Family Archives

July 29, 2003

Flock o' Flamingos and other niceties

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.

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.


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

June 3, 2004

I have had many firsts on its white-sanded beaches and in it's turquoise waters.

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


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.


July 7, 2004

Reb's Choice

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?


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.”



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.

July 22, 2004

I am always amazed at my luck for being born into this family.

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.


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.

September 1, 2004

He said her name would be Thomas Elizabeth.

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.


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”
Me: “……what sweetie?”
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.

May 27, 2005

Join Us for Dinner... a Look Back.

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.

Mister: I am so sorry that I can not stay and join you. I have a showing this evening. Oh, yes, please do stop by. It is a lovely little place.. they will be serving complimentary chilled water with lemon wedges…

Me: … and a fine assortment of international confectionary sauces.

Mister: My paintings will be displayed at this sheik little eatery. They will be displayed on each wall and highlighted by the cheap canned lighting and the fake potted ivy…

Me: …prominently displayed between each set of streaked windows and set off by the red haze of the emergency exit sign.

Mister: My impressionistic desert landscapes in shades of …

Me: bruise and tapioca…

Mister: off-set the bad dye job of the ever-friendly waitress, Helda.

Me: But please… wait to be seated…

Mister: Tell the hostess that you know me and the complimentary chilled water with lemon wedges will be served posthaste…

Me: I’m a …Star! I’m featured all over the United States!

August 17, 2005

I Blame My Sister

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!


I opened it.

I started reading.


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

Update (later the same damn day)... Gah.

What the hell is up with my comments? Why are they temporarily disabled? I did not do this. Do I have gremlins? Is HaloScan sort of like the NotifyList of the comments world? Sometimes worky and sometimes not? Ya’ll? Sorry. Please come back and post your comments… you know I love them like Buffalo Bill loves the soft skin of the fat girl and Eric Cartmen loves the tears of his victims.

Sorry, I went to a dark place there for a moment.

Ya’ll know I love you.

It leaves a comment or it gets the hose.

September 13, 2005

Weekend Conversation with the Moms

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.

December 21, 2005

I am going home to see Jesus.

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.


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)
Too Much Cuteness aka Diabetic Coma
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.

March 17, 2006

It's not like I had a meth lab in my room.

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.

April 26, 2006

"Dear Packrat Jr.,".... oh, I know you didn't.

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.

June 21, 2006

My Second Home - Destin, Florida

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.


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.

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.

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.


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.

Not Worth the Hype
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:

View from the balcony.
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!

October 16, 2006

Would it be okay if I crashed his "All ME All the time" weekend with my parents.

“If my phone hangs up on you, it’s not because I think you’re stupid.”

The above quote courtesy of my sister as I was just telling her a heartfelt and tear jerking story about clipping my baby’s toenails last night.

And…. Scene.

Seriously, I typed that last Thursday afternoon, saved it for some reason then ran off for the weekend with my beloved to my parents' house for a golf and gumbo hoopla.

I’ll back up a bit so you won’t think me completely mad. (Also, I have been cheating on all of you. For the past few weeks I have been rummaging through the archives of Julia’s Journal - Here be Hippogriffs; ok, ok, ok… yes, I did start at her very first entry and have been reading them in consecutive order since the very first word. I am very Type A [read: Crazy] like that. So I have not had time to write entries for you. For the love of all that is Holy… ya’ll, I am only at July of 2006. JULY! And, I may secretly be a little in love with her. Okay, a LOT.)

Originally this past weekend was supposed to be a complete riot with women, wine, whooping and hollering. Or, um. Some sort of alliteration that has to do with a bunch of my girlfriends getting together for a small weekend, at a lake or ocean somewhere with a bunch of booze. Here’s how that went down. “Oh, I’m pregnant.” “Me too.” “Oh, there is a draught in Texas, no water, poooh.” “My… spleen (?) is swollen.” “I just had meningitis.” “I have seventeen kids and no child care.” “Ok, um… then we’ll put it off for a couple of weeks? Months? How about next year?”

So it was down to Stacey and I. (Hi Stacey!) And we were all, “We’re gonna go to San Antonio and drink on the Riverwalk and cause a ruckus and have strange men try to buy us drinks and give us small very luxurious countries just because we are hot.” And Stacey was all, “YAY! I have child care, I will escape!” And I was all, “Rock and roll!... Yes, I am old, shut up please.”

Then it was, “Well, I can actually only get child care for Saturday.” And I replied to Stacey, whom I love, “Stacey my darling, we can stay at the Dallas Westin Galleria and get pedicures and manicures and eat great food and go shopping and get a great room rate because I know people.” And again, we rejoiced.

And then on Monday of this past week…. Dum DUM DUUUUUUMMM! I got a call from Stacey. (Hi Stacey!) “Sue? Uh, [husband] has to have periodontal surgery on four wisdom teeth and two of them are impacted… because he hasn’t been to the dentist… EVER.” Me, thinking… “But he has such pretty teeth.” But saying, “Let me guess… Your child care has been thwarted.” And she replied, “Yes. Woe is me.”

Ya’ll, I had planned this weekend for months. I had even made plans for Mister to go to my parents’ house for the weekend so that the girls could all come stay at my house if we needed that option. My parents were all, “Yay! We will golf and make gumbo and have [Mister] work on our computer! Do not come with him Susan, we love him… you are second only in our love for our incredible son in law.” So I huffed, “Fine.” And then made plans for Galen to stay at the Puppy Palace so I could go have the girls’ weekend. Of DOOM.

Fast forward to Monday when all of my girl plans were foiled again, (“…And I would have gotten away with it too if it weren’t for you meddling kids.” – said Mr. Witherspoon) I called Mister to see if it would be okay if I crashed his “All ME* All the time” weekend with my parents.

*And by ME, I mean HIM.

Gamely, he was totally fine with the prospect of me joining him. So I called my folks and asked if I could join their, “[Mister] Is Awesome!” weekend. They said, “Of course, we’d love to see you too… just make sure that [Mister] walks in the door first. You can wait in the car for a while, can’t you? It won’t be too much trouble, right?”

I kid, I kid. Sort of.

Holy shit. I haven’t even told you guys about our anniversary trip have I? Slacker, slacker… geeze. What the hell have I been up to?

I told you, reading her.

You guys need some attention, some love, some soft core cursing… am I right?

Next entry, the anniversary trip. With pictures maybe. Or something. Remind me.


So the weekend of my anniversary trip my parents went to the Georgia vs. Ol’ Miss game (*ahem* Sick Em DAWGS!) and before they left my mother went to drop off some food for some friends of theirs. The friends have a year old (correct me if this is wrong) Schnorkie. (?) A schnauzer-yorkie mix. And the fucking schnorkie punctured a hole in my mother’s leg when it jumped up on her. The wound bled for three days. Stupid dog.

Three days.

