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August 3, 2005

100 Things I Like

Dear Jessica Simpson,
I covet your Gucci horse-bit hobo bag in brown and in black. However, COMMA, I saw that abortion of video and “music”* that you scraped out of Satan’s hoary ass and threw up onto VH1’s airwaves for the second time this morning and nearly deafened myself on purpose with a pink bubblegum cigar that says, “IT’s A GIRL” on it at the first come hither slither of your whispery vomitous, “Are you ready Bewwts?… start walkin.” Your over indulgent attitude and sheer… God… just the ickiness!
How much did you have to pay Willie to make him be in that video? I thought I saw shackles, were those shackles?
Please stop working out, your neck looks mannish and your tan makes you look dirty. A carb will not kill you… your skin however, looks like it is trying to attack your face. Water honey, hydrate. Oh, and bathe. It is not enough to just be next to the suds.
With love,
*PS… We know you can sing. You used to have it in you before all of this over-enunciation stuff and trying to out-drama Whitney took over.
PPS… You owe Nancy Sinatra an apology.

I just read KristinTracy’s 100 Things I Like. Which was in turn inspired by Heeland Lass, and that in turn was inspired by… Jenny, who was inspired by the website Learning to Love You More and Erin. (Will it never end?)

And I started thinking about things that I like. Could I put a list of things together, 100 things that I like? Or would it be easier, as KT intoned at the end of her list, to put together a list of dislikes?

Yes, yes it would be easier. And I’m no slouch (sit up straight darling) I don’t want to take the easy way out. So, over the next – however long it takes (starting over lunch on 8/3) – I will formulate a list of things that make me happy. And I will try to do so without much thought or explanation.

I’m bad about explaining myself aren’t I?

On to the list.

The rules…
Make a list of 100 things you like in no particular order. Avoid the obvious (significant other, cake...) and be completely honest with yourself. If you try to think of things that you are curious about and inspired by, you'll end up discovering a lot about yourself and in doing so developing a sort of bank of your interests and ideas.

1. sound: the ocean in the morning
2. Q-tips™
3. pressed tin ceilings
5. the sound of quiet before a room erupts into applause
6. wooden railings worn smooth
7. oversized furniture
8. flipping the pillow to find the cool side
9. giving anonymously
10. smell: freshly mowed grass
11. smell: leaves/grass being burned in the country
12. skiing during a storm with lazy fat snowflakes falling
13. suspension of disbelief
14. personal mail
15. email
16. commercials
17. VH1
18. cedar blocks
19. Burt’s Bees lip therapy
20. strappy sandals
21. Old Navy flip flops
22. the lines in the carpet after you vacuum
23. being petted
24. road trips
25. fine point roller ball pens
26. Bonnie Raitt
27. bendy straws
28. candles that smell lightly like men’s cologne or sandalwood
29. feeling safe
30. waking up laughing
31. watching a project come together seamlessly
32. airline miles and hotel points
33. finding a cool spot in warm water
34. swimming
35. “grazing” as opposed to eating a large meal
36. freshly shaved legs and cool crisp sheets = heaven
37. mascara
38. Vitamin E lip balm
39. Rhodesian Ridgebacks
40. the bunnies that live in my yard
41. smell: coffee
42. Boodles gin & tonic (dirty) w/ 3 big olives
43. almond stuffed olives
44. olives apparently
45. the TLC show on Elephants that makes me cry every time
46. my deconstruction of an Arby’s sandwich
47. This brilliant, brilliant young lady. (So proud of you Jen!)
48. knowing how to work the office copier
49. post it notes
50. individually wrapped wint-o-green lifesavers
51. black and white film
52. those Lysolョ/Cloroxョ kitchen wipes
53. bedroom slippers
54. fluffy socks
55. action movies
56. making a friend laugh with my journal
57. dill pickles
58. popcorn
59. gentle kisses with little bites on the lower lip
60. sushi
61. black pants
62. jazz hands
63. honey shampoo & conditioner from The Body Shop
64. oranges
65. spinach salad with strawberries & poppy seed dressing
66. avocados
67. green bananas
68. Mexican and Tex-Mex food (salsa is a food group)
69. misty mornings in the spring
70. 78 degree weather
71. sweatshirt with shorts
72. Paradise on Platt
73. the tingle in my belly when I know I’m about to see my husband
74. New Orleans
75. shoes
76. dangly earrings
77. the necklace my father made for me (and one from my sister) with a diamond from my mother and a stone from my grandmother’s brag ring
78. two-stepping
79. harmony
80. the knowledge that I am tough, but I don’t have to be anymore
81. Kevin James
82. no school loans
83. Max’s big kitty body with a tiny little “meee?” meow
84. my Aquis towel
86. pedicures
87. the Internets
88. transition lenses
89. Labor Day
90. lip gloss – cranberry colored…
91. p0rn hair
92. little black envelope opener that looks like a floppy disk
93. Elvira & Florida Evans
94. Clarins hand lotion
95. my intuition razor
96. tee-tiny hair clips
97. Revlon eyelash curler that has lasted for 20 years
98. cottonelle toilet paper (stupid bears ruined the whole thing for me.)
99. books, bookity, books, books
100. naps

Well, that took long enough. You wanna give it a go? Please, be my guest.
Just let me know in the comments, or backtrack to this entry to let me know that you took the idea and ran with it. Smoochies.

June 27, 2006

Goodbye Jenn See, We Love You

First thing is first. As some of you know I was out most of last week with some piddly upper respiratory infection. A shot, 24 hours bed rest and seven days on antibiotics later I am fine.

This morning as I was checking my work email and my personal emails something told me to check two of my favorite sites, monkey0 and my darling acorn, anne. I pulled them both up and while waiting for them to load I deleted some spam and checked my voicemail. When I returned to my browser I found a stunning picture of a turbulent grey sky hovering over the ocean, both sky and ocean as seen through the gauzy fabric of curtains, above the picture were these words, “Jenn See died. She was 26.”

Jenn See was not fine.

I did not know whether to just close down the browser so the information would go away and not be true or to try and find out more about this beautiful woman that I barely knew but respected immensely.

I looked at anne’s site and her words were so powerful, “Jenn showed me that writing could be a thing of joy, even in sadness…. [E]verytime I snap a picture of anything, everything, I think of her. Jenn showed me that photography was retaining a little of your childhood spirit, and letting it loose in the world.”

Still… there was no way that it could be true.

Jenn was so young, so expressive, a poet and a gorgeous person. She challenged people to see a picture, really see it and then she would or even sometimes ask you (dear reader) to give it a history, a plot, some emotion.

I finally took a deep breath and pointed my browser to Jenn’s site. It is true. She is gone and she will be missed.

The sweet comments, emails and her voice and vision have vanished forever.

You are missed Jenn See, missed and cherished. Loved and cursed for leaving too soon.

June 28, 2006

My best impression of Kevin Costner in Dances With Wolves.

Currently listening to Herschel* and thinking of all the stupid things I have done in my short and quite unremarkable history. This week has been filled with things that make me all reflective. Along with what I reported yesterday one of my coworkers lost her daughter last night. I feel like I am grasping at time and I am aware of not being able to tell those I love, that I love them enough.

This one story keeps circling the drain. I keep coming back to it while thinking about how lucky and watched over I have been. There have been nights when I have gotten in a car or truck to head home or to go on a road trip or something of the sort only to kind of shake myself from my reverie or my mental lapse halfway there; even worse… once I got to my destination and not remember the trip. Sometimes alcohol was involved, sometimes it was just exhaustion. I am just amazed that I even survived my twenties.

Let me lay down some facts that may or may not help you understand the strangeness of this story.
1) I was still in school and very young and stupid.
2) I knew G (at the time a Sheriff’s Deputy) for about a year before I knew he even had a brother.
3) I ended up marrying his brother.
4) Debra Jean (DJ) ended up marrying G.
5) The whole clan of them G, his parents and X lived on approx. 650 acres outside of the small college town that I lived in. In-laws lived on the west side… X lived in the middle and G lived on the east.

There was a crew of us that hung out in college. You guys have seen the pictures. A bunch of young scrawny kids grinning from ear to ear. Several of those that hung out with the crew were local. One was a lady who worked at the bar** we frequented, her name was Kelly. I loved Kelly. She was a little bit older than we were and she had previously been a teacher. She introduced me to Bonnie Raitt, Mulberry Wine lipstick and Bunko.

Kelly also lived with a singer/hairdresser that was an absolute knockout. The singer/hairdresser/Kelly’s roommate was named Debbie. She could sing “Desperado” like nobody’s business with a beautiful strong alto and a bit of rasp. Debbie was fond of having margarita and fajita parties and she had recently divorced the owner of the club where she sang onstage and where Kelly worked as the floor manager.

It was all so scandalous.

Late in the night after the bar would close many of us would make our way to the Hot Biscuit. It was a greasy spoon with the best French fries and a smoking section. This is where we met the local law enforcement, firemen and the ambulance drivers. They would come in at the end of the shift or to just break up the monotony of a long night on duty.

As I mentioned above, G was a Sheriff’s Deputy. He also happened to have land… land in those parts usually meant one of three things; chickens (gah.), cattle or horses. G had horses. I love horses.

