A Request From The Folks At Home
Just popping in for a second, at the request of my parents, of all people.
My grandmother died this afternoon. I don't really feel like writing about it right now, but eventually, I will probably get around to telling you all about her.
Basically, y'all should know that she was an awesome, no-bullshit kind of lady. She was classy, and she was cool, and she was a hell of a lot of fun. We took her out to dinner every Sunday, and every Sunday, she demanded a filet mignon and a glass of champagne.
This...has a tendency to limit your restaurant selection. But she insisted, and I'm glad she did. I hope she enjoyed the hell out of it.
There are some great stories about my grandmother that I will probably tell y'all sometime. She adored Dukay, for example, and wouldn't let him enter her home unless she had put on her lipstick. And she always wore bright red lipstick. The redder, the better. She was that kind of girl.
We called my grandmother Sissie, and that's actually a pretty awesome story right there; when she was born -- into a family of three girls -- they were getting desperate for a brother. So when she came out, minus the...you know, boy parts they had hoped for, they immediately dubbed her "Sister Bill." Her real name was Catherine, but she's been known as Sissie ever since. I have never, in all of my life, heard her called "Catherine." She is Sis.
And Sissie died today; it wasn't sudden, because she had been becoming more and more frail for years, and hospital trips had become pretty common. About ten days ago, she was taken to the hospital for the last time.
On Friday, Sis left the hospital and was placed into hospice care at Hospice Atlanta. And they were so kind. When she died there this afternoon, we all knew that she was comfortable. She was surrounded by the people that she loved. And then she was gone.
I did not want to write about Sissie's death, and frankly, I had no intention of announcing any of this to the world at large. Sis lived until she was almost ninety, and she had a wonderful and full life. Sis was a reason to celebrate, and I didn't think I could write about her without sounding like it was some ploy for sympathy, and that was not my intention at all. And so I decided that I would just take a few days, and then I would return, probably with a story about chopping off my remaining toes, or buying the entire Fall inventory at Zappo's.
However, after I got home this evening, my parents called me with a request. They asked me to tell all of y'all about what wonderful work Hospice Atlanta is doing. And they are doing wonderful work; they have a beautiful facility, with a library, private dining rooms, and a chapel. Sissie's room opened onto a patio with a fountain. It is a peaceful place.
But the people there are truly extraordinary; the nurses and doctors who attended to Sis were so kind, and so understanding. They sat with us, and they were willing to talk for as long as we wanted. On Friday, my father met with the doctor in charge; later, when he told me about his visit, he was amazed that she had been so giving with her time.
"She would have talked to me all day, if I had needed it," he told me, amazed. "And she would have listened to me all day, too."
The services offered by Hospice Atlanta are completely covered by Medicare. They provide care for anyone with a short life expectancy, and they have the resources to make that time as comfortable as possible -- not only for those who are dying, but also for those who are left behind.
And Hospice Atlanta, like many other hospices around the country, is a non-profit organization. They rely primarily on donations in order to maintain their services. Oddly, we have donated to the facility for years, without really knowing what they did; tomorrow, however, we will be making a donation in honor of Sister Bill, champagne dinners, and one enormous crush on my boyfriend.
If you can, I urge you to give to Hospice Atlanta, in memory of someone you love. And even if you can't, I hope you put on some Frank Sinatra and your best red lipstick, and smile a little, for a lady who knew it was time to go.
Status Of Toe, Interrupted By A Totally Unrelated Story About Musical Theater
Know how some people have those little text boxes on their websites, that tell you their mood and their latest book and what they are listening to, and other interesting information? I do not have such a thing, so tonight I shall improvise, for I am providing you with a status report, because naturally, you are wondering. Here is my report:
Comments Counter: Still broken
Favorite color: Greenish
Does that help? It is kind of insightful. Hello!
First off, thank you all very much for your concern over my very debilitating and tragic injury that happened to my poor toe. I believe it is growing back nicely, except I will not look at it, for it grosses me out completely.
