Suzanna Danna

I’ve never told you guys about the night in Houston with a bunch of friends from Nacogdoches did I? It was some random weekend in March when we were all in town for something. My memory, she is going. Well, that and I am too lazy to go search my archives. So if I have already told you this one, my apologies. I’m pretty sure I have referred to this, but I don’t believe I have gone into detail.

When I say “we” in this story it is in reference to the following people: me, Mister, Glo, D’, Jay, Brenna, Lisa and Tim. Lisa and Tim have since gotten a divorce so I will just refer to him from now on as Fucker.

Gloria and D’Wayne live approximately ten feet from where Lisa and Fucker’s house is (he no longer lives there… Fucker). So when Mister and I went to visit we stayed with Glo and D’.

Lisa and Fucker had the evening away from their precious child, Glo and D’ had the evening away from theirs’ and Jay and Brenna left their beautiful children to roam the wilds of East Texas… or you know, to be lovingly cared for at Grandma’s house.

We ended up going to a bar called Mo’s (which I have referenced a million and two times as I basically grew up there). We found tables next to the restrooms* and an amazing waitress showed up. She got our drink orders and to make a long story extremely short somehow the topic of conversation between Jay and I turned racy.

I know. I was shocked too.

Jay was asking if I had seen the movie Borat (which I had not… and still have yet to, and have no desire to see it) and he went on to describe how… okay, I’ll just give you the commentary.

Jay: Okay, so they are in a hotel room and Borat and some large hairy guy are wrestling around naked…
Susan: … Alright…
Jay: And somehow the fat guy teabags Borat…
Susan: Wait… what?
Jay: … He teabags Borat…
Susan: No, wait… I heard that part. Um, so… what rating does Borat have?
Jay: Rating?
Susan: You know, R, X, NC-17?
Jay: Oh, R…
Susan: And… there’s teabagging?
Jay: Well, they blur it out…
Susan: But… there is actual teabagging?
Jay: Yeah, why do you find that so hard to believe?
Susan: ::blink::
Jay: …it’s just some guy laying his junk across the other guys face.

Jay makes his hand into the international “bird” sign and puts his palm on his forehead so that the middle “bird” finger is pointing down along the bridge of his nose. His knuckles are almost in his eyes.

Susan: What the fuck is that? A Roman Soldier?
Jay: No… teabagging.
Susan: Seriously?
Jay: Seriously.
Susan: No. That? Is not teabagging.
Jay: Alright, then what is?

I tilt my head back and make the international sign for dipping balls into my open maw.

Susan: See? [dipping imaginary balls] Teabagging.
Jay: That is totally NOT teabagging…. Think about when you are at a spa, what do they put on your eyes to reduce puffiness.
Susan: Cucumbers.
Jay: NO! Tea. See?

He does the motion again. Wiggling his knuckles to make me see the tea part.

Susan: Um, no.
Jay: Fine, let’s take a vote.

And y’all? We polled the bar.

Consensus says that women all believe how I do and men, most of them believe what Jay does. And Mister? Was turning purple and trying to crawl under the table and be invisible at the same time as he was embarrassed to be married to the lady polling the bar about teabagging.

Jay: So, what else do you know that I don’t?
Susan: Oh, we do NOT want to go there.
Jay: Why?
Susan: Brenna?
Brenna: Yes?
Susan: Is this embarrassing you?
Brenna: Oh, honey, no… we’ve been married for over ten years. I do not embarrass anymore.
Susan: Well, Mister is positively purple.
Mister: I’m fine.
Susan: You sure?
Jay: Suck it up Sue Momma, c’mon… let’s do this.
Susan: Fine.
Jay: Throw some terms at me.
Susan: Um… Now you have to realize that the reason I even know half of this shit is because I was stupid enough to Google something I didn’t know the definition for at work one day about eight years ago and came upon a website designated to jacked-up sexual terms and urban lore…
Jay: Stop stalling…
Susan: Fine. Rodeo Fuck.
Jay: Know it.
Susan: New York Chili Dog.
Jay: What?
Susan: Too gross, later.
Jay: Gimme another.
Susan: Donkey Punch.
Jay: What?

Meanwhile the rest of the table has turned to watch the debate and they are quietly asking themselves #1) why do they hang out with us and #2) what in the hell were we talking about?

