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Hell Freezes Over; Dukay Responsible

July 31, 2006

Well, people, let us all stop what we are doing and issue a collective gasp of shock and disbelief, because El Dukay, the man that I date, the boy that I love, has finally, FINALLY written his "How We Met Story."

Yes. I will give you a second to pick your jaws off of the floor.

(I would also like to add that this should cut my incoming email down by roughly 14,000%, because the number of requests for this story boggles the mind. BOGGLES.)

So, here it is, punctuated maybe on occasion by my own commentary, which is in bold, because WTF, DUKAY? But for the most part, it is very sweet, and he is a cutie pants, and he is also completely insane, because Dukay, did I just seriously have to edit your home address out of this story? I totally did. Poor Dukay does not understand the internet. I think we should all be glad that he did not add a paragraph listing all our social security and credit card numbers. So adorably trusting, my little snookums! So adorably not worried about a crazed murderer showing up on our doorsteps, clutching nothing but a hatchet and a doll made of human hair!

But, uh. Anyway. So, here it is. Did you want some cheesy college romance for your monday? Because baby, that is what you're about to get.

So... How did Miss Doxie & El Dukay meet?
by El Dukay

It all began my freshman year. We lived in a dorm that was in between the graduate student parking lot and the main part of the North Campus, where the school of law was located. We lived on the bottom floor of the dorm, and had a large window that overlooked the walkway.

My dorm roommate and I would be hanging out watching TV in our boxers. (Pants must come off when you are sitting around in the dorm room. Too much constriction.) We'd be there most afternoons, and so every day, we'd see the law students walking down to their cars.

One day, we looked out the window, and saw this gorgeous blond walking by. We rushed over in our boxers, and gawked, stared, drooled... whatever you want to call it. She was smoking hot, and had platinum blond hair. Being very creative, we named her "Hot Girl."

Seeing Hot Girl became our daily routine. I actually looked forward to this part of my day. It was nice relief from pledge training and classes. One day, Hot Girl walked by, and I turned and announced to my roommate that, "One day, she will be mine...Oh yes, she will be mine."

He said, "Whatever dude. You wish."

Time passed, and I finished my freshman year, and figured I would never see Hot Girl again. I never knew who she was.

Meanwhile, Ziz (Doxie's sister) and I had always stayed in touch over IM and email. We had been good friends in middle and high school. She said that she had a sister I should meet in law school. She told her sister that she had an undergrad friend who would be a fun person to meet. She thought we might have fun getting together for coffee or something; she didn't think it would be some big date. I'd never seen Doxie before, and had no idea who she was. By this point, she was finishing up law school, and I was finishing college.

(Edit by Miss Doxie: Ziz reports that Dukay jokingly asked her if her sister was hot. According to Ziz, she told him that I looked a lot better "now that she's had the Procedure," but that she declined to elaborate.)

Doxie was always busy, and was finishing up her last year of law school, so a lot of conflicting schedules had to be worked out. Finally, I convinced Miss Doxie to meet me for a drink. I told her that I would meet her up at 283, a bar in downtown Athens. I also told her that I would have on a pink button down shirt. (Yes... pink.)

So we set up the time. She was a little early, and I found out later that a scuzzy man in a pink shirt tried to hit on her before I got there. This worked in my favor. It set the bar of expectations much lower than they would have been previously. I would love to say that he was a mark put there by me, but he wasn't. I'm not that clever. (MD: My first pink shirt date had three whole teeth!)

When I walked in, I looked around the room. And there, looking at me and waving...was HOT GIRL.

I couldn't believe it. Ziz's sister was Hot Girl. I had no idea.

Obviously, I had to impress. There was no other option. We sat and had a couple of drinks and talked about all sorts of things. I suggested we go to a different bar, so we went somewhere with better wine. We kept talking, all the first date stuff. It turned out that she is the complete package. The rare, perfect combination of brains and beauty that you can never find together in one person. She was sweet and gentle with this ass-kicking exterior. She wore knee high stiletto black leather boots with everything - always. She loved animals. She had the greatest sense of humor and actually liked me. I had definitely out-kicked my coverage. (Women everywhere may want to ask their men friends what that means in this context.)

