I Interrupt this broadcast
I just deleted a VERY LONG ENTRY. By accident. I don't want to talk about it.
Here is the short version of those many, many paragraphs:
It's my Daddy's birthday. As you can imagine, we are feeling especially lucky to have him this year. "Lucky" may have translated to cocktails. I will neither confirm nor deny, but I just ran full-speed into an end table, so you can draw your own conclusions there.
Anyway, I have a ton of pictures to post, and I am believing you pretty people who say that you, too, have pictures to share, and so I set up a Flickr group. But, I am not going to deal with any of that right now, because right now, I AM GOING TO BED. Sleepy in the head! And fall over. Ow to knee, the end. (But hi, new bruise! You look like France!)
I won't totally leave you hanging, though. Want some Bo? Want to see how he sleeps now, every night, like a little brown crazy person? Too bad if you said no!
YOU TELL BO STORY. ABOUT HOW BO KILL STUFF.
Honestly, I know it looks absurd, but I didn't put him like that. That's how Bo arranges himself, head on pillow, covers drawn. I don't know how he does it, because I never actually see it happening, but I am pretty sure he has evolved himself some opposable thumbs and is keeping it on the downlow. To which I say: well played, dachshund. You are a crafty, crafty mammal.
But, hello. Speaking of bed, I am about to fall asleep standing up (actually I am sitting, but details are boring), so I am going to go join him. I'll talk to y'all tomorrow, but for now, I just hope I can get my pillow back with a minimum of bloodshed.
Day 5: Super Mottled
Hi! Remember when I said I would be back on Monday? I meant Tuesday. Of...the next week. Sigh.
I am sorry. I lied to you and told you a story that was made of snips and snails and falsehoods, but that is because I had no idea of what the following week would have in store, all of which was Bad, to put things mildly. To put things more accurately, the last week turned out to be a total fucking nightmare, and I had to go out of town with zero notice except "QUICKPACK", and then I got whacked with this emergency project that we usually have ten days to file, but in this instance we had a grand total of 72 hours, and so I was awake for 72 hours, which I thought was just fucking shiny, and then I got incredibly, disgustingly sick and sneezed on everything before going to bed for a day and a half.
But, hey. HEY. Wasn't I supposed to be doing something funny in these paragraphs? Indeed, I was, so let's get on that and not complain about anything else. Except maybe my forgotten love affair with high-waisted jeans, which ultimately came to a tragic end for everyone involved.
So, moving on! Day 5! This was sort of an in-between period, apparently -- the first year or two of high school, when the braces came off and I finally started to get a little less funny looking. Still, not to worry, as I compensated for my relative decrease in Ugly by dressing in clothes that made me look like any one of the following:
(a) I’m heading off to a PTA meeting in my wood-paneled minivan, in spite of the fact that I am not yet old enough to vote. Why, a bake sale?! I vote "Yum!"
(b) I am a crossdresser.
(c) I am an armchair.
Seriously. BEHOLD THE EVIDENCE:
Photographer: Okay, first: pull up your pants.
Self: Like this?
Photographer: No. Higher. Can you get them boob-level? It's slimming.
Self: This is as high as they go, I think.
Photographer: Hmm. Not good. Maybe if...okay, tuck in your sweater.
Self: Tuck in my sweater? But it's...a sweater.
Self: And...boxy, though.
Photographer: Look. Sigh. Do you want to be fashionable, or do you want to look like a complete idiot?
Self: I think the first one.
Photographer: Good. Okay, now, we're going to need a belt. Something...wait, I am having a vision right now. And in this vision I see: gold.
Self: This belt has a really shiny gold buckle; will it work?
Photographer: YES. It is PIRATE CHIC. Now roll up your sleeves and slouch.
Photographer: Slouch a little more...a liiiiittle more...really hunch those shoulders....YES! YES PERFECT. Now sneer and squint, and we're looking at the cover of Seventeen!
...At least, that is what I imagined happened.
I blame that same photographer for coaching me in the following picture, where I continue to be plagued by high-waisted jeans, only now I'm burning my fashion candle on both ends, so to speak, with the pinch rolling:
DOG ESCAPE FROM SCARY PANT NOW.
But, you know, it wasn't all bad jeans and frump. I mean, frump stayed, and then somewhere along the line I decided that it would be a good idea to wear my father's clothes. Specifically, the clothes that did not even begin to fit me, even in my imagination. So I stole pretty much all of the poor man's dress shirts, which I then wore buttoned alllll the way to my chin. Of course, they were enormous on me, so the result was a visually unsettling triangle effect, and either the shirt ballooned around me, tentlike, or I tried to stuff eight yards of starched cotton down into my jeans, which made me look like I was pregnant in both the front and back of my body. And I remember doing this intentionally, all the time, yet as far as I know, I have never suffered a head injury.