My mother is not a big fan of dogs anyway… or animals of any kind. Chickens? Or any type of bird? She will literally run from them. But BUT… she was so awesome to me as a child, she let me have snakes, lizards, cats, dogs, mice (my first two mice were named Donnie and Marie… shut up), a guinea pig, hamsters, gerbils, tadpoles, frogs, insects of all kinds, turtles, you name it. As long as it wasn’t a bird? I could have it in the house. (Well, the exception to the rule was, if it was a snake in the house and my father was home, it had better be dead, or soon would be.)

So, mom = awesome. But. BUT she is not a fan of dogs. Dogs jump, they scratch her and try to hump her and … for some reason, because my mother has no great love for dogs? They love her. They want to sit in her lap and lick her perfectly applied lipstick straight off of her face. And also, the stupid leg wound wasn’t reinforcing the love affair she has not been having with those of the canine persuasion.

My father? Has always wanted a black lab named Booker T. Inappropriate? Maybe. Funny? Hells to the yes.

So they are luke warm when it comes to animals. We, as a family, have had several cats that have been like family members. Katie the first family cat, and the last was Lucy… my parent’s cat when they were first married was initially named Snatch. That right there? Is a story in itself. Again, remind me later. I will tell you the family secrets.

The parents love Max and my father is excited about Galen, but they had always had a “No Pets in the House” rule so imagine my surprise when my mother called me and said that it was Ok to bring Galen with us to their house this past weekend.

I was floored. They just had new carpet put in and it was supposed to rain.

No matter, bring him.

So, I cancelled his reservations at the Puppy Palace and went and got him a new harness and a retractable leash for his walks around their yard. I was picturing us walking through the neighborhood, my faithful dog (ahem, Mister’s faithful dog) trotting and heeling perfectly by my side.

Ha ha ha. Oh my.

Wednesday evening I was home from work hanging out with Galen on the back porch of our little house. He was happy, tail wagging, tongue hanging out happy. He kept putting his little paws on my knees. I was planning on cutting Galen’s toenails that evening when Mister got home (it takes two of us to normally do it because Galen is Squirmy McBitesAlot), but he was so happy and content with me playing with his paws that I popped inside for a brief second and got the toenail clippers.

He put his little feet on my knees and I took his left paw in my hand. I clipped the middle clear toenail and then went for his black pointer toenail. He pulled away and yipped a little. I decided to wait until Mister got home to finish them so we went inside. I sat on the floor and went to give him a treat and I noticed these tiny little spots of blood on the carpet.

Yes, I cut his toenail too short and got the quick… or whatever that part is.

The poor baby. I picked him up and ran his little paw under the water faucet in the sink, that is when Mister came in the door to find me wailing and the dog in my arms looking petrified and blood all over (exaggeration) my sweater. Mister calmly took that styptic stuff and put it on the puppy’s little toenail for a few minutes while the dog looked at me reproachfully and I felt like a worm.

It was awful.

I had Friday off, and Galen still needed his toenails clipped (see also: Momma’s punctured leg wound) so I called the Puppy Palace place and they filed them down for me. Best ten bucks I have ever spent. It took them like thirty-four seconds.

Anyway, we got there with little or no incident, stopping in Canton to let Galen tinkle at the Burger King. (That sounds like he used their restroom. He did.) And arrived at my parents’ house at like 9:30 on Friday night.

As soon as we arrived we went to take Galen out of his little travel thingy and found that he had chewed through the new little harness thingy, in like less than 45 minutes. We had just stopped to let him out in Canton. He, alas, is Houdini. And my mother? Is a genius with the sewing so she had some nylon thread and fixed up his collar toute suite.

Mister and my father at an 8:40 am tee time at the country club so they got up early to go get breakfast before golfing. Oh, and can I tell ya’ll? Mister actually typed out and sent, via email, his gumbo recipe to my father… who has been knighted in the Gumbo Brother’s Circle and will reap death upon sharing the recipe with anyone who is not Mister. So, yeah, it is a very small circle, but exclusivity is the name of the game here… that and keeping the recipe a secret.

So my mother and I got up early, I basically put my pajamas on, threw some socks and tennis shoes on, put my hair in a bun and took the dog out for a walk. My mother had yet to put her make up on either so of course we started running into neighbors. When we got back to the house we fed Galen on the porch (not inside, on the porch or in the garage… just NOT INSIDE (you could see her getting anxious as I suggested putting his food dishes in the corner of the kitchen. Heh.)) and then got ready.

The guys would be back by one o’clock or so, so we waited on them in the front yard. We took Galen off of his leash, took a drink or two out front and put our lawn chairs on the drive way. We started happy hour at noon ya’ll.

My mother and I got to talk about everyone and everything and I even found this little morsel (nugget) of wisdom in our friendly banter.

Oh. My. God. My sister totally told my mother about my journal.


I made my mother swear to never try to find it because it never mentions anyone by name (Hi Stacey!) and the language is fucking** dreadful.

**Mister wants us to quit talking like sailors because he had to talk to one of his employees about her filthy mouth last week and he feels all hypocritical for telling her that her yelling, “FUCK THAT SHIT!” is not professional, when I quote Erin by saying, “You have got to be tongue-jacking my shit box!” at least twice a weekend (three times this past Sunday)… but only to him… and you all. Because I love you.

It did rain, for about twenty minutes and while it was raining the guys got back from golfing. We moved our chairs out of the way and followed them inside to have lunch and to offer our help with the gumbo preparations. We were shooed out of the kitchen so we took a drink or two more and the puppy and went back out on the driveway when it stopped raining.

Ya’ll? (And I know it is supposed to be spelled y’all, a conjunction of You and All… but my fingers just won’t do anything but ya’ll. Will you all give me this small concession and not tell the grammar Nazis? Love you, mean it.)

Ya’ll? Neighbors started coming by. I swear. I met (or got reacquainted with) six pairs of neighbors. Three of them had their dogs with them so Galen got to visit as well. We would send the men in to check on Mister and Daddy because you could smell the gumbo from Shreveport. The women would stand (we eventually just brought out more chairs and some more drinks for the ladies) and gossip. Ya’ll we had Happy Hour until 6:30 pm. Neighbors coming and going, neighbors and their dogs coming and going, I even met that shitty little schnorkie and did not (ya’ll should be proud) kick that thing square in the butt.

We finally walked around back with our little troop of neighborhood women, me and Galen so we could see how far down the lake is and found the men all sitting on the porch smoking and laughing.

When everyone left, momma, Galen and I went in and we all had dinner. It was lovely and the gumbo was delicious. My father made roux for the very first time and it was a complete success.

The dog was an angel and slept with his little paws crossed and hanging out of his little travel kennel on the way home (trick for a happy boy? Just open the door, he’ll stay in there, he just likes to know he can get out if he wants to… easy peasy.).

I love weekends like that. Visiting with friends and family. I am so looking forward to Thanksgiving.

Much love and stories on my anniversary trip… and uh, stories about Snatch later too.