Afterwards, we walked to a bar with live acoustic music and tons of beer on tap. We sat down and this dude carrying a few bars of soap on a rope came up to us. He immediately hit on my date. I wasn't going to be an ass - after all, she was the most beautiful girl that had ever graced this place and who could blame him, really? Hell, I would have hit on her too. And yes - there really is such a thing as soap on a rope. I never thought it existed. Well, it does! I've seen it with my own two eyes!

Instead of telling this guy to fuck off, I started talking to him. Just asking him questions about everything. He liked talking about himself.

(MD: Dude, did he EVER. We spent an hour of our first date listening to a SOAP ON A ROPE salesman talk about his benefits plan. Who the fuck does that happen to? WHO?)

I decided to tell him that we were on our first date, and how I'd always known Doxie as Hot Girl. He liked the story and was really happy to be a part of it. He gave Doxie a free soap on a rope, and I bought him a beer.

We were ready to get out of there, so I told Doxie that a good friend's band was playing at another bar. They were a great Latin calypso jazz band playing originals and covers of groups like John Scofield and Micheal Camillo. They even had a steel drum player. We went and enjoyed the show (MD: People, herein we establish, once again, the disconnect between Dukay's music and my own music. To say that I "enjoyed" this show is a very bold statement, indeed. Let us instead say "I did not die during that show, but I thought about killing myself with a swizzle stick, because I do not like jam bands, at all, ever, and maybe I am only now admitting that I hated that concert." Hi, baby! I HATE THAT BAND. But I love you! Kisses!)

The show ended, and we talked a little more, and called it a night. No kiss, just a hug. (MD: Look at Dukay with the detail! I can't wait till he gets to the first time we Did It.)(Dear Mom: We have never Done It.) I made sure to walk her to her car and then walked back over to mine.

We stayed in touch for a while, but she was on the tail end of exams, and was busy with other things. We met up a few times and went on a few friend-like dates. Never any kisses. Her law school friends referred to me as "Junior" because I was so much younger than her. Four years younger, to be exact. So finally, two or three months after I'd first met her, I decided to have my dad come up to town to see the same live jazz band Doxie and I had seen on our first date, and to take both him and Doxie to dinner. (MD: And who agreed to see that awful band again? I did, people. Obviously, I was blinded by love.)

That night, I held her hand under the table at dinner. A true "G" rating. (MD: Holy shit, we were ten years old, apparently. Then we traded stickers!) We went across the street for the live show, which was awesome. (MD: ... ) Afterwards, we all went back to my house. We were standing around talking when my dad suddenly decided to give us a little alone time. So out of nowhere, he said, "Uh...I gotta go get some donuts! I'll be back in a few." He walked out. (MD: This was the most hilariously obvious move of all time, but I am 100% in favor of anything involving donuts.)

After he left, I pulled the single greatest "move" of my life. I was at one with The FORCE.

You men out there - this is top secret shit.

Use it wisely.

(MD: People, he is really, REALLY proud of this little shenanigan. Can you tell?)

I had never tried this before but it just came to me in a split second. We really were into each other - yet had never kissed - just hugs and now some hand holding. So she leans in to kiss me good night. And I kissed her for a second or two, and then...... I pulled away. (MD: WTF?) I said that I really liked her, and that we should do it again soon. And then I walked her to her car and she went home. (MD: RAGE. This is how I felt at that moment: RAGE.)

For two weeks, I didn't hear anything from her. I wondered if I'd ruined everything.

I later found out that the seed I planted with the "pull away" was much stronger than a kiss could have ever been. The FORCE was harnessed. It was, in fact, brilliant. I occupied her thoughts. She was thinking, "Who is this little shit that pulled away from me? Who in the HELL does he think he IS? NOBODY pulls away from ME!"

