But, anyway. Oh, hello! HI THERE! So, did I up and disappear? AGAIN? Am I a major pain in the ass to everyone? The answer, quite obviously, is yes. Yes, yes, resoundingly yes, in particular to the last question. I am totally a pain in everyone's ass! I am a pain in your ass! I am causing grief and aggravation to asses all over the place, that is just what I do.

On second thought, maybe I am the bitch of the internet. At the very least, I’m kind of a tease. I am really sorry about that. And, once again, I am really sorry if anyone thought something bad had happened, beyond my usual Life o’ Privilege and Manufactured Crisis. It did not. In fact, everything is fine, with the exception of the massive amounts of work I've taken on lately, and one small other thing, which is that, once again, I have found myself asking: Why is some component of my website always, always broken, seriously, why, God? Did I piss someone off? Was it Al Gore? Did I piss Al Gore off? Because, Al Gore, I will heartily apologize, if you will please leave me alone. I will recycle! Just for you! I will cart all of my groceries around in eco-friendly bags! I will weave them from hemp! Whatever the hell you want!

At any rate, it has finally been determined that all the problems associated with this site hearken (they hearken!) back to the fact that the version of Movable Type I am using is both obsolete and incredibly vulnerable to attacks. So, people attack me (AL GORE) and then the whole thing goes crazy and shuts me out, and opens up closed comments, and crashes servers and creates digital mayhem. Meanwhile, this keeps happening, because I have no earthly idea how to upgrade my version of MT without losing everything. (And, I would ask you to email me if you know, but guess what is still broken? Email. So, never mind.) So, there's that, but now in addition, THIS time an entirely different branch of my stupidity emerged, and nearly resulted in me losing the site altogether. Yes! That is just how good I am. I can't log on, but I can still cause serious damage. Fear me! For I can create destruction by proxy.

I don't know whether y'all noticed this particular insanity or not, but a few weeks ago, I was working in the manner of a Pasty-Skinned Diligent Lawyer Person when Cookie came into my office and said something along the lines of, "Um, your website is...not. Anymore. Yours, I mean." So, I pulled up the page, and sure enough, it was all these ads, ads for dachshunds, and long haired dachshunds, and breeders, and dachshund dating services, and dachshund fetish sites, and basically a whole plethora of shit that I myself had not written, and which I had exactly nothing to do with. So, I said all of the curse words I could think of while I tried to figure out what the hell had happened now, and what was fucked up THIS time, and do I blame the hosting company or do I blame Evil Gnomes or hackers or just fucking WHO already, because I am going to FIND them, and I am going to EAT their EYEBALLS, so help me God.

And I said this with all the frustration and rage of one who has been the Internet's bitch one time too many, and I worked myself up into a really attractive, bloodthirsty froth, until...you know. I kind of had to shut the hell up when I finally concluded, many hours later, that this particular spectacular fuck up was, in fact, entirely my own doing. Naturally. And, for our mutual misery, here is the short version of that very boring story:

1. I bought this website a zillion years ago, back when I had things like spare time (HA HA HA!), a rosy-pink complexion, and no billable hour requirement.

2. When I registered the domain, I set up an account using what was, at the time, my work email address.

3. I paid with my credit card, and signed up for automatic renewals, because back in those butterfly-tinged rainbow days of giggles, I was significantly smarter than I am right now.

And all that was fine and dandy. Until:

4. I switched jobs.

5. That credit card expired.

6. The Registrar sent me 14,698 emails warning me that I was about to lose the domain, except:

7. They were all going to a dead address.

So:

8. My domain expired.

9. Because I am stupid.

10 And now you know.

But, hey! It got fixed, thanks to the vigilance of my co-workers, and the fact that the Registrar had some built-in grace period before my site became the internet's leading wiener-fetish provider, and I gave the Registrar a non-expired credit card and a non-dead email address. So we should be good to go at least until 10/09, when this card expires and I possibly I will have changed my name to Bathsheba, and then we will get to go through all this excitement all over again, I CAN'T EVEN WAIT.

And, with that, I will stop talking about this forever, because seriously, this is turning out to be the most boring entry of all time. I mean, you don't even have to lie to me, I know it is. It's all, look at Leigh, bitching about her computer issues, again, only this time she's mixing it up by moaning about how her credit card had the gall to expire, O THE NERVE YOU PLASTIC JUDAS, and none of this is even remotely entertaining. So, to sum up, once again, I sincerely apologize. And I sincerely move on from this hideously boring topic. And I sincerely hope that I am able to install the new MT before this whole damn thing happens all over again, or else, I seriously will eat my own eyeballs. Or possibly Al Gore's. Because I bet they are just scrumptious. And if that's not a way to end these paragraphs, then I just don't know what is.

*** (Now the boringness shall end) ***

*** (Relatively Speaking) ***

But, moving on to other things! I have ever so many other things. I even have entries I've written but could never post, so I will try to get through at least...some of them, I guess. Some of them are kind of pointless now (like my pre-Thanksgiving bitching), but maybe I can edit them into relevance. (Again, relatively speaking.)

