I've packed my bags and moved...

to www.iwantasquarepiece.com.
Enjoy!

Holy XOXO's,
Suzy**

Liners vs. squatters.

This past weekend I had the pleasure of spending the day in Martinsburg, WV.  My grandmother had just had a medical scare and it was about time that I visited them.  I never, however, make a trip to Martinsburg without giving my friend, Katie, a call.

Katie and I met and became BFF’s when I was nine years old.  Through every grade, every relationship, every journey – she is the friend in whom I confided every step of the way.  Katie knows every single member of my family as if they are her family.  She and I have rotated hundreds of articles of clothing through each other’s closets; and she and I have exchanged hundreds of encouraging Bible verses through each other’s lives.  Thanks to regular sleepovers, together we are probably guilty of a minimum of 261 of her mother’s sleepless nights.  Katie was the one who taught me what the word ‘cleavage’ meant, nailed me in the eye with a baseball and danced with me on her coffee table to the song “I’m Gonna Be (500 miles)” at the end of “Benny and Joon.”

Imagine my surprise on Sunday when Katie – who knows me best - made a false assumption about me! 

My grandparents, Brian and I arrived at Katie’s house and helped her bring in her groceries.  One item was toilet paper.

Katie, “Chris is going to kill me for getting the generic brand.”

Me, “Can you get rid of the packaging?  Maybe he won’t know.”

Katie, “Oh, he’ll know.”

Ma (that’s Grandma), “Is it two ply?  If it’s two ply, I don’t think it’ll make a difference.”

And then we discussed our toilet paper preferences.  Mind you, I haven’t seen Katie in months and we had plenty to catch up on; but this is how we roll.

Me, “I was just at a class in NY and had to evaluate it.  At the end of the evaluation I just had to mention how thin their toilet paper was.  ‘You do realize that while you think you’re saving money with this cheap toilet paper, I’m just going to use four times as much, right?’”

Katie, “I think the worst is when a public restroom has the toilet paper so low that it’s hard to reach because it’s lower than the seat.”

Me, “I think it’s the worst when you see that they’ve had toilet seat liners, but have never refilled them.  Like, are you trying to impress me that you used to care?”

(I would like to emphasize here that next year we will have been friends for 20 years.)

Katie, “Really?  You use liners?  I pictured you as a squatter.”

You… pictured me… as a squatter?  Me?  A toilet seat lining fanatic be a squatter?  How could our friendship have missed this?  And what exactly fits the profile of a squatter anyhow?  Let this be a lesson, men, that women are so mysterious and so complex that it really does take a lifetime to figure out even just one of us.

*You can now enjoy more Square Piece at www.IWantASquarePiece.com*

I want a square piece!

A while back Brian and I visited the fam.  Much to my pleasure, when we arrived my mom announced that she had found an old home video.   If you don’t know, I have a frustrating and terrible memory.  When it comes to my childhood, it’s like a giant, black shadow has descended and permanently veiled most of the details.  Scrapbooks, albums, videos – I cherish them all and hold my breath in anticipation with every viewing.  Most people my age can think back and remember the toys that they used to play with, some of the teachers that they had, some of the clothes that they wore, their friends, their pets… I’ve got nothing. 

A video?!  How exciting!  I wonder what I was like at five years old!

Well, this video captured a family gathering, a celebration.  Friends and relatives had come over and were milling around, chit chatting.  My dad was in the background, quite animated, telling a football story (this was common at our house and I do believe I picked up on his storytelling enthusiasm).  Someone decided that it was time to cut the cake and I was hovering to be the first in line.  With my nose directly at the edge of table and my eyes fixed on the dessert, I declared, “I want a squuuuuaaaare piece.”  Someone must have motioned to accommodate me.  I persisted, “Not that one.”

Brian’s eyes darted at me in widened wonder and fascination (and perhaps a smidge bit of horror).  I knew exactly what he was thinking (because my eyes did the same thing).

My husband, “You have not changed at all!”

It’s true.  I want a square piece, darn it.  I want it because it’s the best one. 

I don’t remember that day, but I can take a guess at my reasoning.  I’ll betcha I figured that since the cake was round, the square pieces on the inside would be larger than the pieces cut from the outer rim.  (And what kid doesn’t want the biggest piece?)  Additionally, the inside pieces have less icing.  In my opinion, that is the best piece of cake.

Since that day, Brian has called me Square Piece and teased me mercilessly.  He, of all people, is most entitled to poke fun at me being that he, of all people, has vowed to love and put up with the square piece in me, till death do we part.

Me, “Brian?  Could I some water… with a straw… no ice… in the football shaped glass?”

Brian, imitating a five year old’s whine, “Sure.  Do you want a square piece?”

But here’s my justification: the square piece isn’t any harder to accommodate than the regular piece.  Consider the number of steps in the average glass of water: 1) get the glass, 2) grab some ice, 3) fill the glass.  Now consider the square piece way: 1) get the football glass, 2) fill the glass, 3) grab a straw.  You see!  Being a square piece doesn’t make you unreasonable and demanding!  It just makes you specific.  Which is what my bumper sticker says: I’m not picky; I’m just specific.  (One of these days I’ll actually take it out of the kitchen drawer and put it on my bumper so that everyone can judge me with enlightened awareness.)

