Working For A Living

I know. I KNOW. I was supposed to be back forever ago, and I reconciled with the internet and we made out and everything was just all fucking peachy over there two weeks ago, but since then, I have had the entire world of law rear up and kick me in the ass, and the whole thing kept on getting worse and worse, until finally last night I finished everything I had to do, and drove myself home, at 5 in the morning. Seriously. Please imagine this, because I worked alone, at my desk, until 4:30 in the a.m., which is one of those "dark" times. And which is also just wrong, but additionally scary as all hell, and at one point, I even called security, because I became convinced that I was about to be murdered. Because I kept on hearing these huge banging noises, when I was supposed to be all alone in the building, and that's...not normal, really, but guess what. It was not a murderer! Instead, a crew was there, fixing the elevator, and through a miracle of physics and what-all, it was echoing in my office. It was all a load of fun and terror, and before I learned this helpful bit of information, it is possible that I armed myself with scissors and a stapler, and roamed the office all Mission-Impossible-ing around the corners, scared out of my fucking mind. And totally prepared to prod and collate someone to death. Because you NEVER KNOW. KILLERS FEAR STAPLERS. I believe.

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.

Posted by doxie in General Whining | permalink | Comments (62)

Shit, Fan, Hitting, SPLAT

Here is the short story, to explain where I am, and why I have not responded to emails or been anywhere in the vicinity of my usual life for the past however long:

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.

Posted by doxie in General Whining | permalink | Comments (8776)

Who's Bored?

So, if you are in Atlanta. And are bored. And would like to drink and eat to your heart's content and listen to good music and have it all be for a good cause and I am getting KIND OF SICK of doing nothing but plugging shit over here, but I am on some Board of this charity thing and tonight is our party and you should come and hang out in the corner with me and smoke cigarettes and drink wine in a sneakified manner.

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.

Posted by doxie in General Whining | permalink | Comments (488)

Sunday, Sunday, Sunday! And Other Crap

Good...afternoon! I think it is afternoon. I am not wholly sure, but it is my belief that noon has already happened, even if I was not awake to see it. But, that is okay, because it is a holiday weekend! Also, the weekend during which one of my best friends from high school is getting married. That means we haven't had a hell of a lot of sleep. Cocktails, on the other hand, have been plentiful. And nothing stands in the way of my wine, baby.

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!

Posted by doxie in General Whining | permalink | Comments (528)

With So Many Apologies To David Sedaris

I have been traveling for an extraordinarily long time, and in fact, I am still not home, and may never see my family again. I have no idea where I am; I have no recollection of how I got here. All I know is, I have had to get up at 4 a.m. every morning for many days now, and I am not sure I remember where my office is anymore. Which doesn't really explain what is about to follow, but you know. I just felt like bitching there for a second. (Someone! Come and find me and send me home! Thank you.)

Anyway, in the course of my many travels, I ended up in a car with Cookie and someone who spoke French. We began the conversation under the impression that all three people in the car spoke French, but about sixteen seconds in, it became abundantly apparent that: No. Only one person in that car spoke French, and that person was most definitely NOT Cookie or me, but was instead the highly-entertained third party, who was happy to translate our completely fucked-up conversation with unrestrained glee.

Of course, it was like our own little (far-less funny) Me Talk Pretty One Day-moment, and it had us all doubled over in our seats in laughter, which is probably why we ended up missing our exit and all and why we have to live along the side of the road in a BOX now, but THAT IS NEITHER HERE NOR THERE, the point being that: I took notes. Because I do that. Because I'm a huge, enormous nerd.

So! Until I am back in civilization, which I sincerely, sincerely hope will happen tomorrow, here is the transcribed and translated conversation of Doxie and Cookie, two people who were, up to the moment the translation began, somewhat convinced that we were at least able to speak a FEW French phrases. At least the thing about the pen of our aunts. But...no.

So, anyway. Enjoy that we are dumb! Have fun! And then, COME FIND ME. I am in a box.

Person Who Can Speak French: (conversation conversation conversation) And, I can speak French.

Doxie: But yes? I are too speaking the Frenching for many seasons!

Cookie: I am also speaking of French for some eras. From when I danced in a ballerina.

Doxie: I was taking the lessons of France from a school when I was shorter.

Cookie: One time, we went to a France and eated the fishes.

Doxie: Oh! Of the fishes! The fishes were good for the eats?

Cookie: BUT NO. The fishes were not warm with the cooking for the eats. They were not the dead fishes.

Doxie: The fishes was swimming?!

Cookie: Yes, yes! The fishes was moving in a moving way.

Doxie: That is some shit on a plate on the table in front of me.

Cookie: It made the Spam ill to himself.

Doxie: I also would be ill to myself, if I too eated the fishes of movement.

Cookie: In a France, the platter of the seafood is not like one that is at the Lobster Red.

Doxie: Because the fishes be swimming more?

Cookie: Because there is not the frying for them.

Doxie: I am love the frying of the fishes and of the chickens. When I am of France, I am ordering of a sandwich.

Cookie: Sandwich is not move.

Doxie: Yes, is right. Sandwich dead.

Cookie: Very beautiful!

Doxie: It is of the critical to take the care when making an order of food in a France.

Cookie: This Spam has learned.

Doxie: Well, this my father was learned when he got himself a brain.

Cookie: Your father getted a brain? In the head?

Doxie: He getted a brain in the stomach! He thought of a brain to be chicken! But no.

Cookie: Oh, that is the BAD.

Doxie: It is the terrible! He was happy not.

Cookie: If they bringed me a brain and not one chicken, I would make the vomit on the table.

Doxie: I would also make the vomit on the table, on the plate of that shit.

Cookie: Beside the plate of the fish of movement, but next to the pen of my aunt.

Doxie: Why will the pen of my aunt be about the table? Where aunt is?

Cookie: Um. My aunt eated the dinner with you? I am only knowing the way that is to say, "the pen of my aunt is on the table."

Doxie: Okay, this is sense. I think of how us should go to a France together one time!

Cookie: And drinking all the wine?

Doxie: But yes! And drinking all the wine of the France!

Cookie: I will make all the talking!

Doxie: This idea, it is yes. But let us not take the aunt.

***

Y'all have a good day! I will be back as soon as I figure out where in ther HOLY FUCK I AM. And for everyone's sake, let's all pray the locals don't speak French.

Oh, P.S. and all: I forgot! I also went to another place, which was significantly nicer than my box on the side of the road -- Gee and Al got all married in South Carolina, and it was gorgeous. If you are vaguely masochistic, we took waaaaay too many pictures of the ensuing debauchery, all of which can be viewed in a sleep-deprived photoset here. (If you click on a picture in the set? The caption shows up! I learned this!) And you have my express permission to laugh at my hair.

Posted by doxie in General Whining | permalink | Comments (52)

While I Am At It, I Also Recommend The Chicken!

Around this time of year, I am always approached by people who want me to write letters of recommendation for them. Why anyone thinks that I am important enough to write a letter of recommendation sort of defies all understanding, but I am guessing that those unfortunate people who do approach me with this request are, at that point, desperate, and have whittled their requirements down accordingly. So, instead of, "I would like a letter of recommendation from a well-respected scholar or legal professional" (and I am not a member of that group), they have now settled on, "I will happily accept a letter of recommendation from anyone with a pulse, and who is not addicted to heroin, please God." Now, this second group -- Group Two -- this is the category I fall into. As do kangaroos, Bo, and probably most contestants on Deal or No Deal. This does not say very much for Group 2.

(Also, now that I think about it, maybe it is getting harder to find people who can write you letters of recommendation and do so in complete words and sentences, rather than filling the recommendation form with a dissertation composed in the perplexing language of myspace text-speak, i.e., "Jane v. smart & u shd let hr in yr skool 4 law." Although, now that I have actually typed that out and sort of half-assedly finished the thought, it occurs to me that, wouldn't that...kind of rock? Seriously, wouldn't it be kind of awesome to get a recommendation letter written in textspeak? If I were in charge of the world (see: evil master plan), I would admit the person as a matter of principle. But, I kind of imagine that this is not what the recommendees are hoping for, so I guess I am going to have to restrain myself. And it is hard. And I am, shockingly, totally off my original point, which I shall now attempt to remember.)

But, anyway. So, Spam, who is the man who is married to Cookie, and who is also the man who came up with the Viking Funeral idea, has decided to go to law school, where he will gleefully set his opposing counsel on fire and toss them in a cooler out on Lake Lanier. Because at least some of that sentence is true, he needs some letters of recommendation, and he asked me to write one. And that is no problem, because I like Spam, and Spam is smart, and it is not difficult to write a recommendation for people who (a) I actually know, (b) I actually like, and (c) are actually smart. Those recommendations are easy pants! On those recommendations, I can actually think of things to say other than "His tee-shirt collection is both extensive in number and unparalleled in variety," or "I am pleased to report that recently, this candidate has apparently been showering more frequently."

But, I got to thinking when I started writing Spam's letter, and I started to wonder how, exactly, one could compose a letter or recommendation that actually served to un-recommend someone, but which did so in a way that made it kind of hard to tell, on first glance, that the writer kind of thinks that the person is a twit. Anybody can write a letter that says, "DUDE, Bob SUCKS, his work SUCKS, he smells like a TIRE that has mated with a wet DOG, and he spreads a pestilence of evil wherever he GOES." It takes something more, I thought, to write one where the twit reader says, "Huh...okay, good, I guess!" but anyone with at least a mild IQ is laughing uncontrollably, and thinking, "Dude, that guy must be a total fucking asshole. I am going to burn his application as an offering to the gods."

Anyway, I was sort of inspired by this thought, but I was ten times more inspired by the thought that, hey! I spy an opportunity to fuck with my friend Spam! Because, seeing as he is not an idiot, he will read the letter and know it is not nice, but he will also wonder if I have actually sent it off and now he is stuck with a recommendation that makes people want to shower after reading it, and HA that is funny to me, particularly when it is really, really late at night. Which it was, when this idea was conceived. ( Which I know comes as a total shock to everyone, seeing as I have apparently given up sleep for the duration. Hi!)

So, as soon as the actual, glowing, compliment and accomplishment-filled letter was actually written and mailed, I sat myself down and wrote a second letter. And then I printed that letter on professional letterhead, made a copy of it for Spam, and sent it home with his wife, along with the message that I am always happy to help a friend in need, because I don't know if he knows this or not, but evidently, I am some kind of saint.