I wish I had a better picture of this phenomenon (which...really, this lasted for ages), but we will have to settle for this, the bonus being that when this picture was taken, hairbrushes were illegal in my state. Seriously, look it up if you don't believe me.
I learned it from watching you, Dad!
Apparently, all this starched shirt counterculture led naturally to the next stage of being, wherein I decide that I am some kind of badass, and this is a fact that must be broadcast to the world by my apparel. And that is what is happening here, where I am about ten times cooler than Christmas tree decorating, GOD, and also: HEY WORLD. I WOULD LIKE FOR YOU TO KNOW THAT I AM AWARE OF THE EXISTENCE OF ALCOHOL. I HAVE ITS SHIRT.
But my hair is a rastafarian!
Hee. Oh, I was dumb.
But, hey. It could have been worse. I could have gone all obnoxiously girly, right? With lace and layers and floof and tremendous patterns in a variety of pastel hues? That would have been awful! Ha ha!
Hello. I'm your curtains.
Yeah. But at least I am not the only one. And, actually, judging from y'all's comments, it sounds like plenty of you have excellent pictures, as well! And someone smart in the comments suggested we do a group or something, so we can see them all, and I thought, Hey! That would be a fun idea! Go, Smart Person!
So, know what we should do, and what I will actually do myself, if I can figure it out? Flickr Group! Flickr Group of discomfort! A special place! A Clubhouse of Crap, all ours, and we could crimp each other's hair and compare acne treatments all day long.
So, y'all think about that; if I build it, would y'all come? Or am I going to be left with my pinch rolls, all alone?
Day Four: Arrested Development
Quick one today, because I am about to go get a drink with Cookie, and if I do not hurry it up, she will come and smack me in the head with a stapler. Everyone around here knows that it is very important not to piss Cookie off. A few years ago, one of the partners nicknamed her “the Chinchilla,” which sounds sort of scandalous, but is actually quite apropos, because Cookie is adorable, and Cookie is little, but Cookie will cut you. She is sort of like Bo, only somewhat taller, and with a greater tolerance for beer. And she wears spectacular shoes. Bo refuses to wear shoes, even if I think they are pretty damn spectacular, myself. Crazy dog.
Anyway! So, Day Four, which is an interesting smorgasbord of just bad, and I still have braces in these pictures, which means they must have been taken prior to my entry into high school. I first got braces in the…fourth grade? Maybe fifth? I forget, but I had them for about two years, and then they took them off, and then they announced that I needed them again as soon as I started sixth grade, and I took this news with all of the grace and dignity of someone whose leg has been hacked off with a weed whacker. Or someone who has been smacked over the head by a stapler. Which is to say, a fair amount of hysterical screaming was involved.
And if you were wondering why I was so horrified at the notion of a braces encore, here is why that posed a problem.
Jaundice: It's everybody's problem.
These pictures, then, must have been from the tail-end of the braces days, which also marks the tail-end of the eighties, and therefore, the eighties fashions I so lovingly embraced. We were moving away from a time of jelly bracelets and puff paint and into a time where I longed to dress like Bridget Fonda from Singles, or Winona Ryder from Reality Bites. I stocked up on vests, black velvet chokers, cut-off jeans (which were verboten in my school, unless they were hemmed, which meant that all my jean cut-offs had to be professionally tailored, which seems to defeat the entire purpose of the grunge movement, but this was just an example of THE MAN TRYING TO KEEP ME DOWN and I probably wrote about it in a trapper keeper somewhere). In the years that followed, I would pair long dresses with lace-up Doc Martens, thermal shirts and girly skirts, and wear black tights with everything. Which…okay, I still wear black tights with everything, so maybe I should just shut up directly, but still. IT WAS DIFFERENT THEN. SOMEHOW. I THINK.
Anyway! Before I could get to that point, though, I experienced a period in which I could not seem to figure out how to dress myself, and this caused a reinvention similar to that of Madonna, only less attractive. I started private school in the middle of junior high, and was shocked by the difference in fashion. Now, I had to decide: would I be conservative? Would I be a rebel? WHO CAN DECIDE? This was apparently the dilemma with which I struggled, which you can clearly see by examining my attempt to pair preppy with puffy, as I wear a polo shirt underneath a tee shirt painted with a glorious selection of tropical fish:
HERE FISHY FISHY
I am clearly still having issues here, where I demonstrate what every yuppie camper needs: WEEJUNS.
Ziz smacked me with her ugly stick.
And finally, in a prime example of my attempts to self-define, we can see that I have ventured waaaaay too far into the conservative territory, picking up a page from the playbook of a deranged Laura Ingalls Wilder:
WTF HALF PINT?
Heeeee. What the hell, self? HONESTLY.
Anyway, that pretty much sums up this perio. I'm taking the weekend off, but will be back with Day 5 on Monday. Until then, y'all have a good weekend; I have got to go now, RIGHT NOW, or else face a chinchilla with a stapler, and that's just more than I can handle.
