Anyway, I decided to make some Valentines for you. They are my pets' versions of famous poems. Apparently all of my pets have English degrees, which probably explains why they are unemployed (cheap shot!) (P.S.: don't email; I was an English major, too. Which you probably gathered by the total cohesiveness and lack of run-on sentences in my entries, and also, how for about three weeks when I first started blogging I tried using all lower-case letters like I was the blonde reincarnation of e.e. cummings, and now I shudder in revulsion at my history as a living cliche, and believe me when I say that my older self went back and fixed THAT shit with a quickness). Anyway (ANYWAY), I drew you these pitchers, and they are more fun than webinars. And, as always, all are based on true events. At least there were no bunnies harmed this time.

I've fallen for you, Valentine!

Pee mine, Valentine!

You deserve to be spoiled, Valentine!

If I can't sleep, you can't sleep, Valentine.

Get fucking MOVING, Valentine

Your new Valentine is named "the dry cleaner."

Happy Valentine's Day to y'all; I hope you are surrounded by love and happiness, and that nothing too atrocious has happened to your sofa. The comments are still broken, and likely will be until I update my whole entire platform and stuff (which...speaking of a whole "Thing"), but until then, you can come share the love over on the Facebook page; I can't promise tummy rubs or treats, but sometimes I get drunk and post music videos of myself doing choreographed dances to rap hits. Because THAT sounds enticing, I know.

Have a wonderful day, pretties! XOXO!

I'm an idiot. Also, the dogs are different, as you can see in this high-quality image that was drawn on a legal pad when possibly I should have been listening to something else. This is very probably only funny to me.

I Wish This Had Only Happened Once.

Ha. "A place to publish things that isn't Facebook." Oh, I'm still chuckling over that one. Like Zuckerbwhatever would ever let that happen! Or the Google people, for that matter. Although, I am less upset about Google infringing on all our privacy rights, because I strongly believe that I need babysitting pretty much all the time. And I dream of an online search engine where I can type in, "Where the hell are my keys?" and have the answer be, "In the left pocket of your jacket, moron. Also, the stove is still on and you are wearing two different shoes. TRY AGAIN." Google! Set your satellites on "supervise!" I'm the one with the bits of fucking BUNNY IN THE YARD. (People who this is not going to be funny to = Brian, my poor vegetarian husband who had to come running in response to my 7 a.m. banshee screaming, to clean up bunny bits and thwock them over the fence while I shrieked in a non-helpful manner, and Bo whimpered like he was dying, and Gimmme ran around in circles, all, "WHERE AIR SNACK GOING?")

Point being: oh! Hello, blog! And for all of y'all not on Facebook with the rest of us minions: hello to you, too! You look awesome. Especially without bits of bunny in your hair.

P.S.: Oh, and apparently comments are broken again, and everyone is getting a damn error, and hello to YET ANOTHER REASON I probably should just stick to Facebook and allow Google to tell me what to do with myself. Dear Google: please fix the comments. XOXO! Anyway, in case Google doesn't come through, I'll keep screwing with it myself. Thanks for letting me know!

But, in the meantime, I've been busy as all get-out over here. I had a huge project for work, which I literally (LITERALLY) just finished about 20 minutes ago, and sent off. Said project had pretty much occupied every second of my working life for the last few weeks, so finally completing it on this fine Monday has made me just giddy with joy! And it has also made me feel compelled to share some random updates with you! These updates have nothing to really do with each other, except that they all occurred in the last few weeks! Oh, and will probably result in me being sent to hell. Journaling!

Shit My Mom Bought

If you've been over on the Facebook fan page at all, then you know that, a few Wednesday mornings ago, I was just working away, being all legal, when my mom called from an estate sale and asked, point blank, if I wanted her to buy me a tombstone. A five foot tall marble tombstone from 1851, with the name "Julia Ann Benedict" carved on it, which was evidently just hanging out for eternity in someone's garage in Dunwoody, Georgia, and the whole thing was actually sort of perplexing and so I got quiet, and she said, "Are you there?" and I said, "I have no idea," and then I said I would need to call her back, because...huh. So she said she'd try to figure out how to take some pictures with her iPhone, but that I'd better hurry and make up my mind, because tombstones apparently sell like hotcakes at estate sales, and I was pretty sure she was making all of that up.

So, I couldn't decide if this would be a good idea. I mean, things on the good side of the equation included (a) OMG, our own tombstone, and that is awesome (b) It is ART, people; and (c) who the hell else would have a tombstone? And, we got MARRIED in a cemetery; who should own their own tombstone, if not us? BUY!

Still, on the negative side, considerations included (a) so, is someone...uh, "missing something?" Somewhere? Specifically, a DEAD SOMEONE?; (b) Brian's potential reaction, which I figured would be in the realm of "oh, HELL no," based on his shuddering, horrified response to my totally reasonable suggestion to turn an antique autopsy table into a wet bar; and (c) the fact that putting a tombstone in your dining room pretty much guarantees a full scale haunting. Like, I am pretty sure there is no loophole on that one. So: for the love of God, DON'T BUY.

Clearly, I was torn, and likely overthinking things, as I tend to do, so I went to the FB page and asked y'all what should happen, and the overwhelming response was WHAT IN THE FUCK IS THE MATTER WITH YOU. BUY IT. BUY IT NOW OR WE WILL BURN DOWN YOUR HOUSE. Thank you for your helpy-ness!

So I called my mother back and shrilled at her to HURRY BUY THE TOMBSTONE, DO IT NOW OR WE ALL DIE. So she bought the tombstone. It lives in the dining room now. Hello.

The presence of a tombstone in the dining room should not be taken as commentary on my cooking skills, THANK YOU.

Then I posted pictures, and that began the most awesome thread in Facebook history, in which various smart people actually tracked down Julia Ann, found out all about her family, and basically none of us got a damn thing done all afternoon, and that was big fun. And somewhere in there, I told Brian, and while his initial response (as chronicled in said thread) was not exactly enthusiastic, he's warmed up to the thing since then! And the reason why is because, like I said, it IS awesome, but also because it has become such a source of entertainment in our household. Entertainment which comes in the form of me, finding myself hilarious by drinking wine and doing such things as this:

Must...make...burning...

But entertainment also comes in the form of Kitteh, who -- on the night the tombstone was delivered -- was immediately fascinated by it. Usually, Kitteh goes on great bug hunting adventures during the night, and proudly brings the carcasses to our bedside so we discover them in the morning. Usually by stepping on them and then me screaming, because I kind of have an AVERSION to fucking bugs and their intestines, but once the tombstone showed up, Kitteh stopped leaving us bugs entirely -- we no longer deserve bugs. We are not bug-worthy, and I would not normally mind, except now Kitteh leaves her killings directly in front of the tombstone, offering-like. Plus, she gazes at the thing for hours, which, I am pretty sure, means that Julia Ann is giving her specific instructions. Instructions like, "Kill the female first." I think she means me.

So, possibly we bought our own ghost. And then, to round things out, I also bought Brian an electric toilet seat, because if you buy yourself a tombstone and also an ethereal presence for the dining room, the least you can do is get your husband some butt-based technology. That is called compromise. I am awesome at being married.

The Other Thing That Is Going To Send Me To Hell

Which I cannot even believe I am sharing with you, but in my post-project giddiness, I evidently am. This is one of the many reasons I no longer receive emails through this website (the contact form lies; that email account has been dead for ages), so whomever has a conniption about this can just rub their mad spot and not get me all involved. And if you leave me hateful comments, I may be inclined to go in and change them to things like, "Miss Doxie, it just LOOKS like you smell good." I am not above any of this. See below.

ANYWAY, so. I have many friends who have children, and some of us were drinking and giggling over the necessary "good touch, bad touch" instructions that you pretty much have to give a kid, because...you know, bad touches are unquestionably bad, WAY worse than buying a tombstone-bad, and obviously, the concept of appropriate physical contact is an important one for kids to grasp. What is LESS obvious is why so many people recommend that this concept be introduced via the "Good Touch/Bad Touch" COLORING BOOK.

Various parent-type friends told me that this book existed, but I did not believe them and their lying ways, so I went googling. And it turns out: Well, hell -- it totally exists. And it looks like this:

I DON'T LIKE SECRETS LIKE THAT, EITHER!
Alternate caption: "Those lesbians are adorable." -- Unnamed BFF from the chip fiasco business. Name generator says we should call her SKYE!

And I found where you buy these books. And I found that, if you buy more than 100 books, you can get your own personalized message printed on the front cover. For only pennies more. Only...pennies. And, do you know what is usually very expensive? Personalized Christmas cards. You guys, do you see where this is going?

I'm sure Brian will be totally fine with this. I mean, it's not like I'm turning an autopsy table into a wet bar; just sending some family-friendly holiday greetings, with an important message! AND ACTIVITIES! Maybe I will even include crayons! I swear, I have the BEST ideas. Happy birthday, Jesus! Good touches for everybody!

Anyway, y'all take care, and watch out for rogue ghosts, electric toilets, and bad touches; I'll be back soon!

***UPDATE***

Kitteh, Scary doll Cassandra, and odd metal dachshund all brought Julia Ann a pear. Only 2/3 of this disaster is my doing.

Y'all. We are DEFINITELY going to die.

Sleep tight! FOREVER

***

About a month ago, our friends Noah and Ash came over for a small, intimate, us-only dinner party at my parents' house, because my parents were out of town, and why throw a perfectly good intimate dinner party at your own house, when your PARENTS' house is just, like, EMPTY AND ABANDONED because they are never in town, and also equipped with such wonders as (a) one swimming pool, and (b) one wine cellar? And you are equipped with (c) one key? WHY WOULD YOU NOT ENTERTAIN THERE EVERY DAY? So off we went.

At one point during the evening, the four of us were talking about Serious Things, when Noah all of a sudden turned very red and started stammering, and looked at Ash, and she was like, Dude, YOU deal with it. So he was the one who had to tell me that my boob had just FALLEN OUT of my otherwise cute sundress, and I had been sitting there discussing THE EUROPEAN UNION as my nipple, filled with childlike wonder, took in the various sights and sounds of my parents' backyard. Hello, world! FEEL THAT BREEZE?

