But Seriously, Folks
If y'all read my comments with any degree of zealousness (as I do. I love you, comments!), then maybe you noticed a very sweet comment left the other day by someone named Aunt Rie.
Aunt Rie is not technically my aunt. She is technically my mother's best friend, and has been for about a kazillion forevers. She and her husband, Phil, have been like second parents to me since I was nine years old, and they are excellent people who think I am wonderful. Obviously, that means that they are also brilliant and have good taste. Because it is ALL ABOUT ME.
But anyway. My other father, Phil, was recently diagnosed with cancer, and underwent pretty major surgery on Friday. He's expected to make a full recovery, and we are all very relieved and happy, and YAY, etc., but he's going to be in the hospital for about two weeks.
Two weeks. And they had JUST bought a TiVo, y'all. UNIVERSE, THAT IS SO CRUEL.
So here's what I'm thinking. See, they love my site, and read it religiously, even though I include bad words. (I think they shut their eyes at the dirty parts.) So I was thinking, wouldn't it be nice if all these strangers wished Phil a speedy recovery in the comments section? And then I could print them out and bring them to him in the hospital, and that would be almost as good as Tivo!
And then I thought, well, ALSO, how about if I donate a buck for each comment left, in Phil's name, to the American Cancer Society? That would be a nice thing to do! So I will do that.
So, y'all. I am asking you to please leave a comment wishing Phil a speedy recovery, and for each commenter, I will donate a dollar to the American Cancer Society. It's a good cause, and it will make Phil's day, and YOU WILL ALL BE HEROES TO ME, and I will have your children.
(Possibly I am kidding about having your children.)
I will close comments on Wednesday, so I can bring the list to him on Thursday. Thank you all for participating, and let's all hope that my wonderful Mr. Phil gets better very soon.
So, comment away! Seriously, the more, the better. You are all awesome.
UPDATE: HOLY CRAP! It's Monday morning, and we're nearing the 200 mark. I AM SO EXCITED. This is just unbelievable, y'all! Thank you so much to everyone who has already commented. Your comments have been so sweet and funny, and just awesome. For those who haven't, please do; this is turning out to be WAY cooler than a TiVo, in my opinion.
Also, I would like to point out that I just said "holy crap" instead of "holy shit." I did that for my Aunt Rie. Hi, Aunt Rie! I didn't say shit!
Once Upon A Time, Not So Long Ago
So. Guess what I did last night? It is four words long. Each word is beautiful and glorious, and the words are:
That is right. Thank you, Dukay, for introducing me to the world of FauxJon and his tight blue jeans and beautiful overprocessed hair. This may be the best gift I have ever received. Bon Jovi Cover Band is the gift of love.
Now, let's talk about the Bon Jovi Cover Band for a moment. First of all, let's discuss the fact that the FauxJon looks EXACTLY, TERRIFYINGLY, PRECISELY like Jon Bon Jovi. EXACTLY. And he sounds EXACTLY, TERRIFYINGLY, PRECISELY like Jon Bon Jovi.
EX. ACT. LY. I really can't emphasize this enough. It is a doppelganger situation. One of the two is clearly an evil twin.
And this made me think. Really, there were not a lot of options about what FauxJon could do with his life. At some point he had to have a Major Realization, that, man, I do look exactly like Bon Jovi. What the hell do I do with that?
I mean, he couldn't be, like, an accountant. What would you do, if you went in to see your accountant, and he WAS Jon Bon Jovi? You would freak the heck OUT, is what you would do, and you would say, "Dude, you look JUST LIKE BON JOVI and it is FREAKING ME THE HECK OUT." And then you would find someone else to do your accounting, because you don't really know what kind of money management skills Jon Bon Jovi possesses. I mean, yeah, he wrote Livin' on a Prayer and all, but that does not qualify him to handle my IRA.
FauxJon was directly in front of me, which enabled me to see his rippling thigh muscles through his criminally tight jeans, and which also allowed for some Very Special Moments between FauxJon and myself. It was a standing-room-only situation, and I was there with a bunch of people, and I ended up front and center, DIRECTLY in front of the FauxJon, where I proceeded to develop a HUGE FauxCrush because...Bon Jovi! Almost! I was tremendously in love with Jon in the early eighties, and last night, I felt all that prepubescent, statutory affection rushing back in an Exclamation!-perfume-scented wave, and it made me nostalgic for a simple time where my greatest challenge in life was convincing my father that it WAS TOTALLY COOL for Boy George to wear more makeup than my mother, and that large, teased hair = perfection from Jesus.