But first of all, I swear to you, I have not abandoned my CRAP plan, even though that was supposed to be a seven-day project that began...oh, about four years ago. Back in the day, I started a flickr group and everything, PLUS I spent a good chunk of time manually scanning all of the most hideous pictures I could find. I mean, no lie, I've probably got 50 pictures all waiting to be thrust upon you in the manner of an infectious disease. I even came up with little LOLCRAP captions, because once again, I am pretty sure I am funny about that. But, I am postponing that for right now, because first, we have to travel back a MONTH, and visit the Halloween entry that I wrote, but which wouldn't post. And, y'all, I even Photoshopped for this entry. I Photoshopped for you! And then it wouldn't post, and I screamed a sentence that included the words "Fuck". "Perpetual," and "Spoon", and then I stormed off in a huff. Probably in the direction of some wine. Or, horse tranquilizers.

So, that being said, now it is the time when I tell the Halloween story.

*** We'll Have A Gay Old Time ***

*** In Theory ***

I have already written all about my love for Halloween, but in short, I am a big old crazy lady freakshow when it comes to this holiday. For weeks in advance, I busy myself with decorating the house, putting together costumes, and tormenting the dogs with adhesives. Every year, I've been the one who gets completely into the spirit of the thing, with fake cobwebs clinging from the bushes and realistic dead bodies slumped out of windows. I set up a graveyard under the tree, where skeletons sprout from the ground. I buy dry ice and play CDs of vaguely disturbing, ghost-like noises. Every Halloween, I've got macabre delights at every twist and turn. And yes, that is just...odd, but it is my creepy little thing! I look forward to it! I mean, y'all, I have invested actual spending money on fake corpses. And that is some dedication to the holiday spirirt, right there. Especially when we are talking about a backordered fake corpse, which appears months later in an enormous, unmarked box, which you open after coming home late from work, but prior to having a heart attack and dying because AHH CORPSE IN THE MAIL, CORPSE IN THE MAIL. Even after THAT incident, I have continued to buy dead people. This is how deep my love.

(Also, fake corpses are very fun to hang in guest room closets. Or to position on the guest toilet. I get my money's worth, is what I am driving at.)

But, in spite of my dedication, it was all for a big fat nothing this year, because I had to work through Halloween. As in, on the night of Halloween. I was conducting an investigation in California, and so I was on a conference call at the office, and I didn't even get home until 11. And before that, I'd had to work for the two weeks leading up to Halloween. So I missed the whole fucking thing, and if you think I am not feeling significantly sorry for myself, then you have no idea how much of a big old whiny person I can actually be. There may have been some hints.

So, I missed Halloween, and that completely sucked. It sucked for the kids, because I wasn't there to do my usual "Oooo, who's the crazy neighbor?! Ha ha, just kidding NO SERIOUSLY I WATCH YOU SLEEP" therapy-inducing routine at the door, but it also sucked for me, because...well, because this is all about me. And also, because we had the most awesome costume ideas planned for all of us, and we did not even get to realize those ideas. Like, Cookie and I were going to go as something we like to call "Lindsay Lohan and Paris Hilton Have A Tough Time In Cars." To accomplish this look, Cookie was going to put on a hoodie and pass out in the front passenger seat, mouth agape, and spectacularly drooling. I, on the other hand, was going to park myself in the back seat, pull my hair up all unwashed and askew, cuff my hands behind my back, and wail hysterically as though I was being escorted off to face me some Justice. Dukay and Spam were going to be paparazzi, and they were going to hop about with cameras with huge flashbulbs, while wearing unattractive hats. (I do not know why I think paparazzi wear unattractive hats, but in my fantasy, they do. Like, '40's newsboy hats! And they wear vests and shirts with the sleeves rolled up! Also possibly jodhpurs.) Basically, it was going to be awesome, the unholy marriage of the two most idiotic vehicle-based "news" photographs of the year. And it was all going to take place in our very own drama-, tear-, and vodka-soaked automobile. And, bonus, we would get to sit the whole time! Cookie could even nap! With the exception of one small detail, that being how we could not actually leave the car all night, or else the entire effect would be ruined, it was a very solid plan.

But it was not to be, because instead, I was working. And so that was a disappointment. But it's not the biggest disappointment, even considering how spectacular that would have been, because it doesn't hold a candle to the amazingly awesome costumes that I had conceived for the dogs this year. In that regard, I possibly outdid myself, call someone. Seriously, call an almanac. This may have been my one single stroke of genius, so don't expect anything else for a whiiiiiile. I'm empty.

However, my genius won't make any sense unless you have the backstory, and thus, hello, backstory! So, Ziz came into town not terribly long ago. And, as we all remember, Ziz is all Big in L.A. and having a very big time and meeting very spectacular people. So while she was up here, she showed me all manner of Big Important Projects that have been making the rounds out there. Many of these projects were very excellent. Some of these projects were very...I think we can go with "experimental." Or "God Awful." But there was one thing, one wonderful, luminous stroke of brilliance that outshone all the rest. And that was: Planet Unicorn.

Now evidently, everyone except me knew about Planet Unicorn. But because I live under a law-shaped rock, this was my first exposure, and I'd never heard of it. If you, too, have been living under some interestingly shaped rock and are therefore totally perplexed about what I am all on about this time, I will briefly explain.