November 7, 2006

He was already answering to something akin to "Hey Vagina! Come here!"

Ya’ll? I just searched my backlog of entries for the word “snatch”. Alarmingly, there were seven entries with that word and even more disturbing? None of them included the story I am about to tell you (under the penalty of disownment).

The story starts back in the early 60’s. My parents had a long and very prim and proper courtship that cumulated with their marriage in July of 1963. They traveled with one another and worked very hard at their marriage. They are still as loving and as spontaneous as those old home movies depict them to be. They still dance in the kitchen, they still snuggle and smooch on one another and they still tell each other how much they appreciate the little things. “Woman, that dinner was wonderful.” “Oh, [daddy’s first name], thank you so much for doing the dishes.”

And then they open mouth kiss for about ten minutes.

Yes, yes… it is all very sweet and kind and awwwwww, and all of that but. BUT. I must tell you that my father loves to tease my mother… mercilessly. As do my husband and brother in law. Well, I do too and my sister is awful about it as well

My mother is so sweet and sometimes trusting and gullible enough that is it almost too easy to get a rise out of her with the smallest of things.

For example, my sister, bother in law, husband and I all went in together and got my parents a 5 cd/dvd player/changer thingy for Christmas a few years ago. My husband and brother in law said that they would set it up for my parents, so they set about working. My parent’s had just gotten a new entertainment center/bookshelf/display cabinet that is huge and absolutely beautiful.

My husband and brother in law wanted to wire it into the surround sound and all of that, ‘so my parents could fully enjoy their dvd experience.’ There were wires and instruction booklets everywhere. My brother in law turned to my mother and said, “Ok, so [mother’s first name] where do you keep your hand saw?” And my husband looked over a booklet for a split second and then added (sotto voce), “And maybe an ax?”

My mother leapt to her little feet and started bustling around, “Oh, boys, no need to install anything, we’ll call a friend who does this sort of thing after the holidays…. No need… no… need.” God forefend that she insult anyone or act the least bit ungracious.

They carried on with her for about ten minutes before she started turning white. My brother in law would say, “(Mother’s first name)… no, no, no… really, we want to take care of this for you. We just need a little hammer…” And Mister, “… and maybe one of those circular saws?”

So, yes, we all love to tease her. But none more so than my father.

After they had been married for almost a year my mother decided that she wanted a pet, so a pet is what she got. She brought home this tiny little white and tortoise shell spotted male cat from a person she found in the newspaper who was giving away free kittens.

She would hold up the precious little kitty and say, “[addressing my father] So, what should we name him? [addressing the cat] What is your name little kitty?” And she went on like this for days waiting for the cat’s true name to reveal itself. Finally one day she asked my father again, “What do you think we should name the cat?” And my father muttered under his breath, “How about Snatch?”

My mother picked up on the muttered words, and not knowing the word to truly be a vernacular form for the female genitalia squealed, “Snatch? Snatch. Oh, it is a perfect name for him!”

So, the cat became Snatch.

My mother was a teacher at a school in downtown Atlanta and she had a friend there by the name of Jane. Jane, loving to tease my mother as well, would ask her in the faculty lunch room, “(mother’s name) why don’t you tell everyone about your new kitten?” So there would be my mother, “I have this new kitty whose name is Snatch, the most beautiful kitten, and so smart too!” And the coaches would be rolling on the floor and then later in the week they would see her walking down the hall and yell out to her, “Hey (mother’s name) how is your snatch?” “Oh, he’s just fine. Thank you for asking.”

My parent’s went one weekend to visit my daddy’s sister, Jean. They brought the cat with them as he was litter box trained and my mother thought he was too young to be left at home alone over a long weekend.

As soon as they got there my aunt bounded down the steps of her house and ran out to greet them. Giving hugs and kisses all around she plucked the kitten from my mother’s arms and said, “And what is your name little fella?” My mother said, “Snatch.” And beamed. My aunt, well familiar with my father and his ways, bellowed my father’s name, “Ferdinand Humphrey!?!?* I know you did NOT finagle your lovely bride into naming this kitten something that disgusting!”

*Totally not his real name. But wouldn’t it be cool if it were?

My mom was all, “What now? Pardon?” So my aunt took my sweet and sheltered mother aside and explained to her what the word “snatch” meant. My mother? In all of the great comeback lines in the history of our smart ass family replied, “I wondered why all of those coaches were so interested in my cat

Because they had named the cat many weeks previously and he was already answering to something akin to “Hey Vagina! Come here!” they changed his name that weekend to be shortened to merely Satch.

Satch was a good cat and lived a good eight years or so until my sister was born and gave him a heart/anxiety attack from withholding his food from him unless he would eat one piece of food at a time from her hand.

Poor Satch.


So. There. I told it.

I’m totally going to be fired from my family for telling you guys that. But, isn’t it a great story?

Up next? (It won’t be until next week, I will be gone for the next three business days.) The robe of degradation… partially donned by ME.

Much love.

November 20, 2006

Happy Thanksgiving 2006

Ok, first off…. I can not tell ya’ll about the robe of degradation. Not yet. I must wait until I can take a bit of time to tell you guys all about that. And now? Is just not the time. No, my poppets, now… now, is the time to panic. Now is the time to be a bit spazzy. Nay, even bajiggety.

I hate this conference. I do.

This is the time of the year when I have a three city, 38 speaker, 25 committee member, 1500 attendee monster to slay in the name of event planners everywhere. This? This is my Moby Dick.

Call me Ishmael.

No, really. I am having a serious problem over here. I thought, hey, bright idea! Let’s pull our attendees kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century. Right? Let’s forgo the tree killing fest that is all of the materials that we normally print for this conference. Let’s give the attendees a CD-Rom with all of the materials … ALL… Of… THE… MATERIALS. Bonus, right? Right. So I cat wrangle and get every presentation from all 38 speakers. (A feat in itself… and yes, I am taking a little bow.)

Now for the fun part.

I gave the master CD-Rom to the company that is going to reproduce 1600 of them for me.

They? The 1600 CD-Roms? Were supposed to be in my warehouse by 11/17/06. Oh, hello calendar. It is what? The 20th? Why that can’t be! Because if that were the case, then… oh, I don’t know… THEN MY MATERIALS WOULD BE LATE!

::deep breath::

I set up on Wednesday. For those of you who don’t know, the next day; Thursday; is Thanksgiving Day. A day to celebrate with stuffing pie in your face and sitting on the back porch with your pants undone and a tall gin and tonic (with three olives!) in your right hand and a cigarette in your left. Thursday is not a day to be all ass clenchy about some stupid conference.

Thursday is a day to cook. A day to bake. A day to zurbert your niece and to look at pictures and watch football.

If I don’t get set up on Wednesday. Then I will be shit out of luck come Monday
The 27th at say, oh, around 5 am when I get to the convention center and have to set up everything by myself in an hour and a half.

If my materials are even there.