Susan: Don-Key PUNCH.
Jay: Not familiar.
Susan: Rock on, that’s my favorite.
Jay: So, what is it?
Susan: [I pantomime as I am describing the term.] Well, say you are fucking some chick from behind right?
Jay: Right.
Susan: Then out of nowhere you just punch her in the back of the head. [I am humping the air and then I take a round house swing at an imaginary girl’s head.]

Jay is laughing so hard he starts to choke. Mister simply asks, “Why? Why would anyone do any of these things?” I answered him, “No, my love, I just think that they are terms, not actual acts. Just jacked up stuff for people to ponder over, ect.”

A few weeks later I am chatting with Mike and I am telling him this story and all of the sudden he goes, “My grandfather had a donkey. His name was Mordachai. I used to ride him when I was little.” I was laughing so hard that was asked to quiet down and then I had to go wash my face because I was crying with laughter and my mascara had run. So from then on, Mike and I have greeted each other with the term of endearment, “DONKEY PUNCH!”

It get’s better.

Cut to the Halloween in Chicago trip. Mike and I are telling Sasha, Heather and Fergal the Donkey Punch story and Fergal says to his lady love.

Fergal: Darling, shall we show them the Dirty Pirate?
Sasha: Of course.

Fergal mimed coming in Sasha’s eye, she slapped a hand over the “injured eye” then he mimed kicking her in the shin. She yelled out in mock pain and with her hand over her eye hopping on one leg, she chased Fergal around the pool table screaming, “ARRRGGGH!”

Heh.

And it get’s better.

Jay and Brenna are coming to stay over at our house tonight, they went to the Cotton Bowl today, and we are meeting up for Happy Hour this evening.

I get to show him the Dirty Pirate.

May 2009 be better than 2008. Happy New Year y’all.

*A story for another time.

The end of the year is closing in fast and I have to tell you, this has been one hell of a ride. And to be quite frank, I really don’t mean that in a good way. I have been in this slight state of panic for almost eight months and I am sick of it. I know that words are powerful, thoughts are powerful and love and hate although at opposite ends of the spectrum are both powerful as well.

Ah, gah. I was going to get all self-righteous and indignant and talk about how blessed we are and yet…. how bitchy… but you know what?

This calls for a story instead.

Let’s go into the memory file drawer and pull out something from the late nineties. How does that strike you? What about early nineties? Early Y2K? I’m just gonna close my eyes and spin around (watch out Zeke) and pin the tail on the….

Ew. Nope, putting that one back. It was the late eighties and there was bad hair, family drama and an ultimatum or two.

Closing my eyes…. Spinning around… pinning the tail on the…

Ooh, lookit this one. Damn, I’ve already told you that one before.

So much has happened this year, the memories that I pull out to look at like shiny baubles in a jewelry box just don’t have the sparkle that they normally do. Normally I can pull out a funny, interesting, crazy memory and I turn it over in my mind, almost tasting it on my tongue, hear the laughter (tears, screaming) and those are the things I want to share with you but sadly I am coming up blank. Well, not blank, just kind of stuck on one thing.

Let’s just get caught up a little shall we?

When I last left you a little love note I had just returned from Chicago with a wonderful group of people. The ones I call my tribe. Since then I have had something on my plate most days that I haven’t even been able to catch up on reading (stalking) my regular writers/bloggers/journalists. You know who you are, you cheeky little monkeys.

Thanksgiving was pleasant with family out at my parents’ lake house and then I ramped up for a three city conference that has been taking more and more out of me every year. I DID however, put up the Christmas tree. Well, to be honest, Mister put the three pieces together so that when I came home between the second and the third cities of that little circus there it was, the unlit, slightly lilting to the left tree. No skirt, no presents, no ornaments.

I righted the pitiful thing, plugged in the lights, put the skirt around the bottom and put three ornaments on it and called it good. Hey, last year there wasn’t even time to do that much, so I think it was an improvement.

I shopped for the family all day one Saturday and I wanted to punch most people in the face.

Hi, Santa, can I have some Christmas cheer and a big bottle of Belvedere Citrus to get me in the spirit of giving?

On the afternoon before Christmas Eve my daddy called me at work. “Hey baby, you’re momma’s come down with some bug. We won’t be coming over for Christmas this year… and one more thing. Your Uncle Gene? They called the ambulance to come and take him to the hospice today.”

