Hell Freezes Over; Dukay Responsible
Well, people, let us all stop what we are doing and issue a collective gasp of shock and disbelief, because El Dukay, the man that I date, the boy that I love, has finally, FINALLY written his "How We Met Story."
Yes. I will give you a second to pick your jaws off of the floor.
(I would also like to add that this should cut my incoming email down by roughly 14,000%, because the number of requests for this story boggles the mind. BOGGLES.)
So, here it is, punctuated maybe on occasion by my own commentary, which is in bold, because WTF, DUKAY? But for the most part, it is very sweet, and he is a cutie pants, and he is also completely insane, because Dukay, did I just seriously have to edit your home address out of this story? I totally did. Poor Dukay does not understand the internet. I think we should all be glad that he did not add a paragraph listing all our social security and credit card numbers. So adorably trusting, my little snookums! So adorably not worried about a crazed murderer showing up on our doorsteps, clutching nothing but a hatchet and a doll made of human hair!
But, uh. Anyway. So, here it is. Did you want some cheesy college romance for your monday? Because baby, that is what you're about to get.
So... How did Miss Doxie & El Dukay meet?
by El Dukay
It all began my freshman year. We lived in a dorm that was in between the graduate student parking lot and the main part of the North Campus, where the school of law was located. We lived on the bottom floor of the dorm, and had a large window that overlooked the walkway.
My dorm roommate and I would be hanging out watching TV in our boxers. (Pants must come off when you are sitting around in the dorm room. Too much constriction.) We'd be there most afternoons, and so every day, we'd see the law students walking down to their cars.
One day, we looked out the window, and saw this gorgeous blond walking by. We rushed over in our boxers, and gawked, stared, drooled... whatever you want to call it. She was smoking hot, and had platinum blond hair. Being very creative, we named her "Hot Girl."
Seeing Hot Girl became our daily routine. I actually looked forward to this part of my day. It was nice relief from pledge training and classes. One day, Hot Girl walked by, and I turned and announced to my roommate that, "One day, she will be mine...Oh yes, she will be mine."
He said, "Whatever dude. You wish."
Time passed, and I finished my freshman year, and figured I would never see Hot Girl again. I never knew who she was.
Meanwhile, Ziz (Doxie's sister) and I had always stayed in touch over IM and email. We had been good friends in middle and high school. She said that she had a sister I should meet in law school. She told her sister that she had an undergrad friend who would be a fun person to meet. She thought we might have fun getting together for coffee or something; she didn't think it would be some big date. I'd never seen Doxie before, and had no idea who she was. By this point, she was finishing up law school, and I was finishing college.
(Edit by Miss Doxie: Ziz reports that Dukay jokingly asked her if her sister was hot. According to Ziz, she told him that I looked a lot better "now that she's had the Procedure," but that she declined to elaborate.)
Doxie was always busy, and was finishing up her last year of law school, so a lot of conflicting schedules had to be worked out. Finally, I convinced Miss Doxie to meet me for a drink. I told her that I would meet her up at 283, a bar in downtown Athens. I also told her that I would have on a pink button down shirt. (Yes... pink.)
So we set up the time. She was a little early, and I found out later that a scuzzy man in a pink shirt tried to hit on her before I got there. This worked in my favor. It set the bar of expectations much lower than they would have been previously. I would love to say that he was a mark put there by me, but he wasn't. I'm not that clever. (MD: My first pink shirt date had three whole teeth!)
When I walked in, I looked around the room. And there, looking at me and waving...was HOT GIRL.
I couldn't believe it. Ziz's sister was Hot Girl. I had no idea.
Obviously, I had to impress. There was no other option. We sat and had a couple of drinks and talked about all sorts of things. I suggested we go to a different bar, so we went somewhere with better wine. We kept talking, all the first date stuff. It turned out that she is the complete package. The rare, perfect combination of brains and beauty that you can never find together in one person. She was sweet and gentle with this ass-kicking exterior. She wore knee high stiletto black leather boots with everything - always. She loved animals. She had the greatest sense of humor and actually liked me. I had definitely out-kicked my coverage. (Women everywhere may want to ask their men friends what that means in this context.)