I mean, GOD. Dad, do you really want to hurt Boy George? Do you really want to make him cry when you make fun of his eyeshadow?
Anyway. So, moments of LOVE between FauxJon and myself, culminating with his singing, "You were born to be my baby," DIRECTLY TO ME (I have witnesses!), to which I shouted back, "BABY, YOU WERE MADE TO BE MY MAN, FAUXJON!"
And then I considered throwing my bra on the stage and screaming "NEW JERSEY!" but that is when I remembered that...FauxJon. It may walk like a duck, and sound like a duck, but at the end of the day, that guy's real name is probably Henry.
But I was, apparently, the only one to have that realization, because...y'all, people were IN to the cover band. Girls were shrieking, like old-sixties-film-Beatles-shrieking, and guys were pounding their fists into the air, and Dukay sat on the sidelines with our friends who are way too cool to be, like, MOSHING at a fake Bon Jovi concert, DUH. But not me, who was (let's recall) FRONT AND CENTER, receiving a personal serenade about how I was made for FauxJon, and he was made for me, and the love that we share will almost certainly result in several children who are all born with processed hair and dimples, and that is FINE, that is all I need out of life.
We built up to a frenzy of FauxExcitement, and everyone was screaming, and the lights were flashing, as they played the last, shrieking strains of Bad Medicine (that is what I NEED), the drummer (FauxSomeoneElse) stood from behind his drums, and, overcome, threw his drumstick into the crowd, and...
WHUNK! Right across my nose. Ow.
This morning I awoke with the bittersweet memories of my FauxEvening, my ill-fated, brief, FauxLove, and one VERY VERY REAL AND OW DON'T TOUCH PAINFUL bruise across the bridge of my nose.
1987, y'all. Good place to visit, but you wouldn't want to stay there, because...it's tough. So tough.
Admissions Department, Part One
So, the wireless died again. And I fixed it all by myself, ALL BY MYSELF, and now I strongly believe that I may be invincible.
Y'all, I probably am.
Because I am invincible, I decided that now would be a good time to come clean on some issues. Because if you're going to make a major pronouncement, like, if you are going to take a load off of your chest and make some SERIOUS ADMISSIONS, PEOPLE, what better place to do that than on the internet? Where everyone including your mother (hi, Mom!) can read them and judge you accordingly, for all time, forever and ever, amen? What better place, indeed! Hello, brilliant idea! Thank you for popping into my head.
So. Here is my list of Dirty, Dirty Secrets that Are About to Not Be Very Secret Anymore. Brace yourselves. I am feeling very proud of myself today.
1. I sing very bad folk songs in the shower. Oh yes, I do. It is all AM Gold, all the time in there, baby. Do not tell El Dukay.
Really, we should not be too worried about El Dukay, who never reads this site anyway, even when I tell him, "Dukay! I wrote about you! Go read!" When I tell him this, he invariably says, "Oh, I will totally read that, sometime in the future when I have nothing to do, even though I am sitting at a computer playing solitaire right now at this exact minute, but I cannot possibly be dragged away because HI, SOLITAIRE is more interesting than you."
Maybe that is not exactly what he says. But it is what his heart says to me.
Anyway, do you like how I managed to totally take all the focus off of my own admission, and place all blame squarely on the shoulders of Dukay, who has nothing to do with singing folk songs in showers? Do you like that? Not only am I invincible, I am also BRILLIANT.
2. Speaking of which, I strongly believe, and will point this out to people (see: Dukay, Dig, Timmy, y'all) that that whole BRILLIANT! marketing campaign that Guinness is doing? WELL. THAT WAS COMPLETELY MY IDEA, ASSHOLES, because DIDN'T I WRITE ABOUT THAT LAST YEAR? HUH? That's RIGHT I did.
You can send me my check, Guinness marketing team. I would also like a new bicycle and an adorable haircut. Get on that.
