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August 1, 2003

A Diamond & My Devil Dog

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!

February 16, 2004

Thank You Cupid. [wink wink, nudge nudge]

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.

March 18, 2004

Corn-fed Harvest Scientist

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.

March 23, 2004

I just heard the word spa and had a mini braingasm.

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.

March 25, 2004

A molting Kimono dragon with wicked-bad flatulence...

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?

April 12, 2004

It will keep you from shitting the bed at 4:27 am

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.

June 21, 2004

Of course, I am speaking of our Pat Boone albums and my precious moments collectibles.

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.

June 28, 2004

Mister declares that he is going to start a company called the Mexican Connection.

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 y’all.

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.

August 4, 2004

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

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.

August 16, 2004

So, yeah. I am clearly Pinky to Mister's Brain.

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.

February 9, 2005

Happy Birthday Husband, In other words... sorry I suck.

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.

March 2, 2005

You. Are. My World.

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.

April 4, 2005

Get Out. Of The Trunk. Now, Please.

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.

May 13, 2005

Let's go to New Orleans... tomorrow.

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.

June 28, 2005

I'd like to take this time to overtly make fun of Earl.

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.

Sorry guys.

Okay� um� humor or something.

On with the funny damn you!

Hmm.

Well, the Rascal Flatts concert was incredible. The traffic was so intense (it took us over an hour to go less than 2 miles) that 4 miles from Smirnoff Music Amphitheater Mister turned to me and pointed at some scalper on the side of the highway. 釘aby, if he値l give me $100 for these tickets, we池e taking the next exit and heading to the house.� I got all Lord of the Sith on him, 哲nnnoooooOOOOOOO!!!!!!�

Blake Shelton (and his mullet) opened for the boys and did and incredible job. That boy is COUNTRY. We are talking cane pole fishin and fatback eatin country. Carhart overalls and redwing boots country. Rubber boots between the cab and the bed of your truck and a hound dog standin on your truck box country. Bill Dance Outdoors and fried catfish (not from a stock pond) country. Ok, I値l quit� but he was cute, and country, and did an amazing job. The crowd sang along with every single song he sang. He was a real crowd pleaser.

Rascal Flatts came on and announced that we were part of history. We knew that it was a sold out crowd, but we didn稚 know that it was the largest crowd that the Smirnoff Amphitheater ever held. Awesome! The place was packed� and loud. I couldn稚 see a lot of the action because of some guy I値l call Earl.

I壇 like to take this time to overtly make fun of Earl.

Earl was an older gentleman, and I use the term gentlemen in the loosest of meaning. Earl had a flat-top hair cut that he kept displaying to everyone around when he would take off his black straw hat act out the words to the songs. Yes, Earl we know the song says, 澱aby blue eyes, your head on my shoulder� and we do not need you to take off your hat and point to your blood shot eye� turn this way and that for everyone to see and then pat your own shoulder lovingly.

Earl was wearing a white wife beater that looked as if it belonged on an eleven year old girl. Earl was not, in fact, an eleven year old girl. Earl had on stonewashed jeans� jeans whose seams I could hear screaming above the fifteen year old girls sitting next to me.

Earl liked to get up and walk around a lot. Earl would stand on his chair, and (manually) lift his leg and his screaming stonewashed jeans and foot (encased in requisite black snakeskin boot) over the chair as he was too cool to walk around. Earl would dance when he would be at full standing height on said chairs. Earl would dance when in front of chairs. Earl would dance with whoever was coming down the row. Earl would dance with the poor older woman beside him and the man痴 who was on the other side of him girlfriend. Earl痴 preferred method of dance was the white man overbite/air-hump. Yeah, I couldn稚 contain myself either.

Earl was in fact, a moog.

PS.. Get some more jeans man. I do not need to know your religion. Thank you.

Other than that? The show was awesome and I had a blast. Mister called my office phone and left me a few messages and I can hear the concert in the background� it痴 splendid.

Hope you guys are having a great week!

April 5, 2006

THE HOUSE

Ok, a little update-a-roony before I get out of work early. I have been keeping secrets from ya’ll. Seeeeeeecreeeetths. (Uh, lisp much? – Shut up.) They aren’t really all that big.

Oh, wait. Yes they fucking ARE!

Mister and I bought a house.

I’ll let that sink in for a second. Especially for those of you who know that I am actually a twelve year old stuck inside a thirty-something year old body. Yes, I would still eat Ravioli’s out of a can and chocolate frosting for breakfast. Yes, the sight of Angelina’s boobies in Tomb Raider make me all starry eyed. I love me some Harry Potter. And yes, yes, Lord, yes… if I could stay up all night and watch VH1 Celebreality bullshit on Sunday nights I would… totally… except I have to go to work and all that. DAMN, this grown up stuff is for the birds, yo.

And. I just said “yo”.

Has it sunk in?

Well for those of you still stuck thinking about Angelina’s boobies… I’m with you. But catch up. We have some ground to cover.

For the past two years Mister and I have been living in this large ass house. Renting. Yes, the rent was a steal for the size, location and the partial cul-de-sac lot. But, but… it is enormous. Four large bedrooms, three full baths, a big den (living room), dining room, kitchen with breakfast nook, huge closets, two car garage and a gigantic covered patio (love the patio, want to marry the patio) with a ceiling fan. Wood burning fireplace and built in book shelves… oh, and a wet bar in the living room, complete with many shelves for all of your liquor.

Why, it sounds perfect!

Yeah, you want it? I’ll put you in touch with the landlady, she’s awesome.

Here’s the kicker. It is too big for us. There is just the two of us. Oh and Max*. So two adults who work full time and a cat that sleeps and shits full time. We do not need that much room. Seriously ya’ll.

I don’t know if you remembered or not, but when we moved previously we were coming from a one bedroom, one bath apartment. And we totally had enough furniture to fill every room of this monster house. How does that work, hmmm?

So, Mister has been all, “I want to finally put down roots, I want to have neighbors over for cook outs and take some pride in a home that we own.” And I have been all, “Stairs can bite my ass, and also cleaning three bathrooms and dusting… and AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!”

So we started looking a few months ago [::cough:: freaking November::cough]… so yeah, we had a little time. And our lease isn’t even up until June, but whatever. Roots.

So a few months ago we found this perfect little house. Three bedrooms, two baths, two living areas and a large kitchen. We were smitten. Until we realized the three no, no’s for resale. 1) It backed up to a busy street and street noise was loud as hell. 2) It faced down an alley, and hello, no one wants to look at your freaking recycling bin Marge! And 3) It faced east. Um, just no. I prefer a Southward or Northward facing house. No, it isn’t a Mecca thing. It is a sunlight in your bedroom window thing either early in the morning making it all hot and waking your ass up, or in the evenings… uh, making it all hot. What? I live in Texas ya’ll.

So we cried. Not really, we were just very disappointed. It was precious, the space was perfect (ie. Not wasted) and it had a LARGE KITCHEN! And a porch on the front. A cute little porch with white columns. Awww.

So I told the house when I walked off of its’ cute little porch, “Cute house? You are dead to me. Why did you have to be all facing east and looking down and alley and… the road noise? I am really disappointed in you.” And then I said to Mister, “Hey!... Let’s drive around this perfect looking street with all the cute houses just to the east of the bad location house.”

And angels started singing; because we went about two blocks and found it.

THE HOUSE. (Please imagine a timpani going off in your head… really, this moment deserves it.)

There it was an ideal little one story house, perfectly colored brick with another tiny porch with white columns. I turned to Paul (and our Buyer’s Agent - Bill… who is so awesome sunshine peals from his mouth when he speaks and negotiates awesome deals for people who are his clients. Namely… Mister and myself.) and I said, “I would like to see this house please. I want to go in. This house is cute.” And then I mimicked the house repeating back to me all Rudolph-y, ”I’m Cute, I’m CUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUTE!”

Surprisingly, Bill did not run screaming but yet, quickly pulled out his phone and dialed the number listed on the realtor’s sign in the yard. We were allowed inside the house later that afternoon and we? Fell in love.

It is perfectly spaced out. Three bedrooms, two full baths, monster closets, one dining area, one living area, a nice sized kitchen and a two car garage. New carpet, two inch wood (or whatever) blinds, freshly painted…. And here is the best part. It was empty. No one in it to screw up our visualizing mojo.

Long story very short, we placed an offer on the house that day, counter offered only once and then had to wait thirty freaking days (almost) to close. We closed last Thursday. Seriously. Closed, on a house. One with my name on the mortgage papers.

Do ya’ll know how absolutely fucking awesome it feels to be buying a home? Something that I can live in and say with a bit of snootiness, “Why, yes. This fine homestead is indeed mine. And I will take that mojito now, thank you my good man.”

Living in the four (five?) homes that my parents’ owned as a child. Theirs. Living in a dorm in college. DORM. Living in an apartment later in college. Rented. Living with my ex-husband in a 1976 Redmond double-wide trailer. His. (Thank the good Lord Jesus and Bill Dance.) Moving into another apartment, and another apartment and yet another apartment and then the home we are in now? Rented, rented, rented and fucking rented.

The new house? OURS.

We bought a refrigerator (Maytag Ice2O, stainless… oh, hell to the yes), a cook top, a beautiful light for the entryway, a light assembly for over the bar and some reading lamps… as well as new leather furniture for the living room (more on the furniture later).

All? Ours.

Neither one of us have ever had our own home and getting the keys the other day and then going over to the new house and laying on the carpet was sort of awesome. Kind of like that real estate commercial where that lady is watching her kids play in the backyard of her new house and she’s all weepy and, “I never had a back yard before.” Except with more cursing, picture taking and no children.

So, for the past several weeks I have been sitting on a cactus the size of a bearded yak worried that for some reason the sale of the house wouldn’t go through. I refused to let myself get excited… but now? It’s on. It is SO on.

I will post more tomorrow about the furniture and all of the appliances and the utilities and all of the stuff that most of you have already been through, but you know what? I’m gonna tell you anyway… because I am a home owner now, dammit.

*Holy Rotisserie Christmas, have you ever seen anything so cute?


April 6, 2006

"Took a bunch of little naugas to make that couch."

Let’s talk a little turkey. Or cow. Whatever. I just want to discuss my new furniture.

A few weeks ago (during the wait of indeterminate time of suck [read: waiting to get the damn keys to our new house]) Mister and I went on a little shopping trip. We had discussed this particular shopping trip for weeks, months… nay, even years.

We’ve been discussing getting new living room furniture since we realized that we were meant to be together forever and destined to intermingle all of our worldly possessions.

Here are two little hints if you are the new kid to this journal:
1) My husband is so Type A that he would have an aneurysm oh, say if I tied him to a chair and folded a map in front of him… and FOLDED IT WRONG! On Purpose.
2) Me = “la dee da… oh, look… something shiny.” [wanders off into a pasture… barefoot… with a messy ponytail and a piece of banana hanging from one hand that I had forgotten to either finish or throw away.]

And our furniture reflects our personalities.

Oh, and I’m only going to talk about living room furniture… because if we get into pre-marriage kitchen possessions it could get ugly.

His: Seven piece living room set. Matching three cushion couch, love seat and over stuffed chair in the muted tones of cream and taupe. Two ivory colored, glass topped end tables and a matching glass topped coffee table. End tables and coffee tables reflect the swirling patterns caught in the artful design of the fabric of the couch, love seat and chair. One Large Oriental area rug in tones of red to set off the olive, gold and russet pillows thrown on the couch, and finally one three panel silk pillow in matching tones for the chair.

Mine: Dark green 1994 sofa sectional with reclining ends, a coffee table that was basically brass loops with a glass top that my mother found for me at a garage sale for $15 and an end-table-standing-lamp combo (oooh, fancy a combo) table that had been sitting next to my father’s “relaxin’” chair since I could remember.

Hi, who wants to sit where?

In the rent house his stuff went downstairs in the living room. And my stuff? Upstairs, where it wouldn’t be seen except by those who already loved us and could not Indian-give their love because of the sins of one ugly couch. Well, except the loopy coffee table, that didn’t survive a move.

So when we went on this shopping trip a few weeks ago we pretty much already had in mind what we wanted. Large, dark brown, expensive looking, leather, man furniture.

Those were seriously the criteria: It has to be large… Mister is 6’5” and is tired of having his knees hit his chest when he sits on a sofa. Dark brown. I am sick (oh Lord, so very sick) of cream and taupe. I want something that says, “Come here, be comfy, do not be afraid to sit on me… I will not stain if you drop your crouton on me… like oh, cream and taupe maybe? Hmmmm” I want it to look very nice. I am not in the market for naugahyde* or pleather or chitlin covered furniture. I want it to be beautiful and look like we are grown ups. And finally I want it to look like man furniture, not some fairy little tea-cup Chippendale sofa with its dainty little legs. I want MAN furniture. Something that a gaggle of my girlfriends and I could curl up on and plot the coup of the Sephora at the Galleria. Something that would be perfectly at home in a new living room where we could entertain and serve many gin and tonics… good lookin stuff.