Day Three: Darlin', Don't You Go And Cut Your Hair
Man, it is all raining and horrifyingly dank and gothic outside, and the whole situation just makes me want to take a nap, preferably with something cuddly, like a cat or George Clooney. I have gotten nothing done for the last hour, and I am giving the heck up.
I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before, but I work on the 23rd floor of my building, and so whenever it rains, it seems like the weather is just getting all up in my business, and I have to stop whatever I am doing and watch to make sure that lightning doesn’t come in through the windows and strangle me at my desk. Which, I am sure it...would, and all. I don’t know. I guess lightning doesn’t actually strangle people. I also guess maybe I should go get some coffee.
But, at any rate, the rain tends to put me in a nostalgic and sleepy mood, and that and all the fashion confessions in the comments have really made me think back on all of the things I used to wear, but of which (sadly, tragically) there is no photographic proof. So you will have to take my word for it that, like many of you, I too rocked the rolled down socks in matching colors. I remember a solid two year period in which the favored birthday gift of my age was a Gap tee-shirt and matching Gap socks (OMG THANK YOU!), preferably in some vivid primary color. And my most prized possession was a Guess denim jacket festooned with dozens of buttons, most of which I didn’t understand, but which looked like they qualified for an eleven year old version of subversive literature. (True story: I thought my smiling “Don’t Worry Mon!” button actually referred to an abbreviation for “Monday,” and that this was cheerful advice directed at the forlorn day. Like, chill out, Monday! You only come once a week.)
I also rocked the puff paint sweatshirts, and my personal favorite there was a knee-length white disaster with red chili peppers carefully painted (“puffed”?) all around the collar, a big old necklace of Wrong that gave the impression that I was trying to ward off a roving pack of spicy vampires. I paired that particular monstrosity with plastic chili pepper earrings, a red Multiples belt (if a cylinder of fabric can technically qualify as a “belt”), some red roll down socks and jeans, and concluded that no better outfit had ever been constructed at any time. Seriously, Coco Chanel? BRING IT. It’s CHILI PEPPER FOR THE WIN.
I had pink and turquoise (Catherino is so right, because there I go again with the turquoise) Converse high-tops, and would frequently wear the one blue shoe and one pink shoe, like a Dickensian urchin on acid. And, oh. Bows? DO YOU WANT TO TALK ABOUT BOWS? Because, I HAD A LOT OF BOWS. I had bows in every color, style, and creation, all hanging on yard-long pink ribbons that dangled from the drawer pulls of my dresser. It was a bow for every outfit, and an outfit for every bow, and many featured tiny embellishments, including buttons, shoelaces (YOU HEARD ME, MCKATE), and miniature crayons. I wish I still had some of them, because I would totally wear them to work, and then count the minutes until I was formally disbarred.
In fact, would you like to see some examples of this? I would like to show you some examples of this. Like, here, where I have cleverly matched the bow to the bandana (?) I am wearing around my neck. Because a girl’s got to keep the dust out of her eyes, here in the wild, wild west of Atlanta suburbia. After the party, I went and roped some fillies.
Happy eleventh birthday! Apparently we got you a tablecloth.
Or here, where the whole family is dressed like wayward Redshirts:
Pull your bow extra tight for a satisfying, do-it-yourself face lift!
Still, bows aside, I have one word for all of you, which will probably make you recoil from your computers, all, “NO SHE DID NOT”, and remember that you, too, took part in this particular miracle of science, and that word is: Hypercolor.
Oh, yes. I have been dying to find a prime, functional example on eBay (apparently, Hypercolor has a half life!), because I would like to bring it back in to style directly, so that I may wander the streets of Atlanta with Dukay’s handprints all over my more interesting body parts. Also, this is the only item of clothing which, when you look for it on eBay, includes the description, “Still works!!!!” It’s like the Atari of casual wear. I must own them all.
But, anyway. There are no pictures of me wearing a Hypercolor shirt, and this is a disappointment to us all, but that is okay. It is okay, because there are so many other pictures of me wearing interesting oddities. But even more specifically, there are so many pictures of me wearing such interesting hairstyles, and that is kind of where we arrive today, as we enter the Seventh and Eighth grades of my life, when we all still believed that Milli Vanilli sang their own songs and I dreamily imagined slow dancing to “Take My Breath Away” at my wedding to Christian Slater. (And, oh, the Christian Slater crush lasted for YEARS. I didn’t want just any Christian Slater, but I very much wanted to make sweet, sweet love to the Christian Slater character in Heathers, and that is not dark and angst-y at all, NO).