In my humble opinion, wanting a square piece has benefitted me in that it’s enabled me to hone in on the specifics in life.  The treasure here is that with the square piece personality comes the finer enjoyment of telling stories.  Stories are boring without specifics, first of all.  Second of all, there’d be a lot less to tell.  For instance, if I wasn’t such a square piece nerd in trying to determine what is the best way to make a mojito, we never would have had The Mint Incident.  (You should know that the world would be a sad, dull place without The Mint Incident.)  And if I didn’t want a square piece, if I was forever indifferent, I might miss the amusing irony that life has to offer.  If you’ve read The Thankful GamePart 1-3, I hope you know by now that this personality doesn’t make me HIGH maintenance.  On the contrary, it just makes me specific maintenance.

Do you want a square piece?

*You can now enjoy more Square Piece at www.IWantASquarePiece.com*

The Settlers of Catan incident.

Yesterday morning I awoke still a 28 year old woman.  Last night I went to bed as a three year old.  (The only plus side to this was that it was an odd number; but I was too indignant to notice.)

Before going to bed last night, Brian and I decided to play a quick game of Settlers of Catan.  If you don’t know how to play this game, I’m convinced that this story will nonetheless make sense because it's not about the objective of the game; it's about hating to lose.  You should know that Brian almost always beats me at this game.  The board was set up; he selected and placed his blue pieces and I selected and placed my red pieces.

Paying attention is quite critical for Settlers of Catan.  If you don’t keep a careful eye on the board, you might miss an opportunity to advance yourself by collecting resources.  And such was the case for Brian.  He rolled the dice and got a 3.  Brian had two 3’s from which he was benefitting; but he wasn’t paying attention and during that turn only collected resources from one 3.  (He claims that it’s hard to pay attention because I take “SoOoOoOo long” that he gets bored and loses focus.  Well, I just call that excellent strategy.)

After he finished his turn, I rolled the dice and set my turn in motion.  Once having done that, however, I noticed that he had missed a 3 and pointed it out.  I thought that it was fair to go ahead and allow him to benefit by giving him the resource; but he’d have to wait until his next turn to use it.  Brian disagreed and was adamant that I should back peddle my turn and allow him to finish his as if he had noticed them both.

Me, “No!  I’ve already set things in motion!  This will teach you to pay more attention!”

Brian, “I would totally do that for you!  I don’t understand why you wouldn’t treat me the way that I treat you.”

Me, “Because it’s a game.  And this is how you play a game.”

Brian, “I can’t believe you won’t let me finish my turn.  I’m so mad.  …I don’t even want to play anymore.”

Me, “What?!  I never quit when you’re beating me.  The ONE time that I’m beating you…  You’re acting like an _______ (you can fill in the blank)…”

Brian, “You’re right.  I’m sorry.  Will you forgive me?”

Me, “Yeah.”

We both were about as charming as two cookie-face-smeared, belligerent toddlers butting heads and locking horns.  We finished the game in near silence.  I won.

Brian, “You know that one turn would have changed everything.  You shouldn’t have won.”

I have few words to express just how that statement gets under my skin.

Me, “I  ‘Shouldn’t.  Have.  Won’?!  I was nice enough to let you have the resource!  Isn’t that enough?”

Brian, “If you weren’t going to give me my turn you shouldn’t have even pointed the 3 out.  It just made me mad.  I just don’t understand why you don’t treat me the way I would treat you.  It's not fair.”

Me, “Because it’s a GAME!  And life's not fair.  You said you were sorry!  You’re not sorry!  You’re acting just the same!”

Brian, “What about grace?  What about mercy?”

Me, “This is NOT the Holy Bible!  This is Settlers of Catan.  This is not God’s redemptive plan of salvation!  This is Settlers of Catan.  …And I hope all this anger keeps you warm tonight.”

Brian, “You’re not coming to bed?”

Me, “NOPE.”  I scooped up my 47lb. basset hound and hauled her to the guest bed.  (The dogs know that that is the one bed on which we can all sleep and snuggle together on occasion.)

“Do not let the sun go down in your anger”?  Well… technically the sun was already down.  But when it rose this morning all had been forgiven and forgotten; and all four of us - both dogs, both humans - woke up on the guest bed. 

Brian has approved this post and just sweetly handed me my morning cup of coffee.  Phew.  That was a close one.

*You can now enjoy more Square Piece at www.IWantASquarePiece.com

Becoming a grown up.

Today marks the beginning of a new era for me.  No.  More.  Overtime.

Last week I was able to bounce my frustrations off of my chipped mug friend, Sherri.

Me, “I just can’t say ‘no’ to something if I don’t have a good excuse.  I’ll feel guilty if I don’t have an excuse.  I need something outside of me to blame so that I don’t feel like I’m personally disappointing someone.  I hate disappointing people.  Do you have any advice on the matter?”  Then I plopped another piece of sushi in my mouth. 

