I Say Potato, But That Is Kind Of All I Say
Despite the number of emails I have received asking whether I do, in fact, need some bail money, the answer is no, thank you. I am not in jail. I am not in jail, or kidnapped, or shipwrecked, or anything else remotely interesting. Instead, I have been working seventeen thousand hours, because turns out: the expression "Don't make a federal case of it"? That expression is used for a reason. That reason is that a federal case is kind of a BIG FUCKING DEAL, and that means no sleep for me, at ALL, and I actually stayed awake for 41 straight hours last week, with no breaks and no naps, and by the end of that time, I turned to Dukay and asked, "Hey, what does a psychotic break feel like?" and that is when he picked me up, hauled me upstairs, and physically deposited me into the bed, and I was not allowed to work any more. I was dead asleep before he'd turned out the light. Until I woke up six hours later in a blind panic, because OH MY GOD, I just spent six hours NOT working, am I insane?
Sigh. It was kind of a long week, y'all.
I have spent most of this week recovering, and not moving around very much. I am slug-like in my recovery. We have been watching a lot of television, and it is KILLING ME that nobody I know is watching Big Love except for me, because doesn't anyone want to talk about polygamy? Come on, people! Polygamy! That's some interesting stuff, particularly when your polygamy discussion is punctuated by multiple views of a bare-assed Bill Paxton. That man sure is naked a lot. I guess if you have a whole herd of wives, you would need to be a lot naked, but...dude. I don't need Paxton Buttocks in my face every six seconds.
So, this has been a thoroughly uninteresting week. But! But but but! The time prior to the federal case and the sluggishness was very awesome, and as we may recall, it was Birthday party week. Y'all know how much I like it when people give me presents and wine! So birthdays are right up my alley.
On Wednesday night (this seems like eight years ago, incidentally), we had the actual birthday party at a fancy restaurant, and that is where I wore my pretty silk and pearl necklace, and that was awesome and a lot of fun. Then on Thursday, I went to that bachelor party. And while said party did involve a strip club, I am proud to say that I stayed fully dressed this time, and nobody saw any of my naughty bits whatsoever.
Actually, to the degree that a strip club experience can be uneventful, ours was uneventful. Nobody got arrested, or excessively drunk, and we had no run-ins with overzealous bouncers or anything, so it was a pretty run-of-the-mill night. If, of course, your standard run-of-the-mill-night involves a crop of really...sparkly naked women. In extraordinarily tall, clear-plastic stilettos. Also noted was the apparent resurgence in the popularity of the leg warmer, because most of the women there were wearing them. That was all they were wearing, however. At one point, when a be-legwarmered dancer was up on our table, my friend Spark turned to me and whispered, "Aw! Her shins were cold."
So, not much excitement at the strip club. And no other real excitement, either; the only thing that even comes close to excitement was when I accidentally locked the dogs and my breakfast in the guest room together, and that was less "exciting" and more "annoying," and also it is not particularly interesting at all, but it's all I've got. So here you go. When I have a federal case, my stories become exponentially less entertaining.
But, anyway. So, the day after we went to the strip club was Friday, and I was not going to work. I was taking the day off, because this was before someone decided to make a federal case of things, and I had a sore throat anyway, and I was planning on sleeping in, wandering aimlessly through the house, maybe doing some shopping and having lunch, and then driving up to the lakehouse with Dukay, Spark, and her husband (also known as The Couple of Awesomeness) that evening. This was the plan. Naturally, that bears no resemblance to what actually happened.
First off, sleeping in did not work.
8:00 a.m.: I am awoken by a cacophony of hysterical barking. Said barking is coming from downstairs. The dogs are freaking OUT with the maximum of small brown ferocity that they are allowed by law, as in, we are firmly in Red Zone Barking, which means either that (1) There is someone in the yard, or (2) The Roomba is on the prowl. (Note: The dogs hate the Roomba. This may have been why the Roomba was purchased.)