But anyway. Despite my exposed nipplage, we had an awesome time, because it was fun to hang out with them. And we don't get to see them very much, because Noah has been in Iraq, and Ash has been busy setting up their new house. And so we had super big fun, even though Ash didn't much have a bathing suit, and the only store that was open was Target, and the only thing they had was Dregs of Bathing Suits, in various non-Ash sizes, and so she ended up buying one bottom and one top that did not match, NOR did they fit, and she looked kind of like an Olsen twin except with boobs. Finally she just gave the heck up and hopped into the pool wearing a dress, already.

And, I was like OH NO on the pool/water thing, because it is one in the morning and I am tired and a wuss, and ALSO, IT IS COLD, Y'ALL. I tentatively put my toe in the water, and made little shrieky sounds, and backed away. Until Noah saw me, and this strange, dangeorous light came into his eyes, and before I knew it, he had PICKED MY ASS UP and was holding me over the deep end of the pool in a terrible, suspense-filled drama the likes of which I WILL NOT EVEN GO INTO, but FEAR, TERROR filled my heart, and I started pleading like he was about to toss me into a pit of VIPERS, PEOPLE.

So I engaged in negotiation.

Self: Noah. I just fed you. Please do not throw me into the pool.

Noah: YOU ARE GOING IN.

Self: I will give you shiny things. I am sorry I tried to make you eat a crab cake. I now know how you feel about seafood and how you believe that crabs are like insects of the marine world. Please accept my deepest apologies and rememember that I also served you a steak. And also some lovely potatoes.

Noah: INTO. THE WATER.

Self: I will buy you cars and diamonds. Please do not make me wet in such a manner that I will have to go find a hairdryer before I can go to bed. You have short militaryish hair, and I have many long locks. They do not like the wet, Noah. They will turn on you.

Noah: I AM NOT SCARED OF YOUR HAIR.

Self: But, see, Dukay is scared of my hair, and is scared that if you anger the hair, the hair will attack him in his sleep, slowly wrapping around his throat and throttling all of the sweet breath from his body.

Noah: Wait, is this the best you can do? Aren't you a lawyer? You suck at arguing.

Self: Well. I am kind of freaking out right now.

Noah: And for good reason, because IN YOU GO.

And he threw my ass in. At which point, while underwater, I decided to put him in the HAUNTED GUEST BEDROOM, OH I WILL SHOW YOU, YOU THROWER-INNER.

And then I cacked evilly. Cackle.

After emerging, shivering and pathetic from the pool, I wrapped myself up in a very unattractive flannel robe and tried to comfort my hair before it went on an attack directed towards my dinner guests. And then we came inside and drank wine, and sat in the hot tub and made fun of the guys who were whining about how HOT it was, in the aptly named, you know, hot tub, and then we all fell asleep in various (HAUNTED!) rooms. And woke the next "morning," which is a term I use loosely because it was technically one of those "p.m." times, and then went to breakfast and ate barbecue sandwiches and eggs, because SOMETHING IS CLEARLY WRONG WITH US, but man, it was good.

And then we hugged Noah goodbye, because the next day, he was flying back to serve for eight more months.

Early yesterday morning, Noah was killed in Iraq. I don't know any of the details yet. I only know that he is gone, and that Ash called both Dukay and me yesterday so that we would not have to learn about it on the news.

I am so sorry. I am so sorry for his family, and for Ash, and for all of their many friends, who knew him for years longer than I. I feel like this tragedy is not mine; it is theirs, but I am heartbroken for them. I am heartbroken for everyone.

There is a tremendous care package for Noah sitting in my dining room right now, waiting to be sent. It's just...sitting there. It all seems unreal. I don't even know what to do.

And, this is exactly the sort of thing I would not usually write about, because this website is supposed to be lighthearted and funny. But the thing is, all of my times with Noah were lighthearted and funny. Noah always made me laugh.

And it seemed, somehow, that maybe the best tribute I could pay would be to tell all of y'all about this funny, mischevious, giggling guy who threw me into a pool a few weeks ago, who hated seafood with a passion, and who loved his girlfriend with all of his heart. Who never got to be a husband, and who never got to be a daddy. Who never made it home.

He is gone, and he will be missed.

***

It's been six years; let's all remember Noah, y'all. His funeral was held the day he would have turned 24, and his dad led us all in singing him happy birthday. I remember them playing Taps, and I remember a soldier walking over to Ash -- Ash, who had kept herself together, all day -- and handing her a neatly folded flag. And she just fell. She dissolved. Six years later, and I can't even think about that day without bursting into tears.

Two weeks ago, he would have turned 30. He didn't get there. He was only 23 years old.

I'll say something funny soon; we're doing potato chip taste tests tomorrow, so I'm sure all hell will break loose directly. But in the meantime, it's been six years; let's please not forget. Please remember. For what it's worth.

So, that was…what, three weeks ago? It was about three weeks ago when, armed with all KINDS of resolve, I got up on a Saturday morning and started slinging every. Single. Item out of the craft room, and into piles that spanned the entire top floor of our home. Brian, who was working the garage downstairs, would occasionally pop up to check on me, and I would always know when he’d cleared the landing when I heard him exclaim “HOLY CATS” (which, hilariously, is what Brian always says when his ass has been shocked right off his body. Usually that has to do with me suddenly having spontaneous “resolve”). But, anyway, holy cats was right, because in a very short number of hours, I had managed to remove about fifty trillion pounds of various crap and organize it into piles everywhere, absolutely everywhere, including on his side of the bed, all over HIS office, and even in the bathtub. Meanwhile, the cat was having an aneurism, but you know. Proud of self! AM MACHINE!

Until. The next morning, when I woke up, had coffee, and waited patiently for all of that big fancy “resolve’ to return. And, of course, it did not. And so I ended up sitting downstairs for the better part of the day, moaning at Brian about how LET’S JUST NOT TALK ABOUT THE TOP FLOOR ANYMORE, and trying to convince him that we lived in a ranch-style home. Upstairs seceded, baby! Good news, we get to sleep in the dining room! And I made these proclamations, and each was punctuated by the sound of the cat either (a) scattering yet another carefully-stacked pile all over the fucking floor, or (b) apparently fainting (*thunk*) from the horror of What I Had Done to her previously tidy kitteh apartment. “IGNORE THE CAT,” I would holler after Brian, as he ran up the stairs to give her smelling salts/remove her from the aforementioned twine/etc. “PRETEND WE DON’T HAVE A CAT ALSO,” I helpfully suggested. And then I drank more wine.

When it became abundantly clear that the craft room was not going to reorganize itself (…worth a shot), I realized I needed an actual plan of attack. I needed to figure out where all of this shit was going, and then I needed to…you know, put it there. This is sort of the basic principle behind cleaning, turns out. But in trying to reconcile “crap” with “places where crap shall now live,” I soon discovered that I didn’t have nearly enough places to put all of these little piles. And that was a happy, HAPPY realization, because that meant I got to go shopping for Storage Solutions! Shopping has to take place outside of the house! Yay, avoidance powers activate!

And this is why, in the last two weeks, I have made two (2) separate trips to Ikea, including one trip that involved a receipt with a COMMA IN IT (in my defense, I also had to buy a new slipcover for our enormous corner sofa; I opted for dry-clean only, because I am a fucking idiot), another trip to a home goods place, and a final trip to Target. By the end of this adventure in spending everything, I had all of the Organizing Solutions available to any human in the state of Georgia, plus now I also had Swedish-sounding organizing furniture in which to place my solutions, and even DRAWER DIVIDERS to go within said furniture (and you know you heave reached the end of this particular avoidance tactic when you throw your hands in the air and declare that “NOTHING CAN BE MOVED UNTIL I HAVE DRAWER DIVIDERS.” Hello, rock bottom). And so, at last in possession of all of these things, finally, last night, I crankily acknowledged – while splayed out in my pajamas, watching Hoarders (uh huh) – that it was time to get my ass upstairs to fucking finish the craft room. Sigh.

Which, y’all! I did! I put things in their Solutions! I put those solutions into Solution furniture, and now, I actually have a pretty kick-ass craft room. I (AWESOMELY) still have to scrounge around our dry-clean only sofa cushions and find enough spare change to get a bulletin board of some kind, as the only ones they had at Target were uuuuugly. Plus, I still need to figure out how to make the bookshelves prettier (y’all, what do you do with ugly books? Why does everyone else have pretty books except for me?), but never mind: at least everything has a home now. Of course, at this point, I am completely over the idea of doing any crafting whatsoever, and am actually thinking that this story will end somewhere along the lines of “And she never entered the craft room again,” and possibly it will all become very Ms. Havisham, and I will just vaguely wander through there in my wedding dress sometimes. This, too, could happen.

But…okay, I started with a point. And, point being, once I finally got down to the nitty gritty of going through every bag, box, and drawer, I found LOTS of things. Lots and LOTS of things. Some of these things were frightening (LIKE I FOUND A ROACH)(IT HAD EXPIRED), lots of them were just junk; a few of them, however, were awesome. And the most awesome find of all was my handwritten notes from our firm's annual Dragon Con Observational Party, 2008.

Now, let me explain: while I have never been to Dragon Con, I do know that it is an annual event that takes place in Atlanta, in which people from all over the world come into town and get dressed up in insanely awesome costumes. There’s no real…theme, sort of, because some of it is science fiction, and some is comic-book stuff, and some is Harry Potter, and some has nothing to do with anything and may just be an excuse for grown women to dress in fishnets and a pith helmet, but all of this takes place right in front of our office. And there is nothing quite so disconcerting (by which I mean FABULOUS) as running out the door to hit the food court, only to find yourself in the Chik-Fil-A line behind seven storm troopers, Dumbledore, and an unidentifiable character in a loin cloth. They are all getting nuggets. Dragon-Con IS AMAZING.

