When they stayed with Mister and me after we got married, they refused our bed to rest their weary heads and instead allowed me to make them a super duper floofy pallet on the floor in the living room, consisting of several blankets, four pillows, a sleeping bag, our oriental rug on the bottom and a king sized down comforter on top.

The cat has slept with them every time*.

And every time they say in the sweetest voices, “We slept great!” and when I raise my nonexistent eyebrows at them, they add “No, really!”

My parents will have their 63rd and 64th birthdays next month. They are sprightly for their ages and are in better shape that Mister and I are collectively.

Regardless…

I have felt like a heel every time they refused my bed in lieu of less comfortable places to rest.

This weekend, however, I was able to provide them with not only their own room (with a door! Holy Crap!), but their own king size bed, some pillows, a bed skirt (No!, You don’t say!) and even a freakin pillow sham.

On Sunday morning I was able to offer them breakfast while sitting at an honest to God kitchen table. Coffee from the incredible Mister’s Super Duper Deluxe Supreme Coffee Maker 2000 Plus with Wings with real mugs, real creamer, their preferred sweeteners, and all that crap!

I seriously feel like a real grown up. Being in this house has done something to me. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I still want to whine and eat chocolate frosting straight out of the container that it comes in, and if I have to have eye drops put in my eyes, Mister has to wrestle me to the ground like an over eager badger… but we’re in a house. A House.

We have dudes to take care of our yard for goodness sakes!

I do the dishes because the kitchen looks pretty with an empty sink and my stainless steel colander just hanging out, waiting for the lone leaf of romaine lettuce to be washed and cut up for a yummy salad.

Hi, I’ve never been a huge slob or anything, but a few glasses could stay in my sink and I wouldn’t go mental about them. Now? Counters cleaned off and smooth surface of stove 409’d please.

If I start making pastries using the cold-water method and placing doilies under my bunt cakes, I will definitely know… my days of riding horseback topless are over that I am on the path to becoming a grownup.

I was just so happy to be able to offer my parents a clean, comfortable, nice, neat, super snuggly place to sleep for the night. They have done so much for me over the past 32 years that I don’t think I will ever be able to even scratch the surface to repay them.

They have clothed and fed me, they raised me with love, compassion, grace and faith. They instilled in me a confident nature and the ability to smile with my whole face. They endured and even encouraged my fanciful, creative and sometimes just downright weird personality. They engaged my mind in responsibility and taking blame, compliments and an interest in my actions. They worked with me on my challenges and cheered me throughout my victories. They taught me that family is so very important and even if you are crazy, your family will love you, they just may put you on the front porch in a rocker in your older days to perpetuate a southern myth. They showed me that they did (and do) just want what is best for me. They kept their mouths closed and their hearts open when I made a decision at a very young age to marry the (obviously) wrong man. They welcomed me back into the family as a divorced woman and even applauded my strength in leaving. They have helped me out financially, spiritually, mentally and physically more than I am worthy of. They have prayed for me daily. They have also shown complete glee at me finding (finally) the right man. They have been role models, jailers, punishers, cheerleaders, teachers, conspirators, bankers, mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, restaurateurs, entrepreneurs, healers, nurses, caretakers, and most of all, at this stage in my life, they have been my friends.

I enjoy the time I get to share with them and I am always amazed at my luck for being born into this family. Sure, we have had our bumps, but all in all, I believe that I am a very well adjusted young woman. I just hope and pray that Mister and I are able to offer our children the same.

*It was so cute. Max, who loves my father (and the sentiment is returned, no matter what that coot says) slept with my parents Saturday night. They left the door to their room open so Max could come and go as he pleased. At 3 am my mother woke up. She decided that she needed to tinkle and at my father’s request, she woke him up. There is a banister outside our guest bedroom door that overlooks the stairs. Daddy didn’t want my mother walking around at night in a strange house without him and falling to her death on the stairs or anything.

She woke him up and said she needed to go to the restroom. So my mom got up, my father got up and they went to the restroom… with Max following right behind them.

I just think that it is precious to think about my folks and the cat, all three of them at 3 am in our guest bathroom.

Cute huh?

On a side note, two of my favorite journalers have taken a leave of absence.

Dusty Scott at Pork Tornado has left the great unwashed masses to pursue his dreams and fatten his wallet at the teat of the Atlanta Illustrated web site. I applaud him and his ability to rake in almost a million hits a week to his now defunct (well sorta) website. A Million? What the fu…? Crap, that’s a lot of people reading your stuff. And he even had the good graces to leave comments in my guest book and respond to my emails a few times.

What? Not like I was stalking him or anything.

Shut up, and turn away from my shrine to Lewis Grizzard**. You are not worthy.

And Miss Writes Incredibly and I Want to Be Her When I Grow Up at Sundry. Not to sure what is going on there. Not like it is any of my or anyone else’s business. I just wanted to let her know that she will be missed and all that schmoopy stuff. Get well hon, whatever it is. And if I can help, drop me a line.

**If you got this reference, I love you forever with sprinkles and stuff.

My my my… time really has flown hasn’t it? I am sorry little ones, I have been away, and the drama… aye, the drama, it has been a-flowin. Well, not really, that just sounded sorta corny and like the start of some 1970’s folk song … either that, or a tampon commercial.

So, I’m back from San Antonio. Last week my boss and I put in almost 60 hours. The majority of those hours were spent at a conference for old people in San Antonio. We flew down Wednesday afternoon… wait, let me back up.

I have to ask you people something.

Let’s say you were a meeting planner. No, let’s say you were a sales person for a large convention center in San Antonio. Let’s also say that your name was something that rhymed with Ho-handa and you were about 5’8” with brown hair and eyes, of Hispanic decent and you were wearing a blue shirt and black trousers on Wednesday 8/25/04. Let’s just say, for the record that I hate you.

Let’s also say… for fun’s sake… because here at Princess of Irony, it’s all about the fun and games is it not poppetts?

Let’s say that I called you a frillion and eleventy four times for my boss the week prior to our event Ho-handa, let’s say I called your assistant. Let’s say I called your convention center operator. Let’s even say that I told everyone on your staff that I am just a neurotic little meeting planner and all I needed was just a verbal confirmation and a little compassion from you.

Just a little, “Hey, yeah, I got your message. Yes, your pre-con meeting IS at 4:30 pm. Yes, our administration offices are on the surface of the sun, yes… sorry sweetie, you will have to walk 1000 miles to get here with 80 pounds of audio visual equipment, but we are looking forward to meeting you and your boss… and your director.”

Not that it is my job to set up the pre-con meeting or the registration area… it’s not even my ass on the line here Bub, I was just trying to be a nice gal. Because dammit, I am a nice gal.

So when we showed up, lugging all that shit. Sweating, and not happy to see you and your non-message returning ass, I started to hate you even more. And when you did not apologize or even show the slightest concern for our program or the many, many, many messages you apparently did not get from many, many, many people in your office, I started hating you even more than that… but what did it is the mother of all piss offs.

Let me spell it out for you Ho-handa.

Lack of attention to detail on your part should in no way EVER necessitate an emergency on my part.

Got it?

My boss asked you nicely when you would accept a large shipment of boxes from our supplier. Boxes that are the materials that make up the reason people come to our conferences. You told him Day X. He shipped them Day X.