The crew would sometimes head out to G’s house after the bar and the Hot Biscuit and saddle up a few horses and head out in the moonlight for a long ride. We would head north on the dirt road, when that dead ended into another we would turn east and then wind our way to the top of this small mountain. There was a clearing at the top of the mountain where a small house and an even smaller cemetery had been. Both were ravaged by the weather and the only company we had up there was the moon, the horses, a couple of grazing cows and each other.

If I was riding Hambone’s (a friend of G’s that boarded his horse at his house) horse, RC, I would feel comfortable enough to go bareback, coax him into a gallop, drop the reins and do my best impression of Kevin Costner in Dances With Wolves where he rides with his arms outstretched before a line of gunmen. The wind would rush by, my hair streaming out behind me, the moon so bright in the dark blue sky, the smell of pine in the cool air, eyes closed and a trusted horse beneath me.

I lived for moments like that.

Well moments like that and spin contests on the dance floor of the bar with Walt McG.

One night G was actually off duty so he came to the bar. He, Kelly and I decided to go riding after we left. It was pretty late but we headed out to G’s house, saddled the horses and just headed off. I was riding a big roan horse named applicably enough, Roan. Kelly was on a big rust colored quarter horse named Bo and G was riding a smaller quarter horse named Poco.

We left his circular dirt driveway and followed G across the “road” to another piece of property that G’s family used to own. I use quotations with “road” because it was a very dusty dirt road with sand taking it over and six foot walls of red clay on either side of it in some parts.

We entered the property to the south of G’s roping arena. We couldn’t cross anywhere else unless we went all the way up to the driveway of the little house that was set back from the road about 30 yards. There were walls of clay up to six feet and a fence that was broken in places. Across from the roping arena was a break in the clay wall that surrounded the dirt road and a fence opening. The three of us set off to ride around a small pond that was located further east on the property. He pointed out the little house in the distance by referencing the booger light and said that we would ride over there in a bit.

If you are wondering what a booger light is… it is basically a street light that most people in the country put up where the electricity enters their property. A telephone pole with a bright light on the top. Why is it called a booger light? No clue. I haven’t passed that redneck test yet.

We rode around the pond and then headed out to the pasture that was south of the house that G had pointed out. We were sitting there at like 3 a.m. on horses after we had spent a night at the bar. It was dark as hell because there was some cloud cover.

We chatted for a few minutes and then G goes, “Race ya’ll to the light!”

He took off but Kelly and I quickly overtook him with our larger, faster horses. Kelly cut to the left and headed to the light, I figured I could go straight and cut across the yard of the little house. That would be the quickest way.

G was behind us cursing up a blue streak. I whispered to Roan and he picked up speed. We cut through several of the large pine trees that surrounded the house, I would neck rein him to the right, he would drop a shoulder and almost pivot. I would neck rein him left and he would cut to the left. We were going so fast that everything was a blur. And then I saw it.

The little house was surrounded by a six foot tall cyclone fence (chain link). The fence shone dully in the glow of the booger light.

If the fence would have been any shorter I wonder if I would have tried to jump it with Roan. He was a roping horse, would he jump? I am not sure. I pulled to the left HARD, shifted my weight in the saddle and Roan did an almost 90 degree turn. I let a small breath out. I thought we were safe. Roan made about two and a half long strides and then I remembered the fence and the property line that dropped off about six feet to the dirt road below. I shifted to the right and pulled on Roan to follow, he did a complete 90 degree turn to the right. I am convinced that if he was going any slower I would have fallen off.

We spotted the booger light and I slowed him down as soon as we reached it. I didn’t want to go past it as my sight had been compromised by the bright light and wouldn’t adjust quickly enough. I supposed neither would Roan’s and I had no idea what was laying beyond the circle of light we now stood under.

Kelly beat us there and G came shortly after. I was shaking so hard from the adrenaline rush and Roan was prancing around beneath me. I wanted to punch G square in the mouth. He was laughing and I was cursing him and Kelly was all, “Holy shit, did you see that? Holy shit! Holy shit, G, did you see that? Sue? Are you ok? Oh My GOD.”

G said something in his normal quiet tone and then headed east along the perimeter of the fence. I couldn’t hear him as my blood was pounding in my head and I was so jacked up on nerves and relief that Roan was so incredibly awesome.

G called out from the darkness. I couldn’t see him at all on Poco. Kelly turned Bo towards G’s voice and trotted off after him. Roan and I stayed put in the relative safety of the booger light. Then a large thud echoed out of the darkness and following shortly after, “Ow, fuck.” And then a groan.

I hollered, “Are ya’ll alright?” as Roan and I cautiously made our way to the north east corner of the fence. My eyes adjusted to the light I saw two horses, one facing due south the other facing due east. There weren’t people on them. I looked closer and Kelly and G were on the ground. Kelly looked up and said, “He broke my pussy.” And then she rolled onto her back and cursed quietly. Bo (who was facing east) nosed Kelly and Poco (who was facing south) just stood there looking stunned.

G said, “We have to get back to the house, come on… get back on Bo…” Kelly cursed G and then worked on climbing back on Bo. I asked them what happened. G said, “I hollered for ya’ll to follow me. I had stopped and turned sideways, but I didn’t realize I was just out of the range of the light. Kelly and Bo started this way… fast… and ran straight into the side of Poco… directly into my right leg.”

Kelly replied, “You fucking bastard, you broke my pussy.” “Suck it up and get back on your horse. You’ll be fine. My leg is starting to swell.” G said. “Well how do you think my princess is!? Swelling! That’s HOW!” “Did you hit the saddle horn with your privates?” “Oh Lord, yes.”

Both Kelly and G got back on their horses and we took all three of the horses back to the pasture, unsaddled them and went into the house to asses the damage. G’s leg was swelling and bruised and he and I both decided to let Kelly give us a report on how she was doing as opposed to looking at the damage ourselves. She was thankful to be wearing jeans or she swears her princess would have just fallen right off.

Please CLICK HERE for an unbelievably lifelike rendition of the above story.

*Is it just me or does Eric Clampton’s (I) Get Lost just make you want to cry?

**OH MY GOD, did I tell ya’ll that Jitterbugs burned down?

July 24, 2006

All I found was some lame ass "note" in my Outlook called IDEAS.

I’ve been away ya’ll. I have neglected to send you love notes to tell you how pretty your hair is, that you are seriously rocking those jeans and that I really like how your homemade guacamole is all cilantro-y. But I do. I really do.

Ya’ll know this is my busy season and I… no baby, don’t be like that. I don’t want to neglect you. I just haven’t had time to sit down and write you a little love note. But this morning? I did just that.

Roses are red.
I love Blunt Man and Chronic
I would also prefer olives,
In my monster Gin and Tonic.

No, I haven’t seen Clerks II yet. Have ya’ll? No, wait. Don’t tell me. I would rather see for myself if they actually get away with a donkey show on my own. Or rather, I would like to see… well, just all of it. Don’t tell me… really. Don’t tell me if it sucks ass and you would beat Kevin Smith with a 4x6 to get the $7.50 you paid on the movie ticket. I love me some Kevin Smith, don’t be hatin.

Also. I love Kevin James.

Coincidence? I think not.

So I was looking through some notes that are hidden away in my computer trying to find the little slices of heaven that I call journal entry ideas. I put them somewhere while I was busy for the past month or so and even when I was out of the office I would open my trusty blackberry and add them to a task list called “Write about this.” Clever, no?

Well, no apparently not because I can’t find the folder. All I found was some lame ass “note” in my Outlook called IDEAS. I will post the gems of literary genius for you now. No, no… don’t all rush in at once to steal these jewels of brilliance to write an entry of your own.

1) DJ and Evan opening a Smoothie King... Power added to the Starbucks
2) The Last Unicorn / The Last Dragon ... first boy movie, first kiss movie... The Cook, The Thief, His Wife and Her Lover... fork in the cheek... use of color.
3) eyelashes used to fall out
5) you already know what you are going to do in your heart... the worst part is how to tell the rest of the world.
6) "And now, for theatrical purposes, we'll let the moron play with the gun!"

Uhm… yeah. I am not sure where number four went but it must have been about the dream I had where I was in a contest because I was marrying Christopher Titus. Or when I was convinced that my ex brother in law was dead.

I called Debra Jean, “Is he dead!?” “What the fuck are you talking about?” “Little G… Is. He. Dead?” “No you freak. Did you have one of your dreams?” “[sheepishly… yeah.”

But.. BUT!!!! A day or two later she called, “This is your ex sister in law….” “Um, why are you calling yourself that?” “He’s having another baby.” “Lord.”

So… death? I wasn’t on the mark. But I knew something was afoot at the Circle K, by God.

I’m not going out of town for a while so I will post more as I get caught up on my shit.

Much love and little baby peas.

September 8, 2006

Who wants Stormy?

In lieu of a coherent entry or even something that resembles higher brain function I give thee… A photo essay titled, “I am a small, furry badger.”

Here we have one of the very first pictures we have of Galen. He was born on May 19th of this year so the “breeder” probably gave him to us WAY to early. And. We didn’t do the math. This one was taken on 7/5/06… he was approximately 6 weeks and 2 days, a mere baby.