Planet Unicorn is a series of five little animated videos, each of which is about 3 or 4 minutes long, and...well, actually, I am not going to try to summarize all the complicated plot devices and meticulous character development involved therein. No. Because that has already been DONE, and you can pretty much learn all you need to know about the subtle nuances of the show by reading the spoken-word intro that precedes the theme song:

In the year 2117, an 8-year-old gay boy named Shannon
found a magic lamp. He was granted three wishes.
The first, a fur jacket. The second, a flying car.
And the third was a planet full of unicorns.
This is the story of that planet.

Okay, now. PEOPLE. Are y'all still with me? Did you get all that? Because: LET'S REVIEW.

This is a show about a gay unicorn planet. In the future. That was wished into existence by an eight year old gay boy. Now, y'all...I ask you. WHAT ABOUT THAT IS NOT AWESOME. YOU ARE GOING TO HAVE TO TELL ME.

And, oh. Oh, you guys, it only gets better. For example, did you know that the three unicorns who inhabit Planet Unicorn are named Feathers:

Cadillac:

and Tom Cruise?

Are you aware that, in the episodes, eight-year-old-gay-boy Shannon appears to the unicorns in various forms? Did you know that these forms include (1) a bird, (2) a bubble, and (3) Tyra Banks? Are you sold yet? Because, this is pretty much everywhere my life has been leading, all these years. I am done, mission accomplished, I have found what I am looking for, and I can die happy, the end.

So, the five Planet Unicorn videos (Dear Planet Unicorn People: MAKE MORE OF THOSE NOW) (please) have cheered me up immensely whenever I've been in a shitty mood lately. In fact, if you are one of the few people who did not know about this phenomenon, and haven't heard about it on NPR or read about it in roughly six trillion magazines or newspapers, then you really should go watch one now, both because (a) height of awesome, and (b) the rest of this entry will make a lot more sense if you do. And be funnier. To me. Look, I will even wait for you!

(In which I wait.)

See? So good! Now, seeing as I can recite, oh, all of the Planet Unicorn episodes, word for word, and have forced everyone I know to view, memorize, and recite them along with me like we are in some sort of cheerful, well-dressed doomsday cult, it is fair to say that I have had some Planet Unicorn on the brain these past few months. And so, it was not too terribly long before something occurred to me.

There are...three unicorns, on planet unicorn.

There are also...three dachshunds, living in my house.

There is ...a Halloween holiday, during which I agitate said dachshunds.

And, I know...where we keep the glue.

Dum dum DUM!

*** Wait, Hold On, For Now I Go Off On Tangent ***

(Ooo, not to leave you hanging in the manner of a commercial break, but this totally reminds me of something. I know I have referenced, but never actually told, the story of How We Found Out That Mister Gimmme Was Not Gay. Here is the conclusion part of that story: Mister Gimmme is not gay. We learned this back when this painfully (painfully) beautiful man was living with me a few days a week. (Score!) This guy was a good friend of ours who was going to school in Athens; during his last summer there, he landed journalism internships at both Southern Voice and Creative Loafing. Each job only required him to work in Atlanta one day a week, which was good; what was bad, however, was that they didn't really pay, so he also had to keep working in Athens. He couldn't afford to rent a place in Atlanta in addition to his place in Athens, so he was going to have to drive back and forth. So, I declared that to be ridiculous and told him to shut the hell up and live in one of my guest rooms already. And that is how I ended up with a Gay House Boy. And how he ended up with that nickname is because that is how he answered the phone.

So, [Gorgeous] Gay House Boy spent the summer with me, during which he and I had more fun than is even reasonable. He was the one who came up with the Swan Drinking Game, you guys! Where we had to drink to "journey", "transformation", and "princess"! That pretty much started the movement, right there. He was a pioneer! A very gorgeous pioneer.

But, anyway. So, GHB loved the dogs, but he was particularly fond of Mister Gimmme. He carried Gimmme everywhere. Like, Gimmme does possess legs, but when GHB was there, Gimmme did not have to use them, ever, because GHB would walk in, pick Mister Gimmme up, and the two of them would cuddle together on the sofa all night long. Gimmme loved GHB, and would start hopping in little circles every time the door opened and GHB emerged. It was GHB and Mister Gimmme, all the time, and their love was pure and true.

On GHB's last night with me, we threw him a huge going-away thing. As I was gathering all the dogs to go upstairs to bed, he asked me, very shyly, if it would be okay if he slept with Gimmme that night. And of course, I was like, "Oh, please, PLEASE, FEEL FREE."

So GHB carried Gimmme upstairs, and Gimmme was wagging and filled with great happiness, just apoplectic with ecstasy. GHB and Gimmme disappeared into his guest room, I hopped into bed with my crew, and off we all went to sleep.

Less than six minutes later, I was startled to hear an enormous crash, as something smacked hard into my bedroom door. It flew open, and I jerked upright to see Mister Gimmme -- who had apparently headbutted his way into the room -- scramble across the floor, bounce off the back wall, and ricochet in the direction of the closet, all at maximum Gimmme speed.

While I was trying to make sense of this utterly ridiculous spectacle, GHB appeared in the doorway, soaking wet and looking frazzled.

