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Sound and Fury of Bo, Take Two: Veterinary Boogaloo

February 21, 2006

Y'all, poor Bo. He has lived on this planet for seven years, and during that time, he has very rarely been injured, or poisoned, or beaten with sticks, or wrapped in a blanket of knives. While, yes, I have threatened him with one or all of these punishments, I have never actually raised a hand to the dog, or even spoken to him in any tone of voice that is anything other than, on occasion, "slightly exasperated." And even my "slightly exasperated" voice is dripping with the dog love. Bo has himself an easy little life.

But, you would not know this, if you had only just become acquainted with Bo this year. Because 2006: this is not Mister Bo's year. This is not the Year of the Bo. 1999 may have been the Year of the Bo, back when he still had his testicles, and that was fun for everyone. But 2006 is just not his thing. 2006 hurts Bo. And it is costing me a damned fortune.

So, very early on Saturday morning, I got up to let the dogs out. And they didn't go, because they never go outside when it is rainy or cold, and instead they just look at me with unconcealed disgust and shake their jaded little heads at my optimistic stupidity. So I sighed, and settled myself into the sofa, and was fixin' (I am Southern) to watch some TV, or maybe do some dozing, or something else equally comatose, when Bo had the Grand Idea to hop off of the sofa and go check out whether I'd put anything in the food bowl. (Answer: no.)

This is something that Bo has done, oh, seventy million times. He hops off, wanders over to the kitchen, and upon discovering that ew: dog food, he immediately returns and growls at you until you pick him up. Because Bo can get off the sofa, but he cannot get back up again. You have to lift him. Now. Lift him NOW. This is what you are told. You do it, too.

But, this early Saturday morning was different, because somehow, Bo came down hard on one leg, twisting it underneath him. And as soon as he hit the ground and this happened, I heard an ungodly, otherworldly shriek that made me remember New Year's Eve and the ensuing Stitch, and I immediately sprang to my feet. And there was Bo, lying on the ground, holding his little paw up into the air, and whining and crying like he was being fucking MURDERED.

I panicked, of course, because this is what I do. I picked him up, and he continued screeching. Remembering that last time, sausage made the screaming stop, I ran over to the refrigerator. Sadly, there was no sausage. Happily, hot dogs work just as well, so I gave him a bite of hot dog, and the screaming subsided. But the big sad brown eyes of sadness remained.

So, I stuck him up on the counter, and tried to see if I could actually find anything wrong with his leg. He wouldn't put any weight on it, and instead just stood there, miserable, holding his foot in midair. Like a little tripod. Like a tiny, angry Nazi.

I felt around on his leg, and he whimpered a little, but nothing too serious. And I couldn't feel anything broken or shifting, so I figured we'd give it an hour, and see if things improved. I gathered him up, and brought him over to the sofa again, the place where all the pain started, and held some ice against his leg while he wriggled around in small brown irritation. Finally, he fell asleep.

So, I sat there, trapped under seventeen pounds of Sleeping Pissed, waiting to see whether he'd wake up and just forget about the leg entirely (this has happened before, because Bo's capacity for martyrdom is only exceeded by his capacity for forgetting about said martyrdom), or whether we'd be making the second emergency vet trip of 2006. And it is only February.

A few hours later, Bo decided to wake up, but he did so with another shriek that sent me shooting straight into the air in horror. Apparently, his leg? Yeah. It still hurt. So, I bundled him into a blanket, and off we went.

On the way to the vet, I called to tell them we were coming. This is kind of how that went down:

Self: Hi! It's Miss Dox--

Receptionist: What happened to Bo.

Self: What? How did you kn---

Receptionist: Leigh, it's always Bo. What is it this time? What did he eat? Another box of tampons?

Self: Um. No. He didn't eat any---

Receptionist: Wait, was it more of Dukay's "herbal hangover over" pills? Or, ooh! Was it another citronella candle?

Self: Listen. He didn't eat anything. He actually hurt his leg. He jumped off the sofa and landed funny.

Receptionist: Oh, poor Bo!

Self: I know! If it’s broken, I guess we'll have to shoot him! HA!

Receptionist: (silence).

Self: ...hee? Because, if he broke his...leg? Like, with...a horse? Like...

Receptionist: I know what you're talking about.

Self: And...hee?

Receptionist: No.

Self: Well, I mean, yeah, I know, and I was, like, kidding. You know. About the shooting thing? I wouldn't really --

Receptionist: Wasn’t Bo just in here? For a stitch?

Self: Uh, yeah. But I didn’t DO that, he--

Receptionist: Mmm HMM. Right. See you soon.