Christmas Eve I wrapped the presents and Mister and I went over to my sister’s to spend the evening with her and her family. We really did have a good time. The kids went to sleep and the four adults (yes, I was included) opened our gifts to one another.

Christmas morning, Uncle Gene died.

Mister and I went back over to my sister’s house Christmas morning and while we were all in the midst of baking/cooking/eating/playing Guitar Hero World Tour my sister and I booked airline tickets and a rental car to get to north Georgia. The visitation was Saturday and the funeral was Sunday. My parents had packed up on Christmas Day and drove over.

My sister and I left early Saturday morning and got there around 2:00 and immediately changed clothes to greet the droves of people coming to my Aunt’s home to bring food.

That evening there was a line of people paying respects to my Uncle Gene and my Aunt that was three hours long. This is in no way an exaggeration. I wanted to be the last person in line so I could hug her neck, kiss her face and ask her if she would like to have a date with me on her porch that included a Diet Coke and about seven cigarettes. She said she would be delighted, she just needed to kiss her baby goodnight before we left. (heart = broken)

My Aunt is a saint y’all. A SAINT. The oldest of three children, lost her brother in Vietnam, lost her parents (to whom she was the main care giver) in 1991 and 1992 respectively (within 10 months of one another) and has been taking care of my Uncle who has been for the most part an invalid for the past five years.

All six of the first cousins were there with their families and when my cousin Beth walked in the door Saturday night I cried, and I cried hard. I had not seen her in seventeen years.

My sister and I are the youngest of the cousins and I… am the baby.

My Aunt and Uncle lived on the same property as my grandparents. When my sister and I were younger we’d be flying out my grandmother’s kitchen door as soon as we were done with breakfast running across the dirt driveway, down the hill, past the grapevines, the pecan trees and the garden… hopping the irrigation ditch as our mother yelled from behind us, “Giiiiiiiiiiiirls! Where are you going?” We’d yell back over our shoulders, “To Aunt Jean and Uncle Gene’s!”

We’d fly over the grass, pass the gravel driveway and leap up the stairs to Aunt Jean’s porch. Uncle Gene would have a project or two for us to do and their daughter, Lynn would have things planned for us to do as well… playing with Barbies, putting on makeup, loving on Lynn’s dog and feeding carrots to the pony across the fence.

And there was Aunt Jean, always waiting with a Coca-Cola in one hand, a smile on her face, a kiss and hug for each one of us and a question, “What can I fix for you girls to eat? We have plenty of everything, just let me know…” She let me play in her jewelry, taught us at Sunday school when we were in town and knew everyone and everything about what was going on.

She was on the radio and would take us with her to the station. She worked tirelessly for Georgia Power for a million years. She has always taken care of everyone around her.

Uncle Gene was my sister’s favorite when she was little. Since she was the first baby to come along since Beth (Chip, Greg, Lynn, Beth, my sister and then me) everyone wanted to hold her, love on her, coo over her and rock her on those fabulous rockers on my grandparents’ front porch. My sister was not a cuddler, she would squirm away from anyone who tried to hold her and she was fiercely independent. Uncle Gene never tried to hold her, he let her come to him, and so she did. She would just sit next to him and if she wanted to talk, he’d listen. If she wanted to read, he’d listen, if she wanted to sing, he would join her… his rich baritone voice would echo through the house just like it did on Sundays at church.

I have a friend* that has twin brothers. His family (and all that knew them as little things) always called them by one name AllenDarrell as if they were a unit. That is how I have always seen Aunt Jean and Uncle Gene. A unit. A force.

I know Aunt Jean is tired, I know her heart is hurting, I know she is missing her other half. So please, if you would, please say a prayer and picture her in light and comfort. My prayer is that she will find peace and a little release… some freedom from always being the one people turn to. Also, that she will know Uncle Gene is watching over her and that he is no longer in pain.

If you haven’t yet, today… right now, go grab your cat, dog, roommate, spouse, significant other, parent, parakeet, coworker, friend… and if you can’t grab them in a hug or give them a kiss, call them and tell them that you love them.

*I need to call him, he and AllenDarrell buried their daddy the day before Thanksgiving.

The Halloween weekend recap.

It was awesome.

Seriously. I cannot just launch into how much awesomeness was had. There needs to be some sort of build up. And the storms over the DFW are over the past two nights have wrecked my sleep and as soon as I got back from Chicago I was in the office for one day then left for the most uncomfortable conference of all times. So, yeah. I’m tired.