8:01: Barking is now punctuated by a muffled "slam!" "slam" noise, meaning that idiot dogs are now physically throwing themselves head-first at the back door at whomever is outside, because GOOD THINKING, PETS. That should scare them away.
8:02: I go downstairs to discover that a few guys from the water department are wandering willy-nilly through my back yard, looking for sewer lines or whatever. They are in no hurry. I hate them. (Note: The water department and I are not on the best of terms on any given day, thanks to the time they sent me that bill of $1,300 for water for one month, and refused to entertain the notion that such an exorbitant figure could be a mistake, and drama ensued. I am not over it. I hate you, water department, and all of your minions, too.)
8:03: I am not about to listen to several hours of Dachshund Conniption on my day off, so I gather up the dogs and bring them upstairs with me. I deposit all of them in a guest room, and decide, well, hell. If I can't sleep, maybe I will watch a movie on the guest room TV, and make myself some breakfast or something, and the dogs can just hang out with me in here.
8:04: I go back downstairs to find self some breakfast. As soon as I walk into the kitchen, this is what I hear:
Which, when performed by an army of dachshunds on hardwood floors, sounds like:
8:05: I make a mad dash for the stairs, just in time to hear:
because Gimmme is blind, and cannot see steps, and so:
8:05:30: Fortunately, I catch Blind Dog before he falls too far, retrieve the rest of the dogs (clackityclackity), herd them again into the guest room (clackity), close the door, and go back downstairs to get self some breakfast.
8:06: Hmm. I...I am really not much of a breakfast eater. I never eat breakfast, unless it is bagel day at work. I usually do not eat anything until the afternoon. Dukay doesn't much eat breakfast either, and he is pathologically terrified of eggs ("Eggs make me twitch. Twitch!" -- Dukay), so I just don't have a lot of breakfast food around.
8:10: Hmmmmmm -- Aha! Mashed potatoes!
8:11: (Shut up.)
8:15: I make my potatoes, and get them all nice and warm and good (and breakfasty! Ish!), and bring the plate back upstairs to the guest room. All four dogs are sitting on the bed, all:
because I have potatoes, and HEY WE LOVE POTATOES TOO, but I am all, "That is too bad for you, for these potatoes are my breakfast, and I don't even care how big you make your eyes, MISTER Bo, you are having none of this."
8:16: I settle down to eat my potatoes, but before I actually manage that first bite, that is when I hear:
8:17: Ding dong! says the doorbell.
8:17: AHHHHHHHHH, say the dogs.
8:17: I hate everybody in the world.
8:17: Again, the dogs are apoplectic with wriggling hysteria. Again, the dogs produce a cacophony of shrill and thundering sound, because OMG, MOM, we FORGOT, but did you know that there are MEN in the YARD AHHHH?
8:18: Again, I get up, and place the potatoes out of reach on the table. Again, I close the dogs into the guest room so that Gimmme doesn't go
back down the stairs, and go to the door to see what the water guys want. And, of course, they want to tell me that they are in the yard, which, yes, so I gathered.
8:20: After chatting briefly with the water guys, I go back upstairs to my promised mashed potatoes, movie, and dachshund herd. Only, when I get to the door, I notice something odd.
8:21: The door to the guest room won't open.
8:22: Wait, the door to the guest room is...locked...?
8:23: YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME. The door locked behind me. I locked all of the dogs, plus one plate of mashed potatoes, in the guest room.
8:23: I put my ear against the door. This is what I hear:
8:23: "AHHHH!" I holler. "YOU ARE EATING MY MASHED POTATOES! STOP EATING MY MASHED POTATOES."
8:23:10: For the next ten seconds, I hear:
8:45: I make my way into the room, using both a fork and a coat hanger to pick the stupid lock. And there, as a surprise to nobody whatsoever, sit four dogs -- all of whom are covered in mashed potato -- and one empty, forlorn plate upside down on the bed.
They are all looking at me, wholly delighted.
8:46: I place them all in the blender and enjoy a dachshund smoothie for breakfast. Tastes like sausage!