So, lesson learned: shooting horse jokes = not funny at the vet. (However, injured Bo as tiny Nazi = still cracking me up. Highly inappropriate! But accurate, just the same. I am sorry.)

Anyway, we got there, and my parents actually came to meet me, and together, we hung out in the waiting room for several hours while Bo lay in my lap, staring bravely into the distance and acting all the world like death, you are so imminent, I can see... a bright light...and letting out small whimpers of agony.

At this time, I recounted the story about the Receptionist ("see, because if he broke his leg? We'd have to shoot him! Ha...! I mean, right? Like a horse? Listen, someone please think this is funny."), and about how she remembered all of the things Bo has eaten over the years.

And, it is true. Bo is not bothered by traditional notions of cuisine. He is a gourmand, and he is always willing to experiment with other flavors and sensations. Thus, while we waited, we compiled a handy list of Shit Bo Ate Once, and it is as follows:

1. Citronella candle, one;
2. Very dead lizard, one (minus head);
3. Pennies (several);
4. Dukay's herbal supplement that is supposed to prevent a hangover (one, with no result whatsoever, reports Dukay);
5. Chocolate martini (one);
6. Flea medication (one year supply);
7. Three pounds strawberry chicken salad;
8. Thong underwear (several);
9. Pink Daisy razors (multiple);
10. Law school textbooks (all);
11. Bit of dead squirrel found in yard (assorted); and
12. Priceless photographs of family and friends (many).

This is all we could come up with. I know there is more. But we were being interrupted in the creation of this handy list by the sorrowful moans of the Critically Injured Mister Bo, who was not really appreciating the fact that we were making fun of him while, if you DID NOT NOTICE, the dog is on his deathbed. Where he is dying. Where DEATH occurs.

But for all his whining, his attitude switched dramatically once we actually got him into the office. When placed on the floor so that the vet could watch him hobble, Bo immediately darted between my legs, hopped over Dad's feet, crouched in the corner, and took himself an enormous, anger-fueled dump.

And, that is when I remembered something else about Bo. Mister Bo is like an octopus. He is like an octopus in several ways, which I will detail below in the following helpful chart:

bo and octopus.JPG

People, it is a scary world out there. There might be some time when you are out in the wilderness (or possibly the ocean), and you run across a wild creature, and you wonder: is that Bo? Or is that an octopus? If only there was some way to know!

But now, see? If you print out this handy guide and keep it with you at all times, you will never have to be confused again. Or, pooped on.

Because: that is what Bo does. When Bo is threatened, he protects himself by producing a wall of ass-smell so intense and putrid that people are literally gagging and gasping for breath, running for the doors with their hands clapped over their mouths, eyes bulging wildly. When the air has cleared (so to speak), they always return and gaze, amazed, at the dog. How does he make it all? they wonder. He is wee. How does a wee dog produce so much odor?

I wish I could help y'all, but I cannot. It is an unsolved mystery of science. Still, I hypothesize (science word!) that it has something to do with the dachshund shape. It's like their entire insides are all intestine, and 99% of their inner resources are dedicating to making smells and poop and pee, all day long, and are busy doing that instead of pooling those resources in other areas, like, I don't know, the brain, and maybe that is why we end up at the vet because Bo has decided to stick his head inside a black lab. Maybe that is it. I'm just guessing, though.

So, anyway. We're at the vet when Bo decides to take a Defensive Dump on the vet's floor. And we all apologized, but the vet was like, "Oh, no, happens all the time." And she picked up Bo, and we held him down (note: it takes five grown adults to hold one Bo in place) while she checked out his leg. And even though she didn't feel anything wonky, she decided to go ahead and do some X-rays anyway, and she and her aide disappeared around the corner with the dog.

They were gone a while. A loooong while. And when they returned, they looked slightly worse for the wear, and it was explained to me that, in the process of getting his X-rays taken, Bo had:

1. Pooped again;
2. Expelled the contents of his anal glands on the aide; and
3. When placed on his back, produced an Old Faithful-style stream of urine that then rained down upon the vet, the aide, and all others in the room, including his furious, wriggling self.

The vet was like, "His leg isn’t broken. But he needs a bath now."

And, as she was speaking these words, a suddenly NOT limping, nay, completely uninjured Bo darted from my grip, dove behind my mother, and took yet another shit on the vet's office floor.

This is, I think, the point at which she suggested we take him home. And the point at which my scandalized mother finally ran from the room in horror.

“Couldn’t you just teach him to bite?” she asked, as she fled. “What kind of defense mechanism is that?”

It is Bo’s! And it is his favorite.

