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Sunday, Sunday, Sunday! And Other Crap

May 26, 2007

Good...afternoon! I think it is afternoon. I am not wholly sure, but it is my belief that noon has already happened, even if I was not awake to see it. But, that is okay, because it is a holiday weekend! Also, the weekend during which one of my best friends from high school is getting married. That means we haven't had a hell of a lot of sleep. Cocktails, on the other hand, have been plentiful. And nothing stands in the way of my wine, baby.

I really don't have excessive amounts of things for this entry, because it's really more of a head's-up, hello, y'all look at this! kind of thing. Which is atrociously boring, isn't it? But, you know, if I think about it, I bet before I am finished writing all of these words down, something will remind me of something else, and then I will go off on a tangent and we will all be treated to a story about how I fell down/flashed someone/ate something peculiar. Because that is just how I roll. You maybe noticed.

Anyway! SO, here is the latest, in no particular order, and also I am hungry, but nobody can help me there, because the only thing in my refrigerator is mustard:

1. For a variety of issues, most of which stem from my inherent ineptitude and laziness (hi!), I'm extending the sale at my shop. And if I ever get around to it (see: ineptitude, laziness), I will add the new paintings that are sitting in a very colorful stack in the office. We'll see how THAT goes, but you know. When I said all that stuff about three days? Lying through my teeth, apparently. Come flog me!

1(a). I can't stop saying "flogging." Flogging! I have been threatening floggings, describing floggings, and loudly suggesting floggings for days now. How did that get stuck in my head, I wonder? I think maybe the history channel.

1(b). Which doesn't make much sense, actually, now that I think about it, because I haven't been watching the history channel very much lately. No. Instead -- and here we enter into a whole new world of pathetic, I warn you -- I have been staying up all night, or getting up very early, to deal with either (a) the law, or (b) the shop, or (c) any one of ten trillion other things I am trying to get accomplished. And this would suck, except that, every morning, starting at either 6 or 7 a.m. (I think it's 7, but I always forget), some Atlanta channel starts playing back to back episodes of Saved By The Bell. And I...can't help myself. I watch them all, all the way up until they end at 9 a.m. and stupid Dawson's Creek comes on, and that "I don't wanna wait!" starts playing and signifies the end of my television enjoyment, and kills a tiny bit of my soul. And this is just not right, but y'all, I could watch the "I'm so excited!" Jessie Spano caffeine pill meltdown all day long. Like, if it was just that episode over and over, I would be completely satisfied with my life, and would make a little cocoon on the sofa and live there, with the dogs and my personal enjoyment at watching the most unrealistic drug binge of all time. Jessie's so excited? Well, ME TOO. Woo!

2. Hey, should I just go back to bed? I should probably just go back to bed. And forget this entry ever existed. And yet, I forge on.

3. Anyway. Not that you will ever trust my opinion again now that I have told you about my SBTB obsession (did I just abbreviate that? Did), but I have to share something else now. So, pretty much my favorite singer/songwriter is Bill Mallonee, former lead singer of the Vigilantes of Love. And this man is just unreasonably talented, and his lyrics will fucking slay you, every time. If you've never heard of him, I highly, HIGHLY recommend that you check him out, especially if you like pretty music and incredible lyrics (seriously, he references Salome and Pavlov, in the same sentence. Who can do that, without the sentence being, "History contains people named Salome and Pavlov. Have a party!"?) . At any rate, this is his site, and at his mp3 store, you can listen to snippets and download mp3s; and right now, if you have both fingers and speakers, you should go listen to a little bit of Skin (scroll down to the sixth song, and click on the music-y icon). That is my favorite song of ever. It's about Vincent Van Gogh! Cutting off his ear! Ow! But, good!

ANYWAY. More importantly, even, is that Bill is playing a free show on Sunday at the Decatur Arts Festival, and Dukay and I are totally going, even though we are going to smell like liquor, and even though Dukay knows that the possibility exists that I will fall madly in love with this man and offer to have a bucketful of his children. WHATEVER, because that is a small price to pay for a free show, is our thinking. And also, I have always wanted to go to the Decatur Arts Festival. Doesn't it look cool? Si.