In this picture he is a furry little bundle of love and fluffy, shedding fur. But he loved to snuggle and sort of hummed when he was chewing on your finger or a toy.

This next picture is of our little boy at eleven weeks. Notice please that he is still very lovable looking but that Mister is firmly holding Galen away from his face… so Galen would not chew it off.

Did I mention that Mister picked out the name Galen because it means “Calm”? Ha ha ha ha ha ha!!!! Oh, me… that is some funny shit right there.

The next two pictures are of Galen this past Monday. He is sixteen weeks today. My, how time has slowed to a debilitating crawl… er. I mean … my, how time has flown. Merely a few scant weeks have followed us bringing the baby home… when it really seems like a lifetime.

But look at this face.

The chewing. And the destruction of the carpet and the gnawing of the baseboards. Lord. It is enough to make me lose my mind.

Did I mention that one evening after a bout of peeing on his bedding because we “moved Galen’s cheese” Mister said, “Where is the ROI?” “The ROI? On a fucking DOG?! Seriously?” “Yes, seriously.” “Well, at least now we know that we couldn’t EVER handle a baby.”

But did I also mention… Look. At. This. Face.???

Good Lord. The cuteness. It is killing me. But, you should see my cuticles. And? How Max loves him.

Also, I am cheating.

Yes, I freely admit it.

I am cheating on Elvira.

Here’s is how the affair started. My director goes on trips with her girlfriends to New York and they buy fake purses in Chinatown like it is their job. Power shoppers. And she asked me if I would like her to bring back anything for me. A Prada? No, thank you. A Coach? Hmmm…

And since I have been lusting after only two other purses my whole adult life (the brown horse bit Gucci hobo and the signature patchwork tote from Coach – from last season) I asked her if she would keep an eye out for any passable replicas. She asked me my limit and since I am a cheap ass I told her, $50.00. I figured that I would rather just save up anything more than that and buy the real thing when I could.

Or spend that money on massages. Good ones.

Otherwise, Elvira is in great condition… especially after I have been carrying her every freaking day for the past two years. Well, it will be two years on the 26th of this month. That is her birthday.

Shut up.

So my director comes back to town and she was so freaking happy… giddy almost… about the purses she bought. She pulled the one she got me from its little sleeping bag (dust bag… whatever) and I almost recoiled in terror.

It cost her $50.00 and she was so happy ya’ll. It about broke my poor little miserly heart that she was so happy and proud of herself… and also that I was about to fork over half a c-note for this ugly thing.

But I did it. And then ate crow when I took it home.

My boss walked by my desk the next day and said, “So… are you going to name that one?” And when he said “that” he pointed at the fake purse like he was accusing her of stealing or wearing a padded bra. I shrugged and asked him what he suggested since she was a filthy fakey whore of a purse. “What are some good stripper names?” I asked him. “Well, she does look sort of bipolar with all of those different patches of fake Coach material glued all over her. How about… Stormy.”

And Stormy she became.

The next week my boss and I were in San Antonio working and we had a few hours one evening so he, another power shopper, said, “Let’s go to Dillard’s’ to see if they have those shoes I wanted.” I, being ever agreeable, said, “Ok.” And off we went.

We walked into the store and he stopped at this display and said, “You really should get this purse. And get rid of that other one.” He held up a beautiful brown purse with a great shape. When he said “other one” he wrinkled his nose to show his immense distaste for the counterfeit that Stormy is. I looked at the brown one… and then for some reason, I sniffed her. Then I put her on my shoulder to see how she felt there.

Stormy feels like I am carrying an underarm goiter. Very unwieldy and uncomfortable. The brown purse felt like nothing. She fit perfectly and hung like I would imagine a set of testicles would. (Not really sure why I just likened the brown purse to testicles… but go with it… and let’s move on.)

I said, “I’ll just carry her around to see how it goes while we’re looking for your shoes.”

My boss gave me a knowing “Pfffft.” and we headed off to look at stuff for him.

Of course I got her.

She is wonderful and I have been complimented on her by so many different people. Just yesterday she was complimented by two dental hygienists and a pizza boy. No shit.

So ya’ll. I offer you a picture of Chelsea. Isn’t she pretty?

Who wants Stormy?

January 9, 2008

I feel like a T-Rex. (Rawr)

While driving home the other night (it was fucking 70 degrees here people. Seriously) I had the driver’s side front window rolled down because I had been smoking. It wasn’t rolled all the way down, just about four inches or so. I rolled down the back windows too to get a cross breeze and air out the car.

Now I have to admit something. When I was wee I would watch people driving around in their cars, arm out the window, elbow propped on the frame and their hand resting where roof meets car door. I thought that was the coolest freaking thing ever. No clue why, just thought it was hip, daddy-o.

What? All the sudden I am Potsie?

I used to see my father... left arm out the white diesel Oldsmobile with a Salem Ultra Light, Menthol 100’s (baby) dangling from his long tan fingers. He’d be singing along to the Oakridge Boys and tapping his hand on the roof in time with the music. “Gettyup, ah, oom pah pah mow wow.” We’d be driving along, accompanying him on one of his million business trips.

The whole family got to go when it was summer.

I’d be in the back seat singing along ... “Hiiiiiii Ho SilVER Awayayaaaaaay!”

Shut up, we’re southern.

I’d roll down my window too (if you’re a smoker, you know that in a car this fucks up the smoke draft) and prop my elbow on the frame and try to reach my fingers to the roof. When that NEVER worked, I would roll the window up half way and then just kind of act like it was the same thing. Me, hanging by the roof of the car by a few bitty finger tips like some sort of malnourished spider monkey... my arm stretched all the way out because I was still too short to even come close to being shoulder height with the bottom of the window.

Now that I am all growed up, I still can’t reach the fucking roof when I prop my elbow out the window... I have to skootch forward or kind of lean so I can put my fingers on the slanty part where the windshield meets the door.

I feel like a T-Rex, my bitty little arms held in front of me, useless, groping and tipped with six inch long claws.

You are all aware of how cool I am right?

Let me take this to a whole ‘notheh ....leh-vel.

The other evening as I pulled up to a stop light I slipped my fingers out the four inch gap between the window and the roof and I was singing along to something. The left arrow turned green and for my hair’s sake, I decided to roll up the back windows so the cross draft wasn’t so... drafty.

Can someone get me a thesaurus up in here? Ah, thank you... change that last word in the paragraph above to breezy. K THX BAI!

All of the window buttons for my car are right at my fingertips, right next to the gear shift in the middle console. I reach out my right hand and push the buttons for the back windows to roll up.

You can see where I am going with this, right?

As I was going from a full stop to ease off the break to roll forward for my turn at the green arrow... I hit the wrong freaking button and I rolled my mother fucking fingers up in the window.

I panicked. I removed my right hand from anywhere near the buttons and made the left turn with my left fingers all smooshed in between the glass of the window and that black squishy extrusion seal thingy.

Following me? One back window rolled up a bit, the other back window still down because... well, I hit the button for the front window and squished my own fingers. It literally took me about seven seconds to be clear enough (from pain and panic... and fear of someone honking at me. “I don’t care if you rolled your fingers up in the damn window lady! Just move your car! That green arrow is not infinite YOU ASS! HOOOOOOONNNNKK!”) to just reach down with my right hand and push the button that would roll down the window to the driver’s door... ergo freeing my stupid hand.

I don’t know what I was thinking, but as soon as I rolled my fingers up into the window I became retarded. I was more worried about getting honked at and pushing the window up/down button the wrong way possibly severing my fingers and OMG! MY RINGS!

The fuck?

I successfully freed my hand, my rings are fine (both scratched/dented where the engagement ring met the wedding band in the convenient window smoosh) and the bruise on my left ring finger is finally gone.

It’s days like that when I am completely aware of what a jackass I am.

In other news. Mister and I went to weigh in and get our food for the next week on Saturday. Member? We called Jenny.

Mister lost 4 pounds... YAY!

I... uh, gained 7 ounces.

Seriously? Seriously.

Not sure how this works. I am on a 1500 calorie a day deal. But there is so much freaking food. I have trouble with getting it all in. But I GAINED... gained 7 ounces. That is almost half a pound in one week. So... at this rate I will be 26 pounds heavier next New Year.


January 18, 2008

I started this post on... Tuesday.

Meanwhile back at the ranch, Susan boldly steps on the scale at Ye Olde Jenny Craige.

I actually lost 5.4 pounds.


Here’s the bad part. Member when I gave you guys the number of the beast... 266? Actually that was from the Dr.’s scale... Ye Olde Jenny Craige’s scale measured me the first time at 269.2... then I PUT ON 7 ounces and was 269.9 and this week I lost 5.4 pounds so I am at a grand total of 264.5. So the number of the beast has diminished somewhat.

Enough about the weight stuff. I’ll keep you guys posted if you are interested (multiple “eh”’s heard from the peanut gallery) (mmmm peanuts), but I don’t really want to turn this into a weight loss (or gain) blog/journal/personal space thingy.

So, I was having this incredibly inappropriate sex dream the other morning.

No segue zone. Wear a helmet.

