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.