SO. If you're in town and not off gallivanting somewhere fun for Memorial Day, you should go! It's at 2 p.m. And you should bring me some wine, please. I will probably need it.

4. That's all I've got, except for one funny thing I just remembered as I was typing (did I say that would happen? Did!), and which occurred last weekend, and which I was reminded of thanks to the roughly ten thousand references to alcohol in this entry. See, we had to make this video. For work. For a sexual harassment training skit. And Cookie, who I used to love but now might have to flog (Floggings!), did all the casting for the script. And guess who she chose for the drunken office slut? Yeah.

For my part, I wore:

1. A very short lace dress I bought at Goodwill for $3 that morning;
2. A hairpiece;
3. Someone's grandma's fur coat (Dear PETA: NOT MINE! NOT MY FUR! DON'T PICKET!);
4. A tiara; and, during certain portions of the video,
5. A lampshade.

The character was really a stretch for me, obviously, as the images below -- which are stills taken directly from our TRAINING video, which will be shown to MANY PEOPLE -- amply demonstrate:

lampshade1.jpg

Obstacles bad!

lampshade2.jpg

But solution good. HI WINE!

Yep. I'm 110% professional! And nothing stands in the way of my wine. Which is precisely how I started this entry. Hi!

So, that is it! Happy Memorial Day, and I hope to see some of y'all on Sunday!

Posted by doxie in General Whining | permalink | Comments (47)

Moon Over Atlanta

May 23, 2007

So! Happy Wednesday! I am back in town for about six minutes, which gives me the opportunity to ask this question: Who wants to hear my most embarrassing story of the year so far? It's the sort of thing that is completely typical of me! You are forewarned!

Also, it involves a side bar. Which is: when Ziz was just a little person, she was so skinny it was hard to find pants that fit her in any meaningful way. (Not a lot has changed in this regard, because if you remember, her family nickname continues to be "Tits on Sticks." But shockingly, I digress!) Anyway, one day, she went on to kindergarten in a pair of cute little corduroys; when my mom picked her up at the end of the day, however, she found Ziz in tears, proclaiming a great hatred for her pants. When Mom asked what the problem was, Ziz explained that she had been on her way to her classroom in a long line of kids when her pants had suddenly "slud down her legs." At this point, Ziz turned to Mom and, through tears, shrieked out, "I WAS SO BARE ASSED." And Mom had to agree. And now, y'all, I know exactly how she felt.

That's a bad beginning, isn't it? Also, foreshadow-y. Like literature, only with lots more curse words.

But ANYWAY. SEE, WHAT DONE HAPPENED WAS, I was at work. And I was wearing my favorite skirt suit, which I really love[d], and which actually fits me properly, which is kind of hard to say with the majority of suits in this world. I was getting ready to go on a car trip with Cookie and a partner, and so I was trying to finish up about eleventy jillion things before we had to leave. Mister Partner had explained that we were leaving at 11:15, on the dot, and I was busting ass (theme! THEME!) to get everything accomplished before then.

So, when another partner called me at 10:45 and wanted me to get in on a conference call with a client, I said bad words in my head, but quickly picked up a pad and began hauling ass (am I overdoing it? Possibly) down the hall. Which happened to occur at the same time that the partner sitting next to me (YET ANOTHER PARTNER, because let's maximize the number of professional people involved in my bare-ass-ment) also exited his office. From behind me, I heard him clear his throat.

"Uh, Leigh," he said. "I think you got a lady problem with your skirt."

I turned around, trying to look at my rear. "What?" I asked. "Did I sit in something?" ( I am always sitting in something.)

"NO," he said, turning red. "I think you have a LADY PROBLEM. With your ZIPPER."

At the precise moment he said those words, I realized that: hello. My zipper, the one holding my skirt together, and the one that runs all the way down my backside, had split. And so the skirt had yawned entirely open, and there was my blazingly white butt, clad only partway in a pair of bikini briefs, hanging happily out of the suit, and enjoying the freedom of the law firm's hallway. I was officially Bare Assed.

