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!