Suzanna Danna

I have had my hotmail account for what seems like decades. I want to keep it for sentimental reasons and also because I have some really cool coupons linked to that account.

However, I am sick (and tired!) of the spam*.

I do not want to purchase a Russian bride.

I do not want to view “The Most Jizz In One Place!”.

I do not want to enlarge my penis.

I do not want my own free XXX account to view hot, wet sorority sluts.

I do not want to click here to see the cast of Friends naked.

I do not want to consolidate my bills with someone named Fred.

I do not want to join a business venture with some Nigerian house frau who needs my account number to my bank account to “retrieve” the funds her poor, departed husband left in the United States.

I do want to be able to look at the truly tasteless jokes and retarded crap my friends send me without having to delete 27 emails before I come upon (no pun intended to the smut emails listed above, thank you) an email address that looks even slightly familiar.

*That one little word SO elicits the urge in me to completely reenact that nugget of Monty Python goodness called the Spam skit. Spam Spam Spam Spam….

I have some exciting news.

Mister and I are going to a marriage seminar this weekend. The tag line for the seminar is, “If you are getting married in 3 months or have been married for 30 years, you’ll get solutions you can use!” He sent the link to me earlier in the week and it seems like something that can guide us a little bit in how to help us with the foundation of our marriage.

Yep, we’re getting married. As a matter of fact, we went yesterday to look at more rings. We went to this little store called the Diamond Broker. Mister had visited this store alone and wanted me to meet the proprietor. He also wanted me to look at a ring that he liked.

The man has amazing taste ya’ll. I didn’t fall in love with the ring though. So we asked to see some loose stones.

Loose stones…

Stone: Hey Baby… wanna date?
Me: Um…
Stone: I gots whatchoo need!
Me: No thanks, I’m good.
Stone: I’m famous baby! Fayyyyyyyymmmuuuuuuuuuuuzzz!
Me: Famous? Huh?
Stone: I was featured in an All Anus Slut Orgy Party. You may have received an email about it.
Me: That was you? … gross.
Stone: Don’t be hatin! By the way, I am from Nigeria and my poor departed pimp left some funds…
Me: [runs away] Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

Annnnnnnyway.

Al, the proprietor, pulled out some stones that were not mounted and I fell in LOVE. Love I say! I fell in love with a beautiful oval shaped diamond. Mister and I have been to many places to look at rings and stones. We have tried the large chains, we have tried the small chains. We have been to malls. We have inquired at pawnshops. No stone has ever touched me [Shut up, I told you it was a loose stone.] the way this stone did. The brilliance, the shape, the color. A D for goodness sakes! It’s a D!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! For those of you who want to know about diamond color, cut, clarity and carats please click here. The link will take you directly to color. For those of you who couldn’t care less, D color is the best, colorless, white, gorgeous!

I am so excited.

I even bought his wedding ring. It is so pretty, so manly. So perfect and simple.

I tried to call my parental units to tell them about the exciting news. They were golfing or doing something fabulous and fun that retired people do so I left a message, all stammering. My sister called later and I told her. She was excited for me.

She called this morning all squealing…….. still.

Love that about having a sister. J

Wish me luck at the marriage seminar!

Good morning baby, awwwww. [g’mornin kiss]

And what would you like to do today?

How about a manicure and a pedicure?

Would you wear your hair curly? Even if it is the fastest way to fix it… I like it that way.

My…you look really pretty. Rawr.

I love your hair that way. [stroke the hair]

God, you really are beautiful. [squeeze me with just the right amount of strength]

I love my Valentimes gift. Happy Thanksgiving! [grin]

No, really, we’ll go up to Sam Moon this afternoon.

How did I get so lucky?

Mmmm luscious bootay! [pat the bootie]

[quietly] Kiss me.

I love you so much. I really am the luckiest man in the world.

Where would you like to go for dinner tonight?

How about your favorite, El Fenix? No, really, I know how much you love that place. Sure, no, that’s ok. We found something there that I like too didn’t we?

I’m so happy.

Sweet dreams my love. I hope you sleep well.

Goodnight, [insert my full name here] I love you.

If that is not the most wonderful running commentary for Valentine’s Day, I don’t know what is. Mister is the sweetest man on the planet and I am lucky to have him. I feel like I get a present everyday when he opens his eyes, his mouth and his heart.

I feel almost guilty about the amount of happiness this man instills in me on a daily basis. But yanno what? I have paid my dues. I asked him last night what I did to deserve such an amazing man such as he. Mister looked me in the eyes and told me that I have paid over and over for a chance at happiness like this. That’s why I love this man so much. He is intuitive and introspective.

Other reasons include:

He is kind, generous, loving, incredibly brilliant, responsible, reliable, loyal, lovable, has a great sense of humor, cute feet, a beautiful smile, handsome as the debil!, generous, a great cook, an amazing lover and my best friend.

Ya’ll don’t tell but I have a picture of Cupid canoodling a goat. He effin owed me.

Yesterday Mister and I dined at Arby’s for lunch.

We are trying to log as much lunchtime as possible as his last day with his present employer is the 25th.

We did not run into any talking oven mitts or any unruly horseradish, but we were, however, accosted verbally by the manic woman (on an upswing) manning the cash register. She greeted us with a hearty, “HEY!” in almost a screech.

Mister and I both turned to look behind us, totally expecting to view a man running away with a freshly snatched purse or something. No one was behind us.

We tentatively approached her realm of ‘all that is menu’ to make our selection.

After getting our chicken strips and roast beef sammich we found a cozy little booth and sat down to enjoy our meal.

Suz: Bite? [holding out her sandwich]

Mister: No thank you.

Suz: [noticing an old man parking his pick up, getting out and hobbling inside] Oh look. He’s so cute with his little blue coveralls, I wonder if he would let me hug him.

Mister: Most likely, but he’d probably goose you, then I’d have to clobber his ancient ass.

Suz: I love old men, always have yanno… hasn’t momma told you stories?

Mister:Yeah, so… what was the deal with that Scandinavian Goat Farmer?

Suz: Oh, that was just a phase.

Wacked Out Cashier Lady [approaching the table] So, how is lunch for you two?

Mister: Fine, thank yo….

Wacked Out Cashier Lady [rapidly nodding her head] Great, great! Perfect, wonderful! Greatgreatgreat! [and… she retreats]

Suz: What was all that about? [under her breath] freak.

Mister: HellifIknow. [under his breath] spaz.

Suz: chew

Mister: chew

Suz: Ok, I have to ask… where did the ‘Scandinavian Goat Farmer’ thing come from?

Mister: Remember our first date how we went on and on about that cockeyed parakeet with the overactive air bladder (so that he flew all screwy) and that he had a slight over-beak [makes the hand motion to signify the over-beak… like an overbite.] a shaggy mane and a spastic colon?

Suz: snort Heh, yeah… you’re funny.

Mister: Well, I have a theory about the secret to being a great comedian.

Suz: Oh reeeeallly? … Ut oh.

Wacked Out Cashier Lady [approaching the table] So, how is going?

Mister: Just fine, thank yo….

Wacked Out Cashier Lady [rapidly nodding her head] Perfect, perfect wonderful! Great wonderful!! [and… she retreats]

Mister: Uh…

Suz:… Lithium much?

Mister: Heh, … anyways…. My secret for success for comedians is loosely based on … oh, what’s his name?...that fat one from Tommy Boy…

Suz: Chris Farley? Can’t wait to hear this one….

Mister: Yanno how he would take the most ordinary thing and build it into this big description?

Suz: Yep….

Mister: The more adjectives you put into something, the funnier it is… take for instance…the corn-fed harvest mouse… Ut oh, here she comes again.

Wacked Out Cashier Lady [approaching the table] Are ya’ll doing ok?

Mister: Yes.

Wacked Out Cashier Lady [rapidly nodding her head] Wonderful news!!!!!!!!!! [and… she retreats, breaking into a song about rainbows and elves… kidding… sorta]

Mister: I think I’m gonna get a cherry turnover thing. Want one?

Suz: No, thank you.

Suz: … wait… yes, I do.

Suz: No, no I don’t.

Mister: Are. You. Sure? [gets up to go to the counter]

Suz: Yes, thank you. [leans over her tray to take a small bite of her sandwich, promptly drops a dollup of ketchup on her boob.]

Suz: Dammit. [addressing her boobs….] Ladies, ladies, ladies, I even have on the minimizer and you catch the ketchup.

Mister: What?

Suz: Nothin, I’m just talking to my boobs.

Mister: …………….. ok [continues to the counter]

That is why I love him people. He makes me laugh, handles my ever-changing mind like a pro and doesn’t think twice about me talking to my hooters.

When my sister and I were little we would enclose ourselves in the bathroom and take stock of everything that we had under the sink.

Shampoo, conditioner, toothpaste, mouthwash, detangeler, Q-Tips™, Dixie cups and hairspray. Nail polish remover and that setting lotion for hair too. Not to mention the cleaning products like Comet and those scrubbing bubbles™ guys.

We would line up the products on the counter, bust out the Dixie cups and commence to make the largest mess possible by mixing different combinations of all the ingredients. Two little curly headed precious girls making a mess that would deter even Alice from the Brady Bunch.

