Suzanna Danna

I made a phone call last week that was very hard for me to do. Well I made two tough phone calls, but we’ll only discuss one of them here.

I called my ex-husband, X.

I left in the summer of 1999 (why didn’t Prince write a song about that? Huh?). I left because of irreconcilable differences. That phrase usually means ‘cop out’ or nothing at all to those who have not been through a divorce. Maybe to those who haven’t been through it, it just means a title of an old Drew Barrymore movie that made most of our mothers cry. But to those who have been through the severance of a marriage it also means everything, a chance of survival, and a key to financial freedom, finding yourself again or even growing up.

I’m not saying that X was some masochistic bastard who beat the livin snot out of me on a regular (or irregular) basis. We just didn’t do right by each other. It is as simple as that. I was not blame free and neither was he.

We were young and stupid. I was looking for a family to take care of and he was looking for someone to take care of him and his family. I had no idea what I was getting myself into. All I knew was that I was graduating from college, I was so in love with his daughter, and X and I were best friends… It had to work… right?

That graduation day (the same day as my wedding) would start six years of laughter, tears and ungodly frustration.

We were lazy and we didn’t work on our relationship.

He took me for granted and I took for granted that he wouldn’t care what I did.

I was the disciplinarian for his daughter while he played the good guy.

I swear to you people. I have never been so lonely in my life.

Because of that loneliness I started to chat online at the direction of one of my co-workers. The people in that online chat forum filled up an empty space in my life. I lived to talk to them.

I would come home from working late, fix X’s dinner, get him dressed in his ‘costume’ [he is a night shift police officer - still] and say goodbye to him at 10pm. I never listened to the scanner for fear of hearing him get into some altercation. The town we lived in was a huge transport thoroughfare for drug trafficking an a Deputy Sheriff had lost his life doing a routine drug stop one evening a few years before I graduated. Man, that was scary!

I could only watch so much TV and we lived far enough out of town that it was a waste to go back into town for fun sport and amusement. So… I would sign on, and talk to people that I had never met before. Listen (or read) stories, real stories about these people and their lives. It was interaction. It was my lifeline.

A habit formed. I would get excited to see X pull out of the mud that served as our driveway so I could sign on. I began to bring home a six-pack of Coors Lite longnecks from the Kroger in town. On special occasions I would get a bar of Dove’s milk chocolate to go with my beer.

The six packs and the chocolate became my painkillers and the people on IRC (the chat room) became my therapists.

I was miserable.

I was living in a 1976 Redman doublewide trailer. I lived maybe 1000 feet from my mother and father in law. It took 45 effing minutes to go get gas people. We would get iced in during February and the power would go out. Oh jeebus, the cold!

The trailer was electric with a gas heater (that ran on electricity… HA HA HA!). X would forget to call and have them fill the propane tank, but it didn’t really matter, if the power went out, the heater wouldn’t work anyway. I pledged my allegiance to that Honda generator up in the shed.

I put X through the police academy so we were a one-income family for the better part of a year and a half. Which didn’t really count for much when you had a little girl (me!) with two degrees making $10 an hour. Yep, ten dolla-roonies. Sweet.

I have actually uttered the phrase, “Your daughter and I are hungry, go kill something.” And… I wasn’t kidding. You ain’t got shit on me Skah-lett. I’ll bust a move on your curtain wearin ass.

It didn’t get much better. The summer I left I was making $21,500 a year. A YEAR! We were a 52K a year household, with no mortgage. Living hand to mouth. Where did it go? Not sure. I have heard many a rumor. I have seen evidence. I am just glad to be out of there.

I’m not putting this down on paper to crucify X, his character or his family. What I do want to do is put it all behind me.

The last time I talked to X was almost two years. It was before I even met Mister, my knight in shining Lincoln.

I needed to call X to ask him to sign over some stocks to me that my parents gave to us for our first Christmas. I dreaded that phone call. I’m not sure why. I just didn’t want to call and ask him for a favor. We were best friends, then lovers, then married and then estranged. It ended badly I am sorry to say. I was not mature, and JesusGod neither was he.

The phone call went something like this:

X?

[mumble] Yeah?

It’s Sue.

Heeeeeeeeeeeyyyyyyyyyeeeeeeee, how are you?

Fine. Did I wake you up?

Yeah, but hell, I needed to get up anyway. [sound of stretching]

Listen, I hate to call and ask you for a favor, … [uncomfortable pause] did you get my email about the stocks?

Naw, you know that mutha piece of shit innernet, I hardly evah get my email anymore. What’s up?

Well you know those [name of] stocks that my parents gave to you and I for our first Christmas?

Yeah?

I would like to change them to my new name. IjustgotmarriedlastSeptember… [breathe] andIwouldliketochangethename on the stocks tomymarriedname.

No shiiiiiiiieyet?

No shit.

Well, that’s great. Finally find you a good one huh?

Yep… he’s the best. I’m so lucky.

Good…

So, about those stocks, would you sign them over to me?

Awww Hell Suz, you know I don’t give no shiiiyet about that stuff.

Well, I would really appreciate it. I’ll send you a return address envelope and everything.

Shiiiyet, just send it oooownn [on] and I’ll sign ‘em and return ‘em.

Thanks X. So much, really.

So, How're yo' momen-ems?

[Translated loosely to being "I would like to inquire about the health and well being of your mother, your father and the rest of your ilk."]

They’re fine. I’ll let them know you asked about them. I’ll send you those papers, thanks again for signing them.

Naw problem.

20 minutes pass with him doling out gossip quicker than Aunt Maye.

Thanks again X, I really have to run.

Ah-righty, bring that new husband of yours out to meet us.

[I can barely keep from screaming “Hell NO!”] Sure, next time we’re in town. Kiss R [his daughter] for me, Bye bye.

I am an awful hateful person. The whole time he was totally civil. I just could NOT stop thinking. Holy shit, what a redneck. I was married to that???

So much water under the bridge. Really.

My sister asked me one night why I really left X and I told her. I could only wake up one time by my crying friend to hear that she felt guilty about sleeping with X the night before… confronting him with it and him saying, “Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you I slept with ___ last night.” No biggie huh? I could only go through one eptopic pregnancy with no support. I could only feed 14 people for so many nights. I could only live with a passive aggressive, matriarchal, misogynistic, holy rollin bitch of a mother in law for so long. I could only deal with the ‘language barrier’ [thanks Stacey!] of East Texas for so many years without cracking and going all postal on those sum’bitches.

I also couldn’t deal with the resentment that was growing inside of me. I was number one head honcho of martyrdom, ladies and gents. It was sickening.

Reb also asked me why I chatted on that ‘Internet thing’ and I told her I had never been so lonely in my life. Out of all the things I told my sister that was the thing that hurt her the most. That I was out there in East Texas all alone with all of these people around me. The loneliness made her cry for my pain.

To me it was all about realizing that I was not loved for who I am or was but yet how much I was willing to tolerate.

I have on the ugliest shoes ever invented, made, dreamt up, fabricated, designed and or brought to reality. I found them during the move… and this morning in my rush to leave, I couldn’t find my trusty Enzos so I grabbed these out of the garage (garage, not garbage) and slapped them on my tootsies.

Seriously. You can’t imagine the suckitude.

Check it… navy blue loafers, with a gold detail bar-thingy on the top. Schnnnnnnaaazzy!

Hideous. Truly.

My outfit is thus: Navy blue blouse, tan pants with subtle pattern, my tin-cup necklace, pearl earrings… And the Shoes Of Ass!

Ok. So the gossip.

My ex-sister-in-law… Debra Jean (or Trixie ‘round these parts) was married to Little G. Little G was my ex-husband’s (X) brother. She and I were best girlfriends in college and ended up marrying brothers. Yes, yes, very redneck of us… shut it. It wasn’t planned or anything, really. No. Really.

Anyway. After I left X, Trixie made her escape soon after. I will leave the details of her escape to Houston for her to tell. It was pretty much like my escape to Dallas, just with more stops at McDonald’s for the kids (she has two) and less drinking, smoking and profanity.

Or… one would think!

X married soon after I left, as a matter of fact, the only thing holding him up from replacing me was my court date to see the judge. He actually called me to ask me to hurry the hell up. Yeah, class all the way baby! Nothin’s too good for me!

It actually took Little G a few years to remarry after Trixie left. But remarry he did. A local bucket o’ crazy by the name of… um shit, … No… Shit is not her name, I just can’t remember it. Regardless, he did remarry, like two months ago.

Guess what. Yeah, you could tell this was coming, couldn’t you?

Yeah, they are getting divorced.

My ex-father-in-law, Big G is on his third wife. He was on his third wife before his thirtieth birthday.

X? Yep, wife number three.

And Little G? You got it… bucket of crazy was wife number three.

Between the three of them, they have had nine wives. Nine. Hello. Um, NINE! Trix and I were number six and seven… if you are playing the home game.

They are NOT worried about diluting their gene (Ha!…just for you Trix… ain’t I punny?) pool. Just the opposite, apparently they are out to gather a small harem for their wicked matriarchal bitch of a mother to lord over with her bible-thumping passive aggressive ways.

Bitter much?