But I love ya’ll. Love. Happy Thanksgiving Day…. And just for you? A picture of the puppy watching his “first cousin” play soccer.

March 21, 2007

Beer has nothing in it like meat!! Right?? Ha!!.... Huh?

Well, shit.

I went and told my father about my cholesterol issues the other afternoon (Monday) when I was on the way back to the office from the (hot) doctor’s appointment. I should have known better. I wanted to laugh it off with him and just let them know so they wouldn’t be all, “Susan, darling, why are you not eating the ham?” when Mister and I go over there for Easter the weekend after next.

Don’t know if I have ever let this little secret slip but my mother has been in straight panic mode since I gained weight back in 1995. Let it go momma, that ship has sailed. I will never again be a size 8 (or 12, or even and 18). She has always been very conscious of her weight… annnnnnd everyone else’s. As I have mentioned before, she is about the size of a small parrot, and might weigh as much if said parrot has been weighted down with, oh… say, a balloon or a ball point pen.

She would totally DIE if she had any inkling that y’all knew my actual weight.

And a few years ago she told Mister and I that if we didn’t lose any weight we would end up in scooters by the time we were forty.

Ah HA! Mister just turned forty in February and he is in full non-Rascal mode. I have a few years left to hit my benchmark… but I think I may miss that one by a bit, seeing as how I am fully able to run, jump, walk, dance my fool head of AND get my freak on… I think I am safe for the time being.

It is not like fucking Dr. Phil has to knock down a wall to get me out of my house when I go to work ever morning… for God’s sake.

So I got this email from her a few minutes ago.

Hi Sue:
I am worried about you!! That is scary to have your triglycerides that high!! Please do stay on the vegetarian diet for the time he said and try walking everyday when you get home. It doesn’t take long and really does help. You are heading down the road toward diabetes and please do try to keep yourself healthy!! You are only 34 and too young to be having so many health problems. I hope your sweet doctor can get you straightened out!!
Well, you will have fun this week-end and lucky, beer has nothing in it like meat!! Right?? Ha!! I know y’all will have such fun!!
Talk to you soon.
And love you a whole bunch!! MOM

This is her original email. Cut and pasted for your review. I didn’t touch formatting, spelling, punctuation or the complete and utter humiliation that settled upon me when I finished reading it.


She has felt that it was her duty to comment on my weight or dance around the topic to say anything and everything she could without actually saying, “Oh goodness. You are just so fat and I am embarrassed that you are my daughter.”

My favorite was, “But, you just have so much potential!” Potential to be thin you mean? Thin and miserable like I was back in elementary school/middle school/high school/college?

I told her a few years ago that I was relieving her of that responsibility that she felt that she had in regards to my weight. That I was a grown* woman (*no “overgrown” remarks, please) and that she did not have to talk to me about diabetes, heart health, exercise, the newest fad diets, Jenny Craig, NutriSystem or the size of my ass.

She hasn’t mentioned much in the past few years. I was so pissed about the scooter remark that when I finally got enough balls to “relieve her of that responsibility” I was so calm that I am pretty sure it freaked her out.

Hi. You may not get this, but I am perfectly aware of my size. I am perfectly aware that I gained weight (rapidly, oh, so very rapidly) back from November of 1995 to April of 1995 (60 pounds in 5 months… shut up… and close your mouth… seriously. No, I am not kidding… really, close your mouth.) for one or more of the following reasons – we’ll let you guys guess… but keep it to yourselves, alright?
1) Change in diet (ie… eating red meat as a staple for the first time)
2) Change in activity (ie… from being very active to very sedentary)
3) Change in hormones (ie… NoroPlant birth control)
4) Change in hormones (ie… tumor on my pituitary gland)
5) Change in attitude (ie… wanting to hide and a nice layer of fat being the easiest route to take)
6) Change in latitude (ie… major lifestyle change that did not suit me)

It can be one, a mix or all of the above.

The one thing that will NEVER convince someone to lose weight is if they are doing it for the wrong reasons. Also known as … for a reason other than they have decided it was time. Or… AKA, You. If a girl loses weight for a guy, she will most likely gain it back (and then some) in the near future. If a person loses weight because they are trying to look better in the clothes that they optimistically bought two sizes too small. They will probably never wear those clothes, and most likely gain a few pounds guilt eating because they spent money on clothes that they shouldn’t have. And the A#1 reason that people (and I totally mean me) will not lose weight is by having a mother hound them into a sobbing mess.

“Oh honey, you used to be so pretty.”

I have the same face… it is just rounder, the same legs, they are just thicker, the same ass, it is thicker too… and the same eyes, nose, mouth, non-eyebrows. Does a layer of fat disgust you so much that you feel it is your duty to remind people in a picture to stand up straight (also known as “Suck it IN!”) before the shutter clicks?

When I was little… and I mean LITTLE, not young… I never got the “diabetes” talk. Even though people in my family were dropping like flies because of diabetes and heart disease. I know I am at risk. I KNOW. Lord, give it a rest, please. I also know that high cholesterol is partly hereditary just like eye color. My daddy has high cholesterol… my mother? High blood pressure. So, you don’t think I know I am at risk for these things?

I just got the blood pressure under control. (By not talking to my mother… I kid. Sort of. Well, that, and anti-anxiety meds.) I can go off the blood pressure meds if I want. My (hot) doctor is pleased as punch. This? Is just something new to work on. But people (and I totally mean me) will not lose weight, start an exercise regimen or become vegetarians just because their mothers force them to with words that they (I think) totally believe come from love, but are in all honesty bitter sharp little daggers that hurt, regardless of how thick that layer of fat you have or how thick you think your (and again, I totally mean me) skin is.

July 1, 2008

I've been gone. I brought you this stupid t-shirt.

Guter tag.

Warning, this is a long one. Bring a sack lunch y’all.

Okay, so. Yeah, I’ve been gone for a while. And yeah, I was supposed to be a traveling fool for the month of June but I never expected all of the activity that actually went down. Some of you know about the drama. Some of you don’t. And to keep myself in order I think I will do this in itinerary form, with dramatic prose thrown in for me.

Long story short. I traveled a bunch and Mister lost his mother.

Long story long.

The way it was supposed to go: Destin, FL vacation from 6/6 until 6/14… get home for a day to do laundry, 6/16 in the office, 6/17-6/20 in Galveston for a conference, home the 20th and that weekend, in the office the 23rd, leave the 24th thru the 28th for an annual meeting in New Mexico, in the office yesterday the 30th.

The way it actually went.

5/29 Mister’s mom had two very bad strokes that morning, she was rushed to the hospital and Mister, his sisters and his father were sitting on pins and needles waiting for the neurosurgeon to tell them something, anything.

5/30 No change with his mother, if anything, she worsened. Mister is the only one in his clan that is not located in the mid-Florida area. His sisters asked the neurosurgeon what they should tell Mister… as he is the only one that is about 20 to 24 hours away when driving. The Dr. told the sisters that Mister should get there and that he didn’t have the 20-some-odd hours it would take to drive. I threw Mister in my car and booked him on the last flight out of Dallas and told him to just go. He got to the terminal with about 5 minutes to spare and he got to the hospital around midnight or 1 am that night. He only took his laptop bag and his CPAP machine.

