The Thing With The Bug
Setting: At the wedding rehearsal dinner last weekend, the day before I would walk down the aisle in front of 500 people in a remarkably blue dress. With the 500 people looking at me. At myself. At the person that is me, and I am POSSIBLY A LITTLE NERVOUS.
Self: Drink drink! Drinkdrinkdrink. Wine!
Self: I love this rehearsal dinner! Outside, great band, great food, great wine...
Dukay: Wine! So good!
Self: I am even starting to not be so nervous about the walking down the aisle thing.
Dukay: Good, baby.
Self: Yeah, it'll be fi...YEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGHHH
Dukay: What? Happened?
Self: BUG! BUG BIT ME! HEAD! FOREHEAD!
Dukay: Hee. Seriously?
Self: OW. YES.
Dukay: Hee. Well, that sucks.
Self: Dude, I...there's a BUMP. There is ALREADY A BUMP.
Dukay: Oh, there is not.
Self: I FEEL A BUMP.
Dukay: You lie so much. There is no bump.
Self: Dukay. There is an ENORMOUS bump. A golf-ball sized bump.
Dukay: There is not!
Self: Indeed there IS. It...it feels like I'm growing a HORN.
Dukay: Could you lie any more?
Self: I DO NOT LIE. FEEL THE BUMP.
Self: I HAVE TO WALK DOWN THE AISLE IN FRONT OF 500 PEOPLE WITH A BUMP.
Dukay: Oh, it'll go away by then.
Self: It will go...what, the bump you swear I don't have?
Dukay: Wait, what?
So I asked my mother.
Mother: Yes, darling child that I love more than breath?
Self: Mother, do I have a bump?
Mother: You have no bump, sweet precious wonderful baby.
Self: Hmmph. Because I feel a bump.
Mother: Ask your father.
Dad: NO BUMP!
Ziz: GOOD CHRIST, SHUT UP ABOUT THE BUMP. THERE IS NO BUMP.
Self: (I still feel a bump.)
So, one would think that, after your FAMILY, who is your BLOOD, and your BOYFRIEND, who sometimes has SEX WITH YOU, would not LIE TO YOUR BUMPY, BUMPY face.
The next morning, I woke up, bump-free. So I forgot about it. Until we got back to town, and I took a look at all the pictures from the weekend. And all I have to say is:
So I walked around like that, all night, talking to extended family and people who haven't seen me in years, and who most likely wandered away, shaking their heads, and thinking, "Poor dear, with that tremendous FOREHEAD TUMOR. Bless her bumpy little heart."
But, you know what? It's not SMART to fuck with me, and to cause me public humiliation. Because I will GET YOU BACK, DUKAY, DON'T YOU EVEN THINK THAT I WILL NOT.
So. Want to see where Dukay ended HIS evening? Want to know that, at some intervals, he would raise his finger but not his HEAD into the air, and announce, "PEOPLE, I HAVE A FORMULA," and then immediately drop his finger back onto the ground, having completely exhausted all remaining energy in his body and prompting everyone in the Embassy Suites hotel room to scream, "You have a formula? Is it the Quadratic Equation? Is it the Pythagorean Theorem? TELL US YOUR MATH!"
Want to see that? Do you want to? OKAY!
Revenge is sweet, my darling little mathematician. Kisses! And, watch out for bugs!
I mean...that's all I even have to say about that.
It BLOWS, y'all. I am having to pack up all of my things in boxes (as that is, you know, sort of the cornerstone of the moving process), and I have filled FIVE trashcans (seriously. Yes.) with crap from my office, and...and...ugh. It's driving me up a wall.
But, you know. Worth it. Better job, bigger firm, better everything, working with my diddy. Worth it even, to open up your desk and discover the seventy thousand packets of SALT, SALT EVERYWHERE, that have apparently taken residence and begun to breed.
Y'all. Why do I have so much salt? Am I scaring away evil spirits? Am I trying to attract deer? Kill slugs? I do not know.