(MD: Now, this makes me sound like a big old vain something or other. But...well, yeah, I guess I am a big old vain something or other, because a COLLEGE kid wouldn't KISS me? Are you fucking KIDDING? He is supposed to me MADE of hormones and erections! This guy's mission statement is supposed to be "Getting to Third Base" and he won't KISS me?

Meanwhile, my friends thought this was the funniest shit they'd ever heard of in their lives, and were all, "Maybe he's saving himself for the prom!" and "I can't believe you kissed him. His parents are NEVER going to let you babysit again!")

Her friends felt the same way.

(MD: Hee).

Needless to say, we somehow wound up running into each other, and I took her out to dinner. Soon, we were spending a lot of time with each other. I began to notice little things about her. Like, that she never ate the end of a french fry. She said the rest of the fry tastes better. Still to this day, when she finishes eating fries, there are all these little pieces of the ends of the fries left on her plate. Almost like seeds from grapes, shells from peanuts, or the tops of strawberries. But she eats the OTHER end of the fry. I am still completely befuddled.

But from then on - we made a perfect match. And it all started with meeting "Hot Girl" in person at 283 in Athens, on a blind date. After all those years, I was right. She IS mine. I love her with all my heart.

(MD: Aw, and I love him too. But I still don't love his music.)

So, there you have it, people! And that is how we went from this...

Doxie and Dukay in 2002

to this:

Dukay and Doxie in 2006

In four or so years. And hopefully, for many more...so long as he never makes me listen to a steel drum band covering Metallica songs ever, ever again.

And, so, now you know our story. And thus ends the schmoopy! I've got a lot for this site this week, actually, so I should be updating again soon; in the meantime, everyone have a good day, and special snuggly thanks to Dukay, for finally telling his story. Kisses to everyone!

Posted by doxie in That Stupid Thing El Dukay Did | permalink | Comments (99)

And Then Kubla Khan Said We Should All Just Look At A Puppy

July 25, 2006

If you have to work for a very long time, and then you finish everything and realize that, oh: now I kind of have nothing to do for a few days, then maybe you will do something productive with your random abundance of time. Maybe you will volunteer for the Peace Corps, or learn how to cook, or commune with nature in an outdoor fashion. Maybe you will take that opportunity to catch up on your pathetic emailing, because every time you even look at your inbox, the weight of the unanswered and unread mail makes your brain go hazy with terror. Or, hello, maybe you will just do some fucking laundry already, as you have pretty much reached the point where you are clothed only in a loincloth and hair, because nothing is clean, exactly NOTHING, and you are seriously considering just BUYING some socks and underwear instead of actually washing those which you already own, because that is the kind of laundry-backlog we are discussing. Maybe that is what you will do with your unexpected downtime.

Or. On the other hand, you could just sit on your ass and stare vacantly at the television set. You could cover yourself in a blanket of weiner dogs and eat Ben and Jerry's "Pistachio Pistachio" ice cream while watching the abomination that is the personage of Tori Spelling trying, in vain, to get her dumb self killed in the cinematic masterpiece that is Mother, May I Sleep With Danger? And, being that you know a thing or two about the Spelling family's recent drama (thanks, Us Weekly!), you kind of imagine that Candy Spelling would be all, "What, Tori? May you sleep with danger? Absolutely. Have a party. Sleep with a lot of danger, O Child Who Has Brought Shame Upon This Household, And I Am Not Just Talking About That Time You Played Screech's Girlfriend On Saved By The Bell." And that kind of makes you giggle, while you readjust your loincloth and weave pistachio shells into your unkempt hair. Maybe THAT is what you will do. Y'all just go and guess which one I chose.