PS… American wanted $1901 per person to fly. Note to AA… Suck it. I put him on Southwest. Note to Southwest, love you. Mean it.

We had planned on boarding Max (at Cat Connection) and Zeke (at Doggie Wonderland) for the week we were going to be gone to Destin, this was a week earlier than planned. The people at both places were so awesome. Max’s place closed at 6 and Zeke’s closed at 6:30pm. Guess who didn’t get the animals rounded up until 7 or so? Me. And I was all crying on the phone with the people who were keeping our furry little four-legged babies. They were so cool.

After I got the animals situated, I packed up the rest of the shit for two weeks in FL. I took stuff for a funeral and stuff for the beach. It was the most bipolar packing I have ever done. I had no idea what to expect, but I got it all crammed into the Tahoe and headed out of Dallas at about 10:15 pm.

My parents and my sister were begging me to stop at my folks house (they live in East Texas about an hour or two from Shreveport, LA) but I was all butt clenched about getting to Mister and I was so fucking worried that he didn’t even have a toothbrush with him. Count on me to worry about the important shit.

I got to the I-20 turn off at my folk’s place around midnight and called them to say I’d be there in an hour. Daddy promised to wake me an hour before dawn so I could get back on the road. I took them up on it.

Note to kind reader, yes… this was a cluster fuck. And yes the bad shit was happening to my husband but I can only tell you my side of the whole thing. Maybe he’ll give you his side someday. Until then, please bear with my “it’s all about me” writing.

5/31 Mister was at the hospital from the time they opened their doors until the time they closed the NSICU. Mister, his dad and his three sisters all stood vigil and kept his mom company in the ICU ward. Mister went and got her a battery operated radio, cd, tape player thingy because they couldn’t have anything with an electrical cord in the ICU area. They brought her favorite albums and sat around and sang to her and read her favorite passages from the Bible.

My daddy woke me up at 5 am and I showered, ate a bite of breakfast and got on the road towards Florida. I drove from 6:15 am until 10:30 pm. I stopped in Tallahassee at a Quality Inn and to my horror (I am completely spoiled when it comes to hotels) I found a pubic hair on the edge of the tub and a toenail clipping just outside the restroom door on the carpet. I was so tired that I just kept my shoes on the whole time I was in the room and washed my skin so hard in the shower that I could have scrubbed in on a surgery should I have needed to. I even showered in my contacts as I forgot that I had them in. But the gods of George A. Romero were smiling upon me as I lay down to go to sleep… my comfort movie “Dawn of the Dead” came on TBS as I was scrolling through the channels with my hands wrapped in tissues as not to touch the nasty ass remote control. I fell into a fitful rest around 1:30 am or so.

6/1 I slept until 7 am and was on the road by 8 am. Mister had made me promise to never let the gas tank in the Tahoe get any less than half full. This is a good safety measures thing that I will continue to heed for the rest of the road trips in my life. I stopped at McDonald’s and …

Here is where I tell you that Mister has lost over 50 pounds on Jenny Craig and I have lost almost 40… well, 36 or 37. And that during this past month we have put on a good eleventy trillion pounds of unwanted fat and have been very gassy. After weaning ourselves off of bad food the fast food shit didn’t sit well with our tummies.

I stopped at McDonald’s and got a chicken biscuit and an extra large iced coffee. Y’all know I don’t normally drink caffeine either as I vibrate with nervous energy like an unbalanced washing machine if I get too much of the stuff. During this trip I probably did so much caffeine that I was basically like a little meth addict. Not sleeping, all jittery, hives, inappropriate barks of laughter. It was awesome.

I called Mister from the road and decided to go down the east coast of Florida and got to the hospital before 2 pm. When I went into the hospital Mister’s dad was standing there with some people from their church and Mister’s oldest sister. They welcomed me warmly and then I got to see him. Mister came around the corner and gave me the biggest hug.

Now, to be honest I had no idea what to expect. With my maternal grandmother, she was just riddled with cancer but she was ready to go. She wanted to die, she wanted to go to heaven her body was just too strong. It was really beautiful to lay there on the floor next to her bed in the hospice and watch her doing the helpless gestures and other signs of death because I knew she was ready to go. When we had her viewing with just the family… my sister, my mother and I gathered around her and… well, we noticed that her wig was crooked. So, I gently pulled it back into place. Her little head wobbled… and we got the giggles.

This may sound absolutely morbid to some of you, but she was at rest. She was at peace, she was not there. It was just a body. We got to say our goodbyes and lay in bed with her and talk to her during her lucid periods. It was beautiful.

What I found when I got to the hospital on June 1st was…. Not.

Mister signed me in to the NSICU ward and I got a little name tag and he took me upstairs. When we went into the IC unit it was clear to me that his mother wasn’t there either. Yes, she was breathing but she was not there.

She had sent a copy of her living will to Mister and his two older sisters (and even gave a copy of it to Mister’s dad) last March before she was admitted into the hospital to have her knee operated on. She also had a DNR (do not resuscitate) on file for the knee surgery. The Living Will stated that should she be in a vegetative state, have a terminal illness or … one other thing that she already was… that after trying everything to save her for 72 hours, she would be taken off of a ventilator, feeding tube, oxygen, basically everything but an IV for hydration and comfort measures (morphine). Please keep this in mind.

6/2 Back to the hospital. We sang to her, talked to her, watched her reflexes and the color of her urine darken. Okay, the last one was just Mister and me. We called this guy to give us the low down (with no sugar coating or a side of bullshit) and got the skinny on something called the Glasgow Coma scale… the neurologist listed Mister’s mother as a 3.

It was Monday and she hadn’t responded or opened her eyes since her strokes on Thursday morning.

We would stay at the hospital all day, sitting in the waiting room or in his mother’s room all day. Our only respite was to smile politely at the teeny waiting room Nazi in her pink shirt and white nurse’s shoes. As a volunteer who was supposed to support and help those who were in need of comfort or direction she sucked, as a drill instructor she would have been fabulous.

6/3-6/5 More of the same. Only by the 5th I was physically biting my cheeks to keep from reminding the family of the 72 hour living will thing. Mister was doing the same. Only not just that but he was also struggling with the fact that his sisters’ all act like they are closer than bread and butter but when we cooked dinner for the clan at his oldest sister’s home one evening we found out it was his closest sister’s first time to be in her older sister’s home. Hmmm, close. And. Oh, and.