So we went on a search. We looked at Haverty’s, Bassett, La-Z-Boy and many other places that had been suggested to us. We spent all day one rainy Saturday afternoon running in and out of furniture stores and sitting on all of their sofas; sectionals, group sofas, three-cushion, four-cushion, chair and a half(s) with storage ottomans. Sweet Judas Priest in a tutu, I have never seen so many pieces of furniture.

I thought Mister was going to cry when we left the last store. In every single place we would walk in and sit on the first thing that appealed to us. A salivating salesperson would saunter over and ask if we were looking for anything in particular. I go so tired of being led all over the store(s) all for naught that I started just asking Mister, “Baby, would you mind standing?” And when he would stand up, I would gesture to him and reply to the sales person, “I want something that would fit [points] him.” The salesperson would usually say something like, “Oh, we have some very tall couches right… over… here” as they were walking away quickly to show us the most extravagant furniture they had.

We found a few things we liked, but everything was too short for Mister. His knees would be all pointy as opposed to nice relaxed knees and the sales person would brightly offer, “Put bricks under it! That would make it taller!!!” while nodding enthusiastically.

Gah.

I asked each (of the fifty frillion) stores if they could customize furniture. “Oh, yes… of course!” Each one of them replied. And when I asked about couch leg height as opposed to just fabric, they got this ‘I smell something akin to Limburger’ look on their face and denied me. “So, you are just offering fabric choices, really not customization, correct?” I asked one sales person. She said, “Well… uh, right. The average person…” And that is where I stopped her because I felt this… heat behind me that told my spidey senses that Mister was about to lose his shit completely and roar, “Do I look average to you lady? Huh?! DO I!?”

Finally soaked with rain and very frustrated, we headed home.

The next day I started looking online for the furniture stores I knew to be out there, the ones that would make furniture to my specifications, without requiring a kidney donation and maybe a sacrifice of the hoopty. I put together a spreadsheet (oh, don’t look at me like that. I can be Type A too… just sometimes, maybe… when the weather is right… and my hair is perfect.) of all of the stores that we needed to go see next.

At the top of my list was a little place over here behind my building in the decorating district called The Leather Sofa Company. On their website I noticed that they had several selections for stitching, nailheads and most importantly, legs. All different sizes of legs. So I called Mister and asked him to come to my office after he got off of work. We drove over and walked in. It smelled wonderful and a nice guy named Marc came over and asked if we needed any help. I pointed to Mister and said, “Have anything to fit him?” He said, “Sure do.” And wasn’t lying.

We looked all over and I fell in love with a sofa on the floor. It was already pretty tall with little one-bun (little round wooden sofa legs that look like – well, buns) legs on it and I asked if they could change the legs to the three-bun. “Sure.” I was so happy I may have made out with him a little.

But the best part was yet to come. I asked him if he had a chair to fit the couch, he did but he didn’t think it would be large enough to be comfortable for Mister. Mister went over, sat in it and asked, “Could we make this a chair and a half?” “Yes sir.” “Bring it up about three inches?” “Sure could.” “Make the cushion about three inches deeper?” “We could, yes.” “And put those three-bun legs on it? And even make the back cushion a little firmer?” “Yep.” And Mister was so happy he may have made out with Marc a little bit too.

So, we found my dream sofa… it really is awesome ya’ll. And a chair, made for a king. I am so excited. It is all being delivered on Saturday. I may make out with the delivery guy too.

I will definitely take pictures. I have a piece of the leather in my tote. It is called casino mink. And no, I don’t make out with the piece of leather. That would just be sick.

PS. Shout out to Sil and her husband and all of their beautiful leather furniture… for they made me a leather convert. That stuff can stand up to nuclear fall out** ya’ll.

*“Took a bunch of little naugas to make that couch.” Name that quote. Heh.
**(a toddler)

May 10, 2006

I say Expo/Home Depot schedule a weekend class to teach how to build a ladder, and climb it to get the hell over themselves.

Have I told you guys how much I absolutely love, nay… adore Home Depot and Expo Home Design? No? I haven’t? That is because I wish them all a fiery death, scabies and an ulcer the size of Tucson. Not necessarily in that order.

The day after Mister and I closed on the house we went to the Expo Home Design Center right across from my office during lunch. We had measured the new house for several things that we needed. 1) A monster fridge. 2) A cook top; as there is a gaping hole cut in the granite/tile counter top in our kitchen. 3) And lighting options. I am all about the lighting… sort of like Mariah but without the bling.

I knew which fridge I wanted because Mister and I looked at all of the fridges in the world previous to signing the closing papers. Seriously… every fridge. You have a fridge? I have looked at it, noted its options and maybe even fondled the thermostat for the freezer. I knew I wanted the Maytag Ice2O because of the awesome French door design and the bottom drawer freezer. It is more efficient, dontcha know? And also eleventy frillion times more splendid than any refrigerator that I have ever had the pleasure of filling with goodies. And by goodies I mean booze.

We also knew what cook top we wanted. Our kitchen is wired for gas and or electric so we had our choice. Mister had his eye on this monster five-burner gas cook top by Jenn-Air or something.

I also found a beautiful George Kovacs lighting fixture to mount over our headboard in the master bedroom. Halogen lights, two, on individual dimmers and flexible arms. Perfect for reading in bed or performing a little simple surgery… whichever. I fell in love with this Hampton Bay 5 light track set with amber globes and the pièce de résistance was this large three light Hampton Bay pendant with an amber globe as well.

So we went over to the appliances area and spoke with Bernard*. We told him that we wanted to order the Maytag Ice2O and a cook top. He was all, “Great! No problem-o! Here, let me print out 86 copies of your order so you can take it to the check out line.” We asked Bernard when the appliances would be delivered and he said, “Four days. The fridge will be delivered in four days, while they are there, they will measure for your cook top.” I made sure he was being serious about the four day thing, “Bernard, I will need to take off of work to be home when the delivery guys show up, are you sure that they will deliver it in four days? Four days from now is April 4th. If I take off a partial day on April 4th will the delivery guys be delivering my fridge?” And he replied, “Of course… see? It is right here on your order.” He went on, “They will call you the day before to schedule a time… ok?” I looked at Bernard skeptically and finally nodded my head. “Ok.”

Mister and I then took our binder of paper over to the lighting area to order the lights we wanted. The Kovacs light was supposed to be a stock item and the Hampton Bay items were special order. The Kovacs light was on back order so it would take them 4 days, four business days to get them in. The special order lights would be delivered directly to my house within 10 business days. No problem. Some light fixture guy wrote up our orders, handed us another 64 copies of each order to take to the check out line and we made sure that our installation orders has been completed and marveled at the measurement costs.

I started putting it together. We ordered five things. Each one has to be delivered and installed… and before that? Measured. So conceivably I would have to take off fifteen half days if some of this stuff could not be consolidated… except for the Hampton Bay lights. Those would be delivered directly to me, at the new house. So? Thirteen days.

We went to the check out line and on our way looked at our watches. Lunch hour was over and we were both due back at our respective offices. We rounded the corner to head to the front and were both relieved when we saw that there was only one person in front of us in line.

So we waited.

And waited.

Fuck! The guy in front of us was only purchasing seven washers and a pair of finials to adorn his curtain rods. How long in holy hell will it take them to check Mister and me out with our 150 pages for our five orders (and the delivery, and the measuring, and the installation)?

Finally the guy leaves with his washers and finials. We stepped up to the counter and heaved the novel sized order documents onto the counter. The cashier had to ring up each order separately because we ordered warranties. (The NERVE.) We asked if we could pay by debit card or credit card. They wouldn’t take it because the amount was too high. Take a check? Sure. Lord. Please let us get out of here before Bush steps down.

We finally got done with the check out process and left there feeling beat down but excited about our purchases. New fridge, cook top, and three lights. Awesome.

I kept thinking four days. Four business days until we have our new fridge. I cleared it with my boss to be off for a partial day on the 4th of April.

The third of April came around and by two o’clock I had not heard from the delivery guys. Hmm. Interesting. I called Expo and gave them my order number. They patched me through to Bernard and he said… and I quote, “Oh, yeah… The Maytag. Well, it says here that it is scheduled for the 5th. You know, these things sometimes slip a day.” Boiling with anger at being told something other than the truth, I called Mister and the first thing out of his mouth? “Cancel the order. They don’t have an exclusive with that product. Cancel it.”

I thought for a moment and the realized that I was over a barrel. I wanted my damn fridge, the cook top and my lights. Expo/Home Depot did have an exclusive with the Hampton Bay products that I picked out. Shit.

Freaking Barrel.

I called the manager, left a message and then waited for about an hour. He didn’t call back so I called again and asked for the manager on duty.
Mark: “This is Mark, may I help you?”
self: “Well Mark, I really hope so. I am in a bit of a pickle. Let me give you my phone number and name so you can look up my order.”
Mark: “Shoot.”
self: “[Blah blah blah, phone number and name]. Find me?”
Mark: “Yes ma’am, what can I do for you?”
self: “As you can see my husband and I came in last week and put quite a few things on order.”
Mark: “Yes ma’am…”
self: “The appliance dude, may I call him a ‘dude’ Mark?”
Mark: “If you wish.”
self: “Great. The appliance dude, Bernard? Well, he assured me and my husband that our fridge would be delivered tomorrow… the 4th of April.”
Mark: “And it says here…. The… oh, the 5th.”
self: “That in of itself is not that big of a deal. The big deal part is that we took Bernard at his word, scheduled some utility people to come out tomorrow as well and my husband and I took the day off of work because of these scheduled items… one which happens to be the fridge which Bernard so cheerfully told me about an hour ago that ‘these things sometimes slip a day’. Do they normally slip a day Mark?”
Mark: “No ma’am, not normally.”
self: “The last part of this deal is that I want that fridge. I really do. It is shiny and large.”
Mark: “Right… shiny…”
self: “But my husband’s temper got the best of him and when I told him that Bernard said that our shipment ‘slipped a day’ the first thing out of his mouth? Was to cancel the order. I do not want to cancel the order Mark.”
Mark: “Oh, … well, good.”
self: “Right, so how can you and I work together to make sure that this fridge gets delivered tomorrow?”
Mark: “Ok, this is what I am going to do…”

And Mark proceeded to lay out the Fridge Delivery Plan of ’06. Long story even longer… well, shorter, kind of. Mister took off work the morning of the 4th to handle the utility guys and I took off work at noon to go wait for the fridge delivery guys. At 12:30 when I pulled into the drive and relieved Mister of his duty he told me, “Well, the fridge is here.” “Is it!?” I rushed into the kitchen to see it. “But it is not installed.” “You’re fucking kidding me.” “No, no… I am most definitely not kidding you. The delivery guys delivered it and put it in the garage and then let me know that they could not install it as they are just delivery guys.” “Lord. I’ll handle this.”

Mark: “This is Mark may I help you?”
self: “Maaark, Mark… how are you? This is Susan [last name] and I just wanted to thank you for having the fridge delivered today.”
Mark: “My pleasure ma’am.”
self: “One little thing…”
Mark: “Yes?”
self: “The shiny fridge?”
Mark: “Right, shiny…”
self: “Is sitting in my garage. The delivery guys said that they would not install it as they are just delivery guys.”
Mark: “Seriously?”
self: “Seriously.”

Mark hustled and bustled and had his Expediter (Linda) get some installation guys come to the house between 3 and 6:30pm.

They showed up and started unpacking the fridge from the cardboard and the things binding it and protecting it. They opened the container and the little one said, “It’s supposed to be blue… right?”

I almost bit this man in the face ya’ll.

He must have seen my face fall from the excited expectation look to the I-am-seriously-going-to-punch-you-in-the-neck-if-you-are-being-serious face because he said quickly, “I’m kidding ma’am… just kidding. It is the stainless one you ordered.”

So the guys (scratched the shit out of) installed my fridge and all was right with the world. Until… (dum dum DUUUUMMM!) the fridge guys went ahead and measured for the cook top.

Plumber's Crack: “Ma’am? The cook top you ordered will not fit. The fifth burner will be under a cabinet which is not up to code and the vent for gas cook tops should go outside. Yours goes… where?”
self: “Up… there?” [points]
Plumber's Crack: “Well, that isn’t up to code and you would have to have someone cut into this counter and we don’t do granite tiles.”
self: “Isn’t that covered in the installation fee?” (Oh, come on… I knew it wasn’t covered… but you can’t blame me for trying.)
Plumber's Crack: “No ma’am. We’ll let Expo know not to order the cook top and you can just pick out another one.”
self: [harrummphh]

I think I may have blown my hair out of my face with a little puff and then sighed as well… because we all know what a trooper I am when it comes to being told “no.”

So one fridge down… one cook top to re-choose. Is so a word.

A few days later they called me to tell me that 1) the Kovacs lamp was back ordered for a week or so, 2) the Hampton Bay track light should be there in a two weeks and 3) the Hampton Bay globe (love it… I love it soooooo) was back ordered for over four weeks.

And ya’ll know how well I do with waiting too.

Mister: “Cancel the damn order!”
self: “Oh stop it.”

