Suzanna Danna

This past weekend we had Ya Ya!

For those of you who are new to the World of Suzanna Danna, please read here for a little background. And… thanks for playin.

I was so excited. It is always a fun time and I always feel recharged for the year. I hardly ever see my girlfriends… and never all together outside of the yearly Ya Ya.

Yes, it was a gay movie . Shut up. We planned the first Ya Ya weekend way before they cast Sandra Bullock for goodness sakes.

There was a new element to the proceedings this year. Siska, a fellow single Ya Ya from Houston called me one afternoon to find out all about Mister. She had yet to meet him and decided that the first evening of the Ya Ya weekend would be just perfect for all of my girls to do some grillin.

Previously the only male allowed within 100 feet of the Ya Ya palace was my father and last year he did not even get to stay as a family funeral caused him to leave early that Saturday morning.

The girls held an electronic vote earlier this year and a unanimous Yes! was heard from Houston to Nacogdoches to Chicago. It was settled, I was to invite Mister to venture into the secret society of the Ya Ya Sisterhood.

Bless his heart. I do believe that he was simultaneously excited and scared to death. Not that the Ya Ya weekend is for male bashing of any kind. It is just well known that we throw this weekend as sort of a Holiday from makeup, from hair dos, from children, from men and from responsibility. As a matter of fact, my invite letter reads like this:

“Come one come all…Girlfriends, Sisters, Mothers, Daughters, Wives, Fiancés and of course the ever elusive Single Woman!!!!!!!!! Everyone is Invited! This is a weekend to relax and kick back with friends. Sorry, no men allowed (except my Daddy*smile*). Enjoy a weekend of swimming, boating, skiing, drinking, and sunbathing (did I mention drinking?) at the (kick-a$$) home of Momma & Daddy Danna on beautiful Lake YA YA. Last year we had a blast, so join us this year to partake in the FUN!”

So no male bashing takes place, it is just not a male dominated or even tolerated (ha! Kidding) environment.

Mister bravely accepted the challenge to show up and meet all of my female friends and battle the estrogen-filled wake of questions.

Mister and I got into town on Friday around 5pm. My parents thought Mister was crazy for coming. When we got to my parents house, they had champagne waiting to toast our engagement. That was so cool! We toasted, had a quick sandwich with our champagne… yum! and went to the designated Ya Ya meeting place. The Blue Store!

When we pulled up the five core Ya Ya’s were there; Glo, Brenna, Siska, Sesil and Jennifer. We all squealed and hugged and kissed.

Mister stood his ground while being introduced and gamely accepted the hugs, kisses and scrutinizing looks from my girls. We forked over our money for groceries, got caught up on quick history of who was who for Mister’s benefit and he answered basic questions for those that asked about where he was from, his family and his religion. They assured him the good questions were to be asked when the whole group was together.

We got to see pictures of Brenna’s and Gloria’s children together and hear about Jenn’s practice. Sesil just landed her dream job in Chicago working as a manager for a Scrapbooking company. Siska is looking for a new job, but is tolerating her current one.

Two other Ya Ya’s showed up. Clarice and her friend Becky (a new Ya Ya) showed up. We made our grocery list and sent the Grocery Goddesses on their way. Mister and I went to go get booze and the rest of the girls headed for the Ya Ya palace.

We all got back to the Ya Ya palace at about 9pm. Mister was going to hang out for a little bit and then head back to Dallas, but after we all had a few drinks and asked him everything under the sun, Gloria took a vote and asked him to stay the night, but with an addendum that he be out of the house before the bikinis went on. He accepted and was SO sweet ya'll. He was even touched (not like that ya perv!) when Siska asked him if he knew that I was more precious than any gem or any precious metal and that he was a lucky man for having me. He told her that he knew and agreed and she immediately loved him.

Friday night was a wonderful time. We got caught up, we sang, we danced, we laughed and a few of us even cried. I am happy to admit that I remained dry eyed the whole weekend.

At least one of us has an emotional epiphany during Ya Ya. The first year it was me. I cannot tell you people the emotional weight that I felt lifted from me.

Hence, that is the true reason that I keep Ya Ya going.

Saturday morning Mister hit the road bright and early but not before my Mother and I planned the wedding. For Mister and I, not my Mother and I…. Sheesh.

That morning 3 more Ya Ya’s showed up. That afternoon 4 more Ya Ya’s showed up. Fifteen Ya Ya’s in all. We were missing a few from the previous years, but it was a great time!

Saturday we tried to get Clarice drunk so she’d relax.

It didn’t work.

We do have a few high maintenance ones every year. They are lovingly tolerated but never catered to.

Sunday Jenn and I did our annual synchronized swimming event in honor of someone. The first year it was in honor of Sesil for coming so far to join us. The second year it was in honor of my mother for letting us have Ya Ya at her lovely home. This year, it was supposed to be in honor of my father since he had to leave last year… he wasn’t present at the time so we did it to the oooh’s and aaah’s [read: braying laughter] of our fellow Ya Ya sisters.

For those of you girls who missed Ya Ya weekend... YET AGAIN... know that you were missed and we look forward to seeing you next year!

I think I may make a Ya Ya blog.

Hmmmm.

Until next time… “Keep the Shiny Side Up and Keep the Rubber Side Down!”

When I was a little girl I played with bugs and snakes. I caught a toad every summer day. Their names were all Simon. And every breezy Georgia night when my father came home from work we would eat together as a family. After supper, my father would take me out to the bottom step of our porch, him carrying me and me carrying my bug-catcher. The warm Georgia air cooling down from a humid day, smelling of freshly cut grass and earth. Daddy would explain to me in soft words, his strong arms around my tiny back, that I needed to let Simon go so he could go find his family and have dinner with them and sleep in his own bed that night. Every night, I would cry.

My sister had the Barbie Dream House and the baby dolls to play house and play mommy with. I preferred Lincoln Logs and my stuffed animals. I would build shelters for the stuffed animals with the Lincoln Logs and then cause them to mate and complete the circle of life.

My sister would set up shop and rope her sweet friends into playing school. She always had to be the teacher [and is one today]. I preferred to careen around the bonus room on a rope swing my father hung from the rafters, bouncing off of the rough wooden planks lining the A-frame that was above our garage.

When I was old enough to make friends of my own I preferred the boys. Although my mother would say that I would play with whoever rang our doorbell. I guess I wasn't that picky, but I liked Paul. Paul was my best friend. His family moved in across the street from us when I was about five years old. Paul was a year younger than I was but he had no qualms about playing with a girl who could ride a big wheel like a bat out of hell. Mark, Paul and Ricky were my favorite play time pals from kindergarten up through 2nd grade.

When Paul got into the 2nd grade one of his buddies alerted him to the fact that it wasn't cool to be friends with a girl. He decided not to be my best friend anymore... and... I cried. Then I kicked his ass in every race the swim team held until we were 11 and 12 years of age.

As a sweet and gregarious child, I made friends easily with the people that I was exposed to on a regular basis. The nice men at the back of the church who were ushers? Yep, Loved them. I decided that one of them would be my boyfriend. His name was Charlie. Charlie was 67 years old and I was six. It was quite the January / December relationship, but Miss Charlie (Charlie's sweet and cuddly wife) did not seem to mind my adoration of her husband.

When Charlie died, I was 8 years old. I was not allowed to go to his funeral and yes, I cried.

I have always preferred the company of men to women. Boys to girls. Pointers to setters... whatever. Anyway, I have always reveled in my bond with the men in my life. I thought that girls were snotty, petty and could really hurt your feelings. I was mostly correct seeing as how I lived with an older sister and her gaggle of girlfriends. They would poke and prod at me. Teasing and hurting me only to spurn the only thing I ever asked from them. "Can I play too?"

Girls are vicious. I'm not kidding. Go into a middle school and approach a group of thirteen-year old girls. Try and break into their clique, make pleasant conversation, offer a cookie… a gift certificate to Claire's... a blood sacrifice, whatever. It won't work. They will tear you and your measly self esteem to shreds like a pack of rabid hyenas.

I didn’t have trouble with girls.

I just wasn't as comfortable around them as I was with the guys.

I didn't have any sort of affliction, I didn't stutter, I was slim, I was pretty, I wore passable clothes and the girls asked me to hang out… but whenever I trusted one, it was only a matter of time until I knew my feelings would get hurt.

With guys I never worried. I liked the same goofy shit they did. I enjoyed practical jokes, action movies, belching contests, cartoons and the WWF. Ric Flair? One of my best guy friends from high school named his first son after him.

Of course I formed lasting friendships with several girls who have grown into amazing women. But one of those girls, she broke my heart.

When we moved to Texas it was at the beginning of my 6th grade year. I was... the New Girl. Being either gutsy (or stupid) enough to go up and talk to random people was never a problem. I made friends with the guys in my neighborhood. And then she moved in.

Karen.

Karen was a year older than I was, but in the same grade. She hailed from California and seemed so worldly. What I mistook for worldliness, my mother pegged for "tramp!"

I had several circles of friends that spanned school, dance and church. Within short order, Karen had dated most of my guy friends. But in private she mooned over some guy named Diego or some such shit. He was her first*, he was her only love, he one true passion.

*Yes sir ladies and gentlemen, she was 13 and already sexually active.

She knew things I could only imagine. She introduced me to Motley Crue's Shout At The Devil and bootlegged Eddie Murphy tapes.

As I grew older I tried bringing Karen into my church youth group. I invited her on ski trips and to lock ins. I wanted to show her that she didn't have to be sad and depressed.

It just gave her another pool to pull boyfriends from like shooting fish in a barrel.

She wasn't terribly attractive, but she wore black eyeliner and her hair feathered perfectly. It was commonly known that she would go all the way.

I was almost embarrassed. Not by what she did, none of us are perfect, but by her blatant advertising of the things she did.