Now, I have to say -- I liked my fake recommendation letter. I liked it kind of a lot, and so I got to thinking (again, with the "got to thinking" crap! What is with me today? Either I'm stuck on writing in legal mode, or I'm talking like I don't wear me any shoes) that there were probably other people in this world who have faced the predicament of being the non-recommendy letter writer, and maybe they need my help, and hey, MAYBE that is the thing I was put on this earth to do, is help those people by giving them an example of a professional-sounding, but wholly meaningless, recommendation letter. And because I am not someone who likes to fuck with Life's True Purpose (although, did I ever tell y'all that one time I decided that my Life's True Purpose was to get a tattoo of Johnny Cash on my backside, only I would get the tattoo of a young Johnny Cash, and then as I wrinkled, he would wrinkle, and we would grow old together in harmony? For about sixteen minutes in 1999, this seemed like the best idea ever had by anyone at any time, even better than the wheel or Oreo cookies, and thus, I concluded it must be my Life's True Purpose, but then I called my dad to inform him of the path God and Johnny had chosen for me, only he threatened to have me written out of the will, so instead I went to law school, the end), I hereby share this letter with y'all, the people who join me, kangaroos, and Bo in the illustrious Group 2, and who just can't find a professional way to communicate the fact that the guy you're writing about has the IQ of a spatula. You are my people, and this is for you, so allow me to present:

MISS DOXIE'S HANDY NONSPECIFIC LETTER OF NONRECOMMENDATION
(Names changed to protect innocent people who set babies on fire for fun)

CONFIDENTIAL

Members of Some Fancy Ass Committee
Address
More address
City, State
Code of Zip

RE: Letter of Recommendation for Spam Babyburner

To the Members of the Fancy Ass Committee:

I am writing this letter at the request of Spam Babyburner, who has applied for admission to your law school. I hope the following proves helpful as you undertake the difficult admissions process.

I have known Spam for some amount of time, and I can honestly state that, if you are looking for a student like Spam Babyburner to attend your school, then Spam Babyburner is your man. He will absolutely meet your expectations for someone with his qualifications. Furthermore, the abilities and skills he possess will satisfy any requirements you may have for those particular skills and abilities. In addition to everything else, Spam has both interests and hobbies, which he enjoys on some occasions. And, in some limited ways, those interests and hobbies could potentially help Spam to increase in both skill and ability, thereby enriching him as a person.

Spam has numerous accomplishments, including some attendance at both educational establishments and in the professional world. In both places, Spam was continually well known for his various attributes, and clearly met even the lowest expectations for success. I don't think anyone expected less of Spam!

To conclude, having known Spam for an amount of time, I can tell you that there are few people like Spam in this world. As such, Spam is a unique individual, and a far cry from other people who are not precisely the same. I am sure that his uniqueness will make quite a difference at your school.

For the above reasons, I again offer you this letter of recommendation, and I thank you for your time.

Sincerely,
Miss Doxie

P.S.: Spam sets babies on fire.

***

(If you did not guess, the P.S. is both optional and awesome, and absolutely present on Spam's letter. Probably it will not be so applicable to the rest of y'all, unless there is something very, very bothersome that you have not been telling me.)

So, in sum: this may only be funny to me, but the next time someone asks you for a letter of recommendation? You just might thank me then. Or maybe, you will still not think this is funny, in which case, please blame it all on exhaustion and we will just forget that any of this ever happened.

Except, of course, for Spam, who is not likely to forget that he now owes me Reprisals. So, tune in soon, Tokyo, so we can all find out whether Spam set me on fire in a styrofoam cooler. And until then, everyone have a good day! GRP 2 4EVR!

Posted by doxie in General Whining | permalink | Comments (47)

You Can't Have It All, J.C. Wiatt! No One Can!

Everyone in my life, both people who know me and usually see me regularly, and those people who only know me through the computer, are under the impression that I have up and disappeared. I imagine that they think I have run off and joined either a coven or a convent (...could go either way), and that I have given up on the material world and am living on a tropical island wearing a loincloth knitted from the shredded remnants of legal briefs and motions, eating palm fronds and trying to make wine from coconut milk. Sadly, this is not the case.

INSTEAD, the case is that I have been so suddenly and painfully overwhelmed with legal work that I have completely lost contact with the world outside of my office, except I have had LOTS of contact with various clients and employees and workplaces that smell vaguely of vinegar and double entendres, and I have never wished more fervently that this thing we call "client confidentiality" did not exist, because if I could tell y'all what I am in the middle of right now, you would laugh until you died. And then you would buy me a box of wine, drill a hole in the top, and insert a straw, and this would be your thoughtful present to me. And I would not even complain if the wine was pink. THAT IS HOW FAR GONE I AM.

I have a few very close friends who all exchange emails on a daily basis, and even they haven't heard from me since, like, December. Except for every once in a while, when I pop in to utter some complete insanity along the lines of, "Hey, I'm not dead, y'all, and y'all need to come over because I bought a new slipcover for the sofa and it looks really good, and I think I'm going to have this guy arrested this afternoon and my secretary just brought me this really big box and I'm afraid it's got a human head in it so I've gotta go. Later!"

So, in short: I am a little overwhelmed right now. And being overwhelmed makes me talk in a mysterious manner. And then I am like an enigma, wrapped in a riddle, soaked in an acid trip, and then played out on reality television. In short, my life rules. But my emails rule more.

So, because I still haven't managed to write that entry about New Years and the fire and the screaming (although, I have made the video, but it's a windows media file thing; does that mean y'all Mac types can't see it? Because wouldn't THAT be a tragedy), I am going to share the following with you. These are pretty much all of the actual emails I have had the time to write recently. In trying to recreate where the fuck I have been for the last month, this is what I have found. This is also all of the evidence my friends and family and co-workers have to determine what, precisely, has happened to me. I am sure they are planning an intervention. Do people bring wine to interventions? Maybe we can do that tomorrow!

Anyway. E-mails! And I assure you, as much as these fail to make any sense whatsoever to you, they make even LESS sense to the people who actually received them. I am sorry, people whom I love.

THIS IS WHAT THIS MONTH WAS LIKE.

January 7

I am not paying any attention to what I am typing because I can't stop watching Baby Boom. I think I just saw an extra wearing Units. And I thought to myself, what a wonderful world.

January 8

Holy crap, thank you for bringing me food. I was about to starve, and I went up there, and made it as far as the conference room door when I just happened to glance down and catch sight of the fact that I have apparently made a very poor series of bra/shirt fabric weight choices today, and also it is cold, and the resulting nipplage sent me running down the stairs in horror, only the stairs contained [partner], who spoke to me for several minutes while I attempted to look casual with my arms crossed over my chest like a mummy. I have not left my office since. But thanks to you, I am not hungry! Just slutty.

January 9

Hey, good looking! I am writing to ask what you have got cooking.

January 9

ONE. Cut a hole in a box!

January 11

My hair is seceding from the union. I need a cocktail and a caddle prod.

January 12

I bought Dukay one of those toilet paper holders that plays your iPod. It's basically everything he stands for as a person.

January 14

I drew you a beautiful picture out of art and unicorns and opposing counsel.

January 15

He asked me about that code section, too, and I said that nobody knows, as it is a mystery like Stonehenge and the pyramids.

January 16

am engage din a battle to the death with th new compuuuuter systm, which has crashed my computer four tomes this moring and now will only type 1 letter every 6 mmmmmmmmmmminutrs JESUSSS CHRIST.

January 16

But I've always wanted to blow up Paducah!

January 16

I'm doing awesome. Except for the blinding rage I feel towards Lynn Johnson [writer and illustrator of For Better or For Worse.] LYNN, YOU ARE ON THE LIST.

January 16

Seriously, I am going to start keeping mace in my desk. Mace, and wine.

Ooo, and roofies.

January 17

Do you think my dad will laugh if I send him a text message that says, "HI MOTHERFUCKER!"?

January 18

FEATS OF STRENGTH! FEATS OF STRENGTH!

January 19

If I ever have to write a song about a fish, I'm going to call it "Like a Sturgeon." You can't stop me. Nobody can.

January 19

Hey, is a "sturgeon" a fish?

January 20

I will beat him for you.

January 22

I'm taking a five minute break! Bring me an eyebrow pencil and some Sun Chips!

January 22
There are all these billboards all over Atlanta saying I can pay money to "SEE DONALD TRUMP LIVE", but I just want to know how much it would cost to see him the opposite.

January 22

My brain just popped.

January 23

I have decided that people don't exist unless they are standing in my office. So that means you are a figment of my imagination, and I do not have the time to talk to myself right now.

January 23

I am in the market for some tender hugs.

January 24

I made a full-grown man cry yesterday. He deserved it.

(And finally, even though I never do that whole IM thing because I find it all perplexing, I do want to share this bit of conversation I had with Dukay the other day):

Dukay: i just ate some british rugged mature cheese on butterfly butter crackers
Doxie: That sure is fancy.
Dukay: it was that or velveeta
Doxie: I'm trashy and would have gone for spreadability.
Dukay: and orange
Doxie: Know how people use whipped cream during sex?
Dukay: messy people
Doxie: Do you think Britney Spears uses EZ-CHEEZ?
Dukay: that is really disgusting.
Doxie: I know. I'm sorry.
Dukay: can we do that soon?
Doxie: I have put it on my calendar for Friday night.

Doxie: Seriously, I think there is something wrong with me that I just started wondering about Britney Spears and EZ CHEEZ.

(pause.)

Dukay: ok, so we arent going to do that?

Y'all have a good week; I'm going to go have some cheese. And maybe watch Baby Boom again.

And, P.S.: I just got around to reading the comments on the last entry, and, heeeeeee! Y'all are so funny. Please go ahead and send that search party. The first one. With the wine. And Jack Bauer. But not Jack's ooky wax hand, for: ew.

Posted by doxie in General Whining | permalink | Comments (96)

Coming! Coming!

I know, I know! It is blank, and I am awful, and I haven't even told y'all about Christmas, or New Year's, or whether Bo got his virgins (no) or anything else in the world that is important, but I've been out of town for forEVER doing an investigation. And I'm about to head out again, but this time it is only for a day, so we are glad.