3. I hate my feet. Feet, I hate you so much.
Feet are not, as a rule, very pretty appendages. But I really hate mine. They are the ugliest feet in the land, and I will not go without shoes even if you pay me money. When El Dukay and I were first dating, we were over at his place, and we started with the kissing (MOM: STOP READING NOW. YOU TOO, AUNT RIE. See, when I say we were "kissing", that means "We were studying in the library.") Anyway, kissing, and you know, and onwards and so forth, and El Dukay tried to take off my shoes, AND I REFUSED.
That is how much I hate my feet. So much, that I was willing to convince a thoroughly perplexed El Dukay that I was a Woman With Issues, who will not TAKE HER SHOES OFF, even when she is in a bed. This disturbed him. He still brings this up. As in,
Self: Dude, did you eat the last frozen pizza?
El Dukay: WHY WOULDN'T YOU TAKE YOUR SHOES OFF THAT TIME? ARE YOU INSANE?
4. I spend a ridiculous amount of money on food that I never actually eat.
I do this every time I go to the grocery store. I cannot leave the grocery store without purchasing eggs, milk, bread, and sandwich meats. And then I never eat them. They sit in the refrigerator or in the pantry, all hopeful and fresh, and I reach past them for Diet Cokes. I kill their hope, the small hopes of these little fresh foods, and ultimately, they give up and grow very sad mold, and must be tossed in the garbage. And then I go to the grocery store and think, "Huh, I'm out of eggs," AND THE CYCLE BEGINS ANEW.
I have some problem wherein I feel like it is wrong if I don't have those staples on hand. Grown up people keep eggs and milk. Grown up people also remember to buy paper towels on occasion, though, and I am ALWAYS forgetting those fuckers.
That's it for now. I feel very naked, having made all of these admissions. I'm sure there are many more, but frankly, I can't think of anything shocking at the moment. Give me time; we'll be drinking tonight, so probably by tomorrow morning, I'll have all KINDS of shit to admit to. Right after I finish singing all of John Denver's Greatest Hits in the shower.
You fill up my senses. Every one of you.
Well, it's Valentine's Day! Again. We had one last year, too!
And it occurred to me that this, this is my second Valentine's Day on Miss Doxie. Yes! Y'all, I've gone and had this site for a year, and forgot to say anything about it. Possibly because I have no clear idea of when I started up (it was Januraryish), but still. I had an anniversary! Which I...forgot! Someone send me some flowers!
El Dukay and I have Valentine's Day plans, of course, which include dinner at my favorite restaurant, where we will drink wine and hold hands and gaze into each others' eyes and try very, very hard not to think, "DEAR LORD I AM MISSING 24, and IT IS KILLING ME."
And the TiVo at my house? Not working yet. (This is grounds for divorce in some states.) And programming the VCR? Uh...no. First of all, that is such a NINETIES thing to do, to "program your VCR." It is totally going to be one of those old person phrases, like, "wind your watch" or "play those eight tracks." My children will never know the heartbreak of trying to program a VCR. Thank you, technology!
Hey! "Programming the VCR" should be a dance move! It would involve squatting and poking and cursing. It would be like an old school throwback, and I came up with it first! Y'all remember that when you see it on TRL.
But anyway. It's Valentine's Day, and I wanted to take this opportunity to send a big heart-shaped kiss out to all of you, to all of my friends and family, to all of my readers, and of course, to my El Dukay. I love you very much, and I'm glad you're my Valentine.
Y'all have a wonderful Valentine's Day!
P.S. It's the final day of the raffle, if y'all want to play. Which, of course you do.
An Entry Where I Actually DO Buy Shoes Online
Y'all! There is a nifty little online raffle thingy happening over the next few days, where a lot of people (including moi) have dontated prizes, and you can earn raffle credits by donating to the March of Dimes, and I won't explain all of it because then I would just be RUINING THE SURPRISE, NOW, WOULDN'T I.
So! I recommend that you go here, donate some money to the March of Dimes, and then choose which raffles you want to enter with your credits.
Maybe you will win the thing that I donated, which is a gift certificate to my boyfriend Zappo's website. Because...shoes. Obviously. (What else would I donate? A dog?)