No, she did not have advice on the matter.  Apparently we have similar strengths and weaknesses; and this people-satisfying, self-suffocating tendency runs in both of our veins.  However her listening ear sufficed because I was able to hear myself say things like, “When will I be able to make a grown up decision just because it’s a good decision?  Why do I always have to wait until I'm backed into a decision and I snap?”

Did I mention that I have a wonderful boss?

After praying about my decision, mentally rehearsing our conversation and then getting jitters all over again, last week I finally explained to my boss my need to pull back my hours from the insane craziness to the regular craziness.  Do you know that she was so understanding?  In addition to that, do you know that my clients have been so understanding?  (I have wonderful clients… even the wobbily bobbily ones.)

Today is the first Tuesday in probably four or five months that I worked a normal eight hours instead of 11 or 12.  So what did I do with my free evening?  Well, this time I visited Sherri and sat on the listening end of her life.  I didn’t have much advice.  Sometimes it helps to just hear yourself talk.

The Chinny Chin Chin.

Having a bad day?  Have I got a cure for you!  I call it “Esther’s Chinny Chin Chin.” 

Have a seat.  Now let my basset hound rest her chin on you.  *Poof.*  All your troubles are gone.

At least, that’s how I feel in the morning, in the evening and pretty much all the time.

Politicians having trouble getting along?  Solution: Esther’s Chinny Chin Chin.

Feeling insecure?  Solution: Esther’s Chinny Chin Chin.

Car won’t start?  Solution: Esther’s Chinny Chin Chin.

If only we could drop Chinny Chin Chin bombs all over the place.  I imagine that if we could, human beings would float around with dopey smiles on their faces all the time.  We’d probably never exercise enough and we’d be late everywhere we go.  Because, you see, once Esther’s chin is resting on you, you’re now on Esther time.  Under no circumstances will you want to get up to cook dinner, drive to the store or even wiggle your big toe.  No, no.  You stay because the CHIN stays.  And when the chin leaves, then you may also leave.  You have to savor the Chinny Chin Chin moment for all its worth because sweet, complicated Esther is not generous with her chin.  Quite the contrary.  The Chinny Chin Chin plays hard to get, making it all the more satisfying once you’ve got it.

It’s such a soft, little chin.  If I could put a price on sharing Esther’s Chinny Chin Chin, I’d probably charge $317 an hour.  (However, if you’re a Square Peace follower, I might cut you a deal.)  That’s a pretty small price to pay for total peace. 

Suzanna Luzy Silly Louise Testicles-Spears.

What’s in a name?

When I was born my parents named me Suzanna Louise Testa.  As a young child being raised in West Virginia, I was insecure that perhaps Suzanna Louise sounded a wee bit hillbilly.  In my mind I pictured a woman with rollers in her hair and an apron on her body screaming from a mountain top, “Suzanna Louise!  Dinner is ready!”

So when I was in middle school I decided to change my name to Lily.  It’s not that random.  Suzanna means lily.  My mom wasn’t really on board, but I campaigned hard at school.  I spent about a month correcting my teachers and peers.  “Hey, Suzy…”  “It’s Lily.”  Just as it was becoming second nature for them to call me Lily, I had an exasperating change of heart and switched back to Suzy.  “Hey, Lily…”  “It’s Suzy.”  This prompted a short period of deserved teasing where both of the names were lumped together and I was called either Luzy or Silly. 

These were the same years that I also realized that the hillbilly ring was the least of my worries.  First of all, my initials – S.L.T. – sounded out the word slut.  That fact was minor compared to the more obvious connection between my last name and all the things that we were learning in health class.  Between the ages of 11-18, for all intensive purposes my name Suzy Testa might as well have been Suzy Testicles.  I dreamed of the day when I’d get married and could take on my husband’s less embarrassing last name.  Except, as one of my clients lovingly pointed out to me this week, I “didn’t win that lottery.”

Okay, so now my last name is Spears.  And for the longest time I thought I was out of the woods and in the clear.  Sure, it easily relates back to Britney.  But I’ll take that over male genitalia, right?  Except I hadn’t foreseen one little snafu. 

This past Thursday I mentioned my blog to my personal trainer.  I was referencing my posting Restoring dignity at the gym because – once again! – I found myself in a position where I had to tuck my pant legs into my socks.  (So elegant.)  My friend is building a website for me so that I can get out from under Google and run my own page. 

CJ, “What are you going to call it… suzannaspears.com?”

Me, laughing, “NO.”

CJ, chuckling, “It has a nice ring to it.”

Now, I knew why I was laughing.  I was laughing because of course I’d reference Square Piece in the address.  But I didn’t know why he was laughing.  And then it hit me.  You see, six years ago I joined my current salon and my coworkers googled me, the new girl.  That's when I found out...

Me, “Are you laughing because Susana Spears is a porn star?”

Big smile, still chuckling, CJ says, “Yeah.”

Me, “I’ve just lost a little respect for you.”

CJ, “No!  It’s just… I’ve heard that she’s a porn star.”

Me, “Oh, you’ve HEARD?” 

*sigh*

Right.  Because that’s how men know about porn stars.  They hear about them.  This is just great.