Whole Wide World
Aw, you guys! Just...honestly. Y'all are so nice. Seriously, all of those sweet comments?! LOOK HOW NICE YOU PEOPLE ARE. I don't deserve you! You are all rocking and kick ass and good looking and wise. Thank you for all of your nice thoughts, and thank you all for being so sympathetic toward my little personal tragedies. Really, I should have figured that you'd all understand, and I kind of feel like an idiot for being so nervous about coming back. But, you know. I never said I was particularly smart. Just kind of a coward.
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.
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]
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: 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.
Him: Does it have to be food related? Like Cookie and Spam?
Self: No, it can be whatever. Unfortunately.
Him: Then I like Shania!
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?
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.
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!
I Am The Internet's Bitch
(I was actually going to name this entry "I Am The Bitch Of The Internet," but know what? That sounds not very friendly. "Reigning unfriendly bitch" is not something to which I aspire. Instead, what I am getting at, is that I am the internet's bitch. As in, the internet has made me its bitch. Like in prison. And this concludes my paragraph analyzing a five-word title, guess who was an English major and hasn't slept in a while, THANK 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.
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:
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.
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.
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:
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.
The Reconstruction of Miss Doxie
HOLY SHIT, I don't even believe it. I am on my website! I am TYPING ON MY WEBSITE. This might make me teary, and I never thought I would live to see the day. I am sure I will complain about it all in much tedious, annoying detail below, so get all psyched for that. Obviously.
But, of course, first thing's first: before I even start on the ugly divorce of Doxie and Internet, let me begin by telling y'all that my dad is better. It took a long time. During that long time, he gravitated between "He'll be back to normal any day!" and "Wait, maybe he needs some really invasive surgery, Our Bad." He finally settled on the former, and now he's doing really well. He's even at work, and so I get to follow him around suspiciously, trying to keep him from doing too much, and pestering him by saying things like, "When are you going home? Have you taken your vitamins? Eat this orange. I AM CALLING MOM." I am not annoying at all.
But, at any rate, there was a lot of worrying there, for a while. And, turns out, I do not like the possibility of my Dad being taken away from me. Not a bit. None of us do, and it took all of us a long time to get back to normal, and even longer to get caught up with our previously-scheduled lives. Toss in some additional, far-less-critical (but still annoying as all shit) other issues, and I managed to get pretty turned around there, in a number of different ways. It was Big Fun.
I am so sorry to have kept everyone waiting for so long, though, and that certainly was not my intention when I wrote that last entry. As much as I appreciate the overwhelming concern and support from all of you, I just hate that people have been worried about me and my family. And I would have loved to pop in and tell you all that we were in one piece, but that is where that aforementioned Divorce comes into play. Which I will sum up thusly:
Because the Universe is how it is, Dad's illness corresponded precisely with the time that something vague and technical went wrong with the back-end of my website. This vague and technical problem started popping up, "FORBIDDEN! NO! GO AWAY!" errors every time I tried to log in. And this was...new. Usually, when my site has a conniption, all that happens is that the comments turn off and an entry or two gets sucked into the Internet ether. Locking me out entirely, however? Hello, new problem! Nice fucking timing.
So, I dug in where I could, and probably made things ten times worse by my fumbling, and then this story goes on for many more paragraphs, during which I tried to figure out if the problem was the server, which was experiencing a “Critical Error,” it informed me, or if it was the site itself, which wanted nothing to do with me whatsoever. Alllll of these paragraphs are boring, and so I am not going to get into it, but I will say that HOLY SHIT, TODAY, this actual day that is happening right NOW, and for the first time in...months, everything seems to be turned back on. (I mean, I think it is. I haven’t tried to publish this yet. Maybe I am in for a big surprise that will involve cussing! Maybe I am just talking to myself. In which case: HI ME! THIS SHIT IS STILL BROKEN). Provided that this is working, then I have all this shiny new bandwidth to play with, and I am upgraded in vague ways I do not understand, and I am sort of unreasonably excited about all of it. And, hey there, world! Did you miss me?
So, there you have it. You are kind of caught up, we can all stop worrying about my dad, things are [allegedly] fixed, and I am thrilled, and thank you hosting people, for getting it all sorted. And I am sorry, hosting people, for being an idiot about the whole thing and making matters worse. It is what I do.
But mostly, I am sorry that so many people were concerned. If I could have popped in to tell everyone that we were okay, and that we were getting better, I would have. Disappearing after such a dire and "Death! DEAAAATH!" entry was not good form. I did not mean to disturb people, and I have tried to write back everyone who wrote to me (although emails, too, went all kerfluffle for a good two months; ask me about how much fun THAT was). I am still making my way through everything, and I just feel really bad about the whole business.