I remember her stealing the most popular guy from the most popular girl in 8th grade with the promise of "doing it" out by the pipe. The pipe was behind the school. It spanned across a small creek and cut the walk to school for some (of the kids) in half.

I couldn't understand why Karen would do that. I didn't see what was so special about that Hunter guy, and I definitely couldn't see what was so romantic about the patch of bald dirt out behind the school at one end of the pipe.

I remember hearing about it as I came out of Spanish Class. My Spanish teacher, Mrs. Murano had almost caught on fire by walking quickly across the room. The Lycra on her thighs was bound to combust sooner or later. Even when wearing a dress, she had that distinct sound of corduroy coming from her legs as they rubbed together. Zootzootzootzoot.

One of the popular girls ran up to me and all but screeched, "Your best friend, that slut has promised to do it with Hunter after school at the pipe!!!!" And she ran off to tell everyone else.

I just stood there. Not wanting to hear anymore. It was unfathomable to me that Karen would do this. Was it a rumor? Was it a stunt? I saw Karen on the walkway up by our lockers; she had a crowd gathered around her. Boys mostly with a few girls on the outside. The boys were looking at her with what seems like wonder and horror mixed with revulsion and jealousy. The girls looked on in disgust at the attention Karen was receiving.

I found my boyfriend, Terry, and asked him about what I had heard. He confirmed that it was true and that Chad and Scott would try to meet up with me on my way home to let me know what happened. I walked to and from school everyday and Chad and Scott both lived in the neighborhood as well.

Terry hugged me when he saw the confusion in my eyes. I asked him, "Why would she do that?" He shrugged and said, "I guess she just wanted to."

That phrase was how Karen lived her life. She did what she wanted to.

That's why a year and a half later, as a freshman, I should not have been surprised at the view I saw at the Collin Creek Mall that day after school.

Terry and I dated for over two years. In high school that is almost an eternity. We started dating shortly before Karen's foray into Nasty. [I didn't see Karen too much after her experience with Hunter, I didn't seem to have anything in common with her.]

Terry was a sweet boyfriend. Kind hearted, sensitive, tall, thin, looked a bit like a young Tommy Lee from Motley Crue. He was my first. We waited over a year after we made that decision to actually go through with it. We wanted it to be perfect.

We wanted a lot of things to be perfect.

The day we all went to the mall I had to stay after school to complete a project. I had called my mother to okay it with her that I wouldn't be home right away. Bryan said that he could wait for me and give me a lift. I agreed and told Terry I would meet him at the mall. It was a hot day and the asphalt was burning through the bottom of my high-top Reeboks as I waited for Bryan to come back from the 7-11. He picked me up and we drove over to Collin Creek Mall. Terry said that he would meet up with us outside of the toy store. When Bryan and I walked into the mall and found Terry... I was taken aback to see that Karen had showed up... and she was holding Terry's hand.

She turned to me with a triumphant grin.

He turned to me with the most pitiful expression that seemed to (all at once) say, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you, I'm not sure what I'm doing, and Please don't cry!"

And in fine form I turned to Terry and asked, "What in the fresh hell is this?"

Karen spoke up, "We were going to tell you..."

I am proud to say, I didn't cry. I looked at the two of them and realized that I didn't have anything left to give them. That they deserved each other. Good riddance to bad rubbish... and all that.

I called my mother to come pick me up from the mall, and I didn't speak a word about it.

I figured if someone like Karen could take something so special from me, and pull it off so ... so fucking nonchalantly. Well, say hello to brick number one of this wall around my heart. I wouldn't feel that way about anyone ever again. I wouldn't give my heart and myself away.

I would be just one of the guys.

For the first part, please click here.

The 2nd semester of my 9th grade year I made some new friends; Jimmy, who was affectionately called “Bean” by most who knew him and his best friend and counterpart, Steve.

They were the heart and soul of the offensive guard (and defensive when needed) for the school football team. The coaches at the senior high school (11th and 12th grades) Bean and Steve were to attend in a few years drooled over their stats as they watched the boys plow through score after score of high school rivals.

Their fierce competitiveness and surprising speed on the football field belied the fact that they were two of the nicest guys a girl with a chip on her shoulder could meet.

I actually met Bean and Steve in Mrs. Tilley’s English class one afternoon as I overheard them talking. Bean was telling Steve about seeing this large, bald man break down the door to one of his older brother’s friend’s house. The tale was long and sordid and it actually (and accurately) described (to my dismay and my horror) a tale I already knew because it was my father that broke that door down.

Long story short… My sister was somewhere she wasn’t supposed to be. Daddy drove by, saw her car and got out and rang the doorbell. Silence followed because apparently the whole group thought that my father was retarded and blind and couldn’t see the lights being turned off all over the house and screams of, “Shut UP!… He’ll hear us!” coming from inside. Daddy got mad, broke down the door, grabbed my sister and her best friend and told them to get their asses to the house. Bean just happened to be on the sidewalk on the other side of the street when a stream of high school kids came hauling ass around the side of the house, his brother was in the middle of the departing masses. His brother yelled, “RUN!” and that is where Bean stopped his narrative with Steve.

Steve incredulously asked, “No shit?” Bean responded with, “No shit.”

Steve said, “No way man, I don’t believe you.”

I knew Bean was telling the truth, and for some reason, I decided to get his back. I leaned over and said, “Excuse me guys, I couldn’t help overhearing.” I turned to Steve, “Yanno, he’s telling the truth.” Steve looked dubious and gave me an eyebrow raise. I said, “I know because the man who broke down John B’s front door [look to Bean for confirmation that it was indeed John B’s house… he nodded] was my father.”

The only word from Steve was, “Dude.”

For some reason, I guess owning up to something that strange for a high school kid was seen as bold. Our friendships started and bloomed quickly. They introduced me to their rag tag group of buddies and I was immediately comfortable. These were guys that didn’t feel the need to put on airs around each other and in turn they were real towards me. I loved them all and in a short period of time, there weren’t many places that I went without being sandwiched between Bean and Steve.

The two of them combined probably pushed 450 pounds. Bean is fair with the bluest eyes and reddish hair, his complexion a bit ruddy because of his Irish heritage. Steve is dark and handsome with the brightest smile in Dallas that is even more brilliant because of his a Spanish lineage and darker skin. Both of them are very handsome men with quick wit, fantastic senses of humor and loyal to death.

Being around them, and their group of friends [whose nickname I will not repeat here for fear of google], I found myself relaxing and enjoying high school. With the suggestion of my best girlfriend Stephanie, and the support of the guys, I actually went out for cheerleader/mascot and got it. With Stephanie and some other friends cheering me on, and the guys’ hearty whooping in the stands, the enthusiasm was infectious and I was excited to be part of the cheerleading squad. I would get to dance/cheer and be on the field with the boys when they played football. Loving the cheerleading uniform and long curly hair and of course, my lipstick… but yeah, just one of the guys.

Over the summer all of our friendships grew. Both Steve and Bean had questionable relationships with their fathers and when they got to know mine they totally loved him. I remember one evening Bean came to pick me up at the house. As usual, my mother, the hostess with the mostess, was trying to force feed Bean a side of beef. My father casually inquired to Bean’s workout schedule. Bean mentioned that he and Steve had been working out in the weight room at the school. My dad asked, “So, how much do you and Steve bench press?” Bean casually responded, “We both broke our goal for 500 pounds a few weeks ago.” My dad, just as casually and with a smile, responded, “Well, big boy, I guess if you and I ever get in a tussle, I’d just have to shoot your ass.”

With my father’s good natured ribbing and the way he showed how much he loved/loves my mother, my sister, myself and all of our friends, Bean realized that getting into a fist fight with his old man was pretty messed up, that his father treated his mother appallingly and that he was going to have to work hard to get out of that house. He was going to have to work extra hard to get the education that he wanted.

Bean and I started spending more and more time together without the group and without Steve, especially after the 10th grade was over and I was separated from both them because I had to go to another school. I hated being without them, and Bean hated being away from me. Something had changed, as much as I didn’t want to admit it.

The guys in Bean and Steve’s group started ribbing Bean openly about his crush on me. I ignored it. I acted as though we were all just friends… just like it used to be. I didn’t want my status to change. I didn’t want to be one of the girlfriends on the outside of the group. I wanted to hold onto my elite status as the only female core member of their group. I was one of them. Just one of the guys.

I fought it for a long time. Even when Bean, Steve and I planned out our two different proms like Pimps R’ Us, I wanted to be one of the guys. For my high school prom, I set up all of Bean and Steve’s friends with girls from my high school, and for their prom, we just reversed it. Bean and I were each other’s dates for both. I have pictures of us. We look so happy, laughing so hard we were crying. Him holding me like a bride in his arms for one picture. Bean so proud of the corsage he brought me. Bean whispering reverently in my ear, “You are so beautiful” many times throughout each night. No biggie right?

The first time I was aware of the change was not from the open ribbing Bean’s buddies were handing him quite often, it happened one summer night between our senior year at high school and our freshman year at college. We were all at Jake’s house. Jake was our groups’ ‘Joey’ from Friends. So. Damn. Cute… yet, So. Damn. Vacant. Great with a joke, a smile and a flirt, I didn’t think much about Jake drunkenly planting a kiss on me when I was coming down the stairs. I look to the bottom of the stairs and there is Bean. His face immediately red and eyes blazing. God, his eyes were SO blue.

Like a bitch, I blew it off.

Steve mentioned it. Apparently out of the three of us, he was the only one with balls. He told me that things were changing. That Bean was very jealous and that maybe… just maybe, I needed to talk to him.