So… anyways, Trix and I had a good laugh over that yesterday afternoon. Laughing at her ex-husband’s expense? You bet’cher ass buddy!

Do you guys like my new layout? Isn’t it all somber and serious looking?

Hee!

Like a real newspaper no? No? Really? I think it is quite smashing. Props and a big ol’ shout out to OZ for the new design.

I was reading the latest entry over at Amalah about her make up… and I have to admit, I seriously have a problem.

She’s got this cute little silver box thingy from Sephora that has pull out drawers, and levels, and sprinkles. I want that box. I loave that box. Yes, loave.

Hmmm… That sounded sort of pornish.

If I had that box, would my makeup and potions and lotions and powders be organized? Uh, no. I would still have like eleven products from Clarins sitting on my bathroom counter. I would still have a travel bag with products bursting at the seams. I would still have a spa bag that I insist on taking everywhere with me. A spa bag that has glitter eyeliner and black/gold eye shadow huddled in its’ depths. I would still carry a makeup bag in my purse everyday in case those two other bags get lost and my house burns down.

I have every shade, color, texture and combination of lip gloss and lip stick that is available to a consumer. I have clear, I have deep red and I have everything in between. I have vitamin E sticks hidden in my nightstand, my husband’s nightstand, in my purse and on my bathroom counter. I slather my lips with vitamins every night right after I apply one of my myriads of hand lotions to my hands, elbows and feet.

I want to be soft, supple and smooth.

I want the variances of my green/blue eyes to show with the choice of eyeliner and eye shadow.

I want my lips to scream to Mister… Kiss Me! I am soft and dewy!

I love L’Oreal Voluminous Mascara and my Revlon eyelash curler with something akin to rabid devotion.

Apparently I have a problem.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a manicure appointment to get to.

I bet the women at the salon are gonna laugh at my shoes.

WARNING: This entry has a few pictures at the end of it, and they are graphic. They are not suitable for children, wussies, any leftwing, bleeding, heart liberals from PETA (sorry ya’ll… didn’t mean to lose you immediately), or any barnyard animals… especially any barnyard animals.

Once upon a time I was fully ensconced in redneck regalia. Carhart overalls, Justin boots and a ball cap. And that was my outfit. The family I married into all lived on the same property in the manner of a commune. Whether intentional or not, it was pretty effective. They had enough weaponry and firepower to put David Koresh to shame.

We had our own “game management program”. I put that in quotes because when you lived on that much acreage and you gotcha a little hankering for some back strap, you just went out gotcha some.

If you know what I mean. And I do believe you do.

I wasn’t all that uncomfortable in my little corner of the world either. The stars were absolutely breathtaking. It was quiet, I had a tin roof. I had cable (well, it was a humongous satellite that blew out anytime the wind got over 5 mph), I had beer, I had food (if we killed it ourselves … I kid… sometimes) and I had a dial up connection family. I was set right? Right.

Why I am telling you this? Well, because I am narcissistic and like to talk about myself and revel in the bullshit I came from. And also because I like to let you know that I was fine with being in a very rural area. I liked the country. I liked being able to get loud with my friends on a Friday night (Tuesday, Wednesday or Thursday night for that matter too) and I liked being far enough out that I could run around nude (inside or out) and no one would render themselves blind or call the cops* on the account of my visage… if anyone was around at all… which was sort of rare.

(*Note to Trixie: Haha ha ha ha ha aahaahhahahahaha … wheeeeze ahem… sorry)

But… I was in a place in my life where I was kind of hard. I used humor and a sort of in your face type of worldview to deal with my heart and my situation. Whatever they were and whenever they came up. Please keep this in mind as I tell you this next story.

It is true.

If you listen closely you may hear strains of the Beverly Hillbillies wafting gently on the breeze.

The afternoon had turned off cooler than I thought it was going to, which was a blessing. I was not looking forward to going over to Beau’s that night if it was going to be a scorcher. X and I were supposed to meet up with the gang after I got off work. Joe was going to be playing acoustic guitar and singing a few songs for the customer’s over at Beau’s. X wanted to go before he went in for the night shift and since we just signed off on our bills, we had a few bucks left over, Beau’s seemed like the perfect place to spend the remaining 20 bucks to my name on beer.

See? S-M-R-T.

Beau’s was not all that packed with people so we sat with Trixie and some friends out back listening to Joe do his rendition of “Wanted: Dead or Alive”, Trixie and I chiming in to do the harmony at the right parts, well, Trix chiming in, me… just howling really. Having a blast.

Later… watching my husband, shaking my head, he’s drinking beer before going in to the office. Not any normal 9 to 5 office either. Fucker is a cop.

With. A. Gun.

Yeah, nice.

He has to go in at 10, so he can’t get too shit faced, I guess that’s a blessing. And after all, how cranked can you get on twenty lousy bucks? Not too bad. I told X that I needed to go, he said that he’s gonna go change clothes at the station and that he’ll meet me at the loop when I am headed home.

I gave him grief and asked him for the frillionth time, “So, what are you going to wear tonight?”

Hardee Har Har.

It’s a wonder I’m not buried out somewhere in an unmarked grave in Nacogdoches county for that bullshit alone. Really.

X left and I stayed a bit longer than I planned to. When I finally got out to my truck, a Ford, 4X4 F150, Standard, (yes, that is important… bear with me…) I called X and told him that I was leaving Beau’s. X said that he would meet me at the loop so I drove away from the restaurant/club.

I got to the loop and waited for my husband’s black and white cop car to pull up. He made it a few minutes later. I looked at the clock on the radio and noticed that it is a few minutes after midnight, April 15th 1998.

I talked to X for a few minutes, gave him what was left of the 20 dollars for him to eat dinner with and told him to be careful. We smooched and he patted my butt as I climbed back into the cab of the Ford.

He pulled away before I did, because he got a call on the radio.

I looked up into the sky. There appeared to be no moon. It was so dark.

So I pulled out onto Hwy 7 East, clicked my high beams on, headed towards Center and set the cruise control at 55.

Highway 7 East is a two-lane highway that is frequented by chicken trucks and log trucks at all hours of the day or night in East Texas. You learn to stay out of their way and you watch out for all matter of debris on the road. Come tornado season in East Texas there is an old water tower that just may be across both lanes in the morning after a big storm, not to mention a few felled pine trees.

There are sometimes animals on the roads as well. I have seen packs of wild dogs roaming the steep shoulders foraging for food. I have seen deer, foxes, wild pigs, goats, geese, rabbits, squirrels and even a hooker.

[Not sure what phylum the hooker falls into… holy shit I am such a dork… here I am making species/phylum jokes about a hooker… anyway… ]

I came to the first hill, noted that there was no traffic coming the other way, so I left my high-beams on, the truck’s engine revved going up the hill and just as I crested it I noticed that there was a large dark shape covering the whole eastbound side of the highway. MY side of the highway.

I didn’t have a moment or even a nanosecond to think. All of those years of driving around big rigs with Daddy-O came back to me in a flash.

I shoved my left foot into the clutch, (heard the engine scream because the truck was still trying to crest the hill in cruise) grabbed the gear shift and threw it in neutral, yanked the steering wheel to the left, aimed for the smallest part and hung on.

I hit something… HARD, the truck bounced and fishtailed out behind me. Then it skidded and I was afraid it was going to slide into one of the steep shoulders on the side of the highway. Luckily, I gave it a bit of gas and drove into a cattle gate on the opposite side of the road.

Whatever I hit (I had a good idea by this time) was still on the road, and there was traffic coming. I needed to make them aware of the danger. I got my truck turned around in my hopped up adrenaline state and pointed my remaining headlight at the absolutely gargantuan Angus heifer laying in the middle of Highway 7 East.

I rolled down my windows and turned off my truck and sat there shaking like a leaf, a cracked out leaf that is being electrocuted. That is when I heard it… the tinny warped up sound of a 4-banger engine getting ready to make a run at a big hill.

Oh shit.

I started flashing my one pitiful remaining high beam…. No! No… Go Slowly! And with Much Caution! Up Ahead Lies Dead Carcass That May Be Bigger Than Your Ford Ranger! (Mazda, Mitsubishi, whatever…tiny truck)

I saw him.

Tiny little blue truck. He (his truck) hit her, he (his truck) went airborne, he (his truck) flipped, he (his truck) skidded on his roof and rolled down the steep shoulder on the north side. Narrowly missing; in it’s slide the back of my truck by about six feet.

I was out of my truck and running down the shoulder of that highway so fast… but that big old corn-fed country boy was faster, by the time I was about 10 feet past my truck, he was out of his tiny little smashed in truck, up the embankment, on the shoulder of the highway, running towards me and then he had me in his arms, his bloody arms apparently of no concern. Stroking and soothing me… hugging me like a child, “AreyouokAreyouokAreyouokAreyouokAreyouokAreyouokAreyouokAreyouokAreyouok?”

We watched, me in his arms, as a matching pair of chicken trucks narrowly missed hitting our cow. We decided to get her out of the middle of the road.

The boys in the chicken trucks got stopped, jumped out, yelled, “______ (last name) that you!?… Holy Shit! You ok?”

I replied, “Yes boys, it’s me, please call X, he’s on duty, make sure to tell him I’m ok, just that I’ve had a little … mishap.”