The Kovacs light came in and is so so pretty. Mister and I (to be honest… more Mister than I… but I digress) installed it shortly after we moved the bed over to the new house. It came in about two weeks after we ordered it. It is such an awesome light and very directional that I have found out that I can put my make up on in the morning by using it as a make up light while… get this… Mister is still sleeping!

The 5 globe track light from Hampton Bay came in and we scheduled a guy (an Expo guy) to come and install it. The installation had been paid for a frillion years ago and we were excited to have it put up. Guess when we scheduled him. The 22nd of April you say? Why, that is very perceptive of you. It was also the same freaking day that we were moving. Brillllliant!

I managed the moving company while Mister fussed around with Todd… the electrician guy.

Todd did a great job with the track light set, measured the area for the big light to make sure it would all fit (see: Cook Top). He proclaimed that it would be a standard install and asked us to call him when the big globe pendant light came in.

I got home last week to find this enormous box on my front porch. The Light! The Light! The Light is HEEEERRRRREEEE! I sang. And the neighbors hustled their children inside.

I called Todd to come and install the light. And I stood firm on the fact that Mister and I work until 5:30 pm each work day. He previously said that he could come on Saturdays so I pushed for that. He was busy all day Saturday and Sunday, and he was going on vacation on Tuesday. “Monday at 6pm?” I asked him. He said he would be there.

Monday evening Todd showed up at 6:45 pm. He walked in, made a big to-do about being there… moved a light switch to another wall and then proclaimed that he couldn’t install it because he would need a brace because the light was too heavy.

Todd: “I could run out and get you a brace but it’ll cost you $80.00.”
Mister: “How much would it cost if I went to get one?”
Todd: “$15.00.”

We knew he didn’t want to be there and was just putting us off because of his vacation and whatever… but he was already paid for the job. He said it would be a standard installation. He had specs on the light that was going to go in that spot.

FINE.

I am so tired of Home Depot and Expo. Nothing is ever what they say it will be. Nothing is ever done on time. When Todd left Monday night he said that Expo would call us the next morning to plan the install with the brace. Guess who hasn’t heard from anyone at Expo?

You got it in one.

We ordered our cook top from Lowes a week or so ago. They said it would be in ten days from the order date. Guess what was on time?

*Names changed to protect the stupid and sloth like.

August 8, 2006

His knee, that I affectionately refer to as FrankenKnee ...

self: Hi, last entry.
last entry: Hi.
self: Are you a little embarrassed?
last entry: [sheepishly] yes.
self: May I change your name to “brick”?
last entry: If you must. I thought I was funny.
self: Apparently not, I would say it was more along the lines of uncomfortable and crass.
last entry: Really?
self: Really.
last entry: I can do better.
self: No, I am sorry… you are dead to me.
last entry: [sniff]

So, yeah. About that ya’ll. Let’s just pretend that the last entry never happened.

Let me tell ya’ll about what has been going on. For those of you who are new to the site and haven’t rifled through the archives to learn morsels about me, I am married to a retired Marine. We call him Mister.

When Mister was a young man he tore up his knee during the time of his enlistment. Is enlistment the right word? Anyway, he tore up his knee… his left knee. They scoped it a couple of times to see what the damage was and it was this: I may totally be jacking this story up but, long story short… he tore the ligament away from the bone. The ligament didn’t tear… he actually tore the ligament, the ACL, (and a piece of bone) away from the lower leg bone… tibia right?

They did a major surgery on his left leg, inserted three screws into his knee and then started him on physical therapy. The physical therapy guy… on the first day of PT for Mister gave him 3rd degree burns on his knee with a hot pack. Mister’s knee was still numb from the surgery and he felt heat and discomfort and let the PT guy know. The PT guy lifted the hot pack, fanned Mister’s leg and said, “Well, you just have two minutes left, we’ll just put it back on there.”

The PT had to stop because the blister on his skin (knee) had to form, slough off (gross) and then they had to do a skin graft from Mister’s groin region to replace the skin that was burned off by whom I would say is the most incompetent physical therapist in the world.

After the burn healed they had to scope his knee again and remove scar tissue that built up during the whole burning the top of his knee-skin issue.

Suffice it to say, he was medically retired from the Marines… with honors.

That was about twenty years ago. His knee, that I affectionately refer to as FrankenKnee still gives him trouble. The cartilage inside is all jacked up and he normally stands mostly on his right leg to take some weight off of his bad knee.

That is why he was so freaked out when back on July the 17 at like 5:45 a.m. he was bending down to get his luggage to get on a plane for Memphis and his right knee audibly made a popping/cracking sound and Mister almost passed out from the immediate pain. Ya’ll… he saw stars.

He regained his composure, limped to his gate, went to Memphis, met with his Sales team, went on to somewhere in Indiana and did a presentation.

Hello, did I mention that he is tough?

That evening he went to an emergency care place, they gave him a brace and some medication for swelling and pain.

Ya’ll? I was in San Antonio*.

He? Was in Indi-fucking-ana.

And, he was hurt.

(And Galen was staying with Stacey and giving her hell. Gah, sorry Stacey!)

So to condense what has happened in the last few weeks it goes like this:
1) Mister tears up his good knee.
2) Mister does an amazing presentation in INDIANA and comes back Tuesday afternoon.
3) Mister goes to a doctor (orthopedic specialist) on Wednesday the 19th.
4) Doctor orders X-Rays and MRIs and concludes that Mister tore his meniscus (that cartilage crap between the bones of the leg beneath the knee cap thingy).
5) Mister calls his boss to let him know what was going on later that afternoon.
6) Mister’s work forces him into workman’s comp and to file FMLA papers.
7) Awesome orthopedic-specialist-surgeon-type-man will not work on workman’s comp cases.
8) Fuck.
9) Mister has to start from square one to find an orthopedic doctor/surgeon that will work with workman’s comp cases.
10) Mister does not get to see anyone until the following Monday.
11) Over the weekend Mister, who has not had one call from his boss takes the time one Saturday evening (because he can not sleep… hurty knee) at like 2 a.m. and sends out a few résumés.
12) Awesome Orthopedic Surgeon Guy that DOES take workman’s comp cases is found and is wonderful. He sees Mister on Monday July 31st and schedules Mister for surgery to repair his meniscus and other damage on August 3rd.
13) After doctor’s appointment on Monday the 31st Mister is asked to interview with a company who loves his résumé.
14) New Company calls him back on Wednesday the 2nd and ask him to come meet the CFO.
15) CFO and new company love him… it is hearts and flowers… and money… and an awesome benefits package.
16) Mister has yet to receive one phone call or email from his boss. Current employer (Whom I like to call SATAN) turned off his phone, his email access and basically ostracized him to Siberia. “But it is for your own good, you need to focus on getting better.” This from the HR person. Oh… bullshit.
17) Surgery.
18) Surgery went well.
19) Emails from company he interviewed with wishing him well and telling him he is awesome, that they will send butterflies, kittens and rainbows but to make sure and feel better soon. That they totally love him is implied. That they may want to have his babies can be read between the lines.
20) Nothing from present boss or company… ever… till this day. (Can ya’ll tell that this lack of consideration pisses me off to no end?)
21) Ya’ll like lists right?
22) Follow up appointment with surgeon goes well on Friday.
23) Weekend spent napping, watching movies (by the way… Brazil… WTF?) being bitten by a small, three pound badger that looks suspiciously like a puppy, cooking doing laundry and caring for Mister.
24) Monday… Mister gets a call from the HR lady at the company he interviewed with, “We… we love you man.” And they offered him a job. A great job. He accepted and immediately got a welcome email from the CFO who was all, “We wanted to offer you the job on Friday… but with 24 hours after your surgery and the threat of anesthesia still in your system… ha ha ha!” And then they made out… figuratively speaking, of course.
25) Yesterday during lunch, I went home, picked up Mister’s resignation letters for his current company and hand delivered them.
26) Still nothing from his boss.
27) Gah.
28) But YAY! New and improved knee and a new job!

And I think that is all.

Oh, and happy hour tonight with my girls at Sherlock’s. Lord, I am so ready for a drink.

*In San Antonio our contact at the hotel was all, “Ladies, we would like to give you a 30 minute massage, on the house… is 5:00 p.m. a good time for you?” My coworker and I jumped at the chance. My coworker was rubbed down by a large mean looking lesbian whose name was Susan. I… on the other hand was rubbed down by creepy breathing guy who freaked me out so bad that I pulled something in my side from trying not to flee from the table. Apparently Susan rocked at the whole massage thing and my coworker almost fell asleep. I? Am still fighting the lingering muscle spasms on my left ribcage.
Booo creepy breathing massage guy!

December 18, 2007

TurboFlush 4000

Word to your chicken.

So, hi. Um, so what’s been going on, y’aaaaaaaaaaallll?

Look, I’m sorry. It has been ages and ages since I held you in my supple arms and stroked your furrowed brow. I haven’t told you a story in many moons. Yeah, I put up that one little paragraph of bullshit when I was angry, but have I met your wishes baby? No, no I have not.

I know, I know... you have needs too. Do you not bleed when someone hits you with a car? Do you not yearn... for oxygen... when you are being smothered? Do you not cry out... with pain... when bitten by a small fur-bearing mammal? Yes, yes you do.

So, I am sorry. My apology is here... in black and white (and sometimes gray). I know I treat you like Meredith treats McDreamy and then looks poutily confused when he moves on with his life. Have you moved on baby? Are you tired of me disappearing for months on end?

Or will you take me back? Will you stay with me? Will you endure the ... um, bad prose until I mildly amuse you?

Well, good. Glad to have you back on board Doc, Isaac, Beaver Gopher.... um, Charo. Let’s get up to speed and then we can relax a little.

Since we last heard from our heroine, she was one angry girl. It was like putting a badger in a blender and hitting frappe. I know I get a little angsty this time of year because of my travel schedule and not being able to enjoy the holidays with my family and for fuck’s sake, not having time to even put up a Christmas tree. I did the tree thing last year, and it was pretty. But I haven’t put one up yet and it is... oh, six days from Christmas Eve. I don’t think it’s going to happen, do you?

No? Okay, perfect. Let’s move on.

I don’t want to get dooced, so we won’t talk about work... because dear Lord, in heaven.... I would SO get fired if I opened up my mouth right now.

I haven’t told you guys about the plumbing.... and almost burning down the house... have I? Okay, I can tell by that look on your face that I haven’t. So. Onward!

Back at the beginning of November, one evening I was doing laundry and dishes and later when I went to wash my face to go to bed I noticed that the water wasn’t as hot as I normally like it. The next morning, a Sunday, I took a luke warm - almost cool shower and then casually mentioned it to Mister ... later... that evening when there wasn’t a thing he could do about it except crawl up into the attic and try to relight the pilot light.

No go.

Hmmm.

There was a pretty substantial amount of water in the catch pan under the water heater so we hooked up the shop vac and sucked the water out. The pilot light wasn’t staying lit because water kept dripping on the little gas pipe thingy. Awesome.

The next morning as I filled up the tub with our electric tea kettle and listened to Mister grumble about shaving with cold water I thought, “I can handle this. When I get to the office, I will call around and find a plumber that sounds trustworthy. I will make sure that they have a no ass-crack policy, and that they can come out on an emergency basis.” So when I got to work, I did just that. I found a plumber (nobody would agree to my no ass-crack policy) and they said that they would come out between 12 and 2 pm. I took off the second part of the day and the plumbers showed up at 12:30 and I rejoiced.

Until... dum dum DUUUMMMM! They told me that the water heater had busted the inside liner thingy and would have to be replaced. ALSO.... that the toilets in the guest bathroom and in the master bathroom needed to be resealed and blah blah blah.....

Long story short, they replaced the water heater, YAY!.... and when they lifted the toilet in the guest bathroom... sweet juniper Judas with a pink tutu... I felt like I was on the set of Mike Rowe’s (mrrroow) Dirty Jobs. That was the most disgusting thing I have ever been in close proximity to. And I went to COLLEGE*. It was like a big pipe leading directly into Satan’s hoary ass.

*wtf?

The plumber dudes were all, “The flange is broken.” I was all, “MY EYES!!!! MY EYES! MAKE IT GO AWAY!” The lining to my sinus cavity fled the building and I threw buckets of money at the plumbers to make the bad thing stop telling me it was going to eat my soul. Also, I got Mister a tall toilet. When I sit to tinkle I can’t put my feet flat on the floor, it’s all tippy toes baby. And when the plumbers brought it in, I was all, “Holy shit. Excuse the pun boys. Is that thing by any chance called the TurboFlush 2000?” Joe (plumber guy – sans ass crack) said, “Actually ma’am, it’s the TurboFlush 4000.”

Y’all? Joe wasn’t kidding. It has some air assist low flush scary thing in it that would suck down a house cat. So, Merry Christmas Mister! I present to you... the TurboFlush 4000. And I am not even kidding.

Okay, a few days after that Mister went to .... Austin, or somewhere for a day trip and I was going to call Stacey and beg and plead for a Happy Hour, because I needed a drink or twelve. But for some reason I didn’t. I may have called, and I may have mentioned it, and she may have been unavailable... or something, either way, I went home. But it was late and I walked in the door at 7:05 in the pm. And I know that time exactly because when I opened the door a cloud of acrid white smoke came boiling out of the house.