So now, Bo is home. He’s still limping, but the limping gets exponentially worse when there is sympathetic company, or food is being consumed. Then he is suddenly Bo, the Tragic Dog With Three Legs And One Useless Appendage Of Misery. When it’s just us, however, or when he would like to cross a room, or hop from the sofa, or whatever strikes his dog fancy, he is Bo, Dog Of Action And The Totally Uninjured Feets. If the other dogs had the capacity to roll their eyes at him, they absolutely would. “Fucking diva,” they are thinking. "What ever happened to the 'shooting him' plan? Because, that sounded good."

So, that’s it. Please think good thoughts about Mister Bo, and his sad little foot an his octopus defenses. Because, y’all, we’ve had two Bo injuries in two months. And I think that’s enough defensive poop to last us a damned lifetime.

hurt bo.jpg
The elusive Boris confuses his predators with a colorful variety of bowel emissions. Stay back.

Posted by doxie in The Dogs (Or, Poop) | permalink | Comments (87)

You Deserve To Be Adored

February 09, 2006

All of you! All of you deserve to be adored, except those of you who leave comments about Texas Hold 'Em. And yet, I am a bad journaler-type who leaves you with a blank page for days on end, because I am boring. I know.

Furthermore. Y'all, that last entry messed with my head in several ways. I just have to say. Firstly, I've been singing We Didn't Start the Fucking Fire for a week and a half. Billy Joel has taken permanent residence inside my brain, and there seems to be nothing I can do to remove his freeloading, broody, car-crashing ghost. And, to provide an additional dash of "psychotic" to a mix of Crazy, I keep finding myself...writing additional verses. Like, if I am thinking about things I need to get at the grocery store, my brain will immediately start sorting items into a song-friendly format, and suddenly I'm all, "Bacon, eggs and dryer sheets, cheddar cheese and sandwich meats, chardonnays, two filets, Joe DiMaggio."

It's not healthy. Also, you cannot buy Joe DiMaggio at the grocery store. But you can try.

So, anyway. Hi! I've been busy! I've been working a lot. A lot lot. Plus, I've had a whole bunch of other things going on; there was the Super Bowl (which, honestly, professional football kind of confounds me, but there's a party involved, so yay!), and there's also been this sudden onslaught of dinners and various celebrations and movie-going, and etc., and it isn't all that exciting, but it is fun, and there you go. That is how we roll.

And on top of that, is the Secondly, which is that suddenly, I've become all self-conscious, I guess, about posting. I mean, I kind of went all out for my last entry (and let me just say, writing that song? Took no time. LINKING to all those entries, on the other hand, was a many-houred affair), and now it seems like my regular whining is sorely insufficient. In short: apparently, I suck now! Sorry about that.

Also, I haven't really had any interesting drama as of late. I haven't fallen down or anything. I haven't smacked into any columns in the parking garage, even. Mine is suddenly a quiet life. And, yes, we all know this can't last, but let us embrace it for now! I am not even bruised anywhere! It is eerie, like ghosts.

So, seeing as I have no new news, and seeing as I am home from work today, we are going to do something new and different. Or...well, okay, not totally new, or even particularly different, and I think I am actually stealing this idea from Coleen, because I'm stealy, but it is the best I can do at the moment, so there.

Anyway, I have been getting all manner of questions in my email, and there tends to be a lot of overlap, so I've been meaning to answer them all in an entry, or on a separate FAQ page or something similarly high-tech and important sounding, but there's something kind of...I don't know, self-aggrandizing, maybe, in thinking that your life requires a list of frequently asked questions, and I think it is certainly necessary for some personal websites, but, man. I am just not that important. Or interesting, for that matter, and so I haven't done it.

But then, I keep getting the same few questions. And I keep sending the same few answers. And that makes me think, "Self, is this not the very definition of a frequently asked question? Do these questions qualify as both 'frequent' and 'asked'? Why, indeed they DO," and that is how we got to this entry. Hi!

So, this is how we are going to play this. I am going to start a list of questions. Y'all are going to ask more, either in the comments or over email, if you'd prefer, and I'll answer them here by updating throughout the day. I'm closing the inquiry tomorrow-ish, I guess, and then voila, we'll all have a handy little place to go when you are about to die because you can't remember something tremendously and terribly critical, like how many dogs I have, and all human life hangs in the balance of you knowing this answer, and there, shining like a HOLY BEACON, is this entry, thank God.

(Incidentally. The first time I typed that sentence, I typed "holy bacon." Which is just so, so much funnier. People, do you shine like a holy bacon? Why, I think you do!)

So, here we go! Frequently Asked Questions I Get All The Time, Here Come Your Answers!