Your security guards down stairs denied UPS when they delivered said shipment of materials on Day X. UPS took them back to UPS never, never land, and said that they would not be sent out for redelivery until Thursday between 10:30 am and noon…ish. Our conference starts at 7:30 am on Thursday.

You see the problem here?

[Yes, ya’ll… my tense and grammar is all messed to hell and high water but that is ok. You love me and my hair looks pretty no?]

After much hemming and hawing from Ho-handa the wonder-bitch we called the fantastic people at our printing company. They called UPS, the director of the call center of UPS made the girl at our printing company cry, bastard.

Anyway… even though it wasn’t their baby daddy (no clue what that means ya’ll… it just seemed to fit) they put two of their lovely workers on a plane, flew them to San Antonio, rented two Suburbans, loaded up 80+ boxes, almost got denied again by the security Nazis and delivered our materials at 10:45pm Wednesday night. Much love to the printing company, much hate and gonorrhea wishes to Ho-handa.

All she kept saying was not, “I’m sorry, is there anything I can do?” “Can I bear your children and juggle these flaming bowling balls for your pleasure oh paying customer who is giving me commission for putting you and your old ass attendees with an average age of fucking EIGHTY! With WALKERS! in the FURTHEST REACHES of the UNIVERSE! Of the CONVENTION CENTER!” or “You meeting planners rock with your solid will power to not choke the ever living shit out of me right now” *genuflect*

Nope… she just kept saying… over and over… “Well, we’re not like a hotel, we just can’t accept things that are shipped and store them.”

No shit, you imbecilic tard. That is why we asked you when we could ship them.

Hate.

Stupidity makes me crazy with anger.

And also… tired.

But… On the other hand. I really want to smoke. Like a whole forest of tobacco.

Oh, and my sister is pregnant… YAY! Another baby! This was the cutest of all cutestenest.

Is too a word. Hush.

At like… Eleventyfour thirty at night on Friday, my boss and I are stumbling around trying to get our baggage from that twirly carnival of metal thingy (ok… sorry with the words… coworker just helped me out… it’s the carousel in baggage claim… duh Sue… yeah, still with the tired) anyway, my cell phone rang. I looked down to see my parents phone number on the display, it was late, I just wanted to make sure they were ok, but I wanted to call them back when I had my luggage, was in the car and on the (blessed) way home.

I answered and my sister said, “Gray has something he wants to tell you.”

Me: “Can I call you back, I’m at baggage claim… and my bag, there… ”[mumbles]
Reb: “Gray has something he wants to tell you.”
Me: “But, bags… there *points* um… let me call you back…. ” [watches bag go by, makes an awkward lunge for it]
Reb: “Really quick.”
Me: “Call you right back…”
Reb: “Kay.”

So I hung up quickly, watched as my (nice) boss snagged my luggage for me anyway, got it all situated and called my sister back at my parent’s house. She answered right away.

Me: “Hey, what’s up?”
Reb: “Gray has something he wants to tell you.”
Me: “Okee dokee”
Gray: [shouting]“WE’RE GOING TO HAVE THE BABY THOMAS!”
Me: “……what sweetie?”
Gray: [shouting]“WE’RE GOING TO HAVE THE BABY THOMAS!”
Me: “We’re going to have a baby Thomas?”
Gray: [shouting]“YES!”
Me: “How exciting! Can I talk to your mommy?” [Reb gets on the phone]
Reb: “Hey…” [laughing]
Me: “You’re pregnant? Oh My Goodness! How Cool!”

Et al.

She went on to tell me that Gray wanted to name the baby Thomas after Thomas the Tank Engine. I asked her what if it was a Girl, she said she already asked Gray about that. He said her name would be Thomas Elizabeth.

How cool is that?

Can I talk to you guys about some things?

I am convinced that there is something going around. That maybe a bit of crazy is in the air. I have stayed off of the internet for a few days because reading about people I care about in pain hurts my heart… wait… let me see if I can articulate this better.

With Dooce going through her struggles. Amy over at Amalah having a tough time. Pineapple girl, one tough cookie showing a bit of blue. Martha at Random Muse wanting to hide from the world. Trance with so many demons, SSI and prescriptions. Judd in Colorado with his personal and relationship wrinkles. AB with her fertility issues. All of them, all of you.

I may not know these people or you people on a personal basis although sometimes I feel like I do. I know a few of them or a few of you, Erica at Marigold Mind, a private lady with a big heart and a private soul, being one, going through tough times… it just seems like we are all in this together. Like one large wet blanket has been laid over the whole country making it harder for us to breathe, harder for us to turn our faces towards the sun to find the calmer spots the more colorful areas.

It seems we are more apt to look for the angst and not for the love and admiration and the better parts of us all.

We’ll find it, I am sure we will. It may be a long time coming, but I hope, just like neon… this too will pass.

Mister and I were dining at a fine establishment last Friday evening and as we gazed with wonder at our surroundings I caught the name of the artist at the bottom of the beautifully appointed teakwood frame to my immediate right.

As we sat there quietly discussing the paintings we made up a (mostly one sided, ok… entirely one sided) conversation that the artist would be having at that very moment.

Join me… won’t you?

Me: Shade…Adin Shade, world renowned impressionist… or something.

I’d like to take a moment to discuss the finer attributes of ZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz…

[SnnerfK] Wha - huh? ::blink::

I mean… [yaAAAwn]… that the esoteric use of the ZZZZZzzzzzzzz…

What time is it anyway? Only one fucking-twenty two in the p.m. huh? Are you sure it isn’t nap time yet? No? Shit.

I blame my sister. And I can do that because she isn’t reading this journal anymore.

Maybe it was all of the f-bombs. No? Maybe it was the fear of the Internets. Maybe it was the rampant James van der Beek humping in the days of yore. Oh, quiet down you… yeah, you with the clown shoes, it was a dream for goodness sake.

Anyway, she isn’t reading my journal so I can blame her all I want.

I can also blame her awful taste in books. She has this predilection for odd literature. Sure, she loves the standard fare but give her a novel or a memoir with the author or the main character coming completely unglued and my darling sibling is a happy, happy reader.

The same books that seem to make my sister hop about with maniacal glee leave me feeling sorrowful and very pensive. I tend to latch onto characters, seeing them as friends and or family and their undoing or demise makes me very unhappy. I want to help them or at least offer comfort (The Cider House Rules was almost the death of me… Damn You John Irving!).

Yeah, yeah… yeah… I’m aware of the level of crazy. Move along Maude.

My sister called me two (three?) weeks ago and was all but jumping through the phone. We were to go to a girlfriend’s baby shower that Sunday together. She asked me to be at her house at 1:30. She said that she had some pictures for me. I was very excited, as I looooove pictures. (Ya’ll, send me pictures. Love them.) Then she delivered the punch line, “And I have a new book for you! You are soooo going to LOVE IT!”

My response? “Oh Lord.”

Every time we talked before that Sunday (as we are likethis we talk just about every day… sometimes several times a day) she would mention said book. The book started taking on anthropomorphic characteristics in my head… laughing menacingly in the background with that deep Hexxus like laugh, rubbing its little booky hands together evilly or um, making me not sleep when it finally got into my house. So, I really did not want to pick up the book when she gave it to me that Sunday.