Anyway, so sitting on my ass has been pretty uneventful, and so I don't really have much to share, but I am trying to resolve not to have any more Blank. It's like a New Year's resolution, even though it is currently July. Whatever. I am turning over a new leaf! Even if I have to write about Tori Damn Spelling, I'm posting something. I am sure everyone is breathless with glee over this prospect, because yes, that is what we have all desired: to see what random shit is lurking in my brain. Superb! Sounds like a fantastic plan! Off we go!

And actually, on that entirely self-absorbed note, have y'all ever just...gotten a phrase stuck in your head? Like, it is not really a phrase that makes sense at all, but just, like -- I don't know, some words? And you keep thinking them, and they keep popping into your head for no discernable reason, and you really, really wish that you had some excuse to say whatever it is out loud, because it just seems like that would be really, really satisfying?

...Y'all? Hello?

Okay, so maybe this has not happened to you, but it's been happening to me quite a bit lately. A few weeks ago, I couldn't stop quoting Samuel Taylor Coleridge, of all fucking people, and spent waaaaaay too many hours silently reciting "In Xanadu did Kubla Khan/ A stately pleasure-dome decree," which is actually a pretty good rhythm for Crazy, particularly if you kind of rock your body in sync to the words. While twitching. And when someone says, "Did you just say something under your breath?" you get to say, "Uh, I said 'In Xanadu did Kubla Khan/A Stately Pleasure Dome Decree', and then I kind of...you know, rocked," and maybe you will end up with medication. Score!

So, that was before. Now, the new phrase, which is far less literary, but equally pernicious, is: Participating Eyebrow. These are the words I cannot get out of my head. Participating eyebrow.

This phrase does not make any sense whatsoever, and I would venture to guess that nobody in the history of the world has placed these two words next to each other in such a fashion as to describe an eyebrow as "participating" (in what? Bocce?), but I am blazing new trails here. I have also decided that the phrase needs a definition, so I determined that when someone can raise an eyebrow in surprise, or in performing an impersonation of one-half of Jack Nicholson, the "Participating Eyebrow" is the brow that takes part in the action. It's the raising brow. It is the participating eyebrow.

Sadly, I have not had the opportunity to use the phrase, and it's annoying me. I think it would be peculiar to just walk up to someone on the street and say "Participating eyebrow!" but oddly, that is exactly what I feel like doing. I will probably get arrested.

I was trying to explain this phenomenon to our best friends, when one of them said that he'd had a similar phrase stuck in his head. After a trip to Whole Foods, he had found himself unable to stop thinking the words "throbbing purple eggplant." To which I said: Ew. And also: Excuse me while I share your dirty brain with the internet.

Now, that is just...disturbing. I mean, I might rock in rhythm to my mantra of eighteenth century poetry, but at least I am not some kind of vegetable pervert. I've got some standards, people! I mean, obviously I do. Lots of standards. Indeed, let's see what happens when I spill the contents of my brain on y'all poor unsuspecting people. In the prior paragraphs, I have discussed:

Participating Eyebrows
Throbbing purple eggplants
Tori Spelling

Yes. That is some deep shit, right there. Welcome to my brain: Less Bell Jar, and more Melting Pot.

So anyway, because this has been fucking fascinating, I am sure, I will leave you with this last bit of delightfulness, and maybe that will prevent angry people from sticking my head on a stake or something. Because, I have pictures to show you! They are not drawrings, but photographs (remember those? Photo entry!) and, frankly, y'all are maybe not ready for all this adorableness that is about to be all up on your computer screen. I mean, people -- are you ready for the snoogly? Because, I have brought you some snoogly.

But, first: minor backstory. I have to tell you about Darlene. Darlene is a charter member of the 24 Viewing Crew. As such, she comes to my house every Monday, drinks along at all the necessary words, laughs with the rest of us troublemakers until a very late and irresponsible hour, and sometimes has to sleep in a guest room. That is a pretty standard Monday for the 24 crew.

Now that 24 is over, though, we have all started watching Lost. None of us had seen it before, so I picked up Season 1, and we began at the beginning, as one does. That way, we can continue to hang out on Mondays, because really, the company is more important than the show.