Let’s see what we can do here.

I really want to talk about work right now.

But, I know better. And I also know that I would get a big boot in the butt for even flirting with the notion of being dooced.

So, a little bit about the Chicago weekend it is. Bring a sack lunch. This is a doozie.

First thing is first. The day before I left for Chicago (the 30th) I took off of work so that I could pack leisurely, run like eighty-five gazillion errands and not be all “HOLY SHIT. I HAVE SO MUCH TO DO. MUST STAY UP UNTIL 5AM FRIDAY MORNING TO FINISH!” and then puss out on the first and normally craziest night of the weekend.

To give you a sample of the insane in the membrane that I have going on before a trip, normally I have a packing list that I just print out and check off the shit I need when I am packing. (Do not make fun of the afflicted.) For some reason, I left my beloved list at the office and I did not bring home my work laptop, no way to get into the server. FAIL. List lost.

So, I … well, I made another one. But because I kept waking up and thinking of other shit to bring it ended up looking like this.

By the time I was done with the list, there were three columns, single spaced, and frantic scribblings in the margins.

So that Thursday I went to CVS, I went to the bank, I went to Sam Moon and I almost went to J C Penny’s for some chicken cutlets for mah bra, but I decided against it. Sam Moon did me in, and it was like 2pm on a weekday, not even the madhouse of complete chaos that you normally find there on a Saturday. (Oh, the horror.)

I did pick up this cute little black shiny clutch purse at Sam Moon for like twelve dollars. I refused to take Gigi or Gidget to Chicago because I was aware that it may be possible that I could drop my purse in a big puddle of beer or some other substance (stripper glitter… Fergal) that would ruin my beautiful, new purse. So the new cheap one was purchased to basically take one for the team.

It had to meet several requirements. 1) Cheap. 2) Black. 3) Room enough for smokes, cell phone and lipstick (if lucky a compact). 4) Zippered interior or exterior pocket for ID and money. And 5) a shoulder strap, in case of dancing possibilities and safety measures… if really lucky, a detachable shoulder strap.

I found the perfect one. As well as a cute little fuzzy newsboy cap, a pretty grey wrap, a replacement for a hair clip that I wear almost daily, two pairs of earrings and… something else. But seriously, Sam Moon is like crack. It’s worse than Target. Go in for one thing, come out with twelve. The only difference is that I walked out only sixty bucks poorer and at Target I would have lost a cool Benjamin. I also would like to take this time to request a cape… and some other super hero accoutrement as I was able to resist purchasing a beautiful coppery colored LARGE tote for $35. I RESISTED. I need a cookie.

Lord, 642 words and not one thing about Chicago yet.

Sorry. On with the SHOW!

Friday morning I got up nice and early and left for the airport. I had my travel paid for with points, my hotel arrangements paid for with points and my parking even paid for with points. I had Christmas money left over from last year in my clutches and I was ready to go.

I had two costumes picked out for Halloween. The standby bunny one that I wore last year and the new one I kind of made up this year. Last year was not for Halloween, it was for a Tarts and Vicars party and we were in Green Bay. This year it was Halloween and I was in Chicago, going to a Halloween parade in boystown and I figured that since I didn’t have Mister with me that pants would be a wise move.

Ah, pants. The downfall of every great costume.

I figured that I would “play it safe” with a red and black corset, a black Betty Page wig, a pair of red horns and a tail (both pierced), black pants, boots and some false eyelashes. See? Pants. And yet… I was teased mercilessly for wearing a black tank top under my corset. In this group I am seen as a prude. Go figure. (You, there in the back, stop laughing. Not that funny.)

Mike and I met up (oh, and I would link to him… but he doesn’t have a site anymore. Twitter? Sure. Mike on Twitter) at Midway and moved on to the hotel. When we got in and texted all around that we had arrived our presence was demanded requested by Weet to come to a little shop called vive la femme. What a fantastic store! Beautiful clothes, great little shop, nice people… and the choices, oh my. I put on this olive green top and walked out of the dressing room to Oooohs and Aaaahs. The next one I slipped on, “Take that off.” And “No.” Back and forth until I had to make a decision because I had a budget and I was hardcore on staying on it.