And I have come to a conclusion. I will forbid myself from watching Cashmere Mafia ever again*. It is petty drivel that is sucking the life force out of everything Sex and the City like a large Darren Star produced leech or a tick or some other Gucci wearing parasitic show.

*I am totally going to record every episode on the DVR and then whisper sweet nothings at the TV as I watch each one.

Okay. What? I loved it. I can’t help it. Lucy Liu is the bomb and I am all about the pretty lipstick lesbians.

Next day...

I am postal. Not screaming obscenities at pigeons atop a church while brandishing a gun postal. But postal nonetheless.

Oh, wait. First I have to tell you about using a Neti Pot for the first time last night. Several weeks ago my allergy lady (has a major unibrow) told me to use a Neti Pot twice a day. She is trying to get rid of my sinus infection. I am on a whole ‘notha round of antibiotics and nose spray and.... hey, this is almost like déjà vu’ from another post I wrote.


I finally bought a Neti Pot like last Thursday and just got around to [read: also get over the fear of] using it last night.

What? Look, I would rather be ripped apart by wild dingoes than to drown or suffocate. It’s one of my little quirks. That and clowns... GAH. And loogies... and maggots.

[runs off screaming]

Okay, I’m back. And I’m still pissed. Wait, first the Neti Pot... then the pissed off part.

Ode to Neti Pot.

Neti Pot, you’re pretty okay.
Never thought I would see the day,
That I would shove saline solution up my nose.
‘Twas by my own minor accord
Opened the box in which you’re stored
And quickly found that using you really blows.

Ps. Nothing fucking rhymes with nostril.

Why the hell doesn’t it say in the little pamphlet (included inside the box) that; for like an hour afterwards; every time I bend over to pick something up after using said Neti Pot that mystery saline solution would come flying out of my face? No warning, NO WARNING. Just ::drip:: Ew. Thanks Neti Pot marketing guy.

But I do have to say, my sinuses feel... washed?

Okay, now back to the mad part.

Wait, one more side tracky thing.

This past weekend Sil (visiting Texas and her parental units with her three lil’uns** for a month from Chicago) and I went to Houston for a whirlwind tour. Okay, not really a tour. More of a “hand over the baby and some bacon salt and nobody gets hurt.” type of thing. J.Wo gave birth to that precious little bundle of joy New Year’s Eve. So Sil and I went down to steal the baby so J.Wo(now Ho) and her husband Dave could sleep for the night.

**That’s babies for you people north of the Red River.

Y’all know how babies have that smell? That strudel and baby powder smell? I know, I sound completely out of my mind. I can’t describe that smell but hand me a baby and my brow starts to glisten with perspiration. It’s sexy and you want me, I can tell. It is just one of those lovely things about me. “Here, Sue, hold the baby.” I take the baby, smell the baby’s head and immediately start to sweat.

Is it just me or does everyone have that “Reproduction” song from Grease 2 stuck in their heads now? No?

Here, lemme help.

Where was I?

Oh, the baby. I took the first watch and was all keyed up because I had the sole responsibility for the peanut until 4:30 a.m. Feed every two hours, change an hour later... lather, rinse, repeat.

I didn’t put him down. I was terrified that something would happen unless he wasn’t snuggled all swaddled and next to a warm body. I didn’t want him to cry. We were there so the new parents could actually sleep. I thought if the baby cried then they would both wake up. He was sooooooooooo good y’all. He hardly made a peep.

Don’t tell his parents but while the baby and I were watching tv... if I couldn’t see his little chest rising and falling with each breath... (so embarrassed) I would twitch my arm so he would scrunch up his nose or flail a little hand or something. Just so I would know he was ok. He was breathing, he was FINE.

No idea why I was so anxious about this baby. No idea why I was all, “He made a little grunty noise... Shit. Does he need to eat? Did he poop? Is he about to unleash a wailing of catastrophic proportions? I don’t know, I. DON’T. KNOOOOOW!” He was perfect y’all, perfect and I? Was all Miss SpazzALot.

Another sign that this was the best decision ever.

Oh, I just remembered. I had coffee on Friday. That explains the Sister Spaz routine.

So, the mad thing. I’m not over it. Nor have I received any closure since I started this post on... Tuesday and now it is Friday. But, I have decided to put said issue in a proverbial Fuck It Bucket. Adapt or move on. And just between you, me and this fence post over here... I think I am stuck here for a while. So, adapt it is.

I am about eighteen ways to Sunday upset that I am not going to be able to be with the tribe at Meatacon next weekend, so my panties are already in a twist.

I need to write a story or something.

Topics? Suggestions? Requests for explanations about my past? Leave em in the comments people. This is a You Ask, I Tell game.

March 10, 2008

Conversation with Mike...

A long, long time ago... in a galaxy very far away. This cracked my shit up.

I give you a conversation with my evil pocket gay, Mike.

me: well then. You can move down whenever you want and feel right at home

Michael: exactly!
that's what i was thinking.

me: and also?.... i now have tangerine speedo in my head

Michael: hehehehe
that was my plan all along.

me: OMG
remind me to tell you about the dream i had about you this morning

Michael: okay.
so when are you taking over your company and hiring me as an assistant?

me: i'm thinking... fall-ish
sound good?

Michael: sure
easier to move if the heat has dissipated a bit.

me: perfect, that way you wont be completely turned to ash by the intensity of the Texas sun
so on it's like we're sharing a brain already

Michael: yup

me: okay

Michael: and you have some DIRTY little thoughts missy.

me: so... tell me you used to watch saved by the bell.
yes i do

Michael: was before my time.

me: well shit.
then this will not be nearly as funny to you

Michael: well, just barely. i remember it being on, just not watching.

me: there was this place that they hung out (and did oddly choreographed dance routines and poorly planned musical numbers in) called the Peach Pit

Michael: right. did see a few episodes.

me: okay
for some reason you and i were in some beach town
you knew EVERYONE
and the whole seawall was businesses and shops put together kind of like San Francisco
no alleys
cross streets only like every mile or something
we were at this place...
some chick wanted you to make out with her

Michael: WTF?!?!

me: yeah... i know... it gets worse
she was wearing turquoise...
the color ... not the stone

Michael: heh

me: all turquoise ... jeans... a little jacket over a coral colored sleeveless sweater
i am totally shrugging right now
no clue what this was about

Michael: the dream?

me: maybe because you told me you kissed girls before
it goes on
so the turquoise chick laid down on top of a Miata or something just as 90's
you undid her zipper with your teeth, laughed, grabbed my hand and said, "c'mon, don’t you need a smoke right about now?"
so we went outside

Michael: that is funny

me: which i thought we were outside ... already... with there being a car and all
so we ran outside (???)
and these dudes with the whole Don Johnson look followed us...

Michael: we ran?

me: yes?

Michael: weird.

me: (i am always thin and fabulous in my dreams... and i smoke alot... keep that in mind)

Michael: 100s right?

me: yes...
never know where i keep the smokes because i NEVER carry a purse in my dreams
anyway... the pastel posse was following us
they wanted to fight or something
it was all very West Side story

Michael: totally just had "when you're a jet, you're a jet..."

me: YES!

Michael: we are sharing the same brain!

me: yes

Michael: did we rumble?

me: you are totally going to dream about turquoise girl and her Baby from Dirty Dancing haircut tonight
this is the weird thing
we ended up back where we were... with the Miata... you did make out with that chick... i was making out with some Don Johnson wannabe... then we did the same thing... "Don't you need a smoke about now? Let's get out of here..." and we ran
we got to this building

Michael: that is totally our new code for "let's get the fuck out of here."

me: and went inside... it was trashed
we were just trying to get off the boardwalk (???) or something
and you McGuyver'ed your way through an alarm system
we broke through a window...
and i kept saying, "My this is very Peach Pit of you."
so yeah
i may have had a stroke or something

Michael: okay, i want some of your drugs

me: it was awesome
like a bad 80's/90's movie

Michael: okay, weird question.. but what was i wearing?

me: complete with make outs, and drama, and danger... and McGyver
I cant tell you
you'll die

Michael: well, i've already made out with a girl so the apocalypse must be near anyway.

me: okay
don’t judge me
it was a brain enema
you were wearing...
swear you wont judge me

Michael: swear
(brain enema?)

me: Reebok high-tops, acid wash jeans... AND A JACKET that matched.....

Michael: dear lord! i was Marty McFly!

me: i think dreams are like the brain’s way of purging
yes... you were matchy matchy
and i knew that it was a dream... totally by your outfit alone
and the size of my hair bow

Michael: heh
was it robin sparkles big?

me: holy fuck.. YES.

Michael: rock

me: "Let's go to the malllll! today!"

Michael: best.episode.EVAH.

me: no clue what i was wearing, but (i totally agree about that episode) i knew what you and everyone else was wearing
maybe that is why i kept telling you what you were doing was very "Peach Pit"
it was very .... AC Slater
or Zach.... whatever his last name was

Michael: hehe. i have never before been called Zach or Slater.

me: no no... you were totally you
you looked like you, talked like you... were totally snarky
BUT wearing acid wash
and knew how to break in to an apartment and disarm an alarm
and unzip some chicks zipper with your teeth
as she lay (hopeful) on the Miata
yeah... i need help.