During this time, although I can’t find any evidence of perms, I have located proof of crimping, and lots and lots of curls. Which is interesting, because my hair is staunchly opposed to curls, and always has been. It is bone straight, and it takes a strictly anti-curl stance on all matters. It will not bend to the will of curlers, and it would very much like for you to fuck off. Naturally, in junior high, this meant that all I wanted in the world was a head full of long, curly locks, and so I tried to trick the hair by filling it with an assortment of mousse, burning it to a crisp with a set of grandmotherly curlers and pastel-tipped metal clips, and then shellacking the shit out of the whole mess with a bottle of Spray Net. And even then, my hair would obey for about twenty minutes, before getting all, “Yeah, that’s enough of that. BONE STRAIGHT AGAIN!”
I can only imagine, then, that these pictures were taken in the few wonderful moments that my hair was distracted enough to forget its natural tendencies, because I damn well know that this is not what I looked like by the end of the day. By the end of the day, the hair was back to straight, only now I’d added forty seven products and just made it mad. It’s like spanking an alligator: you’re not going to train it. You are only going to piss it off.
But still. I had to do something with my baby blue crimping iron, and that is the reason the world has this:
Big crimpin’, spendin’ Gs.
Similarly, I often tried to camouflage “bumpy” as being “curly,” as can be seen here (hey there blue earrings! Come back to me!):
Check out Ziz’s face, which clearly says, “Can you fucking believe I am related to that girl? PLEASE ADOPT ME.”
But the worst was when my hair wanted one thing, and I wanted another, and instead of parting ways and citing irreconcilable differences like other high profile couples, we ended up in a horrifying compromise in which my hair remained straight, but AS GOD IS MY WITNESS, AT LEAST IT WILL BE BIG. I showed this picture to our friend and co-worker, Big Daddy, who immediately exclaimed, “You know why you’re bending like that? BECAUSE YOUR NECK CAN’T SUPPORT THE WEIGHT OF YOUR HEAD.” He’s not wrong.
I am actually too horrified to think of a caption here. Someone else! Think of a caption! Bonus points of Awesome if you mention the gloves.
Whew. And, that is all for today, thankfully, and also because I may fall asleep right now if I don't get up and do something that does not involve tripping down memory lane. But I'll be back tomorrow, and the nightmare will continue, bows and braces and all. See y'all then!
P.S.: Oh, RIGHT. Yeah, speaking of remembering shit (hi), this is kind of important, naturally, which means I totally forgot, what with the excitement of the site starting to work again and everything. But, I got an email from Dachshund Rescue of North America, my chosen charity, the other day, and they are in this contest, and I will let them explain it and we will read it all together in a Learning way:
We have an opportunity to get a $10,000 grant if we are in the top 6 of receiving the highest number of unique contributors. We don't need to raise the most money - so 100 $10 contributions are more valuable than 1 $1000 contribution. We could do a lot of good with $10,000. We have already done over 18 major surgeries this year - each one costing $2500 and up. We are in 5th place now, but we really need some new contributors!
Obviously, DRNA is an organization that I have wholeheartedly supprted for years, so if you have a spare couple of bucks, please consider sending it their way; if they stay within the top 6, they'll get this $10,000 grant, and that really will go a long way toward helping wieners all over. Check them out here, but do it quick, because I am pretty sure that contest is about to end, and frankly, the last thing I need is something ELSE for Bo to be pissed about. We're still on that diet. I'VE GOT MY HANDS FULL ALREADY.
Anyway! Thank y'all, and see you tomorrow!
Day Two: Coordinated Attack
Oh, y’all. Things are about to get all revealing and ugly up in here, because we are entering the prime CRAP territory of Junior High. And Junior High was just an unfortunate time for me. And it shows. You may want to take an antibiotic or something before we get into this. Or, you could pry out your eyeballs with a screwdriver. Whichever you prefer.
Tomorrow will really be something to behold, and I have actually found a picture that is so bad, and so painful, that I am almost too embarrassed to show it to myself, much less all of you nice people. It is so atrocious that I might take it out of rotation and save it for the very end, as sort of a Finale of Fugly, and we will all collectively recoil in horror and then NEVER SPEAK OF IT EVER AGAIN. Seriously. Ever. Not even by accident.
RANDOM BO STORY INTERJECTION
Before I get into that, though, I mentioned Bo’s new sleeping protocols the other day, and I figured I’d real quick write about them, so y’all who come here just for dog stories and not for pictures of breathtakingly frightening preteens will have something to enjoy. For those poor people, this whole reconstruction is very “bait and switch” of me. Come for the promise of dog stories; get whacked over the head by acid wash. Thanks for visiting, and have a good damn day!
But anyway. Bo. So, as we all know, I sleep with the dogs, in a platonic but tangle-y way, in which they take up the majority of the bed and I sometimes sleep on a chair. But before we all go to bed every night, we all head to the back yard, because I kind of prefer it when they pee outside of the house and not, say, on the pillow that is cradling my head. I mean, personal preference and all, but I’ve tried it both ways, and the “outside” way involves far less laundry and screaming.