The cat gave me the finger and ran past me to the safety of the street and I went inside to 1) turn off the house alarm, 2) find out why there was smoke and 3) why the fuck the smoke detectors were not going off!

1) I turned off the house alarm. 2) I looked over at our stove rangy thing and noticed that one of the eyes of the flat panel surface was all angry and red, Hot and shit. And sitting on top of this angry red eye was.... a plastic toaster. Or, what was left of it.

I ran over, turned off the stove, lifted the rest of the toaster from the gooey remains on the stove and then found the first flat edge that I could lay my hands on, wet a towel and started scraping the white molten goo off of the stove. I was scraping and scraping when I realized that the implement I was scraping with was.... fucking plastic! So I chunked that and the wetted towel I had in my frantic paws into the trash. I opened all of the windows, the doors and turned on the fans in every room.

I grabbed the phone and my blackberry (redundant, shut up, I know) and went out to watch the cat fall out of a tree (from 3 feet up... shut it... he’s fat, no making fun of the portly) and call poison control. When I called and told the nice Poison Control lady what I had done she (laughed... not really) calmly went about telling me what plastic could burn down into... the lovely gasses and by products.

Oh, and 3) never found out why the smoke detectors didn’t go off. I guess they made an executive decision of, “Eh, whatever.”

So the Poison Control Lady was all, “Well, let’s see. Hmmm, yes, okay, here it is... Oh, dear. Carbon Monoxide. You’ll need to leave the windows open for the next 48 hours or so and keep clean air circulating. Sulfur Oxide. Blah blah blah... Cyanide.” I interrupted her. “Cyanide. CYANIDE?” She continued, “Yes, but only trace amounts. If there would have been more, you would have already been dead.” So very comforting.

So I sat out on the porch, watched the cat prowl the neighborhood and called Mister, calmly trying to tell him (with his freaking boss in the car!) that I had almost burned down the house. I left out the smoke alarms and the part about cyanide. I figured I would wait until he got home to let him in on those little nuggets of awesomeness.

As far as we can tell. The cat was the dirty culprit. We have left that toaster sitting on the stove for weekends at a time. Especially when we’re all, “Eh.” about dinner and decide on toast. So we figure that the toaster was on the stove, the cat (bastard) was up on the counter (a shooting offense in my house) and he put his little warm paw pad on the stove and it conveniently turned on. So now we have the stove on “CONTROL ALL LOCK” whenever it is not in use.

That’s what I’ve been up to... and how about you?

Oh, and sorry about this, but I had to turn on the comment aide thingy. I was getting spammed by dirty Russian brides and horny old men selling Viagra.

Missed all of you. MWAH!

July 16, 2008

Art + Me = Tru Luv 4EVER

Good morning, afternoon, evening… whatever. No clue how long it will take me to write this one, but it has pretty pictures to break up the monotony… just wanted to cover the salutations for whichever time zone and or time of day this reaches you, kind reader.

Not sure if you’ve recovered from the last entry. Y’all could absolutely tell that I was phoning it in by the bottom of it couldn’t you? “Day 82983642865… Can’t remember.”

Brilliance at its best.

Anywho*, I have somewhat recovered from The June (dum , dum DUM!) and am working my way steadily through a list of “To Do”’s that rivals my last entry in length. I know. Susan, dammit… Think of the trees! Right!? Okay, fine. I’ll put that on my to do list too.

*This is totally Stacey’s favorite way to get back on track during conversation.

I also have a confession to make. I am back on the caffeine. Not hard core use or anything, but definitely something a little more serious than recreational usage.

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Hello Lovah…...


When I don’t stop at McDonald’s to get coffee (DAMN YOU JUNE!) I drink a Dr. Pepper at work. This is bad y’all. Next thing you know I’ll be free basing mac n’ cheese or bread sticks and alfredo sauce like they are pixie stix. Mmmm pixie stix.

Mister and I go back into see our Jenny Craig woman tomorrow at like 6:20 pm. And I am so NOT looking forward to getting on the scale to see how much my love for sweetened iced coffee and bratwurst has added to my bottom line, if you know what I mean. And I totally think you do.

The ass, she is large.

But my love for buttermilk ranch and pizza isn’t what I wanted to talk to you about. Nor do I want to discuss the size and dimensions of my rotund bottom.

I would like to go back in time… well, a bit anyway… to the evening we stayed over in New Orleans on the way back from Florida. We stayed at the W and everything was wonderful. And I don’t know if you remember…

Hee… oh holy fuck. Heh, oh crap. I interrupt this paragraph to tell you that I just went to lunch at a place called Sweet Tomatoes with my old boss. When we got back a lady in our department was asking how it was. Was the food good? Yadda Yadda. My old boss was telling her all about the salad bar and I heard this come out of my mouth, “And they’ll toss your salad… and I’m pretty sure there’s no extra charge.” And then I realized my faux pas while speaking to a 64 year old coworker. And then I barked laughter, walked away, regained my composure and then went back to rejoin in the conversation. She was laughing her ass off as well while my poor ex boss looked lost and confused.

Human Resources NIGHTMARE… I tell you. I shouldn’t be let out of my cage.

Now, back to the paragraph already in session.

… that Mister and I got an awesomely late check out from the W and the previous evening we had both picked out places that we wanted to visit during our time in the city. Mister picked an antique rare coin and gun collector (Cohen and Son’s Antique Guns and Coins) and lo, I did much standing and waiting and then we went to the thing I picked out.

I wanted to visit a gallery just down the street from Miaster’s Waterloo… it is called Painted Alive and it is run by an amazingly talented artist by the name of Craig Tracy. I had no idea what I was getting into when I pointed at the gorgeous advertisement in the magazine and said, “Dat.” Like all the sudden I was Polish and from Wisconsin** and all I could say was “Dat, dere… I want to go dere.”

**Love you Wisconsin. You know how much I do.

So after the Old Ass Rifle and Money Store (I say that with love… ) I basically pulled Mister down the sidewalk of Royal muttering to myself, “827, 827, 827, 827” and then there it was… on the left. I walked inside and the high ceilings and white painted brick walls were the setting for some of the most beautiful pieces of art I have ever seen.

There was a large white tiger in right side of the gallery and if you looked at the business cards on the counter you could see the process of how the work was created. Behind me was a beautiful picture of a sunflower. There were eagles, tigers, elephants, landscapes and anything you could imagine. All of them painted on the beautiful naked bodies of women.

Craig came out to meet us and said with a very casual air, “Hi, thanks for coming in. I’m the artist, so if you have any questions, please… feel free to ask.”

We stayed for hours. Craig walked us through how he put some of the works together. With the white tiger (Kobe Bryant’s wife just purchased a copy of that one a few months ago) Craig met a woman with the smallest rib cage he had seen in a long time and he showed us that her ribcage became the bridge of the white tiger’s nose and her bottom became the muzzle of the tiger.

Craig showed us some works he was putting together for a show. He took us into the back room and let us basically poke through his brain.

Out in the main room just to the right of his desk a small horizontal canvas was propped up on a black leather footstool. I was in love. I wanted the painting, but I was waffling and couldn’t figure out why. I knew I loved the whole idea of what Craig had put behind the work but I felt it was small and missing something. It was like he read my mind y’all.

He said, “I love to paint hands and feet and with this one, it was so small and the frame was an odd size that I had to cut off my favorite part of it. So when I get back from the show I have put together a piece that is the same concept but it is in four panels, and it keeps the hands and feet. Let me show you what I mean.” Craig pulled a notebook off of his desk and showed Mister and I the painting and how he saw it eventually.

It was four panels of the work I was holding in my hands, the panels were larger and there were several distinct sizes of the canvasses. I was blown away. Even though I had not seen the completed work, I wanted it. I wanted a piece that I was in love with because (this may sound odd) I believe that art isn’t something that you buy to match the shit in your house. Some people do. But people who love art will sometimes change a room to match their art. It’s like a marriage to me.

I have very few pieces of art hung in our home. There are two pieces in the guestroom that are black and white and matted in cream with brushed silver frames. One is called “Gathering Trees” and the other is “Winter”. They are both stark and amazing pictures of naked trees. No foliage, no happy birds or colored moons, orange clovers or blue diamonds. (I just totally jacked up the Lucky Charms tag line.)

In the guest bathroom I have a pair of antique renditions of butterflies, but how they would look in an entomology book as well as two Asian symbols, one says “love” the other says “happiness”.

In the dining room is a sage green cartouche, a wooden nine paneled oil painting that Mister loves and a smaller abstract that I do.

In the hallway there is a beautiful abstract diptych that Mister got me for my birthday. Remember this?

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In the living room there are only two pieces. One is hanging by the door to the back yard. It is wee and very unobtrusive. It is a colored pencil drawing of the Opera House in Paris… that I happened to purchase in Paris on the fucking steps of the Opera House. It is signed and dated by the artist. Behind the couch is something else. I am totally in love with my piece I call “Hot Jazz” because it was the first piece of art that Mister and I purchased together and we bought it on the square in New Orleans a year and change before Katrina.

The only picture I have of the jazz watercolor was from when we lived in that humongous rent house that smelled like a wet dog. I (apparently) am too short to take a good photo of something without it looking totally keystoned, but eh. It was hanging above the fireplace on a brick wall. We spent more for the framing than we did for the picture. But we love it dearly, and it looks so much prettier hanging above the couch on a large expanse of colorless wall with nothing to overshadow it. It’s beautiful, my photography does not do it justice.


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Back to Craig and how awesome he is.

For someone to find beauty in every shape, figure or form is rare. Craig is one of those people. He had a piece that was painted like a beautiful stained glass window on a woman who was sitting with her face demurely looking to the side. Her large breasts the perfect backdrop for natural angles and a mother earth feel. He explained almost each work to Mister and I and I kept coming back to the landscape on the woman laying on her belly. It was such a new piece that it had not been named, nor signed.

This is a picture of Craig. This is a picture of Craig PAINTING the woman whose picture will be in our home forever and ever amen.

Say hello to Craig.

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This is Craig. He happens to be painting a masterpiece. He is so awesome it is almost painful.


The other day I sent him an email explaining that since the 14th of June all that had happened, but that meeting him and getting to know him and his work was a highlight and a very bright spot in a very dark month. He emailed me back with the picture above and the picture below. The picture below is a mock up of how the painting will look. He is putting together a few black pieced of wood to connect the four panels together. So that they are separate… but together.

Please notice the red highlights in the tree on the right and the blue highlights in the tree on the left. Genius, right? This work speaks to several things that I love, that bring me peace and make me happy. 1) Landscapes, 2) Leafless trees and 3) The human form… naked.

Oh… oh, and because he had not put this piece together yet and may do a series we will have the first one. EVER.

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Isn’t she beautiful? She’s going to be hanging above my couch in the living room.


Hott Jazz is going to the hallway above an antique secretary from the 1920’s that was my grandmother’s.

So, I know. That’s awesome right?

We have a small print of his and another panel on the way so I will soon be immersed in wonderful color from Craig Tracy.

I am looking forward to putting my house to order, the chaos is really beginning to creep me out. It’s not like it’s a massive wreck or anything but Mister has his issues with… filing. He’s the finance guy, he takes care of all of it. I do the other stuff. And neither one of us is a good house keeper… wait, let me amend that. Neither one of us has the time or inclination to be good house keepers. With both of us working every day… we fix dinner… I do laundry… he does bills… it’s not like we have a whole lot of time for other things. Or to be honest. It is not like we want to spend the small amount of time we do have at home cleaning it.

We have tumbleweeds of dog and cat hair and there are papers everywhere around his big chair in the living room. His version of “filing”. We still have our suitcases in the hallway and have yet to fully unpack. What’s the point? He’s having surgery on Friday, I’m leaving for San Antonio on Wednesday, then for Austin a week from that Sunday, then Vegas the Saturday after that then back to San Antonio the Wednesday after I get back from Vegas.

But yet, the mess… it is making me uneasy. It is not dirty (except the animal fur, which I pick up and do this little (can NOT believe I am admitting this) paper towel on the foot around the baseboards dance). It is messy. I do not like messy. Mister has an office. We haven’t been in there in about a year because there is so much shit that is thrown in there anytime we have company. The garage is full of boxes too.

When we got home from the first trip to Florida Brookstone was having a massive sale on stuff. Air purifiers for Father’s Day. He got two. One for each of the bedrooms, and or one for where he sleeps and one for the living room. And an iBucket, which I affectionately refer to as the Fuckit Bucket.

The boxes that these wonderful toys came in? One is in the hall, one in the living room, one in the garage. The boxes for the TV, for the D-Link, for the DVD/DVR player, the boxes for everything are in the garage. Can’t we just throw them out? Why do we need the faux leather jacket that doesn’t even have a working zipper?

I say all of this to say that for the past month and a half we’ve been putting bandaids on figurative decapitations or amputations. I know that we haven’t even gotten through the emotional fallout of last month, much less the financial… so we keep blowin and going.

Another figurative (yet physical) bandaid? See below.

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Don’t tell but… I haven’t noticed much of a difference.