Y’all. Have I ever told you about my engagement ring? Well, I haven’t even told you about how Mister and I met… so probably not. Here’s the brief version. We wanted to get married. Mister wanted to buy me a diamond. I was all, “Eh… we’ve each been married previously, why don’t we just do bands?” He was insistent. Wanted to get me a diamond but neither one of us could afford it. In 1995 he was t-boned on I-95 outside Orlando by a courier truck. He has basically had a headache for 13 years. He has endured acupuncture, pain medication, chiropractic care, you name it… he has had it. Around January of 2003 he got a letter in the mail from the courier company that the truck that hit him had worked for. From their attorney. It basically said, “Mister, by signing this letter you admit guilt in the matter of us t-boning you on the highway back in 1995. And by signing this letter you waive any right to sue us at a later date.” Mister, being a smart man, researched the verbiage on how to respond with a legal-eezed-up “Fuck you, and the truck that t-boned me.” A few months after he sent the pretty worded F-You, he got a check in the mail and with part of it, he got me a ring. So basically I wear his pain on my hand. If that isn’t a good man for you, I don’t know what is.

The reason I just word vomited on the page about that story is because one day in the hospital cafeteria his oldest sister basically called me high falutin’ for having a diamond (that you can actually see with the naked eye) on my hand. Me. High falutin’.

Let that sink in.

I didn’t respond to her baiting (y’all would have been so proud), nor did I hide my hand and my ring under the table. I didn’t tell her the story of the ring either as that is none of her business. Mister was floored. He asked me, “Do you think she knows what she just said to you?” I answered, “Of course. And I hope it made her feel terrific to try and put me down.” We gave each other a thumbs up and went back upstairs to his mother’s bedside.

This is where I get a little icky. For those of you who are squeamish, please pick back up around 6/8 or so.

I have this incredible sense of smell. It is a curse and also a blessing. Aw, hell, it is just a curse. I can smell it when my traveling companion/stranger on an airplane buries a fart into the cushion of the seat. Some perfumes that women wear actually hurt my face. I can tell when smokers enter a restaurant. I can smell pneumonia or bronchitis at about 10 paces. And I can smell death. When we would leave the hospital each evening around 8:30 or so as soon as we got somewhere with a washer and dryer I would strip both of us and wash our clothes, then go scrub myself into a puffy pink mess in the shower.

Her breath was… wrong. I could smell the infection inside her and her breath was sticking to me. I could smell the death in my hair, on my clothes. It was awful… And for those of you still reading, I am sorry. I just wanted to be totally honest here. I asked Mister if he minded if I wrote out the story of the last month and he said, “No, just don’t use my parent’s names, the town they live in or my sister’s names.” So, here I am. Giving you all this verbal diarrhea.

You’re welcome.

6/6 The family finally asked for a meeting with the neurologist and the cardiologist. The meeting was scheduled for 3 pm on the 6th. Mister went in with his research and clearly typed questions to ask so that he could fulfill the task that his mother set out for him in her living will. In her Living Will she asked that the oldest sister to be the medical and financial guardian, that the second one take care of the funeral arrangements, that Mister take care of organ donation and that they all make decisions so that the youngest and Mister’s dad wouldn’t have to. Since the oldest was in charge we couldn’t (even though the rest of us except the oldest and Mister’s dad) say, “For the love of all that is Holy. Let her go. It’s been a week and a day… that is past her 72 hour wish.” Mister actually said, “It’s like someone says that they want a certain song and roses for their funeral and another person comes along and says, ‘Well, the song is okay… but we’re going to get you carnations instead.’”

The meeting was convoluted and like chasing a deer through the forest. Mister would ask, “Is she breathing on her own enough to remove the ventilator?” The neurologist would say, “Well, yes, she is breathing on her own, with the assistance of the ventilator.” So Mister would counter with, “Okay, then if she needs assistance then she is not breathing on her own.” The neurologist, “Technically, she is….” Mister, “Alright, then what is the oxygen saturation level with her ‘technically’ breathing on her own?” It was ugly. The doctors finally used the word coma around Mister’s dad and then they left the room to let us make a decision whether or not to obey her final wishes.

Mister’s dad was so sad y’all. He said, “Okay, so, she’s not coming back. When do you guys think we should start the 72 hour clock that she asked for in her living will?” One of Mister’s brothers-in-law spoke up, “Dad, the 72 hours passed a long time ago.” That was the beginning of the end.

The family cried and discussed what they wanted to do. They decided to let her go the next day at noon.

6/7 At noon the family gathered around her bed and read her favorite verses out of the Bible. They prayed, they talked to her and then they stepped out of the room while the nurses unhooked her. When we could all go back in the EKG monitor was still hooked up. Her heartbeat was amazingly irregular. And she coughed up that thingy that they put into coma victim’s mouths to keep their tongue down. The family fled and then one by one came back.

I was left alone in the room with Mister’s mom… a lot that week. I don’t know if it was because I was/am an outsider, or because I wasn’t as emotionally tied to it… but I really didn’t mind. It was fine (everything except the smell).

The hospital moved her down to a private room and we all sat around and watched her like a science fair project until Mister had enough. He stood, we hugged everyone and then went to pack and leave. He wanted to go to Destin to the family vacation that we had been looking forward to for the better part of the year.

We left that evening and got to Destin around 1 am.

6/8 We hung out on the beach and had shrimp and sundaes that evening. It was fun but strained. We went to the neighbors’ porch to smoke cigars and hang out.

6/9 Mister wanted to make his famous gumbo for our dinner for the family. The other family loves his gumbo so much that they offered to pay him to make a double batch. My mother and I chopped the trinity (onions, green peppers and celery) while Mister did the roux. The gumbo turned out fantastic and everyone was pleased. That evening we went to AJ’s bar and grill and I told the two younger brothers of our traveling neighbors that it was their job to get Mister drunk. He ended up getting all three of them drunk. The alcohol allowed Mister to show some emotion that evening so it was a late night for us.

6/10 My sister and I hired a professional photographer to take our pictures on the beach as normally we just have one of the traveling neighbors do it. She was lovely and took amazing pictures at sunset that evening. Mister wasn’t a bit green.

6/11 Deep sea fishing day. I’m not going to say much, but damn. My brother in law caught a 160 pound, six and a half foot long bull shark with 80 pound test line. I’m also not going to tell you that the captain of our boat shot the shark so that they could bring him on board. Or that fourteen of us ate our weight in grilled, blackened and fried shark and red snapper.

6/12-6/13 The days passed in a lull. I would hang out on the beach while Mister hung out in the condo watching movies or napping. I started to get restless. The afternoon of the 13th Mister said that he wanted to stop over in New Orleans on our way home. I said, “Well, you couldn’t relax last week, you haven’t relaxed here, do you think that you will be able to relax there?” He nodded to the affirmative and so I asked him to get online and find us a place to stay. We packed up and left that afternoon, getting into New Orleans (at the W…. Love you W… Love you so much!) at 9 pm or so. They took such good care of us. We walked over to a jazz café and had dinner and music then we walked down Bourbon Street and into the Cajun Cabin to hear the Can’t Hardly Play Boys play their last set. It was so comforting to see something familiar in New Orleans. On the drive in I almost cried because of all of the devastation still around.