So, out they go, and they do their very important sniffing work until the Place Where We Shall Pee is finally discovered. And thus begins the relay of three dogs who stubbornly insist on peeing on the exact same square inch of yard, because GOD FORBID one of them should pee anywhere else, NO. This all takes time, and first Bo will pee, and then Pugsley pees on the place where Bo peed, and then Gimmme has to pee on the pee of both of them, and then Bo comes back to top off, and then Pugsley runs back and tops off, and then Gimmme comes back and tops off, and then Gimmme tries to hide the whole mess by back-kicking leaves or pinestraw or whatever the hell over the evening toilet, but Bo is not having it, so he comes BACK to re-pee and so on etcetera ad nauseum, while whomever is out there watching them is hollering, “YOU HAVE A WHOLE YARD THOUGH” while wildly gesturing at the remaining, unpeed-upon acre of grass that surrounds their annointed spot. Finally, Bo gets sick of it all and runs back in, and everyone else follows, and the pissing contest mercifully comes to a really stupid end.
SO. In we go, and up to bed we go, and under the covers they dive, and everyone goes to sleep. At least, everyone used to go to sleep at this point, but then, about a month ago, I started them all on a new diet, because I heard somewhere that dachshunds are not supposed to be perfectly spherical. And when the diet began, the normal sleeping protocols ended. Now, under the covers they dive, and then Bo stews there for a minute or two before popping back out, bolting off of the bed and across the room, pressing his nose under the bedroom door, and whining with the cross-legged, hysterical urgency of someone whose bladder is about to explode.
Seeing as I am a proponent of not peeing on the bed (yay!), I open the door, and Bo scrambles downstairs as fast as his stubby little legs will go, in the direction of the yard. And I follow behind, all, “BUT THE PISSING CONTEST IS OVER YOU WON I THINK,” double-timing it before we have some sort of intestinal event on the nice flooring. Only now, I arrive at the back door and discover…not Bo. No. Bo is not at the back door. And this is when I hear an odd moaning sound coming from the other side of the kitchen, and so I turn around, and there is Bo, lying flat on his belly in front of the refrigerator, prostrate to his shiny silver idol, and groaning like he might just DIE.
And, you can’t move him. If you tell him to come here, dammit, I thought you were about to burst, and no we are NOT having a snack, because you weigh as much as a Volkswagen? That will not work. He won’t even look at you. If you clap your hands and say, “Maybe there is a quiche upstairs, in the bed, that I forgot about! Let’s look together!”, he does not take the bait. And if you try to bend over and pick him up, he lets out the most baleful, miserable moan you have ever heard in your life, because BO IS STARVE, and BO DOES NOT WANT TO LEAVE FOOD BOX. Food Box is only hope of Bo.
In reality, of course, BO IS LIE. In fact, BO IS NOT LOSE ANY WEIGHT AT ALL SINCE DIET START. But he’ll never tell you that, and in the meantime, he’s got me on the horns of a short, brown dilemma, because…I mean, I can’t just do nothing when he goes into spasms of MUSTPEEMUSTPEEMUSTPEE and is all whining like a furry banshee. Y’all know Bo. The one time I ignore him will be the one time he has explosive diarrhea someplace inconvenient and novel, like in my hair. And so, every night, I continue to let him out, and he continues to make a beeline for the refrigerator, and I continue to wonder how it is that I so often get outsmarted by a creature who regularly eats his own poop. And that is why I drink, the end.
AND NOW BACK TO OUR PREVIOUSLY SCHEDULED CRAP
So, to shift focus entirely, now I am moving on to Day 2, which is about the time I started Junior High. Apparently, the start of sixth grade corresponded perfectly with my decision to dress only according to the principle of Things That Match A Whole Lot. I mean, A Whooooooooole Lot. Not-Even-Kidding-You-A Lot.
Normally, dressing so that your clothing matches is considered a positive attribute, but there gets to be a point where one can take things too far. And here I am thinking of that time that Britney (back when she was not yet batshit insane) showed up with Justin Timberlake at some awards show, and I don’t really remember anything else about that except that (a) she was not yet batshit insane; (b) we were all living in a blissful and innocent time when we had never heard of someone called K-Fed or his armor-piercing sperm, and (c) BRITNEY AND JUSTIN WERE WEARING MATCHING DENIM FORMALWEAR. I could probably find what I’m talking about on Google, but I have already subjected us all to so much fashion-related pain these last few days, and Britney is kind of having a shitty week anyway, that I am not going to kick any of us when we are down. Instead, I am just going to say that matching denim formalwear is an example of going overboard, and that it is very similar to what was apparently happening in a number of my own ensembles.
Like, you know. Here. Please note my socks, which may, in fact, be pulled up over my coordinating turquoise jeans (note also that "coordinating turquoise jeans" is a phrase that should never be uttered by anyone at any time):
Bitch took my balloon.