I haven’t lost my mind, my bowels are regular and I am productive in the office. Think it is helping?

I’ll tell you what would help. A full week off, lots of beer, friends, a bunch of movies (saw Wanted and Hancock two weekends ago… lurve), some Marlboro Light 100’s in a box and some cooler weather and I would be SO on.

Last week, Thursday, I got to have a few beers with a friend and it was awesome. I took the picture below just before I went inside.

Image removed at my whimsy. Am whimsical.
Pretty okay for an old broad, no?


I don’t think I look like I was put in a blender and some mythical creature hit frappe, right? Go on, tell me I’m pretty… and MEAN it. If you don't Elvira (see her in the seat next to me?) will cut you.


September 23, 2008

Wuv and Mawwaige...

A few years ago I was working for an association that asked me to travel several times a year. I would do national conventions, regional conventions, board meetings, regulation and legislative meetings on Capitol Hill as well as site visits and various other sundry trips all over the nation. I truly loved my job. I loved the executive board, I loved their families and I loved planning the meetings and doing all of the publishing associated with each meeting. It was the perfect job for me but I had one issue. I hated my boss.

It was awful. He was cruel, demeaning and because of his Mensa member status he thought it was perfectly alright to treat others (women mainly) like chattel… never in front of those who mattered, just behind the scenes and when it wouldn’t be seen by the ones in power.

Truly horrific, I was torn by my intense love for my job and crying on the way to work at least twice a week for two years.

It was while working for that association that I had adopted Max (the cat). Max was my little love. I needed him as much as he needed me and he put up with a lot. I was miserable with how I had completely jacked up my life but I was proud of having the balls to leave my ex-husband and start my life over.

I had sworn off of dating because I didn’t really need the sex or the companionship and I definitely didn’t need the drama. So there I was… eleven cats shy of being the crazy cat lady and pretty okay with that.

I was pretty okay with my divorced/single/no prospects status and my decisions because I was determined to make myself better. I was going to exorcise my demons and work on making myself happy because I knew that even if someone did come along that they couldn’t make me happy. No one can fill a void in you unless you are cool with yourself. And to put that kind of pressure on someone (that had previously been put upon me) was unfair. “I’m empty, please make me happy!” [vomit]

I was happy with who I was and what I was. My past, present and the unknown future.

I went to my brother’s wedding in June of 2002. I was so happy for him and his beautiful bride. They were perfect for one another and I was excited to be invited to such a happy occasion. That weekend I left Dallas and went to Houston for Friday, left Houston Saturday and drove to Austin; where they were getting married; and went to stay with some old family friends.

Linda and Phil’s home was gorgeous and I got ready for Brian and J’s wedding and then headed out to the festivities. The wedding was perfect. The bride and groom were absolutely stunning and glowing with their happiness and the excitement for their future. I couldn’t have been happier for two people. They were starting their lives together and there seemed that there was nothing that they couldn’t do if they were together*. The future was stretched out in front of them like a blank canvas and I could see that they would paint each other’s worlds with beautiful color.

*They are due in October. YAY!

After the wedding Brian and J had a nice reception. All of our old friends from school and church were there with their new husbands and wives and their children. Our friends were spread out over two or three banquet tables of ten and I sat with my parents and the rest of the empty nesters at two large tables.

The empty nesters were the parents of all of Brian and my friends from church, school and our neighborhood. They would all get together for the weddings of each of their children and toast one another to their figurative baby birds leaving the nest.

Who am I kidding? They’ve been toasting one another with or without a reason for about twenty plus years now.

Example: “It’s Tuesday! Wooo! Margarita’s and beer over at the [my parent’s] pool!”

So I was sitting there among the empty nesters smiling at my friends and their new family units when one of the empty nester women turned to my mother and I, gasped and grabbed one of my hands and one of my mother’s hands in hers. She beamed as if she had just had a sunshine enema and said, “Susan! You are just like a mini Empty Nester!” I muttered thanks. My mother gave me an apologetic look and I excused myself from the table.

I kept my composure and went to the ladies room; I passed several friends at the bar and politely shrugged off conversation stating I would be back inna bit. I went into the ladies restroom, found it blessedly empty, stepped into a stall and promptly lost my shit.

I didn’t get why her blasé comment hurt my feelings so badly. I am not sure if her implying that I would forever be without a partner or children of my own hurt because she was so excited about it or that it shone light on a falsehood. Maybe I was actually perpetuating a weak little façade. Regardless, my tenuous control of my little bogus reality shattered like a crystal champagne flute dropped from the shaking fingers of a startled partygoer.

I wept. I sobbed. I had those awesome hitching sobs that come complete with a red face and strings of snot. Thankfully my little emotional break was short and I had time to stop blubbering before someone else came into the bathroom. I blotted my face and then reapplied the scant make up that I had in my teeny satin evening purse. My hair was already a mess, no one would notice as it normally is in disarray.

I stepped from the ladies room, stood in the line at the bar with some friends and chatted. After I made my rounds saying hello and then goodbye to those I love and hold dear I practically ran out of the building and jumped in my car. I went back to Linda and Phil’s and because Linda is a night owl I knew I wouldn’t wake her when I let myself in.

I went and changed into some shorts, slipped into the kitchen and made myself a tall glass of ice water and then took my smokes out on to their back porch. The night was beautiful and I was not the least surprised to hear Linda come up behind me, “How was the wedding?” I told her it was beautiful, and never one to waste words she asked me what was wrong. I tried to say “nothing”; she called bullshit, so I told her. She listened to my little story and nodded her head thoughtfully.

She said that what the empty nester said was out of line and not something you should EVER say to a just-turned-thirty year old woman as if she is already a spinster. Linda assured me that she was just trying to find camaraderie as she is a bitter shrew who is still pissed over her decade-old divorce. Leave it to Linda to be honest.

I took a deep breath, looked over the beautiful view of the hill country and sighed inwardly as well as physically. Linda was right. And I was doing just fine working out my own kinks, enjoying my own company, rebuilding my relationships that I put on hold when I went to ground after the divorce. I was right not to jump into relationship after relationship trying to retroactively fix the marriage that was broken and would always remain so.

I was alright.

I left Austin the next morning after having bar-b-que with Linda, Phil and my parents and headed home.

Of the next few months I turned down dates, I concentrated on my job and trying to work out how to communicate with my boss on his level. I kept my head down, did an amazing job at the convention, planned things, did stuff, went to happy hour with friends, cuddled my cat and then in October we had a board meeting in Atlanta that was around a tri-state or regional convention. I went prepared.

One of the executive board members was from Colorado, he met his current girlfriend on J-Date the Jewish online dating service. His girlfriend, Stephanie, and I clicked immediately. She and I were both lived in the Dallas area. One evening we were at the corner of the table over dinner and she started peppering me with questions.

Stephanie: So, what’s your story?
me: I was born the poor black son of a share cropper…
Stephanie: I’m serious.
me: Me too…
Stephanie: No, I mean, are you married?
me: Nope.
Stephanie: Kids?
me: Nope.
Stephanie: Boyfriend?
me: Nope.
Stephanie: Divorced?
me: Yep.
Stephanie: How old are you?
me: 94… Um, why all the questions? Are you hitting on me?
Stephanie: Heh, no. I just think that I have the perfect guy for you.
me: [eyebrow raise] Hmmm. Um.
Stephanie: Not interested?
me: Well, no. I seem to attract the crazy, Bob M. stuck his tongue down my throat in the elevator last night.
Stephanie: Gah. Wait, isn’t he married? AND on the Board of Directors!?
me: You’ve made my point for me.
Stephanie: Did you kiss him back?
me: NO.
Stephanie: Okay, okay, sorry. But really I think this guy is awesome and you are awesome, at least hear me out.
me: [sigh] Fine.

She started telling me about this guy.

Stephanie: Do you like tall guys?
me: The taller the better.
Stephanie: Bald guys?
me: Hells yes.
Stephanie: Facial hair?
me: Yep.
Stephanie: Okay, so good so far…
me: Wait, is he gainfully employed?
Stephanie: Yes.
me: Rock on, you may proceed.
Stephanie: He’s kind, gentle, loyal, respectful a great boyfriend…
me: And you know that last part how?
Stephanie: Oh, well, we dated for a while.
me: [snort] If he’s so great, why aren’t you still with him?
Stephanie: Well, because, he’s not Jewish.
me: [sheepishly] Oh. Alright.

So Stephanie went on and on about this guy. She asked me if I would like to meet him. I shrugged noncommittally and said, “Sure.” She was excited. “Okay, I’ll call you.”

The meeting/convention wrapped up and I headed back to the Dallas area to plan the next meeting.

I got back on Tuesday and was very surprised when my phone rang that Wednesday and I heard Stephanie on the other line. We chit chatted for a while and I told her that I never expected her to call but I was very pleased, I told her that when she had an hour or two to spare one night after work that we should do happy hour. But she wasn’t having it, she was on a mission.

Stephanie: Actually, I was calling to see if you wanted to meet that guy I was telling you about.
me: What… huh?
Stephanie: The guy, the perfect guy for you. Do you want to meet him?
me: Um.
Stephanie: Oh come ON Susan… we’ll do something casual. No big deal, CASUAL.
me: Casual…
Stephanie: Yeah, like ice cream, and I’ll be there too.
me: You’ve already set this up, haven’t you?
Stephanie: Yes. Be at my counter at 7 pm tonight.
me: Tonight?
Stephanie: Tonight.
me:
Stephanie: Susan?
me: Fine.
Stephanie: YAY!
me: Don’t expect much, I look like shit.

I looked down at my black pants and my black boots, and the (shocker) black v-neck Old Navy t-shirt with the white pointed collar. I had no expectations and I am sure he didn’t either so I figured that I’d go “as is” and see if that worked in my favor or against me. At that point, I really didn’t care.

I got off work and leisurely drove to the mall where Stephanie worked at a Fresh counter. I got there right on time and in a very uncharacteristic move for me, I didn’t even powder my nose or reapply lipstick. I think I may have been unconsciously trying to turn this poor man off. I figured that I didn’t want to date or even have the possibility of getting my hopes up. So I went in with no expectations. Sure, Stephanie had painted him to be everything on my WANT IN A GUY list that I had torn up and burned about a year before but I refused to be even the slightest bit optimistic.

I was even a little cynical.

And I almost put on my bitch face.

I walked into the mall and over to Stephanie’s counter, she was so excited that her face was flushed and her eyes positively sparkled. I couldn’t help but smile back at her and as we idly chatted about her products I saw her head snap up as she watched Captain Awesome approach from behind me. When he reached the counter and said, “Hey Stephanie” in a deep bass voice I looked over at him and smiled. He said, “You must be Susan, I’m Mister.” And he stuck out his hand for me to shake. I shook his hand (it was huge, soft and warm) and nodded, “Very nice to meet you, Stephanie has told me a lot about you.” He mocked horror and then the three of us fell into an easy conversation as Stephanie closed up her booth and led us to Haggen-Dazs.

I looked him over as we walked to the ice-cream store. He had on suit pants (navy), a white button down shirt (starched), a gold herringbone tie and shoes that were polished to a mirror like shine. He was handsome in a rugged way which worked with his manner of dress as opposed to against it. His short auburn hair offset his close-groomed full beard that was red and gold. His eyes were blue grey with a sparkle and he had full lips that had a perfect little freckle on the bottom right corner of the fullest part. His hands were perfectly manicured and I was curious about his feet. He was huge, at least 6’5” if not taller and he strode purposefully forward but not at a fast gait that his long legs could certainly carry him. He kept pace with Stephanie and me as we walked.

Stephanie let the cat out of the bag that he had just been made an officer at his bank that day and that is why he was wearing a suit, sans the coat. I was impressed. I felt like I was meeting a real grown up that wasn’t over fifty.

Since I am not that big on sweets I deferred to Mister and Stephanie as they picked the best thing on the menu. Mister paid and we all sat down to chat. The three of us fell into and effortless discussion of how we all met and how strange it was that it took Stephanie dating a guy in Denver and then she and I meeting up in Atlanta for the three of us who lived within a few miles of each other in the DFW area to meet up at last.

I started asking questions about Mister, almost the same things that Stephanie had asked of me in Atlanta.

me: So, where are you originally from?
Mister: Originally, originally? Or just before I move to Texas?
me: Both.
Mister: Well, I was raised in Wisconsin and then moved to the Orlando area.
me: And how did you get out here?
Mister: [turning to Stephanie] You didn’t tell her this part?
Stephanie: Nope.
Mister: Well, Stephanie use to be a recruiter and she hired me for a job.
me: The job at the bank.
Mister: [they exchanged a glance] No, that job actually didn’t pan out so I started consulting for a bank. As of today I am an officer and a full time employee.
me: And I understand that you are divorced.
Mister: Yes.
me: Me too.
Mister: Any children?
me: One stepdaughter. Well, I guess, ex-stepdaughter.
Mister: I had four.
me: Step children?
Mister: Yes.
me: And none of your own?
Mister: No.
me: May I ask why you are divorced?
Stephanie: Ooooh, oooh! Can I take this one?
Mister: Sure.
Stephanie: She cheated on him with a blind preacher from Texas.
me: No shit?
Mister: Some online crap. It was only a matter of time.
me: A blind preacher from Texas. Online.
Mister: And after I moved out here, so did she.
me: A stalker? Super! [two thumbs up]

He laughed and told Stephanie, “She’s funny, I like her.”