And so, at the same time every year, all of this leather-clad, sometimes sparkly awesomeness descends upon our city. And therefore, at the same time every year, our little crew of law firm miscreants commandeers a table on the Durango's patio, orders cocktails, and whips out the camera. And, because I am the biggest nerd of them all, I also bring a legal pad. And I take notes. For posterity. Like this:

What did you just say about OCD? Hold on, I'll write it down.

Now, I have no idea why I take notes. As soon as I finish, I promptly lose them. But it turns out: in 2008? I apparently brought them home. And I apparently folded them up, and placed them in the craft room (IN A DIVIDER-LESS DRAWER). Last night, I found the many worn pages, and I was filled with an immeasurable joy as I relived that glorious evening, and that is what I am actually HERE TO SHARE WITH YOU TODAY, and oh my God, how did it just take me fifty years to get to this point? It did. In addition to craft supplies and ridiculous notes, I hoard words. I have hoarded ALL of the words. Y’all can’t even have any, unless you make up new ones, like Brian. ANYWAY.

Dragon-Con, 2008: Close Encounters With The Nerd Kind: Observations From Us, In Increasingly Tipsy Form.

(Thank God I also kept accurate accounts of the time. Otherwise this wouldn’t be legally admissible in court! I am seriously the biggest nerd of them all.)

3:36 p.m. CREW GATHERED! First sighting: Renaissance lady with fairy godmother tendencies. Point unclear.

3:43 p.m. Pirate [leering]

3:48 p.m. Something in unreasonable boots

3:51 p.m. Saucy wench

3:53 p.m. Dragon Mouseketeer from Hell

3:53 p.m. Anime (?) woman in nightgown; we are scared shitless

3:56 p.m. Attendees at Satan’s prom

4:00 p.m. Miscellaneous silky person

4:00 p.m. Cat girl is not trying very hard. We disapprove.

4:03 p.m. IT IS NOT ENOUGH TO WEAR A DANZIG SHIRT. GOD.

4:07 p.m. Full-on Joker! IT IS ABOUT TIME SOMEONE MADE SOME EFFORT. Also, the harlequin looking character from Batman. Equally full-on. But shorter.

4:07:30 p.m. I.T. Guys say that harlequin guy is Riddler. I.T. Guys think they are sooooo smart.

4:08 p.m. OMG BOBA FETT! This is what we are TALKING ABOUT.

4:17 p.m. Pfft. Woman with pink ribbon in hair. Sad attempt.

4:19 p.m. Fluffy chaps. So confused.

4:20 p.m. Extremely white guys in plaid shorts. Might just be golfers. Do look sort of terrified.

4:29 p.m. HULK! Full-on greeness! Waved at us! WE LOVE YOU HULK

FRIENDLY HULK! HULK HAVE A BEER.

4:31 p.m. Lots of crushed velvet.

4:35 p.m. Dungeon mistress from the future; confusing

4:39 p.m. Guy who is:
(a) homeless
(b) On something
(c) Not scared
(d) No seriously
(e) HE IS REALLY NOT SCARED
(f) BUT WE ARE

4:40 p.m. Hi, building security! LOVE YOOOOU

4:41 p.m. Marvin the Martian re-envisioned as an Amazon woman in copper.

4:42 p.m. Saucy wench, redux

4:43 p.m. Possible carjacking; no one else seems concerned. Ignoring!

4:53 p.m. East German Men’s Olympic Team (assorted sports); many skirts.

4:45 p.m. Pirate carrying yoga mat

5:00 p.m. Slutty Mad Hatter. Girl, put your pants on.

5:11 p.m. Sacagawea from the future? WTF

5:12 p.m. Gay Boba Fett! Well PLAYED!

5:13 p.m. Assorted elves/hobbits. YAWN.

5:15 p.m. Same old slutty pirate costume. SEEN IT.

5:16 p.m. …Soccer zombie? Huh.

5:19 p.m. HA, Scotswoman in mini-kilt hitting on member of our party; girlfriend DEEPLY UNAMUSED

5:28 p.m. We seriously need another round of drinks over here.

5:30 p.m. OH MY GOD THIS PERSON MURDERED COOKIE MONSTER. IS UNREPENTANT.

5:32 p.m. Dumbledore; in street clothes.

5:36 p.m. George Lucas in his underwear

5:39 p.m. Aw, man; it’s that fucking crazy barefoot prostitute who hates me. Hiding now.

5:40 p.m. SHIT I’ve been spotted.

5:41 p.m. (Ooo, a green lady! We should introduce her to Hulk, and they can have green bab)

5:41 p.m. OMG CRAZY PROSTITUTE BARKING AT ME

5:41:30 p.m. Hi again, building security!

***

But then. At the end of that page, and as a new page began (and building security shooed away the crazy barefoot barking prostitute), things CHANGED. And I think it’s best to just show you the image of the final page, so you can see the moment at which our observational team STRUCK GOLD.

JACKPOT

YES. What is particularly awesome about this is that, apparently after seeing Darth Vader on the other side of Peachtree, I shot up from the table, jumped the fence, and bolted across four lanes of fast-moving traffic with the singular thought being to GET VADER AND BRING HIM BACK. It is almost like I did this with pen still in hand, as you can see from the tell-tale swooping as I put this non-plan into violent and immediate motion. And then someone else had to take over scribe duties as I convinced this poor Dark Sith and his insanely fabulous gay assistant (“Girl, OF COURSE Vader had a gay assistant. You can’t see shit out of that mask,” he explained) to (a) cross the street with me, and (b) meet a group of strangers who are now (c) drunk, and (d) waving hysterically from the bar patio like a bunch of fucking crazy people.

I did it for ALL OF YOU

So...not a well-thought out plan, exactly. BUT GUESS WHAT.

Don't try to frighten us with your sorcerous ways, Lord Vader. We all know you're drinking cranberry juice.

LOOK WHO BROUGHT HOME THE VADER. This girl did! The force, it is strong with me.

Meanwhile, as I bonded with the Lord and his gay assistant, faithful replacement scribe continued to document the incredible events occurring all around us:

Oh, I did not either stroke his light saber. But Dark Siths love cranberry and vodka! Who knew? Maybe they get urinary tract infections. Way to keep up that good bacteria, Sith!

Anyway. Clearly, Dragon Con is so awesome. And of course, we did it the next year, too, and I made a slideshow of that here; however, I have no idea where the notes are. Possibly in the attic. Or the trunk of my car. Or the freezer; do not care, my happy ass isn’t organizing ANYTHING any time soon. And furthermore, if I'm in town to see it this year, I'm not taking notes; I'm tweeting our observations, like a good nerd should. And then my drawer dividers will remain mercifully uncluttered, and we can all live happily ever after, a long time ago, in a galaxy far away. As long as they have vodka and cranberry juice.

Y’all have a lovely weekend, and I’ll see you soon!

Fine. He did have a big light saber.

So, know what is the funniest part of that last entry? The fact that uniquity is actually a word. Not according to spellcheck, but spellcheck also doesn’t think that “spellcheck” is a word. It’s like some twisted self-denial. Anyway, THANKS A LOT, smart people in the comments. Brian read those, I will have you know. And now I have a smug husband. He’s supposed to be in charge of the math and heavy lifting! I'm supposed to be the talky one! Now it is ANARCHY, and I don't even know my place in life anymore. As heavy lifting is out, possibly I TOO will start making up words. If I did, then I would describe the ensuing marital teasing as being very floffic. It’s fucking floffic ALL OVER THE PLACE, and you know, I am still not sold on the legitimacy of uniquity. Uniquity is floffic, also.

Incidentally, after all of your fried pickle comments, guess what I did. Bikini time is when, now?

Meanwhile, guess what I thought would also be cloop, other than fried pickles? To go through my emails and texts, and find the most random-yet-hilarious snippets, take them completely out of context, and post them. Some I sent; some I received. But all are sort of fucking spectacular, and...you know. Heeeee. To me, anyway. AS USUAL.

Thank God For Technology Which Allowed The Following To Be Shared

-- Last week, I had a dream that Brian and I were being chased by zombie dinosaurs. And then last night, I dreamed that Brian and I were stuck in the security line at Hartsfield, when I suddenly realized that we were directly behind Darth Vader, which made me be all, "Maaan, this is going to take FOREVER."

-- If I punched my boss in his left nut, recorded it, and put it on youtube, do you think Tosh.O would air it?

-- A REAL bag of water?!? HONEY! GET THE KIDS!

-- and that is when I picked up my letter opener and calmly stabbed her in the eye

-- That woman is pointlessness wrapped in a kitty cat sweater.

-- I do not think people should EVER wear cut-off sweatpant shorts. Isn't that illegal somewhere? Can’t we all agree on this?

-- I have returned to the magical isthmus, where upon arrival I was met by a contingent of gnomes and animated baby deer. They all say hi to Sef. He is very popular amongst fictional creatures.

-- Fuck off! These are MY pants! I BLAME EVERYONE!

-- The kids wanted to go ice skating this weekend, and all I could think about was my insurance copayment. We went bowling instead.

-- Do I want to have a drinking lunch? I don’t know. I guess “yes,” if you want MY DREAMS TO COME TRUE.

-- We borrowed your new Benz for a road trip; figured you wouldn't mind. Will call when we get to Mexico. BRB.

-- If an "estate" consists of 5 goofy dogs, a four wheeler, and a hideous oil portrait of your father in law, I guess we've made it!

-- BLESS YOU. BLESS YOU AND YOUR FACE.

-- I just realized that this dress shows WAY more cleavage than I'd intended. Happy Friday, mens!

-- I am in a hate spiral of cranky! Doesn't it sound tempting to spend time with me? I know!

-- I think this email chain just gave me an aneurism.

-- In Soviet Russia, law practices YOU.

-- For my 30th birthday, someone signed me up for the AARP. Now, my membership gets me on the list for the most ludicrous magazines ever. So, Brian comes in with the mail, all, "Ooo, Easy Spirit has a new collection!"