So, as the boys took care of that business, corn-fed gimp and I took care of Bessy.

He grabbed one hoof and I grabbed two. We heaved, and ho’d… and drug that 500+ pound bitch out of the middle of the road.

The EMT’s showed up, the fire trucks showed up, the sheriff’s department showed up, the DPS department showed up. By that time, I was goofy with adrenaline. I wanted them to let me do a trophy pose with my kill. My husband finally showed up and refused.

These are the only pictures I have.

I tell you what.

Being a hard ass wasn’t always a fun thing, and this whiny crybaby bitch stuff ain’t fun either, but at least I used to know how to drive!

Things that make you go… hmmmmm

Or an alternative title…The Lion, The Bitch and He Needs A New Wardrobe.

I’m torn, torn like an old sweater, torn about how I should feel about the news I got this afternoon at lunch.

Oh, and Hey, Amy? Thanks for going to lunch… I enjoyed getting to spend some time with you. It was good to see you… that color of sweater (plum) looks great with your skin tone by the way, and I like how you’ve let your hair grow out. Have you guys ever seen someone with a devilish gleam to their eye when they grin? That’s my Amy.

Annnnyway---

Let me lay out the dirt for you. And by dirt, I mean some information on an old boyfriend.

A while ago I started thinking about an ex-boyfriend. Not in an, “Oooohhh, I’m all a-flutter with caramel thoughts and cotton candy dreams about Kim” type of way either. Just sort of a, “Erm, he’s hovering at the edges of my conscience and it’s really becoming quite bothersome, why the hell am I THINKING ABOUT HIM!?… Oh, hi Guilt.” Type of way.

I thought about him for no reason. Then the call came from Co-worker C with news that he called looking for me.

When Co-worker C called I almost felt validated. Sort of like, oh, so that’s why I was thinking about him… it was because he was looking for me. Or because he was calling my old work and talking to Co-worker C to find out how I am. But then I shook the crazy from my brain and realized that No, Miss Drama Queen, you are NOT clairvoyant. And you do Not have some sort of connection with that man.

And then I felt better.

Mister and I never used that phone number that he gave Co-worker C to pass along to me. I printed out the email that she sent and brought it home to Mister. The paper that his number was printed on lay on the stack of mail next to our home computer(s) for a week or so then got thrown away with some errant Domino’s Pizza mailer or something.

Have you guys ever had a relationship with someone after you dated a big ol’ bucket of crazy, and after the big bucket of crazy, anything seems great?

I dated Kim after I dated Marcus… and let me tell you, Marcus’s cheese, done slid off of his cracker.

But don’t let me sugar coat this for you.

I was divorced. Still bitter as a hunk of chicory soaked in pecan shells and Kim was freshly divorced. Yanno, I don’t even think his divorce was final. So, there we were, two people just looking for someone to validate their feelings… or at least not to screw their best friends or cheat on them with their siblings… whatever.

I was emotionally retarded.

He was a good listener.

I was ambitious.

He was content to let someone else eke out a living for him.

I was resentful.

He was clingy.

It was a match made in hell.

But, we were six hours away from each other, so when we got together, everything was perfect. You guys know how it is. When you visit, it’s a vacation. The outside world doesn’t infringe on your little party. So you start fooling yourself into thinking that it could really be like this forever.

Hi, why don’t you stay for two weeks and let’s see how this goes?

OK.

Hi… end of two weeks? Get the fuck out of my apartment you needy man with your cheap cigarettes and your Cosby sweaters!

Yes, I am an awful, hateful person.

Today at lunch Amy told me that he found her on IRC and got her caught up on how he is doing.

He’s back with his wife, his oldest is 16 (6’8”), youngest is 13 (6’1”… they are a family of Sequoias) and he has his dream job caring for the big cats and the bears in the zoo that he works for… and he is very happy.

I couldn’t be happier for him, really. I know that he and his wife belong together so I am glad that they figured that out. They were together for 14 years before divorcing and they are truly soul mates.

The sweet southern girl part of me is all, “Awww, really? That’s awesome. Working with the cats has been his dream job so that is so cool.” Which is what I said out loud to Amy at lunch. And also, “I’m really happy for him that he and C (his ex-wife) got back together, I’m sure the boys are happy too. I’m so proud of him for getting that job at the zoo! I bet he is so excited!” Which I believe is what I told Mister on the phone shortly after lunch.

And deep in my brain where the mean things go to die, this little nugget is hiding, “I found a 12 page hand written letter in the glove compartment of my car from that man detailing every sordid thing he did to me the first weekend we met. I shredded it but I’m still afraid it will come back to life like some freaky Chucky doll and I will be crowned the p0rn queen of the Big D. Freak.”

There are three things I could be doing right now, productive things… work things. But I have this memory buzzing around in my head, actually a whole slew of them.

I made the mistake of listening to The Wolf* this morning while I was getting ready for work. (*you can follow that link and listen live if you so desire)

Mister went down to Houston last night to stay with some friends of ours. He has a job interview today at one o’clock, and another tomorrow back here in Dallas at 5 pm (please pray for him or send him good thoughts), so I was alone in the house this morning and I really cranked the radio while I was showering and putting on my face for the day.

My cat is really one hell of a dancer. Don’t let him tell you any different. He’s just modest.

The reason I said that I made a mistake by listening to the Wolf, not that it is a bad station, it’s really quite good… the reason I said that is because it is purely country music. If you have ever been a fan of country (and western! ha ha ha… bah dum chhh) music, if you have ever given it half a chance (move along gatsby) then you know the kind of hold it can have on your memory. The kind of pull it has on your heart when along comes a certain song on the radio and you are trying to apply your mascara just-so… but you have to stop… with your mouth half open… looking like a carp out of water while your mind races back to 1991…

No no no… I don’t have time for this. I don’t want to think about those steamy summer nights in Beaumont. Or that little saloon built off of county road 698 in Nacogdoches by a guy you could swear was lost in this century, a Wyatt Earp style mustache gracing his upper lip while a bandana encircled his neck. That little saloon where I could drink ice cold Lone Star beer night after night, while dancing on the shiny-but-warped floorboards, my head tucked under the chin of some good smelling cowboy named Tommy.

It’s too late… lost… lost in the words of some Kenny Chesney song about how some sweet, tall drink of water said those words to me and more… pledging time, love, honor and to move the mountain the earth and the stars if only… if only… if only what?

The memory surrounds me …. of being at a bar called Boomers one evening with the rodeo club. A handsome young buck approached me at the bar and asked me if he could have the honor of knowing my name. He removed his hat and bowed slightly to address me and I, within moments was completely smitten by the unassuming charm of a young man with the unlikely moniker of Joe Glenn. He bought me a beer and asked for a dance, I obliged, finding a wonderful and strong leader. When he led me back to my seat and my friends, he placed me in my chair with such care and manners that I stood on tiptoe and placed a small kiss on his cheek. When I turned around, Joe Glenn was laying on the floor with his hat over his heart saying, “I can die a happy man now.”

A song nags at my memory and threatens to open the closet of all of the “Dancing with Jason, D’Wayne, Troy and Chad Memories” and throw them all over the floor. Really, I do not have time for this mental enema right now, thankyouverymuch… ::sigh:: Doug Stone’s In a Different Light… fine… fuckity fuckity FINE.

But you are only getting the short version. I am in no mood for crying at the office. Do you hear me?

So much time is lost thinking about this stuff. But I can not help it…
Have you guys seen that Old Spice deodorant commercial where that chick and her friend are sitting at the kitchen table and in the background their retarded (not literally) boyfriends are jumping around like Mantled howler monkeys on crack about some football game or something. Then one of the girl’s boyfriends runs in and hugs her. She smells him. This triggers all these memories of them on a ferris wheel, eating brie, throwing feces together (what? He’s a howler monkey.) and the tag line is something like, “Scent is the strongest link to memories.” Or something. I call bullshit. I think it is music.

These four men Jason, D’Wayne, Troy and Chad shaped me, shaped the way I dealt with college stressors, the way I dealt with disappointments and victories and the way I felt about my loyalties and loves. They helped me through and were part of budding relationships and relationships that could do nothing but end in disasters. But every time I hear that song I can think of more than one time that I spent in each one of their arms dancing, laughing, crying or talking. One of the most special memories, I will tell you about soon enough.

The first. Gah, Jason. For some reason I fell for this guy so hard, but refused to really tell him what I wanted from him. I would try to act like, “Sure… whatever you wanna do is fine man. Spades tournament? Cool. I’m gonna go dancing at the Garage. You’ll just meet me there for the jitterbug thing? Yeah, that works… whatever.” Ya see, here’s the deal. This guy was the best fucking dancer I had ever danced with in my life, up to that point. I met him the first day we moved into the dorm and since he was rooming next door to one of my buddies from high school (Greg from the previous post… Stacey’s husband… yeah, that story is for another time…) I was like… Bonus. Interesting looking dude from Beaumont. Right on.

I was fresh off of my long time relationship (ended almost a year before) and swearing off men pact and the only crush I had had in a long time was on … get this… Richard Lewis. And here comes this brooding coonass from Beaumont with a grin, incredible rhythm and a cute little ass. Order of one please.