I've been working on an entry about all the festivities, and I will have it up just as soon as I can, but I didn't want y'all to think I'd up and died or something. And then I had this really strange dream last night where my whole website caught some crazy artificial-life internet virus and took on a personality all its own, and entries started showing up that I hadn't even written, and in those entries I was portrayed as sort of a mix of Joan Collins and Che Guevara (i.e., a revolutionary bitch). And it was very perplexing to me. As it would have been to anyone, really.

In addition to the investigation, I have also been trying really hard to figure out how to edit a video from our New Year's Eve party. This video is hugely entertaining to me, but I think it is maybe a little bit hard to hear, so I thought, "Well, I will just add captions to this video, which will not be hard, and then I will post it on my site and it will continue to be hugely entertaining to me, while only vaguely entertaining to others, but, hey." Only, that sentence there is evidently the height of folly, because "adding captions to mpg" has turned out to be the most complicated endeavor ever attempted by modern man, on par with air traffic control and dismantling a nuclear warhead. So, one of these days maybe I will figure it out and then we can all witness the climax of our New Year's Eve festivities, which involved (1) fire (2) the breaking of several laws, ordinances and moral codes, including the golden rule of "give a hoot, don't pollute" (but, we only sort of accidentally polluted! Don't tell...Smoky the Bear? I forget which animal enforces that particular rule. Is it an owl? Is it the same owl from the Tootsie Roll commercial? You know, the owl with the mortar board and...glasses, I think? Is that the polluting owl? If it isn't, do you think they are related? Do you think I should move on and not think so much about cartoon owls?) and (3) the Ride of the Valkyries, on a boom box, God help us all.

So, that is that, and now I am off for extended investigation fun. Y'all have a good afternoon, and if Che Guevara, Joan Collins, or a woodland creature wearing a park ranger's hat comes looking for me, please tell them I moved to Finland. To ride with those Valkyries.

Posted by doxie in General Whining | permalink | Comments (62)

They're Heeeeeeere

Lord, it has been...what? Two weeks? Three weeks? Something like that? It has definitely been something like that, and y'all, I wish I had spectacular trips and adventures to tell you about, and that on spectacular trips and adventures was where I've been all this time, but all I can say is, hi. Work is awesome! How are you?

So, I’m kind of far behind in my laundry. I am also kind of far behind in “calling people back,” “reading or responding to emails,” and “bringing the mail from the mailbox to the house.” It has been that kind of busy.

And, right slap dab in the middle of that kind of busy, the Gods of We Hate This House decided to strike again, and I have officially entered that point in Poltergeist where the little girl gets all sucked into the TV (only to be spit out 20 years later as the Ring girl? Hello, new theory!), because clearly, this house is not clean. It is not at rest. The house is haunted by the dead love of Shelley Long and Tom Hanks in the Money Pit, and I am kind of to the point of recognizing that, if it happened in that movie, we can be relatively certain it’s going to happen at my own address. The ghosts have been watching late nights on TBS, and they have been taking notes.

Who are these angry spirits who taunt me? Previous owners? Probably not, seeing as they are not dead, and now live in Birmingham.

Civil War spirits, which are supposed to be kicking it, dead-style, all over the ATL? Again, not likely, because the whole area was just farm land back then, and did not exactly see much action. (Mostly it saw cows.)

Which leads me to the conclusion that this has to be some kind of crazy Poltergeist thing, and I am actually buried on top of ten zillion bodies and Craig T. Nelson is grabbing my collar and screaming they only moved the headstones! They moved the headstones, but they left the bodies! WHY? WHYYYYY?

And maybe Craig T. Nelson is right. Because, please. How else do you explain the fact that now, in addition to doors falling off of their hinges, cabinets falling off of the walls, appliances catching rabies and going on minor killing sprees, AND a big fucking hole in the front yard, I now have, in the backyard:

(1) a mud pit, and
(2) no fence?

How do you explain that? Without resorting to poltergeists, I mean? Because I can’t do it. Sorry. There is otherworldly crap at hand. Please bring me Dr. Peter Venkman.

Here is short story. Short story is, know how I have been really busy lately? I have, and the busy-ness was not really assisted by the fact that my parents have also been out of town for the last two weeks, off visiting Ziz, and so I have also had eight dogs staying at my house. Stupidly, the dogs were allowed to bring their bladders along.

So, I got home one night and opened the back door to let the dogs out in the backyard, so that those bladders could be relieved. And it was dark outside, but still. When I had left that morning, I had been in the possession of a back yard, and a complete and total fence. I felt pretty confident in my belief that those things would still be there now, but as we all know, I am a fucking moron, because guess what I heard.

I heard: BARKBARKBARK, as all eight dogs apparently discovered something of which I was not aware.

And then I heard barkbarkbark as the sounds of eight dogs barking suddenly started to get…farther away. Hmm. Mysterious.

And then I heard: Bark? Which is the sound of Gimmme, all alone in the yard, wondering WHERE EVERYBODY GO?

Curious, I walked outside, and this is where I discovered that there was, in the middle of the backyard, an enormous green earth-moving machine. And I discovered also that the machine had been living up to its name, baby, because all of the earth in my backyard, which had previously contained things like flowers and grass, was fucking gone, replaced entirely by mud, leaves, and tire tracks, and that apparently, the earth mover got a liiiiiiiittle bit carried away, because guess what was also moved? The fence. The fucking fence. A good five feet of it was completely and totally gone.

So, this means seven (Gimmme ran in exactly the opposite direction, and missed his chance for freedom) dachshunds were now embarking on their own tiny, angry prison break up through the neighbors’ yard, exodus-ing all over the neighbor’s rhododendron, and having a very big time. I screamed bloody hell murder that DOGS FREE, and Dukay and I sprang into action by tearing through the mud, up the hill, and basically grabbing anything short, brown, and wiggly, by any short wiggly part we could get a hold of. Ultimately, we managed to gather all seven, while Gimmme continued to wander happily through the destruction of my back yard, all, “Ground is sticky today!” and utterly clueless about the entire rest of the world.

Upon tossing the seven dogs back into the kitchen, I again went outside in my (now-ruined) shoes in order to have a better look at the damage. I tried taking a picture, wondering if this was the sort of thing where I would have to file an insurance claim, and whether that claim would say, “Attack by rogue earth-moving equipment; casualties: yard/fence/sanity,” or whether I should just be honest and tell them that, “Hoodoo of house spreading and infecting nearby construction equipment; exorcism requested.”

Of course, because it was night, most of these pictures did not so much come out. But, I did get one, which sadly does not show the missing fence (it was off to the side), but I still think it is important for Science that I share this with you:

Photographic Proof of Hoodoo Afoot

Let us take this to close-up:

Gimmme also afoot, in mud. Gimmme is what we usually consider "not a flight risk," except then I end up booking it naked down the street, so maybe I am being a little cocky this picture-taking.

Okay, see that? That brown expanse right there? Used to be grass. Which Dukay had actually just mowed two days before, and so it was actually nice, well-trimmed grass. Oh, those were the good old days.

But, also, know what else you see? (Besides….Gimmme?) Ghost. You can see the shimmering spectre of some angry little spirit, taunting me evilly with the loss of my yard/fence/etc. I mean, it’s either a spectre or the neighbor’s light, but I know which side my money’s on, I will tell you THAT.

Grandma?

So, of course, there turns out to be a sort-of acceptable explanation for all this insanity, that being that the water pipe that allegedly busted in the front yard was just the beginning of the water problems plaguing the city at the moment, and it is therefore now necessary for them to dig up my backyard, as well, because there's probably a bust back there, too. Some Scooby-like sleuthing turned up a business card stuck on the front door (which we missed, because we did not come in the front door that evening) announcing that, "Fence will be back tomorrow." Like it just stepped out for a minute. Sick day for fence!

Shockingly, the fence did come back the next day, and the dogs were thrilled to be able to go outside again, and roll orgasmically in the mud that used to be my grass. Notice, however, that the note did not tell me when the grass will be back. It looks like the grass is taking extended personal leave. (Problems at home!) So, I guess things have sort of improved, if a yard full of mud can, in any way, be viewed as an improvement.

But, still, I know better. Because the next time we get rain, I know damn well those coffins are going to start popping up out of the ground all willy-nilly, and Bo is going to be sucked into the television set where he will bark towards the light, and heirlooms are going to start falling out of the ceiling, and Dukay is going to have to throw me into a closet with a dog leash tied around my waist and I am going to have to scream, "RUN FROM THE LIGHT, BO! STOP WHERE YOU ARE! DON'T EVEN LOOK AT IT!" and then I'll pop out of the fireplace cradling the dog, and we will be all covered in strawberry jam and looking ethereal, and also, dead.

So, obviously, we have a lot to look forward to over here! I'm psyched. And if shit doesn't stop happening to and around this damn house, then I'm moving into a Howard Johnson with Craig T. Nelson, where we will be safe and happy, and where the hoodoo will never hurt us, ever again.

At least, not until it's time for a sequel.

Y'all have a good week, and I'll be back later this week with the Gift Guide, and to tell y'all all my little, geeky news. So, stick around, and please don't go into the light.

And now Updated

...because holy shit, I can't believe I forgot to show you the Scariest Picture of All Halloween. Taken in my own house! Because we all know how I get around Halloween time. ("Crazy", is the answer I am going for here. I get "crazy," with the decorating and the festivity and the celebration of death and decay, which....hey there, healthy!)

So, I have Scary Pictures. But, see, we are having a disagreement about the scariest picture. We are a house divided. There are two choices, and y'all, what do you think? Is this the scariest picture of all Halloween, as it is a scary skeleton lit up by a strobe light in an upstairs window, and captured on film at exactly the right second by someone I seriously doubt was myself? I mean, eeeee, right?

Scary Picture Number One

OR, is THIS the scariest picture you've ever seen, captured definitely by me, at the end of a series of decisions to dress Bo in a sweater, no, in a fleece jacket, and then let's put a pumpkin hat on his head, no, that's just not right, no, DUDE, we HAVE to do it, and that is what led to this, o calm before the storm of teeth:

Scary Picture Number AHHHHHHHHHHHH!

And here we are, smack in our dilemma. Which is scarier to you? Looking at the skeleton, are you only vaguely scared, like you watched something on the Disney channel? But then, you looked at the Bo picture and became very scared, right, like, where you have-to-get-up-and-point-at-the-television-and-holler-at-people-scared, because I may have mentioned this before, but sometimes the GIRL comes OUT of the TV?