6/14 We slept late and had a late breakfast. The W gave us a 4 o’clock check out (did I mention that I love the W?) and we packed up our stuff and hit Royal street to do a little look-n-see. The night before we had picked up a “What’s Happening” magazine and picked our places that we each wanted to see the next day. Mister picked an antique gun/rifle/coin store and I picked a gallery with beautiful art*. We made it back in time for a late lunch and to get a late start on our drive home. Mister had relaxed for about 12 hours since we found out about his mom and those 12 were in New Orleans. On the way out of town he got a bit anxious and asked me to pull to the median so he could drive out of the traffic. We made it home that night around 2 am.

*More on this later.

6/15 Laundry.

6/16 Mister and I both had to go into the office on Monday. They were jacking with my computer as we just got new laptops and wireless cards so I had to stay until 8:30 pm that evening to get my work done for the conference I was leaving for the next morning at 6 am.

6/17-18 Travel and set up for conference. First day of the conference on the 18th.

6/19 Fucked up day. Some guy had a diabetic seizure in one of my classrooms. There were all these men standing around the poor guy trying to give him juice or coke. I nearly lost my shit. They could have killed him. As soon as I heard about the “guy that may have Tourette’s in Ballroom C” I called security to alert them then dialed 911 as I was running to the room. I pulled the guy out with the help of another gentleman and it took both of us to hold him in a chair until the paramedics got there. When they got there we put him on the floor and it took three paramedics, a security guy and me to hold him to take his blood sugar. He was seizing so hard that he lost a shoe. His blood sugar for the first draw was 27. He took three big vials of that glucose (?) stuff and two shots of what I am guessing was insulin before he got to 70-something and started coming around.

I was sitting on the floor with one knee up and he was leaning against my knee and my chest as I held his shoulders. He was so embarrassed but I am so glad it happened at the conference instead of in his room alone. Poor guy.

That evening I was feeling all sorts of twitchy and it didn’t help that there was blood on the moon (blood on the moon, trouble’s comin). See? Look. I took this picture with my weak camera.


That little red spot? Is the freaking MOON**.

**M-O-O-N spells Tom Collins.

I kinda dropped my basket a little and cried like a big snotty hot mess out on the balcony for a while. I knew what was coming but I didn’t know when.

6/20 5:15 am I got a phone call from Mister’s dad. He told me that they had just lost mom fifteen minutes prior. I spoke with him for a while then called Mister who had just gotten off the phone with his oldest sister. I caught a shuttle to the airport and took an earlier flight home. I walked in the door, changed into shorts and we walked right back out again, boarded the animals and got on the road. We made it to Baton Rouge at 2 am.

What the hell is it with me and 2 am?

Word to the wise. I love me some Starwood Properties but the Sheraton in Baton Rouge just off of I-10 needs a major overhaul in the management department. The front desk was basically unmanned, there were no bellmen, the valet guy didn’t even offer to help with our bags (and everywhere we stopped the preventative measures in Mister demanded that we unpack EVERYTHING) and it is a casino, so everything should be running 24 hours. NO. Hate. Going to write a letter, and not a good one. There were what appeared to be food particles and hair in the bed clothes. GAH. And we were on the Club floor!

6/21 We slept in a bit and hit the road for a very long trip. We got into Live Oak or Lake View or something off of the 295 Loop just outside of Jacksonville and stopped at a Days Inn at? Yeah, around 2 am. Seriously, I wish I had my batteries for the camera juiced up because I think there was a murder in the room we stayed in. The La-Z-Boy recliner in the corner had a very suspicious stain from industrial strength cleaner and two scary holes that looked like .22 caliber.

6/22 We got into Mister’s old home town around 1:30 the next afternoon.

6/23 Mister ran an airport shuttle for relatives coming in for the memorial service and I hung out with his dad and watched eleventeen movies until 1:30 am when Mister returned.

6/24 I can’t rememeber.

6/25 Memorial service. And dinner with 21 people at Olive Garden. That evening I got to spend some time with my Aunt Sue (she’ll be 94 on 7/7/08) and Mister hung out with his dad.

6/26 We went to lunch with Aunt Sue, her son and daughter in law and then over to her son’s house. He wanted to show Mister his fishing rods. We hung out with Mister’s dad and then had dinner with Mister’s ex-stepson. Mister had 4 step kids when he was 22. He was married for 10 years and this is the 2nd to oldest. They bonded and it was a regular love fest (which is awesome) and then we went back to Mister’s dad’s house. Packed up and left.

We drove until just east of Tallahassee and then stopped at a Holiday Inn Express that was pretty nice.

6/27 I was up with the chickens and wanting to pack up and get the hell home. I was grating on Mister’s nerves as my caffine addiction reached a fever pitch and I would NOT shut up (RE: See this post for the love of God.). Mister made himself a little nest in the back seat, plugged in his converter, his laptop into that and the wireless card and did research all the way to my parent’s house … at 2 (fucking) am.

6/28 I slept until 11 am and then we went to lunch with my folks. My goal was to be home Saturday evening so I could have ONE day before I had to go back to the office. I promised not to push Mister in leaving my parent’s house. I even kept my yawp shut when after lunch and a chat with my parents Mister went to take a nap. I packed up and took a little 15 minute cat nap too. Then we were off for Dallas.

Found out my sister is being tested for Lupus. My mother doesn’t know. NOBODY TELL.

We got in at 7:30 pm and I had enough time to unpack and do some laundry before I went to bed at around 1 am.

6/29 Picked up the dog from Doggie Wonderland. Did laundry. Ate Pei Wei, was disappointed.

6/30 Back to work. Picked up the cat after work, went home. Laundry.

7/1 Found out Mister has to have shoulder surgery on the 18th.

Fucking June.

December 29, 2008

His favorite hymn was "Beulah Land"

The end of the year is closing in fast and I have to tell you, this has been one hell of a ride. And to be quite frank, I really don’t mean that in a good way. I have been in this slight state of panic for almost eight months and I am sick of it. I know that words are powerful, thoughts are powerful and love and hate although at opposite ends of the spectrum are both powerful as well.

Ah, gah. I was going to get all self-righteous and indignant and talk about how blessed we are and yet…. how bitchy… but you know what?

This calls for a story instead.

Let’s go into the memory file drawer and pull out something from the late nineties. How does that strike you? What about early nineties? Early Y2K? I’m just gonna close my eyes and spin around (watch out Zeke) and pin the tail on the….

Ew. Nope, putting that one back. It was the late eighties and there was bad hair, family drama and an ultimatum or two.

Closing my eyes…. Spinning around… pinning the tail on the…

Ooh, lookit this one. Damn, I’ve already told you that one before.

So much has happened this year, the memories that I pull out to look at like shiny baubles in a jewelry box just don’t have the sparkle that they normally do. Normally I can pull out a funny, interesting, crazy memory and I turn it over in my mind, almost tasting it on my tongue, hear the laughter (tears, screaming) and those are the things I want to share with you but sadly I am coming up blank. Well, not blank, just kind of stuck on one thing.