But, oh, you guys. So many things have happened! Nothing, like, important, but you know. Things like falling down and drinking stuff and going places that are ill-advised. Some of these things have been really funny and awesome, and they would happen and I would think, "Holy shit, I've got to write about this!" before remembering, with crushing disappointment, that the Internet dumped me. The Internet dumped me, and refused to take my calls, and stole all my good CDs and scrawled my phone number on bathroom stalls all over Atlanta. The Internet didn't want to hear about the saga of the Dippin' Dots of Jesus, or about how I was attacked by a homicidal squirrel, or about Gimmme's uniboob, or Bo's new sleeping protocols. The Internet had moved on, probably to someone on myspace, and I was left a sad, clingy mess, begging, "Please? Can't we try again? I’ll be better this time!" while pouring my heart out to customer service representatives across the globe ("I SWEAR WE WERE SO HAPPY ONCE"). Because I have pride and all.
In the end, I fought for our love, and won, mostly because I threw money at the Internet until it agreed to give me another chance. Because, good news! The Internet is kind of a whore. (JUST KIDDING LOVE YOU INTERNET NEVER LEAVE ME AGAIN).
And, that is all. Well, except for the Dippin' Dots and the squirrel and the fact that I have concluded that I am being haunted by a really irritating ghost who likes AM radio, and some other stuff I will think of shortly. And also, interesting news: I have thought of one way I can try to make it up to everyone that I went missing for so long, and that is by making a spectacular ass out of myself. Which is something I probably would have done anyway, but this way is much faster, really. Plus, it allows me to make lists. So, ass-making! LET IT COMMENCE.
And here is what I am going to do, to mark the Reconstruction of the site and the Reuniting of Me + Internet ( = True Love 4Ever!). While I’ve been off, I spent a lot of time living at my parents' house, doing whatever. And while there, I discovered all of the most frightening pictures of me that have ever been taken, all secreted away by myself, in hopes they would never be discovered by boyfriends or members of the press. These are the pictures I won't even show Dukay because I am afraid that he will start harboring serious concerns about what lurks in my gene pool (Dukay: start saving for braces!). And these pictures have stayed hidden, until now. Now, I am totally going to publish them ALL on the internet, every day for the next week. It will be a retrospective of awkward. I am totally psyched.
Please note that, during the times these pictures were taken, I was often painfully, remarkably, hilariously funny looking, and even during times when I looked relatively normal, I still had what is undoubtedly the worst sense of appropriate footwear/clothing/hair styling that you have maybe ever seen. I think I can best describe what we are dealing with here by telling you that, in the course of my fashion experimentation, I have lovingly embraced the following themes (TIME FOR LISTS WOO!):
1. Accessories, Accessories, Accessories!
2. EVERYTHING MUST MATCH EVERYTHING EVERYTHING EVEN PROPS
3. Big Hair is Happy Hair
4. Little House on One Fucked up Prairie
5. Clothes That Are Clearly Not Mine
8. Your Mom
I will post these, plus other uncategorized monstrosities, right here, using all this fancy ass new bandwidth I [allegedly] have. You maybe should not be eating when this occurs. Like, for example, now:
I call this picture Nature’s Majesty, Plus Acid Wash.
(Actually, that one is totally tame. Things really only go downhill from here.)
(Like, downhill to here: )
Acid wash, pinch rolls, Bill Cosby’s castoff sweater, and what appears to be a mullet. Plus, I am playing chess, probably to distract my thirteen year old self from all the love-struck preteens beating a path to my door. HEY BOYS! TAKE A NUMBER. There is plenty of awesome to go around.
So, anyway. That's everything, y'all (really, all you wanted and so much more! That you didn't want! Like food poisoning!). I am sorry for disappearing, but things are looking up at last, and I'm confident that my year is about to start getting a hell of a lot better. And I’m thinking that Mister Internet and I will live happily ever after, so long as I promise never to wear acid wash or a mullet ever, ever again.
Things That Have Entertained Me Recently
1. My cable box. (Which...you know. Of course. Because hardware is so frequently entertaining.) Specifically, the abbreviations my cable box uses when you go to the "What's On!" (it is enthusiastic! Let's see What's On! We're gonna watch us some television!) menu, and even more specifically, the "What's On!" listing for TBS, which, last night, was showing Everybody Loves Raymond, followed by Sex and the City, followed by My Wife and Kids. Except each show was only half an hour, and that much title just doesn't fit into that little "What's On!" box, and so instead, TBS's listing read, "Everybody Loves Sex And My Wife And Kids." And I was like, aw, TBS! Your whole family is engaging in promiscuous sexual behavior! Even the kids! That's probably why you drink.