I weighed in at like 115 pounds and Jason could throw me around like a rag doll. One night we busted a move and he forgot to drop his elbow. WHAP! Right in my eye socket. Nice, a black eye right in time for parental visitation week. But when my parents saw us dancing and the level of athleticism, they had no doubts that it was a little risky. It was awesome… I guess I just assumed that the level of athleticism would continue into the bedroom.

Now I realize that I am a grown woman and I should have no shame for what I am about to say because it has nothing to do with me, because at the time Jason and I were in no way in any kind of wanton action but… I’m still mortified by the fact that he fell asleep on me. I was in his room, I snuck into his room to be more precise. He asked me to be there and it took a lot of doing for me to get over there without getting in trouble and the bastard fell asleep on me! I felt so unimportant and unloved and everything was UN! I snuck back out of the boy’s dorm and broke up with him the next day. I’m not even sure if he realized that he was dumped.

Thereby finalizing the education I received through Jason. I would continue to receive heartbreaks over expectations never verbalized though… because that’s the kind of gal I am dammit!

Troy… ah… the hillbilly, and I say that with affection. Troy wanted to play with me like a little doll. He was a big 6’3” bruiser with a mop of unruly blond hair and big blue eyes and this huge grin. I met Troy and his roommate D’Wayne through the rodeo club. Troy was from New Caney and loved to dance… SOLD! Boy can shake it like you can not believe. He can move that big ol body to anything with a fuckin beat! Jitterbug? Hello, Mr. Jason’s replacement… (Troy was my parent’s favorite to watch me dance with) and his waltz?… like buttah. All stiff upper torso with travel underneath. He acted like I was this little girl with the big wounded eyes and the Georgia peach smile wielding the power of rhythm, sweat and suggested sexual prowess all through music and proximity of hip to hip. There was only one problem with Troy’s theory… I’m just a big dork. Myth? BUSTED! (See?... Discovery Channel dork even. Heh.)

D’Wayne. (Sue = tearing up) D’Wayne equals my heart. That is all. Oh, the memory that I talked about earlier… D’Wayne has this voice like… like… Ok, imagine. No, better yet. Do this for me. Go to this link scroll down… click on the song called In a Different Light and then imagine your best friend in the world singing that to you when you have had a bad day. Or in that same sweet soothing voice singing If* by Bread to you when you have such bad dreams that you can’t sleep. Or… ::sniff:: when you get so blasted drunk at the bar (maybe to forget or maybe just so I could sleep) that you can’t even get your own pants off to pee, he helps you pee and then puts you to bed and sits next to you, watching vigil over you until you wake in the morning to make sure you are ok. (big breath) D’Wayne taught himself to dance in the mirror of his dorm room before he stepped a foot on the dance floor and he is one of the smoothest dancers. He can really polka too. And you get the added bonus of listening to him sing while you dance with him.

*you can follow this link the same way to hear the If song too.

Chad… sweet Chad. He calls me Sue Mamma (still). He came to college at seventeen on a scholarship from fishing. He’s smart as a whip and his momma raised him right. He is respectful and has wonderful manners. But shit, if you got the two of us together when we were in the mood to get tore up from the floor up? We would get in So much trouble… (please see the above paragraph about drunken behavior). When I hear Shenandoah’s Next to You, Next to Me I get a big ol grin and think about Chad. Maybe fishin in the dark or doing something retarded together at a bonfire… or his big heart. Dance with Chad ladies… if you are in Dallas… call me. He has this long legged slow moving grace that really travels. He can two-step, three step and waltz. And Chad can fix most anything mechanical. If a friend was in need of something, if their car broke down, Chad would fix their car for them, spend his time and energy to make sure they were taken care of… if they would just get the parts. Poor thing, married a mean ol girl... a local from Nac, just like me. Thank goodness we both got out.

These men were friends and confidants and sometimes lovers, but the music takes me back to them. Damn you 99.5 the Wolf, wasting my day. Not like I had anything to do with wasting my day… no siree bob!

I was surveying my nephew run screaming through my parents’ home on Sunday afternoon carrying a plastic golf club. He would make laser beam and shooting noises and then hurl himself in the opposite direction all the while keeping up a 40 mph conversation with anyone within earshot about Billy Blazes. I got an education on Billy Blazes this weekend, I’ll tell you what. And as he ran through the living room where I had (my constant companion) the television on, my nephew stopped dead still… to watch a commercial and my mother turned to me and said, “He’s definitely related to you.”

I have always loved the television. Everything about it. From the way our old (197?) model used to smell like ozone after being on for more than an hour and a half in the winter to the way you could either entertain yourself or educate yourself in its many facets. My mother would limit me to two hours of TV on the weekends just to get me to go outside and play. I was always watching PBS or cartoons, and the commercials would delight me with their creative ways of trying to manipulate you to buy their materials, services, food items or toys.

When I was in elementary school my mother did some side work for a market research company and ended up getting a commercial for Chef Boyardee Pizza Mix. I can remember my mother calling us from New York, telling us all about the limousine ride and the hotel she was staying in. I thought it was all so glamorous. It was so exciting to see her face on national television during daytime soap operas hawking pizza sauce as if she were Julia Childs.

My sister and I went to college on the royalties from that commercial.

Before she went to New York, the agency sent her to get her head shot done. My father was out of town and was not too keen on his bride being sent to a motel to get her “picture taken by a professional”. If you know what I mean, and I am sure you do. But my mother took a friend with her and it turned out that everything was totally legit. The pictures are still lovely, if not for the 197? over-sweep, suburban housewife hair do my mother was sporting.

So when I showed interest in modeling/acting/dancing (triple treat yanno… I can NOT sing for the life of me) my mother knew all the steps because she continued on her little journey into the forays of being an extra and whatnot. The whatnot includes being on the MRI videotape the doctors show you before you have the test. Glamorous No?

It all started when we moved to Texas.

I was anxious and I could only take so many dance classes, go to church so many times a week or have so many extracurricular activities. I wanted to work. So, my mother helped me and we applied for my labor license. I received it when I was twelve. Hello, over achiever. How you doin? (Don’t worry, that burned hot and fast… then burned out when I was in college.)

My mother and I researched children’s talent agencies in the Dallas area and found one that routinely sent kids on a bunch of auditions, print work jobs and extra jobs. I did not just want one area. I wanted to work in the modeling arena, the print arena, the television-movie-stage arena and apparently filmstrips*.

*Shut up.

My only problem was that I had no clue until I unearthed this little gem this weekend that I was being billed as a 12 to 13 year old Lolita.

Check it.
(Click to make all of these pictures bigger. And really… please click on them… it is so worth it.)

Make a little list of thirteen year old-isms, gold ball earrings… check… frizzy hair… check… Cosby sweater, NAY, make that a VEST. (What the fuck?) … check… Oddly applied Cover Girl (with Noxemaｮ) makeup…. Checkity check check bitches.

Um, who picked this photo? Was it the best one? What did they do? “Ok honey, make like you are going to sneeze… now pull your chin in and… LOOK SEXY!”

I found my portfolio this weekend while I was at my parents’ house. And that little slice of heaven up there isn’t the last of them.

I also found some old scripts and my resume of experience. Experience. At 13-15 that term is laughable. But apparently the photo above, and this one…

And alternately this one…

They got me a few jobs. It doesn’t say on my resume if any of those jobs were for jumping rope, or being Marianne from Gilligan’s Island or for having the WORST HAIR AND HEAD SHOT THIS SIDE OF THE MISSISSIPPI… but. ::sigh:: That is what “they” wanted. And ya’ll know I cried when they picked that honky-afro shot for the A-side of my head shot right? RIGHT?

Because … Oh My GAH.

But the jobs I do remember were for stuff like catalogs. Sunday mailer type stuff, and no, we didn’t get to keep the clothes… and we had to bring our own accessories. I was an extra for Dallas and again for the movie Dallas the Early Years. I did the 1950’s scene out by the pool.

And the most glamorous of all jobs… I hoped and I prayed…. And it finally came true.

I was cast to be in a film………….strip.

I weep for my dignity.

I remember it was me and three other morons. We were to shoot a Science Fair Film Strip. As in “*dong* Please turn to the next slide” film strip. We went to this school out in the middle of nowhere. It was summer, so the building was empty, and HOT. We were all supposed to wear fall clothes. Again. HOT.

So, we had me… another girl and two geeky guys.

Lord.

I was handed a cat skeleton was tried to act alluring.

Camera? Easy Peasy…

See? Easy.

Cat Skeleton. No. Hot, dead, cat… bad scene. “*Dong!* Please remove this memory from my cerebrum!”

So, if you run across (refers to “experience sheet”) a science fair filmstrip made by Northwestern Telecom, Show Works out of Dallas, TX with a geeky ass chick gingerly handling a cat skeleton. I’d love to see that piece of filming genius.

The last headshot I did was not that awful... Major pun with the denim and pearls, thanks Brooks and Dunn… shut UP.

I left my little bit of the bright lights behind when I stepped off my high school stage and put up my cat skeleton. It was great practice for interviewing when I got older having already been through about a frillion auditions by the age of sixteen. But I don’t ever think I will give up the little bit of drama that will always lurk inside of me.

