Cookie and the Geese
So, sweet internet, I'm sorry it's been a while since my last post, but we've been busy beavers over here. And that is because last Friday, our awesome, adorable Cookie turned 30! Thirty! Which constitutes a milestone, and in my book, milestones are heralded in by making sure the celebrated party is completely divorced from any relationship she may have had with sobriety. Sobriety, we spit on you! And then, we sing.
Consequently, Cookie's milestone was celebrated with a three day party at my parents' lake house. The itinerary for this event included drinking things, eating occasionally, and then drinking more things. And, of course, it also included singing. Oh, the singing, and despite the fact that I can't even whistle in tune, something about copious amounts of wine makes me believe that, hark, I am an undiscovered songbird, and I must share my gift with the People. This problem is compounded by the fact that I seem to know all of the lyrics to every song ever made, from Toto to Tupac, something else which I feel compelled to share with those less fortunate. And so it goes, and so I wake up the next morning and ask Senator/Sasquatch/we-still-haven't-decided-on-a-name-over-here whether I serenaded the masses, and he is forced to gently admit that, indeed, I stood on the kitchen counter and performed a medley of M.I.A. to Metallica before someone finally put the iPod back on shuffle, thereby ending my "M is for Misery!" world tour. And then I swear off drinking forever. Until it is time for mimosas.
But, so! Singing happened. And because I cannot share that particular humiliation with you, or offer you a cocktail, or a bite of my soon-to-be-famous Fettuccine Alfredo [which will kill you dead, DEAD in a bite because it contains three parts heavy cream to every one part pasta (shh)], instead I figured that we could all celebrate this milestone by me finally, FINALLY telling y'all the story of Cookie and the Geese. Which is even illustrated! Just like a cautionary fairytale should be.
But first, we must begin with back story. The whole business began last year at our annual firm retreat. I don't remember the month during which the retreat was held, but I can tell you that the particular weekend of the outing contained Friday the Thirteenth. I can also add that we were staying in cabins in the woods. On Friday the Thirteenth. In the Georgia mountains. Where
Bigfoot Deliverance lives. So there was a general sense of horror for everyone, but mostly me.
And mostly Cookie, even though her horror had to be secondary, because up in them thar hills, Cookie caught the most explosive, awful sinus infection that has ever been suffered by a human person at any time in the history of the world. I feel comfortable making this pronouncement, because I saw Cookie. And...people, Cookie is a beautiful woman. Truly. And yet, this sinus infection made her into a scary, gooey creature, which caused her eyes to swell shut, and forced random fluids to leave her various orifices and go shooting across the room without provocation, in the manner of a mucus-based sprinkler system, and as a result, we all spent the better part of the weekend running the hell away from her. She was like a geyser of disease, and she clearly felt like walking fucking death.
As soon as the retreat ended and we returned to a town where doctors do not suggest 'bleeding' as a treatment, Cookie took the day off work and went to see a professional. And so there I was, sitting at my desk and believing that Cookie was finally getting the medical attention she deserved, when one of the partners came into my office and said, "Cookie was just in a car accident! Have you heard anything?"
Obviously, I was immediately concerned, and my head filled with images of Cookie sneezing and the windshield blowing out with the gale force of her projection, or possibly, strands of mucus actually leaving her nose and, proboscis-like, seizing the steering wheel and heading out for the open road. But before I could ask any follow-up questions about her condition, or to clarify just how, exactly, snot forces you to wreck a vehicle, my phone rang. And I saw that it was Cookie, and so I answered, and this is what occurred:
Self: Dude! Are you okay? I heard you were in a car accident!
Cookie: [Snort. Sniff] I wad id ad assidend!
Self: I know! Are you okay?
Cookie: I tink so. But I wad ID AD ASSIDEND.
Self: I know! How's your car?
Cookie: ...Car? Oh, carss FIIIIINE. Is PERFIC.
Cookie: Becods I wad dot ID a car ad de time.
Self: You were in an accident without your car?
Cookie: ONDA HIGHWAY.
Self: You were in an accident without your car...ON THE HIGHWAY.
Self: WHICH HIGHWAY.
Cookie: Georgia four hunnerd.
Self: THAT IS A BIG HIGHWAY.
Cookie: DOUGH SHIT.
Cookie: Ids JUR FAULD.
Self: What?! How my fault? What'd I do now?
Cookie: Dere. Wad. Geetz.