Now, is that how you felt? Because I am sure there is no middle ground here. Whatsoever.

(Incidentally, I would like to take this opportunity to point out that I am one to talk, because, new thing I just realized the other night: no matter how old I get, and no matter how many times I see it, the movie scene which scares me above all others -- and I have seen a lot of fucking scary movies, people, with blood and gore and beheadings and etc. -- the scariest scene of all time to me is still that scene from the fucking GOONIES, where Chunk goes into the freezer, and there's the dead body all leaning in the corner in the garbage bag, and everyone is just staring at it silently, and...HOLY MOTHER OF GOD. Honestly, it came on the other night, and I couldn't even watch it. I had to look away and squeal, because SCARY BODY IS ABOUT TO FALL ON CHUNK. Maybe someone tossed a glad-wrapped corpse on me when I was a kid, I don't fucking know, but, dude. That scene scares the everloving SHIT out of me, and I have no idea why. HELP ME WITH THIS.)

But, uh. Anyway. Guess that's...it. I just wanted y'all to see those pictures. And tell you about my Goonies problem. And, with all of that out of the way, I'll head on back to the Howard Johnson, because I bet Craig T. Nelson is missing the heck out of me by now. Talk to y'all soon!

Posted by doxie in General Whining | permalink | Comments (69)

Quality Is Overrated

Hi there! Hope you are not looking for something good! Because, I have been a little busy. And apparently, as demonstrated below, I do not have the time for complete sentences. Aren't you psyched?

So basically, here is the short version. And by short version, I mean "now I will go over, in minute detail, the trivial annoyances that have kept me from writing stuff."

It also means, "By the way, I seem to have written this whole thing in the present tense. Seriously, please go read the newspaper. Or a flyer. Or an instruction manual, for God's sake, because this is all I've got and I actually need to get back to work even though it is 11 p.m."

But anyway. Shortish version:

Last week, I go to work, like the little adult I pretend to be. While there, I am informed that I am leaving for Dallas the following day. Dandy.

I catch a 7 a.m. flight to Dallas the next morning. I get to Dallas and I deal with a Crisis, which turns out to be so delightfully crisis-y and compounded that I never actually see my hotel room in Dallas, which allegedly contained (1) a bed, and (2) a shower. Instead, I spend the entire night working in a bitty little office that is quite literally, according to the properties of gravity and physics, too small to contain me, my laptop, and my Delta-approved carry-on bag all at the same time. We take shifts.

It is about sixteen hundred degrees in this office. I am informed that the heat is stuck on high, but that someone is coming to fix it the next day. This does not help me very much.

Also, there is no food. I start chewing on pencils and checking the corners for discarded, hair-covered mints. I am unsuccessful.

The next morning, I arrive at the airport at 5:30 in preparation for my 7 a.m. flight, wearing the same suit that I flew to Dallas in the day before. Only now it is sweatier. In the past 24 hours, I have eaten a total of three peanuts and one half of a slimy, brownish banana that someone located in a breakroom. Everything is closed, and so I prepare to scavenge for unaccompanied children, who I will cook over a spit in a darkened sundries store.

I go through security. I am repeatedly informed, by officious little plastic signs, that I am not allowed to make jokes about bombs. Immediately, all I can think of are a lot of jokes about bombs. There are not very many good jokes about bombs.

I bypass the line of people who are waiting to have their liquids inspected. I feel vaguely superior for having packed no liquids.

Possibly I am a little too cocky about my understanding of the regulations regarding liquids on carry-ons.

Following the x-ray of my bag, I am pulled out of the line, without shoes, and informed that there is a Problem. A very nice man directs me to the holding area for alarming airplane flyers. I have been wearing the same suit for over 30 hours. I smell worse than anybody else, and I am oddly satisfied by that. I plan on using this fact in my defense, as it means that I have obviously not packed any liquid, such as, for example, perfume.

(Or soap, actually. I also have no soap.)

The nice man shakes his head at me. I am informed that I have committed the cardinal offense of bringing lip gloss onto the airplane. Time for beatings.

I am also informed that lip gloss is a regulated item, and is listed on the same page as nunchakus. meat cleavers, and sabers. Also prohibited on this list: cattle prods, throwing stars, and dynamite. I am heartened by the fact that I am reasonably sure that I left my cattle prod at home, but...I mean, you never know! What if I packed it by accident?

Also, in reviewing the list kindly provided by the nice man, all I can think is that this...well, I mean, it's sort of an alarming tableau of kinky. The only way these elements may again be reunited is if they remake Blue Velvet. I think I am funny.

Simultaneously, I think immediately of about fifteen jokes involving lip gloss and bombs. With great effort, I supress.

The nice man starts to go through my bag. I tell him timidly -- as one does when she has no shoes on and her jacket is over there somewhere and so she is in this little camisole shirt thing and she is cold and also possibly a felon -- that I do not wear lip gloss. I am unaware of a lip gloss situation. I am not perpetuating the lip gloss machine! Plus, I do not even own any throwing stars. Basically, what I am saying is, YOU'VE GOT THE WRONG GIRL.

The nice man proceeds to empty the contents of my carry-on. This enables me to see the clean underwear I am not wearing. I sigh.

Nice man sifts through the clothes, and finds my little toiletries bag. He very carefully lifts the bag, as though my lip gloss may detonate at any minute ("Easy, breezy, beautiful, BOOM!"), and sloooooowly unzips the top.

(I am actually all fascinated now, because did someone actually plant lip gloss on my person? That would be...I don't even know. Kind of awesome.)

(I begin imagining a Maybelline Mafia, led by Christy Turlington. They are all armed with eyelash curlers and those white pencils I have no idea what one is supposed to do with. This is sort of pleasing again, and I forget about the underwear problem.)

But I am right smack dab in the middle of the lip gloss problem still, and this is when nice man lets out a little gasp of FOUND IT, and promptly pulls out...a tube of lipstick.

"Lip gloss," he whispers.

"Lipstick," I say. "Which is hard. You know."

He stares, perplexed, at the little tube. And then he opens it, and rolls it on out, and sighs.

"Lipstick!" I say triumphantly, at 6 a.m. and wearing the same suit I have worn for thirty hours. I feel vindicated. I am taking what I can get at this point, and see, I am not a crook, mister nice guy in the vest! I told you I didn't wear lip gloss, you big old non-believer looking out for my well-being!

He continues to stare at the tube. Then he suddenly leans in to me.

"How am I supposed to tell?" he asks in a desperate whisper. "It all looks the same. I've been screening for ten years, but what do I know about makeup? I DON'T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT MAKEUP."

"Well, lip gloss is...wetter," I begin, trying to be helpful. But he has other fish to fry.

"And do you know what they have now?" he continues, about two centimeters away from my face. "They have LIQUID EYELINER. PLEASE TELL ME WHY WOMEN NEED LIQUID EYELINER."

"I don't...hi!" I say. "Hi! Actually, can I have my shoes?"

He is not much listening to me.

"Are Prescriptives prescribed?" he demands. "Is that medicine? Because a lady last week told me that Prescriptives makeup was medicine."

I end up spending a good ten minutes with the nice guy in the vest. He has sort of a working knowledge of makeup brands now. I may have made a joke about Wet 'N Wild being an explosive device that magically transported all wearers back to 1985, but fortunately, he overlooked that. Small plastic signs everywhere quivered in horror. And I am officially the lamest little rebel in all of Texas.

Incidentally, I manage to remember that everything is bigger in Texas.

Simultaneously, I opt not to mess with the state.

Probably for these reasons, I am permitted to board the plane. I am sitting in the middle seat of the second-to-last row.

Next to a baby. And I like babies. But this one is mad.

Although I am bone tired, and still have seven zillion more things to do, and have been detained for transporting dangerous cosmetics, I still recognize the fact that I have officially begun living a cliche. I start looking for white people dancing badly/women shopping/men refusing to ask for directions.

The flight attendant, who recognizes me from the previous day, and apparently recognizes the suit -- or smells the desperation coming off of me in waves (smells like feet!) -- offers me a little bottle of vodka from her pocket. It is 7:16 a.m.

The in-flight movie thingy is about Jennifer Anniston's status as a style icon. It involves a lot of pictures of her breasts, plus startling statements about her personal style, such as the time she wore a red dress. "RED HOT!" hollers the little box on the screen. Two minutes later, she is "THE LADY IN RED!" This makes the baby scream. I understand the baby.

I doze off, only to be immediately shaken awake by nice flight attendant with the vodka, who informs me that I am drooling onto the bosoms of the passenger in seat 48F. I am only mildly horrified by this. Passenger in seat 48F, who had explained to me upon take-off that she was "drugged to the gills" and would sleep through the flight, is entirely unconscious, and has not noticed.

I spend a solid ten minutes debating whether it is proper to clean my own drool off of passenger in 48F. I ask myself repeatedly, "What would Jackie O. do?" I finally realize that Jackie O. would not be caught dead in seat 48E.

Watch more of Jennifer Anniston's boobs. A red dress again? What vision!

The baby has a cold. The baby is travelling with his dad. His dad is sleeping. The baby starts sneezing on me. Copiously.

The flight attendant brings me a washcloth, as the entire left side of my body is covered in snot. She wakes the baby's dad and informs him that baby just sneezed up a gallon of sludge. He tells her to mind her own business.

She offers me the vodka again.

I arrive in Atlanta. I pay one hundred million dollars to retrieve my car. I return to the office, smelling like a jock strap and covered in infant snot. I inform my co-workers that I am sexy. They gag reflexively.

I start working, and quickly realize that I cannot find the paperwork I am supposed to have.

I turn my carry-on bag inside out, before realizing that paperwork in question is probably still on the inspection table in the dangerous-flyers section of DFW airport. With a nice guy in a vest.

I see something small and shiny in the bottom of the bag, way over in the corner, half concealed by the stitching. I reach down, wiggle it out, and hold it up in the light.

It is a tube of lip gloss. And it is made by Wet 'N Wild.

Seriously. Where it came from, I do not know. But this is when I decided to go home.

So, now you know where I've been! And clearly, I've been all busy, being a hardcore lip gloss smuggler. They'll never catch me! I'm Wet! 'N I am Wild! I am too wild to spell out the entirety of the word "and." That is pretty damn wild.