And again here, where we can marvel at the red and yellow interplay going on all over my body, recognizing that this is a color combination usually (and wisely) reserved for condiments and fast food establishments:
A young Miss Doxie uses her chameleon powers to blend in with the underbelly of this dinosaur until all danger has passed.
Here I am, dressed like a geriatric and scaring the shit out of Phudge, long-suffering childhood pet who played a major role in the discovery that Cabbage Patch Kid clothes fit on dachshunds:
Bright blue slacks and toucan sweatshirts: official uniform of grandmothers everywhere!
And finally, we have this, which would be an example of being matchy, what with the matching peach sweater and pants set (because, peach: the color that’s flattering on everyone!), but I have inexplicably paired these casual coordinates with a black leather motorcycle jacket, (because, peach: the color that goes so well with black leather!). Obviously, I am just a stack of tough, what with my little white handbag, side ponytail, and keds. I mean…what was that, Punky Brewster? You think you're punk? Uh, sorry, bitch, but I’m punk. I'll rip those little ponytails slap off your head. DO NOT FUCK WITH ME.
My gang colors are blush and bashful!
…and, so it went, apparently. Leather ‘n lace, turquoise ‘n fuchsia, toucans ‘n stirrups. Unholy alliances all, making the mind boggle, the eyeballs weep, and the stomach churn. And explaining why I wear all black pretty much every day of my adult life, and also why everyone who knows me is under strict orders to feed me to a coordinated dinosaur if this particular trend ever recurs.
Y’all have a great evening, and I’ll be back tomorrow, when we will explore some really uncomfortable times in the history of my hair. Stay strong, and if you happen to have any turquoise pants lying around, please do the world a favor and keep them far, far away from me.
Day One: A Bad Beginning
Aw, y’all, thank you for welcoming me back all nice, and for saying all your nice words. Please check me out now, drunk with the excitement of being able to type on here! TYPE TYPE TYPE. This is what I am doing! I am not even kidding you! TYPE TYPE! Soon I will start writing gibberish (I mean, more so than now, even), and we will see why maybe too much access is a bad thing, and why the Internet saw fit to divorce me in the first place. Hey, Internet! The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog! Did you know? TYPE!
Aaaaaanyway. So, back to the point, that being my Comprehensive Retrospective of Awkward Periods (code name: CRAP), which continues today. I am thinking I am going to try to do this CRAP chronologically, which in this case means, “Let’s sort of go from bad to worse,” or “at least I was still kind of cute when I was a little kid, but by the time I start doing my own hair, we are entering some seriously troubling territory.” But, that is awfully structured, what with the chronological business, so I might give it up. I especially might give it up since Dukay and I spent the better part of last evening going through even more pictures in an effort to locate even more examples of my own humiliation. This is how that went down:
Self: Hey! Come over and help me.
Dukay: Is it the kind of helping that is heavy?
Self: No. I need you to pick out all the ugliest pictures of me.
Dukay: Oh, yeah, because THAT doesn’t sound like a trap AT ALL.
(Hee. DUKAY SMART!)
But, actually, no. He is not that smart, because he eventually agreed, and we settled in with several enormous boxes of photographs (also maybe several enormous glasses of wine) and went through them, one by one. And we found some prime examples of CRAP, but I haven’t had a chance to scan them yet, so they might get interjected later this week. Or, maybe we will find even worse CRAP. Dukay specifically remembers a picture of me that made him “shudder,” a revelation accompanied by him actually, physically shuddering at the very memory, but he can’t remember anything else about the picture, including its current location. Apparently, it was so bad that he has blocked it from his mind, so it now lives deep in the land of Dukay’s nightmares. And, hello. THAT SOUNDS PROMISING.
Anyway, maybe we will find that one. Who knows! I should probably involve my mom, who allegedly showed Dukay the shudder picture in the first place. Or, ooo! I should look on my Dad’s desk. Dad’s desk used to be a clearinghouse of personal embarrassment, so you know there has to be some quality there, maybe even in a special drawer of unspoken horror. And thus, a plan was formed.
But, anyway. So, today we are going to look at outfits that are arguably not my fault, because I am small enough that someone else (MOM) chose them for me, with an evident lack of concern (MOM) regarding humiliation or subsequent therapy bills (MOM MOM MOTHER MOM). At this time in my life, I lived outside of Washington, D.C., and harbored a serious, non-platonic crush on He-Man. As the impossibility of that relationship began to dawn on me (too muscle-y!), I shifted my affection to Michael Knight, because He Is A Knight Rider. That love proved much more long-lasting, persisting until I was seven or eight, at which point I left him for…Christian Slater? A member of Poison? I forget, but don’t feel bad, Michael Knight. It wasn’t you; I grew, and I changed. And that just happens sometimes, when you are six.