Cookie: GEETZ. GEETZ GEETZ GEETZ. Birs thad hong, like 'hong hong.'
Cookie: JES. GEETZ. HONGING AND RUDDIN AMOK. ONDA HIGHWAY.
Self: Wait, geese?
Fuggin GEETZ. Das whad I said.
Cookie: JES. A momba goots an a bunch ob baby gootses.
Self: A momma geese and a bunch of babies on...Georgia 400?
Cookie: JES. Ad we were id traffics, ad I wadn't gonna led dem ged hid by a car.
Self: So...you got hit by a car instead?
Cookie: PREDDY MUSH. I got oudda da car to try to walk dem offa da road.
Self: Uh-huh. On Georgia 400.
Cookie: De traffic was mossly stopped, so I pulled ober, ad I started runding adda geetz, wabing my armbs.
STOP GEETZ! Whad da hell id da MADDER WID YOU.
Self: Oh, no.
Cookie: Ad I wad screambing, "GID OFFA HIGHWAY GEETZ BABIES!" and dey were honging ad me ad runnding all ober and FREEGING OUT.
Self: Jesus Christ!
Cookie: I DOUGH. Ad fidally I wad gedding dem back to de side ob de road? Ad I wad habby.
Aw, dere you go to safedy, you stubid stubid geetz.
Cookie: Ad DAT is when I god HID BY A CAR.
Self: YOU GOT HIT BY A CAR.
OH DE HUMANIDY
Self: On GEORGIA 400.
Cookie: JES. DAS WHAD I SAID.
Self: How...I mean, are you dead right now?
Cookie: No. She waddn goin very fasd. I jus kide ob tumpled ober.
Self: Holy SHIT.
Cookie: I dough!
Cookie: Dude, I DOUGH. Id hurd my ankle!
Self: How did she not see you?
Cookie: I wad leanin ober, tryin to ged on de geetzes lebel, so I could...herd dem.
Self: You were leaning over in the road?
Cookie: I wad on all fourds.
Self: On the highway?!
Cookie: ID WAD A DESPERAD TIME.
Self: I...Jesus, that's, like, the best Karma ever, though. You saved those geese!
Cookie: Indyway. Thid id your fauld.
Self: Me? But! At...work!
Cookie: SDILL. Sdill, dis is EZZACDLY the kide of STUPID SHIT YOU DO ad den dat makes me tink, 'Oh, dis is de normal response to wild GEETZ on de highway, I'll jus ged OUDDA DA CAR and den RUN AROUN DA ROAD, IN DA RAIN, WABING ad SCREAMBING AD FUGGING GEETZ.'
Cookie: Ad THED do you DOUGH what HABBEND?
Cookie: THED I GOD HID BY A MUDDERFUGGING CAR.
Cookie: HID, Leigh. By a car.
Cookie: I hade you.
Self: Not nearly as much as you're going to hate me when I write about this for the whole internet!
Cookie: Cad you call me 'Mudder Goots?'
The following weekend, a noticeably-less-congested Cookie -- who is a very good sport -- agreed to reenact the scene in her yard and on her street, which is how we are lucky enough to have such vivid illustrations to go along with our story. Of Cookie. Being hit by a car. While trying to save a gaggle of geese, in the rain, on the highway, with a fever of 102. And if you ever wondered why I worship the everloving spit out of this girl, then that story should resolve the matter entirely.
So, happy birthday to you, awesome Cookie! I hope your next 30 years are filled with all the love and laughter you could want, that the errant geese of the world are kept firmly in check, and that you never have to endure my enthusiastic rendition of Enter Sandman ever, ever again.
And with that, I'm headed out to the beach today with the wonderful Senator Still Unnamed for a long weekend. So I'm sure I'll return with more stories of debauchery, wild birds, and painfully embarrassing singing for everyone. In the meantime, y'all take care, and if you happen to spot any confused geese wandering out on a highway near you, I'm confident that you'll know exactly what to do.
Ad den dey libbed habbily eber abter. Until dey god eadden by a
Whole Wide World
Aw, you guys! Just...honestly. Y'all are so nice. Seriously, all of those sweet comments?! LOOK HOW NICE YOU PEOPLE ARE. I don't deserve you! You are all rocking and kick ass and good looking and wise. Thank you for all of your nice thoughts, and thank you all for being so sympathetic toward my little personal tragedies. Really, I should have figured that you'd all understand, and I kind of feel like an idiot for being so nervous about coming back. But, you know. I never said I was particularly smart. Just kind of a coward.