I paid extra attention to Bean the remainder of the summer and of course Bean didn’t mention the Jake Kissgate of 1990. Did I make out with Bean later in the summer? Yep. Did I feel guilty and try to make him feel special? Yep, did he ask me to be his steady girlfriend? (Because it was 1950?.. Lord, I’m a tool.) No, he didn’t. I didn’t push it, he didn’t push it. We tried to leave things as they were. We tried to be nonchalant.

I knew that I was going to a college in east Texas and Bean and Steve would be at the opposite end of the globe in west Texas. I decided to leave things be and just enjoy my remaining time with them. Him really.

I should have talked to him, but I didn’t.

I just wanted to be one of the guys.

During my first semester at college guess who came to see me? Bean and Steve! I was so excited I thought I was gonna pee my pants when they got there. I wanted to introduce them to all of my new (and reacquaint them with my old…) friends. I ran downstairs and I don’t think my feet touched the ground for a good 5 minutes with Bean and Steve passing me back and forth in bear hugs. It was SO good to see them. I missed them so much. My heart didn’t feel the same without them around.

We made plans for the night, I took them to a party out in the middle of nowhere and everyone had a blast. The next night was poker and another party on someone’s land. Poker went famously, beer flowed, laugher was abundant and I was perched between my boys on the couch… happy as a clam. We went out to a club and then out to the land party. The land party really just consisted of a bunch of underage punks drinking beer beside a poorly constructed bonfire. Yeah, you know that kind of party.

On the way out to the party, Steve rode with a friend because Bean wanted to talk to me… alone. He was completely honest and bared his soul. I did not know what to do. I had a wall around my heart for so long that it had atrophied. I told him that I thought whatever he was suggesting was a really poor idea. That I totally loved him, I just didn’t want to be his girlfriend.

What a ho.

Yeah. The “You’re so nice, sweet and cute… BUT” song and dance.

I make me sick.

We got to the party and… this is where the suck reigns.

This was my best friend in the whole world.

I had been pulling away from Bean since the Jake Kissgate of 1990 because I got all indignant about it. Who was he (Bean) to determine who I kissed or who I didn’t? Right? RIGHT??? And here he was, in the middle of BFE trying to tell me that he loved me and wanted to be exclusive.

People. I muttered something like, “I can’t do this right now.” And got out of the car.

I GOT. Out. of the Freakin. Car.

Bean came over to me, stood by my side and offered me a beer. I said thank you and looked at him. He was crying.

Beautiful ice blue eyes, red face and a look that broke my heart in two… through the wall I had so carefully constructed around it.

I got mad. I think in my tirade that I even called him a pussy for crying.

The good Lord should have smote my ass.

I swear, all I wanted to be was… Just one of the guys.

Living in East Texas during my late teens and through my early to mid twenties was a formidable challenge. Although I loved the piney woods, the laid back people, the smallness of the town(s) and the good friends I made there, there was always something missing.

I thought I found it when I was 19 or 20 years old.

I was always a big fan of road trips and the mere act of getting in my car, strapping on my seat belt, placing my big white and blue mug (which I threw away during the move, Oh the horrah!) into the seat belt in the passenger seat next to me, putting a fresh pack of smokes between my legs and taking off was a delight to me.

That feeling of freedom was something that I cherished. But I always felt like I was either running away from something, or toward something. I would rope my poor friends into countless road trips over the nine (holy shit, NINE!) years I lived in East Texas.

My group of friends would go to Bullwinkle’s (a country bar that is new defunct) on a Thursday night and at 11:00 pm, after sweating for several hours on the dance floor and having a raucous good time, I would find my girlfriend Stacey (and whomever else wanted to come, Hi Kerry and Stephanie!) and shout in her general direction, “Do you Know WHAT TIME IT IS?!?” She would grin and we would head towards the front door.

When we got to the front door, we would get in my little four-door Oldsmobile, make sure we had smokes and something to drink and we would head southeast for two hours until we hit Orange, Texas.

There was a place right across the river on the border of Texas and Louisiana called the Texas Longhorn Club (geeze I wish that place hadn’t burned down (repeatedly) I would love to show you guys pictures). On Thursday nights it wouldn’t close until 6 am, on Friday nights it wouldn’t close until 4 am and on Saturday nights… 2 am. That place was The Crazy, and it was in Louisiana so we were of drinking age if we were at least 18*, which we were.

*Note: Louisiana’s drinking age was 18 until 1994. Federal funds (road and highway) were withheld from the state until they changed it. Their roads were ass-terrible.

We would walk into that place and almost get lost. It was yooge, the dance floor was bigger than most restaurants, or bars, that I had been too. The ceiling was high over the dance floor so it wasn’t that hot and above the front of the club was a second floor where most of the regulars would go to play pool and drink (or chair-ble dancing… helllooooo Trixie!). The margaritas were cheap and yooge as well. We’d grab a drink and find the guys that we knew and commence to dancing and drinking until all hours of the morning. It was a riot.

More on this later, there are stories upon stories about this place, but that is for another entry… or twelve. Ladies, you know who you are, send me ideas to write about… “Take care! Take caaaaaaaaaaaaaare.” Heh.

My Friday classes suffered, but alas, I did graduate. So nyah.

The road trips weren’t as fulfilling as I thought they would be. When I got out of class on some days I would go and just drive around the Loop (224). Just driving made me relax a little, but I was still restless.

I started driving further and further in concentric circles or just heading a main compass direction. Some days I would head west and go to Lake Nacogdoches, some days I would head east and park at the Carl Monk Scenic Overlook, unknowingly parking less than a mile from where I would eventually live for 5 years. Sometimes I would head north and go into Cushing or out to Henderson, but mostly I would head south into Lufkin.

Lufkin seemed to be a larger city than Nacogdoches. There was more of an industrial feel. I found the Brookshire Bros. Distribution plant, I found a few movie theaters, a mall, a Toys R Us and then I saw it.

On the north loop (287) of Lufkin, on the right hand side (if you’re heading north) was the Ellen Trout Zoo. I love zoos. I love the smell of them, the education programs on animals and I especially loved the Ellen Trout Zoo’s admittance fee. It was by donation only back then and as I was a poor college student, I would meekly stuff a few bucks in the collection box every time I would visit.

I fell in love with the lemurs and the otters (river otters… LOVE!) and especially the big cat enclosure. They had lions and tigers (a few black bears, oh my) but the piece de resistance was the jaguar exhibit.

They had a black male that was glorious and a spotted female for his mate. The large male would find a high perch and lay there in the sun looking at you like, “Go ahead, mere mortal, worship me and my muscular sleekness. Look into my eyes and shiver in your very soul. And gaze upon my gorgeous coat that the sun reflects the pattern of spots and subtle undercurrents of my hotness. By the way, if you didn’t get the memo… I rule.”

So, yeah, I was completely taken with this zoo. It was close, it was small, the keepers were cool and it wasn’t crowded. There would be small groups on field trips, but mainly it was the staff, the animals, and uh… me.

I was there so often that when the jaguar couple (What? I can talk about them like they have been invited to my next cocktail party… hush.) had three cubs on Christmas day of 1991 I got a call.

I was in Plano, home for the holidays and working my ass off at Victoria’s Secret (hee!) or Paulette’s or something. One of the keepers called me and said, “Hey Suz, just wanted to let you know that the cubs came last night, a spotted female, a black female and a black male. The little black male is a little weak, but they seem to be doing fine.”

I was so excited. I couldn’t wait to get back to school so I could go see the babies.

They lost the little male two weeks after he was born to kidney failure, but the two females were doing Ggrrrreat! Sorry, I couldn’t resist.

I went to the zoo several times in that first few weeks of the cubs lives. They weren’t out for the public to see, but at six weeks old they would be, so… I went back. The zoo was practically empty and the female jaguar was back in the enclosure with the male. Where were the babies? A keeper called me over, I can’t remember his name for the like of me but the dude looked suspiciously like Weird All Yankovich. He asked me if I would like to see the little ones.

What do you think I am? High? Of COURSE I want to see them.

He brought them out, for me … TO… PET… And to LOVE ON! I am not kidding you people. His only word of caution was that I should keep a firm grip on the base of their (whichever one I was holding) tail lest they try to get away.

I had a jaguar cub in my lap. I had a jaguar cub on my shoulder. I had a jaguar cub try to eat the lens off of my Photography 201 camera that was the property of Stephen F. Austin State University.

I have pictures of these babies, close up and personal. Actually, I have the negatives, black and white negatives that I developed. The photos are long gone. I should get a few more prints.

I was crying like a little bitch because it was so awesome.

The little black female was more timid than her sister the spotted one. The spotted one went from my lap to my shoulder in a half a second. If I hadn’t been holding the base of her tail (Thanks Weird Al) she would have been up a tree the next second.

I had puncture wounds on my back from her claws, but I didn’t care.

She was chewing on my hair so I grabbed her little muzzles and shook it gently.

I cannot tell you guys the impact that made on me, being that close and personal with a big cat cub. Two of them!

I will never forget Weird Al for the gift he gave to me that day… but apparently I’ll forget the fuck out of his name.

When I was in college, full of piss and vinegar, I came home after a few semesters full of ideas and, truth be told… bullshit. I thought I was open minded and educated, smarter than your average bear after courses in political science, sociology, psychology and social psychology I thought I really knew what I was talking about.

After many years of my father’s face turning red in forced silence from watching me give my allowance to the homeless and sending it overseas to help out Sally Struthers, he saw me turn eighteen. He saw me enter the workforce at an even younger age than my peers at fifteen, so he knew I wasn’t a slacker, he just wanted to know if I had exercised my right to vote.

I stammered about the man and how unfair life was.

Unfair. Unfair. Please.

This was coming from a middle class white kid, my tuition was paid for and I had a place to live and never had to worry where my meals were coming from as long as I was in school.