We talked and finished our ice cream then he asked me, “Would you like to go to dinner?” I nodded and we totally ditched Stephanie. We went to a restaurant, one of his favorite. I asked him to order for me and he did, the salmon. It was delicious. We talked for the rest of the evening and ended up closing down the restaurant.

He drove me back to my car at the mall and I got out and waved thank you. He asked if he could call me and I said sure. Little did I know that the next day I would get a call from him.

Mister: Hi.
me: Hi.
Mister: I was wondering what time you get off work.
me: 4:30.
Mister: Do you think you could get off work a little early tomorrow?
me: Like what time?
Mister: Two-ish.
me: I could, what’s up?
Mister: Well, I was thinking that said that you like Six Flags, and they have that whole Halloween thing going on. Would you like to go?
me: I would love to.
Mister: Perfect, I’ll pick you up at two p.m. tomorrow.
me: I’m looking forward to it.

Y’all, I had mentioned in passing that I like amusement parks and he calls me for our first date and made it apparent that he actually LISTENED to me through our three hour dinner the night before.

I was so excited.

The next day was drizzly and cool. But true to his word, he picked me up at 2:00 p.m. and we drove to Arlington laughing and talking the whole way. The rain kept picking up so we decided to stop in the nearby Cheddar’s to wait out the storm. We ended up sitting in Cheddar’s for about eight hours talking and laughing, the storm never let up and we were having too good a time to even care.

Saturday I called him to see if he wanted to go to a charity event with me Sunday night. He would be meeting Stacey, Greg and Kerry. Two Kerr Krew members and a friend I had known since I was 14. I figured if they approved as much as I was approving of this guy then I could go ahead and let myself hope a little.

Sunday came and he picked me up to take me to the charity function. Everyone loved him and I kept looking at this man, not a guy, not a boy but a MAN thinking, “Seriously, can I have one of these for myself? He’s handsome, he’s witty, he’s funny, he isn’t married, he has no children and he’s gainfully employed. I want this one.”

That night, he kissed me.

Mister was the first man I ever pursued. Our courtship was like a yearlong job interview with each one of us trying to make sure that we weren’t making a mistake like we had in our first marriages. We checked out our core values, our compatibility, our likes and dislikes and it all worked. When he proposed I he said, “Can I ask you one more question?” Y’all… I rolled my eyes because I was tired of us overanalyzing the shit out of one another. He slid to one knee and opened a box with a beautiful diamond on a perfect simple band.

He asked, “Will you marry me?”

He will always be my one and only. I have never known love. I have known jealousy, I have known possessiveness, I have known friendship, I have known complacency and I have known regret and hatred. I have never known love, but now I do.

Saturday will be our five year anniversary. We have had some tough times with health issues, job layoffs and many a family crisis. I wouldn’t change one moment of the past almost six years of being with this man. Even though some things were tough we rode the wave with each other as support. We talk, we laugh, we love. He is my true north, my moral compass. He lets me be who I really am with no apologies and I love him with all of my being.

I love YOU you husband. Thank you for being my other half.


October 24, 2008

Say Hello to my little friend.

Alright, simmer… simmer.

I have taken (very poor quality) pictures for you. I wanted you all to meet the newest member of our little family.

Gigi.JPG

“Bonjour mon nom est Gigi et c'est ma petite soeur Gidget.”
Translation: “Hello my name is Gigi and this is my little sister Gidget.”

This is my new purse Gigi. The wallet (her little sister Gidget) are both COACH from the Gigi line. I fell in love with this purse last December or January but I would have been smoking some serious crack to pay a car payment for a bag so…

When Mister and I went to San Antonio for our fifth (Freaking FIFTH!) anniversary in September we stopped at an outlet on the way down. We stopped at the one in Roundrock, just north of Austin and I picked out three bags. I couldn’t make up my mind so Mister did his little, “pick a number between one and three.” I picked the number two and he handed me the most expensive bag. We bought her and they wrapped her up and we headed on our way.

He asked me if I was excited.

Strangely enough I was not. I was not excited about a COACH purse. That evening when we got done with dinner and back to the hotel room I did not unpack the purse, unwrap it, name it and then transfer my things from my first COACH purse, Elvira into the new one.

Mister knew something was wrong.

Could I be ill?

Mister: Honey, are you okay?
me: Yes, thank you, why do you ask?
Mister: You haven’t put your stuff in your new purse and you haven’t even…
me: Yes?
Mister: … you haven’t even named her. Is that not the one you wanted?
me: Well…
Mister: It’s okay. Really, I want you to be as happy with your new purse as you have been with Elvira.
me: Thank you baby. And to answer your question, no… I am not in love with the new one.
Mister: You need to have the one you really want.
me: I agree, so while you are golfing the course…
Mister: the PALMER COURSE…
me: … Right, while you are golfing the PALMER COURSE, I will run to the COACH outlet store in San Marcos and see what I can find.

Now that the matter was settled, I could relax a little. I was so worried that no purse would ever take the place of Elvira. I know I am a total shoe whore but I am pretty monogamous when it comes to purses. I have Elvira, Chelsea (the brown Kathy von Zeeland one), Scarlett (the red Aldo one I got in Montreal) and that is about it. I do not change purses every day, I am kind of a one purse woman. And Elvira can NEVER be replaced. She is my first, my most versatile purse and I love her.

Yeah, guys. You can look away now. From here on out it is mainly purse talk, no more about golfing. Oh. Here’s a link about me being the porn queen of Nacogdoches. The top part is about boobs so if that bores you, scroll down to “***Oh the irony.” And read from there. Enjoy.

The next morning when Mister left at the ass crack of dawn to be the first (golfing) foursome on the PALMER COURSE for the day I got up and went to have a bite of breakfast. It was way too early to leave for the outlet as it was about 45 minutes to an hour away and they didn’t open until 10 am. I was scheduled for a noon massage so I had to get there, do a looksee and return/exchange if needed and then be back by 11:30 so I could shower and make it to the spa by 11:45. Good plan right? Right.

I left the resort at 9:10am and hauled some serious ass to San Marcos. I got there 10 minutes before the outlet stores even opened. When they did, I walked in with my COACH bag and the imposter wrapped up and hiding inside. A very nice woman named Mya came over.

Mya: Good morning ma’am. Do you have an exchange?
me: I’m not sure.
Mya: You’re not sure?

I handed her the bag and gave her a brief rundown.

Mya: Oooh, the purse is still wrapped up in the bag.
me: And I haven’t even named her.
Mya: Pardon?

So I introduced her to Elvira, told her about love at first sight and that the previous day had been Elvira’s fourth birthday.

She didn’t bat and eye, call for security or anything. She just nodded empathetically and said, “I’ll just put this other one behind the counter.” She asked me what I was looking for. I told her that over December-January I had been in a COACH retail store in Dallas and fell in love with the Gigi. The Gigi in question was a gorgeous dark teal/navy/sea blue leather. Mya said that she had heard of that bag but had never seen one. She asked me to follow her and she checked the system. The warehouse was out of that color but there was one, and it was in Texas. It was in Lubbock but if they shipped it to me it would be retail cost. I asked if she had the Gigi in anything other than black in her store (as I already had Elvira). She thought a moment and asked me to wait.

She came out from the back of the store with Gigi in her hands. Gigi is the most beautiful camel color I have ever seen. Several other patrons turned to ask her if she had another one. She answered, ever politely, “No ma’am, I’m sorry, this is the last one.”

AND SHE WAS MINE.

Mya handed Gigi over and asked if that was the purse I wanted. I said, “Yes, please.” She showed me that it had been marked down several times and that it was less (a lot less) than the purse I had in the bag when I came through her door.

Inside%20Gigi.JPG

I am roomy and also beautiful. Much like a fine car, or a hot woman with a little extra junk in her trunk.

Mya: Why don’t we look around just in case.
me: Alright, but I want this one. Look how she hangs against my side.
Mya: She’s yours, you can have her, I just want to make sure that she is the one.
me: She is. I have money left over right?
Mya: Oh, yes.
me: Then I need a wallet too. Maybe a makeup bag. Like this one.

And I showed her Florida Evans.

We found a wallet (Gidget) but not one makeup bag that I was even interested in.

Gidget.JPG

I proudly carry $1.29 and a saucy striped interior.

Gigi was named so perfectly that I started calling her Gigi before I even left the store. Gidget was a natural name for the cheeky little sister. Gidget’s interior pockets for credit cards and cash is a light blue leather.

Front%20Pocket.JPG

Your keys and glasses? I have a place for you to keep them.

All that and I got almost a hundred dollar credit.

I was in and out of the store in less than 45 minutes. I hauled ass back to the resort and was early to my massage. My little masseuse was fabulous. She had red hair, great hands and was funny enough to give me the verbiage where guys go for a happy ending massage… “Jack Shacks”.

All in all, it was a fabulous anniversary weekend.

One more thing. This morning when I got here I was listening to conversations around me at the office and I have been fighting against the rage that has been building so I sent my former boss a text message telling him that I was checking out today, that headphones are my friend and I just might write a story today.

He sent back this email.

I Think I’ll Write a Story Today

On days when I’m just too burned out
To think about life’s cares
Or listen to complaints and gripes
That people want to share
I turn my thoughts to make-believe
And with them I escape
To places that I dream about
Through tales that I create…
So….

Chorus:
I think I’ll write a story today…..
I’ll start with pen and paper,
Or a blank computer page
And even if nobody cares
about the things I say
I think I’ll write a story today….

My story might be good or bad
Depending on the mood
It may filled with happiness
Or maybe gloom and doom
In either case, I have to say -
But you may disagree,
This exercise of truth or lies
For me is ther-a-py

So…. I think I’ll write a story today (la la la la…..)

I would link to his Facebook page, give you his email address or maybe even a link to him singing America the Beautiful on YouTube but as he a man of God who bribed me with a Lancome gift with purchase over a year ago to stop saying anything having to do with female genitalia (and other plumbing parts) as to stop embarrassing him, I will not link to him. Unless you email me and ask for the YouTube video.

And no, he does not read this page.

As proof? Vagina. Uterus. Fallopian tubes. BLADDER!

There. See?

September 1, 2009

Does a lack of Viatamin C give you Scurvy?

Oh Arturo, Prince of Irony…. Fuck you.

And I mean that in the sweetest way possible.

A few months ago… and just bear with me here people. I don’t know what I have told to whom and if I have posted any of it but here is the short version of the back story.

A few months ago my buddy Dre’ and I decided that we would introduce our spouses, that way they wouldn’t be A) jealous if we went out for happy hours with one another B) make new friends (but keep the ollllllld, one is silver and the other GOLD… God, I am gay… and not in the good way) and C) we figured that we’d be able to hang out more if they were involved. Happy significant others equals happier us. So we introduced them in a military-like planned maneuver that we called Operation Smiling Spouses.

We introduced them, Mister really likes Dre’ in one of those, “Hey, let’s play a lot of golf, smoke cigars and drink scotch every weekend” kind of ways and Dre’’s wife M thinks I am precious.

Really she does.

Win win situation, fuckers.

So I had this idea. Yeah, whatever, I totally should have stopped there but the sweet siren song of ROADTRIP! was calling my name. So at one of our weekend get togethers I sprung this idea at them all like I was some psycho jack-in-the-box. “I have this conference coming up in San Antonio in August. It is at this (blah blah) resort. I would work the Wed-Friday thingy, the boys could play both the (blah blah) course and the (blah blah*) course on Thursday and Friday, M and I could spa on Saturday, we could have one hell of a dinner on Saturday night, then come home Sunday! How does that sound!?”

*the name of the second course brought orgasmic sounds of joy from both of the men, I took that as a positive thing.

We were all in. It was so exciting planning everything and getting all of the ideas filed away into a “we could do this, or this, or this” type of mental (and paper, Dre’… he is the OCD) dossier. We even planned a mini road trip out to southwest Texas just to see how we all worked as a team.

Answer… AWESOME.

We went to M’s parents’ ranch and rode four wheelers, ate amazing food, smoked out on the porch with those sky chairs, visited with neighbors and relaxed completely. So we were all assured that the “Big Trip” as everyone was calling it, was going to go swimmingly and without a hitch.

Last week I was all butt puckered about one of my speakers who had yet to send me his materials. A presentation that was due on July the 29th … got it Friday after noon. RAWK. But I got all of my planning out of the way, got stuff packed the week before for my big conference (had to go to Houston on a work trip with a coworker, sorry Houston babies, I didn’t mean to leave you out in the cold, just had no time to see you… love you, mean it!) AND I got all of the laundry in the house done.

The reason for all of this preemptive cleaning and laundering was because as soon as I got back from Houston on the 21st I had to make sure things were all set as my folks were coming in to stay the weekend so we could take them to Kenny’s Wood Fired Grill in Addison for their August Birthdays. Kenny’s was awesome as always that Saturday night and we all ate and drank way too much. It was a great evening. So Monday and Tuesday of last week I spent doing my last minute stuff for my conference that was set up on Wednesday and took place over Thursday and Friday.

