But, I don't want to get all maudlin and weepy ("Oh, you guuuuys! I seriously loooove yoooou"), so putting the seriousness aside: oh my goodness, hello! So, y'all, there are a million things to tell you about, and I've been stuck trying to figure out where to begin. In the last year, Brian and I moved in together. We redid the entire house using methods involving "actual construction" and "contractors" and "the shedding of Leigh's tears." We had our first Christmas together, we went to Nassau for New Year's with Cookie and Spam, and we've gone through an entire bottle of Tabasco sauce (which, according to my mother, is the benchmark for establishing when you are Officially Stuck With Each Other As A Couple). We've had a really, really happy year together, and we've done this whole shit-ton of stuff. So, I've been trying to figure out the best way of unjumbling it (now a word) and presenting everything to y'all in some kind of cohesive narrative. But, you know, that sounds...Challenging. And boring, kind of, in the manner of a travel log, or forcing someone to look at the slides of your vacation pictures. So I am just going to...not do that, and instead, I am going to jump right in with a new Storeh. And, because I continue to be the Queen of Tangents, I figure, hell. I'll probably get around to covering everything at some point eventually. Even the thing with the bra! I definitely need to tell y'all about the thing with the bra.

(Heeee, bra thing.)

And finally, I have to give an enormous, whole-wide-world-sized thank you to Cobwebs, who has been working nonstop on fixing this website. She's deleted spam, fixed the About Me page, and basically done a lifetime's worth of magical code-related things. She's also helping me (read: doing everything that involves any degree of intelligence) on a site redesign, so y'all can even expect an updated look here, too. (Uh, eventually. If I can ever make decisions.) But, seriously, really, a massive thank you to this wonderful lady -- she got in touch with me a few months ago, and without her encouragement and help, I probably wouldn't be back at all. That is how instrumental she has been in making this whole thing work. She rules.

Aaaaand so, to switch shit up again, and thus having concluded my usual many paragraphs of opening things up and getting myself all established, please allow me to tell you the Storeh of the Kitteh. Because, as I mentioned, we seem to have a Kitteh. And she does not seem to be leaving. Settle in for the longest entry in the world.

So, it all started about...oh, maybe six weeks ago, when I was heading home from the office one night. We have a parking garage in the bottom floor of the building. And it is not a nice garage. It is a dark, smelly, terrifying Rape Garage, which is sealed by means of a dark, smelly, terrifying Rape Gate. And as I was pulling through this gate that particular evening, I saw something tiny and black darting between the posts, running out of the garage and stopping underneath one of the dark, smelly, terrifying Rape Dumpsters sitting outside.

I thought it was a rat. A dark, smelly, terrifying Rape Rat, and I let out a little squeal of EEEE RAPE RAT, because that is apparently an ingrained evolutionary thing that I cannot help, no offense, rats. But then the little black tininess moved, and I looked closer, and I realized that: ohhhhh. That is not a Rape Rat. That is a kitten. A little black and white kitten, curled up under a Rape Dumpster, and scared entirely to death.

Now, with random terrified lost dogs, I kind of have a protocol, in which I open the car door, produce a dog treat (which, yes, I do carry in my car, what of it), and ask them nicely if they would be interested in taking a ride to hopefully a place which is their actual home, and which preferably does not involve busy intersections. I have done this so many times that my parents called me last winter, twice, to remind me that there were coyotes spotted in the area, and JESUS CHRIST, LEIGH, WE KNOW YOU'RE GOING TO TRY AND PUT A DAMN COYOTE IN YOUR CAR. (Sidenote: While I have never come across a coyote, I did have a close encounter with a fox last year. Fox was FINE with getting into my car, in fact thought this to be an EXCELLENT idea, and CHEERIO, THANKS FOR THE RIDE, and was well on his way to the passenger door when it dawned on me that he was not, in fact, an overgrown chihuahua.)(Sidenote again: LISTEN IT WAS DARK.)

But, anyway. Point being, I kind of know what to do (or what I do, anyway) when it's a lost and help-needing dog, but now I was staring at this kitten and just drawing a blank. Because kittens don't so much come when called, first of all, and also, I do not understand them one bit. They are perplexing, and finally, they don't seem to respond to dog treats. So, after a few, "Heeeere, kitty kitty kitty,"-es (as seen on TV), I just kind of looked sadly at the cat, rolled up my window, and drove on home. But, I probably should have known that this would not be the end of that.

Because, see. Here's the thing. Ever since Brian and I first started dating, I have known how much he loves cats. He loves dogs, too, and he's just crazy about Bo and Gimmme, and is the best puppy babydaddy ever and etc., but Brian just...likes cats. He thinks they are soft, and hilarious, and insane, and more fun than basic cable. I have never really understood this, and so I'd vetoed the idea wholly, in conversations in which the words "litter box," "pungent," and "gag reflex" were uttered. And he was fine with it, but a small, bitsy part of me knew that if it were his call, we'd already have some evil creature with a ludicrous name like Lady Kittenboots McCatbottom running the fuck around. And I was the only thing standing in the way of Lady Kittenboots McCatbottom. And that made me feel bad, because Brian is awesome, and wonderful, and he just tries so damn hard to make everyone else happy. He's too good a man not to have whatever the hell he wants, and so I'd kind of resolved to keep an open mind about the cat situation, and maybe things would just work themselves out. Maybe they'd even work themselves out underneath a Rape Dumpster. WHO KNOWS.

But, so, such thoughts were already lurking in the back of my mind when I saw the kitten that night, but seeing as I didn't know how to get her, I figured that she'd just run off and never be seen again. But by the next week, it was clear that she hadn't just disappeared into the night. Instead, everyone at the office was reporting kitten sightings. People had seen her darting around, hiding under cars, eating from the dumpster, etc. She wouldn't come for anyone when they called her, and she'd run if you approached her, even if you only approached her in your mind, but she kept on popping up and darting about and basically making her presence known. And of course, she was adorable, and we all talked very loftily about how we would soon catch her and she would be shipped to a fancy cat preserve somewhere, possibly in Africa, so that she could roam free and eat wild Whiskas all day long. But nobody really did anything, except worry in a kind of vague way, because she wouldn't let anyone close enough, and hey, what are you gonna do.

Uuuuntil. One day, I went downstairs to get something from my car, and ran into one of the (very buff and large) building maintenance guys, who for purposes of this story, will be known as Mr. Bicep. And Mr. Bicep was just standing there, talking on his cell phone, while the Dumpster Kitteh sat squarely on top of Mr. Bicep's feet, swatting at his shoelaces. And my response was threefold, and exactly as follows:

1. OMG KITTEH
2. Well, that is officially cute.
3. Aw, FUCK.

(Note: All of these responses proved to be accurate and correct. That is some foreshadowing for you.) Mr. Bicep got off the phone, and laughed when he saw me staring at him. "KITTEH!" I said. "I made a friend," he said. "Someone is going to end up taking that kitten home," I said. "I think we all know who that will be," he said.

(Sigh.)

But, even though Kitteh loved Mr. Bicep (as do...well, all the other women in the building -- Kitteh ain't blind), when I tried to get closer, she ran off in a huff again. I would possibly even call it a flounce. She flounced off, and would have nothing to do with me whatsoever, so I thought, well, maybe we will NOT end up with a dumpster kitten after all, and the balance of the universe will remain undisturbed.

Buuut that, too, was short-lived. The next kitten situation occurred about a week later. Brian was out of town for, like, two weeks straight on business, and after work one night, Cookie and I had a cocktail (or...twoish) at the bar in our building, and started talking about Kitteh. Of course, Cookie has known Brian since, like, high school or something, so she knows how he feels about cats, and how he's wanted one forever. And then there's the fact that Cookie and Spam have two cats, whom they adore, and whom Spam named as their children in his high school reunion bulletin. So, it was not completely surprising to me when Cookie started talking about how awww, poor kitteh, who is probably going to die, in a horrible way, when meanwhile all Brian has ever wanted in the world is a kitteh and very probably that precise kitteh, and HELL IS WATCHING YOU, LEIGH (note: Cookie is Catholic), but maybe this is your chance at REDEMPTION and also to win awards made out of diamonds and ponies for BEST GIRLFRIEND EVER, PUT DOWN YOUR WINE AND GO GET THAT KITTEN RIGHT NOW.

That is what she said. I missed Brian anyway, and yes, here is this kitten who needs help and is just free for the taking. And I thought, maybe this crazy cat person is onto something. Maybe this is fate in the Rape Garage! And you don't scoff at fate, baby. Nor do you flounce.

But even with all of Cookie's admonitions, there was still no getting this particular cat, because recall: she apparently hated me, with flouncing. So even though this was all good in theory, in real-life-land, I didn't see how it was going to work out. But, I did have one tenuous, wine-inspired idea, and so: I gave my business card to the building security, and told them that if someone did manage to catch the cat, to give me a call, and I'd make sure she got to a vet. No commitment, no chasing a wild creature under cars, but if you're giving me a prepackaged kitten, well, possibly that is something I can work with.

Now, turns out, that particular whim sealed a lifetime deal. By the following Monday, word had gotten out that there was a taker for the cat, a TAKER for the CAT, HALLELUJAH. And by "word had gotten out," evidently I mean that somehow this information spread throughout a 26-story building, over a weekend, and suddenly everyone in Atlanta turned Cat Catcher, trying to round up the kitten on my behalf. I, however, was blissfully unaware of any of this. I, in point of fact, was conducting witness prep over the phone all day, and had no idea that an all-out cathunt was simultaneously underway, with the goal being to present me with a kitten in a box. And yet, I, eventually, did find this out.

So, Monday, early afternoon, I was on a law-related phone call I couldn't interrupt, when someone started knocking on my door. Which...I mean, can't do anything, on the phone here, client/law happenings underway, scram. Eventually my assistant must have intervened, because the knocking stopped; that, however, is when my call waiting started beeping. Incessantly. And again: ON THE PHONE. LAW. WTF.

When I failed to respond, the next tactic was email, and I received an official flurry of them. Which I had to read quickly, because perhaps I mentioned my overwhelming ON THE PHONENESS and thus am kind of supposed to be paying attention to this witness, you know. But a quick skim of my inbox revealed a secret-agent-like message along the lines of:

Dear Leigh:

Hello. Cat is in a box. Box is under bench in the north corner of garage, in an impenetrable cage made of molten steel and locked with human teeth. Animal control has been called, as has the army and NASA. You have six minutes to disarm a bomb, fashion a rope from scotch tape, and rescue the kitten from a certain heinous death that will be squarely on your head.

P.S. The clock is starting at four minutes ago.

Now. I am maybe exaggerating mildly here, but the gist was that the cat was waiting in a box for me, somewhere in the parking garage. But I had to leave and get her that second, because the building had already called Animal Control, who would be here any minute. And, this was not exactly how I'd envisioned things going down.

I'd been thinking more along the lines of, okay, I get a phone call saying hello, cat is in a box, pick up box when you have a chance, thanks for Samaritan-ing, have a good day. I was not so much anticipating the fucking RACE AGAINST TIME with cat's DEATH ON THE LINE drama which was suddenly unfolding all around me. And there was absolutely zero I could do about any of it, because I really couldn't stop a poor witness in the middle of her tearful testimony by being all, "Uh, yeah, can you hold on while I go save a cat and then, I don't know, BRING A BOXED FERAL KITTEN back up to my OFFICE, where I am sure the feral kitten will be TOTALLY SILENT and well-behaved and JUST FINE while I finish up the many remaining hours my working day? THANKS."

And it made me feel like shit, because people had tried to catch this kitten on the basis of my promise to do something about it, and now I couldn't help. I mean, I tried sending emails saying, you know...think you could hold off on that Animal Control part?, etc., but for whatever reason, that wasn't an option for the building management. So I basically sat there all afternoon, STILL on the phone, feeling horrible and guilty for being responsible for this whole enormous mess.