Indeed, I have no idea of what is going on down there. Something squishy. That is all I know. My toe could secede from the Union that is my body and I would probably not notice. The Toe may rise again! I am really trying not to think about it too much, and yet, clearly I am thinking about it too much.
Anyway, turns out, there is both a Good Side and a Bad Side to my recovery. I will share both with you, starting with the Bad, simply because I am one of those people who when you say, "Good news first or bad news first?" I always say, "Bad news first! BAD NEWS FIRST!" because apparently I cannot experience joy unless it is already ruined.
ANYWAY. So, here we have:
The Bad Side: Other than pain and general reverse-tiptoeing (try walking without putting any pressure on your toes. Seriously! Try it! You will look like an idiot duck), the Injury has forced me to wear very ugly shoes. And y'all, I am not an ugly shoe person.
I am currently wearing shoes with no heels, and huge, round toe areas, that allow for the bandages. The only shoes that I own that fit this description are a pair of kind-of-scary boots with wingtips, wingtips, people, and I do not know where they came from and also they look very weird and oddly like they belong in a stage production of Oliver Twist, and so I am trying to compensate by wearing long pants, only then I really look like an urchin attorney because long pants and only kind-of-visible wingtips are really not a recipe for Fashion Success.
I feel like walking up to people in my office and looking at them hungrily. And then I will ask, "Please, sir, can I have some more?" and they will hit me with a cane or something, and sing about it.
Actually, this is kind of unrelated, but for some reason I feel like sharing that the only play I have ever appeared in, in my whole entire life, was Oliver. And I was in the sixth grade, and I was Mrs. Bedwin.
Mrs. Bedwin is not exactly a major character. She is not Oliver, for example. No. She is Mrs. Bedwin.
As Mrs. Bedwin, I was matronly and had gray hair and a long black dress with an apron, and I spoke two lines. In my first line, I was to walk into the room, and announce, "There's someone at the door." I was then to walk out. This was not a very challenging role.
In my second line, Oliver was to sing a song to me, about loneliness and sadness and urchinness or whatever, and I was to put my arms about his small shoulders and gently announce, "I understand."
That was all. Because those are all of the lines Mrs. Bedwin has. Mrs. Bedwin is not some kind of super star, people. She is a senior citizen.
But this did not matter to me. The stage! The lights! The fame! It was clearly my calling.
So, I practiced. Oh, how I practiced, in my little sixth-grade world. I would sit in my room for hours, in front of my mirror, and whisper my lines to myself. "There's SOMEone at the door," I'd try. Then I'd mix it up a bit, I would feel out my character, with "There's someone at the DOOR."
"I understand," I would say. Then, with tears in my eyes: "I...I understand."
It is kind of like how Meryl Streep practices, I bet. That is the kind of devotion I had to my role: a Streep-like devotion. And so, when the night of the play came around, I was ready. I was ready for middle school stardom. Please go ahead and give me my Tony now, is what I was thinking, because I had that bitch down.
But...oh, you guys. There was a problem. And the problem, of course, was that in the sixth grade, I was madly, passionately in love with the "actor" (and let us use this term loosely) who played the Artful Dodger, and I believe his name was Keith, and I was pretty fucking sure that Keith and I were destined to be together, and that we would have a thousand babies, and that we would probably live in my parents' guest room and that I would bake pies and do the ironing. The problem with being in love with Keith, however, was twofold: with (1) being that Keith did not actually realize that I existed, seeing as he was a worldly eighth grader (and eighth graders had totally gone to second base by then and were listening to 2 Live Crew, duh) and I was a lowly sixth grader with braces and insane hair and skinny legs who was always dressed up like an old woman during play practice but whatever, that may have been surmountable except that I also had a tendency to (2) TOTALLY LOSE THE ABILITY TO SPEAK when the beloved and manly Keith was in my presence. So the fact that I was in a play, with actual lines, which involved speaking, in an out-loud fashion, while Keith was watching...well. This posed a bit of a problem.