"AHHHH!" I said, and immediately put my legal pad over my bottom. I stared horrified at the partner; wisely, he turned around without a word and walked directly back to his office, as if he had suddenly realized some very important work that was sitting on his desk and that did not involve full backside nudity. But then, from the other partner's office, I heard my name being called. Helplessly, and with the pad still over my backside, I hustled in there, mind racing and back to the wall, hugging it Jack-Bauer style, as if enemy forces would immediately appear and expose additional flesh to an office full of well-mannered gentlemen.

I got into the office and made an immediate beeline for the couch. As the conference call continued, I sat there, trying desperately to figure out what the hell I could do. There's a store across the street that sells women's clothing, I figured. If I can just get out of here, then I could go over there, and buy some black pants or a skirt or something. Whatever I buy, I could just wear out of the store. And if I really, really hurried, I could do all of this by 11:15.

I spent twenty minutes staring at the clock, watching the window of opportunity for re-skirting growing smaller and smaller. Finally, at 11:10, the call ended. I stood up, back still to the wall, pad again placed against my tookus.

"Leigh, I need--" began the partner. I interrupted him.

"LISTEN." I said. "MY SKIRT SPLIT OPEN. I HAVE TO LEAVE THIS OFFICE IN FIVE MINUTES. THAT IS HOW LONG I HAVE TO GET TO BROOKS BROTHERS AND BACK WEARING SOMETHING THAT DOES NOT EXPOSE ME IN AN ILLEGAL WAY."

"AHHHH!" said the Partner, who had probably wanted none of that information whatsoever. Seizing upon the obvious opportunity, I bolted.

Once I was back in the hallway, I took off my jacket and tied it around my waist. I grabbed my purse, and hollered at my assistant that "IGOTTABUYASKIRTNOW! BERIGHTBACK!" Wisely, I don't think she responded.

I rode down in the elevator, eyes on my watch. 11:11. Four minutes.

I popped out in the lobby and made a mad dash from the street. And then I stopped at the curb and considered, and these were the things I thought:

1. I work on the busiest street in downtown Atlanta.
2. They do not like it when you cross the busiest street in downtown Atlanta.
3. By "they", I mean "the police", who have recently set up camp and started ticketing jaywalkers like they are evil thieves running away with old women's purses (because, jaywalking: it's the gateway crime! One day, you're crossing in the middle of the road; next, you'll be masterminding an elaborate plot to overthrow our government. Seriously, it's how Manson got started!)

At the same time, I weighed these facts:

1. The store is DIRECTLY across the street from the office, just tantalizing in its direct route-ness;
2. My office is slap in the middle of an unusually long block, meaning that I would have to walk aaaaaaaallllllll the way to the end, then cross, then walk aaaaaalllllll the way back in order to make my booty-covering trip in a legal way;
3. It was chilly, and I was freezing my ass off (sorry! Cannot help it anymore!) with my jacket tied around my waist and wearing only a little camisole thing on top;
4. I had four minutes to complete this ENTIRE task; and also, Yeah, By The Damn Way:
5. My SKIRT is SPLIT the FUCK OPEN.

I made up my mind, looked both ways, and -- not seeing any officers of the law -- bolted across the street. And I'd almost made it, too, when I saw the telltale blue hat coming up from the escalator in the underground mall in front of me.

"Shit," I muttered, as the cop turned and looked directly at my lawless self.

"Ahem," said the cop.

For my first evasion technique, I tried smiling stupidly, finished crossing the street and kept moving toward the store, all, "It is pretty today! I am just going to go participate in some commerce! I am not a lawbreaker! I like pants!"

But he was not having it. "Come here," the officer said, motioning with his hand. I froze. And, in a split second, I knew the only thing I could do.

I turned around. I lifted my jacket. And then...I mooned the cop. On the busiest street in the city. In an attempt to avoid jailtime.

Bending over, and with my head between my legs, I hollered, "MYSKIRTSPLIT! I HAVE TO LEAVE TOWN IN FOUR MINUTES! I CANNOT SEE CLIENTS LIKE THIS AND I HAVE TO BUY PANTS NOW NOW NOW!"

As I looked upside down at the officer, wondering vaguely if it is...you know, bad to moon a policeman on Peachtree Street, he busted out laughing. "RUN!" He hollered at me, pointing at the store. "GO GO GO!"