So, shitty day. And Brian was still out of town, and with the addition of the remaining nonstop working/cat blood on head, etc., I was in a Mood, and so Cookie again kindly offered to take me downstairs for a cheer-up-Leigh session, with medicinal wine. She reassured me that there really wasn't anything I could have done, and who the fuck called Animal Control anyway, and who died and made them the issuer of weird cat ultimatums? And while that did make me feel better, I was still feeling pretty bad, regardless. And I continued to feel bad until we walked downstairs, opened the door to the Rape Garage, and found ourselves staring directly at: the Kitteh. Hello.

Turns out, someone had decided to intervene with the Decree of the Building Management Animal Control Calling People, and had...opened Kitteh's box. And it turns out, that person was Mr. Bicep, who had opened the lid and screamed, "RUN FOR YOUR LIFE" at the kitten. And the kitten took that advice, and got the hell out of dodge. Nicely played, Mr. Bicep.

But, we didn't know that at the time; all we knew was that OMG KITTEH ISN'T IN JAIL, and also is kind of...dude, she's actually kind of close to us, and not acting scared, and holy shit, maybe we can...get her? I don't know! What do we do? AHH, and these were the conversations that Cookie and I had, because now the entire cat situation had been elevated to an Official Crisis, and Animal Control may be right around ANY CORNER, AHH GRAB THE CAT AND GET THE EVERFUCK OUT OF HERE NOW.

Kitteh ran under Cookie's car and stared at us. Cookie got down on all fours and made some...I don't know, fucking clicking mouth sounds that cat people make, and which are apparently very effective, because out Kitteh came, just as casual as can be. And Cookie picked her up, and handed her to me, and -- in the smartest move this animal has ever made in her entire little dumpster-diving life -- she curled up in my arms, put her tiny head against my chest, and began to purr.

"Oh my God," said Cookie. "FUCK," said I.

But, we had no cat carrier. We had nothing even resembling a cat carrier, so we just...put Kitteh in the back seat of my car, and stared suspiciously at her through the window. And there she sat, all peaceful and adorable, until the moment that I, too, got into the car, and started the ignition. Which is the point at which Helpless Purring Baby Thing transformed herself into Shrieking Demon Hellcat of Rage, bansheeing her tiny body all over the car, and suddenly I was driving like a maniac down Georgia 400 with a DEEPLY unhappy free-range kitteh threatening to pounce on my head, and howling like I was in the process of SKINNING HER ALIVE.

It was at this point, as I cowered in anticipation of a pointy attack from behind, listening to the shrieks of an animal I was supposedly rescuing, that I started...sort of rethinking the situation. But, you know, it was kind of late for that, given that there was now a feral kitten in my Lexus, but Note To Self, that in the future, I KIND OF NEED TO THINK THESE THINGS THROUGH BEFORE SHOVING CREATURES INTO THE CAR. Having achieved this spontaneous clarity, I realized that the items on my "Should Have Considered" List included, but were not limited to:

1. How I was going to get her out of the car;
2. What in the FUCK the dogs would think of all of this;
3. What in the fuck my FAMILY would think of all of this;
4. What one feeds a cat, which is very certainly going to be something I do not have;
5. The now-noticeable smell of dumpster permeating from the backseat; and
6. LITTER BOX LITTER BOX LITTER BOX.

By the time the two of us got home, we were pretty much equally hysterical, but only one of us was making an unholy racket. I grabbed kitteh by whatever I could get hold of (tail? Pelvis?), and wrestled her little furious, shrieking, POINTY OW POINTY self inside the house, and upstairs to the empty guest room. And then I released her, she bolted, and I closed the door, and I also bolted, only in the opposite direction. In the direction of safety. Where there are no kitties whatsoever.

First order of business was shopping, and because this story is already fifteen miles long, I will shorten things up a bit by just sharing the email exchange between Cookie and myself that evening, as my credit cards and I spent some quality time at the grocery store:

----- Original Message -----
From: Miss Doxie
To: Cookie
Sent: Mon Sep 28 20:31:04 2009
Subject: HELP ME

Dumpster kitteh is in the guest room and I'm out shopping for EVERYTHING. Where can I buy a litterbox? Can I fashion one out of something else? How do they even work?

???

Incidentally, kitteh had a CONNIPTION in the car. Then again in the guest room.

Kitteh is moodeh.

----- Original Message -----
From: Cookie
To: Miss Doxie
Sent: Mon Sep 28 20:35:56 2009
Subject: Re: HELP ME

Aw, kitteh! You can make a litter box out of anything! Just put some litter in a box. Kitty will figure it out quickly.

You have good karma for 5 lifetimes!

----- Original Message -----
From: Miss Doxie
To: Cookie
Sent: Mon Sep 28 20:40:31 2009
Subject: Re: HELP ME

Found box. What kind of litter?! Clumping? WTF CAT WORDS.

----- Original Message -----
From: Cookie
To: Miss Doxie
Sent: Mon Sep 28 20:41:27 2009
Subject: Re: HELP ME

Definitely clumping!! And if you want to calm her down, get some cat nip. It's like pot for cats.

----- Original Message -----
From: Miss Doxie
To: Cookie
Sent: Mon Sep 28 20:45:29 2009
Subject: Re: HELP ME

Buying all the catnip in zipcode

----

After this little exchange, communications went dark as I paid for my items; returned home; gave a certain feral cat a bath using cat shampoo (yes), vodka, and a rosary; dressed my puncture wounds; fashioned myself a tourniquet; took a Xanax; and tossed the fucking cat back in her guest room, where she immediately ran behind a chair and hissed at me. Then I went downstairs and watched Project Runway with a bottle of wine and two INCREDIBLY confused dogs, whose crackerjack senses had determined that MOM SMELLS LIKE A FOOD, and I basically just tried to ignore eeeeverythying that was going on upstairs.

This did not work, however, as subsequent communications show:

----- Original Message -----
From: Miss Doxie
To: Cookie
Sent: Tues Sep 29 1:36:32 2009
Subject: Yeah

Out buying flea killer at 1:30 in the morning.

P.S.: What happens if I eat the catnip? Or should I smoke it?

--

Followed by:

----- Original Message -----
From: Miss Doxie
To: Cookie
Sent: Tues Sep 29 2:14:55 2009
Subject: Kitteh...

Wants to come live at YOUR house.

--

And so it was, for the first day or two of Kitteh's life here. I made appointments for her shots and tests and spaying and all that business, and I refilled her food and changed her litter (EW) and went in and visited her every little while. And, she responded by hissing at me while standing amid her hundreds of dollars worth of newly-purchased cat supplies, all of which she HATED, she HATED THEM, and she hated my bourgeois bullshit attitude that assumed she'd be happier in suburbia as opposed to a dumpster. So, for the most part, it was kind of like being the parent of a teenager.

Meanwhile, Brian was still out of town, and was halfway around the world, but I was updating him on the Kitteh Situation. And I tried to convey that, hey. Dude, this is a Guest Kitteh. She's Visa Kitteh on a temporary pass, we are NOT getting attached until we at least find out that she's healthy and not going to give, like Rape Dumpster virus to the dogs, and even THEN I am not so sure about this, and also did I mention the HISSING and the LITTER BOX and just don't get your hopes up.

But, you know. Kitteh actually started to come around pretty quickly. After a few days, she started meandering up to me when I came in the room. She'd jump on my lap when I sat down. And suddenly, our dialogue went from "AHH FOOD HERE IS YOUR FOOD AHH PLEASE DON'T GET POINTY" to, "Oh, you're...hi... WHOA, YES, HELLO, THAT IS MY LEG. Am I supposed...you want lap? Wait, what? Rub you now? NOW? NO NOT THAT WAY, RUB YOU THIS WAY? Okay, I...oh, bye." And then she'd wander off again, and instead of parenting a teenager, it was more like dating an asshole.

But the icing on the proverbial litter box cake came when Brian came home, wisely decided to come kiss me before going to see the kitten (good choice), and met Guest Kitteh for the first time. And of course, Lady Bullshit McLiarboots just climbed right up on his lap, gazed up at him with these big sweet eyes, and purred. And I said: fuck. Now we have a cat.

Soooo, that was...the beginning of October, I suppose. And Kitteh has come very far since that time. She's decided that she likes us. Specifically, she's decided that she likes hunting us, and so she spends most of her time hiding behind doors, under beds, etc., before suddenly flinging her entire body -- pointy side first -- at our passing legs. She does this with full commitment, with all four legs spread apart so that she looks exactly, precisely like a flying squirrel. If flying squirrels came in a genus of "enormous, toothy, and fucking insane," she'd get confused for them all the time. As it is, whenever Brian or I go upstairs (she mainly stays up there), whoever is left downstairs can always hear a faraway, tiny "AHH" in response to her ambush, and we don't even bother with the, "Uh, you okay up there?" anymore. Because the answer is obviously no, and by now, we all know where we keep the Bactine. She's the same at nighttime, when she climbs up on our bed and, after the requisite strokes and petting, she suddenly switches modes to Mighty Hunter Of Whatever Is Moving Under The Sheets. And so we bleed some more. Yeah, cat people -- this is awesome.

During the day, she mostly keeps to herself; she and the dogs have met a few times, but there have been wildly different reactions, ranging from "our own personal Woodstock of love and peace, right here on the sofa" to "fishing hysterical kitteh out from behind the dryer after she was cornered by Bo for his eating needs." As a result, for the most part, everyone just sort of ignores everyone else, for now. Bo and Gimmme have always stayed downstairs anyway, because of Gimmme's pesky habit of "being blind" and what happens when that gets mixed with the existence of a staircase. (It goes like: THUD THUD THUD). Meanwhile, the kitty's litter box (EW) is upstairs, with her bed and food and toys, and so she just hangs out up there and waits for fresh prey. So, we've reached this weird equilibrium at the moment, with an upstairs kitty and downstairs dogs, but we figure she's going to start coming down more often as time goes on. And the dogs'll get more used to her, and then maybe they will realize that kitty is not a food. And kitty is pointy. I bet they learn both of those lessons at the same time.

Kitty has also come leaps and bounds with all those toys she hated so much. Before, we would dangle little mice in front of her, bat at her with the cat-batting-feather...thing, and squeak the squeaky rat in her direction. And she'd just stare at us, like, "...seriously?" and then wander off because we were so uncool, it actually made her physically uncomfortable.

All that changed about two weeks ago. Specifically, two weeks ago, at 4 in the morning, when we heard this:

squeak. squuuuuuuueak. squeaksqueak. squeaksqueaksqueak.

(silence.)

squeaksqueaksqueaksqueaksqueaksquEAKSQUEAKSQUEAKSQUeaksqueaksqueak.

squeak.

And this sound meant that kitty had suddenly discovered the wondrous, immeasurable joy of batting squeaky rat up and down the hallway, from her room to ours, over and over again, until We. All. Die. Because, squeaky rat is her favorite thing in the world, and she loves squeaky rat more than aaaanything, because squeaky rat is her BFF, and if you put squeaky rat on top of the credenza because it's 3:30 in the morning and you have an 8:00 a.m. meeting the next day, and please, PLEASE, just forget about squeaky rat for THREE HOURS, CAT, I BEG OF YOU: well. She will not. She will sit next to the credenza and wail in abject sorrow, all, "SQUEAAAAAKY RAT! R U UP THERE? COME DOWN! I LUF U AN U R MY ONLY FRIEND INNNA WUUUURLD" until one of us feels so bad about her grief that we go and get squeaky rat down and throw the fucking thing in the direction of somewhere else, and run back to bed and try to fall asleep before the reunion. At which point:

squeaksqueaKSQUEAKSQUEAKSQueaksqueak.

