Being Big, And, Apparently, DULL as FUCK
Tonight I was Big.
Tonight I made baked ziti, dried cranberry and walnut salad, fried cheese wheels, and garlic toast. And I served this meal with a fabulous red wine, in my candlelit dining room, for some close friends. And we listened to intellectual music, and talked about important, intellectual things. And then, when it was all over, I gracefully tripped over a doggie gate and went sprawling through the kitchen, banging my elbow so hard into the wall that I am PRETTY FUCKING SURE that the structural integrity of the house has been compromised. We must now wear hardhats inside. The ceiling will soon fall, THAT IS HOW HARD I SMACKED THAT WALL.
It was awesome, and also, totally to be expected. God thinks it is funny when I try to play grown-up. It makes Him laugh.
So, I haven't written much in the last week, but what is funny, is that actually, yes, yes I have. I have written two entries, both while drunk, and both so ridiculous and nonsensical that in retrospect, I decided they did not, NOT need to be posted.
Now, after a few glasses of fabulous red wine, I am having second thoughts. Why should such labors be wasted? That is what I want to know. Maybe y'all want to read the entry I wrote while we watched the Apprentice, an entry entitled "In Which I Hate Everybody." Do you? Do you really?
So maybe I will post them, maybe. If y'all leave me awesome comments telling me that I should. I am easily swayed, and have no backbone to speak of.
Also new and interesting: um. Nothing! Nope. Not much happening. We had some sort of Falcons play off something or other, but I don't watch professional football, so all of the drama was wasted on me. Dukay and Dig came over and watched the game, and there was screaming and teeth-gnashing, but I was busying myself making...(wait for it)...sausage balls in the kitchen. Yes.
You guys, I make some really good sausage balls. You don't even know the half of it. I would be like Betty Crocker, if she just drank more. She's such a prude.
But, with nothing new to report from over here (hi!), I just thought I'd pop in and say hello. Hello, y'all! There is nothing new to report! Soon there probably will be, as in the next few days, I will be doing more interesting things, and hopefully not falling down. These things include (1) planning my upcoming marriage to Kiefer; (b) changing the lightbulbs in the den, because almost all of them are out and it is beginning to look like a prison movie in here; and (4) castrating all of the dogs in my house and burning their respective manhoods over a spit in the backyard, because HOW MANY TIMES can you pee on the corner of the sofa? HOW MANY?
And, that's about it. Hope y'all are all doing well. Hope nobody is peeing on the corner of your sofa, because that is a TREMENDOUS pain in the ass.
Now, before I go, I must beg you to please, please go visit the gorgeous and talented Anna Beth, who designed this very site and is very adorable, and who is raising money for her Science Baby because some damn fool idjits fired her from her job. You can easily donate by purchasing a sticker here. And then you will have a sexy sticker, and EVERYONE WILL BE HAPPY, and maybe I won't fall down so much.
And that's...it. And so ends the most boring and pointless entry in Miss Doxie history. Y'all don't hate.
By the Way, I AM BRILLIANT
Shut up. I am, too.
The reason why I am brilliant today is that I, Miss Doxie, the very person who becomes overwhelmed with glee when she figures out how to, say, turn off the computer without actually unplugging it, installed wireless internet in my home.
ME. I did it. Sort of all by myself. Sort of.
I say "sort of," because although I did make an attempt to install it my own self, I eventually had to call the 800 number for the router thingy, and have a very nice young man talk me through the whole process. First, he started at "Please put the installation cd-rom in the disc drive," but even that was rushing me JUST A LITTLE, like, WHOA, BUDDY, you're not dealing with a pro here.
So, he had to back up a step, to "Please turn the computer on."
That was more my speed. Turn it on, you say? Well, I am excellent at that. I can do that blindfolded, if someone guides my hand.
The installation guy, whose name was Sam, was very, very patient, which is nice, and also, with every button he told me to push and cord he told me to plug in, he said "please." So polite, that Sam! This made me feel like I was doing Sam a favor, and made me temporarily forget that it was Sam, and only Sam, who could bestow upon me the ability to access the internet from the bathtub. And this is an ability that everyone should have, including household pets.
But the other thing about Sam, was that Sam had himself a little catch phrase, a little colloquialism that he kept tossing out there, demonstrating that Sam is cool, Sam is down, Sam can talk the talk and walk the walk, and also, Sam can bestow upon you the ability to access the internet from the bathtub.
Inexplicably, and repeatedly, Sam kept using the phrase "by the way."
By the way. Constantly! Now, to me, when you say, "by the way," you're essentially saying, "oh, and as a side note, I am now going to tell you something that is only peripherally related and borderline important, so feel free to ignore me, starting...now." This is what it means to me, but this is not what it means to Sam. To Sam, "by the way" means, "Now I speak."