But ::sigh:: I did.

I did not open it or even look at the cover for a good two weeks though.

Do ya’ll know what book she gave me?

Running with Scissors by Augusten Burroughs.

Now I… by design, am not a book cover (front or back) reader. That whole, “A book should not be judged by its cover” thing has been burned into my psyche so completely that I barely even read the titles anymore. (Hi! I’m Captain Literal!) I look at the author, look at the title, make sure that I haven’t read said book before (it is a danger with stuff being re-released nowadays) and then purchase, borrow or check out.

So the book sat on the kitchen table laughing like Tim Curry in Fern Gully every time I went into the room. I had other stuff to read. Three new (well old… but new to me) books from Half Price Books just waiting to be delved into. But Nooooo… There was that damn book. Someone else’s book. So there was added pressure of reading and returning. And it was a My Sister’s Crazy book to boot!

Gah.

I opened it.

I started reading.

(SPOILER ALERT!)

I got to the chapter called “The Masterbatorium” and called my sister to tell her that I hated her.

When young Augusten walks into his house and finds his neighbor, the preacher’s wife, with her face buried in his mothers crotch… and … um… yeah… I called my sister and, “Haaaaaaaaate you.”

And then the gay p0rn started.

Now mind you that my sister DID read the back cover (link above goes to Amazon where you can view said back cover… in all its glory) and found nothing wrong with picking up a book about a child (he was 13), “who befriended a ped0phile who lived in the backyard shed”. I don’t really hate my sister. I love her, I just hate her for knowing my weakness for finishing books.

My sister called me yesterday while I was at work. She was in the car with her mother in law. She said, “Hey, go to www.” And I shouted back, “No! P0RN GIRL! I am not going anywhere on the web that you send me! Does your husband know that you are trafficking in p0rn!?” She almost wrecked she was laughing so hard, and then she sent me to a website with some beautiful pictures of my niece that were just taken. And then she had to explain to her mother in law what all the laughter was about… Heh.

The book is well written. It is just a train wreck.

You know that thing about someone is always worse off that you are? Dude, Augusten? How did you survive man?

This book, I could not put it down until I finished it because it hurt my heart to read it… and it is a memoir. NOT FICTION. Jesus. Oh, holy shit… it is going to be a MOVIE?

[deep breath]

Anyway, I stayed up last night to finish the book.

Tired, and I blame my sister…Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Conversation from this weekend.

Setting: At my sister’s dining room table on Sunday afternoon. After lunch and dessert, people have begun to scatter to the kitchen to do dishes and to the couches to talk. My mother, Mister and I were still at the table talking.

We were discussing my nephew and how exacting he is… just like my sister.

Momma: Reb was such a little tattletale when she was little.
me: Did you see her making fun of my report card yesterday afternoon?

The whole family was over at our house for lunch/dinner on Saturday and my sister was looking at my “My School Years” photo book. It has places where my mother pasted my report cards and little sayings that I said and pictures that I drew ect.. I was not the most reserved child and for “controls my talking” the mark was probably for SELDOM or some such shit. Shocker no?

Momma: Yes, I saw her. [laughing]
Mister: What about Susan?
me: Yeah, what about me?
Momma: Susan was and is still a very bright girl… but she was… very… active.
Mister: Meaning?
Momma: When I went to pick her up from class on her first day of kindergarten the teacher was very complimentary about how quickly she caught onto things and would follow directions very well… but she said, “You need to talk with her about dancing on the tables and desktops.”
Mister: Oh reeeaaaallly????? [laughter]
Momma: Yes, our little girl was such a ham, she was always trying to entertain everyone.

Right then my father came in and took some plates from the table to the kitchen and my mother was distracted for a moment. I took the time to lean over to Mister and say…

me: If there would have been a pole involved, I may be in a different role of employment right now.

And he responded with…

Mister: If that were the case… we probably would have met a LOT sooner.

Hi, uh.. baby? Yeah,… about that little rant yesterday. I am sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I was just so so SO mad about the situation and I realize that I was yelling. But I wasn’t yelling at you baby. Never at you. I was yelling at the situat- yes, the situation.

No, no baby, don’t cry. Your little bottom lip quivering and those big tears welling up in your beautiful eyes just break my heart a bit. And yes, I know… it is Christmas and I should be all holly, jolly St. Nick and all… but I was frustrated baby.

--- Annnnnd scene.

Yeah, I like to call that little piece “emotionally abusive college boyfriend”. It is my little way of giving back to the performance art majors.

It is Christmas after all, and that’s me… Giver McGifty.

Heh.

That reminds me. I got this message on my phone last night. It went a little something like this: “Yeah, this is Randy the Masterblaster calling for Susan Sweetcheeks, uh, just wanted to wish you a very Happy Holidays Season!”

The voice was low… but oddly feminine. I looked at the caller ID… and snorted.

Yes, snorted. I am so hot.

Dammit Kerry!

She kills me.

And just so she won’t go unnoticed around the Holidays…. I bequeath to you a picture of her. (Click to enlarge)

Kerry is the 6ft blonde on the left. (I have another picture on this PC of all of the Kerr Krew – well, not all – from this past year… and damn if I can find it.)

If you see her at the mall this Christmas season. Give her a big hug okay? She loves it when strange people approach and try to cuddle her. Heh.

Well, the holiday season is upon us and I feel all nostalgic. Maybe it is because I am corresponding a bunch with my ex-step-daughter, or maybe it is that I pulled out all of my ornaments from years gone by and placed a few on the tiny little Charlie Brown Christmas tree that is currently residing on my kitchen table… and weeping evergreen sap all over my damn tablecloth. Maybe it is that. Or the fact that I am still a bit emotional about how my husband is being treated at his office. (“No holidays for you! Get back into your well…put the lotion on your skin… or you will get the hose again!”)

But I am thinking about my grandmother, my mother’s mother. She was so tall and stately, her Georgia southern accent so warm and graceful. She was determined that any grandchildren she had would call her “Grandmother”, an elegant, gracious and respectful name. When my sister started speaking at the tender age of zygote, she could not say “Grandmother” and instead she started calling our grandmother… “Butter”.

Butter was thrilled with her unusual and sweet sounding moniker that my sister thought up for her. And as soon as I could speak (I am two years younger than my sister), one of the first things out of my mouth was, “Butter.”

She was so kind and gentle. Her class and elegance was as much a part of her charm as was her sense of humor and her Ferragamo shoes. She embraced both sides of my personality. She would not bat an eye if she found a frog that I put in her bed…because it was cold… and she would allow me to sit at her vanity and try on her 101 tubes of British Coat red lipstick.

Such a sweet woman she never had a crass word to say about anything or anyone. In meeting my soon to be husband when I was but 21 years old, Butter turned to me and said, “He has beautiful hands dear.” She could have said, “But Susan darling, you are young. He has already been married. His family acts like outlaws and he is not employed. Anything that you do to try and improve your situation or the situation of his daughter; if you choose to marry him; will be doubly as hard because you will have to pull him up with you. He is just not our kind.” And yet… she said nothing. Neither did my parents. My sister cried and cried… but as they all knew it would, her plaintive wails fell on deaf ears.