"?" I said to GHB, as crashing sounds emenated from the closet, where Gimmme had apparently knocked over an entire hamper of coat hangers.

"Gimmme," GHB panted, "is NOT GAY."

Turns out, he was right. Oh, sure, Mister Gimmme was just fiiiiiine with the cuddling, kisses, and snuggly. But as soon as GHB climbed into bed with him, shirtless, and curled up next to Mister Gimmme, the two brain cells that live in Gimmme's head collided, and it occurred to him that maybe he had been giving off the wrong signals, because GIMMME DO NOT LIKE GHB THAT WAY. And so, in total heterosexual fashion, he COMPLETELY freaked out, peed all over GHB, and made a break for it, tearing blindly down the hallway before slamming headfirst into the safety of THE ROOM WHERE THE STRAIGHT PEOPLE ARE.

"I think he committed a hate crime on you!" I told GHB, as a still-reeling Gimmme knocked over the trash can in the bathroom. "I think he committed a hate crime on the sheets," GHB responded.

And, that is how we found out that Mister Gimmme was not gay. He was just experimenting! It was an experimental time! Everyone does that in college!

Hee. And thus concludes my tangent. The end, on to our scheduled story about gay unicorns.

*** End Of Tangent ***

Right. I am back! Planet Unicorn! There are three unicorns! I have three dogs! And adhesives! Do you see where I was headed up there?

Now, sadly, because I missed Halloween (Did you know? Y'all! I totally fucking missed Halloween! Did you hear that somewhere already?), I therefore missed the opportunity to abuse the dogs with false eyelashes, hair extensions, and a crimper. But, that does not mean I can't fantasize about the awesomeness that could not be. And that is where I harness the unholy power of Photoshop, to show you what would have been, if only I lived on a beautiful unicorn planet far off in the future, where conference calls and mortgage payments are things of the past.

As such, please give it up for Feathers:

BO HATE YOU.

Oooo, Cadillac:

GIMMME HATE YOU.

And Tom Cruise:

HI! PUGSLEY LIKE HIS PINK HAIR! PUGSLEY PRETTY! LIKE A PRINCESS.

Planet Unicorn, Heyyyyyyyyyyy!

*** Now I Am Current Through October ***

So, that was Halloween. Now I am...oh, about 1/5 of the way caught up. I've still got to upload the CRAP photos, and tell y'all about being an unloved Thanksgiving orphan, and how, after watching the Grinch in a vaguely inebriated state, Dukay decided that he is going to make his fortune by marketing actual cans of Who-Hash, and consequently I fear for us as a species. (Okay, that's actually pretty much the entire story about that incident. Who-Hash: Coming to a crackhouse near you!) But at least, this is something for now, plus it is both colorful and complain-y, my cup, it runneth the heck over.

But, hello again! I hope all of y'all are doing well! I am sorry I keep breaking my website, or almost losing my website, and hopefully the upgrade won't cause all of your computers to spontaneously explode at the same time, while also giving you something disgusting, like eye boogers or genital warts. I'll try to continue the catch up as soon as possible, so long as the dogs don't mete out some sort of revenge. And Al Gore and the internet stop making me their bitch.

Kisses!

P.S.: Wait, HA. So, last night, I wrote this whole entry out in Word, as I now do because MT eats my entries half of the time, and I got sick of writing something and having it disappear, etc. And, I finished editing, and I went and tried to upload it to the site. Only...no. I tried for hours, but I just couldn't get online. Not at my house, not at my parents' house, nowhere. And so I figured I was just doing something ELSE wrong, yet again, because I suck at life. Only then, I got to work today and saw this:

Southeast U.S.'s Internet Spontaneously Dies Monday Night; Millions Minorly Inconvenienced

I mean...DO YOU SEE?! The internet knew I wanted on! It knocked out ALL those other people just to keep me from posting! And that, you guys, is why I am the internet's bitch, my point is made, I rest my case, send me a drink, and heyyyyyyyyy.

But, hey! I did go to Vail, though. Which was not lame, but not much of a vacation, either, given the insane amount of travelling involved, and the fact that we were only there for a total of...oh, maybe 30 hours. Still the 30 hours was a little break, and was very gorgeous and wonderful. The other parts, with the multiple layovers, and the part where we had to leave the hotel at 4 a.m. to fly home, and everything else that involved either the "getting there" or "coming back" components of the trip, were not gorgeous and wonderful. Those parts also took about 30 hours, and every one of them sucked mightily. But during the happier times, I got to wear my coat AND boots because it was cold in Vail, and that pleased me, as did the fact that we got to see some snow. Not, like, a lot of snow, but let us not forget that I am from Atlanta. In terms of what I am used to, snow flurries = blizzard, and I joked about leaving the wedding so I could go stock up on vodka, Dura-Flame logs, and wine. Which I said with some authority, because that is actually a comprehensive list of what we did stock up on the last time we had a snow situation in Atlanta. Notice how we forgot "food."

(I am really not joking about that. We ended up making chili out of a jar of spaghetti sauce, which is something I would not recommend that you try.) (Ever.)