I have, actually, done other things as well, including a trip to the mountains with our bestest friends Spam and Cookie (listen, do not blame me for these nicknames, as they were Spam's own creation, and that is only after he was convinced not to refer to his wife as "Turkey," as was apparently the original plan). And we took pictures of leaves there. And we drank some things, and I was sorry I had not collected all those nice little vodka bottles for later.

But unfortunately, I can't go into much detail about all that awesomeness, as I have to do more work now, because I am still busy as all hell. But here are several things I should type before I go back to typing words like "aforementioned" and "heretofore," which are, at this point, dangerously close to becoming part of my regular vocabulary:

1. I have 1,310 emails. I have read about six of them. I swear I will get to it. If it is some sort of email emergency, please just...I don't know. Alert me somehow! Try faxing!

2. Y'all go here and check out the lovely things these talented people are selling for breast cancer awareness month. Each of them is donating some percentage of their sales to breast cancer related charities, and this is obviously very cool. So shop, but feel totally good about it, and everyone wins! Including boobs!

3. I don't actually have a third thing.

Y'all have a good week, and I will try to stop working for a minute and be back with some actual stories about something or other. Until then, nobody mix lip gloss and a cattle prod. Because that sounds a little too wet 'n wild, even for me.

Posted by doxie in General Whining | permalink | Comments (79)

The Grind Sucks

Well, vacation is officially over, and I am officially home, having officially driven infinity miles in a car with El Dukay. Having just driven infinity miles in the car with Dukay, maybe I could take this opportunity to remind everyone that Dukay and I have a fundamental difference of opinion when it comes to Music, What Constitutes, as opposed to Horrible Nonsensical Sound, Definition Of. I could do this now. I could remind you of that fact. I could also remind you that spoons are sometimes involved in Dukay's version.

But, no. No! I won't stoop to such...lows. Or something. Mainly, because I complained about that already last year, and I should probably try to be at least remotely creative. As such, maybe it would be a good time to tell you about my vacation, if you are interested in that sort of thing (i.e., "Me me me me me!"), but I really, I don't have much to report on that front. The beach was awesome, and this was pretty much what I looked at every single day for the past two weeks:

Leigh's Knees. It's rhyme-y!

Only now, that is all over, and my view will be significantly different when I get to work tomorrow and behold the massive pile of undone things sitting on my desk, vying desperately for attention against the persistent, blinking light of the voicemail inbox, which is all, "Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey? Hey? Hey! Hey!" until you finally listen to the damn messages, and I am just totally not excited about any of it. Boo, work. Yay, knees on a beach.

The vacation was awesome, though, and obviously, I am very glad to have been able to take the time off, and I am very glad that I got to hang out with my family, and that I got to vacate with El Dukay, who managed to show up even though he kind of missed the highway the first time and practically ended up in a whole nother state by the time he was tracked down, but I am not supposed to mention that here, because the whole experience left him a little bit testy, people. So testy, in fact, that it was necessary to employ super-intensive calming-down measures, which meant that my mother and I had to visit not one, but two different liquor stores, to procure all of the ingredients necessary for super-intensive calming. Fortunately, we were successful, because my mother and I can sniff out liquor from a mile away, which makes us remarkably useful in very, very limited situations. Here, however, our skills were in full effect, and I am sure you were all proud.

I am sure you will also be proud to learn that, you guys, I am actually...slightly tan! Not really tan, and I am certainly not approaching the Orange Fanta wonder that is the jet-setting Hollywood crowd, but at least I no longer look like I've been chained to Bob Cratchit's basement desk for sixteen years. I am just not a very tanny person. My skin kind of stays the same general color, no matter what you do to it, so I am relatively pleased to be able to look at my legs and not see a pair of white tights, circa 198-"I-was-six" glowing back up at me. Now I have kind of graduated to "off-white." Or, "ivory tights that need washing." I am considering my vaguely dirty skin color to be a definite improvement.

But, here is another thing, as long as I have completely stepped outside of any semblance of "order:" As much as it sucks to come back and have to go back to work like a productive taxpaying voting adult, I am also very excited about seeing the many dogs, who we will pick up tomorrow. They have been staying at the vet boarding place for two weeks, which means that they (and here I mean "Bo") will be furious with us, and that I will soon be cleaning stealthily-laid poop off of everything I hold dear (and here again, I am referring to Bo) and that won't be very fun, and this reminds me to go buy some Lysol, actually, but we've really missed them. And, consequently, we, as a family, had ourselves a Summit on the State of Vacation during this trip, and have decided that from now on, we're only going places where dogs are actually allowed, because leaving them behind really blows. Not only in the sense that we miss them, which we do; nobody ELSE on this vacation has gleefully secreted himself away with my handbag, only to be discovered twenty minutes later, amid the ripped paper wrappers from the ten thousand tampons now littered crazily about the room, rolling on his back over his small white kill in unparalleled, cotton-induced ecstacy (see: Bo, two weeks ago). No! Not just because we miss those extra trips to the 24-hour CVS, but also because, know what? According to actual math, done on paper with the aid of the calculator function on my cell phone, it has actually cost more to lodge the DOGS for two weeks than it cost us to rent a whole entire condo for the same amount of time. The dog's room and board cost more than our own.

Is that...I mean, y'all, that's insane, right? Our condo had indoor plumbing and a microwave oven! I am relatively sure that the dogs, at the boarders, have enjoyed neither of these luxuries. I am equally sure that they would not really benefit from indoor plumbing, except to the extent that sometimes when it is raining Bo will sneak off to a bathroom and pee on the side of the toilet, because he is a crazy, ridiculous animal. And I will also add that this is something which I have only recently discovered, and which made me feel much, much better about life in general, because up to that point, I'd been convinced that there was a serious problem with Dukay, and I had been secretly entertaining some probing questions about his psychology/anatomy/aim. So, in that one, limited instance, the indoor peeing was actually quite a delightful discovery.

Not that this...has anything to do with my vacation. Nobody peed on the side of the toilet during the vacation. And that was...sad, I guess, and that is why we should bring the dogs next time! See there? It all comes together. The end!

So, if you could not tell from the above paragraphs, I am tired, and it is 12 a.m., and I have definitely spent too much time in the car today, so I will do us all a favor and wrap this up with the three best things about the vacation (aside from the eating and the drinking and the hanging with loved ones and lounging and the beach and the general sense of not-going-to-work that abounded during that time. Besides those things.) Those three things are:

1. Voicemail message from my sister's boss, received as she got off of her flight to the beach; contents of such were, "Hey, Ziz...um, bad news. See, we, uh...we just got some reports that there are snakes? On your plane. So, you know, that...sucks, but have a totally good vacation, though."

I will be leaving this message for all people in the future. Even people I do not know.

2. License plate, depicting fisherman in the morning mist (please take a moment now to imagine the beauty), secretly purchased by Dukay, my mother, and myself, and then custom airbrushed with the name "HOSS", which was then quietly affixed to the front of my father's new car, and which he failed to notice for QUITE SOME TIME until we were all just crushed under the weight of our own collective brilliance and could not stop giggling about the plate of great embarassment we had saddled upon him, and so we began engaging in all of these ridiculous antics in an attempt to direct his attention to the front of the car ("Dad! DAD! Is that an ant, or is that lint? Will you check?") so he'd finally see it already, only that didn't work. So ultimately, Mom hopped up on the damn hood, only Dad was all, "AHHH NEW CAR PAINT WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH YOU PEOPLE SERIOUSLY WITH YOUR ANTS AND LINT AND HOPPING?", and so Dukay and I had to physically jump on the poor man, pin him to the ground, and say, "LOOK! YOUR CAR SAYS HOSS IN AIRBRUSH!" and he totally does not get it at all, but the rest of us think we are some kind of comic geniuses.

Hee. Listen, I will continue to find this funny until I die. Hoss!

3. The fact that I did NOT see any sharks whatsoever, but this is tempered by the fact that I did torture myself by watching Jaws on television, which always leads me to believe that there are Jaws sharks everywhere in the water, including in the swimming pool and in particularly deep showers, and I cannot be dissuaded from this belief. Everyone else thinks I am crazypants, but as proof of my complete, undeniable right-ness, I will leave you with this totally unmanipulated picture, shot of me and Ziz, some time last week.

Ziz thinks we're going to need a bigger boat.

See? Jaws sharks! Everywhere! Danger! Watch out for puddles.

So! In conclusion: I am back, and I will hopefully be slightly more coherent in the coming days. Which would be nice, because otherwise, the stacks of work, the blinking voicemails, and the stealth-pooping dogs (Bo) are going to drive me right back to crazy. And I'll probably be listening to spoons all the way.

Posted by doxie in General Whining | permalink | Comments (47)

Talk To Your Doctor Today!

Internet, we need to have a little talk about your health. Please ask yourself: are you sleeping too much? Have you consumed nothing but deep fried foods and wine for the past three days? Are you kind of dumber right now than you were last week? To that end, do you know way, way too much about Nicole Richie's collarbone and Kate Hudson's marriage?

If you have answered "yes" to any of the above-questions, then Internet, you may have Vacation With Doxie's Family. Vacation With Doxie's Family can happen to anyone, and it can strike at any time. And just because you think you live a clean lifestyle with no sex, drugs, or rock 'n roll, does not mean that you cannot catch this condition, which results in weight gain, drunkenness, a marked increase in profanity, and the tendency to form actual opinions about things like Nicole Richie's collarbone and Kate Hudson's marriage.

If you think you may have caught Vacation With Doxie's Family, early detection is critical. You should be on the lookout for the following symptoms:

Grocery lists that contain only three items, only one of which is unrelated to drinking. Implication here being that (1) food is completely secondary at this point in our lives, and (2) shopper is somehow not bright enough to remember "ice, chicken, vodka" if left to shopper's own devices, and therefore, these items must be listed on a piece of paper, in pen, in order to ensure that follow-up grocery store trips are not necessary.

(Note: Despite the existence of said note, indeed, follow-up trips were necessary, because Dad bought the wrong kind of vodka, which led my mother to threaten divorce, and led my dad right back out to the liquor store again, because...Citron? Doesn't he even know the woman he's been married to for 35 years?)

Existence of strange, button-type object below window. I am not very sure about this one; it seems to be some sort of fountain. I am personally enjoying the beach chairs arranged around it, as if people have been sitting and staring at the thing for hours, waiting for it to start making some kind of sense. It is like our own plastic Alabama Stonehenge! Created in the night, by very tan druids.