Small Veer: Sure, I had been the subject of reverse discrimination at the hands of the Smithsonian Museum… a few summers before after applying for an internship I received word that because I wasn’t a poor, handicapped kid, or better yet, an ethnic poor, handicapped kid, that they couldn’t accept my internship… and you can bet your sweet ass I still have that letter. End Veer.

So my father asked me what my ideas for making America a better place were… I spouted off about equality and better heath care and giving more back to the poor, your standard Democratic Party platform…

My father did not miss a beat.

“Susan,” he said, “How are your grades this semester?”

I replied, “Well, Daddy-O, I have been working so very hard. I have been taking several labs this semester and it has really been quite a load of work, but I have buckled down and really have applied myself. I’m proud to say that I made the Dean’s List this semester and I have a straight 4.0… All A’s!”

I did a little dance around the ottoman in the living room.

Then he said, “Baby, that really is great, I am so proud of you and your hard work. I know that you really wanted to make the most of your education and I am so glad that you were able to get into this school and that you are doing so well. So tell me, how is Lisa* doing?”

“Well, you know Dad, she really didn’t get to have fun in high school and I guess when she got to college she just went a bit nuts. She hasn’t been going to class that much, she stays out late at night and I think she’s in danger of being put on probation if she’s not careful. Actually, it is pretty much already in the works, her mom is going to kill her.”

“Oh really? Why is that?”

“Well, she missed a final because she got sick from staying out too much and her grades are falling.”

“What are her grades like?”

“Well, if she’s lucky, she’ll squeak by this semester with a 2.0.”

My father then told me, “Susan I am so proud of you for doing so well, and Lisa is your friend right? You love her right?”

I replied, “Yes sir.”

“Here is what I want you to do. I would like for you to give her one of your points.”

I just looked at the man like he had lost his mind.

He continued, “If you give her one of your points you will have a 3.0 and she’ll have a 3.0, everybody will be equal and everybody will be happy, Lisa will get to stay in school, you’ll get to keep your friend and her mom won’t kill her. Eeeeeveryone wins.”

And then he sat back and crossed his arms.

I sat there and looked at this man who gave me life, I have half of his chromosomes, I beat him in a foot race (finally!) at the tender age of 14, he’s fair and loving and funny. I feared that he had lost his mind.

I spoke up in a voice that I fear was a bit on the whiny side, “But Daaaaaaaad, that’s MY 4.0… I earned it!”

He patted me on the knee and said, “Welcome to the Republican party Sweet Pea.”

*Names changed to protect the drunk and disorderly, and after all this is only an anecdote. Somebody asked me (the lovely Kath McCall wrote about it) today why I vote the way I do. This pretty much sums it up.

Very interesting.

Whilst in the staff kitchen this morning fixing my breakfast, our web specialist walked in to mix his normal healthy juggernaut of granola/berries/yogurt and a bamboo hut* or something.

I greeted him and he said, 滴ow was your weekend? Did you stay out of trouble?�

I said, 徹f course, I never get into any trouble.�

He responded with, 典hat is not the rumor that I heard.�

Now, this sort of threw me. There I was, stirring warm water into instant grits of all things. I had just gotten back from a weekend spent at the home of my parents and apparently I have the reputation of being some wild woman?

Hmmm.

Is it because I am fairly young? Is it because I share an office with another fairly young woman? Is it because she is single? Is it because he is just teasing me? Is it because I work with a bunch of accountants and direct eye contact may be seen as wild behavior?

I know, I know� IT guys are sometimes shy and they go to opposite extremes to tease when they just want to make conversation. I know he really didn稚 mean anything by it because he does the same thing to my officemate.

It just got me to thinking about how wild my little band of women were in college.

Close your eyes and picture this. Oh wait, if you close your eyes, you can稚 read.

Then let me paint a picture for you.

Regardless of the club scene or the week or weekend night in the early 1990痴 you would find loud music, smoke, beer and the promise of a connection luring upwards of fourteen of our closest girlfriends out of the dorms and into the clubs. Even after we moved out of the dorms and into apartments we would gather to primp and preen before the mirrors, shouting over the loud music to be heard that this guy or that was on the phone making sure that we were going to be there that night.

The Greek fraternities are just formal groups of the same types of gatherings, just in male formations... with more organization and a residence to throw parties in after the clubs have closed their doors for the evenings.

We always had our plans for the night. Which club to start out at and which dirty spoon to end the evening with, and who was supposed to hook up with whom.

鏑et痴 walk over to Crossroads, Three痴 A Crowd is playing for Happy Hour� then we can go to Bullwinkles' for dancing. The Pikes are having a party, so are the KAs� we can always go out to Jitterbugs� isn稚 Sterling City playing? And if we want, isn稚 that guy with the mustache having a party too? Lets meet up with everyone over at the Hot Biscuit after everything closes� Kay? Oh, waiiiiittttt�. Aren稚 the Phi Delts throwing some big bash too???�

That wasn稚 the best part, no� not by far� for me the best part was the music. Whether it was the sweet seduction of a waltz with an older gentleman in the smoky interior of Cotton Eyed Joe痴, or the upbeat heartbeat pounding jitterbug (normally a very fast and upbeat song) and having my partner toss me so high into the air that my boots knock out ceiling panels over the dance floor at Bullwinkles... or the best, the dance music thrown into the country mix to break it up. Bass shaking the very air and techno rocking the house while a bunch of men in cowboy hats get out on the wooden dance floor. Hee!

If you haven稚 ever seen this� it really is a sight to behold. It happens in Texas quite a bit. Country music clubs have the best dance floors, hardwood and usually scattered with sawdust for sliding. Just to break up the sets of country and western music, they play hip-hop and techno every 30 minutes or so. Cowboys get out on the floor and some of them can really get down. Heh.

The first few drumbeats ba-da-dum-dum-da-dum-dum of Tone Loc痴 "Funky Cold Medina" would act like some sort of homing device for my girlfriends and I. You would see our heads pop up (not unlike prairie dogs) from whatever conversation we were engrossed in, whomever we were already dancing with, or whatever drink line at the bar we were standing in and we would automatically search for the two tallest members of our group so we could converge on the dance floor en masse.

It was like some sort of primitive ritualistic call to shake our hips, heads, necks and rib cages to the beat.

Sir Mix-A-Lot痴 釘aby Got Back� had the same effect, Technotronic, C&C Music Factory, even Clarence Carter. Our group was a multicultural mix of young women with rhythm and grace; music spoke to all of us, although� Stacey never really heard the call of Country and Western. :: smile::

Most of us never even left the dance floor, spending our nights worked up in a rhythmic frenzy, two-stepping, three-stepping, waltzing, jitterbugging, fast dancing, slow dancing, polka, you name it, we did it often or tried it at least once. It was a beautiful thing. I really wish I could have captured that in a bottle.

Anywhere to dance, it was almost a drug.

We would go to the lake on Monday nights when the bars weren稚 open. We壇 park our cars and turn our radio stations all to the same stations, leave our windows down and dance in the parking lot. We壇 get hot and sticky and more often than not end up in the lake. Sometimes� nekkid. The park ranger would run us off after 10pm only if we were drinking or if the sheriff was patrolling.

We danced in the hallways of our dorms and the parking lots too. We danced in the parking lots of our apartment complexes. We danced in our bedrooms. One of my dear, dear friends (a friend I need to tell you all the story of) D淡ayne taught himself how to dance in his dorm room before venturing out onto the dance floors of the bars. He is one of the smoothest waltzers (is so a word) I know.

I miss dancing so much; it has always been a huge piece of my life. I never thought of myself as a wild child in college, I just liked to dance. I was a virtual never-ending supply of energy where dancing was concerned, and I still love to dance, I just don稚 want to brave the bars to do it anymore. They are loud and smoky, the drinks are expensive and I feel fat.

How could anyone mistake me for wild anymore? Hmmm?

*I typed 殿nd a water buffalo� first, because it was funnier, but seriously� it didn稚 make any sense, and because he is the web guru, he may be reading this, and in that case, Hi Wayne! Don稚 get me fired, kay?

July of 1987

Saturday, 9:30 am, Stephanie and I woke up groggy and mush-mouthed. We stayed up most of the night before giggling and talking about boys in our class and our plans for the next week. Kim was going to be coming into town soon and we needed to decide on Six Flags or Wet and Wild for our big excursion.

My mother was prodding us to get up and have some breakfast, “Giiiiiiirrrrrllllls!” She chirped in her high-pitched southern voice, “Get up, get up get uuuuupppppp!!!!” Trilling the last “up” into two sing-songy syllables.

We moved slowly from my tiny bedroom into the kitchen. My mother flitting around us like a small humming bird while Stephanie and I blinked our eyes at the cruel morning sun.

We foraged for food in the kitchen and watched the world with our bleary eyes.

My father came in and asked us if we were ready to go. He got most of the sentence out of his mouth, saw the state of our existence and turned around and went back out into his sanctuary… the garage.

That morning we were going to the lake to water-ski with two boys from my church, Ryan and Carter. Carter’s dad, Gil, had a dual-motor, inboard Viking (with wings) and my father was going with us as our safety net. My dad had taught most of my friends to water-ski so they were comfortable around him and his 1976 Glass Master (hoopty) boat… and Gil had the reputation of being sort of a wild man on the lake.

Stephanie had a small crush on Carter because he was Greek god hot. I pretended not to notice that Carter was hot and Ryan was quite good looking too... because these guys were my buds. I had known them since I was wee. I had even played H2O Tic-Tac-Toe* (on my driveway at one of our pool parties) with them.

*No, you can’t ask. Well, maybe later.

Steph and I moved it into second gear and shuffled into the bathroom. We each took showers and carefully applied makeup complete with waterproof mascara. (Wha? Yeah. Girls are weird sometimes.) And then we made the painfully slow selection of which bathing suit to wear.