But, Vail! So, we went, and the wedding was really sweet and personal, and the whole town is just gorgeous now in the Fall. I took a ton of pictures, and if you are looking to get yourself into a Fall kind of mood, I will put them up on my Flickr account just as soon as I figure out how to use the mysterious uploader (Hey, Uploader! You are an Uploader of mystery, with the only working sporadically! So coy). So that is fun for all.

But, an – oh, wait. Want to hear our awesome travel stories? There are two tales of stupid events that could only happen to us. They are as follows:

First, it turns out that our flight was slightly later than I’d thought, but we still left at 4:30 a.m., because the Atlanta airport on a Friday morning is a clusterfuck not to be believed. So Dukay and I figured we would just stay awake all night, which we did, and we got to the airport and parked in Siberia before blearily walking the wrong way for ten minutes, both of us spitting profanity and hollering, "DUDE HOW IS IT THAT WE HAVE LOST THE WHOLE AIRPORT," until we found ourselves looking at an explanatory sign in the airport parking deck. My camera was in my suitcase, so I will have to recreate the image for you using Microsoft Paint, but this I will do in the interest of science:

Yeah, so. We flipped a coin, found the airport, and went through security, where neither one of us was chosen for a body cavity search, which was really just shiny of TSA given the fact that we were both disheveled to the point of looking like we’d spent the last year living in an isolated cabin somewhere, stockpiling weaponry and furiously typing letters to governmental agencies. And also Dukay was wearing his red pants. Which is just Crazy on legs, right there.

But, all this awake and walking and general confusion meant that by the time we got to our gate, we were starving slap to death. However, it was morning, so all anyone was serving was breakfast. Neither of us is particularly fond of breakfast food; I don’t really eat it, and Dukay can’t even look at an egg without convulsing in disgust, so we were both hoping to discover something a little…lunch-ier. But there wasn’t anything, so we got some coffee and figured, hell, we’ve got a two hour flight and a layover; we’ll just eat something at the next stop.

Only, guess what they have now, in this Brave New World? Time zones. We weren’t really thinking about those, though, and so when we got off the plane in Memphis, we were less than thrilled to be greeted by the smell of rubbery sausage and eggs. Because at that point, it was 9:00 in the morning. Again. And we just had that time.

So then we flew to Denver for another two hours, and again, we got off the plane, and again we were immediately assaulted by the smell of airport-breakfast-fare, because now it was 10:00 in the morning. And we’d just HAD THAT TIME TOO, SEVERAL TIMES IN FACT, and OMG WE ARE STUCK IN THE BREAKFAST WORMHOLE.

The upswing of all this is that we learned something that day, which is that Quiznos workers will take bribes. Especially if you are wearing red pants. Then they just want you to leave as soon as possible, and they will do whatever it takes to get you off the premises. Woo, Quiznos workers! Power to the people, and thanks for the sandwich!

But our never-ending morning just set the stage for our second adventure, because after we’d managed to apprehend some lunchmeats, we had to pick up the rental car for the trip to Vail. Now, the trip from Denver to Vail is about two hours, and Dukay thought it was a straight shot on I-70. Given my abilities to get lost while two blocks away from my office, however (yes), coupled with my tendency to infect and befuddle normal people with my inherently-incorrect instincts, resulting in them being equally lost (example: I recently got our firm’s managing partner so turned around after leaving a funeral that we completely missed the graveside service, despite the fact that the cemetery was within walking distance of both of our houses. This is how great my power) – anyway, I totally got off track there, but point being, we rented one of those Garmin Navigational devices, plopped it on the dash, and headed off to Vail.

We were not, at that point, concerned about the lack of instructions for the operation of the Garmin. We figured it must be self-explanatory, like TiVo, or most refrigerators. You just type in your destination, hit go, and voila, directions happen. So easy, we thought. SURELY WE CAN HANDLE THIS, we thought.

But, no. No, we thought wrong, because we left the parking lot and hopped on I-70 to Vail, and we coasted along without incident for about five minutes before the little Garmin started chirping at us to exit, you GUYS, exit NOW YOU GUYS, HURRY!

And because we are obedient sheep people, we did so, and thus began the most pointless romp around Denver ever experienced by anyone, because we’d drive all over the city, and then the Garmin would tell us to get back on the highway, and we would, only then five minutes later, it would change its tiny mind, and command us to exit, and we would, and then it would lead us through downtown in a sputtering, labyrinthine journey of stops and starts, before screeching at us to get our asses back on the highway to do the whole stupid thing all over again.

And, because neither one of us wanted to argue with technology, it wasn’t until we found ourselves stuck behind a school bus on a residential street for the THIRD time that Dukay finally chimed in with: “Uh.”

After spending the next 20 minutes accosting a gas station attendant, purchasing an enormous map, and pressing every button on the little Garmin’s face, we came to the realization that:

1. So it is a straight shot to Vail. If you stay on I-70, YOU END UP IN VAIL. You can’t HELP it. It is REQUIRED of you. Except:

2. The Garmin had been set to “avoid highways,” so it was trying to get us to Vail without resorting to interstates at all. Which one cannot do when going to Vail (see: “straight shot”, #1, above) and this contradiction had blown Garmin’s mind, much like the computer playing tic-tac-toe at the end of War Games (only with less nuclear war!), and so the machine had decided to just lead us in confused circles all about town, hoping we’d forget our original destination and just decide that KNOW WHAT, SCREW VAIL, DENVER’S FINE; which is why:

3. After one and a half hours of driving, we’d made it a grand total of four miles away from the rental car lot, GO TEAM.