-- You’re going to make me get rid of my “Empress Of All Things, And The Boss Of You" signature line, aren't you.

-- Are you here yet? Are you here yet? Are you here yet? Are you here yet? Are you here yet? Are you here yet? Are you here yet? Are you here yet? Are you here yet? Are you here yet? Are you here yet? Are you here yet? Are you here yet?

-- And now I keep being all, "Baby! You'd never kill my family in front of me, right, sweetheart?" and he is all, "OH MY GOD, OF COURSE NOT, WHERE IN THE FUCK DID THAT COME FROM?" and then I am like, "I loooooove you," and he thinks I am insane. Fortunately, it is part of my charm.

-- Because I have my own peculiar thought processes, I actually went from mulling Canadian coin price charts to wondering “What is Charo up to these days?” in a matter of seconds.

-- So, I looked up “confinement” in the thesaurus, and the synonyms include “hapteric,” “hidebound,” and “in lob's pound.” The thesaurus people are screwing with us, right?

-- If you don't come over and watch Amanda Bynes movies with me, I will literally kidnap you. Nobody will win.

-- Babies and fireworks! Babies and fireworks!

B: Can u pick up some vagisil?
L: What? Vag hurting?
B: Yes
L: Try a heating pad. Not what I meant when I asked if you needed anything @ grocery store.
B: Need a cracken, plz.
L: COMMUNICATE IN FOOD
B: *Horse*

-- I just told Cookie to eat her checkers, and she answered, “I am a short, fat, slut.” This is the most amazing conversation ever.

Z: Sorry, pocket dial
L: WELL I LOVE YOU TOO, YOU FILTHY WHORE
Z: Say hi to mom

-- Brian just asked what I was doing and I said “I’m texting Maggie back,” and he said, “You’re texting Megadeth?” Yes, honey. I’m texting Megadeth. I had very important thoughts to share w/them

-- Do you think Honey Badger gives a shit? From now on, whenever anyone talks shit about me, just think of me as Honey Badger.

L: Tried to say that you are my sweet honey bee; got spell checked to “horny bee.”
B: Improvement

-- Uh, sorry about the increasingly drunk text messages. This is a hangover text message. The text message of regret and headache. I don’t really know how to play Stairway to Heaven. I lied about that.

-- Just watched Black Swan. What could go wrong? Girl movie about dancing but then AHHHH! Now watching Girls Just Want To Have Fun as antidote because we are tense and scared of dancing. Wish u were here

-- Mad Dog 2020 does not express my sophistication strongly enough

-- so, we were talking about vagina nazis and your name came up

***

Update! Update which I couldn't NOT share:

Honey Badger is the Chuck Norris of the animal kingdom. I do not want to say who will win in a Chuck Norris vs. Honey Badger fight, because I know if I guess wrong, the winner will either roundhouse kick my ass or share my carcass with a jackal.

***

Heeee. I'm sorry, these are just gems. So cloop. I love them all. My friends are hilarious.

You guys have a happy 4th, and feel free to leave your own out-of-context texts/emails in the comments (and kindly ignore it if you're moderated; that's not me. I have no fucking idea why that is happening; I set it up for automatic approval, and now my website has decided that I'm spam. So, obviously, things are just working SWIMMINGLY over here). But, point being, these will just not stop being hilarious to me. I want more! I demand more! Even if someone DOES think I'm a vagina nazi! I AM SURE THAT MADE SENSE ONCE. I also think it's best if we don't think about it too hard. We wouldn't want things to get all floffic.

Kisses, and happy holiday, y'all!

So, last week, Cookie and I were in the little store downstairs in our building when we discovered that there is now such a thing as Dill Pickle-flavored Lays.

Notice we got the "HUNGRY GRAB" size. Of course we did.

Naturally, we bought them, and came back upstairs with our pickle-flavored chips and then we discussed how we were both repelled by the chips, but we were also oddly…drawn to them. And I was like, “I feel about these chips the same way that Robert Frost felt about death, when he talked about how the woods are lovely, dark, and deep,” and maybe that is giving dill pickle-flavored potato chips just a little too much credit. But then we tried them and they were delicious, and now I think that maybe death tastes awesome. Or maybe Frost was talking about pickle-flavored potato chips all along, and then people were all, “Ah, a poem which succinctly describes the paradoxical emotional response to one’s own mortality,” so he was like, “Uh…YES,” because it was too embarrassing to admit that really, he was talking about pickle-flavored chips. And really, these are all weighty questions, but I just hope death doesn’t taste like Cool Ranch Doritos, because Cool Ranch Doritos smell like feet.

Also, I have never typed “pickle” out that many times in my life. It has gotten to the point where pickle doesn’t even look like a word anymore, which actually brings me to my next thing:

So. Later that day, Brian and I were discussing tattoos (and possibly…drinking), and he was saying that he was sort of tempted to get another one, but it would have to be large, because he didn’t want some random assortment of tattoos all over, thereby resulting in him looking like a human bulletin board. And then this happened:

Brian: If I got another tattoo, I’d want it to say something profound about me. Like, about my uniquity.

Me: Your what?

Brian: [slowly, as if speaking to an idiot child] My uniquity.

Me: …Oh.

Brian: What? Is that not a word?

Me: No.

Brian: Really? HEY! BABY! I made up a WORD! Shit, that was EASY! I’m going to make up MORE WORDS

Me: I don’t think it works like tha--

Brian: CLOOP!

He has been making up all kinds of words since then. I should really keep a log of these words, so that I can submit it to Mr. Webster, or whomever is in charge of running the dictionary now. Probably Mr. Webster isn’t in charge of the dictionary anymore. Probably Mr. Webster is dead, and never even had the chance to try a pickle-flavored potato chip. I just hope Cool Ranch Doritos were not involved.

Heee. Journaling is fun. Maybe I will be back tomorrow! Maybe they will have even MORE interesting chip flavors downstairs. I will have to try them. For literature. It’s what Mr. Webster would have wanted. Either that, or he'd want to poke me with a stick.

Kisses to y’all!

So! Okay, Apocalypse Not, as I like to call it, and that is lovely. But even though the world isn't ending, I figured I'd go ahead and tell y'all the bra story. And also, I will try to post some pictures of the dogs. I have no real plan here, did you notice? I AM JUST SO HAPPY TO BE ALIVE! And I am just so completely avoiding doing responsible things, such as laundry (sorry, I was kind of looking forward to a post-apocalyptic Mad Max wardrobe consisting of fabulous leather pants and...I don't know, ripped shit. I figured we'd need to conserve water! I was doing it for the cause!). And it is Sunday and we're having a post-birthday party for Brian's mom this afternoon, and I...wow, do I need to straighten up the house, but you guys, let's just hang out instead.

Okay, so: you know. Bra thing (heeee). Although by now, I've probably built it up to the point that it is not even going to be funny anymore, but I am going to try anyway. Stick with me, you guys! Open mind! Tabula Rasa! Other words!

The Thing With The Bra

One of the awesome things about having a sister in L.A. is the noticeable effect this has had on my cleavage. This sounds wrong, I am sure, but here's the thing -- because Ziz works in television and movies, she always knows all of the best beauty tips and wardrobe secrets, and she shares these with me, because she loves me and she doesn't want to be waterboarded. But, anyway, one of the BEST things Ziz learns is which bras work best, and can transform a...well, board-shaped lady into a buxom type thing, and I have paid very close attention to her teachings in this regard.

So, a few years ago, Ziz sent me a package containing a Water Bra. Now, for those of you not familiar with the concept of the water bra, which has probably long since been banned by...I don't know, the FDA, or NASA or someone, it was a bra that was filled with a gelatinous substance (SOON WE WILL FIND OUT HOW I KNOW THIS) so that it gave you boobs, while also looking natural, and moving and...um, bouncing sort of naturally. It did not necessarily feel natural, unless you have boobs which are filled with a gelatinous substance (and you know, to each her own), but that did not matter as much, as most strangers do not feel you up upon being introduced. And the water bra really did do amazing things for the cleavage, to the point that, once I started wearing it, lady friends would actually ask me if I'd...you know, HAD SOME WORK DONE, while eyeballing my chest suspiciously, and I loved the water bra. Water Bra + Doxie 4Eva.

Until. The Rapture of the Water Bra. Which was probably more like a rupture, but it all started one morning about...oh, almost two years ago. I was wearing the bra under a thin sweater, looking all busty and proud of myself, and I was driving to work. I never get into a car without a Diet Coke, because I am a filthy little addict, so I was driving down the highway, sipping my drink. When all of a sudden I noticed a little...moistness. On my lap. Not much; just a few beads of..."water," pooled up on my skirt. And I cocked my head like a confused terrier, and looked at my Diet Coke, and concluded that it must be the condensation from the can. And then I went on with my life, and forgot all about it.

UNTIL. I got to the office, was sitting at my desk, typing vigilantly on something legal, and looked down again. And now there was MORE "water." In my lap. Significantly more water. And the Diet Coke had long since been replaced with another, and it was sitting on my desk, throwing up its little Diet Coke arms, all "Don't look at me!" and so I started looking around for the possible source of all this wetness, when I suddenly caught a glimpse of what was going on inside of my sweater. And that was when I realized that water bra had burst, and that I now had an enormous, wet stain, spreading -- waterfall like -- from my left boob, down to my waist. AHHH.

So, I immediately emailed Cookie, all "AHH EMERGENCY! GIRL EMERGENCY COME ALONE" and she came barreling down the hall to my office, took one look at me, and shrieked, "Are you LACTATING?" and I said, "IT IS MY BRA" and then I lifted my sweater and we watched as a perfect arc of goo squirted forth from the bra, landing all over important legal papers, and we both shrieked because holy shit, my BOOB IS ERUPTING, and also, now that I am AWARE OF THIS, I am realizing that it is erupting something STICKY and vaguely SMELLY and OH MY GOD.