“That one?” “No…, wait… Are my boobs showing?” “Sue, you don’t have any boobs.” “Oh, yeah, you’re right…” “Hey, Your hair looks really cute in a ponytail.” “Thanks.” “Can I get away with a binkini?” “Of course you can.” “Oh damn, I’ve started my period.” “One piece for you!”

And then… the time consuming decisions on the bathing suit cover up.

I thought my father would chew his own face off before we left.

“Girls?”

“Girls….?”

“girls………………………….?….?”

“Are they even back there?”

Then. Dun DUN DUUUUNNN! We were ready.

We left at like 11:00 and met Ryan, Carter and his dad at the lake at 11:30 or so.

Stephanie and I were totally oiled up with a mixture of baby oil and iodine. It is a wonder we didn’t slide right out of those vinyl seats and into the water to be churned up by those dual manly turbine engines. Sweet. Oh… and then there’s the skin cancer factor. Did I mention that we are both normally the color of nuclear winter? She’s a breath-takingly, drop dead gorgeous red-head… and I’m… uh... Irish. Because we are smart. S-M-R-T. See? Smart.

And also… slippery.

So, we were gonna show these boys that we are cool. We were not normal girls.

We could snow ski with them. It’s a fact Jack.

Yeeeaaahhhh boooyyyeeeee.

We could water ski with them too, right?. Wait. Who is this Jack character?

Anyway, we headed out onto the lake in the boat. Ryan got out into the water with his one little lonely ski to slalom, shooting up rooster tails of water 15 feet into the air. Strangely reminiscent of when he “iced” me doing the same thing on my first youth snow ski trip with our church two years before. Showing off bastard. He was very good. He’s always been very athletic… and quite the poet (psst... he wrote me the sweetest poem in 8th grade English. I still have it.).

Then it was Carter’s turn to take a run on the skis. He decided to use some trick skis and a boom to hang out over the side of the boat. The crazy goob dropped both skis and barefooted in a small lagoon that was pretty still and placid. He was amazing and we were all whooping and hollering.

I had seen Cater jump on moving vans. I had seen him do flips on snow skis. I had seen him do incredible things with a half pipe and a pair of roller skates or a skateboard, but that took the cake. He got back in the boat and told us he wanted to be a stunt man when he graduated.

My father lifted an eyebrow.

You could tell that Gil thought his son was the shit.

We all skied over here in a cove and across the lake and there in a cove and across the lake and then Carter suggested that three of us, Ryan, Carter and myself all three ski together. Gil had three different rope lengths and the Viking (with wings) had enough power to pull that many people.

I looked toward my father for his ok and he said to Gil, “That will be fine as long as you make sure you don’t take any sudden turns, keep these kids out of other boats way and try to make it as smooth as possible so they won’t tangle their lines.”

Now I’ve been skiing since I was six or seven, same for Ryan and Carter. But under totally different circumstances. When my sister and I would ski together behind my father’s boat (longest distance, approx. 12 miles) we would be very aware of each other and the dangers of crossing lines, getting in each other’s wake, and general safety. These boys were… well… boys and were probably trying to kill their brothers from the time they exited their mother’s wombs.

I decided to take the shortest lead so they couldn’t pull me in or anything and I asked for two skis so I would have more control. Ryan and Carter were both slaloming so I thought that they would be wobblier.

Oh, not so my pretty.

We all got into the water and situated with our skis. Tips up. Thumbs up… Gil revved the engine and the Viking (with wings) screamed and pulled us all out of the water with nary a thought. We popped up like little bobbles and flew across the water because Gil (that fucker) was probably doing close to 60.

The Viking was an inboard so there wasn’t much of a wake to contend with so the next thing I knew, Carter and Ryan were pulling up their lines and coming flush with me. And. We. Were. Making. A. Turn.

Great. Rooster tail of water on my left. Water up the nostril, nice. Rooster tail of water on my right. Water up the nostril… nice.

Carter did a sling-shot out to the right to be parallel with the boat while his dad was making a counter clockwise turn in this cove and I saw him let his line out. I thought I was safe.

Ryan let his line out and they were playing chicken behind me while I ducked their lines between them.

Gil decided to make the SAME DAME TURN in the SAME DAME COVE and pulled a hard left.

Hi. Big fucking boat. Two inboard motors. Small Cove. Three skiers being pulled behind it. Equals = BIG WAVES!

My thighs were burning from the work out of being pulled so hard from such a big motor and fighting off the guys and their pull lines. There were three-foot waves in that small cove and I was keeping my tips up and riding them like Sea Biscuit (tm Greg Focker). When Gil pulled that last hard left to complete that last turn to come out of that cove, he crossed over his own wake and created the biggest wave of all for me to compete with.

I lost.

I tried to keep my tips up. My legs were too tired. We were going to fast.

Both ski tips went under and immediately went east and west. I hit the water princess first.

I have never hit the water that hard, that fast with my tender pieces. Not even at a water park on a huge water slide.

I thought my legs fell off.

My skis definitely fell off.

I couldn’t feel my body from the hips down.

Gil made the turn to pick me up and I made the feeble attempt to pick up my floating ski to hold it aloft like a downed skier should. To no avail.

Lake water enema: 1. Suz: 0.

I gingerly felt “down there” and realized that I did still have legs but that they were just numb. How was I going to tell the people on the boat, two of my peers… that happen to be guys that my hoo-ha just got ripped to pieces because Hey Carter? Your fucking dad wouldn’t slow down and I’m not that good of a skier and I thought I was tough!

[Please Note: Remember on my 100 Things About Me list? 91. I was never really afraid of anything growing up. 92. I attribute it to having a lot of guts or… incredible amounts of stupidity. This whole entry is a good example.]

Answer… I didn’t I sucked it up and yanked my little one piece bathing suit out of my ass (it was so far up there, it was incredible) and pulled myself up onto the stern of the boat with my feeble little shaking arms and laughed it off.

We hung out for a good portion of the day on the boat and watched the guys ski and Gil show off with his super duper tough man boat.

That afternoon when we got home, I went to the restroom to tinkle and change. I also needed to shower and put on clean panties and a pad because I had a tampon on all day from being at the lake. Sometimes being a girl is just yucky. I went to take out my tampon and… I couldn’t find it.

“Steph?”

“What?”

“Can, um… can you come in here for a second?”

“Sure… what’s up?”

“I can’t find my tampon.”

“Seriously?”

“Dude. Seriously.”

“Want me to go get your mom?”

So, horror of all horrors, my mother and I (with encouraging words from Stephanie in the hallway) used mirrors, dynamite and the powers of L. Ron Hubbard to deduce that the tampon was not in my young and impressionable princess.

The lake ate it.

I have on blue eyeliner today because I, am a tropical fish, and also… in the seventh grade… in 1986.

I has recently come to my attention that my cat eats Cheerios. They are a healthy snack, no? So now I find great pleasure at pelting my fur-bearing mammal with the little toasty-o's in the head when he decides to sing a seven-minute aria whilst I am fixing dinner. I should probably stop this as he may think I am actually sending him the kitty cat equal of throwing roses onstage when the diva sings.

Ok, enough stalling. I have a little story to tell… I've told you all about the Kerr Krew. And I have told you about how beautiful the women I went to college and high school with were and are. I have told you about how talented and what great dancers they were and are, I told you that they have grown up to be nurses, interior designers, teachers, detectives, mothers and a whole slew of other incredible things but have I ever told you how evil they were? Pure-D evil. Seriously.

Exibit A…
My nineteenth birthday. A select few of us headed to Dallas for a weekend at our parents homes and a few parties over the Easter holiday.

Ps. I am sorry Baby Jesus.

One girlfriend (Kerry) had a neighbor (Sandra) who was very European and whose father owed a gentlemen's club, the gentlemen's club was right next to LeBare. (This was before it got moved from Greenville and Lovers, for those of you who care… and yes, I'm old.) LeBare, for those of you who are not European but young, uptight, white, Southern Baptist girls whose biggest sin is mixing pastels… LeBare was like stepping into Caligula.

My Eyes! Bare male chests on stage with spotlights, booze!, "Can I light that for you ma'am?", holy shit!, is that a g-string? Women everywhere squealing and pawing at male flesh. Men dancing to the latest pop music on the main stage with poorly thought out costumes being flung behind them as they disrobed. Thrusting their hips to the beat of the bass. Dollar bills flying, liquor flowing, the maniacal gleam of hope and something else entirely flashing in the eyes of the crowd.

Kerry, Stacey, Stephanie, Sandra and myself all wandered in and looked for a place to sit that would let all of us sit together in a group without getting too close to the stages (um, hi, ball sweat may fling far and wide*) and we didn't want to be trampled by the seemingly millions of bachlorettes (with requisite condom veils on) that were teeming over the bar area.

*Yeah, I typed that. And I'd type it again too, are you getting sassy with me? Hey, we (Steph and I) were scared, it was our first time at a naked man place and we had no idea how absorbent those little g-string things were. Those guys were floppy I tell you… Flah- to the Double P. Or it just seemed like it when they did that hip thrusty thing and their junk would smack their-… Oh-kay… enough of that.

We found a suitable booth in the back that allowed us visibility to almost the whole bare, ordered our drinks… er, did I say drinks? I didn't drink at 19, no Siree Bob. I meant ordered our water and Shirley Temples and lit up to further view this testicle spectacle through the cleansing haze of Marlboro Light smoke.

There were men everywhere. Dancing on the bar, on the backs of the booths, on the three stages. You couldn't look anywhere and not see a bare man-chest or a man that had put in some serious time in a tanning bed… or a thong.