Michael: i'm not sure which is worse. you had me kissing a girl. or that she was on a MIATA!!!

me: both

Michael: but. okay. the Miata....

me: yeah
i know
i'm sorry
it's almost as bad as... say a Fiero
no telling

Michael: i was driving home the other day and there was this gold/bronze convertible with this really cute guy in it... big aviator sunglasses that went from brown to clear, great tan, leather wrist band...
and i got closer and realized.. he was driving a brand new Miata.

me: fuck

Michael: i died a little inside

me: that ruined everything

Michael: yeah. totally did. decided he was probably a total douche.

me: absolute douche
ironic awesome guy

Michael: damnit

me: but probably a douche

Fun with Google Talk.

May 23, 2008

Welcome to the Gun Show.

Note to readers: Kind readers. Hi, I love you and want to make out with you a little bit, but because of proximity and that whole “you really aren’t into me in that way” thing I will just tell you a secret. This secret has a back story. Stop rolling your eyes at me. I know I am one to ramble on a while, but this back story is needed for you to get the full, ah HA! moment of the secret.

Do y’all remember that Rotary Club Gala thing where Mister almost paid $1275.00 for a Shi Tzu puppy? To refresh your memory... click here but scroll down halfway... then he wizened up and we got Zeke? Yes? Okay. At that same gala we bid on several items in the silent auction. We also won a few things in the silent auction. We figured, “Eh, charity... good cause, gimme another drink... [garbled mumblings].” So Mister got a brass door knob/paper weight from the capitol building in Austin (it’s totally cool), I got a Swarovski crystal angel fish broach that is mostly black and goes with everything, together with our “go to couple” (Gayla and Michelle) we got a dinner/cooking lesson thingy for six people and then I got a spa package for five ARASYS treatments for a steal.

The ARASYS treatments are what I want to tell you guys about. That is the closest website I could find to describe what is actually involved.

There is this little place here in Dallas called the Mapleshade Spa. It is a charming home that has been converted into a spa and I want to live there. The gift certificate from the Rotary Club gala had a few restrictions on it and the person who is the ARASYS specialist had a few time restrictions as well but I called and got my five appointments set up with Signey (like Sidney with a G) and started the first one on May 1st.

The appointments are an hour and part of the time is the actual set up of the ARASYS machine, pads, treatment spots and the like. Signey was fast, efficient and pleasant (she’s absolutely fabulous and hysterical... love her) and she could fit in two 17 minute treatments in my hour long appointments that I took over my lunch hour and I would be back at work to finish out my day.

Here’s the deal. When I was younger... and dancing all of the time I had very strong legs, my back and my ass were rock hard and I had a lot of core strength. But I have never, ever had upper body strength. My little T-Rex arms have always been limp little noodles. Sure, I could hold my frame when in ballet or dancing with a partner and my hands are strong so that helped with Jitterbugging... but my little arms? Imagine a five year old anemic little girl hauling off and hitting you as hard as she can. That? Is me.

Well, was. In the four weeks that I have had my five ARASYS treatments I have developed guns.

I still have a bit of that second wave thing (also known as granny bat arms) going on, but come on, what do you expect? Miracles? Ben and Jerry (my tummy lumps) have decreased and you may not be able to tell that I have a six pack under my nice warm layer of fat, but let me tell you what... I can feel them. And my ass? If it were any higher, I’d have to reach over my shoulder to get my wallet out of my back pocket.

I’m still large and in charge and not apologizing for it.


Welcome to the fucking gun show, bitches.

August 27, 2008

In a Rut.

I’m a pussy.

It’s true.

Here’s the deal. I am a trained monkey. No, I do not have a small leash or dance to an accordion. (Shut up.) I am just kind of stuck in a rut. Okay, not kind of. More like Titanically stuck in a rut. A rut the length and depth of Mariana's Trench.

I do the same thing, yet with different groups, over and over and over and over. I have certain obligations and I do make very detailed events look seamless (it’s a gift) but I would like to expand on what I do for a living. Yet? I am a weakling. I have no gumption for taking the next step to get certified (dear Lord, the application is MONSTROUS (I am very afraid)) or to look for another job.

My rut is a fairly comfortable one, down lined with the occasional feather shaft poking me in the cornea or my right boob.

I am confident and very good at what I do, however, I am afraid that it has become easy. I am not being challenged mentally. My only challenge is that I am gone all of the time and the trips are little rabbit-y hopping ones. A few days here, now a few days there, oh… a few more over here… and just a few more there. It’s a pain in the ass.

If I were doing large events like I used to I would be in San Diego for a week, New Orleans for nine days, Atlanta for five. And the trips used to be spread out. Not so anymore. I have basically been gone since June and I am happy to announce that I will not be crazy traveling again until December.

Rock on.

But? I know I can offer so much more. I know that there is more creativity inside me. I know that I could … I don’t know… maybe… write a book. There was a comment left at the last entry asking if I had a book in the works. (Thanks Roni that was a massive compliment that I am still trying to comprehend.) And a friend (miss you Wendy) has asked me why I haven’t already put something to paper for the love of God.

My excuse? Nobody has asked me too. I haven’t been asked by a publishing house to write something.

Oh. My. God.

I am such a puss. Not to mention terribly disillusioned. What publishing house is going to wade through almost six years of my entries (out of the millions/billions of other sites out there), find a few well turned phrases and shout, “Eureka! We have found her! The answer to all of our prayers was right there in front of us the whole time… online!”

The crux? I am a big weenie with gigantic dreams and no guts. I come in everyday at my job because of a sense of loyalty and also health care. Lord knows it isn’t the big bucks. Why should I be loyal? I know where the company’s loyalty lies where I am concerned. Can you say expendable? Yes, yes… I have been here for a hairs breadth away from five years, but the scales have been removed from my eyes (as it were).

I’ve been having amazing dreams lately, movie worthy and very exciting dreams. Have I written any down to send to Kevin Smith to say, “Hey man. You know, I have this idea and I believe it is right up your alley.” No. No, I have not.

I have been asked to write editorials for a local chapter of a professional organization that I am a member of. Very nice, very cool… I have already been called brilliant and NO, I did not once use the word Fuck. I save that for you guys because I love you. But it is not the same.

Also? I have been sucked in by Twilight. Yes, I am sorry, I know you had higher hopes for me. But… another big butt… I have been somewhat moved by the books to write something because, dear Lord, have you seen any of the books? Parts of them are more descriptive (I can use seven adjectives in one sentence too!) and more poorly written than most of my fiction. I was reading the eleventeenth paragraph on how Bella was coming apart at the seams and the hole inside her… yadda yadda yadda and one thought slammed through my head. No disrespect meant Mrs. Meyer, but I could do better.

I know I am restless.

I know that I could use the crazy imagination that God gave me and write something.

I know that I could find a better place to work or change my position or role.

I just need to gather the courage.

Better yet, let’s be completely honest about this. I need to gather the courage AND get off my lazy ass and do something about it.

September 15, 2008

Word Vomit on Monday

I have a bad habit. Scratch that, it is more than a habit, it is a compulsion and it is an addiction. It’s called reading and it can interfere with your life.

This is your brain [picture an egg here]… and this is your brain on a book a day (or more) habit [picture a three egg omlette with spinach, mushrooms, smoked gouda, adobo and white pepper to taste here].

And also?... mmmmmmmmm, scrumpdillyiscious*.

*Ned Flanders… heh.

This weekend I started and finished a fluff book (I first called it a fluff piece and that sounded too p0rny) that was handed over to me by my director on Friday right before I left the office. The book is called “Play Dirty” by an Arlington, TX author, Sandra Brown. The book was entertaining and totally a fly by type of book. No thought needed to enjoy the plot. I enjoyed the hell out of it and I turned the book over to read the back and whistled. Lookit… Click for picture of Hotty McCougarson.

The book was fun and totally on the same level as “Breaking Dawn” or whatever the fourth installment of the twilight series is. But with the twilight book I (started Saturday afternoon, read into the night, and last night… almost finished) I am completely taken surprise by the new first person character. I won’t spoil anyone’s fun but it is not at all like the third book. But for it being a “young adult” book… it’s pretty… um. Gonna stop right here before I get hate mail for spoiling anything. And yes, I am 13 years old.

The third book I am reading comes from the journal of Henry Rollins. It is called “Smile, You’re Traveling” and I thought that it would be perfect for needing a mental kick in the ass for how grumpy I have been about work lately. If you have read back into my archives (bless you, you poor thing) then you know I love me some Henry Rollins. This peek into his brain is humorous, a little shocking and sometimes mind opening. I have had several “ah-ha” moments reading this book and I am not very far in.

He’s not very lovey dovey, he definitely doesn’t pull punches and I am glad that I never made an ass out of myself trying to say hello to him while attending one of his spoken word concerts.

Two things… I believe that in the late 90’s Henry’s favorite word was intense and if he were to ever write a self help book it would be very short. Maybe a pamphlet. It would merely say, “Get the fuck over yourself. Suck it up. Do what you want and take responsibility for it.”