Butter was a champion for my independence.

She loved my mother with a ferocity and loyalty second to none, and she appreciated, respected and valued my father and the adoration he showed for my mother and my sister and I.

I was 22 when Butter was diagnosed with cervical cancer at Christmas. Freshly married that August to the redneck of my dreams (::eyeroll::) I was in Nacogdoches spending the holidays with my new in laws.

My parents (traveling from Denver) and my sister (traveling from Dallas) went to Atlanta to visit Butter. My sister called Christmas Eve crying. She and I had never spent a Christmas apart and Butter was sick. My family needed me.

My new husband had gotten knee walking drunk the night before (with a girlfriend of mine) while I was opening up Christmas presents with his daughter in the living room. He was dreadfully sick the next morning so I took his daughter to her mother’s parents’ house (following me?) for Christmas day, came back home… loaded up the car and loaded up my green husband and headed for Atlanta.

Thirteen hours later I was pulling in to Butter’s condo driveway on Peachtree Street in Atlanta.

My sister was squealing, my mother was crying and my father was hugging me very, very hard. And then I saw Butter. She; for the first time; seemed so small. She had already had one round of treatment and it really took it out of her.

My mother and Butter would spend the next three years going back and forth from Denver to Atlanta for chemo and radiation treatments. My mother would stay with Butter in Atlanta for six weeks while they did the treatments on Butter and then they would both come back to Denver for the healing periods.

My father, having a very stiff upper lip; told me one day that he was in the kitchen in Denver and our family cat, Lucy (who had kitty cat leukemia… and had undergone treatments as well… she went from 14 pound black and white cat to a 7 pound brown and white cat) was sitting next to Butter on the couch in the den. Lucy always sat with Butter, she never left her side while Butter was sick.

Butter reached over to Lucy, patted her on the head and said, “Yeah, I don’t feel too good today either.”

That was the only complaint my father ever heard from Butter. And she had no idea he could hear her. My big, strong father cried while telling me this.

One afternoon a few years later while I was working at my menial job at JM Clipper in Nacogdoches, cross training a big burly man from the plant, Butter called me to tell me, “Susan, it’s Butter, I just wanted to tell you that I love you. I am going home to see Jesus. Be a good girl now. I love you so much! Take care of your mother. Bye, bye.”

I told her how much I loved her and held on until she hung up. I then promptly lost my shit.

My mother called me a few days later to tell me that Butter had been put into Hospice Atlanta. I headed to Georgia as fast as I could. I made my flight head out of Houston since it was closer than Dallas.

On my way to Bush International Airport in Houston I felt my grandmother in the truck beside me.

I stopped at the next gas station (no cell phone dontcha know) and called my mother to see what just happened. My mother was crying and she said, “How do you always know?” I asked her what she was referring to and she told me that Butter had just had her first white light experience.

I got into Atlanta, took the MARTA to a station close to the hospice and my mother picked me up. As soon as we got to the hospice, I crawled in bed with Butter. She woke up and grabbed my face with strength that belied her condition, told me I was beautiful and went back to sleep. I had the privilege of staying with Butter overnight and watching her helpless gestures, her breathing turning into a death rattle and all things associated with dying. I helped bathe her and massaged her little wasted leg muscles, until I had to head back to Texas a few days later.

It was the most precious gift I have ever received. Being with someone who was so strong of faith and watching them pass was beautiful. I can not tell you guys that enough. She was a strong Christian woman who was ready to go. Her body was just too strong to let her go when she was ready with her heart.

Great. Tears in the office. Again.

Her funeral was sweet and attended by a frillion people, as she was involved in so much while living in Atlanta. The whole church turned out, her usher’s group, all of the people that she knew from Trust Company Bank (she was a VP… smart, smart lady) and many, many others. The tribute was perfect and we got to have a private service the night before for just family.

I miss her terribly.

Anyway. This Christmas with my mother being under the weather with her knee reconstruction and… just all of that… is really making me long for when I was a bit younger. I wish that Butter could have met Mister. She would have loved him like the rest of my family, immediate and extended. She probably would have complimented more than his hands, I can tell you that much right now.

So, cherish your loved ones. Tell them that you love them as often as you get a chance. You never know when your traditions will suddenly change and you won’t get the chance to express your feelings.

Love you all. Really. Thank you for reading and making this little space of webdom so special to me.

Merry Christmas ya’ll.

Dark hair, soft and feathered, brushed with a comb. Brown eyes so deep with a dark dusting of black lashes. An easy smile with thin lips and a slightly crooked grin. Tall and lanky with a walk that was rolling in its' gait. A mind that would easily quote anything from Robert Frost to Metallica. A small and neat script that wrote words of love and of the future.

This was my boyfriend when I was fourteen.

From the end of fourteen to sixteen I shared my paltry experiences about school and life with a man/boy named Terry.

Terry was funny, engaging, smart (Lord, he was so smart), kind, jovial, sensitive and above all, he was a good friend to me. I met Terry when we were both in the seventh grade at the end of the school year. He was a head and shoulder above most of the other boys in school, at six foot plus in the eighth grade he stood out.

He was labeled a rocker because he preferred shirts with Van Halen or Motley Crue emblazoned on the front. And during that era if you didn't listen only to Duran Duran, Boy George or Madonna you were considered a heavy metal freak. Being a freak had its apparent advantages as Terry was constantly underestimated and thought of as a dull witted pot smoker.

Our English and History teachers loved him as he wrote beautiful and thoughtful papers on the subjects they asked for, but the coaches were hard on Terry and his equally as tall (but thicker) friend Mike. The coaches would mistake these boys for the men they seemed to be, and when the boys would act goofy or take an extra second to make the lap around the gym, the coaches came down hard on them, yelling and demanding laps or push ups. The boys would comply but sometimes, an eye roll would be seen and then it was off to the dean's office for punishment.

When I started dating Terry my parents were mortified. He was quiet and shy around them and around my sister as well. He would answer questions with a "Yes" or a "No" and not the "Yes ma'am/sir" or "No ma'am/sir" my parents had come to expect from children and teenagers alike. The thoughtful and intelligent wordsmith I had come to love was sorely lacking in verbal skills when it came to visiting with my parents. He was from up north so his lack of southern genial charm (AKA shy as hell around grown ups) was seen as being stuck up and rude.

I was grounded for most of my middle, high and senior high school career due to not applying myself to my grades and� well, yeah... I snuck out. A Lot.

I snuck out to go hang out with friends. I snuck out to go smoke out on the bicycle trails. I snuck out to go watch movies at friends' houses. I snuck out... just to be out.

I had an issue with not having any privacy.

My sister and I didn't have locks on our bedroom doors. And it was frowned upon to close your door for any length of time. Something heard often around the house (following the sound of a door being opened quickly) was, "If you need to hide to do it... you shouldn't be doing it anyway."

True, true. But. Um y'all, can I read in here? Maybe without the bonus soundtrack of my mother vacuuming or my sister yelling at someone? It's not like I have a meth lab in my room, brewing up some serious smack to sell on the streets of our Beaver Cleaver neighborhood or in the pews at church.