We would mix the ingredients with one another regardless of toxic fumes or whether it would eat through the paper cup. We would sneak Daddy's shaving cream to give a particular potion a frothy finish.

We called this game playing Scientist.

While driving home from work last night I was thinking about what to make for dinner. I was mentally lining up all the ingredients that I had in the pantry, the freezer and in the refrigerator to see what I could make.

I guess we never really stop playing Scientist.

Now it’s just called cooking.

It hath been written that I suck at making titles for these journal/diary entries.

Duly noted.

I will, from this point forward pick a random grouping of letters and words from within the entry itself for the title. Kinda Indie in it’s I don’t care how this looks, …. BUT I really do! sort of way… no?

Yeah, I don’t think I pulled that off too smoothly either.

I would like to pass a motion that I have the best husband on earth…

Seconded….

All In favor?

Aye!

Check this out. Do you guys remember that Mister has taken a job with a new company? Well, he has. The company was so jonesing for him to start that they asked him if he would double-dip and work for both his current employer and his new one during the duration of his two-weeks notice.

He said he would, and because he is such a rock star with a ginormous brain he is doing just that. And succeeding.

If I were asked to work two full time jobs that required me to use more than 02% of my brain I would be reduced to a quivering pouting heap on the floor. I would be whimpering a mantra of “It’s too hard. It’s tooooo haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrD!!!” This would be accompanied by a great gnashing of teeth and rending of flesh… not to mention wailing. Yep, lots of wailing. Lots and lots of wailing.

Did I mention the wailing?

Yeah, so that wouldn’t be so pretty. Not to mention annoying as all hell.

But my husband, my husband…

[And the clouds open up and bathe him in a glorified light of the heavens.]

My husband asked me last week to take this Friday off. I did as he asked and took a personal day. He told me that it was a surprise and that we were going away for the weekend. So immediately I got all “Squeeee!”

Why were we going away for the weekend you ask? Yeah, I asked too. Nosey little bitch ain’t I?

This beautiful man said these words to me, “Well baby, I’ve been working for both companies for the past week and it has been taking time away from us. This trip is just for us to get away. No visiting of relatives. Just us time.”

[And the angels started singing.]

He then asked me to help him arrange our flights and a room for Thursday night at a hotel… in Orlando.

He hath been secretive, he hath been quiet… but he finally broke at lunch today.

I’m so excited I may pee a little.

The plan is this…

Thursday night we fly into Orlando, get in late and get situated in our hotel. Maybe we go out drinking and dancing, a little night on the town, maybe we hang out at the pool and drink froo froo drinks and dance the Macarena.

Friday …. Hee!… Friday we go to a Disney park of my choice. Epcot? Magic Kingdom? MGM Studios? It’s up to me. That evening we go spend the night with Mister’s best friend (Jeff) and his family. Hang out and relax time after a day in the sun.

Saturday Jeff’s wife and I are scheduled to spend a day at a spa. No more details there. I just heard the word spa and had a mini braingasm. Spa. Me, at a spa in Florida all day….All Friggin Day on Saturday!… Just a few days from today. Spaaaaaaaaaaah. Mmmmmm puuuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

Saturday night we are all going to Disney Village for a nice dinner. Dancing?, Maybe.

Sunday we pack up, and have another “US” day and fly back to Dallas late that night.

Did I mention that he is SO getting laid?

Yeah, I didn’t think I needed too either.

Tonight, before I cook a wonderful meal for my angelic and oh so hot hubby [please see above] I have an appointment.

Nay, I will not be joining the leagues of soccer moms and barely legal teens at the local Vietnamese nail salon for a refresher for my manicure and pedicure.

I am having something else done entirely.

Because we are going to Florida and I am roughly the color of Cool Whip (not Strawberry) I decided that I would try the airbrush tanning technique. I did not want to try the mist on deal because I have seen ‘When Misting Goes Bad’.

It was an after school special on ABC… featuring Paris Hilton.

My coworker directed me to this quaint little shop in Plano that does the airbrush tanning technique. I called, acted like a total tool (unintentionally of course), asked questions of Marci the owner and made an appointment for this afternoon.

Apparently the spray they use has no bronzer so they guarantee you will not turn orange like that Julian guy in Bridgett Jones’ Diary. The spray reacts with some sort of amino acids in your skin and slowly darkens you over 6 to 8 hours. She said that the spray works better on pale people better because it is more of a drastic change.

I swear, if I turn orange, I will be loofa-ing my skin until it is red (better than ORANGE!) and raw. I will be a tomato with legs for our Just Us trip.

Please think good thoughts for my non-oranging.

This one’s gonna be short as I am leaving early to go to Florida today for the start of our long, debauchery filled weekend!

At 3:30 pm, Mister will arrive at my office in his shiny Lincoln LS to whisk me away to Dallas Love Field. We will then park the LS and make our way to the curbside check in, all the while muttering curses at our exceptionally heavy luggage. The sky caps will take our luggage and curse the heaviness while we bribe them with money not to loose said luggage on purpose just because it is heavy and we are a pain in their shorts wearin, Southwest airlines working butts.

Onward to the gate we will traverse to find that even though we are the first ones there for our flight. Ninja boarding will ensue… guaranteeing we will be crammed into a row with a mouth breather named Urn and his brood of eleventy-four dirty Wal-Mart-feet-having chillins. Said chillin will be directly behind us, pushing on our seats with their dirty bare feet and scabby knees the whole way into Austin. Austin, where we will deplane for approximately 45 seconds and then jump on another Greyhound in the sky for the remainder of our trip into Orlando. Landing at 11:45pm.

I am SO excited!

They could sit me next to a molting Kimono dragon with wicked-bad flatulence and I wouldn’t care. A Holy Roller who insists on singing “Holy, Holy, Holy” the whole way… in monotone… with a triangle to punctuate every syllable, and I wouldn’t care. Jim Carey doing that awful “AEHEHEHEHEHEEHENGH” noise from Dumb and Dumber and I wouldn’t care. Sade singing Smooth Operator… wait. Well, that would convince me to puncture my own ear drums with the dirty pinky finger of Urn’s second youngest… Sharmaine Sheniqua.

We’re going away for the weekend!

This is gonna be Great!

This morning, at 5am… why 5 am? Because we are certifiably insane, thanks for askin. This morning at 5 am, I am sleepily sitting on the potty tinkling. I finish and take some toilet paper from the roll. Mister looks over and [with all the annoyance he could muster] says, “THAT … right there *points* is why our toilet gets clogged up.”

I looked down to find a reasonable 4 foot expanse of double ply Charminｩ in my hand. Rolled into the requisite ‘around the hand, slide off the hand then bunch up into a pleasing wad of softness’ method.

I could only blink. Is Mister a 4-square kinda guy? I may use the toilet paper in the patented ‘Don’t Want Anything Touching My Hand’ method, sure, but it isn’t enough to clog the toilet… is it?

Is my experience at work with the inferior toilet paper coloring my actions at home?

Have I told you guys about the inferior toilet paper at work? No? Well, that is most likely because I’m not a big, “Oh Look! I got a little pee on my hand!” type of share-er.

Yep, I’ve done it. Numerous times at work.

[shaking hands] Nice to meet you Mister President of Non-Profit Guy!

Yes, I wash, nay boil my hands when the above unfortunate accident occurs. And you wonder why I own stock in Purelｩ?

It is humiliating.

I have been doing this particular act or motion for nigh on 30-something years. Why am I having such a difficult time now? No clue.

I sit the same.

I tinkle the same.

I wipe the same.

What’s the deal?

It never happens at home, with the wonderful fluffy cloud toilet paper.

I’m gonna blame the John Wayne toilet paper at work. You’re with me right?

Hey… where are you going?

Hi, how was your weekend? Was it wonderful? Good, yeah, me too. What did you guys end up doing? Chocolate bunnies? You ate all of them? No kidding? Did you go out to dinner or see a movie or two? Yeah, we did the same. Yeah, it was a great weekend.

What did we do?

Well, let’s see….

Mister and I met for lunch on Friday at Chili’s and I had queso and hot sauce, I knew then that the weekend was gonna be a good’un. Love me some hot sauce.

After work we went to Sam’s to get the new lenses for my glasses. The lady, we’ll call her hillbilly bitch from hell, told me that she couldn’t replace my lenses because they were a little bit big. The lenses that she traced. The lenses that she assured me would be just fine. She also asked me to refresh her memory of why we were replacing my lenses.

New prescription.

It’s on the paperwork in front of you.

She was going to have to send my glasses to the lab to have them grind down the lenses a bit so they would fit. Would I mind leaving my glasses with her for the night? Um, Yes, I would mind. Very much, thank you.

Ya see… Mister [points] and I are going to a movie tonight and I NEED my glasses so I can see the screen. I must be able to get the full effect of the zombie goodness. So, no, you cannot have my glasses.

Come back tomorrow, but call you before we do? Yeah, sure lady. Whatever you say.

We left Sam’s and went to the mall. Mister is trying to find some sunglasses that he can get with his prescription. We went to the place that made his lenses. They didn’t have the best selection and since Mister is somewhat of a giant, we needed to find frames that didn’t scream, “PERSCRIPTION LENSES!” We needed to find lenses that fit his face and uttered, “Yeah, I look like a biker beeeotch, you wanna make something of it or do you wanna fight? Ok, yeah rubbah-nuts, you go outside and practice falling down and bleeding and I’ll be with you inna minute.”