I stood up, overwhelmed with gratitude, and waved at him as I rushed into the store. Which I descended upon like a damn hurricane, all, "PANTS! I WILL TAKE THESE! NO I DONT CARE! PLEATS MAKE NO DIFFERENCE TO ME WHATSOEVER! START RINGING THEM UP WHILE I CHANGE OVER HERE!"

Throwing a credit card at the horrified saleswoman, I was halfway out of my skirt (well, obviously. But, like, in a taking-it-off manner) before I'd even made it to the dressing room. I got the pants on in six seconds flat, and ran back to the counter so that the poor woman could wordlessly hand me the sales slip, her eyes as big as dinner plates.

"THANK YOU!" I hollered, grabbing a bag and stuffing my sad skirt inside. Then I bolted out of the store, and back to the street, where the officer was waiting, still laughing at me.

"IT IS 11:14 AND I AM WEARING PANTS!" I informed him gleefully. He agreed.

And then I turned and promptly ran across the middle of the street again, in front of God, the law, and everyone else.

"Hey, now!" hollered the officer disapprovingly. "I AM SORRY! I LOVE YOU!" I called over my shoulder. Wisely, Mister Officer did not pursue.

At precisely 11:15, I walked back into my office, out of breath and shoulders heaving, and threw the bag containing the skirt of my discontent onto the floor. And then I turned, coming face to face with Cookie and the Partner, who were, of course, right on time. Cookie looked at me.

"Were you wearing a skirt earlier?" she asked, puzzled. I just nodded and pointed at the bag. "DO NOT ASK," I advised her. And off we went to practice some law. And then I told everyone in the world what had happened to me. The end!

So, y'all, there is my story of PG-rated nudity for your Wednesday. Have some breakfast! And pants!

Now, on to the news. (Which I have kind of always wanted to say. I like living my dreams!)

***GIRLY SHOPPING BORINGNESS ALERT***

I have gotten enough emails about The Dress (which...awesome. In love with dress. Thank you, dress, for hiding evidence of fried-chicken eating!) to attempt to point y'all in the right direction, but I can't find it online anywhere. I've looked all over the place, but...no luck! It's Nicole Miller and I got it at the Bloomingdale's in Atlanta, but if someone manages to find it online, will you please post a link in the comments? I am afraid people will actually break into my house to steal it from me, such is the appreciation for this dress, and if that happens, I will have to slap a bitch. Or stick Bo on her. Whichever.

The other dresses came from Bloomingdale's and Nordstrom's respectively, and the first Kimono one was on sale for $80. Which was bargain-y! Woo!


***END OF GIRLY SHOPPING BORINGNESS ALERT***

***PEOPLE WHO COULD GIVE A SHIT ABOUT FORMALWEAR ARE INVITED TO RETURN NOW***

And, one final thing: speaking of bargain-y! I am having the first-ever sale at Shop Doxie. Which I tried to send a newsletter about, but...that ended badly. And so instead of a cute newsletter with pictures and links, roughly three trillion people got a newsletter from Leigh that included a lot of ????????????????//////////////////////////////////&ndp????!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! in it. And then their eyes fell out of their heads and they sued me.

But, anyway. So I don't usually like plugging the store over here, but given my complete inability to use any other avenue to communicate these facts, I'm a-doing it anyway. I am sorry! But, sale, y'all! Everything in the whole entire store! Plus you get a free gift with every order, and let me just say that the reason I am doing this is that at this moment, I have so many boxes of cards, stickers, stationery and other assorted doxie-ness that it has taken over two bedrooms, plus it is inching its way, Blob-style, into the den and dining room, and I am beginning to sort of FREAK OUT about it. To be perfectly honest. So I made everything practically free so it could live somewhere that is not my den. Seriously, I am starting to live like a crazy person who has to tunnel through her house, and the dogs are communicating by smoke signals, and they hate me, and we can't have company over because there are CARDS and ribbon bits everywhere, and I could go on, but it is kind of getting to be a desperate situation over here, is what I am trying to communicate. Were I not filled with shame, I would show you a picture of my dining room table, and then you would make fun of me anon.