That last part was sort of disconcerting to me. I am from hearty farm stock, I was raised to feed people and to work hard… seeing men with better nails than mine and way better eyebrows raised a flag in my subconscious. Seeing as how I thought I was pretty cute before we walked in, in my little black blazer, black leggings (gag, I know… shut it… really, I know… seriously) and my little low-heeled flats…(gah… does it ever end?… no… did you not see my hair during that period of time? [scroll down]… ) I immediately began to hear that "Hot guy, you're not good enough!" siren going off in my head.

How could these women come here night after weekend night and feel that way about themselves? Then I figured out why. I thought, "These men are getting paid to pay attention to these women, and the women are eating it up. This is sort of like retail." It was a very basic principle, but it helped me deal with the squick factor and … why are these women screaming!?!!?

I walked over to give a particularly large specimen of man a tip for being… huge… (shut up, I know he didn't have anything to do with his genetic makeup, but damn, I like big men) and he grunted at me that his name was Conan. Conan? Seriously? He affirmed that I wasn't hearing things and grinned at me while dancing provocatively… and looking me in the eye. [Sidenote… how do they do that with a straight face? I'd be laughing my ass off.]

Then a fast song came on and Conan… apparently the barbarian… ever thankful for the two fucking dollars that I gave him, picked me up.

Did you get that? He picked my ass up… as in off the ground…with one hand, cupped my butt with one arm and pulled my ankles to his other side with his other hand... he could hold both of my ankles in his one hand…(!)… I must have looked like a three year old. He danced around for about seven seconds with me on his hip, and then put me down like he was the carnival's quickest two-dollar ride.

I was so stupid and naive that I shoved him in the chest like, "you big bully" and wandered off to go tell on him to my girlfriends. I had no idea what the protocol of a strip club was. I should have snapped his thong and asked for my $2 bucks back.

Or, thanked him for the dance… whatever. I still am pretty confused on that one.

So, after my lap/hip dance with Conan… (?)… I was over at the table with my girls and the place went dark…

"Ladies, Ladies, Ladies… It's what you have been waiting for allllllll niiiiiiiight, (sound FX of a motorcycle or something)…. Please help me Welcome to the Main Stage Of LeBare….. The MAAAAASTER BLAAAASTER!!!!!!"

The spotlights started going crazy and the music ramped up to an earsplitting level and then the lights all came on at once and this guy came out from backstage… he had on a Stetson, boots, and … leather chaps. He started dancing and put all of the others to shame.

Women were going crazy, throwing money, roses, bras and their vaginas on stage and still the Masterblaster danced nimbly on.

He tipped his hat and I said out loud and with much fervor, "Holy shit… I know that man!"

::Scooby Doo wavy noise…. You are going back in time!::

When I was but a wee lass there was a place in Lewisville, TX called The Good Luck Rodeo where I used to go to dance. It was once an old skating rink so the dance floor was sublime, but it was there that I met… Dun Dun DUN!… The Master Blaster… years before. Randy and I used to cut a rug or two around that wooden floor at the Good Luck so it was quite a shock to me to see him on that stage with vaginas being tossed at him willy nilly.

::Scooby Doo wavy noise…. We now return you to your regularly scheduled program.::

Heh.

The Master Blaster huh?

I turned to Stephanie, "Hey, isn't that Randy [last name] from Good Luck Rodeo?" She said that he looked familiar, but didn't know for sure.

I was going to find out.

I got up from the table and went to the stage with my little limp dollar bill. I pushed my way tough the throngs of heavy mortar fire and hand-to-hand enemy combat… um, wait… wrong journal entry… I pushed my way through the throngs of women hopped up on estrogen and bad champagne and by the time I got to the stage, he had removed his chaps.

Whoa.

Randy was nekkid.

Or… actually he was In A Pink Thong. I do believe that might have made me even more uncomfortable.

Holy shit, I used to dance with this guy, and apparently he was the hottest thing since Rico Suave. (Shut it, I told you I'm old.) I held out my dollar like he was some porpoise trained to snatch it with his oiled and well-trained muscular thighs… and holy shit... that is exactly what he did…. Eeeeeeeee!…….

Must not look him in the eye… will turn to stone… will… turn to…
Yeah… hi… there… dancing… sweaty guy, um. No… this isn't uncomfortable at all… Yep, must look natural, like I do this alllll the time… why are you touching me?…
You don't know me at all do you brother? Why don't you take her dollar there buddy? I'm gonna go back to my whoa---- hey there… those are your… wow.
Nice um, boob muscles…. Can you put me down?
Why do all of you want to pick me up? Is it because I'm a husky challenge? IS IT?

And then for some reason I got all "Yeah, everything is fine" and smoked like Robert DeNiro for about 15 minutes after I went back to the table.

After "Master Blaster's" set, he came over and yes, he did remember me, how was I blah, blah, blah… where was I in school… very charming… anyway… I went to the restroom to pee, reapply lipstick the whole nine and while I was gone, check this out.

Exhibit B…
While I was gone… Kerry gave this man my home phone number. And no… I didn't know about her passing the digits. Not so much in it's self an evil, evil thing… except… my parental units are Ward and June Cleaver. Now, yes, in the issue of transparency and to elicit a small shock from my mother's temporal lobe I told her exactly where I was to be going with the girls that very night.

Sweet.

That night we left the club with enough Master Blaster memorabilia to choke a small Beluga whale. Or even a large one. His paper, touting, "It's raining men!" a picture of him and his hairy chest. We had even found out that he was in the process or had just (the memory… she is a-goin) purchased LeBare…to quote, "So please come back anytime and I'll set up a private party for you and your girlfriends." Translation: "I will put you on the guest list, you don't have to pay cover, you get a premium table, a cheap bottle of champagne and a picture with the guys at the end of the night, I will more than make up for it by all the tips and other drinks you buy." Which, in all honesty is not a bad deal… Call him, take him up on it.

We all went back to school after the holidays and things went back to normal. Until… Dun dun DUNNNN!!!… Stephanie and I went back to our dorm one day after lunch to hear this message on our answering machine… "Suzanna, this is Randy last name… please call me at ###-###-####. Your mother gave me your number so I hope to hear from you."

Um… What?

Can you guys imagine that telephone call?

“Hello? June? This is Randy the Master Blaster, I am a male stripper for LeBare and I was given your little girl’s phone number at the club the other night. We’ve actually known each other for a while as we’ve danced at Good Luck. May I call her at SFA?”

“Well, hello young man, of course, I heard that you are quite the well oiled machine, why don’t you join us for church on Sunday… and Suzanna’s number in Nac is ###-###-####…”

So… yeah, I called my mom and asked her what transpired to have her give this guy my phone number before I called him. After all, I was slightly scared to death, and a little poor. Long distance call, yanno. I wanted to make sure that I really wanted to call this Randy guy back.

me: “Momma?”
Momma: “Hi Sue… how are you doing?”
me: “I’m fine… I just got a message from a guy that said you gave him my number…”
Momma: “Oh, yes, what a nice fellow. Isn’t he a dancer?”
me: ::gulp:: “Yep.”
Momma: “Did he dance with you at the Plano Academy?”
me: (under breath) ::snort:: “Ohhhh” ::ahem:: “Oh, um… no ma’am, I think you may be remembering somebody else. This was someone Kerry gave my number to over Easter.”
Momma: “….”
me: “….”
Momma: “…oh, OH… Oh, Dear.”
me: “Heh.”

So I balled up some confidence and actually called him back, it turned out that he and his troop of merry men were coming into town, or were planning on it and wanted to drum up some business. Always the businessman. Smart, that Randy.

Fast forward like 10 years, I’m back in Dallas… Kerry has come to visit from living in California and Stacey and I get a bright idea… we call ol’ Randy and let him know what’s goin down, he actually remembers us (or pretends to for business sake… see?.. smart, that Randy… S-M-R-T) and adds us to the guest list for a little private party thingy.

We walk in, they escort us to our table with champagne and … My EYES!… I still can not get used to this shit! Can I be any more prude? Holy crap!… Here he comes, thank God he has on clothes! Damn he looks good, what is that in his hand? A magazine?

Randy comes over and kisses each one of us on the mouth (actually bites me on the lip (!)), exclaiming all the while how long it’s been, how good it is to see us… always the showman, and has uh, Garcon open our champagne. This guy is good.

The next thing we know, Randy takes the stage… no kidding. I thought he was like over the hill by this point, um… not so my little pretty. Check this out… the man could be 30 or 50, who would fucking care? And that magazine he was holding? Yeah, it was one of the Playgirls he had been featured in.

I saw his wiener.

The whole reason for this lengthy diatribe is that Stacey called me on Wednesday and was squealing into the phone….

me: “Hello?”
Stacey: “Holy shit, holyshitholyshiiiiit!!!!! EEEeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!!!!”
me: “Stace?”
Stacey: “You are Never going to believe who I saw.”
me: “Shaq? Neil? Kim? Marcus? Jesus?”
Stacey: “Heeeee! I was at Jason’s Deli over off of MacArthur because I had just picked my parents up from the airport and… [heavy breath]…”
me: “slow down there Speedy”
Stacey: “You’re just never going to believe…. Ok, so I was sitting there with my parents and out of the corner of my eye I saw this figure that looked so familiar… guess who it was… just guess….”
me: “Um… Austin Bur--”
Stacey: “No! …. It was Randy the Master Blaster! Ha HA!!!!”
me: “Holy Shit!”
Stacey: “Yeah! Holy shit… and if my dad wasn’t there I would have told my mom who it was, but I didn’t wanna do that with my dad there… because… ewwww…. And…”
me: “Ok… so did you say hi?”
Stacey: “I don’t think he recognized me… but OHMYGAWD…. Check this out… HA!”
me: “What?”
Stacey: “[daughter] was sitting there dancing in her chair and he saw her doing it and he said to her, ‘I have some moves too.’ AHHHHAAAAAAAHAAHAAAA!!!!!!!”
me: “Hee..”
Stacey: “Kinda skeevy…”
me: “Yeah… like guy?, give her 20 years or so…”
Stacey: “How about Forty years? Shit!!!!! But he still looks the same.”