So, it was a bit of a stretch finding the frames that fit his face and his demeanor. Sunglasses are an accessory, they can make you look like a reject from the 1970’s or they can fit your face and make people think, “Hmmm, those are great sunglasses. I wonder if I would look half as cool if I put them on.”

We went down to the Oakley store and found these. Monster Dogs. That shit even sounds tough. Click on the link and look at them. He looks so hot with those things on.

After we had success with the sunglasses, we went upstairs to the movie theater to see Taking Lives. I had expressed an interest [read: rabid curiosity] about Dawn of the Dead but we couldn’t find it on the marquee. We got our tickets, my requisite medium popcorn (with luscious amounts of salt and butter), our sodas and we headed down the hall to find a seat in the theater, number 13, that was playing Taking Lives at 8:30 pm.

I looked up at theater number 14. On the lighted sign above the door were the words “Dawn of the De…8:35”. I looked at Mister with a face that said, “Can we? Huh? Huh? Puh-leeeeeeze? Canwehuh?” He said, “You wanna?” And we scrambled inside.

The theater that was showing the flick was tiny. The sign on the door said that AMC proudly carded anyone under the age of 25 for an R-rated movie. Regardless, like any horror genre film, the place was packed with teenagers that had that anxious look on their faces.

I’ve had that look before. It means, ‘I wanna see this movie so I can be a bad ass. I am slightly curious (if not a bit queasy) about the blood and gore that is bound to be part of this film. I want that roller coaster ride that is associated with the highs and lows… the adrenaline of a good scary movie.’

I was all for that rush myself.

The movie started and I kept thinking about sweet Sundry and her experience with seeing the movie alone.

Keeerist those things move fast! That little 8-year-old girl at the beginning freaked me the fuck out. The zombies are supposed to move slowly. They are supposed to be stupid. They are supposed to shamble along mumbling “braaaaiiiiiiinnnnsss”. No?

I was warned when I read Sundry’s entry.

Yet… Sadly,I was not prepared.

Mister (and several people of African-American decent in the theater) talked to the movie the whole time.

“Bust his ass Ving!”

“Oh shit, shit, shit! NO! Run!”

“That BASTARD!”

“Holy CRAAAAAAAP! I would have… Uh, KILLLLLL HIM! SHOOT HIM!”

The above comments were brought to you by Mister and the letter “Kick His ASS!”

I have to admit. It was greatness. I loved the movie. And when Mister and I walked out of there at 10:30 pm, he turned to me on the way to the restroom and [with a twinkle in his eye, I might add] said, “You wanna do a double-header?” And he pointed to the Taking Lives lighted sign above theater number 13 that started at 10:55.

We waltzed right in there with our half watery sodas and sat down with the other 12 people in the theater.

Taking Lives was a true mystery and suspense movie with a fan-fucking-tastic twist at the end. Loved it.

I won’t spoil it for you, really I won’t. Just go see Angelina. She loves you yanno. She thinks you’re really pretty. She told me so. She’ll even show you her boobies. So, yeah, go see that movie.

If you can swing seeing both of them at the same time, with Dawn of the Dead first, do it. It will keep you from shitting the bed at 4:27 am when you hear the cat knock a stack of your books off the table in the living room.

Saturday we woke up bright and early because my man had scheduled a massage for me at 10:00 am. Yep, that’s right. A Massage. Scheduled for me by my man. An hour of smooshing the feets, the back rubbin, the neck-knot-working-outing.

I know you hate me. But I looooove you.

After the massage, Mister picked me up and we grabbed some lunch then headed back to Sam’s to deal with the hillbilly bitch from hell. Did we call her before we showed up? No, we did not. Did we even make a move towards our cell phones to call her? Nope, not that either. Mister was ready to get the lenses, take them to the lab, have them fixed and if they did not meet our satisfaction… a refund was the order of the day.

We picked up the lenses, took them to the lab, asked the tech, Gary, a few questions and he summarily popped the new lenses into my frames with the bare minimum of fuss and muss. No grinding down of the frames needed. Complete and utter lack of skill from the hillbilly bitch from hell caused much running around and time wasting.

We were very happy with Gary… not so much with the hillbilly bitch from hell.

After the glasses were fixed, we went back to the house for a bit of a nap and some afternoon delight. Yeah, we can do that.

Yanno how people send out pictures of their kids for Christmas cards?

This Christmas Mister and I are gonna send you guys a picture of us taking a nap in the afternoon. We’re also gonna be pointing to a wad of left over cash that wasn’t spent on diapers, braces, dance/karate lessons, college tuition or car insurance for a teenage driver.

Yes, this will come back and kick me in the ass in a few years when we decide to try and have kids. Please do not remind me.

Anyway, after the fantastic frillion hour nap, we drug ourselves out of bed and went to the sushi restaurant that had karaoke on Friday and Saturday nights.

Delicious!

If any of you live in the North Dallas area. Email me. Seriously. I want to take you to this place. I want everyone to eat sushi at this place, with me.

Mister and I go to this little place on a pretty regular basis. We never get tired of the fresh food and the fantastic service. We always seem to have the most insightful conversations ensconced in a booth at this little sushi place. We seem to think we are the only people on earth getting great wine (for him) and Stoli (for me) and a little high on how in love we are with each other. It really is a great little restaurant.

After a night like that we always end up laughing ourselves to sleep.

Warm dreams and sighs that roll over us and over our marriage bed as we lay tangled in the sheets… with one last “NO.” to the cat to stop his mmmmrrrrowww?-ing outside the door.

Sunday we woke up pretty early fully intent on going to this breakfast buffet before we went to church. No such luck. We ended up grabbing some McDonald’s before we slunk in, late to the service.

It was a nice service with some of the congregation acting out part of the Passion play. The thing that really hit my heart was this husband and wife team (very young, very cute) doing these monologues as Christ’s tears and His blood. Very touching.

Yesterday afternoon, yep, another nap. Mmmmmm nap-i-tude.

Yesterday evening I witnessed greatness in the making.

This.

Oh Lordy.

I am so in love with this show. Cheesiness and boobage abounds. It is like taking the Donnie and Marie Show and giving them license to make out and shake their bootays.

I was thinking about how to write my thoughts down about this show while I was in the shower this morning. It sounded pretty good in my head, but I suspect my sonic-care toothbrush shook the coherent thoughts from my brain after I got out of the shower. So you guys will just have to deal with this rambling crap.

Jessica’s rendition of “You Take My Breath Away” was a train wreck. Her voice is wonderful but good Lord, it is like she is trying to spew forth every syllable from her mouth. ‘Over animated’ does not even begin to describe.

She did a duet with Jewel for “Who Will Save Your Soul” and you could just see Jewel thinking, “Oh shit. I lived in a fucking van for this?”

Poor Nick, he had to sing with a car and the Muppets.

Love the Muppets. No hatin. Seriously, Love. Them. And the car was Kitt from Night Rider… But come on. Jessica got to sing with Jewel and Kenny Rogers.

She did this dance number that was to “She Works Hard for the Money” and it was supposed to tie in these lame ass jokes. But she was wearing next to nothing. She had on this little sparkly turquoise top and tap pants or something and she was dancing all gyration action. Mister actually uttered, “Whoa. That little hip thing she just did was hypnotic.”

Mister kept asking, “Is That her hair? What about that? Is that real? Jesus. Is that her real hair?”

My answers: “No. No. Nope, uhn-uh. Yeah, I think. Uhm… no. Definitely not.”

Heh.

Love the show. Love it.

Hey Hot Barney. Sign the guest book darnit.

Hi there, [waves]… my name is Miss Lazy McIdlebottom. The Mister and I are moving to a new abode in … hmmm, less than four days from now. Guess how much I have gotten packed. No really, go on. Guess.

The kitchen, the closet and most of the master bedroom you say?

WRONG!

As of Saturday night at approximately 9 o’clock, we had a bunch of trash moved to the front of the garage… the garage, which has been used for lo on this past year as a storage unit for my stuff. We also … hold on to yer britches… packed and taped up five, yes five boxes.

Woooo!

I’m not saying we haven’t given it the good old college try. We purchased 30 medium boxes, 10 large boxes, some of that poofy packing material for breakables, and a mattress bag from U-Haul for the California King bed… as well as a package (of three) and two single rolls of packing tape, a big honkin’ black marker, some labels (to mark each box with the room it should end up in) from Office Depot and the three buckets of vodka it will take for me to get through this move.

So, yeah… the squeamish tummy and the heartburn have taken hold of me pretty firmly. I do not take well to packing up all of my stuff into a herd of boxen (TM Brian Regan). I still haven’t gotten over the move from last year. Most of my stuff is still in boxes. I also have a king sized bed, a dresser, an ugly ass couch, three rows of my hanging clothes, my bathroom mats (and various bathroom accoutrement), a table/lamp combination, a desk and a bunch of other stuff all still in the garage. Has that garage been used for its’ intended purpose of housing a car? Nope. Not since Mister and I moved in. It has been used as a storage unit.

And all of my stuff smells like Quaker State.

Snazzy!