Let’s just get caught up a little shall we?

When I last left you a little love note I had just returned from Chicago with a wonderful group of people. The ones I call my tribe. Since then I have had something on my plate most days that I haven’t even been able to catch up on reading (stalking) my regular writers/bloggers/journalists. You know who you are, you cheeky little monkeys.

Thanksgiving was pleasant with family out at my parents’ lake house and then I ramped up for a three city conference that has been taking more and more out of me every year. I DID however, put up the Christmas tree. Well, to be honest, Mister put the three pieces together so that when I came home between the second and the third cities of that little circus there it was, the unlit, slightly lilting to the left tree. No skirt, no presents, no ornaments.

I righted the pitiful thing, plugged in the lights, put the skirt around the bottom and put three ornaments on it and called it good. Hey, last year there wasn’t even time to do that much, so I think it was an improvement.

I shopped for the family all day one Saturday and I wanted to punch most people in the face.

Hi, Santa, can I have some Christmas cheer and a big bottle of Belvedere Citrus to get me in the spirit of giving?

On the afternoon before Christmas Eve my daddy called me at work. “Hey baby, you’re momma’s come down with some bug. We won’t be coming over for Christmas this year… and one more thing. Your Uncle Gene? They called the ambulance to come and take him to the hospice today.”

Christmas Eve I wrapped the presents and Mister and I went over to my sister’s to spend the evening with her and her family. We really did have a good time. The kids went to sleep and the four adults (yes, I was included) opened our gifts to one another.

Christmas morning, Uncle Gene died.

Mister and I went back over to my sister’s house Christmas morning and while we were all in the midst of baking/cooking/eating/playing Guitar Hero World Tour my sister and I booked airline tickets and a rental car to get to north Georgia. The visitation was Saturday and the funeral was Sunday. My parents had packed up on Christmas Day and drove over.

My sister and I left early Saturday morning and got there around 2:00 and immediately changed clothes to greet the droves of people coming to my Aunt’s home to bring food.

That evening there was a line of people paying respects to my Uncle Gene and my Aunt that was three hours long. This is in no way an exaggeration. I wanted to be the last person in line so I could hug her neck, kiss her face and ask her if she would like to have a date with me on her porch that included a Diet Coke and about seven cigarettes. She said she would be delighted, she just needed to kiss her baby goodnight before we left. (heart = broken)

My Aunt is a saint y’all. A SAINT. The oldest of three children, lost her brother in Vietnam, lost her parents (to whom she was the main care giver) in 1991 and 1992 respectively (within 10 months of one another) and has been taking care of my Uncle who has been for the most part an invalid for the past five years.

All six of the first cousins were there with their families and when my cousin Beth walked in the door Saturday night I cried, and I cried hard. I had not seen her in seventeen years.

My sister and I are the youngest of the cousins and I… am the baby.

My Aunt and Uncle lived on the same property as my grandparents. When my sister and I were younger we’d be flying out my grandmother’s kitchen door as soon as we were done with breakfast running across the dirt driveway, down the hill, past the grapevines, the pecan trees and the garden… hopping the irrigation ditch as our mother yelled from behind us, “Giiiiiiiiiiiirls! Where are you going?” We’d yell back over our shoulders, “To Aunt Jean and Uncle Gene’s!”

We’d fly over the grass, pass the gravel driveway and leap up the stairs to Aunt Jean’s porch. Uncle Gene would have a project or two for us to do and their daughter, Lynn would have things planned for us to do as well… playing with Barbies, putting on makeup, loving on Lynn’s dog and feeding carrots to the pony across the fence.

And there was Aunt Jean, always waiting with a Coca-Cola in one hand, a smile on her face, a kiss and hug for each one of us and a question, “What can I fix for you girls to eat? We have plenty of everything, just let me know…” She let me play in her jewelry, taught us at Sunday school when we were in town and knew everyone and everything about what was going on.

She was on the radio and would take us with her to the station. She worked tirelessly for Georgia Power for a million years. She has always taken care of everyone around her.

Uncle Gene was my sister’s favorite when she was little. Since she was the first baby to come along since Beth (Chip, Greg, Lynn, Beth, my sister and then me) everyone wanted to hold her, love on her, coo over her and rock her on those fabulous rockers on my grandparents’ front porch. My sister was not a cuddler, she would squirm away from anyone who tried to hold her and she was fiercely independent. Uncle Gene never tried to hold her, he let her come to him, and so she did. She would just sit next to him and if she wanted to talk, he’d listen. If she wanted to read, he’d listen, if she wanted to sing, he would join her… his rich baritone voice would echo through the house just like it did on Sundays at church.

I have a friend* that has twin brothers. His family (and all that knew them as little things) always called them by one name AllenDarrell as if they were a unit. That is how I have always seen Aunt Jean and Uncle Gene. A unit. A force.

I know Aunt Jean is tired, I know her heart is hurting, I know she is missing her other half. So please, if you would, please say a prayer and picture her in light and comfort. My prayer is that she will find peace and a little release… some freedom from always being the one people turn to. Also, that she will know Uncle Gene is watching over her and that he is no longer in pain.

If you haven’t yet, today… right now, go grab your cat, dog, roommate, spouse, significant other, parent, parakeet, coworker, friend… and if you can’t grab them in a hug or give them a kiss, call them and tell them that you love them.

*I need to call him, he and AllenDarrell buried their daddy the day before Thanksgiving.

July 29, 2010

The List

Y'all. I can not make this stuff up.

My divorce was final on June 1st and this morning (it's about 9 am) I got this email from my mother.

The email was titled, "The List" and ..... well here, I'll just let you see for yourselves.

"OK, Sue, you still have time to make it 47* years with Mr. Right!! Here is the list:

Criteria for men:
Similar background
White (WASP)
Similar education
Good job
Not many kids to support
Family person
Fun, cool, likes dancing, going out and music

Steer clear of:
Guys with no ambition (Slackers---Dad’s word)
Someone with a load of baggage
Someone you would be ashamed of
Someone who is a mooch or owes a lot of money
Someone who does not pay YOU attention ----put you on a pedestal
Someone who wants you to support him or be “his Mama”
Someone who lives with his mama
Guys who goes from one to the other----“ladies men” or cheaters
Guy who drinks too much----problems!!

Good luck!! Don’t date anyone over twice you would not marry!!

I love you!! MOM"

#1 Notice that they left women off the list. Bar's open ladies! WOO WOOO!

#2 *Apparently I am going to die when I am 85. Don't jack with my momma, she's witchy like that.

#3 Heh. God, I love my parents.

Have a good weekend y'all, I know I will. Now, where're all the White (WASP-y) women at?

About Family

This page contains an archive of all entries posted to Suzanna Danna in the Family category. They are listed from oldest to newest.

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