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

Anyone else? Should we start a support group?

Issue Date: Monday, Apr. 23, 2007

Hi, remember me?

Yes, I know… make with the funny, circus girl.

First off. Ladies, (Gentlemen, you may look away for a moment, unless you have something to add.) do you ever go to work, or anywhere for that matter and for some reason your boobies, nay, your nipples decide to be all porny? You aren’t the least bit aroused by anything (except the thought of cheese*) and yet they are all sticky-outty. Normal shirt, normal bra, normal day… just with nipples that could help you out by being those teeny hammers that you keep in your car just incase of a water landing and you need to break your window to escape while your car sinks to the bottom of a watery lagoon. Right?

Right.

*I want some cheese.

So, today I get dressed in my normal garanimals for adults’ uniform. Black pants? Check. Black trouser socks? Check. Black loafers? Check. Sea Blue ¾ length sleeve v-neck t-shirt from Jones New York Sport? Check. Brighton accessories? Check.

I got on the elevator, pressed my floor and while I was turning my little 180 in the corner to get out of the way of those boarding I caught a glimpse of my bosoms in the back of the mirrored elevator. I was forced to cover my boobs with Elvira and a wayward flyer on a credit card offer because I was about to poke out the eyes of the not so devilishly handsome although quite spritely security/car tow-er guy that was getting on the elevator with me.

DANGER WILL ROBINSON, DANGER. Your boob may just poke out the eye of the short security guy, or at least mess up his comb over!

And it’s not like the girls are huge mind you, they are average for a girl who is… girthy. But Cheeze** Whiz on a Ritz Cracker, please. This is embarrassing. I don’t want to look like I am trying to hide my boobies. I am not ashamed but I know, y’all, I know that what most men think when they see a woman who has (hate this phrase) her headlights on. “Oooh, she must be one hot momma, a hellcat in the sack I tell you. Lookit them hooters, she’s just raring to go ain’t she?”

**There it is again.

And for those of us who have been gifted with… let’s just call it Over Active Nipple Syndrome (OANS) we get the look. The patented, “Hey, how’s it goin, holy Christmas tree lookit them nips! They’re pointing right at me. Is she cold? Does she want me? She must want me. Otherwise, there is NO way she’s be all aroused like that. Hell, it’s even warm in here. Should I tell HR? Approach her in the parking garage? Send her inappropriate text messages? Blurt out my phone number?! What do I do, what do I dooooo?”

All the while you are completely oblivious to the mind fuck you just pulled on the quiet IT guy that eats Vienna sausages*** in the lunchroom.

***Oh the irony.

So OANS struck this morning and as not to be obscene and/or cause a scene or a moral dilemma for anyone in the building I have donned a jacket, a windbreaker. An ugly windbreaker that has my company logo on it and makes that “zoot,zoot,zoot” noise when I walk and swing my arms.

Anyone else? Should we start a support group?

Okay, moving on. But listen, here’s the deal. You don’t tell a soul about this alright? My daddy would disown and then bury me if he knew what I am about to spill. I know, I know babies, shhh. It’s alright. My momma always did tell me, “Never write down something you don’t want published.” But here’s the deal. It has already been published. It happened about a decade ago and if there are any traces of this left, I would like a bucket of one hundred dollar bills, because I earned that shit.

Okay, once upon a time there was a little bitty girl with long legs, wide eyes and a very bad marriage.

Yes, we are going to talk about my boobs some more.

Within this bad marriage things were tried to “spice up or liven up” the boudoir relationship. If you know what I mean. And I totally think you do. (Remind me to tell you about breaking a vibrator.) So, a digital camera was purchased, borrowed, stolen… whatever, don’t remember. And some photos were taken. Of… ME.

Anyway, I was thin, my breasts were standing straight up (while I was lying on my back) and they are natural. I was proud. My husband (at the time) was proud. Our little secret.

Who cares, right? Not me.

Until. UNTIL. Dum, dum DUUUUUMMMM!