At this point, I ripped the pulsating, squooshy bra from my body, and tossed it in the trash, where it continued to piss forth a slimy, unholy gel, and Cookie ran to the break room to grab me some wet paper towels, and then we tried to clean me, as best as possible. And while fortunately, this made me less sticky, it also presented a new problem, namely -- now I was braless. And I was being braless in a tight-fitting sweater that SORT OF REQUIRES A BRA, if you get my meaning. Cookie kept staring at my chest, transfixed. "That has got to chafe," she said.

So now, new dilemma. I couldn't just hide in my office all day; we actually had a meeting that afternoon with all the other firm attorneys, so I was going to have to get up and move at some point. Plus there was the chafing factor. But what do you DO when you find yourself without an article of underwear in the middle of your working day? I couldn't send out a firm-wide email, like they do when someone needs a parking spot or to borrow a copy of a law dictionary or something; moreover, I found it very hard to believe that anyone would be like, "Oh, yes, please. Use my bra. I keep spares in every size, right here in my office lingerie drawer." So I was puzzled.

But then! Flash of brilliance! I remembered that in our break room, we have a ludicrous little medical center, filled with an assortment of hilarious emergency items, including (a) a splint, (b) a hazmat kit for contaminated blood spills, and (c) BAND-AIDS. (Note that the well-stocked emergency supply kit does not include tampons, a fact that has been noted by...oh, every woman in the office ("Are we supposed to use the Hazmat kit?" has been frequently asked) but that is neither here nor there.) ANYWAY, point being: band-aids. In many sizes, and so I slapped an enormous folder to my chest and wandered down the hall and check out my brand new selection of nipple-covers.

I found some lovely, flesh-colored options, each enormous; they were like the big professional band-aids you'd put on a skinned knee. And I plastered them on my bare chest, while Cookie watched, shaking her head at the pain this would ultimately involve, but you know. DESPERATE. And hilariously, it all worked perfectly, and those suckers were just seamless, and I was feeling pretty proud of myself. HA HA WATER BRA, you can't ruin my day.

Until. I got home, and Brian and I were getting changed out of our work clothes, casually chatting about whatever, and I pulled off my sweater. And I'd forgotten about the band-aids. And I hadn't told Brian yet. And so, the second my shirt was over my head, he turned, did a double take at the two industrial bandages attached to my breasts, and screamed, in genuine horror: "WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR NIPPLES?"

As if they'd fallen off. Oops! Lost a few nipples at work today, baby. Hoping they regenerate. Like starfish.

And, that is the bra story. See? I told it. The world did not even have to end.

Other Things*

*I make good titles

From over on the fan page: even though it's not the end of the world for us, people are still post-apocalyptic over in Alabama. Here's an awesome way to help. And here is a truly incredible video shot by my good friend Boozer Downs, who is an amazing photographer and an fantastic guy who has done so much to help the victims there. So, y'all go help, too! And then maybe if the rapture DOES come, you'll be all good-deeded up. We're savin' souls over here at Miss Doxie! While still avoiding laundry. I multi-task.

Back to funny*

*See? I did another one. I call it creativity.

And now, because I promised: dogs! Next time I will post evil kitteh, but that will require fishing her out from under the bed so she can be photographed. Unless you just want to see a picture of her ever-expanding ass, in which case: perv.

If you not feed Bo ham, Bo has prophecy. Of apocalypse of UR FACE.

GIMMME NOT AFRAID TO SHOW NIPS! SEE? NO BAND AID FOR GIMMME YAAAAY!

And that is all. Y'all enjoy not being raptured, ruptured, or otherwise covered in goo. I'm off to do laundry...although I haven't totally given up on those leather pants.

NOTE: Apparently comments now say that they're pending my approval. I don't know why, as they've never cared about my approval before, but whatever. I will unblock you when I see it, provided that you are not black gay porn. Black gay porn is staying banned, because I am a bitch like that.

Actually, the money part is not entirely true. I do have money; I just can't touch my money. Allllll of my money is hiding right now. And it would be lovely if there were anyone in the world to blame for this who is not Me, but there isn't, and hello: story of my life. Anyway, lemme explain how I accidentally committed a felony! Then we can talk about your week.

SO. Know how Brian and I got all married? Remember that? It was very nice, and everyone had a lovely time, and now we are husband and wife. But, being that we were both independent, mid-30's type people when that whole wedding business went down, we already had established money things. We each had our own mortgages and accounts and credit cards and stuff, and combining them just seemed like a major and unnecessary pain in the ass. So we decided that instead, I would just go to my friendly bank and open a new account for Bills and Household Shit, and we would both contribute to it each month, and that is how we would pay for Bills, and also Household Shit. Otherwise, we remain mostly financially separate, which has worked well for us -- we both do grocery shopping, we both pay for dinners, and we each handle a few random household expenses here and there, so it's actually quite reasonable and equitable. Or, at least it was; back in those heady days of last week, it worked GREAT. ALL WAS WELL. Until I fucked it all the hell up, as I very often tend to do.

Because, see (and here is where I try to blame my own personal criminal activity on my poor, long-suffering husband; let's watch!), every month, Brian writes me a check for his portion of expenses. And I deposit it into the Household Shit Account. But I do not like depositing Brian's checks at the bank, because I know all of the tellers; the main branch of my bank is in my office building, so I see the employees aaaallllll the time. Every day, even. We chat! We ride elevators together! They know my dad! And, thus, it is sort of embarrassing to deposit a check with Friendly Teller Kyle, only to have Kyle interrupt our normal small talk with, "Yeah, I saw that last week, and couldn't belie----hold on, girl, what does that say in the memo line? Is this check for...does that say Dirty Dancin'?"

And, you know what, Kyle? YEAH. YES IT DOES. Because my husband is incapable of writing me a Household Shit check that does not contain an inappropriate memo line. Because he thinks this is hilarious. Previous checks have included "French Kissing," "A Good Time," and "Wifely Duties." And Brian believes this to be funny, because...well, frankly, because it totally is. And I thought it was hilarious ALSO, until Thursday happened, and I became a felon because of the MEMO LINE THAT RUINED OUR LIVES* (*lying. Absolutely lying to you right now. Hyperbole plus blame shifting! Let's pretend it is literary license).

But it is true that Thursday was the day I became a master criminal. Admittedly, on that morning, I was not feeling very much like a master criminal. Actually, I was feeling very scattered and tired and maybe even a touch foggy, because Wednesday night had been date night, and Brian and I had a lovely evening that involved many wines and candles and Special Married People Time. Thursday morning, we woke up and I kissed him goodbye and explained my intention to do Many Things before work, including (a) depositing his monthly check, and (b) getting my emissions test for my car, and (c) getting my tag, because I am absolutely awful about that, and basically end up getting ticketed every year because I just flat-out put it off until the last possible minute, if not later.*

(*Which reminds me (woo, tangent!) -- My birthday is March 6. Last year, I did a ton of work traveling in March, and didn't get my emissions test (which is required for a tag renewal) until April 1. Then, a week later, I went to the DMV to get my new tag, only to discover that my local office was closed for renovations. A very non-helpful sign on the door informed me that I was supposed to drive way the hell up north somewhere to some satellite branch and do it there. I did not know where this was, plus I was kind of pressed for time, because that night, I was supposed to be meeting not-yet-fiancee-Brian for a Special Romantic Getaway up at my parents' lake house. So I left the DMV and went back home to figure out where this satellite place was; only THEN I got pulled over in my own NEIGHBORHOOD, by a cop who did not care whatsoever about my attempts at compliance. When reason failed, I resorted to bald-face lying (yep) and told him that I had gotten engaged that VERY DAY, and how DARE he RUIN MY HAPPINESS for a tag that was only eight days past expiration (additionally not true), and also, WAS HE MARRIED? He didn't fall for that, either, in part because I...had no ring (oops; I fucking suck at lying), but that did not stop me from hollering, "I BET YOU DON'T TELL YOUR WIFE ABOUT THIS!" as he walked away. He agreed that he probably would not, as she would smack him, for murdering true love. And then I drove (flounced?) up to the lake in an entirely unjustified huff, except then I got there and Brian proposed to me THAT VERY NIGHT and it turned out I hadn't lied after ALL, but I still got a fucking ticket on my way to my engagement. I am irresponsible! I should just get my fucking tags on time! The end!)

Uh...okay, so, back to the original story, although that one always entertains me, too. Look how this is a compendium of my crimes! I am an outlaw. And I am so bad at it. Anyway, moving on.

SO. Thursday (and please do notice that -- once again --Thursday was already super long after March 6, because I continue to be a little scofflaw), I have these three things to do. Deposit check! Get emissions! Get tag! And then, go to work, because I had a conference call scheduled. So, I got moving. And, as I grabbed the check, I glanced at the memo line: it read: "Last Night."

Heee, I thought. Heeeeeeee. My husband was paying me $1000 for "Last Night." Apparently, for services rendered, on date night. Plus he'd left it on the counter, which further made me giggle for about ten minutes. Still, being a busy woman, I grabbed it and headed out the door. But here, I made a critical error; I also tore a blank check from my checkbook, to take with me to the DMV to pay for my tag. I put the blank check and the Household Shit check in the same envelope. DO NOT DO THIS; do not do this ever. I will show you why.

I hit the emissions place first, but as it was the last day of the month, the line was insanely long -- like, two hours long. By the time I finished that, I'd missed 6 calls at work, my secretary was in a frenzy, and I was already dangerously close to being late for the conference call. So I figured I would just swing by the bank, deposit the check, and go to the office, getting my tag later. GOOD PLAN.

Except..."Last Night." Now, here is the thing. Apparently, there is just some shy, puritanical part of me that does not want to hand Friendly Teller Kyle a $1000 check that is made out for...uh, "services rendered" the night before. I don't need that judgment! Nor do I need Kyle thinking about my services. So I was pondering this, when I suddenly realized that I could save some time, and just deposit the check in an ATM! This was the perfect solution -- no awkward pauses! No services-thinking! Indeed, no human contact whatsoever. AND, there was a branch over by the emissions place, so it seemed like serendipity just flowing all over my Thursday morning. Yay!