Contents of freezer, which include alcohol, more alcohol, Fla-Vor-Ice (now extra fruity, I am told), and frozen corn dogs, for all our extra protein and assorted carbohydrate needs. Please also note the wrongly-purchased Citron that has been shoved to the back, where it sits, squat and short and mad, like a little Napoleon all exiled to Elba.

Refrigerator drawer filled with pretty fruit, but key fact here is that pretty fruit is now tainted and horribly ruined by the fact that KNOW WHAT IS IN THAT BAG? BAIT. Dad's fucking BAIT. And, I am sorry, but I just do not think that wrapping FUCKING BAIT in a non-hermetically sealed grocery bag is sufficient to prevent slithery bait germs from crawling all over my peaches. So now, peaches are destroyed, and must be fed to passing sea gulls and bitsy little sand crabs.

Horrifying shifts in reading material.

Internet! If you recognize any of these symptoms within your own living space, and if you have suddenly developed an intense, burning need to announce our collective responsibility, as a human people, to FEED NICOLE RICHIE, OH MY GOD, SHE IS WASTING AWAY BEFORE OUR EYES AND THIS IS EVERYBODY'S PROBLEM, then you should check with your doctor to see if Xanax, Penicillin, AfterSun, or a flat-out lobotomy are the right choice for you.

Vacation with Doxie's Family: It affects all of us. And you could totally be next.

(P.S.: Incidentally, if you could not tell from the above, I will go ahead and reveal that obviously, I am having a really, really good time. Y'all come on over! You can have the Citron!)

Posted by doxie in General Whining | permalink | Comments (70)

And Then Kubla Khan Said We Should All Just Look At A Puppy

If you have to work for a very long time, and then you finish everything and realize that, oh: now I kind of have nothing to do for a few days, then maybe you will do something productive with your random abundance of time. Maybe you will volunteer for the Peace Corps, or learn how to cook, or commune with nature in an outdoor fashion. Maybe you will take that opportunity to catch up on your pathetic emailing, because every time you even look at your inbox, the weight of the unanswered and unread mail makes your brain go hazy with terror. Or, hello, maybe you will just do some fucking laundry already, as you have pretty much reached the point where you are clothed only in a loincloth and hair, because nothing is clean, exactly NOTHING, and you are seriously considering just BUYING some socks and underwear instead of actually washing those which you already own, because that is the kind of laundry-backlog we are discussing. Maybe that is what you will do with your unexpected downtime.

Or. On the other hand, you could just sit on your ass and stare vacantly at the television set. You could cover yourself in a blanket of weiner dogs and eat Ben and Jerry's "Pistachio Pistachio" ice cream while watching the abomination that is the personage of Tori Spelling trying, in vain, to get her dumb self killed in the cinematic masterpiece that is Mother, May I Sleep With Danger? And, being that you know a thing or two about the Spelling family's recent drama (thanks, Us Weekly!), you kind of imagine that Candy Spelling would be all, "What, Tori? May you sleep with danger? Absolutely. Have a party. Sleep with a lot of danger, O Child Who Has Brought Shame Upon This Household, And I Am Not Just Talking About That Time You Played Screech's Girlfriend On Saved By The Bell." And that kind of makes you giggle, while you readjust your loincloth and weave pistachio shells into your unkempt hair. Maybe THAT is what you will do. Y'all just go and guess which one I chose.

Anyway, so sitting on my ass has been pretty uneventful, and so I don't really have much to share, but I am trying to resolve not to have any more Blank. It's like a New Year's resolution, even though it is currently July. Whatever. I am turning over a new leaf! Even if I have to write about Tori Damn Spelling, I'm posting something. I am sure everyone is breathless with glee over this prospect, because yes, that is what we have all desired: to see what random shit is lurking in my brain. Superb! Sounds like a fantastic plan! Off we go!

And actually, on that entirely self-absorbed note, have y'all ever just...gotten a phrase stuck in your head? Like, it is not really a phrase that makes sense at all, but just, like -- I don't know, some words? And you keep thinking them, and they keep popping into your head for no discernable reason, and you really, really wish that you had some excuse to say whatever it is out loud, because it just seems like that would be really, really satisfying?

...Y'all? Hello?

Okay, so maybe this has not happened to you, but it's been happening to me quite a bit lately. A few weeks ago, I couldn't stop quoting Samuel Taylor Coleridge, of all fucking people, and spent waaaaaay too many hours silently reciting "In Xanadu did Kubla Khan/ A stately pleasure-dome decree," which is actually a pretty good rhythm for Crazy, particularly if you kind of rock your body in sync to the words. While twitching. And when someone says, "Did you just say something under your breath?" you get to say, "Uh, I said 'In Xanadu did Kubla Khan/A Stately Pleasure Dome Decree', and then I kind of...you know, rocked," and maybe you will end up with medication. Score!

So, that was before. Now, the new phrase, which is far less literary, but equally pernicious, is: Participating Eyebrow. These are the words I cannot get out of my head. Participating eyebrow.

This phrase does not make any sense whatsoever, and I would venture to guess that nobody in the history of the world has placed these two words next to each other in such a fashion as to describe an eyebrow as "participating" (in what? Bocce?), but I am blazing new trails here. I have also decided that the phrase needs a definition, so I determined that when someone can raise an eyebrow in surprise, or in performing an impersonation of one-half of Jack Nicholson, the "Participating Eyebrow" is the brow that takes part in the action. It's the raising brow. It is the participating eyebrow.

Sadly, I have not had the opportunity to use the phrase, and it's annoying me. I think it would be peculiar to just walk up to someone on the street and say "Participating eyebrow!" but oddly, that is exactly what I feel like doing. I will probably get arrested.

I was trying to explain this phenomenon to our best friends, when one of them said that he'd had a similar phrase stuck in his head. After a trip to Whole Foods, he had found himself unable to stop thinking the words "throbbing purple eggplant." To which I said: Ew. And also: Excuse me while I share your dirty brain with the internet.

Now, that is just...disturbing. I mean, I might rock in rhythm to my mantra of eighteenth century poetry, but at least I am not some kind of vegetable pervert. I've got some standards, people! I mean, obviously I do. Lots of standards. Indeed, let's see what happens when I spill the contents of my brain on y'all poor unsuspecting people. In the prior paragraphs, I have discussed:

Loincloths
Pistachios
Rocking
Xanadu
Participating Eyebrows
Throbbing purple eggplants
Tori Spelling

Yes. That is some deep shit, right there. Welcome to my brain: Less Bell Jar, and more Melting Pot.

So anyway, because this has been fucking fascinating, I am sure, I will leave you with this last bit of delightfulness, and maybe that will prevent angry people from sticking my head on a stake or something. Because, I have pictures to show you! They are not drawrings, but photographs (remember those? Photo entry!) and, frankly, y'all are maybe not ready for all this adorableness that is about to be all up on your computer screen. I mean, people -- are you ready for the snoogly? Because, I have brought you some snoogly.

But, first: minor backstory. I have to tell you about Darlene. Darlene is a charter member of the 24 Viewing Crew. As such, she comes to my house every Monday, drinks along at all the necessary words, laughs with the rest of us troublemakers until a very late and irresponsible hour, and sometimes has to sleep in a guest room. That is a pretty standard Monday for the 24 crew.

Now that 24 is over, though, we have all started watching Lost. None of us had seen it before, so I picked up Season 1, and we began at the beginning, as one does. That way, we can continue to hang out on Mondays, because really, the company is more important than the show.

(And oh, ew. Isn't that just such a mushy and saccharine little thing for me to say, here on this Tuesday morning? It totally is. 'The company is more important than the show!' Ugh. Listen, what I meant was, "the company is more important than the show, because Bo and I are working on a plan to skin them all and bake them into an enormous pot pie. Personally, I’m on this 'Ed Gein-meets-Martha Stewart' kick, and want to use their skulls as soup bowls (which I will then stencil!), but Bo thinks that we should make them into some lovely ceremonial hats. Anyway, will eat all the guests soon.")

(Or, possibly that is taking things too far in the other direction. Maybe threatening to eat your guests and make their skulls into soup bowls is really not nice. But maybe I am just not a very nice person. Tori Spelling, for example, probably thinks I am an enormous bitch.)

(Actually, now that I think about it, maybe none of this backstory was necessary. Hmm.)

(Anyway.)

So, we love Darlene, and Darlene loves us, and Darlene loves dogs, and Darlene’s awesome dachshund Benson died in May and it was horrible and bad, but then she had herself a birthday, and so…meet Jackson. And he is named for Jack Bauer, as it should be.

Hello. My hobbies include being squooshy, taking naps, and world domination.

Hello, human mother. I now own you, and you shall be a pawn in my master plan.

AHHH! WAIT. Put me down immediately! I have a master plan for world domination! I am not for cuddling!

Free at last, to roam the den like my wild dachshund ancestors! No cage can hold me!

ROAM ROAM ROAM.

ROAM ROA-well, helloooo, interesting greenish person.

Dammit! Captured! Stop picking me up, people! You are interfering with the master plan!

Although...perhaps a small snuggly.

But, no! I will not give in! Instead, I shall use violence to escape!

HA HA HA! FREE AGAIN!

...and, snatched again. But NOT FOR LONG, SIR.

You shall now be distracted by my tiny adorable kisses!

HA HA MAN CAPTOR! You too have been fooled by my trickery! AGAIN I ROAM FREELY.

World domination, here I come! Jackson OUT.

(Five minutes later)

Or, I could just sleep on these boobs here. Whichever. Master planzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

And thus ends the smooshy, the Xanadu, and the Tori Spelling. Let's hope those elements never again combine.

Y'all have a good week!

Posted by doxie in General Whining | permalink | Comments (122)

It's Alive! ALIIIIIIIIVE!

Hey there, internet! How you doing? I am doing great. Previously, I was not doing so great! Now, however, I am totally awesome, and let me tell you why. See below.