My asshole of a husband was jacking around with the computer one day while I was at work and sent some files to me. I looked up to see an email from him, opened it and WHAM! MY BOOBS and some other pictures of me doing stuff.

Also, shut up.

If I described even one of those pictures, you have probably seen it. And dammit, I want some cash for that. Don’t people usually get paid to pose naked, if anyone other than their spouse is supposed to see said pictures? Those were MY boobs on display. And, my makeup did look smashing.

So, I immediately deleted all of then husband’s emails that were pouring into my computer. It was like trying to put pajamas on an alligator. I would take a call, place an order, delete an email, call him, the phone was busy because we had dial up, freak out, answer a call, place an order, delete an email, send an email, “For God’s sake, stop sending those!”, answer a call, place an order, get an email, delete an email, get another email, “But you look hot in this one.” start to cry, take a call, place an order, delete an email… and so on ad nauseum.

Finally I sent him an email with 72 point type that was all STOP, I WILL GET FIRED. And since he was a lazy prince he finally stopped… when he ran out of pictures. I shift+deleted all of that shit. Oh my Lord, my face was red, and I had my emails set up on “autoview” any second someone, anyone could have come around a corner and my whole world would have shattered.

I got home that night and was all shaky mad. Y’all know how when you get so mad and embarrassed and pissed off that you just shake and fantasize about drawing and quartering the one who has caused you such grief, such embarrassment, such anxiety? Yeah, I was shaky mad.

And he was laughing at me.

Hi. Death by mockery table for one please?

He had NO idea what he had done and the worst part about it was that when he finally figured it out, he didn’t care. And he thought I shouldn’t care either. “What? You’re hot, those pictures are great. Who cares if anyone else sees?” So, to add insult to injury he wasn’t even a bit protective of me and my virtue.

Looking back I am TOTALLY sure that the whole entire Police Department where he is still working has seen or has heard stories of those pictures.

When I got fired from that company a year or so later (for being late… seriously), it was my perfect chance to escape back to Dallas. I had cleaned out my computer of everything personal; it had been plenty of time since the asshole sent those pictures. I packed my little box of notebooks, books, special projects that I worked on, packed my stuff into my truck, got a Dallas Morning News paper on the way home and started looking for jobs.

I had separated from X and asked for a divorce on our 5th (6th?) year anniversary (because that is how sweet I am) and I found a job in Dallas. I moved. We divorced. I got a call from a dear, dear friend of mine. She happened to be my boss when I worked for the company where X sent the pictures.

Cookie: Hey baby girl.
self: Cooks, what’s shakin bacon?
Cookie: Honey, I have some bad news.
self: What? Who? Who died?
Cookie: No, no, no…. not like that.
self: O… kay. What’s wrong?
Cookie: Well, when you left Reggie got your computer.
self: Alright, how is that son of a bitch?
Cookie: Well, he’s a lot better now that he has some uh… um…
self: Cookie?
Cookie: What?
self: Spit it out.
Cookie: He found those pictures that your X sent to you.
self: …. What?
Cookie: THOSE PICTURES. The ones of your….
self: … [sound of gagging and choking and maybe the death of my dignity]
Cookie: Honey?
self: … Wh-What?
Cookie: That sneaky bastard heard something about those pictures and did some sort of uninstall program on the computer himself.
self: What? He KNEW?
Cookie: Yeah, he may have even requested your computer after you left.
self: Oh God.
Cookie: You are now the porn queen of [random company where we worked].
self: Oh, how… pleasant.
Cookie: What can I do for you?
self: Can we do anything about it?
Cookie: Not really. Not that I am aware of anyway. But he was reprimanded for sending private work documents outside of the office.
self: Oh… no… really……? He sent something … My Pictures?!? OUTSIDE THE OFFICE? And got Reprimanded? But that’s all?
Cookie: Yes, let’s go ahead and call you the porn queen of Nacogdoches.
self: Fuck.
Cookie: Hey, they looked pretty good.
self: Shut up.

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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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