But, um. Really, the reason why I am writing? A warning. A warning for you, gentle reader. Let's do some imagination exercises. Close your eyes...and then open them, you know, to read, but then close them again real quick-like, and maybe it will work.
I am playing soothing music for you now. Enya-like. Relaaaaaaax.
Let's imagine, say, you quit your job, and then you have an impromptu party at your house to celebrate said quitting. La la la. And then, maybe, I don't know, let me think...you do some drinking to celebrate this. And MAYBE, JUST MAYBE, you have the music going, and a really good song comes on.
Do you feel this? Are you with me?
Well. You may feel the need to throw your hands in the air! And wave 'em like you just don't care! That may happen, don't you think?
And you WON'T care. You won't! Unless...unless there is a ceiling fan.
Then: You care. Intensely, deeply, painfully. YOU FUCKING CARE, right then, at that moment, and you will scream BLOODY FUCKING MURDER, because OW, I mean...OW, and then you will spend the next day PACKING YOUR OFFICE with a curled-up ouchy hand that does not have working fingers, and cursing whomever it was who TOLD you to throw your hands in the air, and wave 'em like you just don't care, because LIAR.
Now. This is just a hypothetical situation. None of us knows anyone who would maybe have a party, drink a little too much, and stick her fool hand in a ceiling fan. Ha ha! Can you imagine?
Moron! Let's have a good laugh at her theoretical expense!
So, now that THAT'S finished, I'm going back to sitting. And thinking about packing. And, uh...icing my hypothetical hand.
Still! Sinking! In!
Okay, but, with all this nervous energy, I'm learning about Flickr. What is this? Why didn't y'all tell me? Don't y'all want to see eleventy thousand pictures of the dogs, which I will upload right now to keep from chewing on my desk, because all of my fingernails have already been ingested?
Reality Seems To Have Sunk In Around 12:57 p.m.
I just quit my job.
I may just update nine hundred times today. And every update will say something like, "AAAHHHH I JUST RESIGNED FROM MY JOB IT WAS A PERFECTLY GOOD JOB THERE WAS NOTHING WRONG WITH MY JOB AND YET I QUIT IT."
I've never resigned from a job before! I feel like I should go up to everyone here and be all, "Listen, it's not you, it's me. You're too good for me, really. You'll find someone else, someone who can appreciate you more. Seriously. Can we still be friends?"
And then I remember that I never dated my job, so maybe that response isn't appropriate.
But still. Just so you know: I quit! And I'm taking the fancy stapler with me.
Sometimes Change Is Good
Okay, so. Bet you wonder where I went and ran off to!
Okay, see, there was this thing? And then there was this other thing, and the net result of all of these things, and all of the SHEER PANIC and TERROR inspired by these things, and then, there was this:
I'm switching law firms.
Oh, wait. That's not...interesting? Oh. Um, you're totally right!
Except, this is a Big Deal in the Doxie world, a Deal So Big it involved champagne toasts and the ordering of a celebratory pizza, and Dukay bringing me a dozen roses, and phone calls and shrieking and excessive amounts of Professional Restrained Hugging. Because I am officially moving to work at my father's law firm, something I have wanted to do since I graduated law school, and Y'ALL. I know, it's nerdy, but it's a big deal to me.
And I have never written about my job before, and am only doing so now because of the aforementioned champagne (THANKS A LOT, BOOZE), and it is one thirty on a school night, but I do have to say that I am so excited to be working with my dad, y'all don't even know. I adore my dad. He is brilliant, and every day when I work with him, I plan on bringing him one Hershey's bar with almonds, because those are his favorite.
Aw. Look at me, getting all sentimental. You know, all this fuzzy sentimantality will disappear REALLY FUCKING FAST, THOUGH, when I have to actually...move. Then I will say things like, "This may be the worst idea in the history of mankind. Why can't I just keep all my shit in my car? A LOT of people work out of their cars. Like ice cream men, for example. I shall be a mobile lawyer! Leave me be, with my glove compartment and tape deck!"