But, sadly: no. Because, I am an idiot. And I was flustered, and the emissions test had taken a million years, and I am always in such a hurry at ATMs because I don't want to be the bothersome person who takes a millisecond more than my allotted time, and I guess all of these things combined into a perfect storm that resulted in me...accidentally depositing the blank check, instead of the actual check. I had completely forgotten there were two checks in the envelope -- the slutty one from Brian, and my own blank check, which I'd included with the intention of paying for my tag. AND IT WAS A BIG ENVELOPE, Y'ALL, like one of those manilla folder-y things, so I just reached in and grabbed a check; endorsed the back; punched in all the buttons; put it in the deposit envelope; and deposited it into my bank account. The bank, because I am (was) a lovely customer, immediately credited me with the $1000. And then I went on my merry way, not realizing that I just broke about sixteen laws, and was now officially KITING CHECKS, which is a crime punishable by very bad things that include prison jumpers and conjugal visits. For which I probably would not get paid $1000. WHOOPS.

But off I went to work, having no idea that I was leaving the scene of my crime. And all was well there, until I went out for cocktails afterwards, and -- when I passed over my debit card for my $9 bill -- it got declined. As did my other debit card. And my credit card. WHOOPS AGAIN.

What I did not know was, upon opening the deposit at the other branch, and finding an endorsed blank check, they'd immediately frozen all of my accounts. And I do everything through that bank -- credit cards, checking, saving, the whole deal. And now all of that was inaccessible, but at the time, I had absolutely no idea why -- calling the 800 number only led to a message telling me that I really, REALLY needed to go to my branch ("SO WE CAN ARREST YOU," it did not add). I was locked out of my online access. And this led me to have a cow, which I am sure was enjoyed by everyone.

I went home and continued my conniption, until the next morning, when I called Friendly Teller Kyle, and asked him what in the holy fuck was happening. Kyle said, "Well, hey, Miss D! Let me just look that up for ya!" And then there was grave silence, and the getting of supervisors, and the announcement that One Should Not Deposit Blank Checks, and my own personal discovery of the whorin' check still in its happy manilla envelope, and I that is when I pretty much DIED. And that is also when I had to take myself into the branch, and sit down with no fewer than SIX different people, and try to explain that I did not mean to deposit a blank check; I actually meant to deposit this check here, that says I'm a prostitute! HA HA! Isn't that so logical? It was an honest mistake and could happen to anyone HOLY SHIT PLEASE DON'T ARREST ME.

So, um. They didn't. But now that "Last Night" check has become a thing of great fame, and I have to get all new cards, and I basically STILL can't touch any of my own money until Wednesday, when my new accounts are all set up. Plus Brian, who IS TOTALLY A LITTLE BIT SORT OF RESPONSIBLE, KIND OF, is off on a business trip, and the dogs and I have to eat beans until all of the new cards arrive. And he is SO not sorry at all. He is already thinking of things to put on his check next month. Meanwhile, I'm being greeted in the lobby with, "Hey! Last Night girl!" and also, I will probably starve and die.

So. That is why I am poor today! And also a master criminal. If you see me, please give me a cracker. Or wine. Or possibly bail.

Y'all have a good week, and I'll be back as soon as I think of something else ridiculous to share. Of course, we're still here, if you aren't already joined up; most recently, we've been celebrating St. Urho's Day! For a white collar criminal, I live a full life!

But in the meantime, y'all take care, and try not to commit any felonies! And please don't mention my name to Kyle.

(And, in the interest of full disclosure, I have to add that this was not my idea at all, but Brian's, as we heard that someone had done this with pictures of kittens. Which I am sure is hilarious, but as Brian aptly pointed out, our pets are pretty much always on the verge of an entitled hissy fit breakdown, preferably the type that results in strippers being locked in the bathroom of a hotel suite (and here I am looking at YOU, Mister Bo). Can't you just imagine Bo lighting up a cigarette and screaming that he's a Vatican assassin warlock? Me, too!)

Which is why...this. SORRY I HAD TO. I will be nice again tomorrow!

Heeee, I entertain me. But, in all seriousness, all of us here in Doxieland do sincerely hope Mr. Sheen gets the help he needs, and not via the magnificent pathways of his own brain, as we still think he was just the cutest thing in Ferris Bueller a million years ago. Sheen! Look to Robert Downey, Jr.! Let his adorable success and sobriety be your guide! And stop acting like a little shit, THE END.

Y'all all have a good week, and I'll see you as soon as I'm finished writing the biggest brief that ever briefed; however, if you want updates in between posts, remember that you can always come and play with us here, and enjoy reading me prattle on about hoop skirts or flower thievery or whatever the hell else happens that day. I may not be the most exciting girl in the world, but I promise not to come after you with my fire breathing fists of violent love.

*It did turn out better in the end, though. I wasn't even expecting it!

1. I have a Facebook page now! Aren't I big? I know! And I just put up a bunch of my wedding pictures there (with explain-y captions), because I'm a nerdy newlywed who does such things, and it would've taken a jillion years to load them here. So come over and like me (pweeeease?) and then you can be all kinds of hooked-in to the newest generation, or whatever the hell. I can also guarantee that at some point, I will get tipsy and share drunk posts with you. This may happen after lunch.

2. I'm also about to start redesigning this site (finally; I've only been meaning to for a million years). I've already gotten loads of help with this from the gloriously wonderful Cobwebs (this involves me sending her an email every month or so, all, "Um, can you tell me how to get into my site again? The one I've had since...2003? SORRY THX" (to her credit, she hasn't murdered me yet)), but I still can't decide how it should look; do y'all have any...ideas? Should I use drawings? Pictures? Can I make the entire background out of tiled images of me french-kissing my awesome husband? Would that screw with your filters at work?

3. I don't actually have a third thing. So I am just going to show you the cat video again:

Also, everybody's cat stories had me DYING in the last entry. You guys, say more cats-getting-stuck stories! Seriously, I whipped out my blackberry and read them aloud at a dinner party last week. (See how much fun I am to hang out with?) Fortunately, everyone agreed that the stories ruled, and I was not shunned whatsoever.

4. Ooo, actually! One more fun thing I just thought of (although y'all may have seen this on the Facebooks; those of you who have already read the following may be excused now) -- so, I bought this awesome little Japanese camera at Photojojo. It's absolutely tiny, square format, and takes the niftiest pictures, like this:

Out my office window; see how pretty? So pretty! It looks like I understand photography!

But, it lacks instructions in English, and features strange codes and only two buttons, so the thing can be a little confusing. So I went to the manufacturer's website, but that also lacked instructions in English, so I did a Google translate. And this, apparently, is how my new camera works:

Introduction!

Determine the object, taken with the following in mind while testing. How much angle (shooting range), so the situation by reflecting of the sense of distance and close-up of Field or non-Your Pictures in the distant.

Er...okay, so I determine my object by reflecting my sense of...distance in my non-your pictures, or...uh, plus something about shooting range. Yes. Sure, okay. How do you take a picture, though?

Pokedeji shutter speed will take some time to save data, press the shutter. And press the shutter sound is pitch, be patient and wait patiently without complain until a beep is heard again. If you do moves along the way, the picture becomes distorted!

Trick? No no no. Press the shutter again, at the same position as it is motionless!

Did you think this was a trick? No, no no! You just press the shutter and you WAIT PATIENTLY. While not doing moves along the way, you complaining, fidgety brat. Meanwhile, are you confused by the fact that wee camera lacks a view finder? Well, don't worry, all will be explained:

Lens position on but how to take as no viewfinder? The first question out!

Your Pictures will become familiar with your image. Because there is no viewfinder on the contrary, I take too aware of the composition! Or it can be glad they shot pictures and movies that I expected.

So...okay, I can be glad it shot the pictures I expected, and that my pictures will eventually become familiar with my image. But what are all these modes? Whatever do they do?

Pokedeji normal, black, noise, and vivid, You can choose to shoot the four colors! Let's understand what is their favorite color, and reflecting of what situations and how to use color mode!

Oh. Thank you. And, of course, the magnificent ending:

There are many new discoveries and Pokedeji know and love. It is a small camera more we know about profound! I hope you enjoy everyones radiography!

The more we know about profound, indeed! And yes, I am enjoying everyone's radiography; this camera rules.

5. And, that is all; seriously, I know, this doesn't even count as an entry, but I wanted to give you a head's up on my new internetty-ness, and tell you where you can go to check in for more regular updates and stuff. I'm getting confused by things I post on the site and things I post on the Facebook, and I need to get my act together, is what needs to happen; we'll see how that works out.

In the meantime, y'all have a wonderful week, try to stay warm if you are in one of the icy places, and come like me, if you're so inclined -- I hope you enjoy everyone's radiography!

But, let's not feel too badly for Brian. Because approximately 48 hours after I annoyed the holy hell out of him, lovely Brian -- my kind, vegetarian, empathetic-and-ridiculously-sweet husband -- accidentally sealed the fucking cat in the wall.

Yes. Yes, he did. And yeah, the cat is fine (OH SHE'S GREAT), but he was just beside himself, and I could not stop laughing hysterically, and basically, welcome to our ridiculous, ridiculous home.

Anyway, I tried to write out the process of how a PETA-supporting person accidentally...you know, seals a cat in a fucking WALL, but really, this is the kind of thing that requires visual aides. So now we have the lovely slideshow below, and I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed making it. I swear to God, we...are a haunted house, y'all. We are a haunted house of crazy, and it just entertains me to no end.

So, without further ado, YET ANOTHER VIDEO (no sound on this one; I tried, but YouTube is just annoying the shit out of me with all their copyright nonsense, even when you're dealing with music in the public domain -- don't even get me started). (But point being, I'm not planning to go all video-ish here or anything, but this just worked so much better as a slideshow that I couldn't resist.)

(*Man, do I wish I could take credit for that title, but I can't. Ten seconds after telling my mother this story, that is what she said, between bouts of side-splitting laughter. She is where smart comes from, apparently.)

(HEY, WHO WANTS MORE PARENTHESIS? WOO!)