Siiiigh. Oh, and the other thing she does! We only found out about this the other night, when we woke up to this noise:

splish splish splish splish splish

And then suddenly, a cat with extremely wet feet jumped on the bed, and after analysis, it was determined that: the cat is...playing in the toilet. Kitteh looooooves playing in the toilet. She stands up on her little back tippie-toes and leans over the bowl, and then just bats at the water with her front paws. Splish splish splish. We don't...know why, and she's got a little paw-cleaning mat and everything in her room, but cat is just fascinated by the toilet. Which is extra-odd, considering the first night she was here, I tried to give her a bath, and she literally FAINTED in horror. Like, the poor creature went totally limp in the towel after I took her out of the tub, and I had this horrifying moment in which I thought I had killed the cat by bathing it, and holy shit, that's why cats are so scared of water, because evidently it makes them DIE. But she regained her senses after being rubbed on for a minute, so I guess water just stuns cats, but regardless: WTF with the toilet? Kitteh is fucking insane.

But, for all the insanity, and racket, and bloodshed...awwww, y'all. Brian is just the happiest guy ever. He looooves the kitty, he pets the kitty, and plays with the kitty, and resultingly has perpetual scratches all over his arms but he does not even mind because AW, KITTEH. According to Brian, our kitty is the softest kitty ever ("Like a bunny!" he marvels), the sweetest kitty ever (...?), the smartest kitty ever, the funniest kitty ever...basically, the Bestest Cat That Ever Catted, and indeed, I have been repeatedly informed that I am the most awesome, most favorite, most prettiest Bestest Girlfriend That Ever Girlfriendend, and he's just as happy as a clam. And so I'm glad I kept an open mind, I'm glad that I threw a feral animal in my car, and I'm glad that this time, AND THIS TIME ONLY, I didn't think this thing through.

And, well. She is pretty fucking hilarious.

INVISIBLE SHOPPIN CART. KITTEH STOCKIN UP. THANK YOU.

Thank y'all again for your love and wonderfulness, and I promise to be back soon with stories of debauchery, drinking, and dogs (and have you SEEN what we did to the house for the Halloween party? I KNOW!). But, as much as things change, they do stay the same, and this ain't Miss Kitteh. More doxies soon, and in the meantime, kisses to you all. And thank you, so much, again.

* * *

WHOA UPDATE: So, I wrote this entry last week and have been editing it, but I felt I should add a P.S to let you know that as of last night, kitteh has a name! See, I'd been calling her "Momma's little horseman of the apocalypse" and Brian was calling her "Lil' Baby Satan" and similar monikers, and then in a burst of inspired genius, I remembered: the Smurfs. And, y'all! Surely you remember the Smurfs, and probably you remember Azrael, the evil Smurf-eating cat that Gargamel had? But what probably you did not do was one day Google 'Azrael' because it sounded vaguely familiar and...you know, it was, like, Tuesday afternoon and you were bored and this was about three years ago and frankly I don't remember what led to that particular Googling, but point being: did you know that Azrael is also the name for the Angel of Death? So...evil cat, and angel of death. Hmmmmm.

I know! Are you having deja vu yet? This...remind you of anyone? If not, allow me to point out that, being that Kitteh's full name will now be Azrael Kitteh, that makes her nickname AK, and that, my friends, is a weapon involving bullets.

So, let's review. Azrael Kitteh:

1. Name of murder cat;
2. Name of angel of death;
3. Gun.

It was so perfect, we wept together and had stationery printed. Because, hello, beautiful accuracy. Although we will probably keep calling her Kitteh, which I quite like because it lends itself to saying things like "Kitteh is angreh," and "Kitteh is hungreh," or "Kitteh is part of the vast right-wing conspiraceh." Whatever, though. Baby's formal now.

But, regardless of we call her, Azrael Kitteh has gone from guest kitty to perma-cat. And she makes Brian happeh. And that's good enough for meh.

Actually, I'll be specific: it's been a year. Almost exactly, like eight days shy. But tonight, right now, is the very first time I've been back to the site since I left it. It's so weird how hard that was, to even type the address into my browser -- just doing that felt like a minor miracle. But I'd sent someone the link, and started thinking, hell. Is it even a site anymore? It's just been so far gone.

What's fucked up is that coming here used to be my little escape; this was my bitsy secret corner of the internet. I'd pop in and tell a story when I should have been working, or read comments when I needed reassurance. It was this perfect, private sanctuary, and I loved it. I LOVED writing, I loved the emails, I loved meeting so many people from everywhere. Not to mention, this site was my secret weapon; someone fucked with me, and GUESS WHAT, MISTER. LOTS OF PEOPLE ARE GOING TO MOCK YOU SOON. Writhe, WRITHE in our collective disdain! And I might smack you anyway, thus yay, I WIN, put a bow on it, etc.

But, point being, this site was my refuge. Until one day, it just wasn't. One day, I realized way too much about why I was writing, and what I was hiding, and that realization made me run away from home. And for those of you who truly care, and who didn't flounce off in some kind of fucking entitled huff when I stopped updating: I'm genuinely sorry I left you hanging. There was just so much of me here, so much of my history, and so much sadness that I could read between the lines. So much equivocation, desperation. Turns out, I used to be pretty fucking unhappy, and somehow, I hid it really, really well.

Whatever, though. I'm not going to get into heart-wrenching, Lifetime movie detail, but I feel like I owe you -- the kind ones out there -- an explanation. So I'm going to give you the three big-ass things that have kept me away for so long (and I'm not even going INTO the site issues, which I am currently pretending do not exist; seriously, it took me an hour just to worm my way through to posting again. Let's not discuss it. Or the STILL BROKEN ABOUT ME PAGE, because YOU GUYS WE ARE IGNORING THAT RIGHT NOW, COLLECTIVELY), and now I've lost my train of thought, but at ANY rate, hi there (!) and here we go with the perfect storm that can kill a website, in no particular order:

1. I got outed. At work, by someone with the best of intentions, who really liked the site and wanted to share. But who also though it would be appropriate to tell other attorneys, the secretarial pool, and a number of my clients. That alone will shut your ass up.

2. The ABSOLUTELY IMMINENT DEATH OF GIMMME. Short story is that about a year ago, Gimmme developed a head tilt. Many doctors (there are such things as canine neurologists, and second opinions from OTHER canine neurologists, and it will cost you a car) later, and a diagnosis of TERMINAL DEADLY HIDDEN NON-PHOTOGRAPHABLE BRAIN TUMOR OF DEATH plus a side order of FATAL DYING ON A STICK (now with extra DEATH), he's...fine. Eventually, his head went back to normal, and he never had any other symptoms, so...huh. Basically, we have no idea what the fuck happened, but I went into a vet appointment with one cheerful, sideways-headed dog, and I left sobbing with pamphlets about pet cremation. (Note: we don't go to that vet anymore.) Now that he's straight-headed again, I'm just starting to getting accustomed to the idea that he isn't going to die a whole lot in his sleep. Repeatedly, every day, etc. I was kind of a basketcase over little Gimmme, but he's doing awesome now, and we're finally beginning to chill about him.

3. Aaaaand, speaking of basketcase...hello. SO, turns out I can write some pretty fucking cheerful bullshit when I'm severely depressed. Evidently, I knew how I was supposed to sound, and I knew how Normal Leigh tells stories, and, yeah. Apparently I can mimic that, and I can do so even when getting out of bed was too much to contemplate. Like I said, I'm not going to get into it, because it's intensely (a) personal, and (b) embarrassing, and (c) boring, OH MY GOD SO BORING, but I look back at a few of those entries -- not all, by any stretch, but a few -- and I shudder when I think about where I really, truly was.

It's been difficult to reconcile that with where I am now. Yeah, everything I wrote was technically true, but I was just so fucking sad all the time, and for so long. I didn't write about that part. I didn't write about how miserable I was in my relationship, or the bullshit I swallowed. I read my old entries, and I'm equally divided as to whether someone should (a) hug me, or (b) smack the everloving shit out of me and tell me to grow the hell up, fashion a spine, and incidentally, JESUS CHRIST, GROW THE HELL UP. Either approach probably would have been appropriate, but nobody knew I needed it. I am a good hider, and I keep my secrets. Kind of until now, I guess.

But, aaaaanyway. So, that was then, and now, there's today. And, despite the relatively pissy tone of this post (sorry, I read some of the old comments and emails, and that got my ass all indignant -- I know I should wait and revise and post this tomorrow when I'm less worked up, but I just want to do it now), the fact is that I still feel like there's something to salvage here. I feel like it doesn't have to be about all that history. Because really, when I was at my worst, writing here made me happy. Sometimes it was kind of the only thing that DID make me happy, and I don't want to lose that. As ridiculously pat as it sounds, there's a lot of good here still, and I want back in. And I feel like I'm finally ready to try, because right now, I'm happier than I've ever been.

Bo and Gimmme are awesome. Ziz and Bob are getting married in May. Cookie hasn't been eaten by geese, I'm painting again. And we...seem to have a cat.

And, most of all: remember the Senator? Senator Sasquatch, the guy Cookie INSISTED would be perfect for me, whom she strongarmed into a blind date with me, under the watchful eyes of the VAST MAJORITY of my co-workers? The same Senator Sasquatch who proceeded, after one date, to sweep me off my feet in a whirlwind romance? That was over a year ago, and now I wake up in his arms every morning. And I love him so much.

His name is Brian, and I can't wait for y'all to meet him.

Portrait of the writer as a happy girl.

So, I'm starting Doxie 3.0 (Version 2.0 = total bust, MY BAD). I'm itching to write again, and I'm finally in a place where I can come here and do so, without feeling bogged down by all the history associated with this site. And I like the fact that I'm starting out with just a few people, because if you're still checking here after a year...well, I'm thinking that you understand my reluctance. Maybe you knew me better than I did. And I thank you for that.

Besides. I know a fame whore who's missed his time in the spotlight. And baby, it's time for his close up.

Womens, the time has come 4 ur dreems 2 come true.

And, much to my chagrin, we have a new player to introduce.

Mrs. Kitteh used 2 lif in a dumpster. Nao she lifs in the suburbs. Also Mrs. Kitteh wants to eet ur ovariehs and lungses, rite out of ur bodeh. Thank you.

Which is to say, I'm back, y'all. And I am better at last. Even though we have a fucking cat.

Very recently, though, the cancer came back. And Phil went through chemo and radiation, and all of those awful things you do when you have cancer. Up until the end of September, it looked like he'd beaten it again. But unfortunately, the cancer kept spreading, and even though he fought hard, it just kept getting worse. So, three weeks ago, Phil decided he'd had enough of that, thank you, and went home to spend his remaining time with his family and friends, so he could say good bye to everyone on his own terms, like the true gentleman he always was.

Phil died at home last week. He left behind his beautiful wife, my Aunt Rie (who STILL turns bright red when I talk about anything remotely scandalous, but loves me anyway) and two wonderful sons, who are like my brothers, only without the spitting and pinching. He was my Daddy's best friend, a surrogate father to my sister and me, and a dear, kind friend to pretty much everyone we knew.

Phil's funeral was Monday, and my father gave a beautiful eulogy, where he talked about Phil's many talents and their various Manly adventures. Then my parents held a wake immediately afterward at their house. And let me tell you right now that if you die, you would like for my parents to hold your wake, because turns out, regardless of the situation, these are people who can throw a party. Seriously, both the police AND the fire department came. To...the wake. In peace-keeping capacity. Because, we are a people who say good bye in style. And our style is apparently both "loud" and "with a tendency to create a teensy traffic problem, as well as major fire hazards."

But, so. We got to say good bye. But Mister Phil loved my website and read it often (by which I mean three times a year, when I actually...update it; LISTEN, I KNOW I KNOW I KNOW, and I really AM trying here, but clearly, things have been a bit sad and busy lately)(See paragraphs 1 - this one.) But, given that, and given that so many of y'all know Mister Phil, either in person or just through years of my own rambling, I couldn't come back here and write about my silly little adventures without first paying tribute to a wonderful gentleman with such a kind soul, who loved his people, and who left all of us much too early.