After crawling into the trunk of Weetabix’s car (Das Boot) (Apparently I have an issue with this, please excuse the formatting.) we were all dropped at our respective hotels (You should have seen Shawn’s doorman at the Double Tree, helping me out of the trunk, “Will that be all miss?” Heh.) and then it was a race against time to get ready for the evening.

I spent way more time on my make up than I should have and by the way? Wet and Wild Halloween red lipstick? NO. Just No. Bite the bullet, pay the seven bucks for the L’Oreal red and be done with it. Or, you’ll spend most of the evening with lipstick that is trying to get all over everything. So by the time I threw on my wig cap (sexy… very sexy) and opened the door to let in Cheezus, Miss Muffet and a red headed punk boy in to help me with my corset we were bordering on late.

We hopped in a cab to go to the Club Quarters to meet everyone for a drink and then we hailed three cabs to drop us at the Corner of Halsted and Belmont which is where the parade was starting… Or ending. On the way to the parade we got stopped by the Critical Mass Bike Parade before we even crossed the river. Dear Lord, so many bikes.

The cab driver turned off the meter and we just sat there. When they finally passed we rushed out onto Lake Shore drive and got stuck in wicked bad traffic. The three cabs let the three groups out in three different areas, so hooking back up with everyone was a bit of a debacle. But when we did, we decided to go into Jack’s on Halsted for dinner. We lined up in front of the restaurant for pictures before we were seated and tourists started taking our pictures. I guess we made a pretty motley crew with Cheezus, Miss Muffet, Punk Boy, me, a Dominatrix, a Referee, Johnny Quest, Belle from Twilight, Heather, Nurse Hatchet, Nurse Ratchet and even God stood in for a picture or two.

We had dinner and then headed to Berlin and picked up Jen, Wendy Mc and a whole slew of friendly people. It was a very fun evening. And the weekend was just getting started. We got back to the hotel and the front desk clerk was kind enough to take our picture.

The next morning the Westin foursome (minus one) went in search of a meal, found a Starbucks and an Einstein Brother’s Bagels within a block of the hotel. This turned out to be a little ritual each morning. After breakfast the four of us went for the touristy part of our weekend. Mike and I went to H&M and he got a few shirts and a few other items while the others went to Old Navy to get Kevin a jacket.

Then we walked over to Millennium Park and toured the Cloud Gate on the AT&T Plaza (THE BEAN!), the Jay Pritzker Pavilion and the Lurie Garden.

The Bean was insane. If you haven’t seen it in person, please high thee on to Chicago… Now. We took a bunch of pictures of ourselves reflected off of the surface and the weird optical illusions it creates. I want a small one as a necklace. I need a bean. A wee bean.

The pavilion has this amazing sound system that is hanging on struts like 40 feet above the grassy area. They had this insane soundtrack playing that sounded like a train station. You’d walk over to stand under one set of speakers and you’d hear the conductor yelling, walk another 20 yards and you’d hear a whistle blowing, another bit further up and you’d hear a locomotive engine revving up to pull out of the station. Each set of speakers added a different dynamic to the area. I could have walked from speaker to speaker for hours. Or just laid down on the grass and listened.

The Lurie Garden is such an amazing place, like finding yourself surrounded by this little protective forest in the middle of the city. I loved all of it. My feet, however, did not.

On the way back to the hotel we stopped by Ethel’s Chocolate Lounge. Oh, dear Lord in heaven. Mike got two little dark chocolate truffles and gave me one. It was like a rainbow totally gave me tongue.

Saturday evening we all met up for dinner at Portillo's Hot Dogs and then headed over to Piece for an evening of live karaoke.

You all have heard me mention my friend Sesil on this page before. She happens to live in Chicago and she got to meet us for dinner. Being as there was like sixteen of us that evening we had a tough time getting a table for karaoke at Piece. When Sil started yawning (she had had a long day of having three kids... she didn't have them all in one day, she just... y'all know what I mean....) I asked her if we could find a spot to hang out. We did, the perfect spot. Her front steps, smoking and drinking vanilla vodka and sprite while we watched people and talked until almost three am. I know I missed a bunch of karaoke goodness and then the subsequent bar crawl but I Sil and I had a blast, laughing, talking, just relaxing and enjoying the evening and each other’s company.

Sunday morning the four of us again went for sustenance and then most everyone got ready to go home. Melinda and Kevin (Miss Muffet and Cheezuz) packet up their stuff and put it in my room as they had a later flight. Mike and I were both staying until Monday. (ROCK.)