We could not have boys in our rooms. And if we were sitting in any position (when a boy was near) other than ramrod straight spine, hands in our laps, and knees touching... we were told to "Sit up. Now."

Oh, and also... heh... this one is awesome. Our family had a phone that was in my parent's bedroom. One afternoon while I was playing Atari (shut up, don't judge) in their room, I heard my sister on the phone. I was sitting a good six feet from the phone but I could hear EVERY. DAMN. WORD. Now, I have bat ears (not the shape meanie... just the sensitivity to sound) and I could hear everything. The phone was on my mother's side of the bed. I was sure that she happily sat there and listened to our phone conversations.

When my sister hung up, and audible mmmweep was heard signaling the severing of the connection. They heard every word we said. They monitored our phone calls y'all.

Oh, and the neighbors watched us too.

See? No privacy.

So? I snuck out. And I would get grounded for sneaking out. And then I couldn't go anywhere and then I would want to sneak out again. Hi, um... vicious cycle much?

I couldn't go anywhere while I was grounded but Terry would still come over. He would help me with my chores when I did the yard work and he would help me clean the pool. We had such an easy way with one another that I am sure it made my parents nervous.

Yeah, my parents had a right to be nervous. My sister was a little rebel with straight A's and I was waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay too honest.

Terry and I dated for about two years. That is a pretty good chunk of time when you are that young. But we really were very comfortable in our relationship. I wasn't demanding and neither was he... but... we were both curious about sex.

When we finally decided to "do it" we planned it for about a year. I was turning sixteen (SLUT!... Hey now, be nice.) in like three weeks and there was a big dance coming up at school. His parents were going to be out until late that night and my parents expected us to come home late anyways... Perfect! Right?

Well, it was very stilted, scientific, and sort of emotionally void like a couple of nerds working on a science fair project, but we got through it. He was very kind and ... well, enough of that.

My mother had picked me up from driver's education one afternoon. She let me drive home (and I can remember this like it was yesterday.) and we were at the corner Custer and Park about to turn right and my mother blurts out like a Tourette's sufferer, "Areyoustillavirgin?!"

Lord. I about wrecked the car.

I recovered quickly and turned right. While making the turn I answered her, "No." And she promptly lost her shit, "Wait until your father gets home and hears about this. Oh SUSAN!... she wailed, I am SO DIS-A-POINTED In YOUUUUUUUUU!!!!!"

Yeah. See? I couldn't keep my mouth shut then either.

Sure, sure, I can keep other peoples secrets. But if someone asked me something about me or something I did? "It is in the creek by the bridge." "It was the one armed man." "Omarosa!" "Sure I ate your Twinkie." Whatever it was, if the question was point blank, I answered it and answered it honestly.

Since then my mother and I have come to an agreement. She doesn't ask unless she really wants to know. And I? I have learned to self edit. It is a gift that comes with age.

The funny thing is that I heard a song yesterday on my way to work that reminded me of all of this. It just flashed through my head like a mini after school special on ABC. The song was "There's Just Something About You" by Level 42. Terry always said that there was something about me. He dubbed that our song when we were very young.

It is sad how things go by the wayside. Water under the bridge and all of that. After this unfortunate incident I didn't see Terry all that much. He hung out with my best girlfriend Stephanie's cousin for a while so he would show up from time to time. But by the time I got to the twelfth grade, Terry had dropped out of school. I saw around working at convenience stores and gas stations and it always made me sad because before he started doing drugs he was so sharp and charismatic and he always did well in school.

The last time I saw him he sent word that he wanted me to meet him for lunch at a Burger King by the high school where I was about to graduate. I went and there he was sitting in a booth, gaunt and hollow eyed. He greeted me warmly and we caught up a little bit. I asked him if he would like something for lunch. He reluctantly accepted and I bought us lunch. He inhaled his food and I (absentmindedly and quite rudely I know that now) asked when the last time was that he had eaten. He explained that he had coke for breakfast, an incredible amount. And not Coca-Cola either. But blow. I knew then that he was gone forever, the Terry that I used to know. His mind would never be the same.

Now, that I have moved back into the area... when I hear old songs like something from Paul Jones or Level 42 (or Celtic Frost... heh) I think about what a waste it was for such a promising young man to end up like he did when I last saw him. I hope that he cleaned himself up, got his GED, went to school or got a good job or something. I just hope he is okay. He was a very kind soul, even when things were not right between us. And I guess you never forget your first puppy love.

The move? Honestly? It really wasn’t that big of a deal. I fretted and sweated for over a month… and packed and packed and sweated some more for days and days before the actual move. My sleep? Was interrupted by bad dreams that I was the supposed girlfriend of Biz Markie. He didn’t do anything… at all. He would just sit there and breathe with his mouth open. Also that Puff Daddy/Puffy/P. Diddy/Diddy found some pants in my suitcase that weren’t mine (total Hammer pants) and told me that he was going to tell my mom. It was a nightmare.

But the move went pretty smoothly. I hired ABC Relocation Systems and Tammie and her crew did an amazing job. She and one of her crew packed me (mostly the kitchen and breakable stuff) while three others moved out the big furniture and the stuff that was already in boxes (everything else). They brought a huge truck, filled it up and even went back to the old house to get a second load. The guys put my bed back together, hooked up the washer and dryer and all of the things that really don’t seem like a big deal but after a full day of moving really make a difference.

I boarded the cat and had him bathed/groomed. The lady at the Cat Connection place said that Max did fine with his bath and when I picked him up Saturday afternoon he smelled so good. He was a little pissed and was shedding like a dried out Christmas tree, but he warmed up to the new house pretty quickly.

I have this thing. When something huge happens like: a baby is born, someone goes into the hospital, I have to make dinner reservations for 600 people or whatever you consider large… I am so cool, calm and collected. When something small happens like: a movie rental is late, or… (well, let’s just leave it at that. It works with the analogy.) I completely lose my shit.

“Rent? What rent? Oh, rent is due? Ok. Oh, we don’t have money? It’ll be fine. I’ll donate plasma or whatever.”* ::shrug::

“OH MY GOOD N’ PLENTY LORD… You can NOT be serious. You ARE!? We have had that library book since WHEN!?!??!?!?!” (Commence with gnashing of teeth and rending of clothing.)

*Please note: This has never happened since I have been married to Mister. Before that? Heh. Well, let’s just say I had my priorities a bit skewed. “I’ll buy tonight!” “Sue, the bill is for five people.” “S’ok, ya’ll can spot me next time.”

So, yeah, my sense of propriety is a bit jacked when it comes to my reactions sometimes. I always freak completely when I move. I am so attached to things that don’t mean a shit to anyone else.

I went to the old house one evening while Mister was working late and I cleaned out the space under my bathroom sinks and the drawers.

Ya’ll? I threw away Clairol hair curlers (rollers, whatever) that I have had since the sixth or seventh grade. They were those brown ones with the three different sized rollers and the little dot on the top that would turn from red to black when the curlers were ready.

Let’s pick this apart for a minute shall we?