I'm glad I had a Mister Phil in my life. I'm glad the Sasquatch Senator got to meet him, and that we were lucky enough to be there when he took his last boat ride in August, back when we didn't know that he wouldn't be getting better. I'm glad he left all of us with so many happy memories, and I'm glad that he got to say goodbye to the people he loved. But even though I'm glad for all of that, I'm still sad as hell that he's gone.

I'm sorry that this entry isn't funny or light and is...totally a bummer, actually, but it was important to me. And not to worry; I've got a few happy entries ready to post (or..."happy," in a manner of relatively speaking. They involve my Adventures, which included bodily fluids that were not my own, in a city where I was nearly killed repeatedly, but we'll get into that shortly), and I also have a ton of pictures of my adorable Senator-Who-Still-Doesn't-Have-A-Name, and I'll post all of these in the next few days. But it just seemed more appropriate to do this first, and to honor someone I've loved and admired for most of my life.

So, I'll be back in the next few days with tales of the debauchery that is my daily existence. But in the meantime, if you get a chance, please say a quick prayer or think a kind thought for Mister Phil and his family. The world was a gentler place while he was here.

And, good bye, Mister Phil. I hope your heaven is filled with mountain streams, starry nights, and brown liquor. We will always remember you.

Consequently, Cookie's milestone was celebrated with a three day party at my parents' lake house. The itinerary for this event included drinking things, eating occasionally, and then drinking more things. And, of course, it also included singing. Oh, the singing, and despite the fact that I can't even whistle in tune, something about copious amounts of wine makes me believe that, hark, I am an undiscovered songbird, and I must share my gift with the People. This problem is compounded by the fact that I seem to know all of the lyrics to every song ever made, from Toto to Tupac, something else which I feel compelled to share with those less fortunate. And so it goes, and so I wake up the next morning and ask Senator/Sasquatch/we-still-haven't-decided-on-a-name-over-here whether I serenaded the masses, and he is forced to gently admit that, indeed, I stood on the kitchen counter and performed a medley of M.I.A. to Metallica before someone finally put the iPod back on shuffle, thereby ending my "M is for Misery!" world tour. And then I swear off drinking forever. Until it is time for mimosas.

But, so! Singing happened. And because I cannot share that particular humiliation with you, or offer you a cocktail, or a bite of my soon-to-be-famous Fettuccine Alfredo [which will kill you dead, DEAD in a bite because it contains three parts heavy cream to every one part pasta (shh)], instead I figured that we could all celebrate this milestone by me finally, FINALLY telling y'all the story of Cookie and the Geese. Which is even illustrated! Just like a cautionary fairytale should be.

But first, we must begin with back story. The whole business began last year at our annual firm retreat. I don't remember the month during which the retreat was held, but I can tell you that the particular weekend of the outing contained Friday the Thirteenth. I can also add that we were staying in cabins in the woods. On Friday the Thirteenth. In the Georgia mountains. Where Bigfoot Deliverance lives. So there was a general sense of horror for everyone, but mostly me.

And mostly Cookie, even though her horror had to be secondary, because up in them thar hills, Cookie caught the most explosive, awful sinus infection that has ever been suffered by a human person at any time in the history of the world. I feel comfortable making this pronouncement, because I saw Cookie. And...people, Cookie is a beautiful woman. Truly. And yet, this sinus infection made her into a scary, gooey creature, which caused her eyes to swell shut, and forced random fluids to leave her various orifices and go shooting across the room without provocation, in the manner of a mucus-based sprinkler system, and as a result, we all spent the better part of the weekend running the hell away from her. She was like a geyser of disease, and she clearly felt like walking fucking death.

As soon as the retreat ended and we returned to a town where doctors do not suggest 'bleeding' as a treatment, Cookie took the day off work and went to see a professional. And so there I was, sitting at my desk and believing that Cookie was finally getting the medical attention she deserved, when one of the partners came into my office and said, "Cookie was just in a car accident! Have you heard anything?"

Obviously, I was immediately concerned, and my head filled with images of Cookie sneezing and the windshield blowing out with the gale force of her projection, or possibly, strands of mucus actually leaving her nose and, proboscis-like, seizing the steering wheel and heading out for the open road. But before I could ask any follow-up questions about her condition, or to clarify just how, exactly, snot forces you to wreck a vehicle, my phone rang. And I saw that it was Cookie, and so I answered, and this is what occurred:

Self: Dude! Are you okay? I heard you were in a car accident!

Cookie: [Snort. Sniff] I wad id ad assidend!

Self: I know! Are you okay?

Cookie: I tink so. But I wad ID AD ASSIDEND.

Self: I know! How's your car?

Cookie: ...Car? Oh, carss FIIIIINE. Is PERFIC.

Self: I...good?

Cookie: Becods I wad dot ID a car ad de time.

Self: You were in an accident without your car?

Cookie: ONDA HIGHWAY.

Self: You were in an accident without your car...ON THE HIGHWAY.

Cookie: Jes.

Self: WHICH HIGHWAY.

Cookie: Georgia four hunnerd.

Self: THAT IS A BIG HIGHWAY.

Cookie: DOUGH SHIT.

Self: ...

Cookie: Ids JUR FAULD.

Self: What?! How my fault? What'd I do now?

Cookie: Dere. Wad. Geetz.

Self: I...Geetz.

Cookie: GEETZ. GEETZ GEETZ GEETZ. Birs thad hong, like 'hong hong.'

Self: Honk?

Cookie: JES. GEETZ. HONGING AND RUDDIN AMOK. ONDA HIGHWAY.

Self: Wait, geese?

Fuggin GEETZ. Das whad I said.

Cookie: JES. A momba goots an a bunch ob baby gootses.

Self: A momma geese and a bunch of babies on...Georgia 400?

Cookie: JES. Ad we were id traffics, ad I wadn't gonna led dem ged hid by a car.

Self: So...you got hit by a car instead?

Cookie: PREDDY MUSH. I got oudda da car to try to walk dem offa da road.

Self: Uh-huh. On Georgia 400.

Cookie: De traffic was mossly stopped, so I pulled ober, ad I started runding adda geetz, wabing my armbs.

STOP GEETZ! Whad da hell id da MADDER WID YOU.

Self: Oh, no.

Cookie: Ad I wad screambing, "GID OFFA HIGHWAY GEETZ BABIES!" and dey were honging ad me ad runnding all ober and FREEGING OUT.

Self: Jesus Christ!

Cookie: I DOUGH. Ad fidally I wad gedding dem back to de side ob de road? Ad I wad habby.

Aw, dere you go to safedy, you stubid stubid geetz.

Self: Aw!

Cookie: Ad DAT is when I god HID BY A CAR.

Self: YOU GOT HIT BY A CAR.

Cookie: JES.

OH DE HUMANIDY

Self: On GEORGIA 400.

Cookie: JES. DAS WHAD I SAID.

Self: How...I mean, are you dead right now?

Cookie: No. She waddn goin very fasd. I jus kide ob tumpled ober.

Self: Holy SHIT.

Cookie: I dough!

Self: Holy...shit!

Cookie: Dude, I DOUGH. Id hurd my ankle!

Self: How did she not see you?

Cookie: I wad leanin ober, tryin to ged on de geetzes lebel, so I could...herd dem.

Self: You were leaning over in the road?

Cookie: I wad on all fourds.

Self: On the highway?!

Cookie: ID WAD A DESPERAD TIME.

Self: I...Jesus, that's, like, the best Karma ever, though. You saved those geese!

Cookie: Indyway. Thid id your fauld.

Self: Me? But! At...work!

Cookie: SDILL. Sdill, dis is EZZACDLY the kide of STUPID SHIT YOU DO ad den dat makes me tink, 'Oh, dis is de normal response to wild GEETZ on de highway, I'll jus ged OUDDA DA CAR and den RUN AROUN DA ROAD, IN DA RAIN, WABING ad SCREAMBING AD FUGGING GEETZ.'

Self: But....

Cookie: Ad THED do you DOUGH what HABBEND?

Self: You...

Cookie: THED I GOD HID BY A MUDDERFUGGING CAR.

Self: ...but....

Cookie: HID, Leigh. By a car.

Self: But....hee?

Cookie: I hade you.

Self: Not nearly as much as you're going to hate me when I write about this for the whole internet!

Cookie: (silence)

Self: I....kidding?

Cookie: Cad you call me 'Mudder Goots?'

The following weekend, a noticeably-less-congested Cookie -- who is a very good sport -- agreed to reenact the scene in her yard and on her street, which is how we are lucky enough to have such vivid illustrations to go along with our story. Of Cookie. Being hit by a car. While trying to save a gaggle of geese, in the rain, on the highway, with a fever of 102. And if you ever wondered why I worship the everloving spit out of this girl, then that story should resolve the matter entirely.

So, happy birthday to you, awesome Cookie! I hope your next 30 years are filled with all the love and laughter you could want, that the errant geese of the world are kept firmly in check, and that you never have to endure my enthusiastic rendition of Enter Sandman ever, ever again.

And with that, I'm headed out to the beach today with the wonderful Senator Still Unnamed for a long weekend. So I'm sure I'll return with more stories of debauchery, wild birds, and painfully embarrassing singing for everyone. In the meantime, y'all take care, and if you happen to spot any confused geese wandering out on a highway near you, I'm confident that you'll know exactly what to do.

Ad den dey libbed habbily eber abter. Until dey god eadden by a Bigfoot bear.

Smart or not, though, I am still compelled to share my Knowledge for the day. Maybe it is not very...knowledgeable, exactly, but in reading all of those comments, it sounds like so many of y'all are going through this. So, maybe reading about my experience will be borderline...useful. I don't know! I am just here to communicate words, in varying degrees of coherence! Because, that is kind of My Thing: Sporadic Coherence. And, wine. Also bruising.

But, anyway. For anybody who is interested, or is going through some awful uncoupling and is feeling like, holy shit, this will suck for the duration, I have compiled a time line of my life for the past six weeks, as communicated over cocktails to Cookie, His Honor (y'all, now I have a Judge friend! He cannot help us with bail money [lame] but he has a robe and a hammer thing), another friend we will call The Minister (do not ask; we don't know why he's called the Minister, particularly given the fact that the Minister is actually Jewish, but we are going to go with it) and other assorted wonderful people who I don't have names for yet, but I am working on it, however, point BEING that these were the words coming out of my mouth and hurtling in the direction of those poor, unfortunate people, all starting about 2 months ago when the breakup was considered official:

Day 1: Sob. Sob sob sob. Google "nooses" and "proper method of tying."

Day 2: SOB SOB SOB OH MY GOD I AM GOING TO DIE. BO, TIE MOMMA A NOOSE.

Day 3 - Day 10: Etc.

Day 11: Um, fuck this. Kind of. But, additionally: SOB.

Day 12: Ooo, love those shoes! You know, mourning is...boring, a little. Hmm.

Day 13: Actually? Fuck this hard. No more mourning! I am buying me some lady shoes!

Day 14: NO SERIOUSLY. YOU GUYS, KNOW WHAT. I HAVE MADE A COMMAND DECISION HERE. NO MORE MOURNING. I MEAN IT THIS TIME.

Day 15: YEAH.

Day 16-18: Yeeeaaaah.

(sob.)

Day 19: NO THAT IS RIGHT. FUCK THIS AGAIN. I hereby decide that from now on, ALL I WANT is to be happy. It is time for a shift in perspective! Shift shift shift! I am going to just be happy, with a minimum of sobbing, and a maximum of new shoes. HA. That is called "having goals."

Day 20: And, YES, all of you lovely friends of mine, indeed I WOULD like to start dating again, just for fun and also a wide variety of what promises to be drama, as well as the free cocktails I understand to be involved. Please bring me prospects, preferably those with a mostly full set of teeth. And who are not addicted to the hardcore drugs.