So, you know. That was all very adventurous, in a Lewis-and-Clark Griswold kind of way. And then we drove to Vail on the highway like normal people, and had no further drama until we left the hotel at 4:30 Sunday morning to do the whole business all over again. Only this time we turned off the Garmin. And Dukay did not wear his red pants. And things were somehow much improved.

* * *

CRAP ABBREVIATED

Now that I have spent ten years compiling our travel log, I am all tired of typing. Which is unfortunate, seeing as I am just now getting to the actual point of this entry, which was supposed to be Day 6 of CRAP. But forces are clearly aligning against me, because in addition to leading us all off on a tangent, I also thought I had the disc where I saved all the scanned pictures, but the CD I grabbed has actually turned out to be a burned compilation of the greatest hits of Air Supply. Which…I mean, obviously not a bad thing, and o, happy discovery!, but while they can make love out of nothing at all, I can’t make an awkward teenager out of a power ballad. Not without a shitload of alcohol, anyway.

So instead, we are resorting to a sort of odd assortment of pictures I have found on this laptop. They are kind of amusing to me, but I’ve definitely seen worse. Plus, because I am rapidly running out of cleverness, and also because I am unoriginal, and I continue to be entertained every time I look at I Can Has Cheezburger, I have decided to make today LOL CRAP day. For all of you who have no idea what I am talking about with this LOL business (hi, Aunt Rie!), I apologize. Pretend it is something hilarious, only in another language. Like Sanskrit. And…well, actually, that goes for all of you. Let’s act like this is funny to people other than me! And let’s do it together.

So, here we go, in no particular order and covering no particular time period: LOL CRAP, brought to you by travel, some old photos, and Air Supply. Which, now that I think about it, sounds like a recipe for a bomb.

Why, hello, Tiny Dancer!

My Milkshake: Failing To Bring All The Boys To The Yard.

My milkshake did, however, bring Ziz to the yard, where it appears that she is getting very handsy with my lady business:

Dude, tone down the perv, toddler.

And now, jumping forward to a demonstration of (1) how much I clearly valued my parents’ attempts to broaden our horizons by taking us to foreign lands when we were growing up; and (2) how to match your scrunchy socks with your shroud.

Bet those tan lines looked pretty.

Know what? This LOL talk is actually kind of hard. This has ended up taking longer than actual entry! Maybe it is easier with dogs.

Or, I could do a series!

Or...not. (Hee, though. A little!) But, okay, maybe it is easier if I actually steal one of their pictures from their actual factory and try that. I shall try:

Hee. Now, see, THAT is kind of funny. If you speak Sanskrit.

I am off, but will be back ASAP. See you all soon, and KTHXBYE!

AND. You would think that maybe then I would get to sleep late or something the next day, what with the working until dawn, which is kind of what I thought, anyway, except that would be wrong, because I had clients calling my cell -- not my office, mind you; they were calling my cell phone, which is supposed to be used only for drunk dialing and drug deals -- at seven this morning. SO NO I HAVEN'T SLEPT. For the THIRD DAY IN A ROW. And, seeing as I am catching a 7 a.m. flight to Denver tomorrow morning, which means I need to leave the house in...right, FIVE HOURS, and I am not yet packed, and have I mentioned that the high temperature in Denver this weekend is thirty-eight degrees, there is not a lot of sleeping in my future. Send coffee! And a sherpa! And...cookies! I would kind of like a cookie.

That is neither here nor there, but I'm just tossing it out into the universe. Cookies, you should come to me. And you should have a minimum of nuts. The end.

But, anyway. Breathe! Y'all, I don't even remember what sleep feels like. Probably better than I smell. Sometimes, I wish I'd decided to be something that is not a lawyer. Like a ballerina, or a crack whore. I bet the hours are better.

AND SO, because I can't just sit here and daydream about an alternate life in which I was never given a WESTLAW password, now I have to go pack. And, all this crap leads to a bullshit entry, yeah, but I don't want everyone thinking I ran off to the hills with, I don't know. Heath Ledger and a cream pie. Because if that were to happen, I'd at least post some pictures. For history and stuff. Believe me, if something good were to happen, YOU WOULD HEAR ABOUT IT. I don't even like complaining! I mean, yes, I know I am naturally gifted and all, but still. I would rather say a happy story, with cocktails. All this work makes me a dull, dull boy.

But, there is some kind of break ahead, maybe. I'm going to Denver, where Dukay and I will then drive to Vail for the most-difficult-to-attend wedding in recent memory. And also the coldest, and I spent this entire afternoon driving around a humid Atlanta in a tank top, trying to find somewhere that sells a fucking winter coat. Turns out that you can get a winter coat in two places: Saks, where it will cost you fifteen thousand dollars, plus you have to club a seal in the dressing room, or Burlington Coat Factory, which is one thousand miles away from my house, and which -- despite its claims of factory-ism -- possessed a grand total of ZERO coats in my size. That was fun ALSO.