I think I will always like to loose myself in movies, and even tiny little commercials.

I have Herschel strapped to my belt today as most days at work. He is hidden by the sweater of whatever twinset I am currently wearing and I have the earphones (new ones from Mister that sit around my neck as opposed to those little earbuds that came with Herschel and fell out of my ears and the little spongey black covers were forever getting lost in my purse… ::breathe::) on and I am listening to song after song while I complete some paperwork.

The phones are dead here at the office so no worry about answering question from people about stuff I have no clue about.

A song just came on. I stopped mid-reach for a binder.

I’ve been what my parents call a smart cookie my whole life. I scored well on most tests, and I normally gave people the benefit of the doubt… a trusting soul, I figured that if someone said they were going to do something, then it was good as done.

I have told you all about my little heartbreaks due to expectations never verbalized and I am sure I have mentioned a time or two a few tumultuous relationships I have had in the past.

I was never really one to push an issue or a boundary. I wanted to be the cool girl. I wanted people or men to like to be with me because I wasn’t the nag their previous girlfriend/wife/gay lover/mother was. That was a nominal success throughout my teens and into my twenties. Then I got married to the X and ya’ll know what a success that was.

I know I have mentioned Neal to you, dear reader, at one time or another. Maybe just in passing. Maybe just to throw out that he was a seven foot junkie. Nice shock value no? Well, I don’t think I have ever told you how we met. Yes, dammit, it was on the internet. But that isn’t important.

Well, sort of. But let’s move on, shall we?

What is important is that he was a large reason of why I am the way I am today.

Who whispered ‘bat shit crazy’? I can hear you, you know… I am sitting right Here.

The first night Neal and I met I was a nervous wreck. I was supposed to meet him at Cowboy’s Red River to go dancing. I came in late and before I knew it this huge man (think Dirk Nowitzki) was sweeping me off my feet and onto the dance floor.

He smelled divine and he danced well. He would pick me up and whisper, “Now, twirl pretty” before setting me gently down and twirling me around and around. He requested song after song to the DJ he knew and we danced all night.

When the bar closed down he offered me his arm and we left, hardly looking at anyone but one another.

We dated on and off for a while. It was always 100% or nothing with him, and I was stuck in his web. He was so sweet and gentle and he was always promising me the world.

And then he told me that he was leaving. He was moving to Arizona to work for an old colleague of his, he needed the job and he wanted to be close to his parents.

He would call sometimes in the evenings, drunk and tell me how much he missed me. Ask about every aspect of my life in Dallas and beg me to come to him. But not yet. He wanted everything perfect for when we got married. He wanted to get me the biggest and most beautiful diamond that Bailey Banks & Biddle had to offer.

I was flattered by his offer and his seemingly sincere wishes.

The next thing I heard from him, he was living on the beach in San Diego. “Just doing the job babe. I just need to get this one more certification for _______ and we are on our way.”

He lived in San Diego for a brief stint, all the while calling me during the day, in the evenings, in the middle of the night to tell me how much he missed me, how much he wanted to be with me. “Could you come spend Valentines Day with me at my parents’ house so you can meet them? I’ll get your ticket this week babe. Come see me?”

Valentine’s Day came and went. No ticket. No call… until 3 am.

“Hey babe, you know… I miss you so much!... By the way, what did you do tonight?”

I went along for a few months. I would hear from him sporadically. He would call and sound so sad, tell me he missed me and then one evening in June he called and said, “I’m coming back to Texas Susan. I can’t wait to see you! We are on our way babe. We’ll get bags of money with my new certification and then get married and move to Arizona.”

Whether or not I wanted to marry him did not concern me as much as the bags of money he promised. I told him he couldn’t come unless he was clean. Over the past year or so I had found out he was using drugs and he knew (because I told him over and over) that I did not want any part of that lifestyle. He could not be using and stay in my apartment. At ALL. He said, “I’m clean babe, and I appreciate you letting me stay for a few days until I find my own place.”

He told me he loved me.

While he was on his way I had enlisted the help of a girlfriend to slather me with self tanning cream to get rid of the red stripes I had up and down my legs, back and ass from the tanning bed.

He drove all night and the next day. It took him about 23 hours to get to Dallas. After a brief rest stop… he showed up at my apartment at 7 am.

I was orange.

He came inside and hugged me, picked me up and swung me around and then promptly went to my bedroom and fell asleep diagonally across my bed. He slept for the rest of the day and I made him a big dinner. I was so excited to see him, but he seemed so gaunt and cranky. I figured he would relax and be back to his happy Neal self after he recovered from his trip.

He woke up enough to eat and then make a few phone calls and then he went back to sleep.

He woke up the next morning at 6 am and set out to go to work. He would get off work around 4 pm and then go out with the guys and come home drunk, eat dinner and go to bed.

I started planning outings to see friends. And my nephew was only a few months old, so I went to my sister’s house a lot. My parent’s came in one Saturday afternoon and I asked Neal if he would come to meet my folks. He was surly, but agreed. He was nice and my mother took pictures and my father was reserved and they said, “Well, he seems nice dear.”

The gentle lovemaking or vigorous sex life that we experience before his first move was nowhere to be found. One evening while in bed I reached over to stroke his hair and he turned on me, “What?! WHAT???! Is it time for me to perform!??” I drew back, blinking and he left to go sleep on the couch.

I asked him the next evening why he was so angry. He had a place to sleep. Meals to eat. He had not gotten the place he said he was going to after staying with me for a few days, and he did not contribute to the rent. What did he have to be angry about?

He said, “Fuck, Susan… this is the real me. I am cranky and surly.” I asked him about all the times he was sweet and kind and gentle. The words of love he professed, the plans he and I had made. The answer? “That is me when I am high Susan. I am a nice fucking guy when I am high.”

He worked hard, everyday up by 6 am, home by 4pm and no gentle caresses, no sweet words from him.

He left in August. We had had a disagreement the night before. I was tired. Tired of his tirades about how so and so will be sorry if they don’t pay him for the job he did. About how he knows the secrets to the governmental hypocrisy (??? WTF ??? ) and on and on. I started crying. Crying tears of frustration and because I had just realized that I actually thought I was in love with this man.

But the man I thought I was in love with? Was a lie, a falsehood. He was only that way when he was chemically altered by smack.

I was tired and frustrated of this angry and very unstable giant living (and detoxing) in my little one bedroom apartment with NO common courtesy, no affection, no visage of the man I thought he was.

I lost it. He threatened me and I went carnival psycho crazy on him. We started the yelling match in my bedroom and I (barely 5’9”) used my little pointer finger on his sternum and backed that crazy ass seven-foot-tall loony out my bedroom, through the hall, the den and the living room until he stopped with his back against the front door.

The next day, when I got home from work, there was a manifesto. No, I am not kidding. He titled it “my manifesto” on a yellow legal tablet that he left for me on the back of my couch so it would be the first thing I saw when I came home.

In the manifesto he swore things would “change” but he used the fucking delta sign. Lord. He said I was too much man for him, he was going back to Arizona and that… well, blah blah blah.

He called a few weeks later and tried to appeal to my maternal side. “But I thought we were going to have babies!”

I stopped taking his phone calls when I realized that there was no Arizona. I was duped. Completely and totally taken for granted. I needed it to wake up. To grow up. But I can’t help thinking about him when I hear the song from Jamie O’Neal.

To hear it for yourself, please go to this link And click on number 2 “There Is No Arizona”.

John Mayer comes up frequently on Herschel. Herschel is my iPod for those of you who are new. I don’t know why I am so drawn to his music. Maybe it is that we followed part of the same life trail with both of us being born in Connecticut and then cutting our teeth in Georgia. Maybe it is that he writes about everyday, ‘everyone can relate to this’ stuff. Maybe it is that it is so soothing to hear a quiet guitar rift build into a rhythm that takes a song to a new key. Maybe it is; just like almost every woman in the history of ever; I want that song… just one… to be about me.

Content to be a background sort of girl as I grew up.

I never took on the role of something that I had to carry alone. Something that the success or failure of rested squarely on my shoulders. I guess you could say that I have been chicken. I’ve played the clown, the seductress, the smart girl, the good girl and the cruise director in equal parts but never each for long.

Gopher, please meet me on the lido deck.

Hiding behind being busy or taking on too many projects so that I have an excuse when I become spread thin… I had such great plans, such a fantastic strategy for how I was going to grow up and all of the wonderful things that I was going to accomplish.

Move to New York at 18 and wow them at the School of American Ballet. They would call me George Balanchine’s muse. Regardless of the fact that he died when I was 11. Live in a fabulous loft and live the life of a gorgeous dancer with beautiful feet*. Goal met? Uh, no.

Work up the nerve to try out for the solo in every recital known to our school district. Open mouth during tryouts and sing with an easy high sweet melody that is a bit raspy and breathy like a mix of Bonnie Raitt and Allison Krause. Watch as choir director wipes tears of joy and amazement from eyes and accept flowers from my accompanist. Goal met?
Self: Hi tune… this is a bucket.
Tune: Yo, what’s up bucket?
Self: Tune, please, oh please get in the bucket so that I may carry you.
Tune: I would have to say hell to the no.