I swear, for the first three months that we live in this new place, I am going to be flitting around like a fairy on crack, spraying everything that was housed in the garage with Febreeze™ like eleventyfour frillion times a day.

Ah, good times.

Actually, Mister gave me the bestest gift in the world yesterday afternoon. Whilst I was sitting in the living room floor rending my flesh from bone, wailing and gnashing my teeth, (Gnashing? Oh yes, loads of gnashing.) Mister agreed that we might need some help with the packing.

The Internet was consulted and we found a company that specializes in packing your stuff, moving it, and then unpacking it where you need it. Hmmm, that sounds like just the thing I need to allow the queasy alien to move out of my esophagus and on to greener pastures.

Clearly, I am a hothouse orchid that needs to be pampered and coddled lest I wilt. I might break a nail yanno.

We called the Gecko Moving Company and spoke with Teri… Terry… Tarrieoiux? Whatever. Some nice lady that spoke to Mister for about 10 minutes, even though it was Father’s Day and we are thoughtless bastards for interrupting family time and all that. Teri and Mister ran over the inventory list, all the big things that need to be moved… washer and dryer, check. Two king sized beds, check. Two bureaus and a dresser, check. Entertainment center, surround sound equipment for indoors and out, enough computers to fill the inventory list of Circuit City?… checkity, check-check bitches.

Teri told Mister that she would check (hee!) the schedule, work up a quote and call him back; he confirmed that she had his numbers… yep, and they ended the phone call.

We went out for a bite to eat, because in my state only a bona fide Gazebo burger would soothe the savage beast of anxiety.

While at Gazebo burger, Teri called. Quote for packing and unpacking (using their own boxes… BONUS!)… and a quote for the move. Hmmm… only 23 dollars over the original amount we budgeted for the move. Rockin.

I started to giggle.

I couldn’t help it. I felt a manic release of pressure. If this packing/moving company can pack/move us on Thursday or Friday, for the amount that Teri quoted us… then that leaves just the nervous packing of our things of questionable nature.

:: blink ::

Of course, I am speaking of our Pat Boone albums and my precious moments collectibles. Because nothing says “Jesus Loves You” more than some creepy ass, hydrocephalic, doe-eyed pair of freaks sexually assaulting a turtle. Am I right?

Yep. Going to hell. I know.

Annnyways. I just got off the phone with Mister. He hasn’t heard from Teri yet, so I am not going to cancel the movers I have scheduled for Thursday.

Am I still nervous? You bet your sweet ass I am.

Currently the back of my throat is in the state of… FIRE!

If they can’t pack/move us… mainly I’m worried about the packing part… then I have (all together now) three days to pack up our whole lives into 40 boxes from U-Haul.

I would never make it as a nomad.

The Move From Hell.

The following is a brief (yeah, right) synopsis of the trials and tribulations of the past several days. If you didn’t know, Mister and I moved. You can read a bit of the back-story here and here… shameless self-linking… done.

If you have any sort of allergic reaction to lists or bulleted points used as a lame ass version for an entry… Please skip this entry and go read some snarky brilliance from Amalah, view some cute pictures taken by Sundry, bow to The Girlfriends' Guide to Fabulousness and Fantasticity over at the random muse and um… MONKEY!

Ok then,… onward.

Wednesday, June 23rd, 2004

5:45 am start period. Nice.

8 am – 4:30 pm Work Work Work Work Work get call from Mister who is standing inside our new home… he’s so excited! Work Work Work Work Work Work Work nervously peel fingernails and chew on bottom lip Work Work Work Work get email from Clarice offering the use of her Tahoe… greedily accept the offer Work Work receive confirmation call from Gecko (from the day before… call to make sure they are really coming to pack/move us on Thursday) Work Work Work cancel Alliance Apartment Movers Work Work Work Work Work Work Work Work Work schedule move out cleaners for Friday… drive home.

5:00 pm – 5:30 pm pick up Tahoe (land yacht) from Clarice and thank her profusely.

6:00 pm – 7:00 pm plan move over sizzling rice soup from Chopsticks

7:00 pm – 10:45 pm pack crap

10:45 pm – 12:30 am cough/hack/wheeze… annnnnd sleep

Thursday, June 24th, 2004… also now known as D-Day

6:00 am alarm goes off

6:07 am alarm goes off

6:14 am alarm goes off

6:21 am Shit! The movers/packers are going to be here in 2 hours!

6:27 am alarm goes off… crawl out of bed, dress and begin to pack more stuff.

6:30 am – 8:00 am pack furiously

8:01 am movers show up.

8:02 am – 8:15 am walk the two-man team of movers/packers around the apartment and show them the stuff in the garage. All to a chorus of, “Damn”, “Oh Man!” and low whistles of disbelief. Raise eyebrows at Mister behind movers/packers’ backs.

8:15 am – 11:30 am pack and haul boxes, pack and haul boxes annnnnd repeat. … Oh, and listen to one of the packers say, “Fuckin Mexicans, undercutting our rates, takin our business.” Niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiice.

11:34 am Watch through the sliding glass doors to our patio as the bigger of the two movers/packers drop a $400 lawn chair over the second floor balcony to the smaller one down below. Hear “CLANGGGG” Yep, they broke it… Mister asks calmly, “Why would you throw a chair over the balcony?” The big one (mover) replies, “That’s the way we do it man.” Mister says, “The last company we hired to move us carried the chairs down the stairs.” Mover/packer guy replies, “Well, that’s Mexicans for ya.”

11:38 am – 12:20 pm look around at what is left in the apartment. Check out the truck. It is full. Ask if they will make a second load. They say that they will.

12:20 pm – 12:33 pm Gecko manager/owner, Chet, shows up to put the patio table and two gas grills into his truck. He listens stoically as Mister tells him about the dropping the patio chair off of the balcony, the breaking of said chair. Chet apparently thinks this is standard policy.

12:34 pm the packer/movers grab my beautiful, freestanding jewelry box, open the lid, open the doors, open the bottom drawer, shake the legs, put a blanket over the top of it, and just as Mister says, “Do not turn that upside down.” They turn it upside down. The clink-clank-tink! Of jewelry and glass and crystal is echoed throughout the apartment complex.

12:35 pm Mister loses his shit completely.

12:37 pm the larger of the two movers/packers actually says to Mister, “Who do you think we are, man? Jesus? We ain’t perfect!”

12:35 pm – 12:40 pm Chet stands by like a fucking deaf mute.

12:35 pm – 12:40 pm I put all (or most of it anyway) of my jewelry back into the jewelry box, noting a few broken pieces.

12:41 pm the packer/movers and Chet leave for lunch… with all of our stuff in their truck.

12:41:30 pm I pull out behind them onto the main street to watch as their furniture dolly liberates itself from the back of their pickup truck and sails into the intersection during their left turn.

12:42 pm they stop in the intersection as the smaller of the packer/movers runs out to retrieve said dolly.

12:50 pm My sister calls and says that she is bringing lunch to our new house.

1:00 pm Reb shows up with yummy lunch of chicken salad, honey Dijon potato chips, kiwi and strawberry slices and croissants with cheese.

1:00 pm – 1:15 pm give Reb the grand tour. Much love for Reb. Thanks for the lunch!

1:15 pm the movers/packers show up. We show them where stuff goes.

1:30 pm – 4:00 pm they haul stuff in and put it in random places.

4:00 pm they hand us a bill for $200 over what we were quoted. Second load? Nope. Broken chair? Mister takes $100 off their final bill to have the chair fixed. And what of the rest of the stuff at the apartment? Helloooo Tahoe and manual labor.

4:05 pm Swear only to use Mexicans or people of Hispanic origin for the next move.

4:00 pm – 9:30 pm make several trips back to the apartment to haul stuff back to the house. See a pattern forming. Silently scream inside my own head.

9:00 pm lukewarm shower

9:20 pm – 9:55 pm dinner

10:00 pm pass smooth out.

Friday, June 25th, 2004

6:45 am wake up unbelievably sore, crawl out of bed and put clothes on

7:00 am – 7:15 am breakfast at Grandy’s yum!

7:15 am – the rest of the friggin day …. It’s Raining!

7:15 am – 11:45 pm pack and move boxes from upstairs to the garage, from the garage to the truck, from the truck to our new garage. Work like ants or bees or something that is small and communal and brainless… also that has to do lots of heavy lifting and stuff.

11:45 pm listen to Mister’s knees as they creak when he goes up the stairs. Yeeeouch!

12:00 pm wait for cleaning staff to come, realize that we have a bunch still left to do, call cleaning company, ask if the cleaning ladies can come closer to the 3 o’clock time as we were given a noon to three window. Affirmative on the three o’clock time slot. Word.

12:05 pm – 3:00 pm still with the packing and moving and lifting and the creaking of Mister’s knees.

2:30 pm during one of our runs to the new house, it is discovered that our garage door is broken. Sweet. During each consecutive runs thereafter, Mister and I push the button on the inside of the garage to engage the motor and manually push the door up. Heavy ass door. Mister calls the property management company. Rocky is contacted. Rocky the garage door guy. He’ll be at our house Saturday at 8 am.

3:00 pm … no cleaning ladies.

4:00 pm … still no cleaning ladies.

4:15 pm call the cleaning company… yes, we still want the cleaning ladies, please send them. Not today? Tomorrow at a premium? Whatever. Just please call me back after your scheduling meeting to let me know what time they can come tomorrow.