Anyway...yeah. So, postscript to this ludicrous event is that ever since she managed to somehow wind her weird, catty self through the internal workings of our home, Kitteh has been desperate to get back into the walls. She's been bat-bat-batting at the linen closet door, at the vanity -- she's obsessed, and she wants back IN to her special, secret world. And, of course, we are the evil people who are standing in her way, and we can all just chalk this up to yet another reason why Kitteh is going to kill us in the night, and y'all please avenge me.

But, in the meantime -- that's how you accidentally seal a cat in the wall, you guys! I don't recommend it whatsoever, but holy shit, this is NOT getting less funny with time.

So, that happened. And I'm sure I'll be back soon, after we do something else ridiculous, like accidentally fricassee Bo during a vegan dinner party -- in any event, at least it'll be more interesting than an accounting of my favorite smells.

Y'all have a good week; just be happy that (a) you're not married to me, and that (b) my adorable husband doesn't have access to your plumbing. Or your cat. Kisses!

*Technically, I could be productive and do, say: laundry. Or clean out some closets, or wash the dogs. Or feed myself, or perform a whole world of responsible-type tasks, really, but every time I'm like, "Okay, now I shall actually DO something around here!" and stand up, I catch glimpse of the snow (Snow!) blanketing everything outside, and I promptly squish down helplessly again on the sofa and eat more potato chips. Or tater tots.

Because, here is something tangential (surprise!) I am learning about myself in this time of snow-related self-discovery: evidently, when there is A Crisis, I turn into an alcoholic seven-year old. We managed to make one last, emergency trip to the grocery store around the corner just before the streets froze, and do you know what I bought? Wine and junk food, y'all. As in, I have been eating meals consisting of fish sticks, tater tots, and ho-hos. I am a 33-year old attorney -- a partner in my law firm, no less -- and I had Spaghetti-Os for both breakfast and lunch today. And I have been washing down most of my toddler meals (okay, not breakfast, it isn't complete pandemonium around here)(YET) with chardonnay. Or a Bloody Mary. Or whatever the hell else I can find, and possibly I will have to start experimenting with paint thinner if I start running out of booze, but point being: evidently, I will never, ever grow up, and anyone who peeks inside my recycling bin next week will logically conclude that my house is inhabited by the tallest, most fucked-up child in the world. (Which...okay, but shut up.)

So, ANYWAY. The snow (snow!) started on Sunday night. And we'd been hearing the most dire warnings about this storm for days on end; Cookie and I had actually been joking that we'd be lucky to live, we just want to LIVE, and OMG SNOWMAGEDDON and so forth, but we really didn't believe it would happen. This is because 99% of the time, we'll get all of these doom and gloom weather reports about snow (SNOW, MOTHERFUCKERS, SNOW) blanketing the South, and how we're all going to starve and start eating each other (find the weak!), and then it only ends up being slightly chilly. But I guess even the most hyperbolic weather people are sometimes right, because on Sunday night, my parents called, all, "Have you...looked out a window?" and Brian and I cheerfully popped up from the sofa, opened the back door, and saw the following:

Uh oh

Yeah, so...snow! But it was neat and pretty and kind of exciting and fun (well, not for the dogs, who dislike snow, quite strongly, and who particularly dislike any scenario involving snow/foot contact; those of us with shoes, however, thought it was cool). By the next morning, we had emails from both our offices, announcing that each was closed for the day, and Brian received an alert saying that his afternoon flight was canceled. And this made us very happy, and we squealed "Snow Day!" like children-types, and then the adult part of ourselves whipped up some Bloody Marys, and off we went to wander about our yard as though it were some magical, undiscovered personal winter wonderland, and not just a fenced half-acre where the dogs occasionally poo.

Bloody Mary gave me the ability to flyyyyyy!

Yay, snow makes me bouncy with gleeeee!

Even House looks happy to be frozen solid, wheeeeeee!

Don't we look so happy and young and carefree? WE WERE! We were so happy and young and carefree! But that was over 48 hours ago, and let me assure you, SHIT HAS CHANGED A LOT SINCE THEN.

Anyway, upon finishing our little trek into the wilds of our own backyard, we decided it was time to Get Serious, and so we immediately assessed the alcohol situation; and, quite honestly, the findings were troubling. Fortunately, the roads hadn't gotten too icy yet, so we were able to get out of our neighborhood and zip around the corner for the aforementioned emergency booze/junk food run, so that problem was solved. And it's a good thing we went when we did, because a few hours later, there was no getting up our street -- we're on an incline, but it's not even a major hill, more like an unenthusiastic hump -- but already, the snow was melting and freezing again as ice. And we are southern people who do not have things like "skills" when it comes to navigating these situations.

As such, we and the neighbors all basically stood around in a frozen huddle, gazing mutely at our icy hill, our heads tilted like a pack of perplexed terriers. Ultimately, we did determine a course of action, in which we would (a) construct sleds out of household goods and go careening down the Hump Of Ice; (b) discuss and plan for any possible emergency rationing of liquor; and (c) drink more. And this plan was followed accurately and with great vigor, and it was a lovely, lovely day -- by that evening, Brian and I had already received word that our offices wouldn't be open again on Tuesday, so we made a fire, snuggled up on the couch (just Brian and me; neighbors were not invited to the snuggly), and watched movies. It was the best snow day ever, and I was already getting excited about doing it again on Tuesday, because we're newlyweds, and we like snuggling, and incidentally, YAY FOR A TOTAL LACK OF RESPONSIBILITY! Oh, please, Mister Jesus, let's have snow days ALWAYS FOREVER!

Except! Tuesday morning, Brian's blackberry made that cursed dingy-message buzz, and he checked, and lo and behold -- his flight to L.A. had been rescheduled. For that afternoon. Now, we live about 20 or 30 minutes from the airport, and all of the roads between us and the airport were...you know, dead from cold, so this meant he'd have to take MARTA, our often-smelly transit system. And, because this was the only option for anybody who needed to go anywhere, it meant he'd need to leave about 6 hours before his flight. So all of a sudden, Tuesday morning went from a "luxurious, breakfast-in-bed and coffee-sipping while gazing out on the snow"-type situation, to a full-blown, "Wait, do we even HAVE a MARTA station in our city?! MAYBE WE WOULDN'T SEE IT BECAUSE IT IS UNDERGROUND LIKE AN EVIL LAIR" level of hysteria, plus Brian still had to somehow get himself to the station, and basically, all dreams of SnowSnuggle 2011 were dashed as I watched my poor, sweet husband back his SUV alllllll the way down our street to get a "running start" at the icy hill. After a few attempts, that actually worked (cartoons don't lie!), he crested the hump, and -- after blowing a last, regretful kiss toward me -- he was gone. And I was left to my own devices.

Which is never, ever good. Especially when I CANNOT LEAVE.

Now, let me say this -- I am usually a very busy person. I work, I have a frillion friends and hobbies and projects, Brian has a frillion friends and hobbies and projects, and I am pretty much always running around, bemoaning the fact that I never get to just sit still and take advantage of my home, just enjoying the peace and quiet, and playing with my stuff. Reading my books! Watching movies I've ordered! I never have time to do these things, so you'd think this forced alone-time would have been a gift. Turns out: NO, and I guess this means I can never retire, because HOLY SHIT, I went insane almost instantly. Like, within minutes.

Suddenly, Tuesday stretched out before me, and even though I immediately and logically thought of about 60 things I needed to do around the house (laundry, cleaning out closets, getting all the Christmas stuff to the attic, etc.), now all I could manage was to collapse pitifully on the couch and turn on the television. But, know what is on my television during the daytime? Daytime T.V., it turns out. Which quickly lost my interest (ALL THESE CHANNELS ARE BORING!), and so I ended up trying to find something interesting to read (ALL MY BOOKS LOOK BORING!), and then I ended up kind of poking around drawers looking for something else to do (ALL THE STUFF IN MY DRAWERS IS BORING!). Meanwhile, I busied myself by texting poor Brian every seventeen seconds, all, "Are you coming home yet?" and generally whining internally about how BORING it is to live in a house with, I don't know, every single possible entertainment option available. For WOE IS ME, and if I can't play with my husband, then I was just going to POUT about it, because, once again: I am a petulant, overgrown child. Who likes wine. Why won't anybody pway wif me?

So Tuesday...continued. After a few hours, poor Brian called and said he was finally at the airport (and, he literally had been on MARTA for hours), but his flight had been delayed; they ended up getting him on a different flight, though, and upgrading him, but he had to board right then. So I said goodbye to him, and then I just sat there...some more, trying to figure out what in the hell to do with myself.

For the next few hours, I was incredibly busy, but in such a magical way that I never actually got anything accomplished. I made a fire (it went out). I looked out the window. I cooked myself tater tots and fish sticks. I tried rearranging all of the dining room furniture, then decided it looked better before, and moved everything back. I took out our wedding china and set the table, even though we will not be having guests any time soon, unless they plan to arrive via snowplow. I ranked all of my winter coats in order of favorite to least favorite, before realizing that I only own two winter coats, so that did not take long.

I concluded that if we ran out food, I would eat Kitteh first. I texted this information to my husband. I also texted him most of the lyrics to Nelly's "Just a Dream," because that song is awesome, and I wanted to confirm that I am "[his] love, [his] life, [his] shawty, [his] wife." I then sent him repeated questions as to whether he had received some sparkling apple juice, which I may or may not have sent him. I decided that I had many thoughts and questions to share with my brand-new husband.

Of course, given that Brian was in the air on a cross-country flight at the time, I knew that he was not actually getting this critical information. Instead, I was aware that, after he landed in L.A. and turned his phone back on, all of my texts would be received in an enormous, incoming rush of incomprehensible and psychotic 160-character ramblings, ranging from pop-culture references, to me declaring my intention to eat the cat; I did not care. I WAS BORED, and I hadn't talked to a live person in HOURS (well, I did have one work-related phone call with an attorney from Kansas, who -- after I said I was getting a little stir-crazy -- admitted that, "Yeah, I...can tell, I really can.") And that was all, and I need companionship, and there was NOBODY ELSE TO TALK TO.