Poof, I am sexy in denim mini skirts and little knit halter tops with big hair and attend countless rock concerts with friends. The band always notices me, usually the drummer of course. The drummer flings his sweaty hair back and turns to his camera man; who is filming the show for a video on MTV; “Hey man, see that little girl with the green eyes and a very flat rack?” He points a drum stick in my direction. “I want her in the shot. Make sure you get her shaking that sizable ass.” Goal met? “Mom? Can I go see Journey with my buddies when they come this year?” “Oh Susan, you are too young for concerts. Here, we’ll take you to this McDonald’s benefit to see Barry Manilow.” “_shit” “What is that Susan?” “I said ‘thanks’ and can I go next year?” “Of course.” Yeah, um… Journey broke up before next year came. And my mother would let me go see Motley Crue… over her dead and tattered body.

I’ve been comfortable to just float along. Go where I was wanted and do as little to draw attention to myself as I could.

But I always wanted to be the one the musician wrote a song about. I wanted to be that “Roseanna” or that “Mandy” (watch the Manilow digs ya’ll… he’s a saint). I wanted to be that “Brandy” or the Sara in “Sara Smiles”. But alas, my beauty, my charm or my wit were not meant to be immortalized in the strains of anything but, Susan, Susan, Bo Boozan, Banana Fanna Fo Foozan… SOOZAN!

I found this fun little quiz over at Anne’s. And it is a good thing too, I am not sure I could have moved forward without knowing what superhero I am most like. Personally I thought it would be Gambit because of my alluring red eyes, kinetic ability and that most people refer to me as “the white devil”, but alas…

Your results:
You are Spider-Man

Spider-Man 75% Green Lantern 65% Iron Man 60% Supergirl 55% Robin 55% Batman 45% Wonder Woman 45% Catwoman 40% The Flash 35% Superman 20% Hulk 20%

You are intelligent, witty, a bit geeky and have great power and responsibility.

These results are funny (well, maybe only to me…) Mister and I were pretending to shoot a web from our hands at lunch today, and Mister actually said, “My Spidey senses were right!”

Update: Mister just took the quiz and he is…. Batman. Heh.

*Dancer’s feet look like someone took a bag of hammers to them.

Yanno how when you can’t sleep and you are laying there willing your brain to just shut the hell up already with “What made me think of this?” “Oh, maybe it was this sequence of events, orrrrr…. This one?”

No? Just me?

Thanks to some random quote you heard Samantha from Sex and The City say, “You can have sex with someone you don’t like, respect… or even remember.” You find yourself making lists in your head of all the guys you have ever kissed… ok, Ok… I said OKAY… kissed, or slept with (Whore).

Still just me? Fine.

But I can not… just can not for the life of me remember that one guy’s name. Started with an S… Shawn, Stuart, Shane? Uh, almost six foot with brown hair. Thanks, that narrows it down. All I keep remembering was that his dad had this total 1970’s van sort of like a mix between Scooby Doo’s Mystery Van and a total rolling love nest for a hippy and I have to, have to, have to remember this guy’s name or I am a total skank for not remembering all of my lovahs.

Then a memory surfaces.

He said that his dad used to be the drummer for Buddy Holly and the Crickets. Or so Shawn/Stuart/Scott/Shane and his brother; no-name told me and my girlfriends. For bragging sake or to impress us? I am not sure we really cared at that point. We were young and they had motorcycles.

Seriously. What the hell is that kid’s name?

Speed Racer? That starts with an “S”.

Let’s call him Speed Racer. Deal? Oh, stop looking at me like that. I was young… and curious… and apparently a complete trollop.

My girlfriends and I went over to their house one evening. How did we know them? Friends of a friend? Lord, I so need to call Stacey tonight to see if her husband knows who I am talking about. (Stacey, Do NOT show G this page, please for the love of all that is holy… or whore-y. I will die of embarrassment. I just want to drop it into casual conversation, “So, uh… Mark had some buddies that were brothers and uh, they had motorcycles… maybe their dad is Jerry Allison from Buddy Holly and the Crickets?” – Yeah, because I’m smooth like that.)

Anyway, we went over to their house one night for some action… some motorcycle action. And my parents would kill me dead. Twice. Once for going on a motorcycle with a high school boy (college? Lord, the memory…she is gone.) and once for being such a sleazy tramp. “Before Marriage?! SUSAN! We are so disappointed in you.”

Speed Racer asked me if I would like a ride on his bike and I was all, “Sure. Whatever.” When inside I was all, “Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

So he gave me a helmet and I put it on, fully aware that it was summer and 110 degrees at 9:30 at night and my head would be a sweaty mass of fro hair when we got back from our motorcycle ride.

IF we made it back, Dum DumDUUUUUUUUUUM!

The suspense, she is building, no? What do you mean “no.”!?

So we went on a nice little ride all over the sweet suburb of Dallas we lived in. At stop lights he would turn to me and yell through his helmet to me such gems of poetry like, “Have you ever been on a Ninjaｩ before!?!?!!?” and I would shout back, “NO!” My angelic voice getting lost under the revving of the engine.

Ah, young romance.

We made it back safely and that is where the story ends. Well, not really, but I really don’t want to turn into that kind of journal.

After I went through that story in my mind as I lay there trying to sleep another sort of list formed. A list of stupid things I have done on motorcycles. Now, I am no Harley Momma. I have never owned a motorcycle of my very own. I prefer things with four wheels if they have the added value of having a motor.

During my college years I came home to my parents’ house the first two summers to work and to go to school. A friend of mine from college collected motorcycles. Well, he and his father collected them. They had Harley’s and BMW bikes. David and I had a very relaxing friendship. We could sit for hours out by my pool smoking and making up songs that he would play the music to on his guitar. We would crack ourselves up so completely with the hilarity and the sheer brilliance of our lyrics that we would sooner or later break out the boom box (I’m old. Ok, I admit it, now let’s move on.) and record our masterpieces.

We enjoyed a friendship that was able to sustain comfortable silences so he would ask me to join him on his motorcycle rides into the country. It was so peaceful and I never got tired of feeling the tingle on my skin from the wind whipping my tee-tiny arm hair and the sound of the engine.

My ex-husband’s whole family was born to ride motorcycles. My father in law rode a police issue Harley for funeral details, wedding processions and anything else required of the hog. He was also the first motorcycle cop in San Antonio in the 60’s.

My ex-husband rode (probably just to piss his father off) a Kawasaki Vulcanｩ, which I always pictured having little anthropomorphic ears. I named him Spock, which yes… was terribly clever.

He also had a tiny little Honda 50cc motorcycle that is about the size of a small dog. They bought it for riding around camp grounds and such but when my ex had a child; they thought they would save it for her to ride when she got old enough. I would ride it around the farm and my ex father-in-law said that with my long legs sticking out from the sides of the bike, I looked like a monkey humping a football.

Yes, dreadfully attractive... I know.

The stupidest thing I ever did. And boy howdy, let me assure you, there were many… was riding to the zoo with some friends and my ex-husband.

It was Chasen, Sesil, X and I. Chasen had a Ninjaｩ and he had Sesil riding with him. I was riding with X on the back of Spock. X had a rule that whoever rode with him they MUST wear a helmet. He had lost his first cousin to a drunk driver (his cousin was on a bike and not wearing a helmet) about ten years before. Chasen didn’t have such a rule.

We went to the zoo, had lunch at a restaurant and on the way back the guys decided to switch partners. So Sil rode with X on Spock and I rode with Chasen on his bike. I gave up my helmet to Sil and climbed on the back of Chasen’s Ninjaｩ. We headed home at a nice leisurely pace, doing the speed limit. We went around the loop and the boys decided to take Hwy 21 East to the house. As soon as we passed an invisible marker they started racing. I heard the whine of the engine below me and willed myself to be weightless as not to throw off the balance between Chasen and his bike.

X was on a touring bike, not a street racer like Chasen so I could hear Spock screaming to keep up with the Ninjaｩ.

I was leaning over Chasen with my hands on the gas tank. His little waist was so trim that he had plenty of room to move within the circle of my arms.

Then I made a mistake.

I looked over Chasen’s left shoulder at the speedometer and noticed that we were doing 110 mph and I knew there was a hill and beyond the hill a curve coming up swiftly. I shouted for Chasen to slow down. He laughed. I told him that I would take my hands off of the gas tank and apply uncomfortable pressure to his no no parts if he didn’t slow down. He laughed, made a motion to X and we all slowed down.

I yelled to Sil, “These fuckers had us going 110! And I don’t have a damn helmet on!!!”

It is a wonder that we lived through the nineties. Seriously.

Now, what was that guy’s name?

*Cheese ball table for one? Ya’ll during this whole post I kept having these lyrics cycle over and over in my noggin. Extra credit to whoever can name the song and artist.

Last night as Mister and I were eating dinner my cell phone rang. I hopped up to answer it because I thought it may be something important like Ed McMahon calling to give me buckets of money and to tell me that I am pretty. (Question: He’s not dead is he?) But when I got to my phone the number on the display was a 936 area code number.

I froze.