1(a). Another offering from my cable box: "John Tesh Live at Red Rocks," happily shortened to "John Tesh Rocks". And I nodded gravely and said, "Of course he does, TBS. Of course he does. Here, have some more whiskey."
2. The fact that, after many years of furrowed brow and narrowed eyeballs, I have finally managed to put my Significant Concerns Regarding FedEx into words, which occurred in an email I sent to a friend in California, which explains as follows:
I am always kind of skeptical of Fed Ex, and when I am sending packages to California, I am all, "It is 5 p.m. in Atlanta, and you are going to have my package to California by tomorrow? I FEEL THAT IS NOT PHYSICALLY POSSIBLE, FED EX." And then it works out, and I am left with additional support for my theory, which is named "How Fed Ex Has Actually Mastered The Art Of Teleportation But Is Keeping It Secret From Us, Well Played, Fed Ex."
3. That picture of Gimmme sleeping from the last entry, because it reminded me of this story, which I am pretty sure I have never told here. Except maybe I have. I don't remember, but here we go anyway!
About six years ago, when Gimmme was just a little guy, I got home from a party with my Then-Boyfriend at around 1 in the morning. I was putting the dogs out, when I picked up Mister Gimmme and discovered this weird, smooshy lump on his belly, which had not been there before we’d left. I freaked out accordingly, insisting that Then-Boyfriend take us to the emergency vet now, NOWNOWNOW. And so off we went, with him in a tux, and me in a cocktail dress and kind of uncomfortable shoes, and me also possibly having consumed one or two cocktails. Or ten. None of this bodes well for Crisis Management.
We got to the emergency vet, and I went running up to the front desk with a happily wagging Gimmme, who remained wholly undisturbed by the entirety of these events. I, however, being very disturbed, promptly shrieked out, “Look! LUMP!” to the receptionist. Turns out, though, that she did not share in my horror, and she calmly explained that, actually, it was not the Insta-Tumor I was envisioning, but instead, just a bug bite. She said they could drain it so it wouldn’t be uncomfortable, but that, you know. Maybe they would have me sit a few minutes in the waiting room, so they could deal with animals in Actual Official Crises, and not just Animals With Bug Bites and Their Hysterical People In Cocktail Attire.
So, I settled down in a little plastic chair, and picked up the latest edition of Highlights for Children (Gallant sucks!), and began the painstaking process of trying to find all of the missing shit in that hidden picture thing. Now, it was the middle of the night, and Mister Gimmme was pretty exhausted. So he fell asleep. And he did so in Gimmme's favorite position - across my lap, on his back, with his head dangling over my knees, mouth hanging open, and feet poking straight up in the air. In short, looking just like the picture in that last entry, and precisely like a dog who is (1) extremely dead, and (2) fully embracing the later stages of rigor mortis.
When I arrived at the vet, the waiting room had been empty, so I didn't realize that this was the image being conveyed until people started arriving, hauling Buster or Boots or whomever in by a leash and looking disheveled, hollering, "He ate ALL of the children's vitamins! ALL OF THEM!" in a tone of great hysteria, before becoming veeeeeeeeery quiet when they saw me, all decked out in formal wear and enjoying my Highlights, with a week-dead dachshund splayed across my lap. Suddenly, they started speaking in hushed tones, like, "Um, excuse me. Mister Buster seems to have consumed all of the Flintstone family, as well as their neighbors. If it is not too much trouble, I would like to make sure that activity does not lead to death, as it seems to have done to that small dog over there on the crazy lady's knees."
Children, who had presumably been having a gay old time feeding Buster all of those Fred and Wilmas, would wander over in curiosity, only to be snatched by concerned parents who whispered, "Don't go near THAT dog." For about twenty minutes, the entire room sat suspended in extreme, palpable discomfort, with nobody able to look away from the Faces of Death playing out across my cocktail dress. Meanwhile, I just kept on calmly reading my Highlights, while then-boyfriend (AND WE WONDER WHY HE IS NOW "THEN"-BOYFRIEND) squirmed in fatal, horrible embarrassment by my side.