Sigh. I found a coat, eventually, and so maybe I will not freeze slap to death, but we will see. I will try to take pictures of the carnage and goosebumps, and I'll be back next week with the conclusion of my CRAP spectacular. And maybe somewhere in there, I'll even take a nap. Because frankly, I think that might be better for everyone involved.

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.

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.

Photographer: Yes.

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.

Self: Okay.

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?

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:

Phone: Ring!

Dukay: Hello?

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!

Aloha, Bavaria!

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?

THITH GIRL!

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!

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
6. Nun
7. Vagrant
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.

Last week, my dad wasn't feeling well. He thought it was just a crappy bug, but my mom, who is (fortunately) always on the lookout for one of us contracting a fatal disease in the manner of Ebola or bird flu, insisted that he take his damn temperature already. When it turned out that his temperature was somewhere around "Lava Hot", she further insisted that he go to the doctor. Much complaining ensued.

By Monday, Dad was in the hospital, with what turned out to be a very dangerous staph infection of the blood. Over the next few days, my daddy was sicker than I have ever seen him. It was one of the scariest weeks of my life, and that's with us NOT knowing what was wrong with him; at the time, we figured it was an ugly infection, but nothing that could actually kill the guy. But then, his blood pressure started dropping. Dad had six different IV bags going into him at the same time. He couldn't eat or sit up or sleep. It was terrifying.

Luckily, by the time we found out that it was a staph infection, of the BLOOD, which is...you know, very bad, he was starting to improve. But it scared the everloving shit out of us, nevertheless.

Anyway, so Mom stayed with Dad in the hospital the ENTIRE TIME, never leaving the room for anything. I moved into my parents' house with the dogs so I could watch all of them in one place, and drove back and forth between home and the hospital to bring them food and clothes and incredibly trashy magazines, which possess a healing power all their own. I have not been in the office since Monday, and I have NO IDEA what kind of drama I am probably missing. It is likely of the "dramatic" variety, but we've all had our hands full here.

Now, it is currently Saturday, and we have Dad back at home, with one of those scary medicine-port things in him. My sister is flying into town tomorrow, to help us (1) stare at him suspiciously, while asking things like, "Do you feel die-ey? WELL NOT ON MY WATCH!" and (2) drink all of the wine in the state of Georgia. We needed assistance in those departments. Y'all are welcome to play at home.

And so, that's it. Now we wait to make sure Dad gets better, and now you know what's been going on over here; pretty much everything in my life has been shoved to the back burner, and I aplologize for all of this missing-ness and unresponsive-ness. I have a very, VERY long list of things that need to be done, starting with checking my email, fixing whatever the hell is wrong with the comments (AGAIN), which also involves finding a new hosting company (incidentally, if you have suggestions, please email me; I'll be able to read it sometime in August, probably); finding out what is wrong with the Shop Doxie email, which is screwy; actually sending the large stack of packages which got tossed unceremoniously onto the back seat of the car as soon as FAMILY EMERGENCY BEEP BEEP STAT 2007 got underway; and...you know. Law stuff. I may never sleep again! That is okay! Frankly, I am just really glad that I get to write this entry about how everything turned out okay, and not otherwise. We all know exactly how lucky we are.

And, one last thing - I have got to thank every person who has been so, so much help this week. Robyn came over every night, y'all, to sit with me. She even accompanied me, in the middle of the night, during a thunderstorm, to the hospital in order to deliver wee little contraband wine bottles to my mother, who had been sleeping on a hideously sticky chair for days, and KIND OF DESERVED SOME BOOZE. Seriously, Robyn rocks. I owe her big.

And, I also owe Dukay, and Cookie, and Dukay's family, and all the nice people at our lawfirm who called every day, and Boomer and Al and Hannah and all of my other friends, both here and online, who offered support and liquor and phone calls and liquor and snacks and liquor. This week has really emphasized the fact that we are surrounded by some of the rockingest people in the world. And again, how lucky we are.

So! That is it. It is not particularly funny, I know, but not much this week has been particularly funny. (Well, except for when I bought Mom a headlamp like a miner, so that she could read while Dad was sleeping? And the poor woman, who had not slept in GOD KNOWS how long, promptly informed the doctor that she was planning to steal his lab coat and start terrorizing the hospital patients, popping into rooms and announcing, "Hi! I'm your new gynecologist! Spread 'em!" Anyway, maybe you had to BE there [yes], but this continues to be funny to me).

Besides that, though, not much funny! I know. I'm still at my parents', where I will continue to try to help out, while also trying to get my shit together. Y'all feel free to email or whatnot, and I will slooooowly manage to get around to everything; comments, again, continue to be dead as a doornail. Naturally.

So! I will be back as soon as possible, with something funnier, and possibly involving Ziz, Ebola, and a miner's light. In the meantime, if y'all would think some good thoughts about my wonderful, wonderful Daddy, I sure would appreciate it.

Kisses to everyone, and you guys take care.

Miss Doxie: Hellooo?

Mother of Miss Doxie: YOU are NOT my DAUGHTER anyMORE.

Miss Doxie: What? Why? What'd I do? Did you find out about the New Orleans thing?!

Mother of Miss Doxie: WHAT NEW ORLEANS THING.