Here is the short version. ("Short" being relative in my world, but you know.) See, the "short" version is that a few weeks ago, I went to my doctor. The doctor referred me to a specialist, who then found An Issue, as specialists are wont to do. The Issue, naturally, required biopsies and Atrocious Medical Procedures. Said biopsies and Procedures occurred today, and I have been preparing for them for a while, and preparing to miss work for a while (because I've had to take off most of this week), and therefore, no posting. I am sorry! But it was all very scary and wrong, and I just did not really want to talk about it. Except, you know. To all the people I know in real life, who had to deal with me saying things like "Golf ball sized tumor?!?! YOU GUYS I HAVE A GOLF BALL IN ME AHHHHH" for a very painful and prolonged period of time. To those fortunate individuals, I said these things a lot. Kind of...constantly, actually. I am sure they are all ready to beat me to death with a nine iron.

Now, the happy bit is that the Tumor turned out not to be an evil tumor, as previously diagnosed, and instead, just angry bits of skin that have decided to congregate on my insides and be pissed with the world. They will ultimately have to be removed with terrifying surgery, but for now, I can be relieved and happy and not worried about a whole revolutionary situation brewing in my internal business. So, yay! Yay to all of that!

Of course, reaching this point has been a whole Exercise in Unfun, culminating today with much sadness and I have to mention that YOU GUYS THEY PUT AN IV IN ME. To the surprise of exactly nobody, it turns out I suck at having an IV in me. I have...kind of a thing with needles. As with most people, I hate needles. But we reach new levels of pathological phobia when it comes to needles in my arm. This whole escapade has involved a lot of blood being taken, and every time someone removes more of my blood, I am immediately transformed into the worst patient ever. I have a very fight-or-flight response to needles in the arm, and as soon as someone comes in with that sharps container, I start looking for the nearest exit. I am getting ready to run. I will bite, if necessary. I am scared slap to death.

So, even though I have dealt with far greater pain and discomfort recently, the IV situation today was pretty much more than my small, cowardly brain could handle. Fortunately, I had been told that the IV would go in, but that I would be knocked out in 30 seconds, so I wouldn't even really notice. And so I had thought it would not be so bad. Turns out: No.

Instead, they put the IV in. And three minutes later, as I was buttcrawling all over the bed in horror, all AHHH GET IT OUT GET IT OUT THERE IS A NEEDLE IN MY ARM OH MY GOD, WHY AM I STILL AWAKE? the nurse announced that, oh. That is just a saline solution. We don't give you any anesthetic until the doctor gets here. And, she's running about a half-hour late. So, sit tight! And don't move much, because in case you forgot, there is a needle stuck in your arm, and you don't want it to break off inside of you.

This is what she said. This is also when my brain exploded.

Now, y'all. Yes. Yes! I am the biggest wimp of all time, but this completely fucked with me. For an hour, a solid fucking hour, I lay by myself, needle in my FUCKING ARM, in a cold room, with only a little hospital nightie on. I spent that entire time listening to a beeping heart monitor which reminded me that indeed, I AM freaking out, because it was going BEEPBEEPBEEPBIPPITYBEEP very fast and I have a golf ball sized tumor and a damned NEEDLE in my ARM, and in sum, I was not a happy camper.

When the doctor finally arrived, she was all business. She walked in, looked at me, motioned to the nurse, and into the IV went the sleepy stuff. The last thing I remember was the nurse telling me that according to protocol, blah blah blah, and I actually raised my good arm, hollered "PROTOCOL, DRINK!" and then, everything went black. I am sure they think I am deeply troubled.

I woke up later, with both of my parents standing next to me. They said things, which I do not remember. I do vaguely remember being wheeled out of the hospital in a wheelchair. I also vaguely remember telling the nurse who wheeled me out that I loved her as a person. I also vaguely remember eating two sandwiches and most of a bag of potato chips in the car on the way home, because I had been without food for 40 hours, and was about to die of starvation.

What happened next, however, has been reconstructed, CSI forensic-style, from physical and documentary evidence. Apparently, I got home. Apparently, I sent some emails, including some to my boss. Apparently, I took a nap upstairs in my shoes, bra, and jeans, and apparently, I also ANSWERED THE FRONT DOOR LIKE THAT when a poor, unsuspecting florist came and delivered flowers. I have no recollection of any of these events. And yet, that is probably for the best.

When I finally woke up and stopped being fascinated by things like my own hands (bendy!), I had a string of people calling and visiting, and bringing wonderful get-well gifts, such as Girl Scout cookies and wine. Robyn brought me a whole bag of delightfulness, including magazines and books, and really, my friends and family are all so awesome.

So, now you know! That is where I've been. And now I am back, and free of those pesky golf ball-sized tumors and needles in the arm, and that is good enough for me. Sadly, however, it is probably not good enough for the florist. I owe that florist a drink. And possibly some Girl Scout cookies.

P.S.: For those of you wondering, I know I got tagged for a meme thing by Holly, and I will get to it when the world is less moving.

P.P.S.: Also, I only now realized that I just watched an entire episode of Lost. On mute. Without noticing. This did not detract from my enjoyment, and to that I say yay, pharmaceuticals! Seriously, life is very entertaining to me right now. Do you guys have any glow sticks?

Posted by doxie in General Whining | permalink | Comments (97)

Seriously, You Guys, It Wasn't My Skull

Okay, y'all. So I got home Monday evening, and the pallets? GONE. They were GONE. I almost cried. We had such big plans.

They left as mysteriously as they came. No note. Not even a post-it. They violated my pinestraw and left no token of affection. No memorabilia of love; no recollection of adoration! The pallets just used my yard. The pallets were bastard pallets.

However, I am not at all sorry for that imposition, because I must say that the comments section of the last entry was the funniest damn thing I have ever read. I was laughing out loud, reading them to Dukay, tears running down my face, while he looked at me, all, "You should be heavily medicated." Whatever. Y'all are funny.

And, hello! So, here is the news I have today, and that is YOU GUYS. My SISTER'S NAME was on television last night. We are ever so excited.

She worked on that show Teachers, and was mentioned in the credits. And her name was not on the screen for long, but it was there, and it was quicklikethis but still, her whole name! And we all screamed and jumped around yelling I SAW IT I SAW IT DID YOU SEE IT I SAW IT and I immediately called my mother who answered and she was screaming I SAW IT I SAW IT and the phone was ringing off the hook and everyone in Atlanta was apparently jumping up and down because my sister is almost famous now.

(If you would like to support my family members and also maybe see realquicklikethis my sister's name, y'all watch Teachers next week. Especially if you, I don't know. Have a Nielson box in your home. Then please watch Teachers constantly, because they need this show to be picked up, and then my sister will be almost famous-er, and maybe she will buy me an island. Any path gets me closer to owning an island is a path I will choose to take. You cannot argue with my logic here.)

So, naturally, upon seeing Ziz's name, it was immediately necessary to call her and squeal some more. This is how the squealing went:

Phone: Rings.

Ziz: Hello?

Self: ZIZ! Your NAME was on the TELEVISION! Are you so excited?

Ziz: I actually missed it, because I was working, but, yes! For a fraction of a second, I ruled.

Self: You DO rule! Go, you. Hanging with all the famous people…

Ziz: I know!

Self: …kissing all the famous peo—

Ziz: WHOA THERE. HALT. NO. You may NOT write about my love life on your website.

Self: Who said write? I would never –

Ziz: I hear you typing, liar.

Self: Okay, yes, dammit, but there you are all big in L.A., and you call and tell me these incredible stories, and I have to just sit on all this good gossip.

Ziz: Yeah, I cry for you.

Self: SIGH. You are really testing my loyalties here, little lady.

Ziz: See, and I can do that, because I was vaguely famous for a fraction of a second.

Self: Yeah. But, dude, can’t you give me something to write about? A snippet? I just need a snippet!

Ziz: What, about a famous person?

Self: Yeah! Anything. Even just a sighting or something. I can still make nineteen paragraphs out of it, for I am wordy.

Ziz: Yeah, so I noticed. Okay, let me think. Hmm. There's...Oh!

Self: ?

Ziz: Okay: So, today, Mel Brooks asked to hold my hair.

Self: …

Ziz: He’s really nice.

Self: How do you…what?

Ziz: What, what?

Self: “Hold your hair”?

Ziz: Yeah, it was raining.

Self: And…okay, I fail to see how that particular fact is relevant, but I mean, are we talking about the hair that is attached to your head, currently? Or do you have some alternate hair? Hair that is independent from your scalp?

Ziz: No, my hair. Attached-to-my-scalp hair.

Self: I…what?

Ziz: See, it was raining, and my hair was all frizzy when I went into the studio, and Mel Brooks walked up to me and handed me an umbrella and said, “Do you know what this is?”

Self: Aw! Mel Brooks made a funny at you!

Ziz: I know! He is adorable. And I laughed and said, yeah, I understand the concept, but I am only a lowly production assistant and they do not let me work with the big equipment yet. And then he asked to hold my hair.

Self: See, and this is where you are losing me again. “Hold your hair.”

Ziz: Like, touch it or whatever.

Self: Huh.

Ziz: Because it was all frizzy and crazy from the rain. Everyone always wants to touch my hair.

Self: And…did you let him?

Ziz: Shit, yeah! It’s Mel Brooks!

Self: Yeah, I totally would have let him touch my hair, too.

Ziz: I wanted to tell him I’ve gone to plaid. Or that funny, he doesn’t look Druish. Something to let him know that I think he is awesome.

Self: Well, you let him hold your hair. Not everyone gets such special treatment.

Ziz: Very true. Like, if Tom Cruise wanted to hold my hair, I would have him arrested.

Self: Yeah.

Ziz: Yeah.

(pause.)

Self: So, one time Gerald McRaney held my skull.

Ziz: OH, HERE WE GO.

Self: What?

Ziz: Do you ever not have a story? Seriously. I can go all day telling people that Mel Brooks held my hair and everyone will just look at me, all stunned, because how do you compete with that? You can’t. Until I tell you, and OF FUCKING COURSE you’re all, well, Gerald McSomeone held my skull.

Self: McRaney! He was Major Dad!

Ziz: And he…oh yeah, I remember him. So, fine, go on and tell me, I know you're just dying to get this out. He held your skull.

Self: Yeah. Well, not mine personally, but a skull I had with me at the time.

Ziz: Wait, what the hell are you talking about? You were carrying a spare skull? Are you studying forensics on the side?

Self: No, it was—

Ziz: I’m sorry, is this phone call interrupting your important archeological dig?

Self: NO, I –

Ziz: Be honest. There’s a femur in your handbag right now. Isn’t there.

Self: SHUT UP. It was not a person skull it was a cow skull thing.

Ziz: Yeah, that’s waaaaaay more normal.