It is too bad that I am not a normal person who can leave her damned breakfast of mashed potatoes, confident that even if she somehow manages to lock them in a guest room, they will remain untouched by the angry little teeths of the revolutionary wiener army. That is too bad. Also too bad is the fact that I failed to take pictures of the mashed potato explosion of '06. Imagine four dogs coated in a delicious white crust, and you will pretty much be there. Damn water department.
(And...uh. That is the mashed potato story. I told you it was not that awesome. But otherwise I will have to write about work, and y'all don't want that.)
I hope y'all are doing well, and once I manage to get myself all straightened out and normal, and reply to some of these zillion emails (I'm sorry!), I will hopefully post something more worthy of your brain cells. Until then, y'all take care, and feel free to share your views on mashed potatoes, polygamy, and whether I should make a federal case of things with the water department, because somehow I feel like this is all their fault.
Jack! Necklace! Elvis! Bail!
Or, in other words: Entry With No Theme, Kind Of. Have fun!
Ways I Have Celebrated My Birthday So Far:
1. Two episodes of 24, featuring the 24 Drinking Game, in which you are required to drink whenever the words "profile", "protocol", or "satellite" are uttered. We have drinking games for most shows that we watch, but the 24 drinking game is somehow the most satisfying. This week we got a double hit when someone asked about "satellite protocols," and the entire room shuddered in collective happiness.
Other good 24 drinking words include "perimeter", "hostile", and "tactical." Or, if you would like to die of alcohol poisoning, you can just go with "Jack." Your liver may never forgive you.
2. Enjoyed (by "enjoyed" I mean "personally ate most of") two cakes, including one that is from Baskin Robbins, and is therefore made of ice cream, which is just like having cake made of rainbows and unicorns, because honestly. Is there anything better than ice cream cake? Nope.
3. Received some really truly lovely gifts, including a gorgeous silk and pearl necklace from Dukay, who picked it out all by himself and it just makes me want to snuggle up to him and kiss him all about the head and shoulders because, aww!
Sadly, this is the best picture I have of it. Sadly, in this picture, I look kind of...uh, high. I'm not. I might be drunk, though. It was my birthday party! It was required.
Aw, Funyuns, man. That's what I want for my birthday. Some Funyuns.
See how pretty that necklace is? It's all deconstructed and modern. I like things that are deconstructed and modern. (My fondness for things deconstructed and modern once led me to wear a skirt inside out for approximately four hours before realizing that: oh. Skirt's inside out. But during those four hours, I got about a million compliments on the skirt, and nobody even noticed, because that is just how much I tend to like things that are deconstructed and modern. Lesson being: apparently, my usual wardrobe is so peculiar that people fail to notice when I do things like wearing inside-out skirts.) So, uh, anyway, that was...neither here nor there. What I am getting to, people, is that he did good. Also, he's cute. Also, retelling that skirt story made me start to worry that maybe I dress like a homeless person. Or an Olsen Twin. Either way, I should probably examine that, don't you think? And maybe --- oh.
5. Drank pretty much all of the wine contained in the city of Atlanta (see above picture). Was hugged on by many adorable friends and family, and generally, have felt very loved and special for days.
So, it has all been fun. So far, it has been fun. That may change this evening, however, because this evening, I am going to a bachelor party. People, let me be straight with you: that makes me scared. I have never been to a bachelor party, but possibly some of y'all remember my birthday-at-a-stripclub experience from several years ago? If you recall (and I do)(vividly), I somehow became separated from my shirt and that was...bad, and then said shirt was thrown into the crowd, and that was the moment in which I remembered, with vivid terror, that I had not actually worn a bra that night, and pretty much every man I knew was sitting in the audience, jaws hanging open, and eyes big as dinner plates.
So, bearing this history in mind, when plans were being made for this particular bachelor party, Dukay had some suggestions.
"Wear a bra," said Dukay.