Miss Doxie: Um. Nothing. I was...talking to an invisible person right then. Anyway, what did I do?

Mother of Miss Doxie: What did you DO? What do you THINK--

Miss Doxie: Ohhhh. So, Bo.

Mother of Miss Doxie: YES BO.

Miss Doxie: Sigh. What happened?

Mother of Miss Doxie: I took him to the vet. Like you ASKED. As a FAVOR to you, while you are off doing whatever the hell it is that you DO all day...

Miss Doxie: That would be "being an attorney," but you know. Continue.

Mother of Miss Doxie: ...AND, you failed to mention that Bo? Upon being taken to the vet? Would engage in retaliatory action.

Miss Doxie: Oh, shit...

Mother of Miss Doxie: EXACTLY.

Miss Doxie: I forgot. Yeah, he gets pissed.

Mother of Miss Doxie: No, not so much "pissed..."

Miss Doxie: Really? Oh, you totally got off easy!

Mother of Miss Doxie: WHAT?

Miss Doxie: Nothing! Nothing, I was talking to...a client. Anyway. Go on.

Mother of Miss Doxie: It was like performance art. I hate you.

Miss Doxie: What happened, exactly?

Mother of Miss Doxie: So, the vet was checking his tooth, to see which one was bothering him. And the vet found it, and he looked at it, and then he turned to talk to me about it...

Miss Doxie: Oooh, you don't turn your back on Bo. Much like the ocean.

Mother of Miss Doxie: ...AAAAAND, that was when Bo turned around, and violently expelled the contents of his anal glands all over...oh, everything in the world.

Miss Doxie: Oh, eewwwwww.

Mother of Miss Doxie: HE'D BEEN SAVING UP.

Miss Doxie: Oh, he's like a fucking camel with those things.

Mother of Miss Doxie: SO WE NOTICED.

Miss Doxie: And, he only uses them for evil! Like an octopus, escaping a pred--

Mother of Miss Doxie: MAY I FINISH.

Miss Doxie: Um. Yes.

Mother of Miss Doxie: So, ALL HELL breaks loose, and we had to open the door for oxygen...

Miss Doxie: Oh, dude. You never open the door.

Mother of Miss Doxie: LIKE I WAS SAYING, WE HAD TO OPEN THE DOOR FOR OXYGEN...

Miss Doxie: And he made a run for Cuba?

Mother of Miss Doxie: Fortunately, he only made it to the front lobby.

Miss Doxie: Close enough.

Mother of Miss Doxie: Where he proceeded to take a TREMENDOUS SHIT, directly in front of the reception desk, and in plain view of all of the horrified people in the waiting room.

Miss Doxie: Um. Hee?

Mother of Miss Doxie: You are SO FUCKING DISOWNED.

Miss Doxie: Hee. Hee! Oh, I'm sorry. He does that.

Mother of Miss Doxie: He does that? He uses poop as a political statement? Like a bumper sticker or campaign contribution?

Miss Doxie: Oh, it is one of his favorite tricks. I'm shocked that the vet hasn't added a note to his file.

Mother of Miss Doxie: Like "DANGER: SHITS!"?

Miss Doxie: Where Bo is concerned, those are words to live by.

Mother of Miss Doxie: Well, I cannot even believe you didn't warn me about this.

Miss Doxie: I'm sorry! I thought you'd...assume, or something. Knowing Bo and all.

Mother of Miss Doxie: Right. Right, I'm going to guess that your dog is going to violently expel the contents of his bowels all over creation before making a calculated escape attempt, thereby transforming the vet's office into a well-lit episode of Prison Break.

Miss Doxie: Please, like that is unheard of with this creature. You've known of his evil for eight years, Mom.

Mother of Miss Doxie: Still. I think you need to warn people. Get him a customized collar or something. Something like, "WARNING: POOPS WHEN LIVID."

Miss Doxie: Maybe I can get it on one of those Med-Alert bracelets! Or, it would make an awesome tee shirt.

Mother of Miss Doxie: It's the least you could do! Think of the children.

Miss Doxie: I know, I know. Listen, I'm sorry. I'll bring you a nice bottle of wine, okay?

Mother of Miss Doxie: Hmph.

Miss Doxie: And, like...some disinfectant?

Mother of Miss Doxie: Hmm. Okay.

Miss Doxie: So, am I still disowned?

Mother of Miss Doxie: That's going to depend on what kind of wine you bring.

Miss Doxie: So noted.

Mother of Miss Doxie: And whatever the hell it is that you did in New Orleans.

Learn more here! Cookie and I are both "hosts," and have spent our afternoon setting up. And now, we are sitting in my den, having a dinner of (a) potato chips, and (b) peanut butter filled pretzels, purchased gleefully at the CVS. We are not planning on showering! WE ARE SO PSYCHED.

Anyway, if you have twenty five bucks, and want to hang out with me and 300 of my nearest and dearest, come on down! I will even buy you a free beer.

And, P.S.: Cookie is going to murder me for not yet posting her story, so I am going to try to do that tomorrow. There were geese! Deadly ones! Seriously, it happens.

Anyway. Y'all please come visit me; I plan on being kind of endearingly tipsy. Not that there's any shock there, honestly.

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:

Obstacles bad!

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!

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!