I am sure I had additional interests during this time, other than imagining tongue-kissing David Hasselhoff, but I can’t remember them now. Except, oh, wait. Yes I can: Star Wars. I have previously described my childhood Star Wars obsession, and my relationship with a very special pressure cooker, but the short version is that the year I was five, I watched an illegal copy of Star Wars pretty much every afternoon on the Beta Max in my parents’ living room. I loved Star Wars, LOVED IT, and please check out this unbelievably fantastic Leia getup my Grammy made for me:
Aren't you a little short for a stormtrooper?
Now, granted, this was Halloween, but I wore that Hood of Endangered Princesses until the fabric actually disintegrated off of my body, thereby displaying the Leia Underoos underneath. And God in heaven, what I would not give for any of those fashion items today. Those were totally kick ass.
Unlike…well, a lot of other things I wore during this period of my life, which were significantly less ass-kicking. Although, I have to say that now that I am looking at all these pictures, I realize that I touched upon a lot of cultures with my ensembles, much in the manner of a melting pot, if a melting pot wore plastic accessories. For example, have you ever seen someone wearing lederhosen and a lei before? Like, at the same time? Lederhosen and lei? Lei and Lederhosen? No? Liar!
When I was not acting as an ambassador of Hawaii, Germany, or Alderaan (I just googled that), I apparently spent my time kicking ass as the smallest member of Miami Vice:
You can put my car seat in the Ferrari, Tubbs.
By the time this next picture was taken, we’d moved to Atlanta, so I’m guessing I’m…nine? At any rate, by now I at least have the decency to look appalled by my all-bunny ensemble (MOM):
Happy fucking Easter! LIKE MY HEADBAND?
Around this same time:
Guess who got braces a week after THIS class picture was developed?
KITH ME, DAVID HATHELHOFF!
(And here I just have to say, O CLEAR BRACES OF OLDE, you were the lie of orthodontia. Back when I had them, clear braces were not clear. They were yellowish, and they made you look like an insane and crafty farmer had superglued a single kernel of corn to every tooth in your head. Which is maybe the epitome of “sexified” to an insane and crafty farmer, but not so much in junior high, and that dingy plastic mess postponed my first kiss for a solid five years. Or…well, okay, maybe not just the braces, but they certainly didn't help matters in the slightest.)
Sigh. Anyway, that is all I’ve got for today, but with that last picture, you can probably tell that we are beginning to enter whooooole new territories of Awkward. So gird your loins for tomorrow, and kitheth and aloha to you all!
The Reconstruction of Miss Doxie
HOLY SHIT, I don't even believe it. I am on my website! I am TYPING ON MY WEBSITE. This might make me teary, and I never thought I would live to see the day. I am sure I will complain about it all in much tedious, annoying detail below, so get all psyched for that. Obviously.
But, of course, first thing's first: before I even start on the ugly divorce of Doxie and Internet, let me begin by telling y'all that my dad is better. It took a long time. During that long time, he gravitated between "He'll be back to normal any day!" and "Wait, maybe he needs some really invasive surgery, Our Bad." He finally settled on the former, and now he's doing really well. He's even at work, and so I get to follow him around suspiciously, trying to keep him from doing too much, and pestering him by saying things like, "When are you going home? Have you taken your vitamins? Eat this orange. I AM CALLING MOM." I am not annoying at all.
But, at any rate, there was a lot of worrying there, for a while. And, turns out, I do not like the possibility of my Dad being taken away from me. Not a bit. None of us do, and it took all of us a long time to get back to normal, and even longer to get caught up with our previously-scheduled lives. Toss in some additional, far-less-critical (but still annoying as all shit) other issues, and I managed to get pretty turned around there, in a number of different ways. It was Big Fun.
I am so sorry to have kept everyone waiting for so long, though, and that certainly was not my intention when I wrote that last entry. As much as I appreciate the overwhelming concern and support from all of you, I just hate that people have been worried about me and my family. And I would have loved to pop in and tell you all that we were in one piece, but that is where that aforementioned Divorce comes into play. Which I will sum up thusly:
Because the Universe is how it is, Dad's illness corresponded precisely with the time that something vague and technical went wrong with the back-end of my website. This vague and technical problem started popping up, "FORBIDDEN! NO! GO AWAY!" errors every time I tried to log in. And this was...new. Usually, when my site has a conniption, all that happens is that the comments turn off and an entry or two gets sucked into the Internet ether. Locking me out entirely, however? Hello, new problem! Nice fucking timing.
So, I dug in where I could, and probably made things ten times worse by my fumbling, and then this story goes on for many more paragraphs, during which I tried to figure out if the problem was the server, which was experiencing a “Critical Error,” it informed me, or if it was the site itself, which wanted nothing to do with me whatsoever. Alllll of these paragraphs are boring, and so I am not going to get into it, but I will say that HOLY SHIT, TODAY, this actual day that is happening right NOW, and for the first time in...months, everything seems to be turned back on. (I mean, I think it is. I haven’t tried to publish this yet. Maybe I am in for a big surprise that will involve cussing! Maybe I am just talking to myself. In which case: HI ME! THIS SHIT IS STILL BROKEN). Provided that this is working, then I have all this shiny new bandwidth to play with, and I am upgraded in vague ways I do not understand, and I am sort of unreasonably excited about all of it. And, hey there, world! Did you miss me?
