Talk To Your Doctor Today!
Internet, we need to have a little talk about your health. Please ask yourself: are you sleeping too much? Have you consumed nothing but deep fried foods and wine for the past three days? Are you kind of dumber right now than you were last week? To that end, do you know way, way too much about Nicole Richie's collarbone and Kate Hudson's marriage?
If you have answered "yes" to any of the above-questions, then Internet, you may have Vacation With Doxie's Family. Vacation With Doxie's Family can happen to anyone, and it can strike at any time. And just because you think you live a clean lifestyle with no sex, drugs, or rock 'n roll, does not mean that you cannot catch this condition, which results in weight gain, drunkenness, a marked increase in profanity, and the tendency to form actual opinions about things like Nicole Richie's collarbone and Kate Hudson's marriage.
If you think you may have caught Vacation With Doxie's Family, early detection is critical. You should be on the lookout for the following symptoms:
Grocery lists that contain only three items, only one of which is unrelated to drinking. Implication here being that (1) food is completely secondary at this point in our lives, and (2) shopper is somehow not bright enough to remember "ice, chicken, vodka" if left to shopper's own devices, and therefore, these items must be listed on a piece of paper, in pen, in order to ensure that follow-up grocery store trips are not necessary.
(Note: Despite the existence of said note, indeed, follow-up trips were necessary, because Dad bought the wrong kind of vodka, which led my mother to threaten divorce, and led my dad right back out to the liquor store again, because...Citron? Doesn't he even know the woman he's been married to for 35 years?)
Existence of strange, button-type object below window. I am not very sure about this one; it seems to be some sort of fountain. I am personally enjoying the beach chairs arranged around it, as if people have been sitting and staring at the thing for hours, waiting for it to start making some kind of sense. It is like our own plastic Alabama Stonehenge! Created in the night, by very tan druids.
Contents of freezer, which include alcohol, more alcohol, Fla-Vor-Ice (now extra fruity, I am told), and frozen corn dogs, for all our extra protein and assorted carbohydrate needs. Please also note the wrongly-purchased Citron that has been shoved to the back, where it sits, squat and short and mad, like a little Napoleon all exiled to Elba.
Refrigerator drawer filled with pretty fruit, but key fact here is that pretty fruit is now tainted and horribly ruined by the fact that KNOW WHAT IS IN THAT BAG? BAIT. Dad's fucking BAIT. And, I am sorry, but I just do not think that wrapping FUCKING BAIT in a non-hermetically sealed grocery bag is sufficient to prevent slithery bait germs from crawling all over my peaches. So now, peaches are destroyed, and must be fed to passing sea gulls and bitsy little sand crabs.
Horrifying shifts in reading material.
Internet! If you recognize any of these symptoms within your own living space, and if you have suddenly developed an intense, burning need to announce our collective responsibility, as a human people, to FEED NICOLE RICHIE, OH MY GOD, SHE IS WASTING AWAY BEFORE OUR EYES AND THIS IS EVERYBODY'S PROBLEM, then you should check with your doctor to see if Xanax, Penicillin, AfterSun, or a flat-out lobotomy are the right choice for you.
Vacation with Doxie's Family: It affects all of us. And you could totally be next.
(P.S.: Incidentally, if you could not tell from the above, I will go ahead and reveal that obviously, I am having a really, really good time. Y'all come on over! You can have the Citron!)
Technical Difficulties, Technically
ARGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH is the sound I have made sixteen jilliion times this week, as I complete writing YET ANOTHER entry for this site, and then I watch as it promptly dies and deletes itself upon uploading, and babies cry and puppies whimper and the world collapses in on itself and we are left in another black hole. Or maybe I am exaggerating, and it is not exactly an event of such catastrophic magnitude, but it is totally pissing me off anyway. Also pissing me off: the damn comments are totally not working again. PAIN.
So, I am going to have to try to figure out what the hell is wrong with these various issues (oh, and, also screwed: e-mails, apparently, but I think I've got that fixed), but in the meantime, the comments are dead, and maybe this is about to delete itself, but frankly, I think I will survive all of that because know what, Internet? Know what? I'm on damn VACATION. SO SCREW IT.