I should go ahead and admit that something bad happened to me last week, that being that I needed some shoes, and it occurred to me to look on Zappo's, which I had never done before. And immediately, I realized that This Would Be Trouble, No, Really, because...Y'ALL. So many SHOES. It is like porn to me.
In the course of the last week, Zappos has made a total of FIVE deliveries to my house, and each box was large, and as the poor UPS Man hoisted the biggest of the boxes through my front door, with its telltale "ZAPPO'S!" emblazoned against the side of the cardboard, he looked at me and said, "Lady, you only have two feet."
He may be right. He is also hateful.
Zappo's should come in a plain brown paper wrapper, like vibrators and dirty magazines. Everyone on my street does not need to know about my Zappo's problem. It is bad enough that El Dukay knows, and actually physically removed me from my laptop the other night, where I was shoe shopping, after we had this conversation:
Self: Hey, do you like these?
El Dukay: [Does not look away from television]
El Dukay: No.
Self: Yes you do. Shut up. I'm buying them.
El Dukay: [Does not look away from television]
El Dukay: You already have some just like them.
Self: Do not. I hate you so much.
El Dukay: [Does not look away from television]
El Dukay: The heel is too high and you will fall down and die.
Self: WILL NOT. I hope you get hit by a bus. I hope you get hit by the UPS truck when they come to deliver these pretty new shoes I am about to purchase.
El Dukay: [FINALLY looks away from television]
El Dukay: Wait, THOSE? You DO have those! You have that EXACT PAIR, in that EXACT COLOR.
Self: I...no? I don't?
El Dukay: YES YES YES. You own those shoes. I HAVE SEEN THOSE SHOES ON YOUR FEET. I AM GOING UPSTAIRS TO GET THOSE SHOES AND I WILL SHOW YOU.
And, of course he was right. But whatever. Some of you KIND people understand that when you have a pair of shoes, and you LIKE those shoes, sometimes you need to get another pair, especially when Zappo's is selling them FOR TWENTY DOLLARS.
TWENTY DOLLARS FOR TWO SHOES. You get the whole pair! That is basically GIVING THEM AWAY.
Now, to those of you who understand: I love you. Please come to my house and we will make out and try on all my new Spring sandals. And those of you who don't understand? Well. YOU can go hang out with Dukay and the UPS Man, and hate all day. I bet your feet are very sad.
But whoever you are, you should go enter the raffle. Babies and feet will thank you, and besides -- the UPS Man needs someone to laugh at that isn't...me.
Here's to You, Mrs. Robinson
So. Last Sunday night, my parents, El Dukay, and I all went to see The Graduate, starring Morgan Fairchild and her naked body, at the Fox Theatre in Atlanta.
The good news, and I may have mentioned this before, the good news is: they serve wine at the Fabulous Fox. And also, martinis. And we needed them, y'all, because YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW.
Now, have y'all heard about this? This Graduate stage production thing? Because I will be happy to tell you ALL about it, namely, that it involves Morgan Fairchild, BUTT ASS NAKED, and also, with no clothes on, and incidentally, the woman is NAKED AS A JAYBIRD, right there up on the stage, in front of my PARENTS, and that may be a sign of the apocalypse, right there.
When we told my father about our evening plans, he was less than thrilled. And my mother kept saying, "Oh, come on. You'll get to see Morgan Fairchild naked. Every man wants to see Morgan Fairchild naked." And this horrified my father. Deeply. And he kept on protesting, "No, I DON'T, and why WOULD I," and he was VERY BOTHERED, because Dad...well. Poor Dad had mixed up Morgan Fairchild with Morgan Freeman. And they have different hardware entirely, and I am not even going to get INTO the look of pure, sweet relief on his face when he realized his mistake.
But speaking of hardware. People, we are talking about watching NAKEDNESS with parents. My parents do not have a "naked." I don't even want to talk about it. They were born wearing shoes and parkas, and that is that.
Now, my dumb ass was responsible for purchasing the tickets for our evening of theatre, and because I am both AWESOME and STUPID, I (through no fault of my own, I may add) ended up procuring front row seats for the show. And so we went, my MOTHER, my FATHER, my BOYFRIEND, and myself, to see Morgan Fairchild in her birthday suit, because DID I MENTION that the woman is NUDE.