(Because I do have a tape deck in my car. Still. My car is old enough to be your mother. But! I digress.)
So, that's where I've been. And also I bought a bright blue coffee table. IT NEVER STOPS GETTING INTERESTING AROUND HERE, PEOPLE.
But...I don't know. I'm so excited, y'all. And I just wanted you to know. Even though it ain't funny (and THE FUNNY IS COMING, I SWEAR, because we still have to talk about The Thing With The Bug), it's a big deal to me.
And I thank y'all for sticking around.
P.S. (The next morning) (While sober) (Hello): Heeeeee. Y'all, we had some chamPAGNE last night. Dig and Timmy and Dukay and I were REALLY not kidding around with the champagne and the celebrating. But in trying to capture our general jubilation in this entry, I failed to be particularly clear, and so now I just want to let y'all know that I am not having to move cities. My dad's firm is also in Atlanta, so the only thing that has to move is (are?) the contents of my current office. Which includes a trillion pictures, nineteen coffee mugs, forty bazillion books, and one long, pink boa fashioned from yarn. Which...uh, I don't know why it's here, either. Because all employment lawyers need boas? I'm just guessing.
But anyway. Not moving! So don't y'all worry. And thanks for all of the nice thoughts; y'all are all gorgeous, and happy, hungover kisses to everyone!
All This Can be Yours, For Only $275 A Night!
I just, just got back from Charleston -- again -- because we went to a wedding there this weekend. And, you know, maybe if we knew there was going to be a wedding in Charleston this weekend, maybe if, say, Dukay hadn't received the invitation, responded yes, and then promptly lost said invitation, maybe if, I DON'T KNOW, Dukay could have read said invitation, and noted accordingly that said wedding was in the city of Charleston, then MAYBE, JUST MAYBE, we would have consolidated the trips and we would not have driven seventy million hours twice in a month.
Hi. We have been in the car for a long, long time. I may be a little slap happy right now. I may also be completely insane, so...grain of salt, everything I say in the next many words. Blee!
But, honestly, I'm just complaining. As usual. It's actually lovely that we got to go to Charleston twice in one month, because my love for Charleston is new and extensive and enduring, and You are so CUTE, City That Is Only Legally Permitted To Serve Liquor From Those Miniature Airline Bottles! I adore you. And I adore your itty bitty bottles of booze!
Even if...well, even if the hotel? That I made reservations for? Ha. HELLO, SHIT HOLE! And I do not say this lightly. I say this in the manner of a woman who checked into the hotel at midnight, to discover all manner of hair on the toilet, and standing water and bits of...something floating in the tub, and an odor that I can only describe as "onion-like" and "wrong" permeating the room.
And...and this I could overlook. Maybe. If the hotel was cheap. But this hotel was EXPENSIVE, and the only hotel in the city with two vacant nights this weekend, so I was not in an overlooking kind of mood. I was in a VERY BAD kind of mood. And my very bad kind of moods tend to go like this:
Self: DUKAY. DO SOMETHING.
Dukay: Oh, it's not so bad. We'll...spritz some air freshener, or...something?
Self: DUKAY. GET INTO THIS BATHROOM.
Dukay: Why, what's...AHHHHHH!
Self: I KNOW.
Dukay: Those...AIIIEEEE! Are those HAIRS?
Self: THOSE ARE HAIRS.
Dukay: WHOSE hairs? WHOSE?! And...AHHHHHHH! WHAT IS FLOATING IN THE TUB.
Self: DUKAY. GO TO THE FRONT DESK AND PITCH A HISSY.
And this is what Dukay loves to hear, he loves that, because let's recall that Dukay is a send-backer of food? And to send back a whole entire hotel room? Well. This probably made his year.
Also, y'all. Dukay is a talker. He is a people person. And he can talk you into anything, or out of anything, etc. So, once he returned from the front desk, hissy successfully pitched (check!), he immediately got onto the phone with the front desk of the hotel we stayed at last time. This is what I heard on my end:
Dukay: Hi, this is El Dukay and Miss Doxie calling? We stayed at your hotel earlier this month, and MY GOODNESS, is it lovely. We sure did enjoy our stay there. Mmm hmm.