Afterwards, we walked to a bar with live acoustic music and tons of beer on tap. We sat down and this dude carrying a few bars of soap on a rope came up to us. He immediately hit on my date. I wasn't going to be an ass - after all, she was the most beautiful girl that had ever graced this place and who could blame him, really? Hell, I would have hit on her too. And yes - there really is such a thing as soap on a rope. I never thought it existed. Well, it does! I've seen it with my own two eyes!
Instead of telling this guy to fuck off, I started talking to him. Just asking him questions about everything. He liked talking about himself.
(MD: Dude, did he EVER. We spent an hour of our first date listening to a SOAP ON A ROPE salesman talk about his benefits plan. Who the fuck does that happen to? WHO?)
I decided to tell him that we were on our first date, and how I'd always known Doxie as Hot Girl. He liked the story and was really happy to be a part of it. He gave Doxie a free soap on a rope, and I bought him a beer.
We were ready to get out of there, so I told Doxie that a good friend's band was playing at another bar. They were a great Latin calypso jazz band playing originals and covers of groups like John Scofield and Micheal Camillo. They even had a steel drum player. We went and enjoyed the show (MD: People, herein we establish, once again, the disconnect between Dukay's music and my own music. To say that I "enjoyed" this show is a very bold statement, indeed. Let us instead say "I did not die during that show, but I thought about killing myself with a swizzle stick, because I do not like jam bands, at all, ever, and maybe I am only now admitting that I hated that concert." Hi, baby! I HATE THAT BAND. But I love you! Kisses!)
The show ended, and we talked a little more, and called it a night. No kiss, just a hug. (MD: Look at Dukay with the detail! I can't wait till he gets to the first time we Did It.)(Dear Mom: We have never Done It.) I made sure to walk her to her car and then walked back over to mine.
We stayed in touch for a while, but she was on the tail end of exams, and was busy with other things. We met up a few times and went on a few friend-like dates. Never any kisses. Her law school friends referred to me as "Junior" because I was so much younger than her. Four years younger, to be exact. So finally, two or three months after I'd first met her, I decided to have my dad come up to town to see the same live jazz band Doxie and I had seen on our first date, and to take both him and Doxie to dinner. (MD: And who agreed to see that awful band again? I did, people. Obviously, I was blinded by love.)
That night, I held her hand under the table at dinner. A true "G" rating. (MD: Holy shit, we were ten years old, apparently. Then we traded stickers!) We went across the street for the live show, which was awesome. (MD: ... ) Afterwards, we all went back to my house. We were standing around talking when my dad suddenly decided to give us a little alone time. So out of nowhere, he said, "Uh...I gotta go get some donuts! I'll be back in a few." He walked out. (MD: This was the most hilariously obvious move of all time, but I am 100% in favor of anything involving donuts.)
After he left, I pulled the single greatest "move" of my life. I was at one with The FORCE.
You men out there - this is top secret shit.
Use it wisely.
(MD: People, he is really, REALLY proud of this little shenanigan. Can you tell?)
I had never tried this before but it just came to me in a split second. We really were into each other - yet had never kissed - just hugs and now some hand holding. So she leans in to kiss me good night. And I kissed her for a second or two, and then...... I pulled away. (MD: WTF?) I said that I really liked her, and that we should do it again soon. And then I walked her to her car and she went home. (MD: RAGE. This is how I felt at that moment: RAGE.)
For two weeks, I didn't hear anything from her. I wondered if I'd ruined everything.
I later found out that the seed I planted with the "pull away" was much stronger than a kiss could have ever been. The FORCE was harnessed. It was, in fact, brilliant. I occupied her thoughts. She was thinking, "Who is this little shit that pulled away from me? Who in the HELL does he think he IS? NOBODY pulls away from ME!"
(MD: Now, this makes me sound like a big old vain something or other. But...well, yeah, I guess I am a big old vain something or other, because a COLLEGE kid wouldn't KISS me? Are you fucking KIDDING? He is supposed to me MADE of hormones and erections! This guy's mission statement is supposed to be "Getting to Third Base" and he won't KISS me?