On the night of the show, I sat in the green room and did breathing exercises that our music teacher (and underpaid, miserable director) had taught us. I got into my character. I considered my motivation. And I pretty much held my breath for an hour before the stage hand came to collect me. Then the door opened -- "You're on," he stage whispered.
And, oh! The excitement! I remember standing up briskly and straightening my apron, looking at him, and nodding confidently. I was born to perform, I thought to myself. I should probably just live on a stage somewhere. I am very likely a theatrical prodigy, with my two lines. The world...the world is not ready for the degree of talent that I am about to unleash onto this Middle School auditorium.
Grandly, I walked onto the stage for my first line. And I was feeling very cool and collected, and I was just supposed to walk into the room and announce that there was someone at the door. There's someone at the door! That...is an easy line! Many people say that without falling down or vomiting on themselves.
Except! When I went out there, and I saw all of those people in the audience, and I saw the lights and the other actors, I kind of...froze. I froze. And I turned to my right, and THAT is when I saw Keith, talking to the eighth grade WHORE who played Nancy, and he was NOT caring about the fact that I existed, even though I was a sixth grader with needs, KISSING NEEDS, and as a result of this total betrayal of my Life Dream, I completely and totally balked.
I stood there, silently. Approximately nine million eyes were trained on my little gray head.
And so I tried to collect myself.
"There's SOMEone at the door," I thought, furiously. "There's someone at the DOOR."
"I understand!" I announced, to the room at large.
The "actors" looked at me, confused. Nobody, who ranged in age from eleven to thirteen, knew what to do. Ad-libbing was simply too much to ask of our collective experience. Finally, the guy who played...someone, finally let loose with the clever, "Well, bring them in!" which would make sense, HAD I ANNOUNCED that someone was at the door, WHICH WAS IN FACT my line. However! When that statement follows up the pronouncement, apopros of nothing, that I UNDERSTAND whatever it is that is happening in the room at large, then...not so much sense! More "senseless" than "senseful."
So: I ran. Zoom! I hiked up my apron and skirt, and bolted off of the stage, and not into the arms of Keith, who should have fucking COMFORTED me, seeing as he was supposed to be The One, but he was busy nibbling on the ear that belonged to the girl who played Nancy, and PEOPLE, at that moment, my sixth grade heart turned black as coal, and maybe that is why I am cynical and mean to this very day.
But the evening was not over. Oh, no. I still had one more appearance. I was to comfort Oliver, and put my arms about his shoulders, and tell him that I understood the pain and misery and whatever else about his fragile emotional state. And all of this was to happen after he sang to me.
And so the two of us walked out onto the stage for the song (Where is Love? if I recall correctly, which of course I do), and he lifted his small chin to begin singing, and we waited, together, for our cue, and this is what we heard:
Because somehow, the music was...not working. OF COURSE IT WAS NOT WORKING! The P.A. system had gone out, because GOOD TIMING, and so all of the wondrous canned karaoke-style music that we were supposed to sing along with had spontaneously died, and now we were standing there like IDIOTS on stage, me and Oliver, ALL ALONE, and he was unnaturally short for a sixth grader and I was stragely tall and he was looking at me in horror, because he was NOT ABOUT TO DO THIS A CAPELLA, NO, and all I could think to do was announce my line ("I understand!" "I understand!") and so I said, with total conviction:
"There's SOMEone at the DOOR."
And then we both bolted. We fucking ran off of that stage. And the play...uh, ended. And the music teacher did not speak to me for a week, and THAT, PEOPLE, is why I did not go into musical theater as a career. If you were wondering.
Not that any of that really has any bearing on my foot. But it's nice to remember the most embarrassing moments of your life sometimes! And it is nice to hope that Keith the Artful Fuckhead eventually got run over by a bus.
Sigh. No, not really.
No, definitely not. That is Hateful.
(But maybe a very...light bus, that only held, like, feathers and...balloons?)
NO. That is Wrong. BESIDES.