(Pause. Please bear in mind that it is one in the morning by now, and Dukay is now calling a hotel, just to chat, apparently, with the front desk about how very nice their accommodations were.)
(Several weeks ago.)
(Somehow, this works.)
Dukay: You're welcome! Aaaaanyway. See, we're in a little fix. Ha ha! We're back in Charleston for a wedding, isn't that wonderful?
Dukay: Thank you! We will dress warmly! And, you know, we so wanted to stay with you this weekend. We tried to make reservations, but you know what? You were all booked! Every last room. Sigh.
Dukay: Oh, please don't apologize. Not your fault! We can't expect a hotel as fine as yours to stay vacant for little old us.
Dukay: Now, that is so kind of you. But listen, I have to be honest with you. See, we're at a competitor-
Dukay: Oh, I KNOW. Shudder! Because there is hair on the toilet and standing water in the bathtub, and my girlfriend is dirty and tired and she might kill me, because it is my fault that we didn't make our reservations until the last minute, and frankly, I would rather not die!
Dukay: Tomorrow night? A suite? At a reduced rate?
Dukay: With a fireplace in our room?
Dukay: And you'll send someone over to the bowels of hell here to pick up our luggage? You are a wonderful person.
Dukay: No, I mean it. Thank God. Thank you. You seem...you seem angelic to me. Have you any wings?
And so on. And so on. This ALWAYS WORKS FOR HIM. He can get away with anything, ANYTHING. And somehow, it also always works on me, because he is slippery, and I am an idiot.
So, thanks to Dukay's people skills, we were able to move the next morning into a much nicer hotel, where we were not at risk for catching scabies from the sheets. And this made me happy, and the rest of the weekend passed drunkenly, and without incident, but HOO BOY was it fun, and HOLY CRAP did we not sleep very much.
But, anyway. I'm back! Though not for long, because I will be at weddings pretty much for the rest of the month, none of which are mine.
So, hope everyone had a lovely weekend! I promise I'll post something more interesting very soon. Just as soon as I recover. And these scabies clear up.
If ANYONE Knows What I'm Talking About, PLEASE, PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, LET ME KNOW.
Phone: Brrrrrrrring! Ring ring!
Ziz: I'm not dead.
Self: What? Excuse...what?
Ziz: I'm not dead. Apparently, I'm supposed to call you and tell you that I am not dead, so I'm calling you, and saying to you, "I am not dead."
Self: Which...okay. Why.
Ziz: Frankly, I'm really not sure, but Mom said I had to.
Self: And...was there any explanation about this? I mean, is this just a Stevie Wonder, "I just called, to say, I'm not dead?" kind of communication, or is there something more sinister afoot?
Ziz: (Ooo, sinister. Good word.)
Self: (I try.)
Ziz: Anyway. Uh, I really don't know. She just left me a message on my cell saying that there was someone with a purple flag terrorizing L.A., and I needed to call you and let you know that I was not dead.
Self: To let ME know?
Ziz: Apparently. Listen, I'm trying not to think about it too hard.
Self: Wait, but...okay, let me get this straight. A purple flag?
Self: ...and, he's....terrorizing L.A.? In what manner?
Ziz: I haven't the foggiest.
Self: Well, is it on the local news?
Ziz: See, and that's where things get even more interesting, because I am, in fact, not even in L.A. at the moment, so I am nowhere near the dangers posed by someone possessing a purple flag.
Ziz: Boston. I'm in Boston.
Ziz: And, I'm not seeing any purple flags. I mean, I'll be vigilant and all, but...nothing on the radar. Eyes open, though!
Self: Wait a minute, we need to return to the issue of how someone can be terrorized by a person with a purple flag.
Ziz: See, and I wish I could help you with that. But I cannot, because I have no idea what she's talking about.