Hello! Hi you guys! I am at the beach! I am not working for two whole weeks, and instead I am going to drink tropical beverages and try to get some tan on my fish-belly-white legs, and I am not going to think about briefs or filings or motions or anything, and Dukay is coming to meet me here soon, and so is Ziz, and for now I am with my parents and every once in a while I kind of whimper and hold out my glass and say, "Eeeeeemmmpty," and someone (hi Dad!) pours more wine in there, and it's totally awesome.
Equally awesome is the fact that this year, unlike last year, there is no deadly hurricane hanging out with us at the beach. This year it is all sunny, and the dreaded sea ook is safely inside the ocean, not crawling around on the beach all Night of the Blob-like, swallowing up pomeranians and toddlers and being generally unpleasant. This year, we just have sand. It is WAY better this way.
SO. I'm at the beach, and I'm with my parents at the moment, and it is sunny and gorgeous, and I will probably post sixty million pictures of the beach and all of our really rocking and important tasks here (Tasks for This Afternoon: Lie there. Turn; lie there. Hiccup.) and that will be super fun for all of us, I am sure. I do not have any rocking and important tasks or pictures or stories yet, though, because so far, all I have done is woken up. And, yes, I am aware of the fact that it is currently like 11:00 in the morning, but I do not think I am getting your point.
Although, I will say that yesterday I drove from Atlanta to Gulf Shores with my parents, in their car, in the backseat like a surly nine year-old who likes complaining, won't eat Krystal burgers, and who enjoys thinking lusty, probably sinful thoughts about Jon Bon Jovi (sigh), and I use this example because I totally remember having THAT exact vacation, circa 1986. That was the year I actually cut out JonJon's picture from my copy of Bop magazine, scotch-taped it onto the back of the driver's seat in the car, and proceeded to stare at it, transfixed, all the way from Atlanta to Florida. And, all the way, I refused sustinence in the form of Krystal burgers (whose child was I? Seriously), and all the way, I gazed lovingly at Jon, and then somewhere around the Keys, all love and lust turned to abject disgust when my mother absently looked at the picture, remarked, without joking, that "You know, I have always thought that guy had your father's face, and my haircut," and while I was rolling my eyes (Because, Eyerolling: The Official Passtime of a Nine-Year-Old Leigh) I caught a glimpse of Jon-Jon's eyes, and then Jon'-Jon's feathered, blonde hair, and at that second, something about his picture just...shifted, and holy God, yes. He DID look like my father, and that WAS my mother's haircut, and it was all...feathered and momish, and this ruined Jon, the beach, Livin' on a Prayer, and Bop Magazine for me for the rest of my life.
That...had nothing to do with the trip of yesterday, actually. That was...well, apparently, it was another example of a time I rode in the car. Relevant! Timely! I am just here to share.
Alright, I am going to try to post this, and I will be back ASAP, but right now, my mother is standing over me, saying, "But we need to goooooooo. We have to go to the groooooocery store. I don't wanna waaaaaaait anymore. I need to eat! I've gotta take my back pills!" etc., and I just told her that I was going to tell the whole entire internet that she eats fun for breakfast, and so she stuck her tongue out at me and said something really offensive about my origins on this planet, and now I kind of have to go.
I will be back soon, internet! And I will drink a lot of things with umbrellas, and seriously, I will do it just for you.
Updated, to say:
Look! Comments are working now. I left myself one and everything! Yay!
So, we have had dinner, and I have, for the third meal in a row, eaten and enjoyed a big old basket filled with fried shrimp, and have, for the second time in two days, ordered something that is called, on the actual menu, "The Big 'Un," which means that there are enough fried shrimp on the chosen platter to choke a horse, or gag a maggot, or some other metaphor/simile which ultimately leads you to understand that "there were a lot of fried shrimp that I ate." Please send me some larger pants.