Now it is time for The Good Part of chopping off your toe pad thingy (remember when that was the subject of this entry, lo those many paragraphs ago?), which is:
I have been placed on the disabled list in my building, and no longer do I have to participate in the annual fire drill, or, as it is commonly called, "The Annual Having To Walk Down Twenty-Four Flights Of Stairs In High Heels And Then Spending The Afternoon Waiting For Your Turn To Go Back Up The Elevator So That, I Don't Know, You Can Get Something Accomplished Today That Vaguely Resembles The Practice Of Law And Not An Adult Obstacle Course."
Y'all! Because I am on the disabled list, I get to ride the serivce elevator! O, happy day! Yay, missing toe! Thank you for this silver lining.
And, that is about it. The toe remains unseen and secret and squishy. The service elevator awaits my call. And Keith is probably living happily somewhere in the midwest, selling insurance and not -- absolutely not -- participating in musical theater.
Honestly, The Things I Do To Have Something To Write About
Hi! I'm back! Almost immediately!
I know that you can't miss me if I don't go away, and the site is still brokey and the comments counter still not working, but this has been an...interesting morning, WHAT WITH ME GOING TO THE HOSPITAL AND ALL, and now that I am sitting on the sofa, taking my second sick day of the week, I figured: what the hell. I might as well write about it, seeing as I'm feeling pretty fucking sorry for myself at the moment. Y'all can feel sorry for me, too! I'm very pitiful.
But, first, let's start with a warning! Gentle readers, if you are easily squicked out by descriptions of nasty lacerations and bloody bits, then this is not the entry for you. No! You can go read about soft bunnies, or people who put hats on cats, or whatever else causes fuzzy feelings. Feelings that do not involve BLOOD. EVERYWHERE. There is BLOOD in this entry, and I just barely survived the pasta on Sunday, and why is God testing me so?
Anyway. Besides blood, there is also backstory! See, apparently, Dukay and I should never ever ever go out to dinner with our friends Al and G, because dinner with Al and G and Dukay and I is cursed. I shall present evidence now:
LAST time Al and G and Dukay and I all went to dinner was about a month ago. And we had a lot of fun, and yay double date, etc. And the next day was a Saturday, and I was just about to take a much-deserved shower when the phone rang. And it was Dukay, and Dukay explained that G? Was in some sort of horrible accident, and you can SEE BONE, PEOPLE, and he knows nothing else except she is in the emergency room and Al just called and he is in South Carolina and everyone is FREAKING OUT and I have to get down there NOW.
So. I hopped into the car, and drove seven thousand miles per hour to the hospital, thinking that G was in a car accident, obviously, and that maybe she was missing limbs, and maybe I should be looking on the side of the road for, like, her LEG, so that I could toss it in the trunk and MAYBE THEY COULD STICK IT BACK ON, and I was KIND OF FREAKING OUT.
Dukay was supposed to be finding G's purse and her insurance card, and he kept calling me, trying to figure out what the hell was going on, and I kept telling him to just wait until we find G's leg and get it...I don't know, NAILED back onto her stump, and just GIVE ME A MINUTE, MISTER, and there was much confusion and terror.
Eventually I got to the hospital, got totally turned around, ended up in the wrong unit about ninety times, and then finally made my way to emergency. I walked to the front desk and told them whom I was there to see, and a doctor IMMEDIATELY grabbed my arm and said, "Come with me, I know where she is," and all I could think was GOOD LORD, SHE IS A HEAD ON A PLATTER, AND I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO.
And he took me back to her, and there she was, WITH ALL OF HER LIMBS, but with a massive cut in her arm from falling down a flight of stairs.
And I ran to her, and was so glad to see her that all I could do was sputter things like, "You're not just a head! I looked for your leg! But it's on your body! You have two of them! I am so glad!" and this helped matters not at all, but shortly we were both calmed down and laughing and everything was FINE. Until the doctor came in.
He immediately announced that G needed stitches, and turned to the nurse and NOT SO SUBTLY requested "the big needle."