5:05 pm still no call. Perfect.

5:15 pm call the cleaning place… hear, “Thank you for calling ____, our office hours are Monday through Friday 8 am top 5 pm. Please leave a message.” Arrrrgh! I leave a message.

3:00 pm – 6:20 pm still with the moving and lifting and bending and packing and sweating. Did I mention the sweating?

6:45 pm return Tahoe to Clarice so she can take her kids to their grandma & grandpa’s house for the weekend. Thank her profusely again. And again. Promise to call not too early in the morning on Saturday. Yes, we still have a bunch more to haul. Nah, we appreciate the offer for the help, but your lending us the Tahoe is more than enough. Really. Thank you. (Psst… Clarice... you guys rock out! Thanks again!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

7:00 pm – 8:30 pm move more stuff around.

8:35 pm call on my cell phone from some woman who does not speak English. Glean from her broken syllables that someone at _____ cleaning service gave her my number because I had cancelled my appointment with the cleaning people. Huh? What the fu…?

8:40 pm cold ass shower, lots of bitching and moaning. [Why is the water cold? No idea. We’ll check the water heater tomorrow when we get done with moving. We need to get a flashlight, because I don’t know where I packed our good one. Alrighty.]

9:15 pm – 10:20 pm dinner at cute little Mexican food restaurant.

10:30 pm – 11:15 pm watch something benign on TV… a movie as we don’t have cable yet.

11:30 pm pass out.

Saturday, June 26th, 2004

6:45 am wake up unbelievably sore, crawl out of bed and put clothes on

7:00 am – 7:15 am Mister goes to the local bakery and brings back kolaches for breakfast. mmmmm

6:45 am – the rest of the friggin day …. It’s Raining!

8:00 am – 9:15 am Hello Rocky. Thank you for coming to fix our garage door.

8:15 am – 9:45 am see two Mexican guys doing the lawn of our neighbor. Go speak to them and find out if they can add us to their roster of houses. We negotiate on price and they mow, edge and clean up our lawn. Perfect. Tip them generously and settle on a day and concrete price. The lawn looks gorgeous!

9:15 am – 10:00 am Mister has an appointment

10:30 am call Calrice … wake her up… Ooops!

10:45 am pick up the Tahoe from Calrice’s husband. Sweet, sweet man. Thank you kind sir!

11:00 am – 2:15 pm pack and move and clean and vacuum and curse and sweat and … What is with the friggin rain already!?

2:15 pm Betty R. from ______ cleaning service calls me. She is about 5 minutes away, do I still want her to come clean the apartment? “Oh dear sweet Jesus…. YES!”

2:16 pm Betty arrives with her little back-pack vacuum and her cleaning supplies with reassuring words of, “Yes, Si, Si… now, don’t you worry Sir, don’t you worry ma’am, we will clean it all up.” , “The blinds, Si.”, “The refrigerator, Si. The oven, Si. It will all be ok.” …. Oh how I love Betty R.

2:16 pm – 4:15 pm Betty and her co-worker work and scrub and clean.

2:16 pm – 4:15 pm Mister and I get the last of the stuff into the garage. The apartment is completely empty. Thank goodness! We make a round of the apartment and it is spotless. Be-A-Utiful! We pay Betty and her co-worker… get her cell phone number and wave farewell to them.

4:15 pm – 6:00 pm pack boxes, pack the Tahoe, make several runs. Open the garage with our new snazzy garage door opener. Thank you again Rocky!

6:00 pm back at the new house, put things away, and go in search of the water heater.

6:25 pm find water heater in attic over the garage.

6:40 pm Shit. It is a gas heater. Do we have gas hooked up? Nope.

6:40 pm – 6:43 pm Shit. Shit. Shit.

6:44 pm Mister calls the Property management company. They say, “Did you ask us if the water heater was gas or electric?” Mister says, “No, what other questions was I supposed to know to ask you? You couldn’t even answer me with the information on if the house had a sprinkler system or not. You didn’t know the code to the garage door.”

6:46 pm I call TXU gas company and schedule their people to hook up our gas at the EARLIEST time possible. Monday, June 28, 2004 from 8 am to 5 pm. Thanks.

6:50 pm – 8:45 pm Load and haul the last two loads of our stuff into the Tahoe, drive through the (frickin) rain to the new garage, unload the stuff and drive to the gas station.

8:45 pm deliver the Tahoe back to Clarice and family with full tank of gas. Offer first born and buckets of money. When both are rejected, offer to take them to dinner sometime. Their graciousness knows NO bounds. Truly.

9:00 pm – 11:00 pm Scrounge around for food and stare listlessly at the television.

11:01 pm Mister declares that he is going to start a company called the Mexican Connection. It will be a referral company that sends over people to do whatever job you need done. Moving? Mexicans. Cleaning? Mexicans. Lawn Care? Mexicans. Because clearly they take pride in all they do, and they do it better than our white, honky asses. Those mover guys… yep, white… and cocky. Pricks. We should have gone with Alliance.

11:03 pm pass out laughing

Sunday, June 26th, 2004

7:00 am wake up, play hooky from church, get struck by lightning (not really so much with the lightning part)

10:00 am wake up again…. Why? Because my ass is TIRED ya’ll.

10:10 am – 10:00 pm move various boxes to the rooms that they should be in. Unpack some of the kitchen stuff. Listen as Mister hooks up and curses (with Feeling!) the washer and dryer. Watch the cat fully relax and take advantage of the room he has now to run around in, careening around the corner to slide through the kitchen on the linoleum. Deep breath, and sigh.

10:30 pm fall asleep in our humongous bedroom with a smile.

Monday, June 27th, 2004

5:45 am – 6:15 am wake up, crawl out of bed and warm up water on the stove so I can take a bath in the kitchen sink. What? We have no hot water… member?

Don’t look at me like that.

Over the past several days Mister and I have been almost manic in our obsession with a certain little ditty that is henceforth and forever stuck in my brain. Curious to know what the little song is? Here you go, kind reader. Please follow this link to share in my giddiness.

And Just. Like. That. I have infected you too.

I even downloaded a 22meg version of the skit from that particular Muppets gem.

Mah na Mah na… indeed.

So there.

Also. Yes, also, I went to one of my favorite lunchtime websites and tried to infect those people as well.

Almost the same way Leigh’s (Miss Doxie) boyfriend, El Dukay, infected all of us when she shared that The Dukay spoke up in his infinite wisdom with this little pearl… "Did you know that, at some point, every day, you think about a monkey?" TH. Anks. El Dukay.

Now, everyday, I think to myself… “Self? Have you thought of a monkey today?” And Just. Like. That. I perpetuated the myth of monkey thought.

And also…I tried to explain this to my analytical minded husband last night in bed. The rational, “No, really, try not to think of a monkey tomorrow” turned into a look of, “Oh good God Almighty, she’s caught the crazy.”

But, it also turned into Mister saying joyfully:

Mister: I think I would rather concern myself with Biloxi Bob.

Me: Wha?

Mister: Biloxi Bob.

Me: Um.

Mister: ::blink:: You know… Biloxi Bob. That groundhog thing.

Me: Baby?

Mister: What?

Me: Do you mean Punxsutawney Phil?

Mister: Uh, yeah… him.

Me: ::snicker::

Mister: Biloxi Bob is his Southern cousin.

Me: ::snort::

Mister: [quietly] shut up.

Me: Heee!!!

I got a call from my mother Thursday night of last week. Mister and I were out and about shopping for (Monkeys!) groceries and I didn’t get her call. When we got home the message was this:

“Hi Suzanna and Mister, this is Mom. I just wanted to tell you guys about this. Tonight on the NBC national news we were watching about the flooding down in Lancaster. Dad looked up at the officer talking to the reporter and said, ‘Hey! That’s Bean!’ So, if you guys get back in tonight before the news goes off for the evening, watch it! He looks great!”

Of course, I missed the footage. I looked at NBC5i.com and everything.

Footage of the flooding? Check.

Footage of some teenager getting saved from rising floodwaters? Check.

Slideshow of some dude saving a cow from rising floodwaters? Check-itty, Check, Check bitches.

Footage of Bean? Yeah, not so much.

If some of you are like, “Who the hell is Bean?” Please check out the back-story here. For those of you too lazy to check out the shameless self-linking, here’s the short story.

Bean was one of my best friends throughout high school. Crushes ensued, feelings were hurt, and I was a bitch. The End.

I haven’t seen Bean since a baby shower for one of our friend’s who was having twins. That was, hmm… like two and a half to three years ago. He was there with his wife, a sweet and quiet woman from my youth group at church in high school. Bean and his wife had their three-year-old daughter with them. His daughter is so beautiful and so totally smitten with her big bear of a father.

I haven’t even gotten to introduce Mister to Bean or the rest of his group. Bean’s best buddy from high school, Steve, has met and hung out with Mister, but Bean hasn’t.

I really want to see that footage.

I want to see how he’s doing. Not like I’ll be able to tell from some grainy web cast footage of a news story, but that doesn’t keep me from wanting to see it.