Postscript: I have to be honest with you guys, I totally searched my house for photos of that first girls night at LeBare. I wanted to scan them and post them with this entry. Alas, denied by my lack of organization skills.

I’m listening to techno, Shakira and Prince so… um the country and western music (see last post) is not responsible for the latest rounds of pop-up* memories that are running around my noggin like little dirty kids in a dusty driveway with Kool-Aid mustaches and sticky fingers from their melting ice-cream sandwiches.

*(Sing the jingle for Pop Up Video with me!)

I think the responsible parties would be the black Sebring and the little, black 4-banger Jeep Wrangler I saw driving side by side westbound on Frankford road yesterday afternoon on the way home from school work.

Actually, I know that they were, because at the light Coit and Frankford I snagged a napkin from under the mirror of my sun visor and started furiously scribbling notes.

I know I talk a lot about the college years like they are some lost episodes of fuckin Friends or something. And I know that I talk about my college girlfriends a lot of the time too. But the ones who held truck with me throughout the hazy and crazy after college but before I left Nac for Dallas years really take the cake…

Case In Point:

Sesil and Melanie were holding Girls’ Night at their condo and we were supposed to show up promptly at 6:30, bring either bread or salad to go with their Chicken Spaghetti and then we were going to drink a lot and maybe get into some trouble. Orrrr play cards. Whatever.

Sil and Melanie were expecting 12 women to show up and break bread in their tiny two bedroom condo and I had received a call earlier in the day. A call from Brad asking me what my plans for that evening consisted of.

Brad, Annie and I would get together periodically and hang out at my house (or his or hers) and watch movies, scratch backs, brush hair, do our nails, gossip, drink a lot (do you see a pattern emerging here?) or do other various things. My husband (at the time) worked nights (cop) and Brad’s brother was on the nightshift with my husband. Brad was not gay with the brushing hair, scratching backs and doing nails thing. Brad was smart, very attractive, tall and had that “shucks me?” quality. All of my girlfriends knew of Brad’s propensity to pamper and he slept with most of them… see? Smart that Brad… S-M-R-T.

I told Brad that Annie and I were going to be going to Sesil’s and Melanie’s for Girls’ Night, he asked if they were fixing their famous Chicken Spaghetti… I said, “Oh hell yeah.” Brad asked me to call him later because Greg and “girl” would be coming by his house.

Here is where you would cue an evil glint in my eye.

Greg (not Stacey’s husband… another cop on the night shift) and Sesil used to be an item. A Three Year Item. A living together, closeness with family and stuff item. And it ended poorly. Not on Sil’s side, she is a class act. But in my oh, so humble opinion Greg could have handled it much better. Greg was dating a peach (pit) of a girl that we called … “girl”. We had all been awfully nice, for an awfully long time and she snubbed us every damn time. She made going to any of the police department functions unbearably uncomfortable… scowling at anyone who smiled at her or Greg… ugh. She was rude, snotty and acted like a humorless bitch. She snubbed her nose when anyone tried to be genuinely friendly… ergo we dubbed her “girl”. She did not have the common decency to be courteous to any of us, so we wouldn’t call her by her given name. That cunt. Whoa. Sorry.

During the awesome chicken spaghetti dinner, I revealed to the ladies that Brad (everyone say Awwwwww) had called and that Greg and “girl” would be going over to Brad’s to watch a movie later.

Cue evil glint times eleven.

After we drank some beer and cleaned up, played cards and sang off key to the radio while looking at pictures, Brad called back and said, “The eagle has landed!”

Twelve women piled into three cars (one of them being Sesil’s black Sebring… I drove… ???) and we all headed to Brad’s. I called him to let him know I was on the way. I heard him tell Greg, “Sue is on her way over with some of the girls.” I heard Greg chuckle low and say, “Cool. Tell her to pick up some more beer if she’s bringing more than a few friends.”

Oh we brought beer alright. We brought more than beer.

Ya see, Greg and my husband worked very closely together but not closely enough that Greg knew that I hung out with his ex-girlfriend. My husband knew. Brad knew. And everyone else knew. But not Greg.

We pulled up, and Brad came bounding out of the house like Big Bird while twelve women were piling out of three cars in his driveway. He stopped mid-bound and said “Fuck” and spread it out for like a minute and a half. The smile stopping on his face.

“FuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuCK.”

We all lined up in front of him in three rows and then the fun of the evening dawned on him and his big goofy grin returned with a vengeance.

He didn’t like “girl” either.

We all followed Brad’s example and bounded into the kitchen though the side entrance, putting our beer in the cooler on the way into the living room as we went. Chatting happily and flirting with Brad. He led us into the living room which was not much bigger than a box with a futon, a fluffy chair, a coffee table and the television. Greg and “girl” sat hunched over on one side of the futon. As we filed in, circumventing the room, Greg’s smile, that was large to begin with… slowly faded. As soon as Sesil walked in he gave her a halted wave, “girl” gave him an “I HATE YOU” look and then looked at the floor for the rest of the time.

It wasn’t long before they left Brad’s place.

“Girl” spent months making everyone in that room uncomfortable, we made her uncomfortable just once, and it wasn’t even in public. But it still felt pretty good.

One More Case In Point:

Girls’ Night was usually every Tuesday night for some reason and it mainly consisted of me, Sesil, Siska and Annie (and sometimes Brad, heh).

The venues would never be the same. They could be anything from playing Atari or going bowling to a dollar movie. But mostly they started with the basics…

Stealing my husband’s Jeep from the police department parking lot.

There is just something about a steamy summer night in East Texas with the top off of a little Jeep Wrangler. I drove a Dodge Avenger at the time… it had some umpff, but the Jeep had… no roof. Perfect for howling and playing music loudly and …

And….

And…

Ok, if you’re gonna be a country girl, you have to be a country girl sometimes.

Here’s the story.

One evening after we stole the Jeep from the PD parking lot we got situated. We had our in the little (big) cooler in the back, iced to perfection and overflowing with beer. (What? Drinking and driving in Texas is encouraged… now someone give me a loaded weapon.) We each had a pack or two of our smokes of choice placed in various places in the Jeep for easy retrieval and lighting. We had our koozies so our beer would remain cold after it left the confines of the cooler. And we had our tunes. We were set.

We tooled around town, riding up and down Main Street, North Street, driving the loop. Then we went out to Jitterbugs and drove right past it on the packed sand and blacktop of their pseudo parking lot into a small break in the tree line.

The temperature dropped slightly because the trees were so dense. We followed the little sanded road for about half a mile, twisting a turning, up and down small hills and valleys. We stopped at a clearing that bisected our little westbound road to the north and the south. The pine trees were cut away so neatly and with such precision that it seemed a surgeon cleared them and placed the transformers every 500 yards or so.

It was so beautiful we had to get out and… pee.

We piled back in the Jeep and headed onward. The little path continued for a while then opened up into a sand pit with huge holes and commas and cliffs of sand piled up just aching to be jumped off of… or driven off of. We played in the sand pit for an hour or so until it got too dark and was no longer safe to be in a place where you didn’t know if the bottom of the path you were treading was going to fall out.

We headed back out the little pine tree lined path to get back on Loop 224. It seemed that we were in the trees for an awfully long time and I was getting nervous that we had taken a wrong fork in the trees, as there were several. Annie said she had to pee, and I wanted to get out before it got any darker. We made a compromise that only two half-lit wonderful girlfriends can make.

Me: “Ok, then what we’ll do is… you just hang your ass over the side and pee…”
Annie: “Awesome.”
Me: “Here’s a napkin… and I’ll go slow enough so you won’t fall out.”
Annie: “Rockin. And if I fall out… I swear I’ll kick your ass Sue… HEE!”
Rest of the Jeep: [laughing hysterically]

Annie, of course, doesn’t fall out and we have a story to tell her children.

And then we flashed truckers. The End.

End Note: Yes, I know I didn’t go into detail about stealing a vehicle from a police department. But… maybe next time. And then there’s the fact that I’m painfully cute and we had a scanner too. So, there ya go.

Questions? I’ll answer them.

Go.

Well put me on a Ritz and call me cheesy but I am so excited I could just spit.

Ya’ll know how I have been going on and on and on about the Kerr Krew? Ok, one friggin entry… shut up… well, not one. But one and a half… well, ok… several… if you count this one too… because sheesh… Steph and I?… founding members… along with the tall blonde ones. [Editors Note: Stacey is in too many journal entries to link because I? Am Lay. ZEE.] Anyway. Point? We don’t need no stinking points around here.

Ah, yes, the point… heeeere point! Alrighty, the point is, I got all wacked out yesterday evening on Midol™ and salsa and decided that during an incredible hot flash that I would go shopping in my garage for shit that I know is in there but have no idea where in tarnation it could be found.

Sounded like a plan.

So armed with my lucky Gap sweatshirt I have had since Christmas of 1990 (Thanks Steph!) … (PS: I don’t throw nothing away Bitches!) … (much to Mister’s dismay) and a cramp the size of Wyoming I , (Could I BE anymore parenthetical here?) set out for the garage that has housed many a box but not one fuckin car since June of last year.

And guess what I found?

Aside from three pairs of shoes that I love and have been mourning the loss of since we moved. Love you Nine West leather black slides with stack heel and an open toe, love you dark red sandals with three little strappy things and kicky flower detail, love you wooden slides with bright red other stuff… anyway. Aside from those shoes? Guess what I found? Go ahead… guess.

No. Jimmy Hoffa is in Cheyenne, Wyoming happy, healthy and doing fine as the sole proprietor of the combination scrap metal wholesaler and tanning salon, called the Pull N Fry. Talked to him last week. He said ya’ll were pretty.