(And oh, ew. Isn't that just such a mushy and saccharine little thing for me to say, here on this Tuesday morning? It totally is. 'The company is more important than the show!' Ugh. Listen, what I meant was, "the company is more important than the show, because Bo and I are working on a plan to skin them all and bake them into an enormous pot pie. Personally, I’m on this 'Ed Gein-meets-Martha Stewart' kick, and want to use their skulls as soup bowls (which I will then stencil!), but Bo thinks that we should make them into some lovely ceremonial hats. Anyway, will eat all the guests soon.")

(Or, possibly that is taking things too far in the other direction. Maybe threatening to eat your guests and make their skulls into soup bowls is really not nice. But maybe I am just not a very nice person. Tori Spelling, for example, probably thinks I am an enormous bitch.)

(Actually, now that I think about it, maybe none of this backstory was necessary. Hmm.)


So, we love Darlene, and Darlene loves us, and Darlene loves dogs, and Darlene’s awesome dachshund Benson died in May and it was horrible and bad, but then she had herself a birthday, and so…meet Jackson. And he is named for Jack Bauer, as it should be.


Hello. My hobbies include being squooshy, taking naps, and world domination.


Hello, human mother. I now own you, and you shall be a pawn in my master plan.


AHHH! WAIT. Put me down immediately! I have a master plan for world domination! I am not for cuddling!


Free at last, to roam the den like my wild dachshund ancestors! No cage can hold me!




ROAM ROA-well, helloooo, interesting greenish person.


Dammit! Captured! Stop picking me up, people! You are interfering with the master plan!


Although...perhaps a small snuggly.


But, no! I will not give in! Instead, I shall use violence to escape!




...and, snatched again. But NOT FOR LONG, SIR.


You shall now be distracted by my tiny adorable kisses!


HA HA MAN CAPTOR! You too have been fooled by my trickery! AGAIN I ROAM FREELY.


World domination, here I come! Jackson OUT.

(Five minutes later)


Or, I could just sleep on these boobs here. Whichever. Master planzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

And thus ends the smooshy, the Xanadu, and the Tori Spelling. Let's hope those elements never again combine.

Y'all have a good week!

Posted by doxie in General Whining | permalink | Comments (122)


July 12, 2006

Well, hello! I...have been gone a while! It hasn't been like I have been doing something fabulous. I've been off working, because that is my thing, and in these last few weeks, I have been doing a lot of work. A lot lot of work. I have been doing actually so much work that I was averaging three nights of sleep per week and it got to the point where I had the big old crazy runaway-bride eyes all the time, and even my BOSS was hiding from me, whispering "she scares me!" whenever I'd stumble past, and finally a partner came into my office and grabbed my shoulders and hollered YOU REALLY NEED TO JUST GO HOME AND SLEEP FOR ABOUT SIXTEEN DAYS. And...well, I haven't done that, yet, but I did finish the project, and I have now officially written A Book, but I promise you that you will never, ever, ever want to read it. I do not even want to read it. It is the most boring book in boringtown, but it's written, dammit, so if you are just fucking dying to know about the judicial review procedures for an Occupational Safety and Health Stazzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Yeah. So, that's where I've been. Brought to you by a series of semi-coherent, run-on sentences. Aren't you glad I'm back?

In other news, I am so far behind in answering emails that my inbox has a comma in it, and so if you are trying to get in touch with me for something, I am sorry. I have been very, very worky lately, and have been exactly zero fun. Seriously, just ask Dukay! Or, anyone! I blow! They're planning on having me killed!

But, that is neither here nor there, because: hey! Speaking of email, I have to now complain that there is this whole new spam thing that the internet seems to have sprung on me while I was working, and it is pissing me off, because I keep on getting emails with interesting subject lines, from people with seemingly normal names that are not BIGPEN1SSSSMASTER, and so I open them, only then I am irritated because they are actually just spam ads telling me about my long lost relatives in Nambia, who have apparently died but they still need to borrow my bank account and social security number real quick. This is pissing me off, people. It is taking valuable seconds away from my life. Those seconds could be spent doing productive things, like making out or cleaning up dog pee, but instead, I am reading such questions as, "ARRE THe LADIES SsayinG THAT It IS NOT BiG ENuFF???" and that just makes me cranky.