Day 21, Part I: Hey ACTUALLY. COOKIE. If possible, I would like to date that extremely cute guy that is Spam's friend and who is awesome. And who has teeth, and ALSO no telltale track marks! I mean, not to be too specific, or anything. But set me up with that guy. Provided he is not...married. Or what have you.

Day 21, Part II: Oh, he's...available? He...what now? HE WANTS TO GO? NO HA HA HA THAT'S COOL. I AM TOTALLY COOL AND NOT STUPIDLY EXCITED AT ALL. NO I AM NOT SHAKING. I THINK WE HAD AN EARTHQUAKE A SECOND AGO. YOU LOOK OVER THERE NOW.

Day 22: NO I AM NOT SWEATING ALSO.

Day 23: HEY. What do I wear? Should I cut all my hair off? Does he like redheads? Should I dye my hair red? Maybe I will dye my hair red. Does he like people who have teeth? Should I get some more? Should I...hello?

Day 24, Part I: [Nervous nervous nervous]

[Oh my God I am a dork]

[But holy shit, I have not gone on a date in seven YEARS]

[What if I am boring? I totally bet I am SO BORING. I bet I start talking about the Amish]

[SHIT now all I can think about are Amish people. I am going to suck at this SO HARD]

[Oh Jesus please don't let me fall down in front of him on the first date please]

[SERIOUSLY GOD DO ME A SOLID WITH GRAVITY, JUST THIS ONCE, I BEG OF YOU]

Day 24, Part II: [First date] [Is perfect] [And I do not fall down]

Day 25, Part I: HA GUESS WHO DID NOT FALL AT ALL.

Day 25, Part II: [Giggle/ Etc./Gloat] [Am generally annoying to be around]

Day 25, Part III: HE CALLED HE CALLED HE CALLED.

Day 26, Part I: Did I mention that he called? Because HE CALLED AND HE IS AWESOME. Just in case I didn't mention. Also, did I tell you about the time I didn't fall down? Did I ment...hello? Cooookie?

Day 26, Part II: ... mention that he is awesome. Did I mention that he is awesome? Because, DUDE. HE IS AWESOME. Broken record, what now? Also, I think there is something wrong with your phone, because I keep losing...hellllooo?

Day 27: [Second date] [Is even more perfect] [Mind officially blown/knees officially weakened]

Day 28: [All is right with the world] [Plus I owe Cookie a car]

[The End]

So, there it was, about -- I guess a month ago, ish, with the first dates, and the getting-to-know-you. And now, here we are, which...y'all. Y'all, do not even get me started. He's perfect, I am obnoxiously happy, and I am having a ridiculously good time. So, done, BOOYAH, the end, and so forth, because people, Cookie found me a good one, and I am stapling him to my side.

What we have not found, however, is a name for him, although he, Spam, Cookie, and I all spent the better part of a [drinky] afternoon trying to come up with something appropriate. Spam wanted to call him...I think it was Senator Sulu, which is a Mr. Show reference of some kind. Or maybe I am muddling things. I probably am, but...okay, there was that. Other possibilities were as follows:

Spam: Roboticus!

Self: No.

Spam: Yeti.

Self: No.

Spam: WAIT, wait. Totally got it: Robot Yeti.

Self: NO. Why with all the Yeti and robots?

Spam: Fine. You want to go a different direction? How about...Crotchgrabber.

Self: There are so many, many things wrong with that suggestion.

Spam: Or, the more traditional Grabbacrotcha? Like in the old country.

Self: Sigh.

Him: Does it have to be food related? Like Cookie and Spam?

Self: No, it can be whatever. Unfortunately.

Him: Then I like Shania!

Self: I...what?

Cookie: Oh, you should totally go with the food thing! You could be tofurkey, since you're a vegetarian.

Self: That's not bad! Baby! Want to be Soysage?

Him: Shania!

Spam: What about...Spartacus.

Self: But. Why.

Spam: NO I HAVE IT: Sasquatch.

Self: PEOPLE. WHY WITH ALL THE YETI TALK.

Spam: No, no...Senator Sasquatch. Now that the election results are in.

Self: But...

Him: Shania!

Oddly, we have not yet arrived at a consensus. I know this is surprising to all. But we will continue to work on it, as soon as we are in the same room as more vodka, and this will bring order to my life.

But as sweet as y'all are, and as long as this already is, I know that in the grand scheme, very many of you are thinking HOLY GOD shut UP about your LIFE ALREADY, because you are dying to know about the dogs, WHAT ABOUT THE DOGS.

HELLO YOU WOMENS. DID YOU MISS BO.

I've been trying to think of some of the best stories, but I've been drawing a blank, because the dogs have actually been...like, not murderous lately. I know! AND, they've been on a diet, so there are actually fewer square inches of them to terrorize me.

EXCUSE BO. WHAT YOU JUST SAID OF DIET.

This diet includes green beans ("BEANS! BEANS BEANS BEANS" is what they all say every morning now, as they run hysterical brown circles around Food Bowl). And, the BEANS! diet has actually worked, because guess what Gimme has now? A waist! Kind of! He's lost a third of his body weight, and is now svelte, like a wee, speckle-y model.

SLIM FAST WORK FOR GIMMME!

But there has been a bit of reorganization on the doggie front, because about a month ago, Ziz and Awesome Future Brother In Law Bob moved into a new place in L.A. This place allows dogs, which means that for the first time ever, Ziz could actually live in a bedachshund-ed household, as God intended. And, lo, there was much celebrating all about the land.

However. Since we are already a family of seven (SEVEN) wieners, getting more seemed...excessive. Maggie, who has lived with Mom and Dad, has always been Ziz's dog -- it's always been understood that, as soon as Ziz and Bob moved into a dog-friendly place, Maggie would go to California like a wee little gold rusher. But there was also a lot of concern about Maggie being alone; she's never been alone. She would not like being alone. She is used to having other dogs to lord over and rule, because she is totally bitchy that way. So taking Maggie on her own was not going to work, and puzzlement commenced accordingly.

Meanwhile, there was Equal Dog Drama happening over at my own place. Ever since Tasha died, there's been some...tension. Between the menfolk. I think having Tasha in the house, who pretty much ruled the roost, kept testosterone in check; when she was gone, though, all of a sudden, the remaining three started fighting. And, I am not talking just "Strong Words Being Exchanged, I Am Looking At You Sternly" fighting. I mean "snarling, growling, yelping, going-for-the-jugular, HOLY SHIT CHILL OUT, CUJO" fighting. And the one who always seemed to be in the middle of it all -- every time -- was Pugsley. Who used to be afraid of all things. Including his own flatulence. From which he would hide under the bed.

What made it worse was that there was no predicting it, and no figuring it out; we'd all be sleeping in the same bed, and all of a sudden, Pugsley would wake up and just go APESHIT all over Bo or Gimmme. And, I'd have to dive between everyone, grabbing hysterical, snapping dogs by tails or legs in an attempt to stop the RANDOM KILLING taking place beneath the coverlet. To put it mildly, this was significantly less than Big Fun for everyone involved.

ONE TIME PUGSLEY GO CRAZY AND BITED ME ON MY BOY PART. WAS SO OW.

I talked to the vet about it, and we tried drugs, and we tried separating them, and so on. But nothing seemed to work. All that was certain was that I was kind of losing my mind. I was also kind of losing a lot of blood, because I kept on having to interject myself in between the Tiny Fangs Of Death at 2 in the morning. But even more troubling was the fact that Pugsley just seemed genuinely unhappy -- the vet explained that, when Tasha died, apparently Pugsley thought it was time to elect a new ruler, and he wanted to get his little self in the running. The problem, however, was that nobody else was aware of any impending doggie coup. Bo had no interest, as he does not believe that he is A Dog, which would be solidly Beneath Him.

DONT FIGHTS LADIES. THERE PLENTY OF BO TO GO ROUND.

And then Gimmme just...I mean, Gimmme is just a little puddle of waggity love. He has no clue about any kind of inner strife and turmoil. Gimme does not even know what a coup is. GIMMME NOT DO WARS.

GIMMME ALSO NOT UNDERSTAND YOUR POSTMODERN ANGST

So, the family decided to try combining our various doggie drama, and tried seeing whether Pugsley and Maggie could get along together. And turns out, they're an excellent match. Maggie still gets to lord over Pugsley and order him around, but he's apparently fine with that, because Maggie is a girl. Pugsley, it turns out, likes being henpecked. It is what he wants. God help the male who tries to give him an order, but if Maggie barks, it's "yes, dear," all the way to the pickles and ice cream store, and it is the strangest little thing you ever saw.

Once the two of them were officially BFF, Mom and Dad drove them (here I will type those words again. Drove them) to California. From Georgia. In a car. Hi.

Also: evidently, they will not be doing that again any time soon.

But ultimately, they got there! And so Puglsey and Maggie are L.A. dogs now, which means they have pedicures and an agent, and probably make more money than I do. And, although I miss my little Pugsley, apparently this was the best thing in the world for him -- his entire attitude is changed, and he just walks around wagging like a drunken idiot. He gets to be a little king, after all, with no other boys to challenge his teeny brown authority. And, he gets to watch over Maggie, which makes him feel extremely important, all while being spoiled RIDICULOUSLY by my sister and Bob. So, all is right with the world. And as a special bonus, I am no longer losing a pint of blood every night. Everyone lives! Woo!

And so, that is how come now, I am a two doxie household. Which seems so...wrong, actually. As though I were a weirdly reasonable person, which...that is clearly not the case. I may have to start collecting figurines or something. Anyway, be afraid.

But, so! That is My Awesome, Wonderful Life. And everything worked out like it was supposed to, even though things sucked royally for a time. And thus we have my remarkably cheesy, oft-repeated and completely cliche lesson for the day, in the style of my own little After School Special. But, no matter how cliche, I just wanted to send a little happy to all of you who are going through a break up, and were kind enough to share your own perspective and unhappiness in the comments to that last entry: Y'all, I swear to holy God, it gets better. And I know you've heard that one frillion times, but it...does. I'm sorry, and I know that isn't profound or earth shattering or even novel, at all, but having just gone through the ringer and come out happier than ever, I can solidly promise you that the ugly will end, and that you will emerge happier, more confident, and more certain of what you want. And once that happens, there will be a Sasquatch Senator just waiting for you on the other side. And it will be the best thing in the whole wide world.

HEY BABY. BO BE YOUR SASQUATCH. YOU BRING THE HAMS.

Oh, P.S.: Don't even look at the About Me page. I...killed it. Nobody is surprised. I will continue trying to figure out how exactly one operates a website, but in the meantime, let's just...ignore that! A lot. Anyway, kisses!

1. I am alive.
2. Thank you for asking.
3. Things were not okay.
4. But now they are better.

That's...pretty much the whole of it. Hello, y'all.

I've been dreading this entry for a long time, but it finally occurred to me that, hell. I know that I owe everyone an explanation as to my absence, and I'm tired of being alienated from my own website. So, I've made the decision, all of...oh, approximately six minutes ago, apparently, to just come out and tell everyone what's been going on. I'm just going to type without editing, and post this before I start thinking about it too much. So let's all grab a bottle of something, and settle in for a Very Special Episode of Miss Doxie.

As you have probably guessed, things broke bad over here in the Doxie land. And, oddly, it all started on the VERY DAMN DAY of my last post, which shows you precisely how long it's taken me to come to terms with this mess. On that night, back in December, Dukay and I had a talk about our future, and it...did not go well. To put things in the simplest terms, we'd been together for six years, and I wanted more. Indeed, I'd expected more; I'd been thinking our future was right around the corner. It turned out, however, that he wasn't ready. And lo, there was great mourning in the land, and the rending of many adorable garments that had been purchased on sale.

