Please bookmark the correct page at http://suzannadanna.net/ Princess of Irony

Everyone put on their bathing suits but me, because I, as we have realized before, am a genius.

Issue Date: Monday, Aug. 09, 2004

Mister and I went to see my parents this weekend for their combined birthday celebrations. My sister and her little family came too. We planned just to hang out with them and have a family weekend. Lots of relaxing and birthday party stuff. Including pool cake.

And I, like the party queen that I am (Ain’t no party like an SD party cause an SD party don’t Stop!), decided to tell them all about the cracked out pupil and the increasing frequency of my migraines.

Go Su-Z! Kill the Par-TY! Go Su-Z!

Ah, good times. Good times.

To my (minimalist) credit, I did wait until Mister and I were practically pulling out of their driveway to head back to the Dallas area yesterday evening.

Yeah, cause I’m smooth like that.

Mister had been trying to get me to tell them all along, because they had a right to know, he said. Because, we’d want our daughter to tell us something like that, he said. Right? RIGHT?

Oh, all right, fine. Geeze.

I stood there sweating (more on the sweating later) in their driveway and tried to tell them in the most nonchalant way about my Courtney Love pupil and my MRIs and MRAs on the 20th of July.

It didn’t help much that earlier that day I got sunburned with the intensity of a 1000 burning suns out on the lake.

Ok, let me back up.

Yesterday morning (Sunday) we all woke up to have a nice breakfast and relax a bit. We skipped church because we are all heathens and we’re going to hell, but we truly enjoyed our lazy Sunday.

Reb and Daddy-O decided to see if the pontoon boat would pull a water skier. Daddy’s little 1975 Glass Master has pulled a frillion people, at one time or another, but Momma’s new pontoon* had yet to run the gauntlet.

*After Momma and Daddy retired and moved back to Texas, Daddy went out for bread one afternoon and came home with a new boat for Momma. Because he’s smooth like that.

We all packed up a little cooler, grabbed a few towels, (everyone put on their bathing suits but me, because I, as we have realized before, am a genius) the sun block, and our hats and went down to the boat dock.

We pulled out away from the little cove and into more open water, Reb hopped into the lake, slipped on her skis and BIL threw her the rope. Daddy gunned it and she popped out of the water like a jack in the box. The toy, not the fast food joint. Reb made a few runs and even dropped a ski to slalom for the first time in a few years. She did a great job and made it look effortless.

BIL’s turn… He hopped in the water and when Daddy gunned it, he popped up like he was born on skis.

Gray (their son) was getting tired so we made a pass by the dock, let Momma and Gray off and took off again.

Mister wanted to learn how to water-ski.

He did so well. He never made it all the way up but he gave it one hell of a college try, I was worried that he was going to wear himself out completely.

All in all I think we were out for maybe an hour and a half. I had on a tank top and some shorts. No sunscreen.

Now, if you didn’t know before, my skin tone is commonly known as by one of the following monikers: Irish Pale, Porcelain Goddess, Clear and “Holy Shit! My Eyes! What the Fuck is That? Nuclear Winter?”

So, yeah, I’m a bit on the pasty side. I thought we’d be out for about 20 minutes. Nope.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

We got back to the house for lunch and I wasn’t hungry. I sat there and picked at the avocadoes in my salad and then got a stitch in my right side right under my ribs. I excused myself from the table and went to lie down.

Apparently my sister thought I was having a heart attack.

I lied down and felt this pain move from the top of my head (felt like a hatchet in my head) to a hook in my left eye. Ut oh, migraine.

I asked Mister to give me one of my Imitrex shots and I passed out for about two hours. When I came to, the headache/migraine was gone but in it’s place was left the tingly, itchy, raw, fire pink skin of incredible sunburn.

Sweet.

I got up and started packing. My sister and her brood had already departed for the Dallas area, and I didn’t want to be too far behind them. Sunday traffic and everything. I also had a doctor’s appointment scheduled with my neurologist for 9:40 am in the morning to go over my test results from the MRIs and MRAs.

We got everything into the Lincoln and Mister looked at me like, “For God’s sakes woman, tell them already.”

So, I did.

I stood there sweating from the humidity and the uncomfortable skin associated with being burned with Freakin Magma (!) and I told them.

Daddy got his chin down, eyebrows furrowed, small mouth, “I’m not very happy about this Suzanna Danna” look, and my mother just looked fearful and like she was going to click her tongue any minute and say, “I knew something was wrong.”

Which… she did.

I told them that they shouldn’t worry, nobody else (I meant my doctors) seemed to be worried, that I had a dr. appointment this morning (Monday) with my neruo and I was sure that everything would be fine.