I think I made Mister a bit jealous when we were listening to the message my mother left the other night. I didn’t mean to, really, but when she said that they saw Bean on the news I squealed, “BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAN!” I was excited to hear some news about him. Even if it wasn’t personal. I always like knowing that my friends (even if they are estranged friends that I don’t keep up with that much) are doing well.

The reason I haven’t seen Bean or Steve in a few years is because the link that kept everyone together and seeing each other on a regular basis is gone. Steve’s wife Traci. They got divorced over a year ago.

I need to call her.

I wonder how she is doing.

She came to our ya-ya weekend the 2nd year we had it. We had a blast with her.

Ok, this is spiraling off into incoherent stream of conscience typing. Sorry ya’ll. I feel a need to get out the “Part III” of my Just One of The Guys series. Not sure if I should or not.

Let me hear from ya’ll. The comments thing at the bottom of the entry thingy works really well.

My sunburn is completely gone. All I am left with is the peeling, nasty and itchy aftermath of horrible skin trauma. I keep asking Mister to scratch me. There, no, there� no wait� my left wing bone� ahhhhhhhhhhh. And he, because he is the bestest friend, lover, husband, sweetheart a woman can have� does it.

Yes, I am a lucky, lucky woman.

But I figured out this morning, that even in my luckiness (is SO a word) that sometimes it bites being married to a man whose brain could power most of Manhattan if hooked up to a generator.

There we were, 9:40 am at my neurologist痴 office at Richardson Regional Medical Center. My husband and I talking with the good doctor about my cracked out pupils and my migraines*. The doctor assures me that I am fine. That the main thing he was looking for with the MRIs and MRAs was a stroke on my brain stem or my spinal cord. They didn稚 find that. Cool, that痴 some scary shit, but I am healthy. The occasional pupil abnormality is just related to the migraines I have. No biggie. Right?

Since the good doctor and I discussed putting me on preventive medicines for my migraines last time we talked, this time, with the increasing frequency of the migraines, we discussed which medication to use. Several different drugs were discussed, then we settled on Zonegranｮ. It is actually an antiseizure medication that has side effects of preventing or slowing the frequency of migraines. I start taking it tonight.

While talking to the doctor about my nervousness concerning taking this medication, Mister and the neuro went off on some smart guy tangent and discussed; in detail; the half-life of this medication and other such 哲o, dear, that discussion clearly belongs on WebMD or Nova� things. They were talking to each other in a, 添eah� so glad I知 not the only clearly brilliant man in the room, call me later� peace� type of way.

I was sitting there drooling and chewing on a crayon.

I asked about Zonegranｮ痴 effect, if any, on my birth control pills and asked the doc about how long we were going to keep me on the meds. I also asked him if he would prescribe some Sonata for me so I could sleep better. Mister spoke up with an answer that the Zonegranｮ may relax me and take away the pain the migraines were causing therefore helping me to sleep better, unless the reason I wasn稚 sleeping well was caused by something else for example, watching too much TV before bed. Or something like that, I was too busy licking the linoleum to hear everything.

Dr. Neuro spoke up, 典hat is exactly the correct answer.�

They high-fived and hugged.

So, yeah. I am clearly Pinky to Mister痴 Brain.

Which is totally cool with me.

Love you Brain!

Hey, have I ever told you guys that I have a total girl crush on Joan Jett? Yep. Apparently it was a deep seeded love that started back in the 1981 Crimson and Clover days. Love her. And big thanks to Jack FM (100.3) I hear her a-bunches.

Do I wanna touch her? Indeed. And no, Reb, this does not mean that I知 a big ol� lesbian**, I just remember Joan fondly and with much love. After all, she is coming to Dallas on the 9th of September. Anyone wanna take me to a free concert?

Joan would SO kick my ass.

*I知 too lazy to link to my older entries today. I am sure you could find them if you needed to on my Older page. Click on 徹ld News� above.

**I知 a tiny one. MWAHAhahahahhaahaa! [ahem] Sorry. Kidding, really.

Yanno how you wake up in the morning of February the 8th and you have this stabbing eye pain headachy thing and you call in to work at 6:15 am and then when you get back to bed your husband says, “Awwww, baby, did you call into work to stay at home with me because it’s my birthday?”

Um… yes?

Shit… shit shit shit… I am the worst wife ever in the whole entire world.

I mean, I remembered it was his birthday, sorta (don’t stone me yet people)… after all he had already requested his birthday meal, that I needed to start preparing last April for it to be completed on time at 6:30 pm last night. But good Lawd. I felt like the biggest piece of milk crust.

Not to mention (of course I’m going to mention it… just saying “not to mention” doesn’t get you off the hook buddy boy) the fact that I had planned a girl’s night out with Stacey for last night. And I had even asked Mister, “Hey baby? Is next Tuesday night, the 8th an okay night to do girl’s night with Stacey? She and I really need some girl time.” And of course he said, “Sure love, that’s fine.” Because… have I mentioned? I SUCK.

I know, I know… he’s been sick, he hasn’t felt celebratory. He’s been feeling gloomy. He told me that he didn’t want to do anything for his birthday; he didn’t want me to get him anything.

That does not let me off the hook for planning happy hour on the day of his birthday.

I went shopping for the last remaining ingredients for SupperGate 2005 and while I was at the store I remembered to call Stacey to cancel. Why? Because, as I mentioned above. I suck.

While at said store, shopping for ingredients to make the homemade supper for my husband, which my husband asked for, for his birthday, on his birthday… I forgot to get him a card. Also, my cat pee’d on his hunting seat cushion and he got some bad news from his job. Do I know how to rock a birthday or what?

If you ever get the chance, do not ever marry me.

Good Things About Yesterday In Haiku Form

visit from loved ones
mcnuggets and ginger ale
Blazing Saddles, yo

Speaking of Blazing Saddles, Mister got the dvd as a gift for his birthday from some loved ones yesterday and he is so excited. We watched it last night after dinner (dun dun DUN!… SupperGate 2005…) and after the movie we were going through the extras on the dvd and there is a television pilot for a show called Black Bart, starring Lou Gossett Jr.. I thought it looked interesting, so I asked Mister to play it. He did and within minutes I was bleeding from the eyes.

I love Blazing Saddles… the writing, the snarkiness, the oneliners, the references to other projects, even the in your face use of racism and humor that went hand in hand. Richard Pryor was on the writing team along with Mel Brooks and Gene Wilder. Glorious. I guess that is why I was so shocked that some television asshole exec. could think that they would be able to take something that took so much love and work to make, shove a bunch of nigger references in it, slap it on the ass to force it into some television-mold-bastardized-version of the movie and make TeeVee History BayBee!

Have you guys seen this thing?

Poor Lou Gossett Jr. He looks so fucking embarrassed. He has to make, “I have a hard enough time keeping my horse white.” Jokes… It is obscenely offensive.

It’s a wonder they didn’t play “Jungle Love” over the poorly timed laugh track and have him dry hump the gimpy, hard of hearing, madam that had a green glittery patch over one eye. And yes I wish like hell I was kidding.

Let me repeat that.

They actually had a character whose job it was to work a poor German accent, bad powder makeup, reeeeallllly bad wig, gimpy leg, going deaf, sparkly patch-eyed, a poorly timed run-down take off on Lili Von Shtupp and play a lady that ran a whore house.

And she came on to Lou. Lou had to reply that he had enough troubles riding a white horse.

THIS WAS IN 1975!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Holy Shit!

It was then that I started crying for Lou’s career and the fact that he still had to make Enemy Mine ten years later. Eeesh, just being those teeth for the 4 or 5 months alone to make that movie would put me out of the running. Poor Lou.

So, in conclusion. I suck… but not as bad as the test pilot for Black Bart.

I’ve been a bit on edge lately about Mister’s situation. Not because he is unemployed, nope. Not that. But because of how things were going, his self-esteem was taking a beating and his faith that things would turn around was just about negated. The mamma bear in me has been fighting really hard not to come to life and hunt down the man who laid out these pipe dreams to Mister not even two months ago. In turn, causing Mister to work his tail off for hours on end. Nights, weekends, you name it.

My husband puts 200% into every project he starts. He is an achiever, an analytical sort, and a pleaser who happens to be gifted with a genius IQ. So when he started this new project with this new company and this new boss heaped all of these demands; demands that were not originally part of the deal; onto Mister, of course Mister buckled down and started to work, I knew that the new boss man would be very pleased with the outcome of the project.

Little did I (or Mister or anyone else for that matter) know that the money that boss man had flagged as seed money to finance the payroll of the company was money that he stupidly left in another account for his ex partner to have access to. Access that said ex partner allegedly took, and has since been allegedly arrested for allegedly taking. ::eyeroll::

Puh-lease.

Anyway, the now ex boss man let everyone in the company go a week and a half ago. Mister was crushed. All of his hard work, all of the progress on the new website, all of the charts and the work on HIPPA and countless other tasks and headaches, all for naught. But when ex boss man wouldn’t answer his phone when everyone started calling about their last payroll checks, and ex boss had his wife email Mister’s partner with some cockamamie story blah dee bloo, things started to get a little interesting.

Everyone got his or her last paychecks on Tuesday; a full week after ex boss pulled the plug. When they got their checks, ex boss asked everyone to wait a full five days to deposit them because they wouldn’t go through. Sweet.

This is not the whole thing of course, but a brief (ha!) synopsis.