Smart or not, though, I am still compelled to share my Knowledge for the day. Maybe it is not very...knowledgeable, exactly, but in reading all of those comments, it sounds like so many of y'all are going through this. So, maybe reading about my experience will be borderline...useful. I don't know! I am just here to communicate words, in varying degrees of coherence! Because, that is kind of My Thing: Sporadic Coherence. And, wine. Also bruising.
But, anyway. For anybody who is interested, or is going through some awful uncoupling and is feeling like, holy shit, this will suck for the duration, I have compiled a time line of my life for the past six weeks, as communicated over cocktails to Cookie, His Honor (y'all, now I have a Judge friend! He cannot help us with bail money [lame] but he has a robe and a hammer thing), another friend we will call The Minister (do not ask; we don't know why he's called the Minister, particularly given the fact that the Minister is actually Jewish, but we are going to go with it) and other assorted wonderful people who I don't have names for yet, but I am working on it, however, point BEING that these were the words coming out of my mouth and hurtling in the direction of those poor, unfortunate people, all starting about 2 months ago when the breakup was considered official:
Day 1: Sob. Sob sob sob. Google "nooses" and "proper method of tying."
Day 2: SOB SOB SOB OH MY GOD I AM GOING TO DIE. BO, TIE MOMMA A NOOSE.
Day 3 - Day 10: Etc.
Day 11: Um, fuck this. Kind of. But, additionally: SOB.
Day 12: Ooo, love those shoes! You know, mourning is...boring, a little. Hmm.
Day 13: Actually? Fuck this hard. No more mourning! I am buying me some lady shoes!
Day 14: NO SERIOUSLY. YOU GUYS, KNOW WHAT. I HAVE MADE A COMMAND DECISION HERE. NO MORE MOURNING. I MEAN IT THIS TIME.
Day 15: YEAH.
Day 16-18: Yeeeaaaah.
Day 19: NO THAT IS RIGHT. FUCK THIS AGAIN. I hereby decide that from now on, ALL I WANT is to be happy. It is time for a shift in perspective! Shift shift shift! I am going to just be happy, with a minimum of sobbing, and a maximum of new shoes. HA. That is called "having goals."
Day 20: And, YES, all of you lovely friends of mine, indeed I WOULD like to start dating again, just for fun and also a wide variety of what promises to be drama, as well as the free cocktails I understand to be involved. Please bring me prospects, preferably those with a mostly full set of teeth. And who are not addicted to the hardcore drugs.
Day 21, Part I: Hey ACTUALLY. COOKIE. If possible, I would like to date that extremely cute guy that is Spam's friend and who is awesome. And who has teeth, and ALSO no telltale track marks! I mean, not to be too specific, or anything. But set me up with that guy. Provided he is not...married. Or what have you.
Day 21, Part II: Oh, he's...available? He...what now? HE WANTS TO GO? NO HA HA HA THAT'S COOL. I AM TOTALLY COOL AND NOT STUPIDLY EXCITED AT ALL. NO I AM NOT SHAKING. I THINK WE HAD AN EARTHQUAKE A SECOND AGO. YOU LOOK OVER THERE NOW.
Day 22: NO I AM NOT SWEATING ALSO.
Day 23: HEY. What do I wear? Should I cut all my hair off? Does he like redheads? Should I dye my hair red? Maybe I will dye my hair red. Does he like people who have teeth? Should I get some more? Should I...hello?
Day 24, Part I: [Nervous nervous nervous]
[Oh my God I am a dork]
[But holy shit, I have not gone on a date in seven YEARS]
[What if I am boring? I totally bet I am SO BORING. I bet I start talking about the Amish]
[SHIT now all I can think about are Amish people. I am going to suck at this SO HARD]
[Oh Jesus please don't let me fall down in front of him on the first date please]
[SERIOUSLY GOD DO ME A SOLID WITH GRAVITY, JUST THIS ONCE, I BEG OF YOU]
Day 24, Part II: [First date] [Is perfect] [And I do not fall down]
Day 25, Part I: HA GUESS WHO DID NOT FALL AT ALL.
Day 25, Part II: [Giggle/ Etc./Gloat] [Am generally annoying to be around]
Day 25, Part III: HE CALLED HE CALLED HE CALLED.