I will be thirty-four in about two weeks. What age are you in the seventh grade? Thirteen? Yeah, thirteen. So, those curlers, with their lightly (“brown suede”) flocked surfaces had about twenty-some-odd years of dead hair built up on them. That is fucking foul. Yes, yes… I would de-hair them when I used them, the curlers mainly, but those metal rods that did the heating… not so much. By the time you got around to letting them heat up, separating your hair into pieces to be rolled onto a hot ass wax filled curlers (that burned the shit out of your ears) and then went and did your make up and got dressed so the curlers could cool down… an hour (::cough:: TWO) or more had passed. The last thing I wanted to do was to burn my fingers on those metal rods just to get a few stray pieces of hair out from between them. So, it built up. Gross.

I threw away a billion tee-tiny little bottles of shampoo, conditioner, lotion, mouthwash… tiny little sewing kits, shower caps and the like from hotels across the nation. I travel so much and for some reason I always take the toiletries. I think it started when I was younger. My daddy was a travelin man and my mother fixed this little lined basket with all of the shampoos, conditioners, little tiny things of floss, mouthwash and sewing kits. She would put it in the bathroom when we had guests staying at the house in case they wanted their “own” toiletries. Sure, it was a nice gesture, but hi, I am a DINK (dual income no kids). You’d think we could afford some damn shampoo.

Goodness gracious. Do NOT get me started on the eleventy normal sized (and some Jumbo from Sam’s) shampoo and conditioner bottles that each still had a dollop of product inside. “But I’m going to combine all of them and use what is left!” Shut up Scarlett, you do not need to make a freaking dress out of the curtains. Go to Wal*Mart for Martha Stewart’s sake.

I threw away bags and bags inside of bags. What the hell is the deal with me and bags? I found several silver Saks bags with other bags inside them. Each one would have a whole little armada of travel necessities. It was like I would pack one, take it with me on the trip, come home and put it under the sink without unpacking it. The next trip? I’d pack another one and do the same damn thing.

I opened my make up drawer with hesitation. Inside I have an organizer, just like one of those fancy things you can purchase from the Container Store to keep your entire make up collection or utensils handy and organized. Um, yeah. Not so much. Let’s just say that I packed what I wanted and threw away over thirteen lipsticks, glosses and liners… six tubes of mascara, an old ass powder brush, foundation (three bottles) for a shade of tan I will never be again, blush, several containers of face powder, liquid eyeliner that I can not get even for the life of me, green eye shadow (GREEN!... as in a shade of green not found in nature), three things of perfume and innumerable liners, sticks and liquids of this of that product.

What the hell is wrong with me?

My mother… MY MOTHER who has saved twenty years of Southern Living magazine and makes my dad pack and move that shit… is calling me a pack rat. In an email from last Thursday, her salutation was as such; “Dear ‘Packrat Jr.’”… oh, I know you didn’t.

Several moves ago… when I moved in with Mister was a comedy of errors… and rich fodder for Mister to make fun of me for years to come. His favorite? “Baby?” He says with much trepidation. “Uhhhhmmmm, do you need seven phone books?” I replied, “What?” “These seven phone books in your pantry.” “Seven phone books… in my… pantry?” “MmmmHmmm, do you get calls from people on Who Wants to be a Millionaire needing a lifeline? ‘Susan, this is Earl, do you know the phone number to the Ace Hardware on 14th Street in Plano… from 1976?’” Heh.

I don’t know why I save all the stuff I do.

Here’s a secret. In the trunk of the hoopty are enough books for boredom material and to make a fire if necessary, empty bottles of water (so that I can melt snow for drinking water if I am ever stuck in a snow bank… duh.), a jacket, packaged crackers and tissue for if I ever need to potty in the woods (because… I am a bear).

I think it may be the whole poverty thing from Nacogdoches.

Speaking of…

Monday I took off of work. I wanted to relax after the weekend move and my sinuses were stuffed up and running at the same time. Neat trick huh? I was planning on leisurely unpacking a box or two while sitting on my new furniture, maybe taking a nap… drinking plenty of liquids and generally just recuperating. Mister decided to stay home to so my plans of a leisurely day went straight out the window.

We hung a television with a wall mount/bracket thing. We hung pictures. We adjusted the height of the fan in the living room. We unpacked boxes. You name it… we were workin it and by 6:30 pm I was worn out.

My phone rang and the following took place:

Ring Ring…
(The phone actually said “UKNOWN CALLER” because whoever it was called with a blocked phone number.)

Self: Susan speaking.
Unknown Caller: Is this Susan?
Self: (thinking ‘Yes, dumbass, I just said ‘Susan speaking.’) Yes, it is, may I help you?
Unknown Caller: Do you know who this is?
Self: No, I don’t.
Unknown Caller: You really have no idea who this is?
Self: (starting to get annoyed) No.

By this time Mister has his eyebrow cocked so far up his forehead it was sitting on top of his skull.

Unknown Caller: This is your ex-husband.
Self: Oh,… Hi, [real name].

(Pointed look at Mister at this revelation.)

X: How are you?
Self: Fine… and you?

(Look at Mister and mouth, ‘What the fuck?’)

X: Well, I was just in town and I wanted to just call and see how you are.
Self: Doing well… What are you doing in town?
X: I’m here for a homicide convention.
Self: Sounds… fun?
X: Not really… how have you been doing?
Self: Fine, my husband and I just bought a home, it is my first home ever and I am very excited.
X: Really, where are you living?
Self: Plano.
X: Which part?
Self: The North part.

(Look at Mister with an “I am very uncomfortable with this” look.)

X: Well, I am staying over here at [hotel] right off of [street and highway] and I just wanted to call and see if I could take you and your husband to dinner one night this week.
Self: Dinner?

(Mister looks over with a “please do not invite him here for the love of Pete Rose” look.)

X: Yeah, just to catch up.
Self: …
X: So, how are your momma and daddy?
Self: They are doing well.

And the rest of the conversation was him asking how my parents are, my sister and her family, what I was doing for a living (Answer: Same thing that I have been doing for the past five some odd years.), if my daddy was still fishing and blah blah blah.

X: So, here is my number, and check with your husband to see if he is free and let me know if you would like to go to dinner this week.
Self: O…K?
X: Bye, now.
Self: Bye.

(Debra Jean is so going to kick my ass for not calling her immediately.)
(My sister is still cackling that I had no clue who he was and didn’t recognize his voice.)

So, I got off the phone and realized that I probably came off sounding totally like a rude ass because I was so thrown off by the call. I retold Mister about the side of the conversation he didn’t hear and then we went back to unpacking or whatever. About twenty minutes later we went outside to smoke (I know.) and Mister said to me, “So… do you want to have dinner with X?” And my answer, “Oh, shit… I had already forgotten all about that.” Then after about 45 seconds of ponder time was, “You know, not to be a bitch or anything, but you? Are mine. And I do not want to share you with my ex-husband.” Mister said that whatever I wanted to do he would stand behind me.

I thought about it a little more and concluded, “Here’s the deal. X is really a nice guy, a likeable guy. He wants everyone to like him… and I… I really don’t want you to like my ex-husband.”