I would say something like, "Okay, I've plugged in the blue cord thingie."
"By the way," Sam would respond, "Please plug it into the wall now."
"Okay," I'd tell him. "Done."
"By the way, is anything blinking?"
"Yeah, the whole thing's blinking."
"By the way, if it's blinking, that means it's on. If it's not blinking, by the way, you may have unplugged it, by the way."
And this went on, for AN HOUR! An HOUR of "by the way." Not one thing that Sam said to me was not somehow attached to a "by the way." EVERYTHING was by the way! There was no direct message!
Furthermore, he'd throw a "by the way" in for some of the most important information he had to impart, like, "By the way, I am about to give you a ninety-six character password that includes symbols and hand gestures, and you will need to type this in correctly every time you log onto the system, and, by the way, if you don't, we kill your family."
Somehow, the whole thing ended up actually working, and as I yelled with joy and bolted down the stairs with my laptop in order to shove it into Dukay's face and shriek that BITCH, I CAN TOO INSTALL THIS SHIT, O YE OF LITTLE FAITH, Sam remained on the line, all, "By the way, is that all I can do for you? Hello...? Hello? By the way?"
So, check me out, y'all. I can wander around the whole entire house, including the bathrooms, just internetting all the live long day. And it's all thanks to Sam, and my own brilliant, brilliant ability to follow directions given in an offhand and indirect manner.
By the way.
On the wings of love
I'm tired of looking at the post about Bo, because the title reads, "This way to crazy," and that is seriously irritating me. And I am irritated every time I see it, because I always read it as, This way too crazy, like, this shit? Is WAY too crazy, people! This WAY too crazy!
And that is just...wrong. I mean, who says that? It was supposed to be more of a directional joke, as in, take a right, a left, and give the dog a glass of water, and then you will arrive at Crazy, population: me.
I wrote the fucking thing, and even I can't read it correctly. Which means it's time to move it off of the top of the page, forever.
Unfortunately, that does NOT mean I have anything interesting to replace it with. No. I've been working, and yesterday I refinanced my house, and none of that is interesting in the slightest. Basically, it's all blah, blah, work life things.
But just because I don't necessarily have anything interesting to say does not mean that I won't write anyway. You know this. And today, I think we should have a frank discussion about the startling fact that I have been having some seriously fucked up dreams, like very fucked up.
And, hey. Know how you totally hate it when other people start talking about their dreams, and it lasts for, like, forever, and they go into all this tedious detail and you just want to start throttling them just so they will SHUT UP, OH MY GOD, YOUR DREAMS ARE SO BORING?
If you answered "yes", you probably want to quit reading. Now.
Because last night, I dreamt that I was engaged to both Kiefer Sutherland and a myna bird. No, really. I'm absolutely serious. El Dukay was somehow completely uninvolved in the equation.
And, yeah, I can see the Kiefer thing, because we've been watching a lot of 24. First, we had to catch up on season three before we could watch the premiere on Sunday. And then they showed those two episodes on Sunday, and then two more on Monday, so I have been, essentially, SATURATED with Kiefer to the point that it is NOT SURPRISING that my unconscious mind believes that Kief and I (I get to call him Kief) have developed some sort of special, two-dimensional relationship. I have stared at Kiefer's little face for about sixteen hours in the last four days, which is much longer than I have stared at any other faces in the last four days. Possibly ever. So this can be explained.
But...a myna bird? I mean, first off, what the FUCK is a myna bird?
I didn't even know. I had to look it up. It turns out that they are pesky and small and inappropriate marriage material.
(Still, if I get to choose which myna bird I am engaged to marry, I choose the one with the big hair. Big hair looks sort of hot and carefree on myna birds.)
Meanwhile, while I am having dreams about being betrothed to a bird, Dukay continues with his amazing ability to sleep like a freak. The other night, we were sleeping, like normal people. Then, all of a sudden, he grabbed me with both arms, and started...just...bouncing me up and down, all boppity boppity boppity. And all the while, as he bounced me, he was very loudly hollering, "MINE! MINE! MINE!"
And obviously, he was warning away Kiefer, is what he was doing. Kiefer, and lusty, lusty little myna birds. That is the only logical explanation. But whatever the hell it all means, I can only say, this shit? Is WAY too crazy, people! This WAY too crazy!
This Way to Crazy
Y'all know Bo. Everyone knows Bo. But what you probably didn't know, what I have managed to keep a secret from almost everyone, including El Dukay, is that every night before Bo goes to (my) bed, he demands a glass of water.
But, not water out of a bowl. No. Bowl water is unacceptable, you idiot.
What Bo wants, what Bo needs before he goes to sleep, EVERY NIGHT, is water in a glass. And if you don't GIVE him water in a glass, he perches on the edge of the bed, gazing towards the bathroom, and whiiiiiiiines.