We met the rest of the group over at Gino’s East for pizza and then on to the Park Hyatt for Pimm’s cups on the 7th floor. Have y’all ever smelled that place? The NoMI Lounge? That is what I want to smell like. Like power and pretty and a little bit of spice. I almost bought one of their candles to rub all over myself. I swear, you can’t take me anywhere. The Pimm’s cups were divine… another thing I have to thank Weetabix for (one of the thousands of things) introducing me too.

After the Park Hyatt… Mike, Poppy, Jake, Weet and I went over to C.O. Bigelow at the mall on a search for THE lipstick. When the lipstick quest failed, Weet and Jake left and Poppy, Mike and I went on a quest for shoes. I still had $126 dollars left in my little Christmas Cash booty and I wanted some comfortable shoes.

My feet were killing me because I had been wearing heels and these cute loafers (that hated my feet when I walked about a frillion miles and kept them on for eighteen hours) the whole time I had been in Chicago. Poppy left after a while and Mike and I soldiered on. We went to Bloomingdale’s and lusted after his dream shoes. (There may have been humping.) And then we walked through the H&M on Michigan.

We headed back to the hotel and stepped across the street to Harry Caray’s. Holy Cow! If you’ve seen this video before, I apologize for including it. But I could not stop yelling “Holy Cow!” in a very poor impersonation of Harry Caray.

We ordered some great greasy bar food and then basically left it on the table.

Mike and I were contemplating on whether or not we should go out. Heather, Sasha and Fergal were still in town and they were basically texting Mike all, “Puss. Come to the bar.” They went from 10 blocks south of the river to Division Street in like three hours. At 8:30 pm Mike was like, “If we go in, rest and NOT go out tonight, is this going to be like me punching myself for not getting those boots? Am I always going to regret not going?” I responded, “Dude, it’s all you, but remember… Heather is in from California and Sasha and Fergal are here from fucking Ireland.” He said, “We’re going.” And holy shit I am SO glad we did.

Mike and I met up with Heather, Sasha and Fergal at a little bar called Mother’s Too. It was a wee little pool hall with a great waitress named Haley that I kept calling Kaley. She was cool, she was nice and never got offended when we’d use her as our own personal tie breaker. Even if the questions were of the, “What is your definition of teabagging?” variety.

After several hours and many poor games of pool we wandered across the street to The Lodge. And even tinier watering hole. The music was good and Sasha and I could only attract so much trouble in such a confined space. As my mother says, “Susan, you bring home strays.” Take me… then multiply that power of freak attraction times eleventy and you have Sasha. Mike hung out for a bit until the Sasha/Susan Freak Beacon attracted the fourth or fifth of the evening. A tall gentleman by the name of Tim. Tim was cool, but the four guys we attracted after Tim most definitely were not.

The four of us stayed out until almost 4:45 am and it was a fabulous time. I got to drink the rest of my Christmas money away while playing a new game I made up called “Ask the Lesbian”. Thank you for being such a good sport Heather. (She could totally kick my ass.) I made some fast friends and I hope to persuade Mister to go across the pond to visit my new best friends Sasha and Fergal. Fergal will probably still have glitter on him the next time I see him.

Monday morning Mike and I slept late, went and had Arby’s for lunch (MISTAKE), took a quick nap and then headed to the airport around two-ish. I did not want to leave, but I wanted to go home.

I missed out on so much this year with the Pineapple Fluff gang. I hope to see them all again in Green Bay in the Spring. (Gonna work on getting Sesil to join me!)

I love you guys.

xoxox

PS… you know that little purse I bought for the Chicago trip? I didn’t have time to change purses when I got back in town on Monday and I left for another trip on Wednesday. I took the wee black purse with me.

When I got home on Friday, Mister and I went to dinner and went and purchased booze.

Saturday we ran a couple of errands and basically stayed at home.

Sunday I didn’t change out of my PJ’s.

Sunday evening when I was rooting around trying to find my wee purse that held my phone and my money and my ID my keys and EVERYTHING… I could not find it. I looked in Mister’s car, I looked in my car. I went through the trash y’all. Mister said, “Go look on the back porch where we re-potted that plant yesterday.” I went outside and sure enough. My freaking purse had been sitting on the grill for TWO DAYS.

Sweet.

I am responsible. And pretty.

Alright, simmer… simmer.