Oh, that. Uh, yeah. We've been waiting for that story for a while now. This is, by far, the most often-asked question in the history of the world. It is more often asked than "What is the meaning of life?" or "Where are my car keys?" Friends, who I have met outside of this site, who I have known for years, leave me voicemail messages about this. They send me emails written in the blood of virgins. Even my mother is like, "What the fuck?"

And yet, all I can tell you is that I think Dukay is maybe...I guess we can say "terrified." He is terrified of having to write his own entry, and I swear that the poor boy is working on something, and ultimately, he'll finish, but he's never exactly had to do this before. So Dukay has entered a realm of befuddlement, armed with only his Sherpa (FAQ #2: What, exactly, is a Sherpa?) and, like, a walking stick, and we may never see him again.

So, answer: Um. I don't know. But one day, it will arrive, or else I'll get fed up and write the damn thing myself already, because...hee. It really is a funny story. But now I am just taunting you a second time.

2. Wait, how many dogs do you actually have? Four or eight? Also, how many is that in square feet?

I have four dogs living at my own house: Boris and Natasha, Gimmme that Ugly Dog, and Pugsley the Wunderkid. My parents have the other four, and they live at their house. They are Max, Maggie, Wednesday (to go with the Pugsley), and the toothless Lucy. Combined, they are infinity square feet, particularly when they are all in bed with you.

3. Why do you never post? You never post. Just like you never write, or call, or visit.

Dude, I know! I'm sorry. I just get so damn busy, and I feel like it is cheating to just post something little, and so I wait until I actually have the time to do an Actual Story Thing, With Plot And Characters, and by then the screen's gone all blank. Also, somehow, when I sit down and think "Now I will write something funny!", sometimes what comes out is actually all dark and broody and not funny a bit, and I'm not exactly sure where "dark" and "broody" come from, but I am going to blame the fact that I watch really depressing movies. (Capote, I am looking at you right now.)

So, that's why. I'm sorry it's not more, but I do try to post whenever I've got something interesting to share (and, oftentimes, despite the fact that I do not have anything interesting to share whatsoever. See: this entry.)

4. Where oh where did the title of this entry come from?

Okay, so, this is not actually a frequently asked question, because nobody has asked it ever except for me. But I am asking it now on behalf of all of you, because y'all want to know that it comes from a song called Sentimental Flaw, which is performed by this band, and you can listen to it right here or right here, and I will wait while you do that.

(I am waiting.)

Okay, now, wasn't that so good? I sing it kind of all the time. Anyway, that band is very nice and Glenn is actually related to me now (he married my cousin one time!) and Michael is very cute and is the lead singer, and he is very good with the dogs. Furthermore, when he is sitting on my couch and I tell him to play me that song right now, seriously, yes, he will actually do that and not look at me like I am some crazy fangrrrrl. They're about to go on tour, so if they come to your town, y'all should totally go, but if you live in Atlanta, then you should totally come to their show on February 10, this Friday night, and you should say hello to me and Dukay, and we should totally have a drink together, like, totally.

(And, yes, this has no place in this entry, but, you know. Whatever. Now you have something in your head besides We Didn't Start the Fire! You are welcome!)

So! That's all I can think of. Y'all come up with some questions, and I'll do my best to answer them. I guess I should go ahead and tell you that I won't answer anything too personal, and that I can't give legal advice or anything, but other than that, go to town. Starting...now! If you...care! Which you...might not! And that is...also fine!

But, anyway. So, here are some questions so far:

When are you and Dukay getting engaged?

Oh, Mom. You are not fooling me with the fake name and website, you tricky lady! Shoo!

In all seriousness, Dukay and I have been dating for four years, and we both plan on getting married (to each other, even!), but now's just not the time. Dukay's only 25, anyway, and I'm in no particular hurry. So, when we do ultimately get engaged or whatever, I will let y'all know, but nobody should be holding their breath.

And yes, Mom. That means you. Exhale!

How did you and El Dukay meet?

This is kind of what Dukay is supposed to write about, but I'll tell you this much: blind date. Yes. My sister set us up. I may now owe her my firstborn, except for when Dukay is bad, and then I call her up and curse her repeatedly.

How did El Dukay get his name?

Sadly, I can't even answer this, because I didn't give it to him. For some odd, unknown, mysterious reason, Dukay's been called that for years by some of his friends. They don't remember where it came from, either, but feel vaguely that it may have something to do with his hair. And, feel free to puzzle away on that one, because I don't have a fucking clue what that's supposed to mean.

What sort of law do you practice?

The hard kind! Basically, employment stuff. And that is all I will say about that, because I don't want to be up 'n fard.

Will you write a book, because books are way funner than briefs?