So to summarize… two cheesy novels and a kick in the ass. BUT, these books got in my way this weekend. I was supposed to just hang out, maybe go see a movie, do a little light cleaning, ect. But noooooo, there I was with a book under my nose anytime Mister walked out of the living room, anytime the DVR was paused, anytime I was in bed… gah. So much stuff swirling in my head that I had madly inappropriate dreams about inappropriate things with an inappropriate person this morning. I woke up several times during the night but the level of inappropriateness was at an all time high around 5 am and I gave up and got out of bed.

What is wrong with me? I didn’t eat anything spicy before I went to bed, I didn’t do anything out of the ordinary. But y’all. Seriously, the inappropriate person in my dream is so laughably undreamable (new word.) when conscious. So I have to ask… hey, brain… WTF?

Do any of you have these weird, “Dude, I SO should not be dreaming about Mr. Whipple in that fashion” dreams? And if so… share. Go ahead. It’s alright, we’re all friends here.

Brain fart. I was just in the kitchen at the office. Yes, I write this over my lunch hour. Do not dooce me. And this woman came in to fix her meal.

Side note: I am being a total judge-y ho about this and I am taking responsibility for thinking mean shit. I’m kind of cruel in my head but only once in a blue moon because I want everyone to love me (shallow) and I am totally a people pleaser (door mat).

There is this woman whom I see almost daily that is (I’m guessing) partially insane. She’s had a rough life and she has lost a family member fairly recently. There is no telling how old she is but she is just the sweetest thing ever. The insane part is just a bonus. She’s an even bigger bucket of crazy than I am so I just refer to her as Bucket. With love, y’all. Shut it. And never to her face because I am a little nice… and also yella.

So Bucket has a very… eclectic pallet. You never know what she will be eating for lunch and even though my lunch schedule is all over the place somehow I get the joy of seeing what she has to eat at least four or five times a month. Maybe more. I’m not one to turn my nose up at food, really; if it isn’t a beet, liver or raw onions I am all over it… but… I have noticed some very unique combinations in Bucket’s lunch pail.

I will be standing there heating up my Jenny Craig meal and Bucket will be show me what she brought and then she’ll go get something else out of some tin foil and I never know what to expect. Nor will I ever know the reason why she likes to tell me about what she brought for lunch. Yes, I am a fat girl. Yes, I eat food. But just because I am fat does not mean I am interested in what you are eating. Unless you are crazy. Then totally count me in.

Side note. There is another woman who likes to walk around to everyone’s desk to see what they have for breakfast or lunch. I’m not sure why. It strikes me as odd, but to each their own, I guess.

Back to Bucket. So one day it will be apples and sardines. Another day it will be leftover meatloaf and a can of oyster juice. Then the day after it will be a grapefruit filled with cottage cheese and pinenuts with a side of boiled goat.


I am waiting for chicken fried squirrel, hominy and a slice of PVC.

Speaking of Henry Rollins (keep up y’all… the brain, she is fried)… I am so excited. I just talked to a buddy of mine. I have known this gentleman since I was… oh, 12, and we haven’t seen each other in… oh, good Lord, in almost 20 years. Anyway, since we reconnected through or facebook or something we’ve been sending emails back and forth, sometimes chatting, sometimes I get a text… last one was “Are you coming to my freaking BBQ!?” The answer, sadly was no.

So he and his awesome wife and me and my fabulous Mister have been trying to work out a time to get together for dinner. We finally got a weekend that wasn’t chock full of shit and hurried to put our little dinner on the calendar.

Today, I was over on the Henry Rollins site (to get the link for you guys because I love you, I do… you guys are the wind beneath my wings and shit) and I found that Mr. Rollins will be in the DFW area the same night we will be having dinner. Messages ensued. Summarized below for your enjoyment.

me: do y’all like Henry Rollins?
him: fuck yeah we do.
me: rock on, he’s playing the night we have dinner plans… wanna go after?
him: let’s do it.
me: we are so awesome
him: if we were anymore awesome we would be on fire.

Okay, fine. Neither one of us said the last thing about being awesome or on fire. But it is true.

So, you see before you a very excited young woman. I am excited because I am going to get to see the awesome couple, hang out and have dinner with them then onward to see Henry Rollins.

I need to say Henry Rollins one more time. Henry Rollins.

April 14, 2010


This is probably a bad idea, since I thought about it this morning in the same vein of, “Maybe I shouldn’t have posted that story yesterday.” Cut to about a millisecond later and my AADD* was in overload and I was laughing my ass off at how this would actually play out.

*Totally not diagnosed. But, really… come ON.

Bruising Caused by Dry Humping

The People VS Dry Humper… Case 2398652056.

Baliff: All Rise. *pause* The Honorable Judge Dinklescheimer presiding. You may be seated.
Honorable Judge Dinklescheimer: This case causes me a great degree of discomfort and I would like to get through this as quickly as possible. I would like to remind the jury that they are under a strict gag order…
Dry Humper: (whispers) That’s what SHE said…. :: snerk ::
Judge Dinklescheimer: (raises an eyebrow at the defendant) … to not speak to the press about this case until it is closed. Would the defendant please rise… Son, you have been charged with aggravated assault using a blunt instrument. How do you plead?
Dry Humper: Not… guilty?
Judge Dinklescheimer: Counsel, keep a leash on that boy until these proceedings are complete.
Defense Attorney, Mr. Weasel: Yes sir.
Judge Dinklescheimer: Alright, boys and girls, here we go. Dr. Bono, your opening statement?
Attorney for the Plaintiff, Dr. Pro Bono: (stands and walks to the podium, adjusting his suit jacket, he opens a file folder and addresses the jury) Ladies and gentlemen, I am here today to protect the virtue of my client, Miss Danna. On a fall night in the soccer fields between Clark High School Stadium and the McDonald’s on Springcreek this young man (gestures to the defendant) caused significant bruising to my client. Your job here today is to find defendant guilty without a shadow of a doubt. We have character witnesses, a scientific expert and the testimony of a dorky little girl to show you that, that BOY (points dramatically) dry humped my client with MALIACE!
Mr. Weasel: OBJECTION!
Judge Dinklescheimer: You can’t object under opening statement, Jackass, but out of curiosity, on what grounds?
Defense Attorney, Mr. Weasel: I don’t like how Dr. Bono said the word “malice”… it just sounds sinister.
Judge Dinklescheimer: Overruled. Jackass.
Mr. Weasel: OBJECTION!
Judge Dinklescheimer: What now?
Mr. Weasel: Why do you have to be so mean?
Judge Dinklescheimer: What are you?... a 15 year old girl? Suck it up, Weasel.
Mr. Weasel: Yes sir.
Dr. Bono: I have nothing further. Your stand, Weasel.
Mr. Weasel: Thank you. (stands and walks to the podium, trips over his shoe laces and addresses the jury) Good people of the jury. I am asking for leniency for this boy, for he knows not what he hath done! He had no idea that he would be causing harm to the plaintiff. It was out of passion… and hormones that this accident occurred. Thank you for your time.
Judge Dinklescheimer: Dr. Bono, your first witness?
Dr. Bono: We would like to call an expert witness to explain to the jury exactly what happened.
Judge Dinklescheimer: And who would that be?
Dr. Bono: Dr. Frank N. Furter.
A rush of whispers that sounds like the ocean sweeps through the packed Courtroom as Dr. Furter flings open the swinging doors at the back of the room and strides down the center aisle. He swings open the divider, walks past the jury, gives them a jaunty wink and takes his oath from the bailiff.
Dr. Bono: Dr. Furter, could you tell the jury your full name and your occupation.
Dr. Furter: It would be my pleasure. My name is Dr. Franklin Norbert Furter I am a medical doctor with a specialist in adolescent hormones and I work for the Kellogg Foundation in Human Sexuality Research.
Dry Humper: He said, FURTER… heh.
Mr. Weasel: Zip it Sport.
Dry Humper: Yes, sir.
Dr. Bono: Dr. Furter, could you also tell the jury what makes you an expert in this field, and then show them your findings?
Dr. Furter: Of course. I am an expert in this field because I TOO was once a young man with my mind and body completely and totally driven by the hormone testosterone.
Dr. Bono: Dr. Furter, what kinds of things happen to a young man’s body during this delicate time. Let the record show that I am providing Dr. Furter with Exhibit A.
Dr. Furter: Ah, yes, Exhibit A. A chart showing the level of testosterone in a dairy bull that is mating several times a day and that of a 15 to 18 year old boy. They are about the same. 1000 kilos of testosterone per pint of blood inside their bodies, it makes them about as safe as a loaded weapon.
Dr. Bono: A loaded weapon? That sounds pretty dramatic, Dr. Furter. Let the record show that I am providing Dr. Furter with Exhibit B.
Dr. Furter: This is a picture of the plaintiff’s right hip area and her upper thigh. See the bruising and the discoloration of the skin? This is concurrent with blunt trauma. The bruising is a contusion.
Dr. Bono: Can you explain to me what a contusion is?
Dr. Furter: Of course, since the skin is not broken, it is not a laceration, a bruise is a trauma to the skin and the underlying muscles, where blood is gathered and then reabsorbed by the body.
Dr. Bono: Can you explain to me and the jury why you think that the defendant actually caused this… bruising to the plaintiff?
Dr. Furter: Yes, when a boy or a man has that much testosterone flowing through his body, it causes the penis to become engorged. An erection can be caused by anything as innocent as a brief puff of wind, or the affections of a young girl. The age and .. *ahem* size of the person in question would be consistent with this pattern of bruising. The size and shape of the bruising are consistent with a rock hard penis covered in denim. See, boys of this age can have such severe erections that they could possibly nail a rail road spike through concrete. Although most are aware of their partner’s discomfort, they are unable to stop themselves.
Dr. Bono: They are unable to stop, Dr. Furter, are you saying that they are… in a word, crazed?
Mr. Weasel: OBJECTION!
Judge Dinklescheimer: On what grounds?
Mr. Weasel: The witness is painting an awful picture of my client… words like enraged, erections, bruising, bull and crazed! This is preposterous.
Judge Dinklescheimer: Overruled.
Dr. Bono: No further questions your Honor, thank you Dr. Furter. Your witness, Weasel.
Mr. Weasel: Um, no questions at this time your honor.
Judge Dinklescheimer: You may step down Dr. Furter. Thank you.
Mr. Weasel: Look, I just want to say to the jury that my client is a good kid, he was just playin around, having a little fun, a little slap and tickle, if you will….
Judge Dinklescheimer: Counsel, you will refrain from outbursts like that in my courtroom or I will have you jailed for misconduct.
Mr. Weasel: It’s not like she didn’t drive him on and make him crazy kissing him back… and the…
Judge Dinklescheimer: Mr. Weasel, I am warning you.
Mr. Weasel: We’ve all been there before, and I am sure she was asking for it. And what? Does she have the skin of a peach? WHO bruises like THAT from a little dry humping? WHO?
Judge Dinklescheimer: Bailiff, please remove Attorney Weasel from my courtroom.
Dry Humper: Shut up man.
Mr. Weasel: She was ASKIN FOR IT!....
Judge Dinklescheimer: Good day Mr. Weasel, that will be a ten thousand dollar fine along with a night amongst the city’s finest.
The bailiff takes hold of Mr. Weasel’s arm, the attorney starts to resist, the bailiff gets him in a head lock and drags him away from the table towards the back door… Mr. Weasel loses a shoe. He is turning red in the face and spittle is forming at the corners of his mouth.
Mr. Weasel: She was ASKIN FOR IT!....
Judge Dinklescheimer: I SAID, GOOD DAY SIR. Case scheduled for next month so the defendant can get YET ANOTHER lawyer.
Dry Humper: Heh… FURTER.