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

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

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

He asked me if I was excited.

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

Mister knew something was wrong.

Could I be ill?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

AND SHE WAS MINE.

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

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

And I showed her Florida Evans.

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

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

All that and I got almost a hundred dollar credit.

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

All in all, it was a fabulous anniversary weekend.

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

He sent back this email.

I Think I’ll Write a Story Today

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

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

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

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

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

And no, he does not read this page.

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

There. See?

From one “thirty-something” woman to the whole wide world of the Internets (Thank you Bob Dole)... I have a question. And y’all, I want a real answer. I need to know. Am I insane or is the whole world suddenly sexy?

Don’t know if it is the whole damsel in distress thing that the world has going for it right now, or that I have been shoe shopping recently (which never fails to make me hot), if it is the old lovah’s coming out of the woodwork (thanks Facebook.) that make me all head in the clouds thinkin about way back when, it could even be the music that comes across Spencer (my iPod) or hell, Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue made me a little mmmmmpurrrrrrroooar the other day when I was trying to be good and listen to the classical station so I wouldn’t be tempted… to… do anything really.

I suddenly find brushing my hair to be WAY too pleasurable. And the song Bat out of Hell by Meatloaf is… erotic?

Oh, God… please tell me that it’s not hormones.

If that’s it (and I’ve heard it gets worse), poor Mister.

I hope I’m not gonna be like one of those cats in heat all, “Hi there, big boy, have you seen my ass? Let me show you it. Yes, I am rubbing lovingly up against the leg of this bar stool and listening to Chant* while wearing my new shoes, eating chocolate, dreaming of sex… and brie.”

Because you know. I love me some cheese.

*Gawd.

Deep breath…. Annnnnd release.

Let’s talk about Chant for a second. Chant? Do you mind man? Do you care if I discuss openly on this site (sort of basically talking directly to Stacey here… shit, they’re in Little Rock Friday… oooh, but Monday!?!?! Sherlocks!) and talk about you like you are… for lack of a better and more mature term… YUMMY.

Okay, I’m going to take your silence as a yes.

People, if you haven’t yet, get thee to see Chant, Jerry and J.K. post haste. I am not even kidding.

Lord. Just go to the site and listen to a little bit of Forecast Calls for Pain (Mmmmmrrrooow Robert Cray…).

Pardon me, I uh, hey there Boston vertical stapler, how YOU doin?

Sorry, okay. So, go to the site, listen to a little of the song (or go to their MySpace site, the live medley starts out with a bitty portion of my favorite song of all time, Little Wing) and then think of, um.. Hmm, how to put this bluntly and eloquently at the same time?

Alright, ladies, you know when LL Cool J licks those pretty lips? Or maybe bites the lower one just a little? Yeah? Stay with me.

Okay, now. Take it a little bit further. Imagine that you have stumbled into a nice R&B bar or a Blues club, something relaxed with an air of :: sniff :: what is that? Testosterone? Talent? Joy? Now, mix those things with a voice like butter, a brilliant sense of rhythm and absolute pleasure in playing music.

In front of you see a Creole man with a nicely trimmed goatee/mustache combo wielding the force of innate musicability (is so a word) and a guitar like it is his lover.

Listen close, hear his passion impregnating (shut up) every note, every syllable with blues, with obsession, fervor and excitement of playing. Now see him bite his lower lip then ask (in song) “Let me love you**!”

**Picture yourself here. As the YOU. The YOU that only a tortured soul of a blues musician will write music about. About the soft skin of your neck, your sweet smell, how your lips taste and the succulent beads of sweat between your shoulder blades when you are… making love, mowing the lawn, darning a sock. It doesn’t matter what you are doing, but YOU (hypothetically) caused some talented young (lover) musician to write a song about you.

I need help.

Alright. I know, I know babies. You need the cool water of something totally NOT SEXY to bring you back down to the world of the unhot. Hmm. Um. I’m all out. I can’t rein my mind in. Even Norah Jones sounds hot to me right now. I almost lost it this morning with a cell phone commercial on television using Joan Jett’s Do You Wanna Touch Me?

Indeed.

I’m only thirty six. Is this going to get worse? Please tell me that I will not be distracted by … oh hell, anything at this point. It’s a gamble to go to lunch for Pete’s sake. “Hey, nice way to deliver my water with a slice of citrus waiter… or waitress.”

Seriously?

Seriously.