Meanwhile, my friends thought this was the funniest shit they'd ever heard of in their lives, and were all, "Maybe he's saving himself for the prom!" and "I can't believe you kissed him. His parents are NEVER going to let you babysit again!")
Her friends felt the same way.
Needless to say, we somehow wound up running into each other, and I took her out to dinner. Soon, we were spending a lot of time with each other. I began to notice little things about her. Like, that she never ate the end of a french fry. She said the rest of the fry tastes better. Still to this day, when she finishes eating fries, there are all these little pieces of the ends of the fries left on her plate. Almost like seeds from grapes, shells from peanuts, or the tops of strawberries. But she eats the OTHER end of the fry. I am still completely befuddled.
But from then on - we made a perfect match. And it all started with meeting "Hot Girl" in person at 283 in Athens, on a blind date. After all those years, I was right. She IS mine. I love her with all my heart.
(MD: Aw, and I love him too. But I still don't love his music.)
So, there you have it, people! And that is how we went from this...
Doxie and Dukay in 2002
Dukay and Doxie in 2006
In four or so years. And hopefully, for many more...so long as he never makes me listen to a steel drum band covering Metallica songs ever, ever again.
And, so, now you know our story. And thus ends the schmoopy! I've got a lot for this site this week, actually, so I should be updating again soon; in the meantime, everyone have a good day, and special snuggly thanks to Dukay, for finally telling his story. Kisses to everyone!
Kythryne, Your Secret Pal Says Hi
...not that the above has anything to do with this entry. But she does, and she asked me to give you a shout out. And I am in a compliant kind of mood.
Yesterday was our last day at the beach and we are going home this afternoon. I am trying not to think about it, because: beach is good! Home is bad. Home involves bills and a leaky faucet that I haven't fixed yet and there's that toilet that's been running, and on top of everything else, YOU GUYS, I have done NOTHING but eat and drink for DAYS, and now I have to go back to work, and my jeans no longer fit my body.
What the hell? SERIOUSLY, PEOPLE.
We've had such a good time, though, and I am excited about seeing the dogs. The dogs are...well, I am betting that they are really, really, seriously pissed at me right now. I left them at the vet/kennel place for almost two weeks. That is like four years in dogs time. And Bo is not forgiving.
The last time I left Bo at the vet, it was only for a morning, and he was having his teeth cleaned. And when I went to pick him up, he was LIVID, SO FURIOUS, and he gave me what-for and how-dare-I all the way home. He sat in the passenger seat next to me, GLARING at me, and just...growltalked. He growltalked all the way home, which is something Bo does, and it involves him growling and talking (obviously) at the same time, wherein he moves his little Bo lips and tries to make little words to demonstrate his EXTREME displeasure. Because he lacks some important word-making abilities, however (and I am not EVEN getting into the science of that right now), all of his words sound like this:
So, the entire ride home, and I mean the entire ride home, Bo glared at me with white hot hatred, and talked. "RrrrOOOOwwwOOOlllOOOr," he told me angrily. "Rrrroooggggllloooowwww. GRRRROOOOLLLOOOOWWWOOOORRRR."
And I tried apologizing, but he was Not Having It, so then I just started laughing, which only made him angrier ("Rrrowwwoolooggg? RRROWWWOOLOOGGG!"), and I had to get my cell phone and that is when I called all kinds of people and left them voicemails of Bo growling at them. I did not give any explanation. As soon as I heard the beep, I just held the phone up to his lips as they trembled with fury, and let the hatred be broadcast to the voicemail of people throughout this great country.
About an hour later, I got a message from Ziz, that just said, "What in the HELL did you do to Bo? Are you skinning him alive?"
Aaaaaaaanyway. So I am excited about seeing the dogs, but I am not so excited about the verbal lashing that I am sure to receive. And, I am not excited about the drive home. Sigh.
Today, Dukay and I will spend approximately seventy hours in the car together. We may murder one another; you just never know. It is a small car. And we have to go a long way.