So Tuesday afternoon I called Sil (my g/f in Chicago who was THERE for the whole first marriage debacle) and told her about the phone call. She listened and “Holy SHIT!”-ed and “OH My GOD!”-ed in all the right places and then she gave me a gift. I was feeling all sorts of pressure for calling X back to tell him “No.” on the dinner thing, but not wanting to get that phone call from his present wife when she sees his phone bill all, “Why are you talking to my husband, bitch!? I saw that he called you and YOU CALLED HIM BACK!” and I’d be all, “Look, lady….” And it got ugly… in my head, and I have grown out of that drama. So Sil gave me the gift of, “You do not owe him anything. You do not have to share your life with him anymore. You are under no obligation to have dinner with him or even call him back. Sue, you don’t have to call him back At… All.”

I knew that ya’ll. I knew that. But it was so nice to hear someone say it out loud. Mister is mine. I will not share this wonderful gift that I have been given with someone like X.

And this afternoon after I filled J.Wo (of the Houston Wo’s) in on the situation she sent me this awesome email (copied and pasted for your enjoyment and for my account):

I agree and approve of your decision, Sil's advice, et al.

Good for you!!! You don't owe [X] anything!!! You do owe it to yourself to nourish the relationships that matter to you... with [Mister], your family, and your friends who are will do whatever they can to help you be the best Sue you can be (Go Army:). [X] doesn't fall into any of those categories.

[Mister] may like his personality, but [Mister] is smart enough to differentiate between the surface [X] and the crap you put up with!!!

Love you, You ROCK

Of course she used their correct names and all of that. I love my friends.

And, I love you too.

Oh dear Lord, why the hell does it always happened that after you get back from a vacation you are twice as tired as you where when you freakin left!? I would like to state for the record, “Yawn.” And you can quote me on that.

The vacation was sublime. I truly enjoyed spending time on the beach, time with my husband on the way there and the way home and time with my family.

Also, good news, I didn’t catch the Ebola virus or Parvo (that I normally catch from my sister and her carrier monkeys) while we were there like I did the last time we went.

Wanna know a little bit about the trip?

Good, because I want to tell you too.

How about a list? You hate lists… hmmm… well, why the hell didn’t you tell me sooner? I have already compiled a little listy for the past (how long have I been gone? Eighteen days? now… nineteen days?) eighteen nineteen days. I’ll give you a list… in paragraph form. There… it is a win win situation. No? No… what do you mean no? Look. We are never going to get very far if you keep arguing with me. And you know how it goes… the longer I wait, the more I have to say and then the task; she looks daunting; and then I put it off and then the pile of shit I have to say just keeps getting bigger and bigger.

Ok, fine. Now I am all anxious.

Go Mavs!!!!!!!! (Shit. They lost last night. Yeah, this is taking me two days to write, what of it?)

Let’s start out with the last conference I did. It was in San Antonio and it went over very well. Smooth sailing and all that. But while I was there I looked at my little blackberry to check the stats of another project I was working on (multi-tasker? Why, yes.) and I found a very disturbing email, one that said that our COO had just been let go.

Wha?

Hi, we are a tiny little nonprofit association that has less that 60 people on staff.

(My last job with hand boss, I was one of three people on staff. Why, oh why do I choose association work? Well, mainly it is for the wicked-crazy amounts of cash that I make…

Yeah, I know. That didn’t even fool me.)

They let our COO go… for money reasons. To flatten our bottom line or something. We just had a record year. So why did the COO have to go? I just thought about this because she just came by my desk and I was all, “I miss you!!!!!” and she was all, “Well, you just keep missing me…” She was a bit misty and I almost cried. I liked her. Apparently there won’t be anymore changes for a while, but man…

So I got back from the conference where everything went smooth like buttah and had approximately forty-seven minutes (two days) to unpack my suitcase, do all the laundry in the free world, reconcile the conference, close out the fiscal year with finance, board the cat and pack our stuff for eleventy days in Florida.

If you didn’t click on the link above that referenced the last time we went to Destin, I will paraphrase… or just cut and paste… about the last time we packed for this trip because I am helpful like that and also it was basically same shit, different year.

Off topic for a second: Don’t you love it when I quote… Myself? It is sort of like Bon Jovi singing about Tommy and Gina from “Living on a Prayer” in one of their latest, “It’s My Life”… and twice as cheesey (without the leather and good hair). Back on topic.

Guess what happened this time? Well, we had Friday the 9th off so Thursday… night… I threw our bathing suits on the guest bed (also known as “the staging area”) found like eighteen pairs of flip flops I wanted to take, threw those in the vicinity of the guest bedroom door and started hyperventilating about all the stuff I knew needed to be done before we left.

So what did I do? Watched Discovery Health Channel’s “101 Things Found in the Human Body” of course.

I fell into a fitful sleep that Thursday night and awoke around the ass crack of dawn with my heart pounding and the earplugs that I had been wearing to sleep the previous evening stuck to various places on my person. One had made a nest in my hair and the other had stuffed itself under my left breast.

I took a shower early Friday morning and ran around packing while naked. I was so out of sorts that I couldn’t figure out what I wanted to wear or pack. “Should I wear this or pack it? Wear it or Pack it?” Mister parked himself on his throne (the chair and a half in the living room) and started paying bills while I scurried and flitted around like a gnat. “Do you want to take these shorts?” “How about this shirt?” “How many pairs of manties do you want to bring?” “Would you like a hair cut before we leave?” “Don’t forget the recipes for our cooking night. Do you want this cast iron skillet?” “You really need some more shorts baby.”

No wonder he didn’t just up and throw a magazine or an unsuspecting cat at me, “Dammit woman, would you please shut the hell up? I am doing finances here, pack my deodorant and some KY and I’ll be fine!”

Heh. He didn’t say that. He should of though… would have been funny as shit.

He did say, “Why don’t you just go take a nap or something?” Because clearly I had lost my mind with the entire last minute minutia and the worry of not having enough shit to cram into our car.

Oh, did I mention that we sacked the Lincoln and bought a Tahoe? Well, we did. Last Saturday (the 27th one). And thank God we did. We had enough shit in that thing to choke a fairly large mule. Two large suitcases, toys for my sister’s kids, a kid gate (for me?), a heavy ass stone thing for my father for Father’s Day, three small bags, a large bag with the skillet and our spices, and overnight bag for the drive down, a bag with at least eight books inside, a beach bag with towels and various sundry, a bag for Herschel and all of our chargers, a bag of dvd’s, two pillows, a blanket and three hanging shirts. And a fucking partridge in an avocado tree.

I finally got everything rounded up, Mister and I packed the car and then I went to shove the cat in a cardboard box. What? It has holes in it. I have kept the cardboard cat carrier that I got when I rescued Max from the Irving SPCA. We don’t board him that often so I haven’t gotten around to getting him one of those pet carriers like I see all the time in SkyMallｮ*.

*Holy shit those things are funny. Max would crap in my shoes if I made him get in one of those.

And for the first time? Max ran and hid from me. He normally just looks at you when you lift him under the little kitty armpits and lower him into the box. This time he was all, “Suckah!” And he took off and ran to hide under the guest room bed. I shoved a broom in under him and Mister succeeded in catching him and putting him in his little box.

So we got Max all boarded at his day spa… the Cat Connection… and then went to get something to eat.

Have you guys heard of this incredible new dish at KFC? Now, I am not a Kentucky Fried Chicken fan by any stretch of means but kick me in the ass and call me Polly, those famous bowls are a delicious way to work on a heart attack if I may say so myself.