"I will be wearing FIVE bras," I informed him. "And three pairs of pants. And galoshes. And rubber gloves. And a trench coat. And a chastity belt. And a muumuu. And a ski mask."
And, this is not all. In addition to Bachelor Party, I have this weekend to look forward to. This weekend, a bunch of us are going up to the lakehouse to once again celebrate my birthday, this time by going to an Elvis impersonator. Yes. I kind of don't think I will need to wear five bras for that, but I might keep the muumuu, because everything that can be eaten at the Elvis Impersonator's restaurant is deep fried. Like, twice. It's refried deep fried. The entire restaurant is bathed in a crunchy golden glow, and arteries as far away as Atlanta get cloggy when they think upon the Lantern Inn. Naturally, however, this is the sort of food that I love, so I fail to see the problem. I don't need arteries! I just need to eat some more popcorn shrimp and not be encumbered by things like "waistbands."
So, this is all the excitement, currently. I will report back shortly and tell all y'all about what kind of trouble we stir up. In the meantime, though, here's a really cute picture of Mister Dukay and my pretty necklace:
Who, us? We've been helping old ladies cross the street all day. Next, we're going to watch Touched By An Angel!
Don't we look wholesome? Don't we look well-behaved? Please remember how angelic we look right now. Because tomorrow, we may be calling you. And we might need borrow some bail money.
Hello internet! It's my birthday. I am twenty-nine. Please go eat some cake for me. And then, drink something. Preferably with an umbrella in it. Also, vodka.
So, for my birthday, did you notice my gift from Kiefer Sutherland? Two episodes of 24. Back to back. Tonight. ON my birthday. Now, please, internet: I think it is patently clear that Kiefer did that just for me. More specifically, I think it is patently clear that Jack Bauer did that just for me. Jack Bauer has pull, which he is very happy to use for his girlfriend. That being myself. Me. I. The person who gets two episodes of 24 on her birthday. Thanks, Jack! Bring on the graphic violence, for which viewer discretion is frequently advised.
So, obviously, very happy times and the Big Fun is happening over here at my house, and we are planning a whole series of exciting events, all of which I am sure I will share with you, because that is just how I roll. But, I just got some very sad news, and so tales of birthday shenanigans are going on hold for just a little bit; soon, I promise to regale you with many recaps of the debauchery that is sure to come. But not today.
This morning, I got an email from Lisa, letting me know that, on Sunday, her goddaughter Lauren passed away. Lauren had been battling cancer for two years, and had been nothing but funny, courageous, and upbeat through that entire experience. She was only nineteen when she died.
I never met Lauren in person, but she used to visit my site, and we emailed back and forth a bit. She told me about her diagnosis, and about having to defer entering college because she was undergoing treatments. Ultimately, she made it to UVA, and I hope she really enjoyed her brief time there.
For my birthday this year, I would love it if y'all would donate to Lauren's Relay for Life team. You can make a donation here, and I'll handle this the same way as the Katrina donations last year. If you donate, leave a comment or send me an email, and I'll enter you in a raffle for a painting. I'll draw a name tomorrow evening, and announce the winner here. You might also want to leave a comment on Lauren or Lisa's site; I know your kind words would help.
If you can contribute to Lauren's team, that's wonderful; regardless, however, please keep Miss Lauren, and all of her family and friends, in your thoughts today. She wasn't around long enough, and she will certainly be missed.
Update: Thank you so much to everyone who has donated to Lauren's Team, or who left words of support for her family. As you can see in the comments, your kindness has not gone unappreciated. Y'all are, as always, awesome. And it's clear that Lauren came from some wonderful people.
I have done my silly little drawing again (names in a hat! It is reasonably practical), and the winner of the raffle is Miss Catherino. When I looked back at her comment, I saw that she is actually the parent of a [very small] cancer survivor. That is a very cool coincidence.
So, Catherino, kindly email me your address, and I will promise not to show up on your doorstep demanding wine. As for the rest of y'all, thank you again. But I can't promise that your doorsteps are safe.