Now, they use tasteful lighting in the scene where Morgan Fairchild shows us the goods, and by "tasteful lighting", I mean, "it is kind of dark." So people who are in, say, row FIVE will see nothing. People in row one? Well...hello, Morgan Fairchild's vagina! And how have YOU been?
People, it pains me to say this. But Mrs. Robinson...well. She got herself a Brazilian. KILL ME.
(Sidenote! As someone who wrote one of her two theses on The Graduate (this is true. The other one was on Marilyn Manson, but that is a story for another day), well, as someone who did that...this made my cry a little. From SHAME.)
So, anyway. We're sitting there, my MOTHER, my FATHER, my BOYFRIEND, and MYSELF, gazing at Morgan Fairchild's girl parts and thinking, "How did this happen, exactly?" and also, "Oh my FUCK," because I never, ever want to be in the same room -- nay, not even the same ZIP CODE -- as my father gazing at a woman's netherreigons. This is not RIGHT. This is the sort of thing that drives otherwise healthy people to insanity, I am thinking.
What made it worse, what made it MUCH worse, is that Morgan Fairchild...well. Y'all? Just between us? NO. That woman was not born with those breasts. There is a team of surgeons in Malibu high-fiving each other every time she exposes herself, because HI, THEY ARE ENORMOUS, and they are WAY BIGGER THAN MY HEAD on this BITSY little Morgan Fairchild body and that is NOT RIGHT. Frankly, I was terrified. Now, THEY deserve their own zip code. And area code. And dress code. Frankly, they may take over, and Kiefer is looking into it, and we are all in danger.
So, Morgan Fairchild (I feel the need to use her full name, because I HAVE SEEN HER PARTS) waltzes out onto the stage in NO CLOTHES, and I think, well, things can't possibly get any worse than this! No, my discomfort could not possibly increase! Because, hi, DAD!
But, unfortunately, this was not the end of seeing way more of Morgan Fairchild than I have ever wanted to see. Because remember, WE ARE ON THE FRONT ROW at the Fabulous Fox Theatre, and she kept on getting under the sheets of the bed and then they'd...MOVE, and stuff, and the woman is not wearing undergarments and it was HORRIFYING, and I say this because I AM SITTING NEXT TO MY MOTHER, and the woman is very liberal, BUT THAT DOES NOT MATTER, and I JUST SAW WHERE THE BABY COMES FROM.
I freaked out accordingly. So I had to drink several martinis. Y'all know.
At the end of the show, as we're all sitting there, with everyone else in Atlanta who is thinking "Hello, I just saw SNATCH on a Sunday night, and that is the day of the Lord," my father turned to us while Morgan Fairchild was taking a bow, and said, "I have one word for you: PLASTICS."
And the man was so right, y'all. So terribly, terribly right. Please send help. And more martinis.
Anna Beth is the most brilliant person IN THE WORLD
A quick post to tell y'all that the site? This one here? It broke. It didn't work for days. It wouldn't let me update, it wouldn't let anyone post comments. It was MASS HYSTERIA, PEOPLE. Exorcism was considered.
And then...AB fixed it. SHE FIXED IT. Possibly using voodoo.
So, let's all send some thank-you love to AB. Because that girl is brilliant, y'all, and we all love her gooder than dirt.
P.S.: Do you have any idea how strong the temptation was to call that last entry "Ice, Ice, Baby"? It was strong. Also, incredibly wrong, and BOY am I glad I didn't do that to y'all.
In which I hardly complain AT ALL, and everyone is amazed
Now, I bet y'all thought I was dead. I am not. But I haven't been writing in forever, even after I BRAGGED to all y'all about how I have internet access everywhere now, even in the bathroom or the garage, ALL THE TIME. And you would think that this would mean I'd, like, post something. Sometime. But sometimes, things do not work out like we think they will. And sometimes, you magically kill the internet connection to your home. Again. You can blame vodka, but really. Let's get realistic, shall we? It was obviously the work of Stan.
But Stan hasn't been making many appearances lately, and things have been both fun and surprisingly busy. And it is really, REALLY surprising that I can say that, and not be lying (look at my face! No lying!) because, if y'all have been watching the news lately, you may have noticed that here in Atlanta? Know what we had?
Ice Storm. Yes! Just like the movie, only without the key party or the death.