G turned about six shades of white. And I was like, dude. Can't you, like...not freak her out? She's obviously freaked out. I don't care what you have to do. Ask for the "ig-bay eedle-nay," but LOOK AT WHAT WE HAVE HERE. A PANICKED BLEEDY PERSON. And you should stop scaring the bleedy girl.
I held G's hand while he did the stitches, and I blabbed on about totally unrelated shit for twenty minutes, with the doctor every once in a while popping into the conversation by announcing, "Know what she's doing? Distracting you. She's good at it!" Thanks, Doc!
But while she was getting stitched, I COULD NOT STOP WATCHING the stitchy part. I had never seen such a thing. First there was all blood and gore and oozy bits, and then there was a straight line of stitches. Just like on Frankenstein.
And I made up my mind right then that I? WOULD NEVER GET STITCHES. Give me a helmet, put me in a fucking bubble, whatever, but I AM NOT GETTING STITCHES, because they are TOTALLY GROSS and look EVER SO PAINFUL and listen, I'm not having it.
Know what I say to the "me" of last month? HAAAAA! That is what I say.
Because, last night, for the first time since that fateful evening, Al and G and Dukay and I went out to dinner. And again: wonderful time! Excellent friends and excellent food, and oh, the fun and goodness. And Dukay and I came home, and we went to bed, and he woke me up with little kisses this morning and I thought, shit, man, this is going to be a good day.
I walked him out, and a few minutes later, I went to shut the door leading to the garage. And I was barefoot at the time. I plan to never be barefoot again, even when showering or sleeping, and this is why:
As I was pulling the door shut, I somehow managed to run the door over the toes on my right foot, thereby smooshing them to within an inch of their little toe lives. And that hurt. But the real problem was that the metal thing? That is attached to the floor and goes under the door? Which I guess is a door jamb, or something, but WHATEVER, it is fucking SHARP, SHARP LIKE RAZOR, and it sliced off the pad of my toe.
I did not immediately know that, because I was too busy screaming OH MY FUCK as the dogs cowered in terror. And then I do what you always do with a toe injury, which is:
(1) Not look at it; and
(2) Attempt to walk it off.
And I had done about ten laps around the kitchen island, thinking that this was just the worst stubbed toe, like, EVER, when I finally looked down and saw that I had left bloody footprints all over the kitchen. And this is when I LOST IT COMPLETELY.
I ran upstairs and turned on the bathwater and stuck my foot under the stream, and that is when I saw that MY TOE was essentially CUT IN TWO, with half of the toe-ness just...flapping there. And I screamed bloody murder, and grabbed a phone, and called: Dukay. Of course. Because of his extensive medical knowledge, seeing as the man SELLS ADVERTISING for a living and all.
Poor Dukay answered and was treated to a hysterical me, shrieking things like, "MY TOE I CUT OFF MY TOE OW OW OW," and when he tried to get me to explain this in a manner that was, you know, remotely coherent, I just kept on saying things like, "THIS little piggy is still attached, but THAT OTHER little piggy IS STILL IN THE FUCKING GARAGE OH MY GOD, and I TRIED WALKING IT OFF but I think I walked WRONG and AHHHHHHH"
He explained that I needed to keep it under the water and then to put pressure on it and to get it over my heart, which is...y'all, that is hard when you're dealing with a toe. I ended up laying on my bed with my legs stuck in the air, FREAKING OUT and watching as blood ran down my leg, and that is when I knew I would need to call A Professional, and so I called my mother.
(Somewhere in here I also called the office to tell them I would not be coming in today, as I had lost a toe in a nasty garage incident, and I think my lovely description of the flapping and the bloodshed pretty much convinced everyone that NO, the office is NOT the place for you, please never mention your toe again, ever, in any context.)
Mom immediately announced that she was taking me to the ER, and for me to put on some flip-flops or whatever and she'd be right there. While I waited for her, these are some of the actual thoughts that ran through my head:
(1) I wonder if I should go back and look for bits of toe and put them on ice;
(2) I wonder if the dogs have already eaten the bits of toe; and
(3) I wonder if the Medical Professionals who are about to see my toes will mind that I have not had a pedicure in ROUGHLY ELEVEN BILLION YEARS, and is there time for me to like...file? Buff? ANYTHING?