But then, around 1 a.m. ON THAT SAME NIGHT, my sister called with the news that, hello! She'd just gotten engaged. And so I switched gears and screamed and hollered and broke out the champagne and threatened to expose her most vile secrets to one and all if I was not designated as the maid of honor THAT SECOND, because this engagement is...perfect. It's just perfect.

Ziz is marrying Bob of the Baby Burning Video, and everyone who loves her could not be more pleased. And, hearing their voices on the phone, and seeing how they looked at each other when I saw them the next week -- I don't know. I guess I saw how wonderful it could be to simply be in love, and to look at someone and know that he's just so excited about the prospect of spending the rest of his life with you, he can't wait to get started. I mean...y'all? Bob learned how to play the ukulele for Ziz. THE FUCKING UKULELE. (WHICH FRANKLY I JUST HAD TO SPELL CHECK, TO BE PERFECTLY HONEST WITH YOU.) And that is some devotion, right there.

But, the timing was interesting, to say the least, and it forced me to put a lot of shit in perspective. And because I am not particularly good with perspective (there are angles involved! Like in geometry! In which I believe I earned a C!), that whole business took me a while.

And so, here I am. And Dukay and I are no more. It's nobody's fault. But in the end, it was the very best possible thing for everyone involved, even if it took me a long time to figure that out.

And, I've been fucking dreading saying this to you, sweet internet, because I hate to disappoint anyone. I've put this life in front of you, and that life just didn't work out. In fact, I've been terrified of admitting my failure for so long, I've actually been avoiding my own website for fear of the awful things that are inevitably going on in the comments. Seriously, I haven't even looked at them since...January? Probably January. And, allow me to tell you why: because I am a big enormous coward, THAT is why. Every once in a while, Cookie will come into my office, her eyes the size of dinner plates, and say, "Do you...know what is happening? With your website? BECAUSE IT IS ANARCHY OVER THERE, DO YOU HAVE A GUN," and I would groan and put my head in my hands and think that dear Lord, I cannot handle this in the SLIGHTEST, because I am a woman with Issues Already, and my poor head is already filled with enough self-doubt and crushed pride to fill up the whole entire internet, and I am just going to run away to Guam, so be it.

So...wait. Yeah, that's neither here nor there, but seeing as I'm not editing this (HELLO), I might as well go ahead and tell you that I haven't looked at whatever drama is raging over there in the last entry. And I don't intend to. Because, I'm chicken. And because I really did have my reasons for being gone so long.

But, okay, there was actually a point I was attempting to find here, and if I recall, the point is that I've been dreading this whole business. I didn't want to tell y'all. I didn't want to ruin anyone's day, and bring you down to the place I lived. And I also wondered whether this site could even survive, with just me at the helm. After all, Dukay was a huge part of my life for so long. He's in almost every picture I've posted, and I've talked about him in pretty much every entry. Because, he was my world -- after all, I spent almost seven years (SEVEN. YEARS.) thinking that he was my future, and crafting a life around him. So I guess it couldn't have been any other way.

The fact is that Dukay was a great friend -- one of my best friends -- for a long time. We had a great time together. He made me laugh, and I don't have a single bad thing in the world to say about him. It's just that when push came to shove, we were in different places. We wanted different things, and I finally realized that what I wanted -- more than anything -- was someone who just wanted me. And, as simple and lame and naive as that may sound, it wasn't what I had. And it broke my heart.

Sooooo. For a long time, I didn't write, because I didn't have anything to say. And I guess it's okay to admit that I was pretty fucking depressed for a while. I mean, yeah, this was a small tragedy, in the grand scheme of things. People deal with worse shit every day. But it hit me hard, and I stopped being okay for a little while. And I stopped laughing. Incidentally, as you can imagine, I was a fucking JOY to be around, and I will be forever grateful to poor Cookie and my other wonderful friends who tolerated my post-teen displays of angst. As in, I am super glad I did not decide to write any poetry during this period. I am equally glad that I did not dye my hair. (Because, honestly, I totally thought about dyeing my hair, and it would be BLACK to match my FEELINGS, except that my eyebrows would still be BLOND to match...like, SOCIETY, or SOMETHING, and let's just say that I settled for purchasing a few Smiths albums on iTunes, and that probably ended up better for everyone involved, frankly Mr. Shankly, the end.)

But, okay. So here I am. And, I'm not sad anymore. Instead, every day, I've gotten better. And at this point, I'm feeling pretty awesome, actually; in fact, I'm happier than I remember being in years. Things work out the way they're supposed to, it turns out. And I've learned that sometimes, you're running a race that you really don't want to win.

Similarly, I have learned that sometimes it is important to speak in cliches. Today, evidently, is that day. So if anyone needs a gift horse looked in the mouth, I am totally your girl.

But point being, that starting now, a new generation of Doxie is underway. I'm going to try to make some changes, like...well, to the About Me page, for starters, but don't expect me to find THAT any time soon, because HOLY SHIT I forgot everything I ever knew about code, turns out. I don't even know where my actual control panel is. And, since I have a new computer (I'm on a Mac! Could you tell? Is it prettier?), I've lost all of my bookmarks, so all these planned updates may be an exercise in supreme futility, but WHATEVER, I'm going to see what I can do, and hope for the best. Because, that is the way the cookie crumbles! And the ball bounces! And there are too many cooks in the kitchen! And etc.!

But, anyway. There you have it. I'm so sorry that I couldn't talk about any of this until now; I just wasn't ready. But I'm finally at the beginning of Doxie, Version 2.0, and I'm truly excited about it. I'm looking forward to new stories, new people, old friends, lots of wine, and really interesting bruises. I'm headed out on my brand new, shiny life. And if you'd maybe like to come along, I'd be honored to have you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And all that was fine and dandy. Until:

4. I switched jobs.

5. That credit card expired.

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

7. They were all going to a dead address.

So:

8. My domain expired.

9. Because I am stupid.

10 And now you know.

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

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

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

*** (Relatively Speaking) ***

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

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

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

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

*** In Theory ***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cadillac:

and Tom Cruise?

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

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

(In which I wait.)

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

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

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

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

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

Dum dum DUM!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*** End Of Tangent ***

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

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

As such, please give it up for Feathers:

BO HATE YOU.

Oooo, Cadillac:

GIMMME HATE YOU.

And Tom Cruise:

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

Planet Unicorn, Heyyyyyyyyyyy!

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

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

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

Kisses!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

CRAP ABBREVIATED

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

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

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

Why, hello, Tiny Dancer!

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

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

Dude, tone down the perv, toddler.

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

Bet those tan lines looked pretty.

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

Or, I could do a series!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here is the short version of those many, many paragraphs:

It's my Daddy's birthday. As you can imagine, we are feeling especially lucky to have him this year. "Lucky" may have translated to cocktails. I will neither confirm nor deny, but I just ran full-speed into an end table, so you can draw your own conclusions there.

Anyway, I have a ton of pictures to post, and I am believing you pretty people who say that you, too, have pictures to share, and so I set up a Flickr group. But, I am not going to deal with any of that right now, because right now, I AM GOING TO BED. Sleepy in the head! And fall over. Ow to knee, the end. (But hi, new bruise! You look like France!)

I won't totally leave you hanging, though. Want some Bo? Want to see how he sleeps now, every night, like a little brown crazy person? Too bad if you said no!

YOU TELL BO STORY. ABOUT HOW BO KILL STUFF.

Honestly, I know it looks absurd, but I didn't put him like that. That's how Bo arranges himself, head on pillow, covers drawn. I don't know how he does it, because I never actually see it happening, but I am pretty sure he has evolved himself some opposable thumbs and is keeping it on the downlow. To which I say: well played, dachshund. You are a crafty, crafty mammal.

But, hello. Speaking of bed, I am about to fall asleep standing up (actually I am sitting, but details are boring), so I am going to go join him. I'll talk to y'all tomorrow, but for now, I just hope I can get my pillow back with a minimum of bloodshed.

I am sorry. I lied to you and told you a story that was made of snips and snails and falsehoods, but that is because I had no idea of what the following week would have in store, all of which was Bad, to put things mildly. To put things more accurately, the last week turned out to be a total fucking nightmare, and I had to go out of town with zero notice except "QUICKPACK", and then I got whacked with this emergency project that we usually have ten days to file, but in this instance we had a grand total of 72 hours, and so I was awake for 72 hours, which I thought was just fucking shiny, and then I got incredibly, disgustingly sick and sneezed on everything before going to bed for a day and a half.

But, hey. HEY. Wasn't I supposed to be doing something funny in these paragraphs? Indeed, I was, so let's get on that and not complain about anything else. Except maybe my forgotten love affair with high-waisted jeans, which ultimately came to a tragic end for everyone involved.

So, moving on! Day 5! This was sort of an in-between period, apparently -- the first year or two of high school, when the braces came off and I finally started to get a little less funny looking. Still, not to worry, as I compensated for my relative decrease in Ugly by dressing in clothes that made me look like any one of the following:

(a) I’m heading off to a PTA meeting in my wood-paneled minivan, in spite of the fact that I am not yet old enough to vote. Why, a bake sale?! I vote "Yum!"

(b) I am a crossdresser.

(c) I am an armchair.

Seriously. BEHOLD THE EVIDENCE:

Photographer: Okay, first: pull up your pants.

Self: Like this?

Photographer: No. Higher. Can you get them boob-level? It's slimming.

Self: This is as high as they go, I think.

Photographer: Hmm. Not good. Maybe if...okay, tuck in your sweater.

Self: Tuck in my sweater? But it's...a sweater.

Photographer: Yes.

Self: And...boxy, though.

Photographer: Look. Sigh. Do you want to be fashionable, or do you want to look like a complete idiot?

Self: I think the first one.

Photographer: Good. Okay, now, we're going to need a belt. Something...wait, I am having a vision right now. And in this vision I see: gold.

Self: This belt has a really shiny gold buckle; will it work?

Photographer: YES. It is PIRATE CHIC. Now roll up your sleeves and slouch.

Self: Okay.

Photographer: Slouch a little more...a liiiiittle more...really hunch those shoulders....YES! YES PERFECT. Now sneer and squint, and we're looking at the cover of Seventeen!

...At least, that is what I imagined happened.

I blame that same photographer for coaching me in the following picture, where I continue to be plagued by high-waisted jeans, only now I'm burning my fashion candle on both ends, so to speak, with the pinch rolling:

DOG ESCAPE FROM SCARY PANT NOW.

But, you know, it wasn't all bad jeans and frump. I mean, frump stayed, and then somewhere along the line I decided that it would be a good idea to wear my father's clothes. Specifically, the clothes that did not even begin to fit me, even in my imagination. So I stole pretty much all of the poor man's dress shirts, which I then wore buttoned alllll the way to my chin. Of course, they were enormous on me, so the result was a visually unsettling triangle effect, and either the shirt ballooned around me, tentlike, or I tried to stuff eight yards of starched cotton down into my jeans, which made me look like I was pregnant in both the front and back of my body. And I remember doing this intentionally, all the time, yet as far as I know, I have never suffered a head injury.

I wish I had a better picture of this phenomenon (which...really, this lasted for ages), but we will have to settle for this, the bonus being that when this picture was taken, hairbrushes were illegal in my state. Seriously, look it up if you don't believe me.

I learned it from watching you, Dad!

Apparently, all this starched shirt counterculture led naturally to the next stage of being, wherein I decide that I am some kind of badass, and this is a fact that must be broadcast to the world by my apparel. And that is what is happening here, where I am about ten times cooler than Christmas tree decorating, GOD, and also: HEY WORLD. I WOULD LIKE FOR YOU TO KNOW THAT I AM AWARE OF THE EXISTENCE OF ALCOHOL. I HAVE ITS SHIRT.

But my hair is a rastafarian!

Hee. Oh, I was dumb.

But, hey. It could have been worse. I could have gone all obnoxiously girly, right? With lace and layers and floof and tremendous patterns in a variety of pastel hues? That would have been awful! Ha ha!