The reason I bring any of this up is to say that I have the most incredible husband ever in the whole entire world. Ever. Ever. Ever. Infinity, no tag backs.

Yesterday afternoon I got this happy little call from my sweetheart telling me that the ex boss’s check (that bastard… may he rot for hurting my baby’s feelings) finally cleared, so Mister cashed that bad boy post haste.

He then asked me if I would like a sursie.

A sursie (pronounced sur-see) is a little present for no apparent reason. The term was coined by my mother’s roommate in college, Marilyn who rocks most righteously. And if she has ever read this site I may as well just die right now, but Hi Marilyn, Love You!

I told my loving husband that I would be delighted to receive a sursie, that I needed an eyebrow pencil, and that I would prefer one from Clarins. (Psst… Clarins? Why haven’t you called me baby? I still love you yanno.) So Mister said, “Ok… an eyebrow pencil it is.” And we ended our phone call with a bunch of yay’s about the check clearing… and “I love you’s” and “I love you too sooo much’s” and all that stuff.

Let me give you guys a little back story on this incredible man. Ladies, you are going to want to kill me and take him for yourself after this… be warned.

When Mister and I had been dating for a few months (Who am I kidding? It was probably in the first month or so, we were basically living together after the first few weeks!) we woke up one Saturday morning to go to breakfast and then do what new lovers do on weekends… Catch movies, eat rich foods, make love all afternoon, you know… the usual.

Anyway, he was sitting on his bed watching me put makeup on for our foray into the real world for breakfast. I was sitting on the floor with his bedside lamp turned towards me and using it like a make up light. You ladies have probably all done the same thing.

I had my little makeup bag on the floor with it’s contents spilled out all over so I could get to them because we were in a hurry, we were hungry… and we needed to get to all of that other stuff, movies, making love… you get the picture. He leaned over and picked up this little scrap of a pencil and said, “What on earth is this tiny thing? It’s so small, what do you use it for?” I told him that it was my eyebrow pencil and showed him where it went on my face and how it worked. He asked me why it was so whittled down and I answered, “Well, this one is from Merle Norman and my mother bought it for me when I first went into college. They are about twelve dollars and I had just been using it sparingly ever since she got it for me because they are kind of expensive.”

Now ya’ll have to remember that I was a refugee from the Beverly Hillbillies for 9 years previously. Translation: I wore Cover Girl and anything from WalMart, face breakouts and silky skin be damned…. I was po’.

Mister got sort of thoughtful, he held the tiny little snip of an eyebrow pencil in his huge hand, turned it over, looked at it for a minute, and then gave it back to me and then we went about our day.

That Tuesday he picked me up for a date and when I went downstairs to get in his truck (he had the Expedition at the time) he opened the door for me and put me gently inside and then left the door open for a second, leaned in to kiss me and then said, “I have something for you…” and he handed me a little pale pink bag.

I squealed, “A Sursie!”

And he was like What the Fuck? So I explained the sursie thing to him while I opened the bag.

Nestled inside the little bag was a long narrow box with taupe eyeliner from Merle Norman.

Can you guys believe that? This big beautiful man went on his lunch break to a makeup store and told the lady working there what he needed and she picked it out for him.

How fucking thoughtful is that ladies? He got me an eyebrow pencil. He replaced the one I had been carrying around since God was in short pants. Don’t you just want to Die!? Well, I did… and then I called my mother, who squealed right along with me and then called all of her friends and then demanded that I marry him that instant.

(Psst… this is the same man who sent me roses at work on our two-week anniversary that caused me to fly into an incredible crying jag and when I called my mother she thought someone had died because I was crying so hard. She was like, “What did he do to you?” Heh. They were happy tears, but um… I was vulnerable… shut up.)

So, about yesterday.

I asked him for an eyebrow pencil because the one from Clarins that I’ve been using (I have been hording that one from Merle Norman like it’s friggin Fort Knox over here.) is down to its last two or three uses.

I am eyebrow-ly challenged.

Cough-IcutthemoffwhenIwas12-Cough

Yeah… so… annnnnyway… moving along… stop laughing at the afflicted Meanie.

So he told me that when I got home yesterday that I needed to make sure to go get more tampons before we left for dinner. I was like, “Baby, I have some in my purse because I’m a humongous whale of a period-y bloaty whine whine…. Blargh”

He kept insisting, “Sweetie, reeeeeallllly, you need to go upstairs and get more tampons for your purse.”

I was thinking to myself that, “my isn’t he being awfully sensitive and sweet about my cycle this month?” Then it clicked. Ohhh… He may have gotten me the eyebrow pencil! YAY! So I scampered upstairs and found the eyebrow pencil on my bathroom counter. YAY! I yelled down, “Thank you baby! This is perfect… I really appreciate you going to Saks to get this for me, or did you go to Foley’s? I’ll be right down! I just have to tinkle!”

He came bounding up the stairs and stood there while I pee’d like, “Woman… are you daft? I TOLD you to get more tampons.” So he said. “Did you get more tampons?” And I was all, “No, I have a few in my purse and look at the teeny little bit of eyebrow pencil left on the one I have, you were right on time, thank you love.”

Mister: Woman, for the love of all that is holy, would you please Look. In. The. Damn. Cabinet!?
me: ::blink:: oh… duh… sorry.

I opened the cabinet (where the tampons are coincidentally… heh) to find this awesome Saks bag FILLED with Clarins goodies. The tranquility lotion (divine!), my face lotion (luscious), the one step facial cleanser (yay!) a gift with purchase from Clarins with their gentle foaming face cleanser and a mirror and a make up bag and a bag from Saks… ROCK!

Hello? Husband? You. Are. My World. I love you, you so very much.

Strip away all of the gifts ladies and gentlemen and he is still the most priceless gem I have ever found.

Have any of you seen the movie Cheaper By The Dozen? It’s a Steve Martin film, so by law I was bound to see it at some point or another because I loave me some Steve Martin, yo. And I do like Bonnie Hunt and … pphhhtt, this is not a movie review post. So yeah, anyway. Have ya’ll seen that movie or not? If so, please walk with me straight over here to crazyville population, me.

Follow me here… yanno how Hank (Ashton Kutcher) is all rockin the sock less Burberry loafers with his high-water maroon britches and calling his car the LABARON… like it requires capital letters? I’m paraphrasing here… ya’ll understand. “The dogs are touching The LABARON!” “They better not scratch The LABARON’s paint job, Nora.” Or whatever. And he said it totally without a trace of irony. Brilliant.

And now I? Want to refer to my hoopty as The MYSTIQUE! “There is Bird Poop on The MYSTIQUE!” “The clear coat is totally peeling off of The MYSTIQUE!” And I will say this without any trace of irony what-so-ever. I will take The MYSTIQUE to the CarSpa and ask for the full package and say with disdain, “There is an unidentifiable stain and brown matter on the floorboard of the passenger side of The MYSTIQUE!”

Mister thinks I have lost my mind. Not because I have told him about my plans to call the hoopty the MYSTIQUE! (Now with 100% less irony.) But because his Lincoln is in the shop getting fixed and they gave him this monster towncar for a loaner. It’s the size of a tuna boat.

He loves it because it’s luxurious and rides like a dream. I swear, we’ve turned 80 in the past three days.

We went to a cute little sushi place after we got our taxes done on Saturday. In the sushi place parking lot he went to put his briefcase thingy in the trunk. I saw the size of the trunk of the towncar and flipped my shit.

Me: Holy crap! You could fit a body or three in there!
Mister: No shit… it’s huge.
Me: Move over, let me get in. [crawling into the enormahuge trunk]
Mister: Baby… [looking around nervously] someone’s going to think I’m kidnapping you…
Me: Hee! [laying down]
Mister: Get out.
Me: This is actually very comfortable.
Mister: Baby… [still looking around nervously] please get out…
Me: Close the lid. [pointing up]
Mister: Baby… [motioning frantically with his hands and looking a bit sick] seriously… I’m not kidding. Someone’s going to think I’m kidnapping you… Get Out. Of The Trunk. Now, Please.
Me: Ok, ok ok ok ok. [crawling out of the trunk]
Mister: Thank you.
Me: [2/3rds out… screams quietly] HELP!
Mister: [looking around nervously] Quit it.
Me: Heh
Mister: Freak. [spanks my butt]

So… when we got home Mister parked in the driveway in the back and let me climb in the trunk. I asked him to shut the lid on me several times, so he did and I pulled the emergency release lever. The lever glows in the dark, you pull it and “snick” the trunk opens and you can hop out and flee if you are ever captured by bad men.

The only problem I see is if you are tied up in the trunk… and blindfolded. Then you wont be able to get to, or find the little release lever to “snick” … flee… and yeah, you’re screwed.

Hence the reason I keep a lot of shit in my trunk. Bad men won’t be able to put me in there. Also… No little glow in the dark lever. Stupid MYSTIQUE!

Yes, I am a dork. Moving along.

Overheard at a garage sale this weekend:
Greg: [coming around the side of the house] I lost a tool.
Stacey: How can you tell? There must be more than 500 tools back there.
Greg: Oh… [pointing] you can totally tell, and there’s more than that. It is the Flux Capacitator. (he used the real name but to me it sounded like flux capacitator)
Stacey: So, you’re stuck?
Greg: Stuck like Chuck. [sitting down] So, did I tell you I got screwed at the post office yesterday?
Susan & Stacey: [laughing]
Susan: That is the best sentence I have heard all day… that is so going in my journal.
Greg: Your what?
Susan & Stacey: [laughing]
Stacey: Her journal.