I mean, wouldn't you be a litttle excited to get an email from someone named "Righteousness L. Abrams"? Wouldn't you even be a little bit more excited when you saw that the subject line was "Fuzz abdication!"? I was! I was really excited! And then I opened it, and: advertisement for a weight loss supplement. Fucking Righteousness! What are you saying, Righteousness? Are you saying I'm fat, Righteousness? That is very passive-aggressive of you, Righteousness. Frankly, I would have expected better from Righteousness.

I keep on falling for this, because I am used to getting email from people whose names I don't recognize, and a lot of the time, these emails have funny subject lines (actual example: "Man Panties!"), so I just open my mail automatically. And so my little heart just keeps on breaking, because I'm like, "Ooo! Mr. Ireland F. Calloway wants me to know about 'upside down weightlifers!' That promises hours of fun!" and then: herbal viagra for my SHOCKKINGLLY TINNY PEN1S. Honestly. Why do you build me up, Buttercup? Is it just to let me down?

But, there has been an upside to all this crushing disappointment, and I have decided that if I ever have a child, I am probably going to have to name him/her one of these spam names, because...holy shit. They are brilliant. I had always kind of wanted to take a wide variety of drugs and them name my child after household objects, Zappa style ("This is little Lightbulb Moon Oven! And her brother, Coca-Cola Fork Sphincter!"), but now I am thinking that the spam name is the way to go. I mean, I'm not going to have an actual kid for many years and all, but maybe I'll manage to produce one in the next half an hour or so -- like, possibly I can bud one, in the manner of yeast -- just entirely so I can give him a name like:

Cougar P. Sanchez

Intoxicant D. Degas

Lena Luffmister

Inmate C. Alumnae

Antonia Moody

Jeremiah Bourgeois

Condensation S. Horowitz

Inquiringly Todd

Menelaius J. Detail

Conversation L. Pauper

Booty D. Licious

Othello Wanderpants


All of these are actual names taken from my inbox right now. Now that I am finished writing that book about judicial reviezzzzzzzzzzzzzz, maybe I should turn my attention to a new writing project. I could put together the best baby name book in the world! As it is, I already kind of want to just print these out and start giving the list to pregnant women, all, "Hey, have you considered naming it 'Condensation'? Is your family name 'Wanderpants'? Why not? Well, you can have it legally changed to 'Wanderpants,' you know. Here's the phone number for the court." It would be like a public service!

Seeing, however, that the idea of writing so much as a post-it right now makes my brain cry, I am probably not going to compile such a list; instead, I think I will make you do it, as I am a slave driver in the manner of Cornelius F. Waggerbottom, who has popped into my life four times already shouting at me to LOOSE THE FAT TODAY!, after asking me quite innocently, in his subject line: "Does this look like a frog to you?"

(And, I admit it. I keep on having to check. Maybe this time it will look like a frog to me! Also, I am intrigued by the notion of something that might, or might not, look like a frog. What could it mean? Is it a fake frog? Is it a mold that has taken the countenance of a frog, like the Virgin Mary sometimes does on toast? Ever so many possibilities!)

And...oh, I was talking. So, anyway, I am a slave driver, and so, you do it! Y'all tell me the awesomest names you have ever heard, particularly from your spam, and then know what we will have? A huge ass list that we can give to pregnant women. And if just one of them -- just one -- names her baby "Inquiringly"? Then, people: our work here will be done, and our lives will be complete.

Everyone have a good week; I've missed all of y'all! But I may have missed Constipation D. Hooligan the most.

Posted by doxie in The Innernet | permalink | Comments (144)