I promised to call them after my doctor’s appointment Monday morning, kissed their faces, got in the Lincoln and drove away.


This morning I slept in a little bit. I called my boss last night and left him a message to remind him about my doctor’s appointment in the morning. So I got up early, got showered (I knew my sunburn was horrid when in the shower, my wet hair felt like somebody was trying to loofa my back with a wire brush) and got dressed.

Mister followed me in the Lincoln so I could go directly to work after the appointment.

We got to the doctor’s office, I signed in and sat down in the uncomfortable waiting room chairs.

The lady I make my appointments with, Janet, and whom I had called on Friday to make sure that my appointment was on Monday the 16th, stuck her head out the window.

Janet: Suzanna Danna? Are you sure you are supposed to be here?

Me: Yes ma’am, my appointment is for 9:40 am on Monday the 16th of August.

Janet: ::blink:: Right.

Me: [looks at her watch, sees that it reads the friggin NINTH of August] Shit. I’m sorry.

Janet: That’s ok sweetie, I’ll see you next Monday.

In the car, calling my boss.

Boss: Boss speaking,…

Me: Apparently I am a tool.

Boss: And you’re calling me to tell me this? (Or something equally as funny and “Hey, don’t worry about it.” –esque.)

Me: Explain, Explain… yadda yadda Apologize

So yeah. I am all sorts of confused when it comes to dates this week.

I called my parents on the way to the office to tell them that my dr. appointment wasn’t until next week and to apologize for not being more forthcoming with them about this situation.

And when I spoke to my mother, like most things (between she and I), our conversation turned to my weight.

When we spoke last week about sleeping arrangements for this past weekend, I asked her if the little blow up mattress was in my closet for me to sleep on. She assured me it was then we got into it about why Mister and I can’t sleep together on a double bed. It’s a freakin double bed… and he’s 6’5” for goodness sake.

She actually said to me, during that conversation, “If you two do not loose weight, you are going to be in scooters by the time you are our age.” (My mother and my father’s ages are 63 and 64.)

I know she thinks that size doesn’t matter, that only health does.

But that’s not the truth I fear.

When I spoke to her this morning she threw out that I needed to make sure my neruo knew about my rapid growth spurts, my rapid weight gains, my birth control pills and my hypoglycemia. I assured her that I would, but then I said something that I think hurt her heart.

I said, “Momma, both you and I are guilty of self diagnosis. We explain away things that happen, but I am afraid that you and I are both guilty of trying to find something medically wrong with me so I just won’t be another fat ass.”

She said, “No, no, no, that’s not true, I only care that you are healthy…” and she went on and on. “I’m just worried because you don’t eat much!”

“Yes, but mother… I eat high calorie things, and I am sedentary.”

She then said that she promised herself that she wouldn’t say another thing to me about my weight, that she had promised herself that many times.

But ya’ll… she always does. I think it is just her way. It has ceased, or so I like to claim, to hurt my feelings.

I had to get off the phone with her. I was almost to work, but that wasn’t all of it. I felt guilty talking to her about all the things I need to do about my health while in a bag on my passenger seat set a paper bag from Grandy’s with steak and cheese biscuits in it for my breakfast for the next few days.

I felt so shameful.

When I got to work, my sister called me, asked me how I was doing, I assured her I was fine, told her about the mix up with the dates for my appointment and that’s when she said that she was afraid I was having a heart attack yesterday.

She said that Momma called her, very upset, asked Reb to be the go-between to make sure I knew she was sorry, that she didn’t mean to mess everything up.

What do I do with this information?

Should I call my mother to console her for how she feels about my weight?

I mentioned to Reb that it has been hard to have this weight for 10 years and that I know what I need to do; I just need to do it. That when I was so unhealthy in college and just too thin, Mom praised me with words and affection for looking so great.

Reb was steadfast that Mom only cares about my health, not how I look.

I asked her, then why was she feeding me Slim Fast in high school?

Reb, was incredulous. “She did not.” I assured her that yes, she did. But because I felt guilty for what Reb thought I may be insinuating, I offered, “Maybe because they were just healthy.”

We both grabbed onto that poorly lobbed excuse like it was a friggin lifesaver.

I know I need to lose weight.

I know I could be healthy.

I know I need to watch my food intake, if anything to stave off diabetes.

I know, I know, I fucking KNOW.

So, why is it so hard to put the theory into practice?

Maybe Mom is right, and I need a support group.

Lord.

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To understand this dear reward (above) at all, you must hie thee on and read gatsby’s grape ape entry and my comments.

And because of said comments he sent me my very own dream turtle in an email titled wee gift with these words attached, “my purple monkey is booked solid so i ordered you a tangerine turtle. hope he proves helpful.”

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