And Dukay is going to want to listen to his music, and his music is awful, IT IS SO BAD, and he just loves anything that is spacey and jam-bandish, and I JUST DON'T HAVE THE PATIENCE, PEOPLE, to wait around for musicians to decide what they're going to play. And I DO NOT HAVE THE PATIENCE for songs that last nineteen minutes, plus a seven minute drum solo, and nobody EVER sings, they just PLAY shit, and SOMETIMES they are not even playing instruments, and once Ziz and Dukay went to a concert together to hear one of his bands, and Ziz got home and looked at me and said, "Dear Lord, at one point, the man played a shoe, and THAT IS NOT MUSIC, that is screwing around with footwear."
SO. You can see that maybe I am not so excited about spending the next eight hours in the car with someone who wants to listen to shoes and spoons and the sounds of washing machines dying and hair catching fire, or whatever the hell. I just want to listen to books on tape (as I do), but Dukay lacks the attention span for any such endeavor. Dukay lacks the attention span of a gnat, but that is another issue altogether. (Sometimes Dukay will abandon a subject that we are discussing, but then pick it up again several hours later, without warning. Like, one morning, we will be talking about that song Old MacDonald's Farm and how it is kind of weird, and then we will stop talking about it -- we will do something else for the rest of the day, something that does not involve farm animals at all, and then around 11 at night, we will be sitting on the couch with friends, and he will turn and look at me, and with NO WARNING WHATSOEVER, announce, "Of course, sheep don't bark," and then he will turn around and that will be the end of the conversation. And everyone will stare at us, trying to figure out if we are speaking in code, or whether they missed that all-important conversational shift that made it somehow appropriate for Dukay to announce, with CONVICTION, that sheep do not, indeed, bark.)
(And then I have to explain it, because Dukay is already absorbed in something else. And then I look like an idiot. This is called a Dukay Dive Bomb. The Dukay Dive Bomb is a part of my daily reality.)
ANYWAY. So, that is what I will be dealing with for the rest of the day. And I'm bummed, y'all, because this means I will have to say goodbye to my sister, and to her boyfriend devin, who I really like even though he insists that I spell his name without the use of capital letters (we won't try to understand that). He is very funny. He and Ziz together equal hours of entertainment, especially because they hardly ever get to see each other. She lives in L.A. now, and he is still in Boston, and one day we will kidnap them both and force them to just live in my house, already, and we will all eat Flav-O-Ice and not eat the green ones and tell jokes and drink things with umbrellas all day long.
But for now, the vacation is over, and I am sad. Tomorrow I have to go back to work, and pick up the dogs, and pay the bills, and slop the hogs, and whetever the hell else has to be done. But I can promise you one thing: whatever I do, Bo will have something to say about it. And that something is not going to be good.
In which I use the "F" word more times than is probably legal in many states.
Last night Dukay took me out for a romantic evening, which was very nice of him, and which he planned all by himself. And the plan was to take me to the symphony, where we would listen to pretty instruments playing Christmas songs, and hold hands and be generally overtaken by the magic of Christmas as presented through "triangle" and "tuba". That was the plan.
But the plan did not work out so much, in the sense that we didn't actually do that, in the sense that we never quite made it inside, in the sense that PEOPLE, WE GOT KICKED OUT OF THE SYMPHONY.
Yes. I don't want to talk about it.
But I will say that the people at the symphony are REALLY NOT KIDDING about shutting those doors at EXACTLY THE RIGHT TIME, even if that means allowing the people in line DIRECTLY in front of you inside and then abruptly pushing you OUT OF THE DOOR and INTO THE HALLWAY and then LOCKING THE DOOR IN YOUR FACE, while you stand there, amazed, because, HI. YOU JUST PUSHED ME OUT THE DOOR.
I don't think I have mentioned that the woman who pushed me out the door? HAD A RAT TAIL. She was like, sixty years old, and she had a rat tail. Because nothing says "high culture" like a rat tail! Nothing says "I have every right to be a snobby bitch to you, by the powers vested in me by my RAT TAIL," like a rat tail! Y'all, I could not make this shit up if I tried.