Someone did tentatively ask me what was, you know. Wrong with my dead dog. And because I had enjoyed ten (okay, fifteen) cocktails, and that makes me think I am funny, I responded that, well! He just hasn't been eating. Or going to the bathroom. Or moving at all, actually, for days, and also, he smelled funny, and it was getting totally annoying. To emphasize my point, I poked at Gimmme's little feet (which you can do to Gimmme while he is sleeping, because Gimmme can sleep through ALL THINGS, including major explosions or reconstructive surgery), and his little legs would bend, and then immediately snap back to sleeping position. People gasped in shock; Then-Boyfriend cursed under his breath and went outside to smoke a cigarette and ESCAPE FROM SELF. I am sure we cannot imagine why.
Finally, someone popped into the waiting room and said, "Gimmme?" At which point I put down my Highlights and, before the closely-watching crowd, clapped my hands. This caused two things to happen:
1. Gimmme immediately shot straight up in the air; and
2. A man sitting across from us literally SCREAMED, because HOLY SHIT, THAT DOG IS NOT DEAD.
As Gimmme scrambled to an upright position and I picked his waggy self up to get his bug bite drained, I looked cluelessly at everyone else, all, "What? He's got a bug bite. Hope Buster is okay!" And off we went. And shortly thereafter, Boyfriend became Then-Boyfriend. I certainly have no idea why, but it probably has nothing to do with the fact that I am batshit insane.
The End. Anyway, that picture is funny to me because of that. Now we know!
4. The "Tags" function on Flickr, which turns out to be a goldmine for comedy. I am sure that my newest additions will make a computer weep somewhere, but I don't care, as it remains hilarious to me. And that is what is important. To me.
And, that is kind of all for right now. I am all revved up to tell y'all the story of Cookie and the Geese (a phrase which my mind will not stop singing, either to the tune of "Benny and the Jets" or "Beauty and the Beast." Both work. You are welcome!), and Cookie and I even photographed a reenactment of the event, but I haven't had a chance to photoshop them all into Coherence yet. So, that will be coming up. In the meantime, I am going to a wedding this weekend, for which I have purchased a total of three dresses, because it is Fancy. And we will all hope that nobody has to go to the emergency vet while I'm wearing them, because Lord knows. That just does not end well for anybody. And especially not for the Flintstones.
P.S. Oh, I forgot! Actually, one more thing has amused me recently.
Now Bo An Angry Teenager. ROLL EYES. Family SO STUPID.
Heee. Poor Bo. He lives a life of misery.
Kisses to all of y'all, and have a good rest-of-the-week!
Uh, Keepeth Thy Mastercardeth Prepared...Eth
Did I say this afternoon? Tonight. Tonight. That is what I meant to say, but I fell down and forgot English and then I had to practice some law.
Honestly. Can't people just let me shop in peace? GOD. Thanks, working.
Prepare Thy Mastercard
...because this afternoon, THIS FUCKING AFTERNOON, I will finally be posting the Christmas Gift Guide. Which I was supposed to post two weeks ago. And then I was supposed to post it by the end of last week. And then I was supposed to post it on Friday, at the very, very, very latest. But, I have learned A Lesson, and this is what I have learned: I have learned that nothing, nothing, is ever as easy as it should be. Related lesson: I am a moron! But I feel that this is beside the point.
Anyway. Coming soon! Monday, Monday, Monday! Extra excitement! Shopping! Bitching! Random observations and rambling, all for you! So, try to contain your excitement. And your paycheck. And, I'll be back soon!
Technical Difficulties, Technically
ARGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH is the sound I have made sixteen jilliion times this week, as I complete writing YET ANOTHER entry for this site, and then I watch as it promptly dies and deletes itself upon uploading, and babies cry and puppies whimper and the world collapses in on itself and we are left in another black hole. Or maybe I am exaggerating, and it is not exactly an event of such catastrophic magnitude, but it is totally pissing me off anyway. Also pissing me off: the damn comments are totally not working again. PAIN.
So, I am going to have to try to figure out what the hell is wrong with these various issues (oh, and, also screwed: e-mails, apparently, but I think I've got that fixed), but in the meantime, the comments are dead, and maybe this is about to delete itself, but frankly, I think I will survive all of that because know what, Internet? Know what? I'm on damn VACATION. SO SCREW IT.
Hello! Hi you guys! I am at the beach! I am not working for two whole weeks, and instead I am going to drink tropical beverages and try to get some tan on my fish-belly-white legs, and I am not going to think about briefs or filings or motions or anything, and Dukay is coming to meet me here soon, and so is Ziz, and for now I am with my parents and every once in a while I kind of whimper and hold out my glass and say, "Eeeeeemmmpty," and someone (hi Dad!) pours more wine in there, and it's totally awesome.