Also, hee! I said anon! I am so dorky today. Probably because it is only 8:30, so I haven't had any wine yet.

At any rate, please check it out, and have some cards or something. Also, there are magnets now! And stickers! Both are sticky. Because I am clearly a lady who likes a theme.

And that's all I got, as I have to leave for work now. Where we all sincerely hope I stay as un bare-assed as possible.

Y'all have a great week!


Posted by doxie in Times I Fell Down | permalink | Comments (64)

With So Many Apologies To David Sedaris

May 14, 2007

I have been traveling for an extraordinarily long time, and in fact, I am still not home, and may never see my family again. I have no idea where I am; I have no recollection of how I got here. All I know is, I have had to get up at 4 a.m. every morning for many days now, and I am not sure I remember where my office is anymore. Which doesn't really explain what is about to follow, but you know. I just felt like bitching there for a second. (Someone! Come and find me and send me home! Thank you.)

Anyway, in the course of my many travels, I ended up in a car with Cookie and someone who spoke French. We began the conversation under the impression that all three people in the car spoke French, but about sixteen seconds in, it became abundantly apparent that: No. Only one person in that car spoke French, and that person was most definitely NOT Cookie or me, but was instead the highly-entertained third party, who was happy to translate our completely fucked-up conversation with unrestrained glee.

Of course, it was like our own little (far-less funny) Me Talk Pretty One Day-moment, and it had us all doubled over in our seats in laughter, which is probably why we ended up missing our exit and all and why we have to live along the side of the road in a BOX now, but THAT IS NEITHER HERE NOR THERE, the point being that: I took notes. Because I do that. Because I'm a huge, enormous nerd.

So! Until I am back in civilization, which I sincerely, sincerely hope will happen tomorrow, here is the transcribed and translated conversation of Doxie and Cookie, two people who were, up to the moment the translation began, somewhat convinced that we were at least able to speak a FEW French phrases. At least the thing about the pen of our aunts. But...no.

So, anyway. Enjoy that we are dumb! Have fun! And then, COME FIND ME. I am in a box.

Person Who Can Speak French: (conversation conversation conversation) And, I can speak French.

Doxie: But yes? I are too speaking the Frenching for many seasons!

Cookie: I am also speaking of French for some eras. From when I danced in a ballerina.

Doxie: I was taking the lessons of France from a school when I was shorter.

Cookie: One time, we went to a France and eated the fishes.

Doxie: Oh! Of the fishes! The fishes were good for the eats?

Cookie: BUT NO. The fishes were not warm with the cooking for the eats. They were not the dead fishes.

Doxie: The fishes was swimming?!

Cookie: Yes, yes! The fishes was moving in a moving way.

Doxie: That is some shit on a plate on the table in front of me.

Cookie: It made the Spam ill to himself.

Doxie: I also would be ill to myself, if I too eated the fishes of movement.

Cookie: In a France, the platter of the seafood is not like one that is at the Lobster Red.

Doxie: Because the fishes be swimming more?

Cookie: Because there is not the frying for them.

Doxie: I am love the frying of the fishes and of the chickens. When I am of France, I am ordering of a sandwich.

Cookie: Sandwich is not move.

Doxie: Yes, is right. Sandwich dead.

Cookie: Very beautiful!

Doxie: It is of the critical to take the care when making an order of food in a France.

Cookie: This Spam has learned.

Doxie: Well, this my father was learned when he got himself a brain.

Cookie: Your father getted a brain? In the head?

Doxie: He getted a brain in the stomach! He thought of a brain to be chicken! But no.

Cookie: Oh, that is the BAD.

Doxie: It is the terrible! He was happy not.

Cookie: If they bringed me a brain and not one chicken, I would make the vomit on the table.

Doxie: I would also make the vomit on the table, on the plate of that shit.

Cookie: Beside the plate of the fish of movement, but next to the pen of my aunt.

Doxie: Why will the pen of my aunt be about the table? Where aunt is?

Cookie: Um. My aunt eated the dinner with you? I am only knowing the way that is to say, "the pen of my aunt is on the table."

Doxie: Okay, this is sense. I think of how us should go to a France together one time!