Self: No, it was like a tourist souvenir from New Mexico or whatever, and…

Ziz: Listen, you can justify this all you want, but you might as well not bother. This phone call is definitely being tapped by this point. You just went up on about seven watch lists, Miss Travels With Skull.

Self: On a plane!

Ziz: You took a skull on a plane? HEY FBI! DID YOU GET THAT? MY SISTER TOOK A SKULL ON A PLANE. ALSO I THINK SHE HATES FREEDOM.

Self: Listen, it is a long story, and it was not mine, but I did find myself in the position of flying back from New Mexico with a big old cow skull, or bull skull, or some damn thing, in a canvas sack.

Ziz: Sure thing, Georgia O’Keefe.

Self: And it was all delicate and breaky, and so I carried it with me on the plane, and put it in the overhead compartment…

Ziz: You put a fucking head in the overhead compartment? Of an airplane?

Self: Um. Yes.

Ziz: Wait, this is truly beginning to disturb me. How the fuck did you get through security with a fucking HEAD?

Self: I guess they see them a lot. It’s a big tourist item, they didn’t even look twice at my traveling head.

Ziz: This may be the most alarming thing I’ve ever heard, and yet I must hear more. Go on. So you are traveling with a skull in the overhead compartment –

Self: Yeah, only it shifted around up there during the flight, and so when I tried to get it out when we landed, I couldn’t reach it.

Ziz: Uh huh.

Self: So I’m hopping up and down and trying to get my arms back there when the man in the seat behind me goes, “Allow me,” and reaches in there and grabs the sack, and pulls it out.

Ziz: Uh huh.

Self: And it was Major Dad! And I was about to thank him when he glanced inside the sack, and did a double take, and looked at me, and then looked at the bag, and then opened the bag, and then looked at me, and I was like, “…”, and he was like, ‘Here’s your…head,” and I said, “Thank you Major Dad,” and then he got off the plane very fast.

Ziz: And went immediately to the nearest police station.

Self: Most likely. I was traveling with head.

Ziz: Huh. I really – yeah, I don’t have any response except “huh.”

Self: It’s weird, though, isn’t it? Mel Brooks held your hair. Gerald McRaney held my skull.

Ziz: Yes. What an unusual “coincidence.”

Self: We are destined to have body parts held by famous people!

Ziz: It’s like a super power we can’t control! If only we could choose the part. And the person.

Self: Yeah, I’d take “boobs” and “George Clooney.”

Ziz: “Butt” and “Kiefer Sutherland.”

Self: Sigh. Those are way better than “left ear” and “Tony Danza.”

Ziz: “Little toe” and “Steven Segal.”

Self: Oh, ew. Under NO CIRCUMSTANCES do I want these people to hold my parts.

Ziz: Well, stay out of L.A., then. I don’t think I can protect you. It is your destiny.

Self: Some help you are. Here I am, thinking you’re all important after your name was on the television for a fraction of a second.

Ziz: Shut up. I am totally famous now.

Self: Yeah, you – hey! You are!

Ziz: Damn skippy.

Self: So…Ziz?

Ziz: Wha-- oh. NO.

Self: Will you…hold my spleen? It’s just so heavy, and –

Ziz: (click)

Self: – warm, and…hello?

Ziz: (dial tone)

Self: …hee. Funny to me, though.

So, there you go. Famous people hold our stuff. It is not something we can control; it is a force of nature too strong to be reckoned with. I am hoping this ultimately leads to groping with Jude Law, but I think we all know that will never happen. No. That is not how my life works. Instead, the next time I wear a bathing suit, I'll run into a handsy Gary Busey, and will be forced to hide behind some nearby pallets until the nightmare finally -- and mercifully -- ends.

Posted by doxie in General Whining | permalink | Comments (10982)

The Correct Answer To This Question Is Oh My God, Stop Thinking About This Right Now, You Crazy Woman.

Hi, people! Welcome to Monday. I have issues.

Actually, what I have is an unusual problem. It is a problem of so much unusualness that I am going to ask you all to tell me what, precisely, you would do if faced with this problem. Now, I warn you. Just because this problem is unusual does not mean that it is not stupid. It is. This problem is completely lame.

The lameness, however, makes me no less flummoxed. WWJD? Or, as Dukay says, What Would Jack Bauer Do? (In other situations, answers to this question have included, "Jack Bauer would tie Bo to the radiator until he talks!" and "Jack Bauer would eat the shit out of some barbecue!" We ask that question kind of a lot in my house.)

So, here is situation. I woke up this morning at 6 to an ungodly amount of noise, coming from both inside and outside of my home. The outside noise, I soon discovered, was the result of an enormous truck in the middle of my street, backing up to the neighbor's house, all BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEEEEEEP. The inside noise was the dogs responding hysterically (AHHHH) to the beeping. I ultimately calmed them down and went back to bed, and had pretty much forgotten about the whole event by the time I (eventually) got up.

So, I got up and dressed and showered (not in that order, actually) and walked outside in the rain, and that is where I was surprised to find several pallets of materials sitting on my yard.

Hmm, said I.

These pallets are not mine, I said.

The pallets glared at me, mysteriously. They, however, said nothing.

It was really pouring, so I ran over to them, pulling my coat over my head, and tried to figure out what they could be. They looked like landscaping materials, but I couldn't figure out what they contained, because they'd been shrink wrapped. Whatever it was, was lumpy. And it was a lot of something lumpy. I looked for a packing slip or some delivery information: no. I looked for a company name on the pallets: no. I looked for ANYthing that might explain from whence these mystery pallets originated, or where they were actually supposed to go: no.

I thought maybe there would be a delivery slip in my mailbox or on the front door. No. I thought maybe there would be a phone number or packing slip under the shrink wrap, so I poked around. No. There is absolutely no clue as to their origin. It is like they were dropped out of the damned sky. Except for that they were actually dropped from a damned truck, which clearly was in the wrong place. I saw a number written on the side of one pallet in Sharpie; it could be an address, but it's not mine. And it's not a number that corresponds with any house on my street, or the cross street.

Now...y'all. I have to say, I just have no idea what I should do. I have pallets. ("Pallets" almost sounds like a disease, like rickets. I have pallets! I have to have penicillin!) They're not mine. They clearly contain a lot of something (lumpy) that someone needs, and which they paid good money for. This may also be a time-sensitive thing for all I know, and there are people waiting for these pallets before they can start working today, only I have the wayward pallets, and Lord only knows. But I don't know who, or what, or where, or why, or any of those other key questions. I also don't know who one calls regarding delivery of unauthorized pallets by a very noisy truck at 6 a.m. There is no protocol here.

Applying the What Would Jack Bauer Do analysis to the facts at hand, I think my options are as follows:

Option 1: Blow up pallets, in case they contain deadly Syntox gas which will soon be released into air systems all over my neighborhood, and then dive dramatically out of the way at the last possible second, riding the wave of the explosion (in my business suit) and clutching approximately four dogs as flames and bits of something (lumpy) rain about us; somersault to safety, hair slightly disshevelled, small black smudge under left eye.

Option 2: Interrogate pallets, using syringe and handgun; use psychological attacks. Attempt to turn pallets against each other ("That's not what the OTHER pallet said!").

Option 3: Drill air holes in pallets, in case pallets contain key CTU staff trapped by evil terrorists; perform complicated laboratory tests using satellites and protocols to determine heat ratio of pallets; free trapped CTU staff, unless trapped character is Kim Bauer, in which case, see Option 1.

Those are the Jack Bauer answers. If we went another way and applied the standard What Would Jesus Do analysis to the facts at hand, the answer would probably be:

Option 1: Not sell pallets on eBay as "Mystery Boxes of Fun, may contain Hoffa!";

Option 2: Put up flyer announcing to neighborhood at large: "FOUND PALLETS. Earthly reward not necessary -- awaiting me in Heaven."

Option 3: Not do anything that Jack Bauer would do, ever.

But why stop there? We need more perspective.

What Would Bo Do?

Option 1: Bark at.

Option 2: Pee on.

Option 3: HATE.

Last night was Sunday, and it's not TV, it's HBO, and considering that, What Would Bill Paxton From Big Love Do?

Option 1: Marry pallets.

Option 2: Expose naked behind to pallets; hope for best.

Option 3: Give pallets to Margene with accompanying discussion about being the steward of material goods, like, Bill? Wrong wife, dude. This is a conversation you need to be having with the blonde one. Right now. Hop to.

Similarly, What Would Tony Soprano Do?

Option 1: Smoke cigar with pallets; feel pallets out. Do pallets have loyalties to Johnny Sack? FUCKING PALLETS!

Option 2: Intimidate pallets.

Option 3: Pallets sleep with the fishes.

So…that is kind of where I am right now. I have pallets. That is beginning to sound funny to me. It is possible to think too much about pallets.

Pallets of DOOOOOOM!

(Hee.)

Um. Okay. In all seriousness, if the things are still there when I get home (and I just talked to my neighbor, who confirmed that they're still there now, just...hanging out in the yard), I probably will have to put up a sign. Really, this is the flat out stupidest problem I've had so far this year. It's not a crisis or some huge inconvenience or anything (although, I am really not sure what I am supposed to do with all these pallets of whatever if I can't find the owners, but being that the pallets have been there for all of six hours at this point, I should probably jump off that particular bridge when I get to it), but, it's clearly going to be a problem for somebody. I mean, usually, when a package gets delivered to you by mistake, you can call UPS! You can call the post office! FedEx! Someone! But the phone book contains no listing for "big loud truck at 6 a.m.". I mean, I didn't check, but I feel safe assuming as such.

So, Internet! WWYD? Would you blow them up? Submerge them in the neighbor's pool and see if they can swim? Paint them green and pretend they are large square bushes?

What Would Martha Stewart Do? Stencil them? Coat them in glitter? What Would Dick Cheney Do? Donald Trump? The lead singer from Twisted Sister? There are so many possibilities!

Creativity is encouraged. It's Monday; what else are you going to do? Y'all go fuck with some pallets and get back to me.

Posted by doxie in General Whining | permalink | Comments (95)

Jack! Necklace! Elvis! Bail!

Or, in other words: Entry With No Theme, Kind Of. Have fun!

Ways I Have Celebrated My Birthday So Far:

1. Two episodes of 24, featuring the 24 Drinking Game, in which you are required to drink