Equally awesome is the fact that this year, unlike last year, there is no deadly hurricane hanging out with us at the beach. This year it is all sunny, and the dreaded sea ook is safely inside the ocean, not crawling around on the beach all Night of the Blob-like, swallowing up pomeranians and toddlers and being generally unpleasant. This year, we just have sand. It is WAY better this way.
SO. I'm at the beach, and I'm with my parents at the moment, and it is sunny and gorgeous, and I will probably post sixty million pictures of the beach and all of our really rocking and important tasks here (Tasks for This Afternoon: Lie there. Turn; lie there. Hiccup.) and that will be super fun for all of us, I am sure. I do not have any rocking and important tasks or pictures or stories yet, though, because so far, all I have done is woken up. And, yes, I am aware of the fact that it is currently like 11:00 in the morning, but I do not think I am getting your point.
Although, I will say that yesterday I drove from Atlanta to Gulf Shores with my parents, in their car, in the backseat like a surly nine year-old who likes complaining, won't eat Krystal burgers, and who enjoys thinking lusty, probably sinful thoughts about Jon Bon Jovi (sigh), and I use this example because I totally remember having THAT exact vacation, circa 1986. That was the year I actually cut out JonJon's picture from my copy of Bop magazine, scotch-taped it onto the back of the driver's seat in the car, and proceeded to stare at it, transfixed, all the way from Atlanta to Florida. And, all the way, I refused sustinence in the form of Krystal burgers (whose child was I? Seriously), and all the way, I gazed lovingly at Jon, and then somewhere around the Keys, all love and lust turned to abject disgust when my mother absently looked at the picture, remarked, without joking, that "You know, I have always thought that guy had your father's face, and my haircut," and while I was rolling my eyes (Because, Eyerolling: The Official Passtime of a Nine-Year-Old Leigh) I caught a glimpse of Jon-Jon's eyes, and then Jon'-Jon's feathered, blonde hair, and at that second, something about his picture just...shifted, and holy God, yes. He DID look like my father, and that WAS my mother's haircut, and it was all...feathered and momish, and this ruined Jon, the beach, Livin' on a Prayer, and Bop Magazine for me for the rest of my life.
That...had nothing to do with the trip of yesterday, actually. That was...well, apparently, it was another example of a time I rode in the car. Relevant! Timely! I am just here to share.
Alright, I am going to try to post this, and I will be back ASAP, but right now, my mother is standing over me, saying, "But we need to goooooooo. We have to go to the groooooocery store. I don't wanna waaaaaaait anymore. I need to eat! I've gotta take my back pills!" etc., and I just told her that I was going to tell the whole entire internet that she eats fun for breakfast, and so she stuck her tongue out at me and said something really offensive about my origins on this planet, and now I kind of have to go.
I will be back soon, internet! And I will drink a lot of things with umbrellas, and seriously, I will do it just for you.
Updated, to say:
Look! Comments are working now. I left myself one and everything! Yay!
So, we have had dinner, and I have, for the third meal in a row, eaten and enjoyed a big old basket filled with fried shrimp, and have, for the second time in two days, ordered something that is called, on the actual menu, "The Big 'Un," which means that there are enough fried shrimp on the chosen platter to choke a horse, or gag a maggot, or some other metaphor/simile which ultimately leads you to understand that "there were a lot of fried shrimp that I ate." Please send me some larger pants.
OMG THAT'S RIGHT I HAVE A WEBSITE YOU GUYS
Well, hello! I...have been gone a while! It hasn't been like I have been doing something fabulous. I've been off working, because that is my thing, and in these last few weeks, I have been doing a lot of work. A lot lot of work. I have been doing actually so much work that I was averaging three nights of sleep per week and it got to the point where I had the big old crazy runaway-bride eyes all the time, and even my BOSS was hiding from me, whispering "she scares me!" whenever I'd stumble past, and finally a partner came into my office and grabbed my shoulders and hollered YOU REALLY NEED TO JUST GO HOME AND SLEEP FOR ABOUT SIXTEEN DAYS. And...well, I haven't done that, yet, but I did finish the project, and I have now officially written A Book, but I promise you that you will never, ever, ever want to read it. I do not even want to read it. It is the most boring book in boringtown, but it's written, dammit, so if you are just fucking dying to know about the judicial review procedures for an Occupational Safety and Health Stazzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Yeah. So, that's where I've been. Brought to you by a series of semi-coherent, run-on sentences. Aren't you glad I'm back?
In other news, I am so far behind in answering emails that my inbox has a comma in it, and so if you are trying to get in touch with me for something, I am sorry. I have been very, very worky lately, and have been exactly zero fun. Seriously, just ask Dukay! Or, anyone! I blow! They're planning on having me killed!