May 20, 2010

Stone In Love (Or just really horny....)

I’m working on about two multi-jilllion things right now, which is the perfect time for the writing bug to bite me in the tushie. The big scary white blank page has been haunting me for a while, yep… complete with cursor mocking me and everything. So I am going to put away these Banquet Event Orders for a conference I have on Monday. I am going to stop putting my packing list together; I am going to stop everything because of Pandora.

Yep. Music, my standard go to, has really thrown me for a doozie this afternoon. I’ve been quiet, working away, trying to make up for being out of the office at a meeting yesterday and having an appointment this morning. I turned on my Pandora Radio thingy (look, over there, on the right, scroll down… clickity clickity… you can listen too, if you wanna) and stopped about an hour in.

Journey’s Stone In Love came on. It’s not the whole song, because, um. I’m not that deep. But it is the way Steve Perry forces sex over the speakers with this two part phrase:

“Old dusty roads, led to the river, runnin' slow
She pulled me down, ooh, and in clover we'd go 'round”

One minute…. Six seconds in. Here. I, help you.


Those few words smashed me flat back into my comfy office chair. I couldn’t concentrate on anything because I was sure if I moved or worked on anything, answered a call, you name it, I would have messed up something because my mind was not present.

Let me tell you where it was.

This mad sensory overload just came jumbling into my head.

Everything from the roads near where I live that weren’t anything but country lanes when I was in high school. Dusty, abandoned places to race around, drink beer and to have intense make out sessions that would erase time and space. Kind of like a worm hole. One minute, you* are tentatively leaning forward at the same time wondering if the other kisser is a head-righty, or head-lefty and will you mesh, the next, your shirt is untucked, your bra is undone, your zipper is part way down, your face is red from stubble (or force/duration… mrow) and somehow it is two hours past your curfew and you have kudzu in your hair. Dancing on a slow, saw dusted floor with a cowboy that smells like hay and Drakkar Noir, his hot hand pressed into the furrow in the small of your back. The smoke hangs heavy in the still air, a bead of sweat tickles down your neck and the faceless cowboy with a wry grin takes off his hat, leans over and licks it away. He dips you slowly then kisses you and you taste your own saltiness on his tongue. Walking through the hallways of school and being stopped and pressed back against your locker from chest to thigh by a smooth, maddening hottie whose ass you wouldn’t mind having lunch on. He kisses you like he is trying to crawl inside your soul. Perfect, bowtie pouting mouth. Sweet breath and as a bonus, the foresight to hold you by the shoulders should your knees give out on you. Dating? Nope, just kissing each other, because you are so fucking good at it.

Have you ever rolled around in hay, or grass, or clover, or in nature with a boy (girl, whatev)? Been pressed up against a tree, the bark pressing into your ass, your hair tangling in the rough texture? Have you ever pressed someone else into the soft earth by a stream (or not) and slowly worked your way down their body pulling small sounds of pleasure from them as you nibbled, suckled, kissed and blew cool air across their skin. Something about those two lines.

“Old dusty roads, led to the river, runnin' slow
She pulled me down, ooh, and in clover we'd go 'round”

Yeah, just something about those lines.

*And by you… I totally mean me.

June 25, 2010

Quentin Tarantino - Call me, Hot Daddy

This morning I woke myself up with actually saying out loud, “That was AWESOME.”

Apparently, my dream world is rife with excitement, sexy adventures, scifi gooey goodness and a movie poster (movie was made of said adventures complete with massive wealth thrown at us*, natch) featuring me and some lover. The poster looked like a cross between Meatloaf’s “Bat Out Of Hell” Album Cover and the VHS/DVD cover of “Heavy Meta 2000”. What? Shut up. I can be naked, astride my motorcycle riding Bad Boy lover who just helped me SAVE the motherfucking WORLD… Head flung back in ecstasy, with my hair flying as he jumps (and totally REVS a massive bike) over what I think was a junkyard full of zombies.

*No, I have no idea who it was with me… becoming rich and famous off of the sheer power of being awesome. I did whore it up in my dream to take at least three lovers, amidst the flame throwing and the walking across a little bombed out town with my hand in someone else’s, closing my eyes as a sign of trust that he could get us across the street. The fuck? Two I knew, and one… yeah, not so much.

It was much easier when I was dreaming about me and Elizabeth Taylor camping in Norwegia. Shut up, it IS TOO a real place and we were motherfucking OUTDOORSY.

Oh, if only I were one of those fancy artists who could paint or draw or even articulately explain what I saw, because Quentin Tarantino would have sneezed in his freaking jeans if he could have shared the dream with me.

How I wish I could have remembered what the movie was called… because across the top was the title, sinister looking and awesome with the motorcycle/fuck/jump bursting through the tagline.


I KNOW. Right?

Sex, explosions, machine guns, violence, more sex, saving the WORLD, more sex, trust and a budding friendship/relationship, a deep plot, some act of selflessness, did I mention EXPLOSIONS (?), motorcycles, more sex and fabulous internal monologues. It was the kind of movie that would have people cheering for the tough façade, though vulnerable and completely lethal bad boy turned to savior of the world with his kick ass (hot ass too, also very handy with weapons) “handler” …remember, he is lethal, he needs to be HANDLED. Mrow.

Women would secretly want to see the movie because of the sexual tension and the I AM WOMAN, HEAR ME ROAR! theme and men would want to see it because of the action… and the fucking.



PS.. Bob Segar still makes me horny.

October 19, 2010

Crazy Bitch

Hi. What? Did I just post lyrics and a link to a song then leave for like a fucking month? Um, yeah, that was me. And I’d do it again.

Okay, so the weird thing is this. I posted that song because it was on one of my “Marly’s FUCK YEAH! Mix CD’s” and then this* happened.

*Keep your shorts on Maude, I’m getting there.

I had a very interesting weekend last weekend. The 8th – 12th. I saw someone I had not seen in almost a decade. We’ll go with 11 years almost to the day we first met face to face. How awesome is that? It was pretty fucking awesome, I’ll tell you what. And that’s all I’m gonna tell you. You cheeky monkeys.

That Tuesday, we both got on planes, one to go home and one to go work in Austin (Um, this one was me). Austin was kind of a beating in a very 6 year old girl with noodle arms throwing a sponge at you kind of way. And what I mean by that is… it was very irritating but not particularly harmful.

Thursday evening coworker and I caught an earlier flight but our luggage decided to hang out at a bar in the Austin airport for a while yelling “WOOOOO!” and catch up with us around 9:15 or so. Lushes. Freaking luggage was late for the flight WE were on and we had to wait in Dallas for them to arrive. As soon as my drunk luggage got there, demanded smokes and beer (which I dutifully picked up at RaceTrack… damn pushy luggage), I headed to I-35E (North) and to De’s house. Got there, hugged up her girls, her neighbor and her walked out the back door, sat on the big ass chair (DIBS!), lit a smoke, took a pull on a beer and relaxed for the first time since Tuesday morning.