Whiiiiiine. Whimper. Whine whine.
That is what he does, with increasing volume, and with those big, brown puppy dog eyes filled with sadness. And, if you don't notice this heartbreaking display, like if you are, I don't know, ASLEEP, he will climb up your body and stick his cold, wet nose up your nostrils until you are DEFINITELY NOT ASLEEP, NOPE, I'M UP, and then he will run down to the end of the bed and resume the whining.
He doesn't look at you at this point, because he is too busy saying, "Ohhhh, WOE. WOE and MISERY. Bo has been gazing at this bathroom for HOURS without moving. Bo has not moved at all, and it definitely was not Bo just sticking Bo's cold wet nose into your nostril. It couldn't have been Bo, because Bo is just too weak...and growing...weaker...with no...water [cough cough]...Bo will probably...die...soon."
So you give in and get up, and you stumble into the bathroom, and you fill up a glass of water for His Royal Highness of Short and Brown, who is SO THRILLED, OH THANK THE HEAVENS, THERE WILL BE WATER, and he bounces and leaps and jumps with joy, all the way over to the sink, where he bounces and leaps as you fill the glass, and OH THIS IS SO EXCITING. And so you return and place the glass on the floor, and he bounces and leaps over to the glass, and then:
Bo stops leaping, looks at you, and says: What is this? Is this...water? Bo doesn't really want any water.
So you say: Oh, buddy, you are going to DRINK that fucking water.
And Bo says: Bo isn't sure. Maybe.
So, now we have a stalemate. And you stand there, and Bo sniffs the water, and looks at you, like, "Is this all you are offering Bo? Is that the only thing that comes out of sink? Because Bo would prefer a hotdog. Or a kitten. Do you have a kitten? For to play with Bo?" until finally, he DEIGNS to take a few tentative laps, looking at you all the while, like OH, the things Bo has to do to keep Mom happy. Poor Bo. Bo's work is never done.
And this is what I go through, every night, every night, so that fourteen pounds of sheer, evil willpower will go to sleep in my own bed. And last night, while I was doing this in front of a thoroughly perplexed El Dukay, I could just imagine him thinking, "Huh. This is...yeah, this is not good."
So, for all of y'all out there, who send me emails about how I'm going to be that crazy dog lady when I'm old? About how I'm going to have dogs instead of children, and always smell vaguely of Milkbone? Too late, my friends. As of now, it is officially too late. I recommend that you all invest in Iams.
And I would say more, but someone is staring at me, because really. Bo's ears can't scratch THEMSELVES, now can they?
Everyone have a great weekend!
P.S.: On a totally unrelated note, I need to thank y'all for nominating me for the Snarkiest Blog Award over at the Best of Blogs. (I'm going to assume that "snark" is a synonym for "drunk." Because...isn't it?) If y'all want to vote in my category, here is the link to do so. And, I think Bo has promised never to bite people who vote, but that is just a rumor I heard.
Yet Another Entry Where Satan Makes A Guest Appearance
Tonight, I had dinner with Ziz and my parents and El Dukay, and this was a bittersweet occasion, because while the food was very, very excellent, this dinner was technically Ziz's goodbye dinner, because that fool child is moving to LOS ANGELES.
Which is all the way across the country, I MIGHT ADD. She is a heathen.
According to our little Jet Setter, she'll only be gone for a year. To this I say: poo. See, I think she should live with her awesome big sister (hint: this is me) and we should get drunk a lot. This is what I think. But NOOOOOO. She has this bee in her bonnet, something about "career" and "opportunity" and blah blah blah talky. (I tuned out. There is nothing more boring than "career." I mean, I'm trying to DRINK here, Buzzkiller.)
So now I don't know what I'm supposed to do when there are problems that only Ziz can solve, and there are a lot of such problems, particularly involving this DAMNED COMPUTER that I do not understand at all. See, I'm currently using Ziz's old Mac, and I DO NOT KNOW how to use a Mac. It is mysterious. Also, shiny. Also, I am constantly causing the little fucker to seize up. And, most significantly, when I tried to install wireless internet, I managed to knock out ALL internet service to my home. We don't know how this happened. I blame gnomes.
What we do know, however, is that after I brilliantly killed the internet, I had to connect using a DIAL UP MODEM. Like I was living in 1992, only without the metabolism I had when it was 1992, because apparently, that is asking too much.
But anyway. So I was on the dial-up, and Ziz instant messaged me (and this is something I don't truly understand, to be perfectly honest), and asked me if I'd fixed the connection. And I said no, and then we had this lovely exchange:
Self: It's completely dead. It's probably possessed.
Ziz: That's really the only explanation. It definitely wasn't your fault.
Self: POSSESSED, I tell you! By demons! By STAN HIMSELF.