Oh, good one. I do get that one a lot. And the answer is: hopefully, maybe, some day. I don't have the brainpower for a novel or anything, but maybe I'll put together a book of essays. I don't know how well my writing would translate into a book, though, so who knows. If I do write a book, however, I will have much fun naming it. I am leaning towards either "Estelle" or "Spot."

How do you know so many intelligent and generally fabulous people?

This is another one I get asked a lot. Y'all are way, way better at this than I am.

I know most of these intelligent and fabulous people through this intelligent and fabulous person, who introduced me to these two intelligent and fabulous people, and ultimately I met some more intelligent and fabulous people, and it just keeps on going and it is all very circle of life! or something. All of these people, incidentally, are ten times more intelligent and fabulous than I am, so I lucked out.

Will you be my friend?

I am your friend! I am very close to you right now! In fact, I am so close, I might actually be (dun dun DUN) in your house. Check the closets.


Why are you so pretty?

That is very kind of you, but obviously, you have never seen this previously-undisclosed picture, in which the world finally discovers what happens when a pufferfish mates with a linebacker:


See? THAT could be hiding in your closet! Flee!

Do the dogs like having their picture taken?

Let me tell you something. Bo recognizes the camera, and whenever it appears, he immediately goes into a series of poses, opening and closing his mouth, looking at the camera, stretching, and basically being an enormous, brown, log-shaped ham. All the other dogs are much more reserved, and couldn't give a shit one way or the other. Bo, however, would like to be famous, please. Any day now, Dog Fancy will finally call!

Why do I still have red eyes in that about picture/why haven't I updated my about page/similar questions

Hee. Because, dear internet, I can do nothing on my own site. I really can't. There's a typo on that about page (can you find it?) that's been there ever since the beginning of time, but I have no idea how to get in there, or how to make changes, or how to switch out the picture (Dukay hates that picture, by the way, and I have repeatedly promised to replace it with something else, but I am lying), and so we all just live in an uncomfortable place where I may be driving this bus, but I have no idea what all the buttons do. Or something. Okay, that was a lame metaphor, but you know what I mean.

Short answer: because I'm a moron. And, now that I think about it, a lot of these questions can probably be answered this way. I'm an idiot! Moving on!

How old is Dukay?

He is a wee little 25 year-old. We started dating a little after his 21st birthday. (See, I have some minimum requirements. Like, he has to be able to buy me a drink. Or else, he needs a really awesome fake ID.)

If you weren't a lawyer, what else would you have done?

Ooo. Good question. I want to immediately launch into a list of professions (and, here comes the song again: "Pilot, spaceman, doctor, cook, author of a children's book, stock broker, midnight toker, Joe DiMaggio!")

Just kidding. I don't really want to be Joe DiMaggio, as I believe he is currently dead.

I kind of always wanted to be a lawyer, honestly. I thought about being a doctor for a while, but know what I hate? Blood. Vomit. Urine. Fluids of any kind that can come out of someone and splatter in various places. So, "doctor" was not so much the path for me.

One time I worked as a gift-wrapper though, and I discovered that I really rock at gift-wrapping, like I am some kind of wrapping prodigy, so maybe that was my Destiny, but I got sidetracked. You never know.

Can we watch Ziz on TV?

Right now, Ziz is just doing behind-the-scenes stuff, so she's not actually on television at the moment. Sometimes she gets tossed in for roles, though, so I'll tell y'all when she'll be on, and we can all watch, and agree that she is the very best "Second Girl From Right" in the history of all "Second Girls From Right" everywhere and at any time.

How did you start with a blog?

Boredom. Total boredom. I started a new job (not this one), and had nothing, ZERO to do, and basically surfed to the end of the internet. I stumbled upon some other sites, realized that other people were doing this writing thing, online, gasp, the possibilities!, and so I put together the most basic website ever, using a drag 'n drop program, and possessing no knowledge of HTML whatsoever. And lo, the site was born, and I am still completely shocked that anyone actually reads it.

Why do y'all have those dachshund dogs? Why not a nice lab? What's WRONG with a nice LAB?

(Anyway, that is how Dukay asks that question.)

My mom grew up with chihuahuas, and has always liked small dogs. Chihuahuas, however, as a breed, hate my father. They attack him at random. Apparently, his aura offends their tiny pride or something, I have no idea, but my dad and chihuahuas just don't mix.

My parents have been dating since they were 15 (yes), and so Dad decided he'd better do something to curb the chihuahua trend and save his bloody ankles, and so he bought my mom her first dachshund. This was Saucie, and Saucie lived with my parents for something like 15 years, and was still kicking when I was born. And she was great with me, and used to push the side of my cradle to rock me, and it was all very adorable and tugged many a heartstring, and my parents were both just crazy about this breed.