But...wait, was there? Y'all know I have always said that Bo does that weird growl-talking thing, and sometimes he really does sound like he's just cheerfully conversing with you in some strange guttural, demon-tongue -- we'll have dinner parties, and he'll settle himself into a chair, and "OoooOOORRRHhhhhGGGgggrrrrOOOg" on and on about politics or the weather or how awesome Nelly's "Just A Dream" video is (so awesome that eyeballs catch on FIRE, not kidding you), and it is adorable. But I've never really harnessed that power into anything useful, so -- after being left alone and trapped for all of about eleven hours -- I decided it was time to teach the dog to say "please." This ended up taking the better part of the evening, and roughly 30% of my wine reserves.

Here are the results:

Now, the notable thing about this video is not that I am still clomping about in my snow shoes (SPRINGY! )(Also, yes, they're technically galoshes, but they're as close as I get to something with tread, for I am not outdoorsy). Nor is it Gimmme's classic "....?" reaction to the entire situation -- no. Instead, it is the fact that Bo clearly recognizes that he should be saying something, and even though it sounds nothing like "please," he also recognizes that saying something = he gets what he wants. The outcome of "please" is that his wishes are fulfilled, and his needs met. You can probably see why this is notable! And why, in this case, "notable" means "bad, terrible, and super awful, forever."

So, long story short, now it is Wednesday night. My office is still closed. Streets remain iced, the hump remains insurmountable. Daytime television has not improved. I have not showered, nor have I seen another human being in the flesh since kissing my husband good-bye. I am, in fact, still wearing my pajamas, and Spaghetti-Os have comprised 66% of my daily meals. And meanwhile, throughout all of this -- since the sun rose over the glistening snow this morning-- Bo has sat merrily in the kitchen, wagging hopefully, and screaming "PLEASE!" at the refrigerator. And this has continued, All. Fucking. Day. Long.

Earlier today, word from the office was that we may open by noon Thursday, but the latest reports are that there won't be any thaw until Friday, which may mean Day 4 of "Snow Day of Glee-Turned to Forced Solitary Confinement (In White)." And that means another day of Spaghetti-Os, Golden Girls (Jesus Christ, I love the ladies, but is that show never NOT on?!), and Bo's fucking "open-sesame"-ing pleas to the food box, all of which is almost certainly going to result in me losing the last shreds of my sanity, and leaving me a simpering, unshowered, Chef Boyardee-stained mess by the time my poor husband gets home tomorrow night.

So...you know. YAY, to all of that! Y'all please cross your fingers that I don't completely lose my shit; that I can ration the remaining wine without having to start distilling potatoes and snow; and that -- no matter how much he hollers -- I stick with the plan to eat the idiot cat first.

Kisses to y'all; if you're down here, stay safe!

I mean, to begin with, there's no consistency in skill level -- one day, Martha's all, "Uh, yeah, take some old pot holders, super-glue them together, and VOILA IT IS A SCARF" and I'm like, "That is ugly, no." Then the next day, Martha says, "Step one: know how to knit, weld, and speak German" and 45 steps later, you've built a pair of scissors and a decorative hubcap out of discarded soup cans. And again I say no, because I am not going to put forth that much effort into hand-making something I can just go pick up at Target for ten bucks (COUGH *glittered pumpkin* COUGH). So, these are not things that are necessarily good, is my point; sometimes, they are just things that will waste your time, make you say swear words, and drive you to drink.

But still, you know how I get all crafty and stuff. And I know that a lot of y'all do, too. So I decided I would share a good thing of my own with y'all, in keeping with the holiday spirit. Maybe you do not have a gift for someone special out there, in which case: rejoice, procrastinator! Here is something I actually made for my father last year, in a random spark of brilliance. And I promise that this thing is actually good, because (a) it really is quite easy to make, and (b) you can't pick this shit up at Target. At least, not this season.

So, here we go: A Gooder Thing, In Steps:

Step 1: Watch National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation. This is a necessary step, because if you don't know this movie, then this entire entry and ensuing project will make no sense to you whatsoever and you will just think I've lost my mind. If you would like to stop reading now and go watch it, that would be fine, and I will wait here and drink eggnog out of moose-shaped glass mugs until you get back. Meanwhile, I get to skip this step, because my family has watched National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation so many times that we each have our own roles to play when we recite it, WORD FOR WORD, every time it comes on. Also, we can recite the whole thing on car trips, or at any point when we are bored and congregating. We are a joy to be around, is what I am saying. Also, I am saying that I pretty much know this movie inside and out, to the point that it is probably imparted somehow into my own DNA, and if I ever bear children, they will pop out and say something like, "The shitter's full!" and I will be like, yeah, I figured as much.

Step 2: Gather supplies. You will need:

(a) One Helper, in the form of hot husband/life partner/tolerant-person-who-will-look-at-you-skeptically-but-will-soon-comprehend-the-brilliance-of-your-plan;

(b) One Santa coat and hat (gloves optional, but entertaining);

(c) stuffed squirrel toy (one)
(note: very important that this not be a living squirrel);

(d) squirrel colored thread (some);

(e) needle (one);

(f) Sharpie (one); and

(g) alcohol (dealer's choice).

Step 3: Drink alcohol; share with Partner. Force Partner to put on Santa coat, and turn around, so you can look at Partner's fine hiney, as so:

Fine Hiney Not Pictured

Step 4. Position stuffed squirrel on Santa coat. Get all four Squirrel legs spread eagle, in the style of flying squirrel, or squirrel "getting low" on dance floor. Mark foot locations on jacket with Sharpie, as so:

Step 5: Remove jacket from Partner (IMPORTANT STEP)

(Or, Modified Step 5: Apologize for poking; provide Bactine to Partner; realize you should have removed jacket from Partner prior to step 6.)

(Also, this is a good time to recover Squirrel from Bo.)

Step 6: Using squirrel-colored thread, sew squirrel feet to jacket on designated Sharpie marks.

Step 7: Giggle at yourself for nine hours, and then stuff whole shebang into large, unattractive box; decorate with bow that fell off of something else, because you're classy like that.

Step 8: Step back and watch the phases of excellence unfold before your very eyes:

STAGE 1: WTF

STAGE 2: OMG

STAGE 3: LOL

And, bonus stage, if you are my family -- the recipients of your Gooder Thing reenact the actual scene from Christmas Vacation, and run up the stairs with the squirrels attached to their backs, in the manner of Clark Griswold on that fateful. fateful evening:

Hee. Oh, we are crazy people, I know. But now you know how to be crazy, too! And you can't tell me that this isn't one of the more awesome handmade presents you've ever seen in your whole life, because: yes, it is. Ooo, and! Another good idea we had was a 3-D puzzle shaped like the leg lamp from a Christmas Story; you could put Fra-Gee-Lay back together again! Then we also had some bad ideas to balance out all of the good ones. Like sweat-scented deodorant. Sweat-scented deodorant would be a terrible idea, which is probably why, out of all of these products, it is the one most likely to appear at Urban Outfitters next year.

Thank you to all of y'all for welcoming me back so warmly, and for all of your sweet words about our wedding. Brian and I hope you all have a wonderful holiday, and that all of you are surrounded by love and happiness, and all of the goodest things in the world!

Yes we did!

Senator Sasquatch has become Mr. Doxie, and it's time for a brand new adventure. It's been way too long, I'm happier than I've ever been, and I miss the hell out of writing. And Bo can be silenced no longer.

LOOK, LADIES! IS BO. BO SEXY AND DISTINGUISHED LIKE SEAN CONNERYS.

So...here I am, once again. Please be patient with me; it's hard to come back, and I'm terrified that now that I'm happy, I won't be funny anymore (what if all I do is moon over how cute my husband is? Because, y'all: OMG he's ADORABLE. Want to read all his love notes? Or see his baby pictures? Or, hey! I could describe how good he smells, in iambic pentameter! I...y'all?).

Point being, I'm probably going to be easing in, but dear CHRIST, do I have some stories to tell -- we got engaged in April, my sister got married in May, and then WE got married in September. My life has been a matrimonial whirlwind of showers and invitations and 70,000 trips to Michael's, and honestly, it was the most fun ever, but HOLY HELL am I glad we don't have to do it again. And incidentally, in case you were wondering from the picture above -- yeah, we got married in a cemetery. Hello. We are insane people.

Anyway, that's where we are now; I married my soulmate, on top of a whole bunch of dead guys. The wedding was beautiful and perfect and awesome and I will probably talk about it until forever. We continue to be tormented by (a) Gimmme, (b) Bo, and (c) Evil Kitteh. And it's better than I could have ever imagined. (And, bonus: now we have a metric shit-ton of housewares! Seriously, there is no fancy-ass kitchen implement which we did NOT receive as a wedding gift. Our toaster can do math. It communicates with NASA. It possibly plans to harvest our organs in our sleep but we don't even care because YAY, GOLDEN TOASTY BREAD PRODUCTS).

(Meanwhile, also please note that the toaster has become our fourth pet. Its name is Toaster. As in, "Toaster made this for you; it's TOAST" or "Shh, Toaster is calibrating something!" or "Toaster seems to be calling the President." Anyway, Toaster is way smarter than the dogs, and earns bonus points because Toaster has yet to shit on the coffee table. Toaster is rapidly becoming Mommy's favorite, until I wake up one day without a kidney. BAD TOASTER!)

And...yeah, here we are. I'm just going to post this now, send it out there without editing, but I just wanted to check in, share all this crazy, overwhelming joy we've got going, and say hey, after much too long. And, of course, to announce that from now on...it's Mrs. Doxie. Which, all said, is just another way of saying, EEEEEEEE, YOU GUYS, I GOT MOTHERFUCKING MARRIED!

Yay, the dogs are legitimate now!

Love to all of y'all, and I'll be back soon -- I promise. This time, I'm here to stay, for better or worse.

P.S.: (EEEEEEEEEEE!)