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Issue Date: Tuesday, Sept. 14, 2004

In all of my wildest dreams I never dared hope that any of that stuff in those crappy Danielle Steele books would be true. That somebody, somewhere was out there for me. I thought that all that stuff was foolish and was only for lonely old housewives to pass the time. Sort of like their “stories” on TV.

Fabio (heh…. Shut up.) would rip up another perfectly good linen shirt with leather lacings and Mrs. Nussbaum would have to imagine herself in something definitely 18th century with a bustle. Whatever. Feh.

I didn’t really read that kind of stuff or watch those kinds of things because I didn’t want to get it in my head that I was meant for somebody. I didn’t want to become lazy and complacent and so sure that somewhere out there (like in that fuckin Fivel song) that there was somebody waiting for me. That I was made for somebody, and somebody was made for me.

I had it in my head that those were not the cards that I had drawn for my lot in life.

I was the worker bee. The drone. I wasn’t meant to be the princess.

I watched action movies. Rawr. I worked on cars and built stuff. Hoah! … That was supposed to be manly sounding. Did I fail miserably? Well, yeah, I failed at emulating my father too. I wanted to be tough. I wanted to be emotionless. I wanted to be one of the guys. I wanted to be cold… well, not cold, just not some weebly girl... you know?

Bless my (few) true girl friends hearts, they really stuck with me. In high school and college they would come to me with problems and I would look at them, true confusion in my eyes and say, “I’m not really sure if you just want to bitch, or if you are looking for a solution to your problem.” And they didn’t stone me ya’ll!!! I wanted so desperately to protect them from the stupid boys/men they were so madly in love with. And I was confused by my adoration of the gangly mop headed men as well. I didn’t know how to fit into either gender role.

I wanted to be strong like my father.

I wanted to be loved like my mother.

But I didn’t know how to be either one.

When I decided that it was time to move on from my surroundings in East Texas, I was still struggling with my gender confusion. Not my sexuality mind you, I had that in spades. I just wasn’t sure where I was supposed to fit in this puzzle of a gender role. I was a strong woman who was so pushy, that I kept attracting spineless men and expecting them to stand up to me. It was a vicious cycle and I was not winning, or getting out of the race. I ended up resenting every one of the men I had a relationship with, any of them that were crazy enough to get involved with me.

It was time to get help.

I asked Stacey, a true, dear, dear heart, “What the fuck is my problem?”

She answered, “You’ve been hurt, you have issues, why don’t you go to counseling… and we’ll talk about it too.” I started seeing a counselor (and drank a lot of beer with Stacey at Happy Hour(s)… believe me… they deserve capital letters) and decided that I needed to let someone in. I needed to let things work themselves out as opposed to trying to have control over everything. Ha. Ha… haha… hahahahaha!


Boundaries dears… they are a bitch.

One of the almost nails in my own coffin was a man named Neal. Neal and I had an on again off again relationship that seemed to span ages. At this century in our lives he was living in San Diego and I had just moved back to Dallas I was freshly divorced and he was fresh off of a nationwide tour with a General’s (crackheaded) daughter. I didn’t know about his little trip, but he was looking to come back to the Dallas area, so without hesitation, he packed up his equipment and headed east.

Neal had never taken any of my shit and always sworn that he would take care of me. He wanted to break me of my “I can do it myself” mentality I think. He promised that he was clean (off the crank… whatever that was… yes, I was stupid) and I let him move in with me.

So… yeah, there we were. We had never spent the night with one another, he wasn’t paying rent, he was detoxing in my apartment… which was not very pleasant. And... he is 6’11”.

One bedroom, One bath.

Big guy.

It wasn’t pretty.

Let me put this in perspective for ya’ll. I was so into this, “I’m tough, I can handle anything.” “I don’t need you.” bullshit and it was hard to have someone else in the house, that after two months I came home to a fucking Dear, Jane letter telling me that I was too much man for him.

Go ahead. Read that sentence again.

I’ll retype it for you. I came home to a fucking Dear, Jane letter telling me that I was too much man for him. He left.

Which, in all honesty, was the best thing for both of us.

So, let’s take a toll shall we? Ok, I was um, approaching my 30th birthday by this point, I had been married previously, I was so scary that I ran off an almost seven foot tall junky.

But, I was making progress. I had realized that I couldn’t control everything. I had to let some things go. I didn’t have to always have everyone like me all the time. It was ok for people to think I was a bitch, no worries, so when Neal called trying to do his “I wanna come back, don’t you love me?” thing… I told him to get bent.

One bridge burned. Felt pretty good to close that door.

I just needed to deal with things in my past too. I needed to realize that it was ok to be soft and gentle. That it was ok, and not a weakness to be seen as soft and feminine.

Soft…. Mmmm

Feminine…. mmmm

Pretty… puuurrrrrrr

Can I cry too?

Really? No Shit?

Oh. I have to quit cursing? Damn. Maybe later.

So, I had to deal with years and years of baggage. We are talking BA. GAGE. Yanno, how when you get so adapt at sweeping stuff under the rug when you are young, then you turn around in your late twenties and you are all Holy Sheeeeeeeyit! And you can’t even see over the big ol’ hump that you’ve swept under the rug.

You have to start dragging out your drama piece by mother fuckin piece. This may take a while.

Ok, so ya’ll I am like three years into this project and I am beginning to see daylight over on the other side of my proverbial rug.

The reason I am even telling you this is because when I realized that I didn’t have to be all She-Ra Princess of Bad Attitude on everybody and I let down my guard, I found out that it doesn’t take as much work to be nice to people when you aren’t holding up that wall or that mask. It doesn’t take as much work to smile when you are really smiling, not trying to make some fake you smile, or trying to smile behind four feet of protective concrete and bricks.

I had already busted up the Masks of Sue and buried them with the Bricks I had when I tore down the Great Wall of Sue. These are the hardest projects I have ever been involved in. I have found some very ugly things buried beneath those masks and behind those walls. I found that all the good things I did… like, giving up my financial comfort for the gain of those I loved was all for naught when it is tainted with resentment. Things like that. Ick right?

But under all of those bricks and masks was, is the real me.

I even met a really nice man who met the real me. I introduced the real me to a man for the first time on October 16th 2002. The real me walked up and shook the hand of this nice man who was the friend of a friend. I didn’t feel the need to put on a mask because, if I was supposed to be alone for the rest of my life, I had already made peace with that.

This man, this somebody, turned his blue eyes to me over ice cream and asked me out to dinner. Little did I know that those few words would start the beginning of the rest of my life.

This month is the first anniversary of our marriage.

This man holds me when I cry, this man laughs at my jokes, this man says that I look pretty in the mornings, this man is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen. This man has gold in his beard, this man pets me in just the right way, this man appreciates products, this man shares my dreams for our future, this man knows my thoughts, this man knows when I hurt.

This man knows me.

This man has a delicate heart, this man talks to movies, this man loves Max.

This man.

This man is mine.

This man is my somebody.


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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.”

The Graphic Below Courtesy of Papernapkin.

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