So, later on, we got another one when I was nine, and then I got one when I finished law school, and then, much like Gremlins, we got them wet and fed them after midnight and now we have EIGHT, run for your LIVES.

How old are you?

Seven million! Alpha! Paisley! Twelve! Twenty-eight!

One of those is correct. Guess which!

Although, I will be 29 in less than a month, so go ahead and anticipate drunken debauchery.

Where do you shop for house things/where did that coffee table come from, and why in the name of God is it so blue?

And, once again, I have rephrased a question in the form of "things Dukay says." Actually, he likes that table, but it is quite blue. Which stands out a bit, considering that nothing else in the room is anything close to that color, but "matching" is not my strong suit, and -- oh. Question!

Honestly, I get a bunch of stuff from random places; Target and Ikea for some stuff, random antique or junk stores, estate sales, whatever for others. I tend to like the kind of furniture in West Elm or Design within Reach, but then I always end up softening it up with pillows or something, because I can never really decide what look I'm going for. The effect can be described generously as "eclectic," or less generously as "Wait, but none of this actually...matches. Does it."

And, the blue table came from a street fair in Atlanta; there's this guy who goes to these old, torn-down farmhouses and takes the wood, then builds it into furniture with other old house pieces (the blue table has a glass top that covers an old tin roofing tile, for example). It's awesome, but possibly illegal, so maybe my table is a crime. Shh!

Why does Gimmme have three M's in it?

Heeee. Because I thought it was funny. That's really the only reason. Sometimes, Gimmme wants things that are outside the box! Sometimes, you can't be bound by traditional rules of the English language! Sometimes, you just need that extra M! And, if any dog has ever had extra M, Lord knows that it is my Gimmme. Especially if the M stands for Mmmmanliness. Or, Mmmmaybe slightly overweight.

How did you recover from the stranger's porn story?

I am pretty sure my screams of terror did well in convincing him that the porn was not my own. And, yes, I did end up explaining the whole thing to him in painstaking detail, which probably had the unanticipated effect of making me appear to be a complete psychotic ("I have to look under BEDS! For BODIES!"), but there you go. It all worked out fine in the end, and I like to think he found me to be "charmingly quirky" and not "person who needs to be heavily medicated."

How come there are never any children on your site?

I really don't know any children. Only a few of my friends have had babies, and those aren't anywhere near me, so I just never see kids, I guess. Also, sometimes when people bring over their children, I accidentally show them porn. So maybe there is actually a reason behind all this, and I am just now figuring it out, and y'all! I will try not to scare the children! Bring them back! I will not cook them into a pie!

What profession would you not like to do?

Anything involving splattering fluids, as described above. Unless they are delicious fluids.

What movie could you watch over and over?

One time I accidentally watched Doc Hollywood twice in a row, but I was on some pain medication and cannot be blamed.

For some reason, I love the original Poltergeist, Jaws (yeah, yeah, I have no taste), and To Kill a Mockingbird (that is reasonably classy!). I am also strangely compelled to watch Working Girl every time it comes on TV. I am a huge dork when it comes to most 80's movies, and I strongly believe that nobody puts Baby in a corner.

What is your favorite curse word?

Hee. Obviously, it's "Bo."

Where would you go on vacation if money were no object? Would Dukay be invited?

I'd go to London, probably, because my French is le terrible and it is already too easy for me to get lost and confused and turned-around in my own language. And of course I would take Dukay, because he speaks English, too! It's, like, this total coincidence.

Where did you go to college/law school?

I usually don't answer that kind of question, just because I try to maintain some semblance of anonymity here, but I'll say that the Nashville guess was correct, and then I spent some time in Athens. (And, just so you know, I'll probably actually delete this question and answer before too long, but it seemed rude to ignore y'all, because those are perfectly reasonable questions, and I am just a big old chicken. Hi!)

Do you have a My Space account/flickr account/friendster thing/etc.?

I think I had a friendster thing about a million years ago, but I am sure it's up and died by now. I have a flickr page here. I don't have anything else, though. So, if you find someone claiming to be me, you are required to stand up and scream "IMPOSTER!" before slapping them about the face with your clean white gloves.

What kind of makeup do you use/how do you put it on?

I really can't believe that I actually get this question with any regularity (which I do), because I am absolutely clueless about all makeup. Like, shamefully so, and I only buy makeup at Target or the grocery store. My guiding principle seems to be "cheap is good enough for me!" and I am sure this makes my dermatologist shudder in terror, but you know. Whatever works.

I don't really have any tips, either; I guess I just -- I don't even know! I am no use here whatsoever. I'm sorry! I mean, look, y'all, we have finally stumbled upon a subject where I have nothing to say.