We all observe a Hispanic man carefully looking over an apron from Taco Bell. He offers a quarter, Stacey takes it. He gets in his vehicle and drives away. We all look at each other and try to decide whether or not laughter would be appropriate. Laughter wins out.

At said garage sale I got a little sun, but because I was hiding from the molten ball of fire in the sky (behind a fledgling tree if you must know, shut up… stop laughing) I got just a little sunburned. The little sun happens to be in a strange pattern across the left side of my face and neck. Sweet. I look like I have a weird case of hives… or rickets.

I hosted a bridal shower for some friends from church yesterday and a couple that I adore was there, they brought their three (and a half) children. The oldest ran up to me, jumped into my arms and then pulled back and sagely said, “Susan, you ear is red.” I replied, “Yes it is sweetie, I got a little bit of sun yesterday because I have very pale skin… but look…” I said turning my head to the other side, “My other ear isn’t red.” She corrected me, “As much.”

Mister and I are going over to that couple’s new home for dinner tonight… remind me to put powder or something on my ear. Or wear a ski hat. Or earmuffs.

So, I was over at Doxie’s site and reveling in the fact that she was telling me what a sexy motherfucker I am.

Wait a second… come back here. She was. Dukay was too. He WAS. They both have love for the Sue Sue.

That’s right. That whole post was directed at me and not the plethora of drooling hordes that descend upon her site every nanosecond pushing refresh to see if she’s updated yet.

That’s right bitches. Me.

Ok, so it wasn’t directed at me.

But. BUTT. And that’s a big ol butt. _{hell yeah} (heh.) It did remind me of New Orleans.

Mister and I were in New Orleans, his first time… my… millionth. I love New Orleans. I love the sultry sound of the tug boats out in the harbor. I love the way the haunting jazz notes coaxed from the horn of a lonely saxophone player on the corner of Toulouse and Royal Streets just hang in the humid air like they have a life of their own. I love the nightlife, teeming with so many voices, songs, dances and stories; everything blends together to make a perfect tapestry.

The food. The FOOD. Just reading the words will never do it justice. Most people eat to live, but in New Orleans they live to eat. And that particular motto shows in the way they cook, bake, broil, sculpt, prepare, conjure, construct, or bring forth their meals. Crafty… they are. The oysters don’t taste like the oysters you get from Joe’s Crab Shack ya’ll… they taste primordial and rich with life. The crawfish… oh momma… the crawfish. Park me in front of several pounds of freshly boiled crawfish… hot… with new potatoes and corn on the cob and some ice cold beer at a bar in New Orleans with a jazz band playing and I will be one happy woman.

Mister and I had partied late into the night the evening before at Pat O’Briens, at 544, at the Cajun Cabin (with Mitch Cormier and the Can't Hardly Playboys… Hey big Papa!) and several other clubs, so that day we wandered all over the French Quarter taking in the sights. We went into the art district and then over to the French Market and to Café Du Monde so my love could have a beignet. We walked around the square and then went back up to Bourbon Street to get a drink or seven.

When we got to Bourbon Street from St. Peter we decided to take a right. We found this little bar called the Funky Pirate. The Funky Pirate is about the size of the 1976 Vega hatchback that my mother drove for about forty-three years. There was a palpable wall of smoke falling out of the open door and the air conditioning was on artic. The tables were small, rickety and sticky and I immediately fell in love.

Mister and I walked in… no, let me correct that… Mister and I jived in… jukin to the amazing voice that the fellow on stage possessed.

The stage was the size of a package of frozen peas with a stool and a drum kit and this big black man took up the whole stool. He rocked that mic like it was his baby momma. (Holy shit. Did I just say that? I am so fucking white.)

We ordered a case of beer and lit up and relaxed in our sticky little seats. Smiling at each other through our sweat and sunburn. What? It was June. In New Orleans. Equals hot as hell, sticky, lovely and very sweaty.

The rest of the people in the bar were tore up from the floor up (Note to Anne… they were pissed, drunk as hell). They started a conga line that took all of seven steps to complete the circuit of the bar and they were having a grand old time. The drunken white girls were dancing all up on each other in front of the guy who was singing and he started to laugh a little and cheered them on.

The old lady who was running the bar (with her bun) kept trying to get us to buy more beer. We’d take three sips, and she’d rush over, “Have another sir? Ma’am?” The bartended was just watching the game on TV and the rest of us, including the guys in the band were watching the drunken people.

What a show.

The guy who was singing kept telling us that
“BIG AL CARLSON will be coming on stage two hours….”
A little later…
“BIG AL CARLSON will be coming on stage one and a half hours….”
A liiiittle bit later…
“BIG AL CARLSON will be coming on stage in one hour and seventeen minutes….”

Um. Ok. The guy singing was already pretty darn large. How BIG could BIG AL CARLSON be? And we were already enjoying the show, especially when the sets would line up something like this.
1) Ain’t No Sunshine When She’s Gone – Bill Withers
2) Let’s Stay Together – Al Green
3) She’s Gone – Robert Cray
4) Jesus Loves You – Traditional
5) You Sexy Mother Fucker – Prince
The man was a genius.

I danced I sang, I got all sorts of sweaty. And damn if I can’t remember that guy’s name. But every time we’re at church (or anywhere really… this is an anytime fun affair) and the kids sing “Jesus Loves You” Mister and I turn to each other with a glint in our eye, wink at one another and mouth the words… “You sexy mother fucker.”

Oh, and on a side note? BIG AL CARLSON? Fuckin huge. Bigger than a package of frozen peas, I can tell you that much.

Ninety nine degrees. 99 degrees Fahrenheit. 37 degrees Celsius. Ugh. Humid. Schweaty.

Inside the office I wear a sweater at my desk. It is imperative. My officemate has a fluffy, green, fleece blanket she wraps up in and her little hands still turn purple.

There is a veritable wall of heat as soon as I walk out of the office and it assaults me and almost knocks me off balance with the violence and intensity of the difference in temperatures and it is not even August.

Hell, it was over 80 this morning shortly after 7am.

The air outside is�. Chunky and hard to breathe. People are wheezing, coughing, sneezing. Our ozone warning hovers between orange and red. The UV warnings are high. Everyone goes from their air conditioned houses and apartments to their air conditioned cars/trucks/SUVs to their air conditioned offices, malls, supermarkets, strip clubs� whatever.

It痴 like being in that bar that痴 been open all holiday weekend� when the a/c is just about shot. The fan is running. Yeah, there is a small breeze but it has this musty smoky smell to it like airplane air. Reconstituted. Like you are smelling other peoples� coughs, morning breath and the farts that they try to bury in the cheap economy class seats. There is a visible haze from all of the Marlboros smoked in the past 72 hours hovering over the faded green felt of the only pool table in the place. A flickering Budweiser light casts a meager glow on this barely moving smog because no one has left their favorite bar stool long enough to stir the air and the front door only stays open long enough for Misty and her long-time beau Ricky Don to go out in the parking lot and either neck or fight in the front cab of his flat-bed Ford.

Or� um� not.

In other news� Jergens Natural Glowｮ lotion loves me and my nuclear winter white skin. I started using it yesterday and I already have a healthy non-fish belly white glow about me. No streaks to be found. I recommend it to those ladies who are afraid of orange palms and the like.

Let痴 talk about my uterus for a moment. Guys, ya値l can move along. Pick back up after the line.

She痴 taking over and this time, there is no kidding around. I cried at church ya値l. Normal praise hymn. There痴 Sue� cryin like a freak. Gah. This morning? On my way to work� this song (if you click on link, there is audio) � and there I was� cryin. Geeze. What a sap. [Note to those who know, it reminded me of Copelan� Gah.]

I知 on Yasmine BC and to regulate my migraines for estrogen withdrawal therapy (I tended to get migraines right before the start of my cycle) I have been doing a continuous cycle of birth control pills and my normal migraine medication. This means I don稚 even stop for a menstrual cycle. 28 days? Not me.

The first time, I went (at my OBGYN痴 instruction) 3 months w/o a cycle. Holy crap, the cramps! The flow! The clotting! Oh My! Actually, HOLY SHIT!!!Is more like it. I thought I was going to die. The migraine that 祖aught up� to me almost killed me.

So I thought, hey, I知 smarter than my uterus, I値l go two months this time.

Oh my God.

I had my last BC pill Thursday night and the cramps that have been plaguing me ever since are incredible. The migraine that I had yesterday was intense. I barely made it home. I went to sleep yesterday evening at 5:15 pm and (woke up for two hours last night to get incredibly sick) and then slept straight through to this morning at 5:30 am.

What the hell?

I haven稚 even started yet.

I am so crampy and miserable. It feels like I am being ripped in twain! (Sooo melodramatic aye?) I am dreading the cycle itself. How long is this one going to last? Will I just bleed out like some calf at a slaughter house? Gross I know� but come On!

Advice? Knowledge? Does anyone have answers?

Back to our regularly scheduled non-uterine program.