Well, I have all kinds of things I would like to share with you, Mr. Internet, but I have been unable to complete any of them. For example, I am working on a clearinghouse of several memes I have been tagged for by various goodlooking (pretend this links to Rockstar Mommy, but the link is screwy) individuals, but have I finished them? No. Have I finished ANYthing I was planning to do for this site in the last two weeks? No. Would you like to know why? YES. Or, no, maybe you are not caring very much about that, but whatever, because I am about to tell you anyway, you sexy people, you.
See, know what it is right now? In Atlanta? It is hot. Really fucking hot. Outside, it is hot, and inside, it can also be hot, if you are not running your air conditioner. And, provided that you have an air conditioner, reasons why you might not be running said air conditioner in the middle of August, in Atlanta, with a heat index of infinity degrees squared, include:
1. You are running hot yoga classes out of your living room;
2. You live in an igloo;
3. You are trying to melt steel for fun and profit;
4. Your fucking air conditioner is fucking broken.
One of these applies to me. Guess which.
So, I got home from work one night last week, only to be greeted by a wave of intense, mean, wet heat the second I opened up the door. And I thought: "Uh oh." And I continued to think: "Uh oh," when I saw all four dogs lying on their backs in the den, panting and looking up at the ceiling, all, "HI WE DIED," as seen below:
You can't kill Bo. You can only make him mad.
But "Uh oh" actually graduated to, "Oh, holy SHIT," when I went into the backyard and saw that the A/C thingy was not doing anything, not even making a little sputtering sound, zero, zip, nada. And finally, I entered into "Oh MotherFUCK" territory about the time that I discussed the situation with my A/C guy, and was informed that I am probably going to need a whole new system. Which, of course they cannot install this week, and incidentally, this will cost roughly seventeen million dollars. So, happy sweating to me! With a bonus menu of ramen noodles and misery for everyone.
Waiting a week for the A/C people was not going to work, particularly for the dogs ("STILL DEAD FROM HOT" they reminded me as I cursed my way through the kitchen), so I gathered their steaming bodies, tossed them in the car, and drove over to my parents' house. Which is where I have been, enjoying their air conditioning and drinking all of their wine, for the last five days. This has totally screwed with everybody's world, especially my poor mother's, who was thrilled when I descended upon her home with four angry, hot dogs, before making a beeline for her refrigerator, but you know. I am a delight to everyone I meet.
But really, thank God I've got somewhere to go, because the whole "hot" thing was just not working for the dogs, and particularly not for Gimmme. Gimmme has had kind of a bad month. He managed to fall into my parents' pool a few weeks ago, and somehow jerked in a manner that gave him whiplash (yes. My dog has whiplash), and so he is on a wide variety of pain medications and has been acting like a drunken sailor for days. He will start to run, only he will be running sideways, and then he will fall over onto his side and wag, his tail going thump-thump-thump on the floor, until someone comes along and plops him on his feet again. And it's like his entire physical state has changed, and he has gone from being a solid little doggie to something similar to a ziploc filled with jelly, and he just squooshes happily around the world, falling over and thump-thump-thumping on occassion, and generally loving pharmecuticals.
So, this is what I have inflicted upon my poor parents for the last week. However, what I have not inflicted upon my poor parents is Evil Bo. It doesn't have anything to do with me; apparently, Bo is making a strong case for his adoption by my mother, who spoils her dogs even more than they are spoiled over at my house (there is an entire cabinet of dog treats in this house, people. But is there a single damn potato chip? NO. Someone's priorities are fucked, is what I am saying). Consequently, he has gone from this:
Who's Mommy's little antichrist? WHO IS?
WHO WANT PIE? BO COOK PIE!
With no explanation whatsoever. Which, of course, leads my mother to believe that I am just being hard on Bo, and that he is actually a sweet little darling angel thing. He is most certainly not. He is just plotty. But nobody believes me.
At any rate, this is where we are, and that is what we are doing. Enjoying modern medicine and air conditioning, and being on our best behavior, so that nobody gets the notion to shave off all of our fur and find that 666 tattooed on our ample, smooshy rump. I am not naming names here about which of us is doing which, but let me draw your attention to a recent picture that might shed some light on the subject:
Bo want to know if you want a piece of Bo.
Have a good weekend, everybody! I certainly hope all of y'all are cooler than me.