I will note, however, that I do really like one pricey-ish thing, and that's Dandelion by Benefit, which is just a happy pink powder thing you can sweep across your cheeks. You can wear it with or without any other makeup, and it really takes away the walking dead thing I usually have rocking in the morning (and, don't believe me on that? Ask Dukay. Seriously. My head wakes up last).

But, I don't really have any other tips, I guess. I am no help to you!

What's your favorite color?

Blue-greens. Like the table, actually. Or the top of this site. But I wear a ridiculous amount of black, because I am a little attorney in mourning.

How tall are you?

About five nine, five ten. Dukay is six four, so we are a towering people. This is why the king bed!

Do you smoke? Does Dukay smoke?

I do, but shouldn't. Every once in a while, I try to stop, and I should. Mostly, I smoke at night, and particularly when we're out drinking or something. And yes, it is a nasty habit, and yes, there goes my complexion and my teeth and my pearly pink lungs, and yes, I know all of these things, and I agree with every last one of them. I'll actually suck it up (pun!) and stop before too long.

Dukay doesn't smoke, and I am sure it annoys him to no end that I won't just quit already.

What's your favorite alcoholic beverage?

Wine. Wiiiiine. Any color except pink, any flavor that is not sweet. It doesn't have to be nice or expensive, or even served in an actual glass, but it's my drink of choice. I don't like beer, and I don't drink much liquor, but if we're out and there is no wine (gasp!), I will have a dirty martini (with exxxtra dirty) or a seven and seven. I don't do shots because I am lame, and also, eighty years old.

Are you a good cook? Is Dukay?

No and NO. With a capital enn oh, NO. Last time Dukay cooked me dinner, we had Chef Boyardee and grilled cheese sandwiches. I am not kidding.

We do a lot of takeout or heat-up food, but I can cook some things, and I make those pretty regularly. I make a good baked ziti, and Dukay can grill the hell out of some steaks or chicken, so we can, like, feed ourselves. But if you are looking for someone who can make you a roux, whoa nelly, are you in the wrong place.

Coke or Pepsi?

Diet Coke is lifeblood to me. I will not hear any words to the contrary, and don't anybody dare slander this perfect, God-like beverage.

Why did you move to Atlanta?

I just really like Atlanta. I went to high school here, I have a lot of friends here, my family's here. Also, I am not very adventurous. My sister can move off to L.A. and be all big, but I'll just stay here, thanks.

What happened to the embroidered pants, the pants of terror, the cause of great shame?

I will let you in on an little secret. I actually...hee. Okay, I actually do not hate the pants. I mean, yes, they're very different and all, but if anyone can pull them off, it's Dukay. He's just too damn cute. So, the pants are safe for now. But if he irritates me, I make no promises, because he loves those pants probably a little too much to be healthy.

Do you talk like you write?

I talk exactly like I write. Which is to say, I talk a lot. Seriously, you would really like for me to shut up now. No really.

And, more more more, just like Billy Idol says:

Did you ever get into trouble as a kid?

Listen, I am, and have always been, a tremendous dork. I was the teacher's pet who cried too easily, who wore her hair in the perfectly obnoxious little braids, the whole fucking deal. So I didn't get into too much trouble, unless it somehow involved, say, my innate clumsiness.

As a little kid, the worst trouble I ever got into came from the time I tried to sit on my grandmother's coffee table. Which was, at the time, home to her antique tea set. The table collapsed, the entire set (like, every single fucking cup) shattered into one jillion pieces, and I was in what was, up to that point, the biggest trouble of my little lame life. To this day, I am still nervous when I'm in the same room with expensive breakables, because I really am the bull in the china shop. I'm a blonde bull, but I am a bull all the same.

Now, when we move on into high school, there were maybe one or two things I got busted for, but honestly, not too many. And that is only because I am cagey, and did not get caught. And, they were all kind of boring anyway, because again: I am a dork.

What does your family think about this site?

I really can't tell you how lucky I am when it comes to my family, because they're all insanely awesome. My parents and my sister are all my best friends, and I'll tell them pretty much anything. They support me, they love the site, and they've never asked me to not write about anything. My sweet mom, in fact, doesn't even read it, because she's afraid it will make me self-censor. And when she told me that, I went out and had sex with a lot of very hot men to celebrate. And then I did some crack!

No, I kid. But, they're awesome. And, while they've never requested that I not write about something, I guess I just don't do it on my own; I wouldn't expose some huge family secret here or anything. I won't write about secrets anyone tells me, obviously, no matter how completely awesome a story they might make. And, when Sis died, I know my whole family read all of your comments, and everyone appreciated those so much. They're just very cool about all of this.