Day 26, Part I: Did I mention that he called? Because HE CALLED AND HE IS AWESOME. Just in case I didn't mention. Also, did I tell you about the time I didn't fall down? Did I ment...hello? Cooookie?
Day 26, Part II: ... mention that he is awesome. Did I mention that he is awesome? Because, DUDE. HE IS AWESOME. Broken record, what now? Also, I think there is something wrong with your phone, because I keep losing...hellllooo?
Day 27: [Second date] [Is even more perfect] [Mind officially blown/knees officially weakened]
Day 28: [All is right with the world] [Plus I owe Cookie a car]
So, there it was, about -- I guess a month ago, ish, with the first dates, and the getting-to-know-you. And now, here we are, which...y'all. Y'all, do not even get me started. He's perfect, I am obnoxiously happy, and I am having a ridiculously good time. So, done, BOOYAH, the end, and so forth, because people, Cookie found me a good one, and I am stapling him to my side.
What we have not found, however, is a name for him, although he, Spam, Cookie, and I all spent the better part of a [drinky] afternoon trying to come up with something appropriate. Spam wanted to call him...I think it was Senator Sulu, which is a Mr. Show reference of some kind. Or maybe I am muddling things. I probably am, but...okay, there was that. Other possibilities were as follows:
Spam: WAIT, wait. Totally got it: Robot Yeti.
Self: NO. Why with all the Yeti and robots?
Spam: Fine. You want to go a different direction? How about...Crotchgrabber.
Self: There are so many, many things wrong with that suggestion.
Spam: Or, the more traditional Grabbacrotcha? Like in the old country.
Him: Does it have to be food related? Like Cookie and Spam?
Self: No, it can be whatever. Unfortunately.
Him: Then I like Shania!
Cookie: Oh, you should totally go with the food thing! You could be tofurkey, since you're a vegetarian.
Self: That's not bad! Baby! Want to be Soysage?
Spam: What about...Spartacus.
Self: But. Why.
Spam: NO I HAVE IT: Sasquatch.
Self: PEOPLE. WHY WITH ALL THE YETI TALK.
Spam: No, no...Senator Sasquatch. Now that the election results are in.
Oddly, we have not yet arrived at a consensus. I know this is surprising to all. But we will continue to work on it, as soon as we are in the same room as more vodka, and this will bring order to my life.
But as sweet as y'all are, and as long as this already is, I know that in the grand scheme, very many of you are thinking HOLY GOD shut UP about your LIFE ALREADY, because you are dying to know about the dogs, WHAT ABOUT THE DOGS.
HELLO YOU WOMENS. DID YOU MISS BO.
I've been trying to think of some of the best stories, but I've been drawing a blank, because the dogs have actually been...like, not murderous lately. I know! AND, they've been on a diet, so there are actually fewer square inches of them to terrorize me.
EXCUSE BO. WHAT YOU JUST SAID OF DIET.
This diet includes green beans ("BEANS! BEANS BEANS BEANS" is what they all say every morning now, as they run hysterical brown circles around Food Bowl). And, the BEANS! diet has actually worked, because guess what Gimme has now? A waist! Kind of! He's lost a third of his body weight, and is now svelte, like a wee, speckle-y model.
SLIM FAST WORK FOR GIMMME!
But there has been a bit of reorganization on the doggie front, because about a month ago, Ziz and Awesome Future Brother In Law Bob moved into a new place in L.A. This place allows dogs, which means that for the first time ever, Ziz could actually live in a bedachshund-ed household, as God intended. And, lo, there was much celebrating all about the land.
However. Since we are already a family of seven (SEVEN) wieners, getting more seemed...excessive. Maggie, who has lived with Mom and Dad, has always been Ziz's dog -- it's always been understood that, as soon as Ziz and Bob moved into a dog-friendly place, Maggie would go to California like a wee little gold rusher. But there was also a lot of concern about Maggie being alone; she's never been alone. She would not like being alone. She is used to having other dogs to lord over and rule, because she is totally bitchy that way. So taking Maggie on her own was not going to work, and puzzlement commenced accordingly.
Meanwhile, there was Equal Dog Drama happening over at my own place. Ever since Tasha died, there's been some...tension. Between the menfolk. I think having Tasha in the house, who pretty much ruled the roost, kept testosterone in check; when she was gone, though, all of a sudden, the remaining three started fighting. And, I am not talking just "Strong Words Being Exchanged, I Am Looking At You Sternly" fighting. I mean "snarling, growling, yelping, going-for-the-jugular, HOLY SHIT CHILL OUT, CUJO" fighting. And the one who always seemed to be in the middle of it all -- every time -- was Pugsley. Who used to be afraid of all things. Including his own flatulence. From which he would hide under the bed.