The hysterical thought-train that was my brain was eventually halted when my mom got to my house. She staunchly refused to even glance in the direction of my feet, because...ew, but she took me to the emergency place. And there, the doctor DID look at my feet, and was completely squicked out.
"Ew," he said.
"OW," I agreed. "Unless you are talking about my pedicure. I'M SORRY! THERE WASN'T TIME TO BUFF."
He cleaned the wound (OW OW OW) and then tried to figure out how to best stitch it, but in the end he decided that it was just too weird of a cut, and so instead he just used those glue-stitchy things and wrapped the sucker up like a little piggy in a blanket, and I was free to hobble on home. After, you know, I got a tetanus shot so I don't get the lockjaw. Because THAT sounds like fun! Lockjaw!
And...here I am. Back on the sofa, feeling IMMENSELY sorry for my bloody self. And thinking that I will never, EVER have dinner with Al and G again, because WHY COME does a girl always have to go the hospital the next day? People, do you SEE the pattern here? Is it not scary to you? It is scary to me! Next time, someone could lose an eye.
(Not that it would be any more painful than losing a toe. Which fucking hurts, if I have not mentioned. And I don't know what you've heard, but if you have heard that I am a wimp, that is entirely accurate.)
Anyway. Y'all watch out for damned doors. And for the LOVE of all that is HOLY, don't go ANYwhere with Al and G.
Oh, I'm Just High On LIFE
Uh, HI. Something had to happen to rid us all of the White Page of Website Emptiness and Sorrow, and seeing as I am the only one who can actually do anything about that, I figured I'd better step to the plate and all the rest. So, hello! I HAVE NOTHING INTERESTING TO SAY.
I really don't. It is sad. Basically, the gist of it is as follows, in list form:
1. This website is, apparently, very ill. See the comments thing? See how it says zero even though it is probably lying to us all? Yeah. Well, this seems to be the first step in a path towards Total Death, and other odd things are happening, as well. Like old entries reopening themselves and getting filled with forty-two thousand spam comments offering everything from Jessica Simpson lyrics to Exxxtra HARD VIAG-ARA FOR THE LADIES. I spent AN HOUR of my life, time that could have been spent drinking or shopping or kissing, deleting those stupid comments. My website is haunted.
Miss Pretty AB is having to redo the whole site, because the problem is serious, and when she started talking about it, I just put my hands over my ears and wailed, because I do not understand anything about my website. I understand nothing at all about my website. I know that I write on it, and then I say the magic words and do a little dance to the mystic gods of the Smart Box, and then my words are broadcast out over the land and take up residence in your brains. And for that, Y'ALL, I AM SORRY. Sometimes my words are really, really dumb, and now you're stuck with them in your brain cells. An example of words that are dumb would include, oh, I don't know, possibly THESE WORDS THAT YOU ARE READING RIGHT NOW. These words are totally dumb, but I can't fully be blamed, because of thing number two, which is:
2. I poisoned myself with spaghetti. Because I am a total asshole. Please allow me to explain.
See, last year, my doctor told me that I am allergic to beef, to which I said, "...?" And then I promptly ignored him completely, and really very little has happened on that front. Except for sometimes, beef gets me, and it turns my body inside out in the style of reversible loungewear, and this is what my own fucking spaghetti did to me. So I had to stay home and be sick yesterday, and now I am on kind of an interesting mix of prescribed pharmaceutical products plus coffee, and I am not thinking...uh, clearly. Not so clearly right now. I am kind of confused. For proof of my confusion, I offer you:
3. Thing number three. This really is neither here nor there, but remember when we were talking about brain cells a little while ago in earlier paragraphs that I typed? And also we talked about how sometimes stupid things (see: this entry) get all stuck in them? Well. That is about to be relevant, when I get done telling this long-ass story:
So, this weekend, Timmy and Dukay and I went to my parents' lakehouse to visit. And drink. And make important discoveries.