Ziz: I guess...well, you could bop someone over the head with a purple flag.
Self: Yeah. Boppity boppity. Or poke 'em! You can poke with a flag. With...uh, with the pointy end.
Ziz: You can also use a flag to claim land as your own, Eddie Izzard style..."Do you have a flag? No? Then this backyard is now mine."
Self: You could impale someone on your purple flag.
Ziz: You could trip someone with your purple flag.
Self: You could choke on your purple flag.
Ziz: You could catch a nasty infection from your purple flag.
Self: God, I'm beginning to see why Mom was so concerned!
Ziz: Dude. YES. Flags are dangerous.
Self: But...purple? Why purple?
Ziz: I KNOW! Purple is kind of a happy color!
Self: It's royal!
Ziz: And Mardi-Gras like!
Self: Personally, I would be much more terrorized by a red flag.
Ziz: Or a black flag. Eee! Scary black flag!
Self: Or...something that was not, in fact, a flag. I think I would be much more terrorized by other objects, say...FIREARMS.
Ziz: Sigh. Okay, in all seriousness? You can keep repeating "terrorized by someone with a purple flag", but it's not going to just spontaneously start making sense.
Self: I'm going to need to summarize this, because maybe this is more than I can wrap my mind around. So, you just got this message, from our MOTHER, instructing you to call me and let me know that you were not dead, by the hand of someone who is carrying a purple flag.
Ziz: Yes. You have summed it up nicely.
Self: This is reminding me of something Dukay did the other night.
Ziz: I don't...I don't think I want to know.
Self: No, we were just sitting on the sofa, and he turned to me, and asked, "Can you train hummingbirds? Because if you can, that opens up a whole WORLD of opportunities."
Self: I know! I don't know what he was talking about, either. He hasn't mentioned it since.
Ziz: Do you think...maybe Mom and Dukay have...I mean, are they doing crack together?
Self: Maybe. That could be it.
Ziz: Well, glad you seem to still be maing sense.
Yeah. Well, glad you're...like, alive.
Ziz: Well, me too.
Self: ...FOR NOW.
Ziz: Oh, shut up.
Self: BECAUSE WHEN YOU LEAST EXPECT IT...
Ziz: Oh my God. You are a huge dork.
Self: ...THE PURPLE FLAG WILL COME. IN THE NIGHT. IN THE DARK.
Ziz: Oh, is the flag ambulatory now? Is it on its own, without the guy to carry it?
Self: THE FLAG HAS GONE SOLO.
Ziz: Aw. Just like Cher!
Self: IT'S...FLAG DAY.
Self: DUN DUN DUNNNNNN.
Ziz: Coming to a theater near you, I'm guessing.
Self: See, I'm just really fucking creative. They should just give me a movie deal and be done with it.
Ziz: Right. Anyway. Got to go, but Me = Not Dead.
Self: Right. But be careful. Remember, Flag = Deadly.
Ziz: You = totally going to write about this on your site.
Self: You = probably, sadly, tremendously, right.
So, watch out, y'all. It's a dangerous world out there.
And if you see something...purple ...lurking silently in the bushes, billowing softly in the wind...I would highly recommend that you run far, far away.
And then you should TOTALLY call my Mom.
P.S.: On a totally unrealted note, goodness gracious, I love you people. With your eleventy hundred thousand book-on-tape selections, thereby assuring that I will spend the next ten years hanging out alone in my den, twiddling my thumbs and terrorizing the dogs (possibly WITH A PURPLE FLAG). At least, that is what I will be doing when I'm not at the library, which...I mean, LIBRARY, DUH, which I did not even think of, because sometimes I am not so bright.
Books on tape at the library. IT'S TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE.
And, if y'all feel like supporting a good cause, I recommend that you go here and learn how from Coleen, who is doing a nice thing.
And AND, thank you all so much for your votes in the Diarist Awards! Yay!
Okay, I'll shut up now. Y'all just watch out for purple.