What made it worse was that there was no predicting it, and no figuring it out; we'd all be sleeping in the same bed, and all of a sudden, Pugsley would wake up and just go APESHIT all over Bo or Gimmme. And, I'd have to dive between everyone, grabbing hysterical, snapping dogs by tails or legs in an attempt to stop the RANDOM KILLING taking place beneath the coverlet. To put it mildly, this was significantly less than Big Fun for everyone involved.
ONE TIME PUGSLEY GO CRAZY AND BITED ME ON MY BOY PART. WAS SO OW.
I talked to the vet about it, and we tried drugs, and we tried separating them, and so on. But nothing seemed to work. All that was certain was that I was kind of losing my mind. I was also kind of losing a lot of blood, because I kept on having to interject myself in between the Tiny Fangs Of Death at 2 in the morning. But even more troubling was the fact that Pugsley just seemed genuinely unhappy -- the vet explained that, when Tasha died, apparently Pugsley thought it was time to elect a new ruler, and he wanted to get his little self in the running. The problem, however, was that nobody else was aware of any impending doggie coup. Bo had no interest, as he does not believe that he is A Dog, which would be solidly Beneath Him.
DONT FIGHTS LADIES. THERE PLENTY OF BO TO GO ROUND.
And then Gimmme just...I mean, Gimmme is just a little puddle of waggity love. He has no clue about any kind of inner strife and turmoil. Gimme does not even know what a coup is. GIMMME NOT DO WARS.
GIMMME ALSO NOT UNDERSTAND YOUR POSTMODERN ANGST
So, the family decided to try combining our various doggie drama, and tried seeing whether Pugsley and Maggie could get along together. And turns out, they're an excellent match. Maggie still gets to lord over Pugsley and order him around, but he's apparently fine with that, because Maggie is a girl. Pugsley, it turns out, likes being henpecked. It is what he wants. God help the male who tries to give him an order, but if Maggie barks, it's "yes, dear," all the way to the pickles and ice cream store, and it is the strangest little thing you ever saw.
Once the two of them were officially BFF, Mom and Dad drove them (here I will type those words again. Drove them) to California. From Georgia. In a car. Hi.
Also: evidently, they will not be doing that again any time soon.
But ultimately, they got there! And so Puglsey and Maggie are L.A. dogs now, which means they have pedicures and an agent, and probably make more money than I do. And, although I miss my little Pugsley, apparently this was the best thing in the world for him -- his entire attitude is changed, and he just walks around wagging like a drunken idiot. He gets to be a little king, after all, with no other boys to challenge his teeny brown authority. And, he gets to watch over Maggie, which makes him feel extremely important, all while being spoiled RIDICULOUSLY by my sister and Bob. So, all is right with the world. And as a special bonus, I am no longer losing a pint of blood every night. Everyone lives! Woo!
And so, that is how come now, I am a two doxie household. Which seems so...wrong, actually. As though I were a weirdly reasonable person, which...that is clearly not the case. I may have to start collecting figurines or something. Anyway, be afraid.
But, so! That is My Awesome, Wonderful Life. And everything worked out like it was supposed to, even though things sucked royally for a time. And thus we have my remarkably cheesy, oft-repeated and completely cliche lesson for the day, in the style of my own little After School Special. But, no matter how cliche, I just wanted to send a little happy to all of you who are going through a break up, and were kind enough to share your own perspective and unhappiness in the comments to that last entry: Y'all, I swear to holy God, it gets better. And I know you've heard that one frillion times, but it...does. I'm sorry, and I know that isn't profound or earth shattering or even novel, at all, but having just gone through the ringer and come out happier than ever, I can solidly promise you that the ugly will end, and that you will emerge happier, more confident, and more certain of what you want. And once that happens, there will be a Sasquatch Senator just waiting for you on the other side. And it will be the best thing in the whole wide world.
HEY BABY. BO BE YOUR SASQUATCH. YOU BRING THE HAMS.
Oh, P.S.: Don't even look at the About Me page. I...killed it. Nobody is surprised. I will continue trying to figure out how exactly one operates a website, but in the meantime, let's just...ignore that! A lot. Anyway, kisses!