Tuesday night I asked Mister to lay everything out on the guest bed that he wanted to take on the trip. I packed like I was going for work and put the rest of my “resort wear” in his suitcase. We had everything packed and ready to go and went to pick up Dre’ and M to drive down with us at 9 am Wednesday morning. The drive was nice, we all laughed and listened to Hair Nation on XM and talked about the things we were most excited about for the trip. The only teeny little rain cloud over Mister’s head was that he didn’t really grasp the notion that I would be working Wednesday to set up the conference, at the actual conference Thursday from dawn’s ass-crack thirty until late in the evening (I have a dinner for some peeps) and then all day Friday.

We stopped a few hours north of San Antonio and let M run in to get something at a local HEB grocery store. A few minutes later a nice young man knocked on the window, Mister rolled it down, “Are you Dre’?” Dre’ answered, “I am.” “Your wife has fallen, please follow me.” We all looked at one another and Dre’ bolted from the car to go find M. She was okay, just bruised, abraded and embarrassed but she handled it like a champ.

We got to the resort at three and my preconference meeting wasn’t until 4:00 o’clock, so I wheeled my little backpack with all of my conference shit down into the meeting area and started working. My prior boss (seen singing in a few videos I posted an entry or three ago), Andy, came downstairs to help and we got everything situated in record time, including my little pre-con meeting.

Wednesday night we went to Kona Grill for dinner and I ate everything on the menu and one very large puffer fish in their massive aquarium behind the bar that was not on the menu. It was a fabulous end to a very nice night.

To be honest, we all brought more liquor on the trip than a small caravan of carnies would need for three weeks, but we were bound and determined to have enough of whatever whoever wanted, whenever they wanted it. We also had grand delusions of taking massive amounts of liquor, cigars and enough smokes to choke a medium alpaca down to the hot tub every freaking night.

So, Wednesday night after a long drive, a fall, a set up, a precon, an amazing dinner and Mister starting to feel icky, we all went to bed.

Thursday morning my cell phone alarm went off, my blackberry alarm went off, the clock radio alarm went off and two wake up calls came in quick succession.

Don’t look at me that way. I don’t like to be late.

I looked over at Mister and he looked like shit. No, I am not bashing him. He is one hell of a handsome man, but if he was going to pop out of bed with a whistle in his step on the way to the golf course, I would have eaten my hat. He actually said the words that made my butt clench so tightly I could have cracked walnuts with one flex. He said, “I need to go to the hospital.” I had to be downstairs in twenty minutes so I could be early. When the conference brochure reads, “6:30 am Registration and Continental Breakfast” there are always early birds.

We went into M & Dre’’s adjoining room and told them what was going on. Well, Mister did as I had to put on pants. Dre’ offered to take Mister to the ER and off they went. I went downstairs after they left and sort of stumbled through the morning answering questions, registering attendees and talking to committee members as my better half was in a strange city, in pain, at a strange hospital with someone who wasn’t me. Dre’ messaged me as quickly as he could with updates… and Black Berry Messenger I owe you (and Dre’ you too) a long deep tongue kiss for keeping me connected to those I love. Hell, Dre’ deserves a medal and a cape or something for taking care of Mister the way he did.

The ER gave Mister an XRay told him everything from it being a parasitic twin to scurvy. Then they admitted they didn’t know what was wrong and sent him home with two different prescriptions that did nothing to ease his pain. Mister’s description of it was, “It feels like someone broke a 2X4 off and stuck the jagged splintery edge into my lung.” Descriptive, no? So as he lay hurting and building and breaking fevers, Dre’ and M made the best of the day.

Thursday evening I took the committee, the speakers and some guests to an appreciation dinner and I wanted to get out of there so badly, but it would have been in poor form to jump ship just as the wine was being served. So I stayed then met everyone else later.

We ended up hanging out for a while then everyone crashed, the next day, same thing… conference for me… but the Dre’ and Mister went out to the pools and started drinking so by the time I was done for the night and everything was packed and shipped home, everyone was ready for dinner. I called the maître d’ (the same one who helped me plan dinner from the night before) and asked him for reservations. Number one, he is probably the nicest person on the planet. I am SO not exaggerating and number two, he truly wants you and your guests to be happy. So.. dinner = SCOOOOOOORE! After a lengthy dinner and a visit to the cigar lounge, Mister was shivering so violently that I was worried about his teeth. We got him all settled into his bed then I went and crawled into bed with M and Dre’ and M and I took turns brushing each other’s hair while Dre’ watched something on HBO about Hard Knocks. A football show I believe.

The next morning (Saturday) Dre’ (after the three of them having lunch at the orgasm course on Friday) made sure he had a tee time and Mister went along for the ride. M and I had plans to spa. And yes, fuckers, it is a verb. Well, the way I do it is. Dre’ played golf, Mister rode in the cart and M and I spa’d. It was divine. That evening we were all so happy and kind of tuckered out from the day that we decided not to go to the Riverwalk downtown. We decided to take the suggestion of the maître d’ from the night before and we went to a fabulous restaurant that was about 4 miles away. It was amazing and the VIP treatment was in full swing. It was so awesome.

When we got home M and Mister were both zonked from their various illnesses and sundries so Dre’ and I went down to the cigar bar and just hung out for an hour. Sunday we drove home. We did stop at Inner Space Caverns for Dre’ and M to root around under the earth for about an hour while Mister napped and I read my book.

Yesterday I took Mister to the doctor. We were in and out in no time at all including a CT Scan. He has pneumonia and pleurisy. The fuck? Pleurisy? Seriously? Here’s a link and it is pretty fucking gross. But there ya go. He had two shots put in his butt yesterday, a round of pain killers, some antibiotics and some steroids and he went back today for another round of shots. He is out of work until Tuesday and did y’all know this? Pneumonia is contagious. I am working from home right now because I do not want to pass this shit around the office like a white elephant gift.

In conclusion. We are a bunch of old ass lame cranky shits who can’t even vacation correctly.

I kid. In light of the circumstances, I think we all had a pretty good time.

The End….

Or is it?

Not really. Here’s one little twist. Mister was supposed to have surgery on his FrankenKnee on the 10th of September. Because of this little twist of fate that is going to push his surgery back. But oh HO! I … my darling little poppets am supposed to have surgery (hysterectomy… rock) on the 29th. So if they put off his surgery much longer because of his poor lungs, then what will I do when I am not supposed to lift over 5 pounds the first month? Mister’s tall ass weighs more than five pounds, I assure you.

Random fact: Did you know that a gallon of milk weighs 8 pounds?

Me neither.

Send booze (and a large, hot, male Samoan massage therapist).

September 16, 2009

Do you really need more black shoes?

I have jacked with the shopping gods enough to know when I have met my match. I am not a big fan of shopping (contrary to what some who walked around with me (MIKE AND POPPY) for eleventy two hours in Chicago looking for a pair of comfortable shoes). Yes, yes… I do like to look at products. Sephora and Lush are my personal waterloo’s. The Clarin’s (Smashbox/Kheil’s/ect.) counter at most high end department stores. Fuck, even the lipstick isle in a CVS pharmacy gets me all a-twitter. Yes, so there’s that. Then the whole shoe and purse love.

Okay, I sort of like to shop. For products and shoes… and purses.

Fine.

No, I do not want to go shopping with you to look for, well, anything really (MIKE AND POPPY EXCLUDED). So, I guess, that is really the thing. I sort of like shopping… if I am already in a mall like place, do not have to go out of my way for anything and can look at purses, shoes and make up … for me. Yeah, it all boils down to being a selfish hooor.

Here’s a little history. A few years ago (like in June of 2007) I hemmed and hawed over these shoes:

Forever. And they were like twenty-five dollars. Andy (prior boss extraordinaire) was practically chewing his face off (MIKE was too) over the mere thought that I wouldn’t buy the shoes (were originally a billion dollars… and were on clearance in my size for TWENTY FIVE DOOOLLLLAAARS) just because before I left the house to go shopping with Andy, Mister offhandedly said, “Don’t buy anything.” So. I didn’t.

But I did ask them to hold them. With my name and my number. And I approached Mister about the twenty-five dollar dilemma and he was like, “Good Lord woman, go get your shoes.” Then he rolled his eyes (across the floor) and made some hmmpf noise about me being so literal.

Me. Literal.

I use words like eleventy and say shit like “The MOST awesomest in the WHOLE WORLD!”. And, I… am literal? Eh shrug. Whatever.

Cut to the now.

Well, not THE now. More like July of 2007. In Montreal. At ALDO in the mall attached to the Hyatt. I was just “looking” at… purses, and shoes and these really cute sunglasses. Shut up. And I had promised myself that I would get one thing as a sursie (a prize) for the trip. What? I was in Canada. I couldn’t go home empty handed. And DEFINITELY not without that fabulous red purse over there (Scarlette, yes, I am crazy and I do name everything… even pants) so it was between Scarlette and these perfect black pumps. I figured that I would use a purse more. But Oh HO! Black pumps? When I wear freaking black almost every day!? [Looks down… Yep. Black-ish. I have on gray pants and a pewter ¾ sleeve jacket. That counts. ] So apparently I do love the red purse. But oh, how those shoes have haunted me. They were perfect. Pointed toe, 3-4 inch heel, open arch on both sides and a little toe-cleavage*. And the other part was that they were comfortable… AFTER I had been on my swollen ass feet all day. Imagine me doing the Bernadette Peter’s song from Young Frankenstein… but about shoes.

*(I am totally trying to upload a picture of these shoes and woe… am denied. Here is a link, don’t know how long it will last. Who Do I have to Blow to find these in a 40 US 10 M?)

Holy crap, it finally let me upload a pic.

Aldo%20shoes.jpg


As you can tell, I didn’t get the shoes. I have been looking for them ever since. They elude me like a rainbow colored unicorn humping a glittery Cher. That’s pretty fucking elusive.

So I keep trying to find them, all for naught. Finally I was like, “Hey Mister.” “What?” “I am still trying to find those black pumps from ALDO?” “Huh?” “Those… Black [start to drool slightly] … Heeeeeelszzzzz….. (purrrrrrr).” “Do you really need more black shoes?” “….[blink… blink… blink]” “Fine. How much?”

I can’t find them. So I went to the ALDO outlet and ordered the closest thing I could find. They were delivered today. I am excited. They are very cute… but the heel, she is not teeteringly high. They are almost.. (gasp) sensible. So if someone could please find me those others (link listed above) I would be most grateful. And yes, I did talk to the customer service people and they were most unhelpful via emails and phone calls. BUT… The lady in the store was fabulous. But she did all she could do. I mean, after all, I am trying to find shoes… in my size… that were on the shelves over two years ago.

Sparkle-Cher-humpicorn?

April 20, 2010

The Highs and Lows of Selling Your Home.

Okay my lovelies, here’s a brief run down. Mister and I are selling the house. It has been on the market since the 25th-26th of March and as of today we have had over 31 showings. Pretty impressive, no? Yes, mother fucker, it is impressive. What is not impressive is that the home has not sold yet. The average days on market for a house in our neighborhood (one level, 3 bedrooms, 2 baths) is seven to twelve days. SEVEN TO TWELVE DAYS.

We met with our realtor on the 14th of March and had it fixed up (trim painted, front and back doors painted, carpets cleaned, windows washed, house professionally cleaned, walls retouched, all light fixture covers removed and scrubbed, lawn mowed, hedges trimmed, had it staged by a friend who may not want her name or website linked here as I just said “Mother Fucker”, ect ect ect.) by the 23rd. Professional photos taken on the 24th and the house listed the afternoon of the 25th. First showing… and many to follow… on the 26th.

It has been nonstop and I don’t know if you guys knew this but seeing that timeline up there really made me want to throw up in my mouth a little.

We have had two offers on the house. One flakey family who had just bought a house not 20 miles from here, and one “cultural difference” issue where the client wouldn’t talk to the realtor bringing the offers except through email. Asian gentleman didn’t want to talk to some uppity FEMALE gwylo and her know it all antics, verbally assaulted her when she couldn’t get us to accept low ball offer. Awesome.

But the best by far are the Sneaky Smurf Surprise attacks. Or… showings. Mister and I get up early every day… yes, even on weekends…. And vacuum, dust, open blinds, turn on lamps, ect to make the house look pretty. Because showings in these parts can start as early as 8 am and end as late as 9 pm. So we are basically perched and ready to flee at an instant. Two Saturdays ago, we got up early, did the cleaning and had our bags packed and ready to go at 10:30 am.

Mister: When are they supposed to show up? Are they late?
me: Not until 12:30.
Mister: Then why are we up so early?
me: Well, you never know.

Heads cock as we hear something at the front door. I think it is a solicitor putting a flyer in the door. I walk forward, see through the windows a realtor and a family of four.

me: Somebody’s HERE!
Mister: OHsNOs!
me: Abort! Abort!
Mister: Run out the back door!