Have I told y’all about De? I have all these “D” people in my life, Dre (what what!?), DJ (Trixie) and De. A few months ago DJ called and said something along the lines of, “Hi… I need to ask you a favor. You remember the first time we met?” “Like it was yesterday, mama.” “I need you to do that same thing for my friend De. She has no support system and the way you pulled me into the group… she needs something like that.” “What’s the catch?” “Some baggage.” “Enough to rent space?” “I wouldn’t say that.” “Okay, done.”

So, um small snafu. The very minute De accepted my (on bended knee… that’s for you Sarah!) “Will you be my friend on FaceBook?... please check, yes, no, or maybe… I will be stalking you until I receive your reply.” notice was the very week after the 20 year reunion (read 8/25/10…. Re: the licking.,.. PS… I’m sorry baby Jesus. And thank you for not letting me bite it big time when I hurdled that planter at a full run to tell Stacey bye and grab her boob… Also, sorry for grabbing your boob Stacey.) When De accepted my friend request on FB she was immediately bombarded with ALL the pictures of THE LICKING. (Seriously, baby Jesus… sorry.)

Let’s go ahead and go with the statement released by her lawyer on the matter of the restraining order: “I hear by proclaim that Holy Shit I am so scared of that sweaty woman with the curly hair licking people, please don’t make me meet her PUH-LEASE… no seriously, I mean it. I don’t wanna!” Annnnnd Scene.

Cut to DJ emailing me. “Um, what’s with all the licking?” “It wasn’t me.” “Shut up hooker, De is totally afraid of you.” “Damn. Way to go Sue. Awesome. High Five, ME…. Okay, I’ll send her a FB message try to smooth things over.

And cut to now and De and I are totally like THIS**, yo. (**Two fingers … INTERTWINED bitches!)

So intertwined that we are going to see DJ on FRIDAY for the WHOLE WEEEKEND!! OMG! PONIES!!!!!1111!!!!!1!!!1111(eleven) Thank you Southwest Air for the reward tickets. Also, yes, I fly so much I know the sky caps in three of Texas’ major airports. So that worked out well.

*In the interim, Marly called me as soon as I hit the ground on Thursday evening. I had gone down a few weeks ago just for some Marly and Me time. She was all, “Hey Hot Mama, we have an extra ticket to the BuckCherry/Three Days Grace/Nickelback concert tomorrow and a place in the limo for you. Come down.”

You don’t have to tell me twice.

I called in “dead” the next day and drove down to The Woodlands and had one hell of a Rock Star night. Filled with champagne, Red Bull and Vodka, BEER (omg, so much beer), Rock Star energy drinks, vodka cranberries, some tiny blonde chick humping my leg, walking, dancing, jumping, screaming, climbing stairs (the calf muscle definition… WORTH IT!) and a massive stretch SUV limo! WOOOOO! Then I came home Saturday and mumble mumble mumble.

The end.

Miss me? Leave me a comment.

PS… I got a shirt at the concert. It is black with a white design on it and in purple neon foil letters it reads, “Crazy Bitch”, fitting, no?

November 2, 2010

Issues: Let Me Show You Them. (PS, Have I Done This Before?)

I have discovered a character flaw that has reared its head again… although I thought I had vanquished the thing amongst other demons a while ago. Oh, no no no.

Actually I have several character flaws.

Let me show you them.

And no, we aren’t getting into THAT one today.

FNS – Florence Nightingale Syndrome: this lovely little beauty is a 1972 model, has all of its original parts. Can operate on low, medium, high and “Look Out! Look Out! These hands are certified lethal weapons!”

0:38 seconds in. See… I helped!

FNS is wildly held on a sliding scale that ranges from endearing to heart wrenching to, “Holy shit, fucking cut it out… I can wipe my OWN ass, for the love of GOD!”

FNS in women is almost the same affliction as Boy Scout Syndrome in men, but comes with added activities such as increased cooking, increased drinking, blow jobs and treating grown ass people like they are the flesh of your loins.

Mama Bear – this one could be self explanatory but you people would be all, “Wait, isn’t that the same thing as FNS?” No, it is definitely not. Mama Bear Affliction is the most common of my character flaws, but add that with my “no filter policy” and you get a raging, rabid Grizzly who is trying to protect her kit and kin as well as make sure everyone’s feelings are not hurt… that everyone is healthy, happy and safe. The Mr. Hyde part of the Grizzly has been known to say shit like, “Jane, you ignorant slut.” When in defense of another one of her “deemed” cubs.

No Filter Policy – (or ALL MOTHERFUCKING CARDS ON THE TABLE Y’ALL!) This is only for the heartiest of friends to handle, as I am one blunt bitch. I do tend to err on the side of diplomacy with my words because words are powerful. If you get all high handed and mighty while you are being ignorant with one of my friends or family … you may just get Mama Bear mixed with a celebrity. Whereas I call you to the carpet for your bullshit then call you “Brother!” a la Hulk Hogan, or “Mama” if you happen to be of the female persuasion. Normally these terms are used as endearments.

It’s all endearing. Shut up, it is.

No Filter Policy has bitten me several times in the ass. If you are willing to dish it out, you gotta take it, right? RIGHT. Regardless of how diplomatically you speak, if the words are true, you must give your audience fair game to reply because everyone’s feelings and opinions are valid. They are THEIR opinions and feelings, you can’t change that. I go total Mama Bear on someone who tries to discredit someone else’s feelings or tell them HOW to feel. (RAWR!)

The Diplomat – I am as bad as Rodney King, “Can’t we all just get along!?” I pull people from all races, creeds, colors, religions, classes, upbringings and economic status together and then wonder why there is drama. I want everyone to get along. “Plays Well With Others*” was always marked “Excellent!” on my elementary school report card. Why can’t other people play well with others too? Oh, that’s right, you “hate her and her stupid ass face”…. Gotcha… would you like a beer?

That brings us around to Not My Problem or NMP. When backed into a corner by drama (which I don’t deal well with at all… and it often leads to breakouts, increased smoking, drinking and ulcers… seriously) I put all cards on the table with a friend or family member and let them know, “I know you are having issues, and I love you. I will support your decision regardless of what it is, but this issue is Not My Problem.”

For instance, my mother has a problem with my weight. Her issue with my weight is Not My Problem. She must accept or let go of her issues with how other people perceive how awful it must be to have a fat daughter. It’s simply Not My Problem. So I told her that I released her of the responsibility that she felt concerning governing my weight and that if she brought up again, I would politely tell her I loved her and hang up the phone. Yeah, it’s worked REALLY well. /sarcasm

NMP is normally associated with the worst of all of my character flaws. When FNS and Mama Bear and No Filter Policy enter the picture sometimes I remember that I am a grown ass woman and I don’t need a codependent relationship, I need friendships and relationships that are mutually beneficial. Say it with me y’all, MUTUALLY BENEFICIAL. Not a Give/ Take relationship or friendship but a Give/Give relationship or friendship. (Let’s take a quick side track and remember that I didn’t really learn about boundaries and it being alright to tell a friend/loved one “no” until I was almost thirty. Slow learner much? Yes. Yes, I am.) When the give/take take take relationship is spotted and acknowledged by my slow ass brain, I am normally already in the throes of drama and indecision because I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings (Hi Diplomat!). When NMP and all the other character flaws are lined up in a neat British firing formation the worst of the group is launched…

Not. About. You. – NAY (heh, “Nay means naaaaaaaaaaaay!”) Is a fight or flight syndrome that comes about once every few years. It is not meant to hurt, only to halt behavior from me and from the party I am speaking to. When I am talking to a friend/lover/family member/co-worker, ect… and they take what I say and turn it around to be something about them. I fucking snap. It does take a while to reach this position because I am a Taurus and have a fuse a bajillion miles long. But when it does reach that point, “Look Out! Look Out! These hands are certified lethal weapons!” (See above for comical reference.)

Surely you have a for instance.

Of course I do, and stop calling me Shirley.

Let’s say I have had a rough day…. At work or whatever. And let’s just say for instance that a friend/lover or family member has asked that I do something…. Leave work early (for example) to meet them for … oh, let’s say happy hour. Miscommunication ensues, I am mad about other things other than the miscommunication and someone says, “I can’t believe that your friends would do that to you, I would give my right arm to spend time with you.” A verbal or text (either/or) form of communication will soon follow with something to this effect. “This… Is NOT. ABOUT. YOU.” Followed by their reaction, “I was just trying to be comforting.” And then mine, “Again, this is not ABOUT YOU!” You can warn said person(s) that you are even spoiling for a fight and warn that a call would NOT be in their best interest. But Nooooooooooooooooooooo, a call is issued and my dumb ass answers the phone SCREAMING.

Hi. I am a 38 year old woman with the emotional capacity of a 12 year old feral wolf.

Wanna make out?

*I may play well with others, but I do NOT SHARE WELL WITH OTHERS, MOTHERFUCKER. And we aren’t talking French fries here, Dammit.

About Other

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

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