And typically, you would think that an ice storm would be exactly the kind of thing that would FREAK ME OUT. Because, ICE. And also, COLD. And no driving, or leaving the house, or even standing outside for prolonged periods, because I live in the South, people, and my body is just not equipped for this whole "weather" thing. Typically, I strongly disapprove of weather. Weather blows.
But let me tell you what will make an ice storm totally fine, really, and that is when you may be trapped in your home, but you are not alone, not even remotely, because THERE ARE FIVE HOT GUYS trapped right there with you.
Yes. THANK YOU, LORD!
So, this weekend was spent with El Dukay, Dig, Timmy, and the Amazing Kiefer Twins (TWINS, PEOPLE), who I will call the Kiefer twins because they are very strong and tough Special-Forces-types and you do not want to fuck with them, OH NO YOU DO NOT. And they were, all five of them, stuck in my house. All weekend! They couldn't leave! Because there was a deadly wintry mix outside! But inside, we had chili! And nobody wants to go anywhere when there is chili.
If I could figure out how to post pictures to my new website, I would show you a picture of the participants from Deadly Wintry ReMix 2005, and all of y'all would just jump through your computers to throttle me, because one woman should never be blessed with this amount of Man Beauty in her home all at once. It just isn't right. TWINS!
Which is not to say that the weekend didn't have its moments. For EXAMPLE. At one point, El Dukay decided he would create the Deadly Wintry ReMix 2005 Official Drink. Good idea, but creating a new drink posed special problems, because we were running a little bit low on supplies.
(Now, quick side note. The lack of supplies was not entirely El Dukay's fault. On Friday night, just before the storm hit, Dig, Dukay, and I prepared by purchasing light bulbs, paper towels, beer, several bottles of wine, and two kinds of rum. We did not think to buy food, even though we were standing in the grocery store checkout line, surrounded by panicked shoppers who had loaded their carts with bread, water, and canned goods, and who were whispering "Ice storm = immediate death" under their breath. Food did not seem...important. At the time. Now, y'all, clearly, something is VERY WRONG with us. Something is SO wrong with us, that as we were leaving, Dig suddenly sputtered, "Oh, SHIT," and ran back in, and returned some minutes later with...A BAG OF LIMES. Which are NOT REALLY FOOD, PEOPLE. But I digress.)
Anyway, so El Dukay didn't have a lot of supplies, but what he lacks, he makes up for in sheer creativity, so he mixed together something that involved rum AND vodka AND something blue AND something old AND something new AND something borrowed AND God only knows what else.
(And now we will go off on another side note, in which I explain why you should NEVER TRY any of El Dukay's signature drinks, if you like your stomach contents to stay inside your body. Now, I love El Dukay more than dirt, but this is a lesson I learned early in our dating. One evening he fixed me a Bloody Mary that tasted ever so wrong, and I tried to be nice, but I lost that niceness QUICK when it was discovered that he had decided to mix the traditional recipe up a bit by adding...cinnamon. CINNAMON and tomato juice, y'all. Somewhere, Emeril just died. BAM!)
ANYWAY. So, because I have lived through this before, and because I possess a modicum of common sense, I left the room when it was time to do the shots, so I would be spared the image of various ReMix Participants bolting, hands over their mouths, for the toilets throughout my home.
El Dukay is not allowed to mix the drinks anymore. That is an Ice Storm lesson learned, and I encourage all of you to take it to heart.
And other things happened, too, like when I spontaneously decided that now, NO, NOW, is the perfect time to clean out the entertainment cabinet, so EVERBODY WATCH OUT, there will be organizing. And then there was also the singing, and the story telling, and the taking of the photographs, and the playing with the dogs, and the drinking, OH SWEET JESUS the drinking, until five in the morning, two days in a row. It was the best inclement weather situation I could possibly imagine, and just to PROVE that I have, apparently, done something that has earned me some major positive karma (I have no idea what that could be), the power never even went out. And we never ran out of wine.
But we did run out of ice. Yes. OH, the IRONY.
But anyway, that's enough about me! How have y'all been? Everyone been good? Hey, did I mention that there were FIVE hot men in my house last weekend?
Because, I don't know if I mentioned it. But there were.
Oh, and P.S.: TWINS!