I found a whole box a LARGE (Marge, in Charge) box of my photo albums. My 3 foot long high school senior photo was rolled up in its little tube in that box, and no, I’m not kidding. The damn picture is ginormahuge. I graduated with 1267 kids.

“Hi, my name is Susan and I have no clue who you are. We graduated together? Really? I got nothin. Oh… you know my mom? She was your substitute teacher, really? Awesome.”

And by “awesome”, I meant, “I’d like to die.” My mom was more popular than I was. And sadly, this is not a fabrication.

Moving on.

But also in the Monster Box was this little gem.

(And I am trying something new and if my code is all jacked… please forgive)

Click to make all of these pictures bigger.

I like to call this “For God’s sake… would someone give me a sandwich?”

This one is a favorite picture of mine. LuLu and I started out as mortal enemies ya’ll. Seriously. My daft ass just didn’t know it. Heh. She had to tell me later.
Aren’t we precious?

And the pièce de résistance…

I found albums of the trip that my sister and mother and I took to London and Paris in ’98. I found pictures of me when I was wee in a bee costume for a ballet recital. I found pictures of EVERYTHING. It was awesome. I love memory lane.

And… I love salsa.

List of shit I found sitting in my drawer… Apparently I am supposed to write an entry or something.
It reads as such:

“Purple Reign (of Suck)
To add to the suckalicious (Shut it. Is too a word.) week I had with the red light, the falling off of the shoe and consequent twisting of twee lil ankle, breaking of the mirror and the totalitarian eyebrows…
1) I burned my hand in the oven
2) I have been late (7 to 8 minutes late, but late nonetheless) for work at least twice this week.
3) I flung my hair in the car and lost an earring. Talented… No?
4) The Mavericks lost to Phoenix. Shut UP Steve Nash.
PS… Steve Nash, cut your fucking hair.
5) 101 degrees… what?”

Maybe that was a few weeks ago. I’ve lost count of the days and weeks and um…

Look over here… shiny!

I also found another note in my purse that states quite plainly at the top, “Damn you 99.5 the Wolf! Damn you for playing El Cerrito Place by Charlie Robison.”

That song tears me up.

Or or or… Oh, my God… The Wedding Song… shit… kill me now. His duet with Natalie Maines? (Hi. Um… Neal… yeah, the seven foot tall junkie? Yeah, he used to sing that shit to me. How fucked up am I to fall for and be all “awww” about that huh??? HUH?!)

I can barely handle it when the Wolf plays Fast Cars and Freedom by my boys, Rascal Flatts. (If you want a good one?, download that one gatsby.) It hurdles me back into memory lane so fast… even when I am sitting beside my husband in a Lincoln LS on a Dallas parkway with our windows rolled down on a humid summer evening. I still feel like I am twenty-something and running a big Ford 4x4 down a dirt road with the windows rolled down and the stereo blaring.

Don’t even get me started on when The Wolf decides to get their panties in a twist and get all Tim McGraw on us. I’m not saying anything against the man, don’t take it like that ladies _{(what a beautiful ass!)}.

I’m just saying when I hear Just To See You Smile…. I just die a little. Ok. A lot.

Lyrics found within that last link… or if you follow that link, whatever.

A little back story? Ok. If you insist.

I told ya’ll about D’Wayne a bit on my first rant about the Wolf… (link found here)… but I didn’t tell you guys about the years this guys stood by me while I made bad decision after bad decision. He was the kind of man you would tell your girlfriends, “He’s too nice for me.” Strong, not wimpy… he had backbone and could put me in my place. But I was stupid and was drawn to dangerous men. Hello stupid. Hi! And then years later when you (ok when I ) wizened up you’d kick yourself (or I kicked myself) squarely in the ass for being such a fucking idiot for not seeing what was staring you (or me) in the face. Ok, well I did.

You know what I’m trying to say… oh, yes you do. Don’t play coy.

When I walked up to him in the Summer of 1993 with my current boyfriend in tow, he knew what was coming. D’ and I always had that nonverbal communication down pat. So when X* told D’Wayne that he had asked me to marry him, D’Wayne turned to me and said, “And you said?”

It was the perfect out. And he was giving it to me.

Even though he knew I was marrying the wrong man, D’Wayne sung at my wedding… beautifully… God, so beautifully… and then told my best friend (LuLu) that that was the day he fell out of love with me.

Fuck You 99.5 The Wolf. I could just listen to hip hop.

*If you didn’t know that I was married previously and would like to read about the carnage, please see this link.

When I was looking to move back to Dallas and away from Nacogdoches [read: get the hell out of dodge] I put my resume together and sent it to anyone who would take it. I poured over the newspaper listings and called on old contacts.

I started calling on temp agencies when everything else failed to bear fruit, and they started setting up appointments for me. I asked them to line them up like dominoes so I could drive in from Nacogdoches and knock out the interviews one at a time. I usually had three and four in a day.

The three and a half hour drive was no big deal for me but in the summer sun wearing a cheap black suit, you could tell I was desperate.

A general construction company was looking for an executive secretary for their big boss. They loved me, offered me the job, I counter offered, we negotiated. I won, I left my husband (there is a longer story here… not gonna get into it) and moved (yee haw.) and started the job that Thursday.

The job entailed ass loads of filing (the bane of my existence) and for me to learn the Construction Specification Institute’s (CSI) Division List (link found here) (Dear. God.), for me to take care of Joe’s secretarial duties, make him look good (wasn’t hard… guy’s a genius), to take care of his two brilliant kids on the nights that he was taking his equally brilliant wife to the Stars game… and plan his golf outings with his buddies and get them nice shirts made.

Loved the job, hated the comptroller. But during the interim there I met a girl who worked for one of the contractors for Joe. We’ll call her K. K was young and exuberant. She bounded into the office and immediately demanded that I come out with her and her husband that weekend. Well, that’s not true. It took her a couple of weeks and a few phone calls back and forth for us to decide we liked each other.

Ya see, we were supposed to hate one another.

Joe and her father we locked in a pissing contest over this multimillion dollar job they were working on. And therefore, I was the enemy… because I worked for Joe. And she worked for her dad. Whatever.

She demanded that I come out with her and her husband, I went. And…..a good time was had by all.

Months went by, years went by. K was always there. Always demanding that I come do this, or do that. But she was always there to lend an ear as well. And as you, dear reader, know, I was one angry broad. I had a lot of anger. I was angry at myself… I was angry at X, oh how I was ANGRY… I was angry at Marcus, that little shit… (if you need a link for any of this crap let me know)… I was angry at Neal...I was just angry. But she was angrier. And more negative, and had more drama. It always seemed to be about her. If I was upset I could talk and then she could talk and it would always turn into this thought in my head of, “Well, yeah, K is more fucked up than I am… she needs the time and the spotlight right now, I’ll talk later.” Or whatever.

She took up all of the space in the room. She was negative and charismatic at the same time. How is that possible? I wanted to hang out with her but then I dreaded it.

She was always taking on projects. She had so much love (or control) to give that she would take on injured puppies, stray cats, men… she even took on a foster child… nay, a foster infant that needed an oxygen tube to breathe. She wanted to help or change or fix everyone and everything. (And yes, naysayers, I do feel perfectly comfortable throwing around those blanket statements.)

Her need to change things sometimes veered into the negative. And the negative would be verbalized with a quick jab and then laughed off as if she were delivering a punch line or stony as if she were reading a street sign. Her verbal opinions and objections were never offered with love and respect. Never with an “I feel…” opener.

And one afternoon I had had enough.

I was wearing a red dress. It was a red shift with a cute little jacket that my mother had purchased for me because she was thinking about me. I had spent ten years being separated from my parents with them being in Colorado and me being in redneck country Nacogdoches and my mommy bought me a cute dress. I was proud of it. And K walked in to go to deliver a check to me (This was three and a half to four years and two jobs after we had met, and I was moonlighting for her father organizing his office.) and said, “You really shouldn’t wear that dress… it looks like something your mother would wear.”

::blink::

It really isn’t so much what she said, although it was rude; it is more of the tone and the venom that she spat at me. She actually sneered.

I told her that I liked the dress and I thought it was pretty and that my mother would wear something like this thankyouverymuch. Later that day or that night she demanded that I come over or something and when I said a flat “no.” that led to a discussion about how I thought she should ask and not tell and that I thought she was very rude. She said that she was just honest about her feelings and I said that she hides behind the word HONESTY to be cruel to people. She said, “Well, this is just who I AM. Take it or leave it!” And I said, “I believe I will take the second option and leave it.”

And our friendship was over.

I was in the process of working on my nonexistent boundaries at the time. I was going through therapy and I needed to have healthy relationships and she was just an emotional vampire to my doormat. The relationship was not mutually beneficial and I burned the bridge rather than rebuild it.

Back in January of this year I received an email from K. It was very short and all it said was this…

I was at work the other day and a lady sat down in my chair who could have been your twin. She reminded me of how much I missed our friendship. I hope it's not too late to tell you how sorry I am for being so critical. You never deserved it.

It took me a while… a while a chewing on my own face with indecision. I don’t have to tell you guys that I am one big bucket of crazy, but I did not know if I wanted to step my foot back into that ring. All I could think if was that hurt and confusion and sorrow that was caused when she was in my life. I knew that there were good times, I knew that there were laughs and nights of pizza parties and trips to Hot Springs, AR and pictures of us vogue-ing with wax lips and pool parties… but was I ready to even see where this would lead?

I knew that K had had a little girl, a beautiful little girl and that maybe she had softened around the edges.

I knew that she was no longer working for her daddy, a BIG source of her crazy. That she had gone through cosmetology school so maybe she was getting that need of hers to change to help to fix met in that field, and getting paid for it.

I didn’t know if I could step out of the relationship again if I wa