Cookie: And drinking all the wine?

Doxie: But yes! And drinking all the wine of the France!

Cookie: I will make all the talking!

Doxie: This idea, it is yes. But let us not take the aunt.

***

Y'all have a good day! I will be back as soon as I figure out where in ther HOLY FUCK I AM. And for everyone's sake, let's all pray the locals don't speak French.


Oh, P.S. and all: I forgot! I also went to another place, which was significantly nicer than my box on the side of the road -- Gee and Al got all married in South Carolina, and it was gorgeous. If you are vaguely masochistic, we took waaaaay too many pictures of the ensuing debauchery, all of which can be viewed in a sleep-deprived photoset here. (If you click on a picture in the set? The caption shows up! I learned this!) And you have my express permission to laugh at my hair.

Posted by doxie in General Whining | permalink | Comments (52)

Things That Have Entertained Me Recently

May 02, 2007

1. My cable box. (Which...you know. Of course. Because hardware is so frequently entertaining.) Specifically, the abbreviations my cable box uses when you go to the "What's On!" (it is enthusiastic! Let's see What's On! We're gonna watch us some television!) menu, and even more specifically, the "What's On!" listing for TBS, which, last night, was showing Everybody Loves Raymond, followed by Sex and the City, followed by My Wife and Kids. Except each show was only half an hour, and that much title just doesn't fit into that little "What's On!" box, and so instead, TBS's listing read, "Everybody Loves Sex And My Wife And Kids." And I was like, aw, TBS! Your whole family is engaging in promiscuous sexual behavior! Even the kids! That's probably why you drink.

1(a). Another offering from my cable box: "John Tesh Live at Red Rocks," happily shortened to "John Tesh Rocks". And I nodded gravely and said, "Of course he does, TBS. Of course he does. Here, have some more whiskey."

2. The fact that, after many years of furrowed brow and narrowed eyeballs, I have finally managed to put my Significant Concerns Regarding FedEx into words, which occurred in an email I sent to a friend in California, which explains as follows:

I am always kind of skeptical of Fed Ex, and when I am sending packages to California, I am all, "It is 5 p.m. in Atlanta, and you are going to have my package to California by tomorrow? I FEEL THAT IS NOT PHYSICALLY POSSIBLE, FED EX." And then it works out, and I am left with additional support for my theory, which is named "How Fed Ex Has Actually Mastered The Art Of Teleportation But Is Keeping It Secret From Us, Well Played, Fed Ex."

3. That picture of Gimmme sleeping from the last entry, because it reminded me of this story, which I am pretty sure I have never told here. Except maybe I have. I don't remember, but here we go anyway!

About six years ago, when Gimmme was just a little guy, I got home from a party with my Then-Boyfriend at around 1 in the morning. I was putting the dogs out, when I picked up Mister Gimmme and discovered this weird, smooshy lump on his belly, which had not been there before we’d left. I freaked out accordingly, insisting that Then-Boyfriend take us to the emergency vet now, NOWNOWNOW. And so off we went, with him in a tux, and me in a cocktail dress and kind of uncomfortable shoes, and me also possibly having consumed one or two cocktails. Or ten. None of this bodes well for Crisis Management.

We got to the emergency vet, and I went running up to the front desk with a happily wagging Gimmme, who remained wholly undisturbed by the entirety of these events. I, however, being very disturbed, promptly shrieked out, “Look! LUMP!” to the receptionist. Turns out, though, that she did not share in my horror, and she calmly explained that, actually, it was not the Insta-Tumor I was envisioning, but instead, just a bug bite. She said they could drain it so it wouldn’t be uncomfortable, but that, you know. Maybe they would have me sit a few minutes in the waiting room, so they could deal with animals in Actual Official Crises, and not just Animals With Bug Bites and Their Hysterical People In Cocktail Attire.

So, I settled down in a little plastic chair, and picked up the latest edition of Highlights for Children (Gallant sucks!), and began the painstaking process of trying to find all of the missing shit in that hidden picture thing. Now, it was the middle of the night, and Mister Gimmme was pretty exhausted. So he fell asleep. And he did so in Gimmme's favorite position - across my lap, on his back, with his head dangling over my knees, mouth hanging open, and feet poking straight up in the air. In short, looking just like the picture in that last entry, and precisely like a dog who is (1) extremely dead, and (2) fully embracing the later stages of rigor mortis.