(A very long time passes.)
Ziz: Wait. Who the fuck is Stan?
See? Because...not so much...Stan. I meant Satan. But it turns out, Stan is just a typo away.
And then we died of hysterical laughter, because PEOPLE....STAN! If you know someone named Stan, PLEASE send us his phone number so we can call him forever. And we will say witty things to him like, "Is your name Stan? Heeeeeee! You're, like, ALMOST Satan. Do you feel vaguely evil? Like if you had an 'a', you could do some serious damage?"
And then...that's the thing. I can't think of anyone else in the universe who would go ballistic with me at three in the morning over a typo, or who laughs at all of my jokes, or who can just look at me across the dinner table and say one word and render me hysterical. And now she's moving to California.
Ziz, take good care, and come home often. Watch out for sun poisoning, muggers, actors, and, most of all...Stan. I love you a million.
How Not To Take Down Your Christmas Tree
In case you were wondering, in case you were sitting at home pondering ways in which you should definitely NOT take down your Christmas tree, like, you were thinking to yourself, "Self, exactly what would be the worst possible way to take down a Christmas tree, and what is the way that is most likely to involve destruction?" and this question had been just EATING AWAY at your brain, then people, this entry is for you. Because I have recently learned the answer to this question. There may have been bleeding.
Step One: Believe strongly that it is VERY BAD LUCK to leave your Christmas tree up after New Year's Eve. Believe that demons will rise from the depths of hell and probably eat your kneecaps or hide your car keys. Believe that if you DO happen to leave your Christmas tree up one second after the stroke of the New Year, you are RUINED, FINISHED, and all the bad luck that will befall you in 2005 will be ENTIRELY ON YOUR OWN HEAD, the end.
Step Two: Despite this strong belief, procrastinate! Put off taking the tree down until 4:00 p.m. on New Year's Eve. Be alone at the time. Decide that undressing and removing a seven foot tree from your den is TOTALLY NOT GOING TO BE A PROBLEM, because you are a Big Girl, and you don't have to call anybody for help, even though you have a boyfriend with really big, strong arms. Ignore this fact. Call upon your twin inner resources of "stubborn" and "deluded."
Step Three: Pour self a glass of wine.
Step Four: Gaze at tree. Size up situation. Joke to dogs, "We're going to need a bigger boat!" Dogs don't get it. Probably because it doesn't exactly make sense.
Step Five: Start removing ornaments. Become frustrated with putting ornaments back in individual plastic containers. Also note that tree is very, very dead, having been erected in den sometime in November in flurry of misdirected Christmas spirit.
Step Six: Pour self a glass of wine.
Step Seven: Make executive decision that all ornaments will be placed in large box with tissue paper. Figure that any ornaments who do not survive trip to attic will have brought that upon themselves. Decide it is a "survival of the fittest" type situation, and praise self for appreciation of Darwin's natural selection process.
Step Eight: Realize process will be much more fun if self is also watching Sopranos Season Three finale on DVD while undresing tree. Take appropriate steps to make this happen.
Step Nine: Note again that tree is extremely dead. Pine needles are all in hair.
Step Ten: HATE LIGHTS. Hate lights INTENSELY. Lights are the worst idea ever in the history of Christmas. Also, lights will not come off of tree. Consider scissors.
Step Eleven: Pour self a glass of wine. Blame lights.
Step Twelve: TREE IS FINALLY UNDRESSED. Gaze at tree. Split attention with Sopranos season finale, which is really good. Begin appraising situation for getting tree out of den. Decide to just pick it up and haul it out the back door with stand still attatched. Good plan. GOOD THINKING!
Step Thirteen: Lift tree, directly into:
Step Fourteen: Ceiling fan, which is ON, which causes tree to:
Step Fifteen: Explode.
Step Sixteen: As pine needles rain about self, panic. Drop tree, which leads attatched Christmas tree stand to:
Step Seventeen: Spill water all over floor, causing:
Step Eighteen: Pine needle soup-substance everywhere, EVERYWHERE in the WORLD, all over sofa, floor, and self.
Step Nineteen: (Dogs are FREAKING OUT RIGHT NOW, by the way.)
Step Twenty: Pour self a glass of wine.
For the rest of the evening before going out to celebrate the New Year, I cleaned up pine needles and water. There were pine needles on the mantle. There were pine needles on top of the refrigerator in the kitchen. And, when I went upstairs to get showered, I found pine needles in my bra. And I had been wearing a turtleneck, people. Think about the physics that must have been involved for that to happen! IT BOGGLES THE MIND!
So! If you follow my plan exactly, you will end up with one less tree, scrapes all over your wrists and arms, and a faint pine aroma that will probably linger in your house until probably February. But one thing is certain: You sure as FUCK better not have any bad luck in 2005.
Happy New Year, everyone!