But, that is neither here nor there, because: hey! Speaking of email, I have to now complain that there is this whole new spam thing that the internet seems to have sprung on me while I was working, and it is pissing me off, because I keep on getting emails with interesting subject lines, from people with seemingly normal names that are not BIGPEN1SSSSMASTER, and so I open them, only then I am irritated because they are actually just spam ads telling me about my long lost relatives in Nambia, who have apparently died but they still need to borrow my bank account and social security number real quick. This is pissing me off, people. It is taking valuable seconds away from my life. Those seconds could be spent doing productive things, like making out or cleaning up dog pee, but instead, I am reading such questions as, "ARRE THe LADIES SsayinG THAT It IS NOT BiG ENuFF???" and that just makes me cranky.
I mean, wouldn't you be a litttle excited to get an email from someone named "Righteousness L. Abrams"? Wouldn't you even be a little bit more excited when you saw that the subject line was "Fuzz abdication!"? I was! I was really excited! And then I opened it, and: advertisement for a weight loss supplement. Fucking Righteousness! What are you saying, Righteousness? Are you saying I'm fat, Righteousness? That is very passive-aggressive of you, Righteousness. Frankly, I would have expected better from Righteousness.
I keep on falling for this, because I am used to getting email from people whose names I don't recognize, and a lot of the time, these emails have funny subject lines (actual example: "Man Panties!"), so I just open my mail automatically. And so my little heart just keeps on breaking, because I'm like, "Ooo! Mr. Ireland F. Calloway wants me to know about 'upside down weightlifers!' That promises hours of fun!" and then: herbal viagra for my SHOCKKINGLLY TINNY PEN1S. Honestly. Why do you build me up, Buttercup? Is it just to let me down?
But, there has been an upside to all this crushing disappointment, and I have decided that if I ever have a child, I am probably going to have to name him/her one of these spam names, because...holy shit. They are brilliant. I had always kind of wanted to take a wide variety of drugs and them name my child after household objects, Zappa style ("This is little Lightbulb Moon Oven! And her brother, Coca-Cola Fork Sphincter!"), but now I am thinking that the spam name is the way to go. I mean, I'm not going to have an actual kid for many years and all, but maybe I'll manage to produce one in the next half an hour or so -- like, possibly I can bud one, in the manner of yeast -- just entirely so I can give him a name like:
Cougar P. Sanchez
Intoxicant D. Degas
Inmate C. Alumnae
Condensation S. Horowitz
Menelaius J. Detail
Conversation L. Pauper
Booty D. Licious
All of these are actual names taken from my inbox right now. Now that I am finished writing that book about judicial reviezzzzzzzzzzzzzz, maybe I should turn my attention to a new writing project. I could put together the best baby name book in the world! As it is, I already kind of want to just print these out and start giving the list to pregnant women, all, "Hey, have you considered naming it 'Condensation'? Is your family name 'Wanderpants'? Why not? Well, you can have it legally changed to 'Wanderpants,' you know. Here's the phone number for the court." It would be like a public service!
Seeing, however, that the idea of writing so much as a post-it right now makes my brain cry, I am probably not going to compile such a list; instead, I think I will make you do it, as I am a slave driver in the manner of Cornelius F. Waggerbottom, who has popped into my life four times already shouting at me to LOOSE THE FAT TODAY!, after asking me quite innocently, in his subject line: "Does this look like a frog to you?"
(And, I admit it. I keep on having to check. Maybe this time it will look like a frog to me! Also, I am intrigued by the notion of something that might, or might not, look like a frog. What could it mean? Is it a fake frog? Is it a mold that has taken the countenance of a frog, like the Virgin Mary sometimes does on toast? Ever so many possibilities!)
And...oh, I was talking. So, anyway, I am a slave driver, and so, you do it! Y'all tell me the awesomest names you have ever heard, particularly from your spam, and then know what we will have? A huge ass list that we can give to pregnant women. And if just one of them -- just one -- names her baby "Inquiringly"? Then, people: our work here will be done, and our lives will be complete.
Everyone have a good week; I've missed all of y'all! But I may have missed Constipation D. Hooligan the most.
Impossible. I just can't believe how good your work is.*
Because I have been gone so long, working on a monster brief that is finally, FINALLY filed, I am now going to make it up to you. Because it is Tuesday, and we are all back at work (except for those of you who had to work on Monday, and those of you who actually are not at work at all today or who do not have jobs, and really, it is a small world and there are a lot of different kinds of people and it is bad for me to generalize, and it isn't like we all live in the U.S. even, but you get my point and ANYWAY): I hereby give you The Best. Seriously! Total Bestness.