We grab our shit and head out the back door, furiously trying to get the garage door to close before they come in the house.

Mister: [pulls out of the driveway like a NASCAR driver] Man Your Buddy! MAN YOUR BUDDY!*
me: [phone rings] Hello?
Showing Service: Hello, this is blah dee bloo with Blah Blah Blah, there is a Blah Blah there with Blah Blah office wanting to show your house…well… right now actually.
me: WE KNOW. [dramatic eyeroll]
Mister: Heee.

*He totally didn’t say this. But it sounded funny. To me.

So we have had at least two Sneaky Smurf Surprise attacks… or… showings the past two Saturdays and then… Duh duh DUUUUUUUUUUUH! Yesterday. I am so freaking stressed out I have a rash (yes, another allergic reaction to … air or whatever) across the front of my neck. It’s hot. Really, I have been emailing the picture out to random people (shout out to Dre’, Jen, Kim, Mike, Co-worker and Kerry… hot guys, right? Can I get a What What!? Right? Hey, wait a minute… come back here.) all over the internets and I decided I needed to get my biannual blood work done, might as well get hot Argentinean Doctor (MROW) to check out the hot neck action I am working.

So I go to see Hotness (aka, Dr. W, love him SOOOO!!!! ::sing songy::) and one of his awesome PA’s drew my blood, got a urine sample (again with the hotness, cut it out already Sue!, you’re killin us over here!.. Alright, alright… Fine.) and sent me down to room four (MROW!?) so Dr. W. could look at my neck (with desire). Shot in the butt, stop by Arby’s for a jr. roast beast sammich and headed home….

I got there, set my laptop up on the dining room table, and started working, ate my sandwich and then looked up around 12:40 and a lady in a black jeep pulled up to the house… backed up to look at the house. She popped out with a man-child of about 21 or so… they walked up and looked at the front of the house… I… I fucking hid in the kitchen with my Arby’s bag. Because I didn’t know who they were and … I’m yella. Shut up.

My shit was sitting right there on the dining room table. Purse, laptop bag, laptop… CORD for laptop. Then they rang the doorbell. I threw away my Arby’s bag and went to answer. My car was sitting out front so I was surprised that she had the door halfway open as I traversed the 10 steps to open the door.

I stepped up and said, “Hello.” She said, “Oh, didn’t you know you had an appointment?” “No ma’am… I will be out of here in a moment.” I shoved my laptop and cord into the bag, flung my purse over my shoulder and hauled ass. I stopped when I got into Samantha and made a note about her make and model of car and license plate because something seemed off. I drove around to the Wal*Mart parking lot and just hung out and worked for a while. I had another showing from 2-3:30 pm and so I just sat in the parking lot working on a conference and making calls from my car like a jackass until 3:30.

I went back home, there was no one there. I gathered my stuff, took it back in the house and about the time I set it all down on the dining room table again, my phone rang.

Showing Service: Hello, this is blah dee bloo with Blah Blah Blah, the 2-3:30 showing needs to reschedule. Her clients had to leave but they would love to see your home.
me: Okay, could you look in the system and tell me the name of the lady who was here earlier today?
Showing Service: We don’t show anyone other than the rescheduled appointment I just told you about.
me: Alright.

I walked into the hallway and the smell hit me.

There had been an unauthorized poo in my house.

I’m just going to ask you to read that sentence again. Twice should do it.

That lady in the jeep and her condescending, “Oh, didn’t you KNOW you had an appointment?” and her man-child (unless parents are buying their kids houses nowadays) used my home… MY ABODE… my Sanctum, y’all… as a rest stop.

Hey, that house is for sale. Can we pull over so I can poo? SURE!

I was mortified.

I Oust©ed, I Ozium©ed and when I felt that the air had been purified (By The ALMIGHTY SPIRIT!) I went in there to Scrubbly-Bubble it. I lifted the lid… and MAYDAY MAYDAY MAYDAY!! We have a rouge hair… I repeat, WE HAVE A ROGUE HAIR!

No. It wasn’t Mister’s. I have been with that man for almost eight years… I would know one of his if I saw it.

To put it sweetly and shortly. This is getting Old. Someone please buy my house. What do y’all think of that burying a St. Joseph idea? Hmmm?

Love you. Mean it.


June 21, 2010

Timeline - PS I love you.

Hi.. miss me? Yeah, I missed you too. You guys know what’s coming right?... Yeah, you do. Don’t get all shy on me now. You know… youuuuuu knooooow.

That’s right babies. A time line. By way of explanation for, well for my absence. I really love you, you know I do… and your hair looks beautiful and those pants make your ass look awesome. Yes, part of it was work so I will blow past that. But the other stuff. It’s kind of a big deal.

Okay, so it’s a big deal to me and I’ll get back with the program soon enough but here we go.

And-a One. And-a Two…

Timeline:
(Not the whole thing…. Just the past few weeks… I promise.)
March 4-8 Green Bay Thing
March 14 Sign with realtor
March 25 House went on the market
March 31 File for divorce
April 18 Open House
April 24 Family thing
April 29-30 San Antonio work thing
April 30-May 2 Weekend in San Antonio with Marly
May 6 Bury St. Joe in the yard at dawn
May 11 Birthday
May 13 Spa Day (OMG I so needed it)
May 18 Insurance thing with State Farm
May 23 Offer on house
May 23-25 Dallas work thing
May 28 Appraisal
May 28 Move into apartment
June 1 Finalize divorce
June 2 Half Day work thing
June 3 Leave after work for family’s house
June 4-12 Destin with family
June 14 Close on house AND Work Performance Review, plus a bonus 13 hr. day
June 15-18 Work thing
Coming up…
June 29-July 5 Work thing and subsequent hanging with friends on 4th in San Diego
July 23-25 Vancouver work thing
July 25-27 San Antonio work thing

Okay, some of you are rereading that list like it is your will.

And to answer some of your questions. Number one. Yes, Mister and I got divorced. Number two. Yes, burying St. Joseph in your yard apparently DOES work. Number three. I know… Vancouver and San Antonio on the same day? I am predicting a small nervous breakdown by the 28th of July.

So that’s what I’ve been up to. How about you guys?


November 18, 2010

Tiny Little Slices

Have you guys ever seen ducks mating? One female is basically being chased and bitten and suffocated and drowned and held underwater while a flock of boys try to fuck her.

Yeah.

So anyway.

October… oh how I adore thee… what? (Angry whispering) Seriously? Good Lord. Oh FINE. NOVEMBER! Oh how I adore thee! Better? [raised eyebrow] Good.

The crisp, cool air, the … what the hell is that smell? No seriously? It smells like someone is grilling Apocalypse Now on the patio below me. OH GOD! It’s in my nose! It’s attached itself to my face! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH! :: sneeze :: Bless me. It’s in my hair!!!!!

The above mini-melodrama was brought to you by the day Monday and the letter O for “OW, the smell of Napalm hurt my face.”

************************************************************************************************

I have no idea where I was going with the information above, but apparently that was last week and I jumped the shark.

Okay, so. Without further adieu, I want to touch a toe tentatively* into something that so many of you have been very polite to not get all up in my grill about for almost six months now.

*Say THAT five times fast. Wait, call my cell… wait for the beep, THEN say it 5 times fast!

Let’s talk about the divorce.

I look back at the first post of this blog (I know, I know, my formatting still isn’t fixed… deal, there are bigger things to attend to) and I see how sweet and kind and wary and excited I was to be in this… thing… this relationship… to have a boyfriend, a May-an! Then the courtship period, then the engagement, the wedding, the first downward spiral that we came out of stronger and completely convinced that we could handle anything together. As long as we were together, everything would be fine.

On Mr. X’s bulletin board there was a card I gave him. It had two kids with yellow rain slickers on. The jist of the card was this, “As long as we have each other, it’s gonna be cool. And by the way, I brought snacks.”

You know what? It wasn’t cool. And the snacks didn’t make a flip of difference.

For those of you who have been through this before, or if you are going thought it now, I would love to hear your stories. And by “this” I mean the dissolving of your relationship. I would love for us to just … I don’t know. Discuss this in an open forum. What happened to your romance, your love… the one(s) you thought was(were) your soul mate(s)? What is your damage? What is theirs’? Are you happier now? Are you more hopeful for your future? Tell me about you. If you are struggling with a relationship/marriage that is floundering, let’s talk about it. What things have worked for you, what has gone disastrously? What is the one thing you have done that you swore you’d never do?

Mr. X is still a very nice man. I still respect him and wish him well. But somewhere in all of that time that we spent together as a couple, an engaged couple, and a married couple we lost our way.

We were partners y’all. We could handle ANYTHING that life threw at us. Or so we thought. Within the first three weeks of our wedding we had a medical emergency (his appendix almost burst), we had a lay off (thanks, Bob), we had … Lord, I don’t even want to think about it, but we covered the “in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer” part of the vows quick. We thought we were invincible.

We have both sought therapy (I’m heavily medicated for anxiety and sleep disorders) and I am not going to lay blame on either one of us as being the sole partner to hold responsible.

I wanted to be wooed and put on that pedestal that he had me perched on since the moment we met. I am not sure when the pedestal was taken away but I couldn’t find it for the life of me. I went from being a self assured, independent sexy thing to … this invisible, unattractive nuisance. Yeah, how does that happen?

I think he… just wanted to be left alone.

We had no children so it was never a matter of “should we stay together for the kids” which I believe lays an incredible amount of responsibility on the fragile shoulders of a child, and we never had amazing amounts of debt, or … really anything to stay together for. Sure, there is love. But what is love when you strip away all the comfort, replace sighs of contentment with eyes that are tight around the corners, thin lipped smiles and the feeling of always being off balance?

I can and could probably never point to one instance; one small little, or one BIG HUGE thing that caused things to start to crumble around us. I just know that things began to die. It sounds so dramatic, but face it, when a relationship is in trouble and no one is actively trying to revive it. Or one person is doing all the resuscitation, while the other sits and ponders their navel or pelts you with JuJu Bees, that’s not working toward the same goal.

Small things die off.

Time holding hands, time playing games, time dating, time loving, time laughing, time cooking and thinking of special things to do for one another… not because it is a unusual occasion, but because it is Tuesday. Thoughtful things for one another. Acts of service, words of affirmation, physical touch and affection, small gifts, TIME.

These things get sliced away. Teeny little bits here and there. Those small paper-thin cuts of hurtful words, neglect and trying to out-polite one another because you are so freaking uncomfortable. No words are right, regardless of what you say it is just noise to your partner. Things get sliced away when affection is met with a startled reaction or a physical jump. When you don’t talk any more, just go about doing your own duties and chores. When you start resenting your partner because they are more into “fill in the blank here” than you… WAY more.

Sleeping in different bedrooms because of one excuse or another, then it becoming a habit. No pillow talk, no dating, no laughter, uncomfortable silences, awkward advances that are refused again and again.

Oh, there was never any cheating or beating going on in our home. It was more subtle. I am strangely prideful of that fact. No cheating or beating. Kind of a sad thing to be proud of. But I am. I say that like it’s a good thing.

What is left unsaid is the unraveling of a great love.

The pain of not being seen. The day that you realize that you don’t have butterflies when you are on your way home from work, and the butterflies you normally got because you got to SEE THEM! are… just… gone. When you realize that your partner is embarrassed by you. The vocal honesty and heartfelt emotion that once was a source of deep conversation and reflection are now referred to as “flammable”. Issues are asked to be given in writing.

Small little cuts. Teeny slices of what you were together are being flayed in miniscule amounts.

Tissue thin pieces of your partnership are torn away with neglect, with trying too hard, giving too many options on what to do for the evening or dinner, with leaving things left unsaid or on the opposite side of that coin… saying them, and being met with a blank stare.

Larger chunks are torn and ripped away when you ask direct open ended questions. Blunt things that you should know, but are very unsure and insecure about. Being told that sure, your partner wants to make it work... with the caveat of “if everything improves.” “Everything?” “Yes, EVERYTHING.” “Could you be more specific?” “You want examples?” “Yes please.”

Big chunks. You are somebody’s bitch, and you are not being paid for it… like your relationship with your boss (or cellmate). You do your chores, you are not seen. You cook dinner or do the dishes or the laundry, you are not seen. You try to be affectionate, you are not seen. You try to touch and be touched and are met with logic and physical stiffness, you are not seen. You try to talk, you are not seen.

Finally.

You realize, life is too short.

How much longer are you willing to wait for your partner to see you? The hundreds of small slices, the larger tears, the big chunks… can those be replaced? Have you turned into yourself for protection? Have you built a wall? How much longer are you willing to be invisible?

Will you just fade away if you stay?

Why are you staying?

If you have a more verbal relationship with yelling, screaming, abusive words and anger, how much more stress are you willing to tolerate? If you don’t fight fair, if you use hurtful words, how can you build yourself up as you are each being constantly torn down?

Are you afraid to be alone?

I was in a house with a man I loved and yet, I had never felt so lonely. To me, that was worse, somehow.

What are you going to do?


About Married Life

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

I called Jenny. is the previous category.

Medical is the next category.

Many more can be found on the main index page or by looking through the archives.

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