When I arrived at the vet, the waiting room had been empty, so I didn't realize that this was the image being conveyed until people started arriving, hauling Buster or Boots or whomever in by a leash and looking disheveled, hollering, "He ate ALL of the children's vitamins! ALL OF THEM!" in a tone of great hysteria, before becoming veeeeeeeeery quiet when they saw me, all decked out in formal wear and enjoying my Highlights, with a week-dead dachshund splayed across my lap. Suddenly, they started speaking in hushed tones, like, "Um, excuse me. Mister Buster seems to have consumed all of the Flintstone family, as well as their neighbors. If it is not too much trouble, I would like to make sure that activity does not lead to death, as it seems to have done to that small dog over there on the crazy lady's knees."

Children, who had presumably been having a gay old time feeding Buster all of those Fred and Wilmas, would wander over in curiosity, only to be snatched by concerned parents who whispered, "Don't go near THAT dog." For about twenty minutes, the entire room sat suspended in extreme, palpable discomfort, with nobody able to look away from the Faces of Death playing out across my cocktail dress. Meanwhile, I just kept on calmly reading my Highlights, while then-boyfriend (AND WE WONDER WHY HE IS NOW "THEN"-BOYFRIEND) squirmed in fatal, horrible embarrassment by my side.

Someone did tentatively ask me what was, you know. Wrong with my dead dog. And because I had enjoyed ten (okay, fifteen) cocktails, and that makes me think I am funny, I responded that, well! He just hasn't been eating. Or going to the bathroom. Or moving at all, actually, for days, and also, he smelled funny, and it was getting totally annoying. To emphasize my point, I poked at Gimmme's little feet (which you can do to Gimmme while he is sleeping, because Gimmme can sleep through ALL THINGS, including major explosions or reconstructive surgery), and his little legs would bend, and then immediately snap back to sleeping position. People gasped in shock; Then-Boyfriend cursed under his breath and went outside to smoke a cigarette and ESCAPE FROM SELF. I am sure we cannot imagine why.

Finally, someone popped into the waiting room and said, "Gimmme?" At which point I put down my Highlights and, before the closely-watching crowd, clapped my hands. This caused two things to happen:

1. Gimmme immediately shot straight up in the air; and
2. A man sitting across from us literally SCREAMED, because HOLY SHIT, THAT DOG IS NOT DEAD.

As Gimmme scrambled to an upright position and I picked his waggy self up to get his bug bite drained, I looked cluelessly at everyone else, all, "What? He's got a bug bite. Hope Buster is okay!" And off we went. And shortly thereafter, Boyfriend became Then-Boyfriend. I certainly have no idea why, but it probably has nothing to do with the fact that I am batshit insane.

The End. Anyway, that picture is funny to me because of that. Now we know!

4. The "Tags" function on Flickr, which turns out to be a goldmine for comedy. I am sure that my newest additions will make a computer weep somewhere, but I don't care, as it remains hilarious to me. And that is what is important. To me.

And, that is kind of all for right now. I am all revved up to tell y'all the story of Cookie and the Geese (a phrase which my mind will not stop singing, either to the tune of "Benny and the Jets" or "Beauty and the Beast." Both work. You are welcome!), and Cookie and I even photographed a reenactment of the event, but I haven't had a chance to photoshop them all into Coherence yet. So, that will be coming up. In the meantime, I am going to a wedding this weekend, for which I have purchased a total of three dresses, because it is Fancy. And we will all hope that nobody has to go to the emergency vet while I'm wearing them, because Lord knows. That just does not end well for anybody. And especially not for the Flintstones.

P.S. Oh, I forgot! Actually, one more thing has amused me recently.

borolleyesbig-1.jpg
Now Bo An Angry Teenager. ROLL EYES. Family SO STUPID.

Heee. Poor Bo. He lives a life of misery.

Kisses to all of y'all, and have a good rest-of-the-week!

Posted by doxie in The Innernet | permalink | Comments (64)