Okay, maybe that is hyperbole, and also, not all of these are my own best, and actually a lot of The Best below came from other people, but I have collected them for you anyway, because I am just remarkably giving in that way. They should probably name a holiday after me, and I think we should all take it right now, no matter where we live and whether or not we like John Denver, I think we should look past our little differences and just take a nap.
So, anyway, here they are! And, maybe you had to be there for, oh...all of these, I guess, but y'all -- some of them have made me laugh so hard that I have honestly had to lay down so I would not die. I hope you enjoy.
BEST COMMENTS OF ALL TIME, NOT NECESSARILY DUE TO INHERENT COMEDY, BUT BECAUSE OF CONTEXT WHICH MAKES THEM MORE AWESOME THAN ANYTHING IN THE WORLD, ALMOST INCLUDING DIET COKE
"We're going to swim."
-- Best straight-faced response to the question "How are you going to get to the party tonight?" when asked by annoying person who is always trying to bum rides on account of being too lazy to drive own car. Said by Ziz, who is not going to take any of your shit whatsoever.
"I think you are really not giving Bob Saget the chance he so rightly deserves."
-- Best response to my Proclamation that Full House will never be watched on any television set I own. Extra points for complete sincerity, and also for recognizing greatness that is Bob Saget.
"Can't Get Off!"
-- Best wrongly-remembered movie title. Suggested by my mother, who would have liked to go to a matinee of Failure To Launch, but once she'd offered us the choice of that or "Can't Get Off," we became far more interested in finding the latter movie instead. There are not enough romantic comedies about impotence! Let's work together to change that.
"I'm soliciting. Need a date?"
-- Best worst thing to ask the cops in Nowhere, Georgia, in response to the question "What are you doing out here?" and this is a stupid question, because you are sitting on the trunk of your car as thick, white smoke pours out from under the open hood like you're enjoying a radiator barbecue, and you also happen to be wearing a fucking EVENING gown at this particular time, and Jesus. What do you THINK I am doing, officer? Robbing a bank? COME HELP ME.
(Anyway, they totally did not think that was funny at all.)
"The pilgrims did not have Briefs, Leigh."
-- Best justification for why I should stop working already. Provided by the always-brilliant Robyn, who is completely right. The pilgrims did NOT have briefs, and yet, they lived very full lives before dying of cholera! Or old age, at 31.
“He thinks I’m really erotic.”
-- Best miscommunication ever passed on by an eleven year-old Doxie to her now hysterical mother, in relating what my English teacher thought about my writing. The actual word was “erratic.” Ultimately, the mistake was discovered before the school district became involved, but I damn sure never mixed up “erratic” and “erotic” again.
“Mom told Dad you won’t look like that after you squeeze out some babies.”
-- Best statement ever made by a kid I used to babysit for when I was in high school, who shared this slice of brilliance at a time when I was standing in the kitchen with his mother. She died of shame, but I thought it was the funniest thing I’d ever heard in my life.
"A diamond canoe filled with solid gold dental floss."
-- Best suggestion made in competition to name most "Completely Pointless, But Ridiculously Extravagant" thing the Enron guys should have spent the company's funds on; other notable entries included "firelogs made of actual money" and "Paris Hilton."
"YOU NEVER EVEN CALLED ME BY MY NAME."
-- Best spontaneous singing ever performed by my neighborhood liquor store owner, who learned the majority of his English by listening to the country music station; made awesome by the fact that he was responding to a conversation I was having with another customer, for whom I had held open the door; the customer smarmied on up to me, getting very close to my neck, and whispered, "You didn't have to do that, darlin," and I jumped away and snotted back, "Well, you don't have to call me 'darlin'', darlin'," and that was when Mr. Chu knew that his moment had come, and it was really just one of those things that I cannot explain, but the whole world just came together at that second, and I laughed so hard I almost broke something internal.
“Smooth move, Ex-Lax.”
-- Best thing to say to an actual box of Ex-Lax, which has spontaneously fallen off the shelf of the grocery store and landed on the ground in front of your oncoming cart. Although, pretty much the best thing to say to an actual box of Ex-Lax in any situation.
"Please come get your black chicken off of my front porch, because it is really, really disgusting and I just can't take it anymore."
-- Best note to find taped on your front door by your neighbor, in response to the fact that your one-eyed rooster, Earl, has taken to wandering over to her porch and shitting all over her doormat. Addressed to our friend Bob Dylan, who has since had the note professionally matted and framed.