So, there you have it. You are kind of caught up, we can all stop worrying about my dad, things are [allegedly] fixed, and I am thrilled, and thank you hosting people, for getting it all sorted. And I am sorry, hosting people, for being an idiot about the whole thing and making matters worse. It is what I do.
But mostly, I am sorry that so many people were concerned. If I could have popped in to tell everyone that we were okay, and that we were getting better, I would have. Disappearing after such a dire and "Death! DEAAAATH!" entry was not good form. I did not mean to disturb people, and I have tried to write back everyone who wrote to me (although emails, too, went all kerfluffle for a good two months; ask me about how much fun THAT was). I am still making my way through everything, and I just feel really bad about the whole business.
But, oh, you guys. So many things have happened! Nothing, like, important, but you know. Things like falling down and drinking stuff and going places that are ill-advised. Some of these things have been really funny and awesome, and they would happen and I would think, "Holy shit, I've got to write about this!" before remembering, with crushing disappointment, that the Internet dumped me. The Internet dumped me, and refused to take my calls, and stole all my good CDs and scrawled my phone number on bathroom stalls all over Atlanta. The Internet didn't want to hear about the saga of the Dippin' Dots of Jesus, or about how I was attacked by a homicidal squirrel, or about Gimmme's uniboob, or Bo's new sleeping protocols. The Internet had moved on, probably to someone on myspace, and I was left a sad, clingy mess, begging, "Please? Can't we try again? I’ll be better this time!" while pouring my heart out to customer service representatives across the globe ("I SWEAR WE WERE SO HAPPY ONCE"). Because I have pride and all.
In the end, I fought for our love, and won, mostly because I threw money at the Internet until it agreed to give me another chance. Because, good news! The Internet is kind of a whore. (JUST KIDDING LOVE YOU INTERNET NEVER LEAVE ME AGAIN).
And, that is all. Well, except for the Dippin' Dots and the squirrel and the fact that I have concluded that I am being haunted by a really irritating ghost who likes AM radio, and some other stuff I will think of shortly. And also, interesting news: I have thought of one way I can try to make it up to everyone that I went missing for so long, and that is by making a spectacular ass out of myself. Which is something I probably would have done anyway, but this way is much faster, really. Plus, it allows me to make lists. So, ass-making! LET IT COMMENCE.
And here is what I am going to do, to mark the Reconstruction of the site and the Reuniting of Me + Internet ( = True Love 4Ever!). While I’ve been off, I spent a lot of time living at my parents' house, doing whatever. And while there, I discovered all of the most frightening pictures of me that have ever been taken, all secreted away by myself, in hopes they would never be discovered by boyfriends or members of the press. These are the pictures I won't even show Dukay because I am afraid that he will start harboring serious concerns about what lurks in my gene pool (Dukay: start saving for braces!). And these pictures have stayed hidden, until now. Now, I am totally going to publish them ALL on the internet, every day for the next week. It will be a retrospective of awkward. I am totally psyched.
Please note that, during the times these pictures were taken, I was often painfully, remarkably, hilariously funny looking, and even during times when I looked relatively normal, I still had what is undoubtedly the worst sense of appropriate footwear/clothing/hair styling that you have maybe ever seen. I think I can best describe what we are dealing with here by telling you that, in the course of my fashion experimentation, I have lovingly embraced the following themes (TIME FOR LISTS WOO!):
1. Accessories, Accessories, Accessories!
2. EVERYTHING MUST MATCH EVERYTHING EVERYTHING EVEN PROPS
3. Big Hair is Happy Hair
4. Little House on One Fucked up Prairie
5. Clothes That Are Clearly Not Mine
8. Your Mom
I will post these, plus other uncategorized monstrosities, right here, using all this fancy ass new bandwidth I [allegedly] have. You maybe should not be eating when this occurs. Like, for example, now:
I call this picture Nature’s Majesty, Plus Acid Wash.
(Actually, that one is totally tame. Things really only go downhill from here.)
(Like, downhill to here: )
Acid wash, pinch rolls, Bill Cosby’s castoff sweater, and what appears to be a mullet. Plus, I am playing chess, probably to distract my thirteen year old self from all the love-struck preteens beating a path to my door. HEY BOYS! TAKE A NUMBER. There is plenty of awesome to go around.
So, anyway. That's everything, y'all (really, all you wanted and so much more! That you didn't want! Like food poisoning!). I am sorry for disappearing, but things are looking up at last, and I'm confident that my year is about to start getting a hell of a lot better. And I’m thinking that Mister Internet and I will live happily ever after, so long as I promise never to wear acid wash or a mullet ever, ever again.