Hello. I'm your curtains.

Yeah. But at least I am not the only one. And, actually, judging from y'all's comments, it sounds like plenty of you have excellent pictures, as well! And someone smart in the comments suggested we do a group or something, so we can see them all, and I thought, Hey! That would be a fun idea! Go, Smart Person!

So, know what we should do, and what I will actually do myself, if I can figure it out? Flickr Group! Flickr Group of discomfort! A special place! A Clubhouse of Crap, all ours, and we could crimp each other's hair and compare acne treatments all day long.

So, y'all think about that; if I build it, would y'all come? Or am I going to be left with my pinch rolls, all alone?

Anyway! So, Day Four, which is an interesting smorgasbord of just bad, and I still have braces in these pictures, which means they must have been taken prior to my entry into high school. I first got braces in the…fourth grade? Maybe fifth? I forget, but I had them for about two years, and then they took them off, and then they announced that I needed them again as soon as I started sixth grade, and I took this news with all of the grace and dignity of someone whose leg has been hacked off with a weed whacker. Or someone who has been smacked over the head by a stapler. Which is to say, a fair amount of hysterical screaming was involved.

And if you were wondering why I was so horrified at the notion of a braces encore, here is why that posed a problem.

Jaundice: It's everybody's problem.

These pictures, then, must have been from the tail-end of the braces days, which also marks the tail-end of the eighties, and therefore, the eighties fashions I so lovingly embraced. We were moving away from a time of jelly bracelets and puff paint and into a time where I longed to dress like Bridget Fonda from Singles, or Winona Ryder from Reality Bites. I stocked up on vests, black velvet chokers, cut-off jeans (which were verboten in my school, unless they were hemmed, which meant that all my jean cut-offs had to be professionally tailored, which seems to defeat the entire purpose of the grunge movement, but this was just an example of THE MAN TRYING TO KEEP ME DOWN and I probably wrote about it in a trapper keeper somewhere). In the years that followed, I would pair long dresses with lace-up Doc Martens, thermal shirts and girly skirts, and wear black tights with everything. Which…okay, I still wear black tights with everything, so maybe I should just shut up directly, but still. IT WAS DIFFERENT THEN. SOMEHOW. I THINK.

Anyway! Before I could get to that point, though, I experienced a period in which I could not seem to figure out how to dress myself, and this caused a reinvention similar to that of Madonna, only less attractive. I started private school in the middle of junior high, and was shocked by the difference in fashion. Now, I had to decide: would I be conservative? Would I be a rebel? WHO CAN DECIDE? This was apparently the dilemma with which I struggled, which you can clearly see by examining my attempt to pair preppy with puffy, as I wear a polo shirt underneath a tee shirt painted with a glorious selection of tropical fish:

HERE FISHY FISHY

I am clearly still having issues here, where I demonstrate what every yuppie camper needs: WEEJUNS.

Ziz smacked me with her ugly stick.

And finally, in a prime example of my attempts to self-define, we can see that I have ventured waaaaay too far into the conservative territory, picking up a page from the playbook of a deranged Laura Ingalls Wilder:

WTF HALF PINT?

Heeeee. What the hell, self? HONESTLY.

Anyway, that pretty much sums up this perio. I'm taking the weekend off, but will be back with Day 5 on Monday. Until then, y'all have a good weekend; I have got to go now, RIGHT NOW, or else face a chinchilla with a stapler, and that's just more than I can handle.

I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before, but I work on the 23rd floor of my building, and so whenever it rains, it seems like the weather is just getting all up in my business, and I have to stop whatever I am doing and watch to make sure that lightning doesn’t come in through the windows and strangle me at my desk. Which, I am sure it...would, and all. I don’t know. I guess lightning doesn’t actually strangle people. I also guess maybe I should go get some coffee.

But, at any rate, the rain tends to put me in a nostalgic and sleepy mood, and that and all the fashion confessions in the comments have really made me think back on all of the things I used to wear, but of which (sadly, tragically) there is no photographic proof. So you will have to take my word for it that, like many of you, I too rocked the rolled down socks in matching colors. I remember a solid two year period in which the favored birthday gift of my age was a Gap tee-shirt and matching Gap socks (OMG THANK YOU!), preferably in some vivid primary color. And my most prized possession was a Guess denim jacket festooned with dozens of buttons, most of which I didn’t understand, but which looked like they qualified for an eleven year old version of subversive literature. (True story: I thought my smiling “Don’t Worry Mon!” button actually referred to an abbreviation for “Monday,” and that this was cheerful advice directed at the forlorn day. Like, chill out, Monday! You only come once a week.)

I also rocked the puff paint sweatshirts, and my personal favorite there was a knee-length white disaster with red chili peppers carefully painted (“puffed”?) all around the collar, a big old necklace of Wrong that gave the impression that I was trying to ward off a roving pack of spicy vampires. I paired that particular monstrosity with plastic chili pepper earrings, a red Multiples belt (if a cylinder of fabric can technically qualify as a “belt”), some red roll down socks and jeans, and concluded that no better outfit had ever been constructed at any time. Seriously, Coco Chanel? BRING IT. It’s CHILI PEPPER FOR THE WIN.

I had pink and turquoise (Catherino is so right, because there I go again with the turquoise) Converse high-tops, and would frequently wear the one blue shoe and one pink shoe, like a Dickensian urchin on acid. And, oh. Bows? DO YOU WANT TO TALK ABOUT BOWS? Because, I HAD A LOT OF BOWS. I had bows in every color, style, and creation, all hanging on yard-long pink ribbons that dangled from the drawer pulls of my dresser. It was a bow for every outfit, and an outfit for every bow, and many featured tiny embellishments, including buttons, shoelaces (YOU HEARD ME, MCKATE), and miniature crayons. I wish I still had some of them, because I would totally wear them to work, and then count the minutes until I was formally disbarred.

In fact, would you like to see some examples of this? I would like to show you some examples of this. Like, here, where I have cleverly matched the bow to the bandana (?) I am wearing around my neck. Because a girl’s got to keep the dust out of her eyes, here in the wild, wild west of Atlanta suburbia. After the party, I went and roped some fillies.

Happy eleventh birthday! Apparently we got you a tablecloth.

Or here, where the whole family is dressed like wayward Redshirts:

Pull your bow extra tight for a satisfying, do-it-yourself face lift!

Still, bows aside, I have one word for all of you, which will probably make you recoil from your computers, all, “NO SHE DID NOT”, and remember that you, too, took part in this particular miracle of science, and that word is: Hypercolor.

Oh, yes. I have been dying to find a prime, functional example on eBay (apparently, Hypercolor has a half life!), because I would like to bring it back in to style directly, so that I may wander the streets of Atlanta with Dukay’s handprints all over my more interesting body parts. Also, this is the only item of clothing which, when you look for it on eBay, includes the description, “Still works!!!!” It’s like the Atari of casual wear. I must own them all.

But, anyway. There are no pictures of me wearing a Hypercolor shirt, and this is a disappointment to us all, but that is okay. It is okay, because there are so many other pictures of me wearing interesting oddities. But even more specifically, there are so many pictures of me wearing such interesting hairstyles, and that is kind of where we arrive today, as we enter the Seventh and Eighth grades of my life, when we all still believed that Milli Vanilli sang their own songs and I dreamily imagined slow dancing to “Take My Breath Away” at my wedding to Christian Slater. (And, oh, the Christian Slater crush lasted for YEARS. I didn’t want just any Christian Slater, but I very much wanted to make sweet, sweet love to the Christian Slater character in Heathers, and that is not dark and angst-y at all, NO).

During this time, although I can’t find any evidence of perms, I have located proof of crimping, and lots and lots of curls. Which is interesting, because my hair is staunchly opposed to curls, and always has been. It is bone straight, and it takes a strictly anti-curl stance on all matters. It will not bend to the will of curlers, and it would very much like for you to fuck off. Naturally, in junior high, this meant that all I wanted in the world was a head full of long, curly locks, and so I tried to trick the hair by filling it with an assortment of mousse, burning it to a crisp with a set of grandmotherly curlers and pastel-tipped metal clips, and then shellacking the shit out of the whole mess with a bottle of Spray Net. And even then, my hair would obey for about twenty minutes, before getting all, “Yeah, that’s enough of that. BONE STRAIGHT AGAIN!”

I can only imagine, then, that these pictures were taken in the few wonderful moments that my hair was distracted enough to forget its natural tendencies, because I damn well know that this is not what I looked like by the end of the day. By the end of the day, the hair was back to straight, only now I’d added forty seven products and just made it mad. It’s like spanking an alligator: you’re not going to train it. You are only going to piss it off.

But still. I had to do something with my baby blue crimping iron, and that is the reason the world has this:

Big crimpin’, spendin’ Gs.

Similarly, I often tried to camouflage “bumpy” as being “curly,” as can be seen here (hey there blue earrings! Come back to me!):

Check out Ziz’s face, which clearly says, “Can you fucking believe I am related to that girl? PLEASE ADOPT ME.”

But the worst was when my hair wanted one thing, and I wanted another, and instead of parting ways and citing irreconcilable differences like other high profile couples, we ended up in a horrifying compromise in which my hair remained straight, but AS GOD IS MY WITNESS, AT LEAST IT WILL BE BIG. I showed this picture to our friend and co-worker, Big Daddy, who immediately exclaimed, “You know why you’re bending like that? BECAUSE YOUR NECK CAN’T SUPPORT THE WEIGHT OF YOUR HEAD.” He’s not wrong.

I am actually too horrified to think of a caption here. Someone else! Think of a caption! Bonus points of Awesome if you mention the gloves.

Whew. And, that is all for today, thankfully, and also because I may fall asleep right now if I don't get up and do something that does not involve tripping down memory lane. But I'll be back tomorrow, and the nightmare will continue, bows and braces and all. See y'all then!

P.S.: Oh, RIGHT. Yeah, speaking of remembering shit (hi), this is kind of important, naturally, which means I totally forgot, what with the excitement of the site starting to work again and everything. But, I got an email from Dachshund Rescue of North America, my chosen charity, the other day, and they are in this contest, and I will let them explain it and we will read it all together in a Learning way:

We have an opportunity to get a $10,000 grant if we are in the top 6 of receiving the highest number of unique contributors. We don't need to raise the most money - so 100 $10 contributions are more valuable than 1 $1000 contribution. We could do a lot of good with $10,000. We have already done over 18 major surgeries this year - each one costing $2500 and up. We are in 5th place now, but we really need some new contributors!

Obviously, DRNA is an organization that I have wholeheartedly supprted for years, so if you have a spare couple of bucks, please consider sending it their way; if they stay within the top 6, they'll get this $10,000 grant, and that really will go a long way toward helping wieners all over. Check them out here, but do it quick, because I am pretty sure that contest is about to end, and frankly, the last thing I need is something ELSE for Bo to be pissed about. We're still on that diet. I'VE GOT MY HANDS FULL ALREADY.

Anyway! Thank y'all, and see you tomorrow!

Tomorrow will really be something to behold, and I have actually found a picture that is so bad, and so painful, that I am almost too embarrassed to show it to myself, much less all of you nice people. It is so atrocious that I might take it out of rotation and save it for the very end, as sort of a Finale of Fugly, and we will all collectively recoil in horror and then NEVER SPEAK OF IT EVER AGAIN. Seriously. Ever. Not even by accident.

RANDOM BO STORY INTERJECTION

Before I get into that, though, I mentioned Bo’s new sleeping protocols the other day, and I figured I’d real quick write about them, so y’all who come here just for dog stories and not for pictures of breathtakingly frightening preteens will have something to enjoy. For those poor people, this whole reconstruction is very “bait and switch” of me. Come for the promise of dog stories; get whacked over the head by acid wash. Thanks for visiting, and have a good damn day!