Did ya’ll know that Nacogdoches is a 936 area code? I know precisely two people who would call me from a 936 area code that I would be happy to speak to and they are married. To each other. (Confidential note to Jay and Brenna: I’m talking about ya’ll.) I know approximately eleventy people who would call me from a 936 area code that I would choose not to speak to if I had the choice. But for some reason, I pushed the answer button.

On the other line was a perky young thing that was calling from my Alumni Association and wanted $200.00 from me.

Honestly? I was sort of relieved.

As I hung up the phone (after laughing heartily at the Alumni Association girl for thinking that anyone who graduate from our college would have an extra $200.00 to donate to the collegiate programs) one thought occurred to me.

I am afraid of 936. I used to be afraid of 409 (not the cleaner) as it used to be Nac’s area code as well.

It was so amazing how much I loved the place when I was in school there and how I came to fear it as soon as I got out.

Little side story. I was talking to Stacey yesterday afternoon on the way home. That is the time of day I do my catching up.

If you want me to call you it will most likely be between 5:45 and 6:45 p.m…. Send me your number and we’ll chat.

Anyway, I was talking to Stace and she mentioned that she turned off her Comcast (cable) account and was waiting to get her Verizon account.

The very thing that popped into my head when she said that was a voice saying, “I can get cable in any room in my house, all we gotta do is runna phone line unner the house.”

Let’s go back about oh, ten years shall we? I was living in a 1976 Redman double wide trailer. There was one phone outlet in the house. The phone outlet was in the kitchen above the dishwasher. Handy? Sure. But to get satellite television to the living room an extremely long phone cord was run up the wall, along the ceiling, stapled in several places (and painted white to camouflage it from standing out from the white painted ceiling) and then run down the length of the doorframe into another room… it was then run around the periphery of the room, shoved under the carpet and plugged into the satellite box on top of the television.

When we got dial up access a year or so later I figured that my then husband would do the same trick to get the wire to the “office”.

Nope.

He attached a splitter to the phone cord that was hooked to the cable box and ran the wire out the window. He peeled off two sections of aluminum siding/skirting that went around the trailer and unpacked a 50-foot phone cord. I watched in abject horror and slight amusement as he got his bow and an arrow, tied the phone cord to the arrow and shot under the house in the direction that he was setting up the “office”.

After a few tries and several lost arrows and many uses of the word fuck, he made the shot he was looking for. He went around the house, untied the phone cord, threw it through the “office” window and then slid the window shut.

“There” he said… puffing up with pride…, “Instant dial up access.”

I SO wish I was kidding.

Let’s all breathe a collective sigh of relief. I haven’t told you guys what is going on because… well, frankly, I didn’t know how to express what I was feeling. Also, I didn’t want to put this in writing until I knew that she was ok.

Ok, I just wrote then promptly deleted like six paragraphs of stuff. The long and the short of it is; Stacey went into the hospital on Saturday. The doctors were worried that she had either bacterial or viral meningitis. She was put into isolation for three days and just got out yesterday.

The tests (spinal tap (!!! And also… EEEEEE!) ect.) are conclusive, it was viral. She is drained and still in a bit of pain but when I went to into see her either Sunday or Monday* (I think it was on Monday) she was still coherent enough to say, “Hey. Where is Elvira?”

Hee! But also, Awwwww.

*I got to wear a mask and scrub in each time I went. I totally was looking for a hazmat suit, but no one rocks the yellow hazmat and big silver hat thing like Renee Russo in Outbreak.

So yes, I have been praying and calling and calling and praying and Stacey, she is the toughest woman I know. And I love her.

Admit it, ya’ll love her too.

Ok, now, on the lighter side of things (I have 15 minutes to write this and then I have to leave… I am never gonna make it… and? I have to pee.) (Damn. Ten minutes.)

I would like to tell ya’ll a little story about a man. A man whose glasses were so thick he could see the future. A man with tee-tiny little chicken legs and a big fu-manchu mustache. A man… a myth… a legend. Seth.

(Next day… picking up where I left off.)

Seth was a permanent fixture in our college lives. We went dancing almost five nights a week and there he would be. He was always around. I could always see him out of the corner of my eye. He was bowlegged and he hardly ever took his hands out of his pockets. Well, they really weren’t his whole hands, just more of both thumbs hooked into the front pocket of his jeans, as if any moment you would be witness to finger guns or a point and a wink.

Seth was a slight, thin man with a dour expression a massive black felt hat that he wore regardless of the season or occasion and a distinctive heel first walk. Sort of like he was doing the first part of the Cotton-Eyed-Joe dance with every step.

He had a slight lisp and would spit a little when he asked, “Wanna dansh?” The spittle would form in the corners of his mouth or get caught in the hairs of his overgrown porn-stache.

He and Lee (Lee, also known as Tatanka) started giving free dance lessons to whoever would show up to the bar at on Wednesdays at 6pm. The dance class lasted an hour and they would give instructions on how to do the electric slide, the hustle (hi, these are basically the same thing… GET MORE MATERIAL) or (heh) the Cotton Eye’d Joe. Sometimes they would break out of the line dance symposium and try to teach some of the people to waltz or polka.

Most of the time, no one showed up so Lee and Seth would end up dancing in an empty bar with Brooks and Dunn’s “Neon Moon” playing in the background. The music would echo slightly because the place was deserted.

Seth had rhythm. I am not sure if he had music or could ask for anything more… but he did have rhythm, and once in a while he would run through the ranks of all the women in the bar trying to get one of them to dance to his favorite jam.

I would dance with Seth when he started to look frightened that the song would end and no body, not even Lee would dance with him.

Sorta sad.

Anyway, I was finishing up college and needed an elective course for one of my semesters. I picked welding.

Ok, I’ll stop right here for a minute to let the laughter die down.

Let’s ease you into this sorta slow. I. Took. A. Welding. Class.

Can you guess who the teacher’s assistant was? You guessed it in one (stop screaming at your monitor Trix.). That’s right. Seth. He of the glorious flannel/plaid shirts and a woven belt that he could tuck into the left pocket of his jeans. Yes, Seth. He was so skinny that the belt just about wrapped around his waist twice. He was to be my personal assistant during this time of learning about… uh… welding.

I learned a bunch in that class. It wasn’t at all like Jennifer Beals depicted it in Flashdance. That whore. It was mig, tig, arc, stick and learning to lay a nice bead when the weld site was above my head. Ya’ll. There was math involved.

There was also an Oxy-Acetylene torch that I made my bitch. I was the best cutter in the class. Including Seth.

Seth started calling me at home asking if I wanted to study.

Like I needed to study. Well, yeah, ok… I needed to study. That is not the point. Yes, math is hard. What? Yes, I failed my final. Shut up. MATH.

So around this time Trixie (Debra Jean) started leaving me messages on my home phone, “He, it’s Debra. Are ya’ll coming over for dinner tonight? Oh, and… you love Seth.” So I would call her back, “Yeah, we’re coming. Need anything, Seth Lover?” So this went on for a few months and then she let it drop… but me? Now, would I let something like that go? No, nooooo. Have any dead horses I can beat? I’m your gal. As long as it doesn’t include math.

I would stealth call her house or send her a text message via ICQ, Yahoo or whatever. “You love Seth!” “Seth and Debra sitting in a tree… K-I-S-S-I-N-G.” Yes. Very mature. I would also leave her notes around her house, her car and in her purse. She wouldn’t find them for weeks and sometimes months at a time so I took to dating the little notes, “6/8/94 – Oh, and did I mention?... You love Seth.”

So the next time you see or talk to her, remember to tell her, “You love Seth!”

Up next? Buffalos!

Speaking of buffalo, I have a little story. What? We weren't talking about buffalo? Yessss (yeth?) we were. Weren't we?

Either way. Do ya'll remember me telling you the story of dating that very charismatic man-child in college? Let's go back a little shall we? (I can actually hear the Kerr Krew rolling their eyes. Stop it ya'll. These people want to be entertained.)

This man-child's name was Mike Gibson. Oh hells to the yes, I am going to use his real name.

I met him through a friend of a friend. Mike and his family had just moved to Texas from California and you could just tell, he wanted to be a cowboy in the worst way. He wore boots and jeans and was very handsome. But no matter how he tried... he just didn't fit the cowboy role. He had a horse, but still... no dice. How he carried himself and his cadence of speech fairly screamed cityboy.

He sauntered over to me one Wednesday night (while I was telling dirty jokes... at the bar.. in between dances... with my friends (mainly guys)) and asked me out. I nodded and asked him when. He said, "Saturday night." And walked off smiling.

By the time Saturday had rolled around Mike had called me and backed out on our date. I gave him a verbal shrug with the patented, "Whatever." the first time, so the second time he called I started getting pissed. "Look, Mike, if you want to go out, fine, that is totally cool, but if you don't... that is okay too. Your loss, but just do us both a favor and make up your mind so I can make other plans if you are going to back out." He countered with, "Well, I really want to take you out... it's just that I don't date women who are already taken."

"Pardon me?" I could not believe my ears. Already taken, my ass. "And just who am I supposedly taken by?" I asked him. "Troy. He told me you two were an item." "Well shit."

I called Troy and gave him a verbal lashing and asked him to go clear things up. Now that drama was part of the mix, I was intrigued.