Have you always been funny?

I just can't believe anyone thinks I'm funny (right now, a whole bunch of people at home nodded in agreement, all, "Me either!"). But, I guess, this has always kind of been me. I do write the way I talk, so the sort of things you see here are pretty much the same sort of things that will come spilling out of my mouth. Including all those bad words I use. Like ass.

Does anybody else in your family write?

My maternal grandfather was a writer, but he wrote books about religion and important scholarly things. I don't think anyone else has ever devoted seventeen paragraphs to describing how they once threw their own poo out a window, so I'm blazing a trail here. Future generations! Follow my lead!

Are you the same person as you are on the Internet?

Again, I'm really just not that different. I don't think, anyway. Now y'all have got me all curious, and I'm kind of tempted to call Robyn and be like, "Hey! Am I a big liar? Is it raining where you are? Do you want some wine?"

Have you made any progress w/that guitar playing thing?

I can play a really fucking awesome E. And besides that...no, actually. I can't switch between chords! Dukay says it just takes practice, but I am pretty convinced that there must be, like, a pill I can take that will give me this ability. Also: guitar strings hurt your fingertips. And I am a massive wimp. That is an inauspicious beginning to this relationship.

Is Ikea all it's cracked up to be?

Well, yes. And, no. It's huge, and there are a lot of very awesome things here, but it is also a pain in your ass. Because you can't just run in for something; you must commit for several hours of your life. There is no dating here! Marriage only!

But, I've really liked everything I've ever gotten there, and considering my propensity for breaking shit, $2 wine glasses are exactly my speed. So, yeah. You should definitely be sick with sadness if you don't have one near you. They should make a pill for that.

What restaurants/activities/shops would you recommend in Atlanta/where do you buy your clothes?

We're all over the place in this city, but a lot of what we do depends mostly on what we like, and where our friends are, and all that. We like One and Two, but hate Piebar. A lot of people go to Compound, but I'm not a huge clubber-type, so I'd really rather hit a little wine bar or something. And there's always the new Aquarium, and the gorgeous Oakland cemetery, if you like to take pictures.

For shopping, I'm not tremendously creative, and I usually just get my clothes at the mall. But there are also a whole lot of very cool vintage stores I love in Little Five Points, and some great boutiques (I am partial to this one) in Highlands. And I get a lot of stuff there. And, in turn, they keep a substantial chunk of my income, so I guess it works out for everyone.

Did you have to buy a whole new wardrobe of suits?

Having your suits machine washed and dried was...well, it was a new experience for me, but you'd be amazed at how many came out looking pretty much exactly the same as before. Only, you know. Cleaner.

A couple were totally fucked, and anything made of silk died a nasty death that fateful day, but for the most part, it turned out to not be the biggest catastrophe of all time. And yet, I think next time, I will just go to the dry cleaners.

What is your favorite lame joke?

HA! That is an awesome question. It is as follows:

Q: What is green and fuzzy, and if it falls out of a tree and lands on you, you'll die?


A: A pool table.

This is funny, because this is true.

Have you ever heard this joke? - Two snowmen were standing in a field. One turns to the other and says, "Do you smell carrots?"

Hee. No. But I love lame jokes. Could you maybe tell?

If you adopted a little boy and a little girl RIGHTNOW, what would you name them?

Annabelle and Ryan. Or, Olivia and Parker. Or, Paperclip Stapler Candlestick Joy and Bottle *Moon* Redux, if I also decided to take up a variety of hard drugs.

What is your favorite TV show?

Lord. Listen, it's...24. I know it's impossible, and I hate it so much, and I wish Kim would just get mauled by a damn bear or whatever this season and that maybe people would start doing one thing that makes some degree of sense, but still! Still. Kiefer. I can't disrespect Kief, after all we've been through together (and, this would include two nuclear attacks and a smattering of biological warfare. Which is kind of a lot, you guys).

I also watch Arrested Development and Family Guy whenever I can, I love the Office and My Name is Earl, and I cannot be dragged away from an episode of the Sopranos or, my personal broody favorite, Six Feet Under. And, this is yet another reason why I am a nerd. In case you were keeping track.

And, why, looky there! I'm finally caught up. Granted, it is...yeah, 12:49 in the morning right now, but I am enjoying this sense of accomplishment for the moment. I'll pick back up tomorrow when I can, and then I'll close comments before too long, because I am nowhere near interesting enough to warrant all these questions.

So, thank you all for participating; this has actually been a lot of fun, and I hope y'all are mildly entertained, at least. And if you're not, then I think we can all be comfortable blaming someone else. Someone like El Dukay.

Posted by doxie in The Innernet | permalink | Comments (89)