And I will also say that Dukay was not HAPPY about this turn of events. No. You can maybe imagine. What followed next could be described as a "conniption fit," if you were trying to describe it. We got into the car to head over to a bar we frequent, and this is pretty much how that went:
Dukay: FUCK THE SYMPHONY.
Self: Yes. Well. Apparently, we were la...
Dukay: FUCK THE SYMPHONY.
Self: ...te. Right. They're pretty hard core, with the rules.
Dukay: FUCK THE SYMPHONY.
Dukay: I WILL WRITE A SCATHING LETTER.
Self: To whom, exactly? The guy who plays the triangle?
Dukay: WITH BAD WORDS.
Self: I don't think you should send a letter. I think you should just write a letter in your heart.
Dukay: I HEREBY VOW NEVER TO GO BACK TO THE SYMPHONY FOR THE REMAINDER OF MY LIFE, SO SAYETH ME, IN MY LIFETIME, AMEN.
Self: Right. Got it. No more symphony. You are very serious.
Dukay: MY ANGER IS BEGINNING TO EXTEND TO THE MUSICIANS. I AM BEGINNING TO HATE THE GUY WITH THE STICK. WHO IS THE GUY WITH THE STICK.
Dukay: YES. I WILL TAKE THE CONDUCTOR, AND I WILL SHOVE HIS LITTLE STICK SO FAR UP HIS A...
Self: How about you just don't send them any money any more?
Dukay: MY ANGER MUST BE KNOWN.
Self: Dude, I think your anger is pretty much "known" at this point.
So we got to the bar, and the valet opened Dukay's door, and Dukay greets him with, "FUCK THE SYMPHONY. Here are the keys."
And then we got inside, and the host came over to hug and welcome us, and Dukay, once again: "FUCK THE SYMPHONY. Hi, Bob."
So word quickly spread that we had been booted from our evening of high culture, and before long, we were sitting at the bar, and a phenomenon occurred, namely that whenever we were addressed, by anyone, this is how that worked:
"FUCK THE SYMPHONY. Y'all want some water?"
"FUCK THE SYMPHONY. How are you two doing on wine?"
"FUCK THE SYMPHONY. The chef sent you some calamari! With a message, that message being, FUCK THE SYMPHONY."
Every toast? We toasted to fucking the symphony. Every goodnight? Given with a healthy dash of the fucking of the symphony. At this point, the symphony is surely well and truly fucked.
And, not surprisingly, it caught on. Other people at other tables began greeting their waiters and waitresses with, "FUCK THE SYMPHONY. I will have the brie." Or, "FUCK THE SYMPHONY. Could we please get a little more bread? Thanks ever so much."
Things, sadly, went downhill, when a woman at a table near us succumbed to the power of the Bottomless Wine Glass, and slumped over in her seat and began VOMITING ALL OVER THE FLOOR, as her friends did absolutely NOTHING to stop this truly terrifying turn of events, except for laugh and pat her back, and people, we are NOT AT A KEGGER, this is a nice restaurant with a nice bar and formerly nice flooring. Immediately, the bartenders and wait staff flocked to Dukay and me and formed a protective shield from The Spewer, apologizing profusely, all, "FUCK THE SYMPHONY. I can't believe that woman is puking all over the world." "FUCK THE SYMPHONY. Oh, good Lord. Where's the mop?" "FUCK THE SYMPHONY. Do you think her friends could, I don't know, maybe make some attempt to get her to a bathroom? I'm just wondering, and also, FUCK THE SYMPHONY."
And meanwhile, I'm just sitting there, thoroughly scandalized, and all I can think of to say is, "FUCK THE SYMPHONY! THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE MY ROMANTIC NIGHT! AND INSTEAD WE HAVE BEEN ABUSED BY A WOMAN WITH A RAT TAIL AND SOMEONE IS NOW VOMITING IN MY VICINITY."
But like I said. I don't want to talk about it. Besides, I think everything that needs to be said, has been said. And that being, for the ninety seven millionth time, with no question whatsoever, and from the bottom of my heart, y'all, FUCK THE SYMPHONY.