You may recall that the last time Dukay and Timmy and I went to my parents' lakehouse, we ended up in a long, laborious discussion about the career of Matthew Sweet, which somehow led to the discovery that the people who work at 411 do not have mouses on their computers. This time, the biggest discovery of the weekend turned out to be that Dukay, despite years of systematically destroying his brain cells (see? I can bring it all together), somehow has managed to retain the entire McDonald's rap song (circa 1987 or something) in his oversized noggin.
Now. Y'all! Do you remember that? I kind of did, but now that I have heard it, oh, SEVEN HUNDRED TIMES, I can recall it specifically. It is as follows:
I'd like a Big Mac,
A Quarter-Pounder with some cheese,
A Happy Meal.
Tasty Golden French Fries,
Regular or Larger Size,
And Salads: Chef or Garden,
Or a Chicken Salad Oriental.
Big Big Breakfast,
Hot Hot Cakes,
Bacon, Egg and Cheese,
Hash Browns too.
And for Dessert
Hot Apple Pies,
A Soft-Serve Cone,
Three kinds of shakes,
And Chocolatey Chip Cookies.
And to drink a Coca-Cola,
Diet Coke, and Orange Drink,
A Sprite and Coffee, Decaf too,
A lowfat milk, also an Orange Juice.
I love McDonalds.
Good Time Great Taste,
and I get this all at one place.
And...I don't know. LET'S TALK ABOUT THIS! First, I have lots of questions. Like, why come did they say "Hot Apple Pies" and try to rhyme that with "varieties"? Those words only rhyme if you pronounce varieties as variet-EYES, but that is about fourteen levels of wrong.
And what makes the chocolatey chip cookies so...chocolatey? Why can't they just be chocolate chip cookies? Because they really didn't need that extra syllable there.
Such questions kept us occupied for literally tens of minutes! I am telling you. TENS. Of minutes.
But anyway. So at some point, it was determined that Dukay possessed this, uh...knowledge, which entertained Timmy and me to no end, so at about two in the morning, we decided that KNOW WHAT A GOOD PLAN WOULD BE? To call people we knew and leave them the entire McDonald's menu on their voicemails. In rap form. Sorry, Ziz!
And, that is how brain cells and a twenty-eight year old attorney making prank calls sort of come together in one story. A story that, upon rereading, does not even make any sense. People, I am absolutely high right now. CAN YOU TELL?
Which brings us to thing number four:
4. This weekend, when we were not singing the McDonald's song, I began to compile a list of Things I Will Never Be Able To Do. But, because this whole entry is already a list, and it is weird to have another list inside of a list AND OH TOO MANY LISTS, and my brain might just pop from all the listiness, I am just going to bullet some of the finer points. I hereby resign myself to the fact that I will never, ever be able to:
- Fold a fitted sheet;
- Drive a car with a manual transmission (I have TRIED, LORD HAVE I TRIED);
- Cut my dogs' fingernails;
- Update a website with any degree of regularity (maybe you noticed this);
- Stop myself from gleefully watching movies with titles that rhyme with, I don't know, something like "Flirteen Going On Shirty";
- Prevent self from crying at same, because, magic dust! and happiness;
- Balance a checkbook, thanks to the life-giving invention known as the "debit card";
- String two coherent thoughts together when I am on any kind of drug whatsoever, including just Tylenol, because it takes NOTHING to get me looped, apparently; and
- Keep my cell phone charged.
And that is all. I mean, there were more, but I forget them now. Believe me, there's TONS of shit I can't do! "Make sense" comes to mind at the moment. "Speak and type coherently" is also occurring to me.
And...you know, that is all I have for you: the deluded, rambling rants of a woman on a variety of legal substances. There is no rhyme or reason. There is no theme here! This entry is the equivalent of a brain fart on crack, and I am just trying to make it through the day, dammit.
But it's better than the blank screen, I suppose. Still, with God as my witness, I promise you, internet, that I will NEVER EAT SPAGHETTI AGAIN.