Mike picked me up Saturday night in his black Ford F-150 extended cab (see? Poor thing wanted to be a cowboy) and took me to dinner. We enjoyed ourselves immensely and the dinner seemed to take all of 45 seconds when in all actuality it was over two and a half hours. We talked and laughed and joked and on the way to drop me off he asked if I would like to go to the park. I said sure. As soon as we pulled up to Pecan Park (FYI... They have Awesome swings there.) it started to drizzle.

I asked if he minded if I smoked. He said no, so I cracked the window. He told me, "Sue, you really shouldn't smoke you know. It is bad for you and sort of looks trashy." Little did I know, this would be the first of many "you shouldn'ts" to come from Mike. We sat in the cab of the truck for a little while; him talking and me smoking (purely out of spite) and then he got serious.

"So," I asked, "what brings you and your family to Texas... and how in the world did you find Stephen F. Austin?"

"Well," he started, "I was going to school at Loyola Marymount. I had a full ride for voice when my parents decided to move to Texas. My brother still goes to school there, he was the one who got me the audition for the scholarship... but when my parents said that they were going to move to Houston, I wanted to come along. Our family is very close."

"Wait. What?"

"Our family is very close."

"No, no... got that part.. the other. You were at Loyola with a full ride... on a voice scholarship... and you dumped it to come to SFA?" I am sure I blinked several times. As this is how I show my disbelief. It is endearing. Shut up. It is.

"Yes, I had a scholarship to Loyola Marymount for voice. Opera."

"Uh..."

"Here, I'll show you. I'm going to roll down the windows because it might get a little loud. Is that okay?"

And ya'll? The man rolled down the windows as I flicked my smoke onto the blacktop of the parking lot and turned towards him. He opened his mouth and the purest angelic loudest most nipple hardening baritone belted forth with Ave Maria*. A Capella.

*scroll down and play the Andrea Bocelli one.

When he was done, I whispered, "No. Fucking. Shit." It was my way of eloquently saying "Duuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuude."

We started dating from that day forward. We had the "exclusivity talk" only days past our first date and then it was on.

I was loud, crass, fun, a dancing fanatic, a smoker, taller than him and had curly hair. Mike's perfect woman was everything that I was not. Small, blonde, quiet, polite (What? I was fucking polite.), was to be seen and not heard, prim, proper and had straight hair. So, I see ya'll asking yourselves, "Why in the hell were ya'll dating then?" And I? Honestly do not have an answer for you.

Mike was not the best dancer, and ya'll know how much that meant to me. He was charismatic and could talk me into almost anything. Yes. Anything. He wanted to ride bulls or broncs (see also: time he was mad at me for riding better than he did) and would use my fear for his safety as a bargaining chip to get me to quit smoking. He would ask me to tone down my humor and my voice when talking with our friends.

Lord.

And. He had a tendency to throw chairs.

Mike's mother was 100% Italian and his father was 100% Irish and.. let's just say that he had a bit of a temper.

He had me so trained that I was even embarrassed of my own family. MY FAMILY. Of course they didn't take it seriously. I can remember the evening that his folks were coming over to my parents' house for drinks and to talk about our futures. (Pardon me for a moment while I guffaw heartily.) Our futures, Puh-Leeze.

Anyway, we were all over across the street at the neighbor's house having dinner and waiting for the Gibson's to show up. Mrs. D was (and still is) a fantastic cook and a great decorator, and that evening we were having bar-b-que so Mrs. D rolled up some bandannas for us to use as napkins. As the drinks flowed and the dinner wound down the time for the Gibsons' to show was coming closer and I was watching out the window like some cocker spaniel waiting for her master to come home.

My mother, my father, my sister and the rest of the D family all decided that they were going to use their napkin/bandanna as doo-rags to meet the Gibsons. I was mortified. "Ya'll, please take those off. And for the love of all that is holy, stop throwing gang symbols. We live in SUBURBIA!... Gah! I am so embarrassed, I may throw up."

I can not even tell you how the rest of that evening went. I may have passed out from fright. I am not sure.

Back at school I was never seen by my girlfriends. "Where's Sue?" "With Mike." "Gah." "I hate that guy." "Me too." "Well, if she's happy..."

I wasn't happy ya'll. I was miserable. I was quiet for almost a YEAR. Me. Quiet. I stopped smoking, I never joked with my friends, I wasn't allowed to hang out with my guy friends unless Mike was there. I was a Stepford girlfriend.

We went out with our "couple friends". One night my friends Lisa and Cully asked us over to their apartment to have dinner and drinks. I had known Cully since he was practically a baby and Lisa for a year or two before I even met Mike.

We had dinner and were hanging out at their apartment. The tv was on and we were talking and drinking and the movie Dances with Wolves came on. Mike sat transfixed on the television screen with the intensity of a thousand fiery burning suns. Personally, I thought it was rude since we were there to visit and hang out with our friends, not to watch a movie and shush people when the dialogue was a little low.

Seriously, he shushed the host and hostess. Come ON.

I finally had enough and asked him if we could get going. He looked up at me like I was insane. He said, "I am watching this movie, Susan." He totally spoke in italics like that all the time. He had a total flair for the theatrical.

I politely pointed out that he could watch the movie later as our hosts were ready to go to bed as Cully had to get up at five in the morning. He didn't even flinch, just kept on watching the movie. So Cully, Lisa and I started talking again, he asked us to please be quiet. I said, "Mike, it is just a movie..." And he yelled back, "But it's my HERITAGE, SUE!" I blinked and then pointed out, "Mike, sweetie, you are Irish and Italian. This is about American Indians." And then I walked out the door.

I think that was the beginning of the end. He seemed like such a caricature of a person to me. Not even real. But he knew how to push my buttons. He had this whole entire thing about fighting for our relationship down pat. And we would fight, Lord, would we ever fight. I cried more then than years later when I was going through my divorce. He had this hold on me and it didn't break until one morning.

By then I was living in an apartment off campus. Lisa (of the Lisa and Cully fame) was my roommate and Mike, and his roommate Steve, lived in the same complex, just down at the south side of the building.

I woke up one morning and felt this hole where my heart should be. I felt hollow, used up and very tired. I kept saying to myself, "What am I missing?" I felt heavy and weak. "What am I missing.. why don't I feel whole?" And then it dawned on me. It was already 11 a.m. and I hadn't cried yet. I was missing that burning feeling that I would get in the back of my throat when I was trying to fight the tears.

I broke up with him that day.

I had lost myself and I knew that I had to get back to the person I once was. Happy, joking, laughing, dancing, carefree Susan. Not this jittery, nonsmoking, miserable shell of a person who hung her whole self worth on some guy... And a fucking SHORT guy at that.

The feud was bitter and long even months after we broke up. He started rumors and would drive by my apartment every time he left his just to see what I was doing, he would beg alliance from my friends to turn against me. They would look down at him and say, "Mike, please, we knew Susan first, and we like her better than we like you." It was an ugly battle, but it was worth it.

Mike kept one friend, a person that he met after we broke up. That person introduced Mike to his cousin. Her name was Fern. She was quiet, shy, timid, blonde and was normally seen and not heard. Mike talked Fern into selling all of her worldly belongings, including her grandmother's antiques, and moving out to California with him to get married. She went. I often think about Fern and wonder how she is.

I told this story to my husband for the first time* the other night after telling him about getting in touch with John and Mike (old friends who moved back to Georgia during high school – in Mike’s case – or shortly after high school – in John’s).

*I probably told Mister this story before as I have a habit of repeating myself and as a bonus he has a habit of not remembering shit.

I was young. Like 6th - 7th grade young and I had this habit, nay... compulsion to sneak out of my house. I was up anyway (read: please note the frillion times I have mentioned that I currently drug myself into a stupor to get to sleep, insomniac, any sentence that begins with 3 am... ect.) so why not be productive. Right? I couldn’t watch TV as my mother was a light sleeper, same with reading all night. I would turn a page and hear my mother getting out of bed to check on me.

I slept (ha.) with a fan on 365 nights a year to act as white noise. It would help mask the sound of a cat slinking past my window outside, my sister yelling at whomever she was mad at (at that moment) in her sleep. “NO!” “mumble mumble” “I WILL NOT!” Traffic three streets over. My father turning over in his sleep. So the fan masked noise for me, but I still had to be careful because it didn’t mask other noise around the house and my mother was as light as a sleeper as I was.

I don’t think she slept through the night from 1970 to at least 1990.

Twenty years, no sleep. No wonder she took (and still takes) cat naps for like 5 minutes; in car rides or in her chair at the house; and awakes fully refreshed and happy, eyes blinking with maybe a small stretch thrown in. Those five minutes naps were probably all the sleep she could get with my sister and I in the house.

So for some reason I decided that it would be a smart move to start sneaking out of the house.

For the first year or so I would just lift my floor length window (that was on the front of the house), quietly pop out the screen, lay the screen up against the house for easy retrieval when I got home, crawl out, close the window and be on my merry way.

No biggie right? I was going for a walk, or to meet friends under the bridge on the bike path, or whatever. Who knows why I decided to just leave in the middle of the night. I wasn’t up to any kind of trouble, other than the whole being outside