So I had one of those (with a side of diabetic coma), Mister got his chicken strip meal and after we ate we headed out of town. Time? Three fucking o’clock.

Here’s the dish. Destin is a twelve to thirteen hour drive from Dallas. It was Friday at 3 p.m… Dallas weekend traffic starts… well, it starts the week before, really. We couldn’t check into our condo until Saturday at 3 p.m. (the next day) so I was looking at 24 hours to get there. No problem, I am used to long drives across the country. My issue was that we had not planned on where we wanted to stop. The no plans thing really kind of freaks me out. I am a planner ya’ll. I plan for a living. Not having a freaking plan makes me want to yell things at shrubbery and massage your grandmother.

But off we went.

We stopped in Slidell, LA at about 2 a.m. and got raped with a $149 room rate at a mother whacking Best Western. Best? Best, my ass.

Anyway, moving on.

I was all hyper about stopping in or around Mobile, AL so we would go to the Original Oyster House for lunch. The next morning we awoke and packed up our stuff. We didn’t eat breakfast because I wanted to save my taste buds for the she-crab soup.

The last time I went to the Original Oyster House I had the she-crab soup. Ya’ll? Ya’ll. This soup was creamy and buttery and tasted like sin itself. It was freaking pink but just about the best thing I had ever put in my mouth. I have lusted for the soup. I have yearned. I was so upset the last time we went through because we were running a little on the late side to get to the condo by 3 p.m. so we forwent the trip to The Original Oyster House for a trip to a rickety Wendy’s on Hwy 110.

So Saturday morning we woke up, peeled ourselves off of the sticky mattress (shudder) and took showers to wash the filth away. After our showers, repacking the Tahoe and filling up the gas tank we headed east towards Mobile and the Original Oyster House.

I called my parents on the way to let them know where we were and to tell them about my plans for lunch (I was with them for the miracle that was the she-crab soup) and my mother was all, “Oh, honey… I am so glad you told me what your plans were. The Original Oyster House got completely demolished by the hurricane.” I started to say something akin to disbelief and sorrow… I am sure it would have been totally eloquent… but then she said, “They rebuilt it about two miles up the road; you can see it from the highway.”

The relief that flooded me was absurd. It is a restaurant for Pete’s sake… not a hospital in Baghdad.

Hi, I am a fat girl. Can you tell? I have typed approximately five pages of information and roughly half of it is about freaking food.

So, yeah… back to the restaurant.

Heh.

Mister and I didn’t go the last time we passed by on our way to Destin (in 2004) and I met him after the family went in 2002 so I have been hyping this Oyster House for… oh, say, four years. So it had a lot to live up too. We passed the old one that had been basically blown off of its stilts. We found the new one on Battleship Parkway (or whatever) two miles up from the busted up old place just like my mother said. Mister parked the Tahoe and I bounded out of the car like Tigger on crack all, “Hee! Race ya!”

We got inside and were seated by a sweet girl who introduced us to our waitress, Chatty McThroatyTalky. Chatty told us about the specials of the day and while she was rambling on in that ‘I have totally swallowed my voice box and I am speaking to you from my thorax’ voice it was all I could do to listen politely and not scream, “Just bring me the she-crab soup, woman!”

She finished her spiel, handed us menus, took our drink order and then asked if we had any questions. I looked from the soup section of the menu into her moonlike face, big teeth and vacuous eyes and asked her sweetly, “I don’t see it here on the menu, but does the chef still make the she-crab soup?” The “Dear God, Please!” was unspoken but totally out there. She blinked like four times then dashed my hopes and dreams (for lunch) by saying, “Oh, noooooo, we stopped making that years ago.” And she trotted off.

Bless Mister’s heart, I had asked him to wait on breakfast to we could dine on the sweet nectar of the she-crab soup and now it was two p.m., but yet… he still asked me, “I’m sorry that they don’t have the soup baby. Would you like to go somewhere else for lunch?”

“no.” I said, in a very small voice.

So we ordered, ate and then headed on to Destin. But before we left, we took a picture.

Click to make all pictures bigger. Thank you.

I would like to dub thee The Original Oyster Disappointment.

Destin, ahhh… Destin. I asked my parents because I truly could not remember how long we have been visiting this little piece of paradise on the emerald coast. They started coming even before my sister and I were born. As a family, we used to vacation in Destin every year when we lived in Georgia (Marietta) but we started just coming every other year when we moved to Texas in … 198…3? (My sense of time is so completely off.)

The first day we were there was Saturday. It was mainly for grocery shopping, getting the kids acclimated to the beach and the ocean, unpacking and getting things ready for the week. My sister and I decided to walk each morning… well actually, Colonel Klink (what I have decided to call her from now on) declared, nay proclaimed that we would walk every morning for our exercise and that we were going to go out every night.

Sunday morning we were up at 7:30, well, Col. Klink was up at around 5 a.m. with her youngest and I applauded her for not waking me sooner. We went for a 1.7 mile walk and sweated profusely. We went to the west that morning and the next morning I had a bright idea to walk to the east and maybe even to the Walgreens “just down around the corner”. Ya’ll? It was a 3.2 mile hike. That is like a 5K, or so Col. Klink says. I am not too bright with the whole mile to kilometer exchange.

Let’s discuss this for a moment shall we?

I walked 1.7 miles further than I have walked any morning previous to that Sunday and we even went out Sunday night. To a BAR. So that next morning when we walked the 5K… I… well, let’s just say that I am out of shape. Seriously and incredibly out of shape. Monday night we went out dancing and drinking as well, so Tuesday we took it easy on only walked a mile and a half. Wednesday we walked a bit more, a little over two miles… and Thursday morning? I gagged and bound Col. Klink, stuffed her into a closet and was back in bed sleeping like a baby by 8 a.m.

Other than my sister trying to kill me help me get into shape, we mainly spent the time cooking, laying on the beach, swimming in the ocean, lounging by the pool, going out to bars and nightlife arenas that made me feel so very very old, spending time with friends and family and looking at this:

Look at this view. If my hair would not be all nappy, I could probably live here just for the scenery.

Oh, and Mister shaved off his beard. He looks ten years younger. He did it, I think, Tuesday. I wish I could shave my face (or my back… heh) and look like I was 26 again. He looks great. He is all clean cut and doubly handsome. He had his beard and moustache for fourteen years. Fourteen years.

I’m rambling. There is so much to tell. New house, new car, clean shaven man, vacation to Destin, the tropical storm/hurricane that didn’t touch us at all… just made the waves really high and poundy, the drive there, the drive back, the great conversations and laughter, cute bunnies in my yard, Max being home from the boarders, seeing several movies including The Omen and Nacho Libre (Could there be two such different films to see so close together? I submit that there can not.)… oh, and fantastic po’boys from this awesome little gas station off of I-20 and I-59.

One last little picture because I have been on hold with TXU Electric now for 56 minutes (so not kidding) and I am about to loose my ladylike charm and go carnival psycho crazy on these poor customer service representatives.

See the yellow flag? The next day they put up a red over red flag which means ‘Danger Will Robinson… Do NOT go in the water’. At least they didn’t put up the purple flag, that means ‘Dangerous Marine Pests Present’.

I am glad to be home!