But anyway. Bo. So, as we all know, I sleep with the dogs, in a platonic but tangle-y way, in which they take up the majority of the bed and I sometimes sleep on a chair. But before we all go to bed every night, we all head to the back yard, because I kind of prefer it when they pee outside of the house and not, say, on the pillow that is cradling my head. I mean, personal preference and all, but I’ve tried it both ways, and the “outside” way involves far less laundry and screaming.

So, out they go, and they do their very important sniffing work until the Place Where We Shall Pee is finally discovered. And thus begins the relay of three dogs who stubbornly insist on peeing on the exact same square inch of yard, because GOD FORBID one of them should pee anywhere else, NO. This all takes time, and first Bo will pee, and then Pugsley pees on the place where Bo peed, and then Gimmme has to pee on the pee of both of them, and then Bo comes back to top off, and then Pugsley runs back and tops off, and then Gimmme comes back and tops off, and then Gimmme tries to hide the whole mess by back-kicking leaves or pinestraw or whatever the hell over the evening toilet, but Bo is not having it, so he comes BACK to re-pee and so on etcetera ad nauseum, while whomever is out there watching them is hollering, “YOU HAVE A WHOLE YARD THOUGH” while wildly gesturing at the remaining, unpeed-upon acre of grass that surrounds their annointed spot. Finally, Bo gets sick of it all and runs back in, and everyone else follows, and the pissing contest mercifully comes to a really stupid end.

SO. In we go, and up to bed we go, and under the covers they dive, and everyone goes to sleep. At least, everyone used to go to sleep at this point, but then, about a month ago, I started them all on a new diet, because I heard somewhere that dachshunds are not supposed to be perfectly spherical. And when the diet began, the normal sleeping protocols ended. Now, under the covers they dive, and then Bo stews there for a minute or two before popping back out, bolting off of the bed and across the room, pressing his nose under the bedroom door, and whining with the cross-legged, hysterical urgency of someone whose bladder is about to explode.

Seeing as I am a proponent of not peeing on the bed (yay!), I open the door, and Bo scrambles downstairs as fast as his stubby little legs will go, in the direction of the yard. And I follow behind, all, “BUT THE PISSING CONTEST IS OVER YOU WON I THINK,” double-timing it before we have some sort of intestinal event on the nice flooring. Only now, I arrive at the back door and discover…not Bo. No. Bo is not at the back door. And this is when I hear an odd moaning sound coming from the other side of the kitchen, and so I turn around, and there is Bo, lying flat on his belly in front of the refrigerator, prostrate to his shiny silver idol, and groaning like he might just DIE.

And, you can’t move him. If you tell him to come here, dammit, I thought you were about to burst, and no we are NOT having a snack, because you weigh as much as a Volkswagen? That will not work. He won’t even look at you. If you clap your hands and say, “Maybe there is a quiche upstairs, in the bed, that I forgot about! Let’s look together!”, he does not take the bait. And if you try to bend over and pick him up, he lets out the most baleful, miserable moan you have ever heard in your life, because BO IS STARVE, and BO DOES NOT WANT TO LEAVE FOOD BOX. Food Box is only hope of Bo.

In reality, of course, BO IS LIE. In fact, BO IS NOT LOSE ANY WEIGHT AT ALL SINCE DIET START. But he’ll never tell you that, and in the meantime, he’s got me on the horns of a short, brown dilemma, because…I mean, I can’t just do nothing when he goes into spasms of MUSTPEEMUSTPEEMUSTPEE and is all whining like a furry banshee. Y’all know Bo. The one time I ignore him will be the one time he has explosive diarrhea someplace inconvenient and novel, like in my hair. And so, every night, I continue to let him out, and he continues to make a beeline for the refrigerator, and I continue to wonder how it is that I so often get outsmarted by a creature who regularly eats his own poop. And that is why I drink, the end.

AND NOW BACK TO OUR PREVIOUSLY SCHEDULED CRAP

So, to shift focus entirely, now I am moving on to Day 2, which is about the time I started Junior High. Apparently, the start of sixth grade corresponded perfectly with my decision to dress only according to the principle of Things That Match A Whole Lot. I mean, A Whooooooooole Lot. Not-Even-Kidding-You-A Lot.

Normally, dressing so that your clothing matches is considered a positive attribute, but there gets to be a point where one can take things too far. And here I am thinking of that time that Britney (back when she was not yet batshit insane) showed up with Justin Timberlake at some awards show, and I don’t really remember anything else about that except that (a) she was not yet batshit insane; (b) we were all living in a blissful and innocent time when we had never heard of someone called K-Fed or his armor-piercing sperm, and (c) BRITNEY AND JUSTIN WERE WEARING MATCHING DENIM FORMALWEAR. I could probably find what I’m talking about on Google, but I have already subjected us all to so much fashion-related pain these last few days, and Britney is kind of having a shitty week anyway, that I am not going to kick any of us when we are down. Instead, I am just going to say that matching denim formalwear is an example of going overboard, and that it is very similar to what was apparently happening in a number of my own ensembles.

Like, you know. Here. Please note my socks, which may, in fact, be pulled up over my coordinating turquoise jeans (note also that "coordinating turquoise jeans" is a phrase that should never be uttered by anyone at any time):

Bitch took my balloon.

And again here, where we can marvel at the red and yellow interplay going on all over my body, recognizing that this is a color combination usually (and wisely) reserved for condiments and fast food establishments:

A young Miss Doxie uses her chameleon powers to blend in with the underbelly of this dinosaur until all danger has passed.

Here I am, dressed like a geriatric and scaring the shit out of Phudge, long-suffering childhood pet who played a major role in the discovery that Cabbage Patch Kid clothes fit on dachshunds:


Bright blue slacks and toucan sweatshirts: official uniform of grandmothers everywhere!

And finally, we have this, which would be an example of being matchy, what with the matching peach sweater and pants set (because, peach: the color that’s flattering on everyone!), but I have inexplicably paired these casual coordinates with a black leather motorcycle jacket, (because, peach: the color that goes so well with black leather!). Obviously, I am just a stack of tough, what with my little white handbag, side ponytail, and keds. I mean…what was that, Punky Brewster? You think you're punk? Uh, sorry, bitch, but I’m punk. I'll rip those little ponytails slap off your head. DO NOT FUCK WITH ME.

My gang colors are blush and bashful!

…and, so it went, apparently. Leather ‘n lace, turquoise ‘n fuchsia, toucans ‘n stirrups. Unholy alliances all, making the mind boggle, the eyeballs weep, and the stomach churn. And explaining why I wear all black pretty much every day of my adult life, and also why everyone who knows me is under strict orders to feed me to a coordinated dinosaur if this particular trend ever recurs.

Y’all have a great evening, and I’ll be back tomorrow, when we will explore some really uncomfortable times in the history of my hair. Stay strong, and if you happen to have any turquoise pants lying around, please do the world a favor and keep them far, far away from me.

Aaaaaanyway. So, back to the point, that being my Comprehensive Retrospective of Awkward Periods (code name: CRAP), which continues today. I am thinking I am going to try to do this CRAP chronologically, which in this case means, “Let’s sort of go from bad to worse,” or “at least I was still kind of cute when I was a little kid, but by the time I start doing my own hair, we are entering some seriously troubling territory.” But, that is awfully structured, what with the chronological business, so I might give it up. I especially might give it up since Dukay and I spent the better part of last evening going through even more pictures in an effort to locate even more examples of my own humiliation. This is how that went down:

Phone: Ring!

Dukay: Hello?

Self: Hey! Come over and help me.

Dukay: Is it the kind of helping that is heavy?

Self: No. I need you to pick out all the ugliest pictures of me.

Dukay: Oh, yeah, because THAT doesn’t sound like a trap AT ALL.

(Hee. DUKAY SMART!)

But, actually, no. He is not that smart, because he eventually agreed, and we settled in with several enormous boxes of photographs (also maybe several enormous glasses of wine) and went through them, one by one. And we found some prime examples of CRAP, but I haven’t had a chance to scan them yet, so they might get interjected later this week. Or, maybe we will find even worse CRAP. Dukay specifically remembers a picture of me that made him “shudder,” a revelation accompanied by him actually, physically shuddering at the very memory, but he can’t remember anything else about the picture, including its current location. Apparently, it was so bad that he has blocked it from his mind, so it now lives deep in the land of Dukay’s nightmares. And, hello. THAT SOUNDS PROMISING.

Anyway, maybe we will find that one. Who knows! I should probably involve my mom, who allegedly showed Dukay the shudder picture in the first place. Or, ooo! I should look on my Dad’s desk. Dad’s desk used to be a clearinghouse of personal embarrassment, so you know there has to be some quality there, maybe even in a special drawer of unspoken horror. And thus, a plan was formed.

But, anyway. So, today we are going to look at outfits that are arguably not my fault, because I am small enough that someone else (MOM) chose them for me, with an evident lack of concern (MOM) regarding humiliation or subsequent therapy bills (MOM MOM MOTHER MOM). At this time in my life, I lived outside of Washington, D.C., and harbored a serious, non-platonic crush on He-Man. As the impossibility of that relationship began to dawn on me (too muscle-y!), I shifted my affection to Michael Knight, because He Is A Knight Rider. That love proved much more long-lasting, persisting until I was seven or eight, at which point I left him for…Christian Slater? A member of Poison? I forget, but don’t feel bad, Michael Knight. It wasn’t you; I grew, and I changed. And that just happens sometimes, when you are six.

I am sure I had additional interests during this time, other than imagining tongue-kissing David Hasselhoff, but I can’t remember them now. Except, oh, wait. Yes I can: Star Wars. I have previously described my childhood Star Wars obsession, and my relationship with a very special pressure cooker, but the short version is that the year I was five, I watched an illegal copy of Star Wars pretty much every afternoon on the Beta Max in my parents’ living room. I loved Star Wars, LOVED IT, and please check out this unbelievably fantastic Leia getup my Grammy made for me:

Aren't you a little short for a stormtrooper?

Now, granted, this was Halloween, but I wore that Hood of Endangered Princesses until the fabric actually disintegrated off of my body, thereby displaying the Leia Underoos underneath. And God in heaven, what I would not give for any of those fashion items today. Those were totally kick ass.

Unlike…well, a lot of other things I wore during this period of my life, which were significantly less ass-kicking. Although, I have to say that now that I am looking at all these pictures, I realize that I touched upon a lot of cultures with my ensembles, much in the manner of a melting pot, if a melting pot wore plastic accessories. For example, have you ever seen someone wearing lederhosen and a lei before? Like, at the same time? Lederhosen and lei? Lei and Lederhosen? No? Liar!

Aloha, Bavaria!

When I was not acting as an ambassador of Hawaii, Germany, or Alderaan (I just googled that), I apparently spent my time kicking ass as the smallest member of Miami Vice:

You can put my car seat in the Ferrari, Tubbs.

By the time this next picture was taken, we’d moved to Atlanta, so I’m guessing I’m…nine? At any rate, by now I at least have the decency to look appalled by my all-bunny ensemble (MOM):

Happy fucking Easter! LIKE MY HEADBAND?

Around this same time:

Guess who got braces a week after THIS class picture was developed?

THITH GIRL!

KITH ME, DAVID HATHELHOFF!

(And here I just have to say, O CLEAR BRACES OF OLDE, you were the lie of orthodontia. Back when I had them, clear braces were not clear. They were yellowish, and they made you look like an insane and crafty farmer had superglued a single kernel of corn to every tooth in your head. Which is maybe the epitome of “sexified” to an insane and crafty farmer, but not so much in junior high, and that dingy plastic mess postponed my first kiss for a solid five years. Or…well, okay, maybe not just the braces, but they certainly didn't help matters in the slightest.)

Sigh. Anyway, that is all I’ve got for today, but with that last picture, you can probably tell that we are beginning to enter whooooole new territories of Awkward. So gird your loins for tomorrow, and kitheth and aloha to you all!