"Son, you have GOT to be on drugs."
-- Best completely correct conclusion reached by father of Bob Dylan, upon pulling police report of Bob Dylan, and uttered immediately after said father noted that, "Son, you have not one, not two, not three, but FOUR CITATIONS for having FARM ANIMALS within the CITY LIMITS." Equally excellent comment made by father of Bob Dylan in same conversation: "Since when do you have a GODDAMN GOAT?"
Also, as long as we are talking drugs (talking! Not taking! The team here at www.missdoxie.com strongly advises all kids to Just Say No!, but www.missdoxie.com also admits that the use of substances sometimes leads to some pretty entertaining stories, like this one):
"Obviously, you're not a golfer."
-- Best thing to say to your furious mother who has just discovered your bong, and is holding it out to you and waiting for some kind of explanation, young man. Uttered by our friend Newlywed Guy's younger brother. Really, REALLY did not work with respect to the mother, but infinity points for total brilliance anyway.
Allright. So, you guys, to me, these are some of the best comments ever. And maybe this is just my own twisted little sense of humor, but everything here just killed me. But, you know. Several things: firstly, I know there are lots more comments that I am not remembering right now, because of course the second I had the idea for this entry, I forgot every funny thing I had ever heard in my life. That is just how that works. And, secondly, just because these are funny to ME, does not mean that they are funny to YOU. In fact, they are probably not. You probably hate me now. You are like, "Best shmest. This entry sucks that aforementioned goat's balls."
So, what I am going to do, is I am going to continue updating this list in the comments to this entry as I think of more things. And I am hoping that y'all will add your own Best Of comments as well, and then we will have a huge list of almost-as-awesome-as-Diet-Coke statements that made us laugh, for whatever reason strikes our collective fancy. So, add away, and I will, too, and THEN we'll go take that nap.
* And let us not forget the title to this entry, coming in as Best Spam Comment Ever On This Site, as it gives the reader no indication that when clicked, its link will happily direct you to a site about spanking. But not just regular spanking: Asian spanking. Because American spanking is just so fucking boring.
Oh, and P.S.: Bo says Memorial Day sucked.
BO HATE HAT.
Hello internet! It's my birthday. I am twenty-nine. Please go eat some cake for me. And then, drink something. Preferably with an umbrella in it. Also, vodka.
So, for my birthday, did you notice my gift from Kiefer Sutherland? Two episodes of 24. Back to back. Tonight. ON my birthday. Now, please, internet: I think it is patently clear that Kiefer did that just for me. More specifically, I think it is patently clear that Jack Bauer did that just for me. Jack Bauer has pull, which he is very happy to use for his girlfriend. That being myself. Me. I. The person who gets two episodes of 24 on her birthday. Thanks, Jack! Bring on the graphic violence, for which viewer discretion is frequently advised.
So, obviously, very happy times and the Big Fun is happening over here at my house, and we are planning a whole series of exciting events, all of which I am sure I will share with you, because that is just how I roll. But, I just got some very sad news, and so tales of birthday shenanigans are going on hold for just a little bit; soon, I promise to regale you with many recaps of the debauchery that is sure to come. But not today.
This morning, I got an email from Lisa, letting me know that, on Sunday, her goddaughter Lauren passed away. Lauren had been battling cancer for two years, and had been nothing but funny, courageous, and upbeat through that entire experience. She was only nineteen when she died.
I never met Lauren in person, but she used to visit my site, and we emailed back and forth a bit. She told me about her diagnosis, and about having to defer entering college because she was undergoing treatments. Ultimately, she made it to UVA, and I hope she really enjoyed her brief time there.
For my birthday this year, I would love it if y'all would donate to Lauren's Relay for Life team. You can make a donation here, and I'll handle this the same way as the Katrina donations last year. If you donate, leave a comment or send me an email, and I'll enter you in a raffle for a painting. I'll draw a name tomorrow evening, and announce the winner here. You might also want to leave a comment on Lauren or Lisa's site; I know your kind words would help.
If you can contribute to Lauren's team, that's wonderful; regardless, however, please keep Miss Lauren, and all of her family and friends, in your thoughts today. She wasn't around long enough, and she will certainly be missed.
Update: Thank you so much to everyone who has donated to Lauren's Team, or who left words of support for her family. As you can see in the comments, your kindness has not gone unappreciated. Y'all are, as always, awesome. And it's clear that Lauren came from some wonderful people.
I have done my silly little drawing again (names in a hat! It is reasonably practical), and the winner of the raffle is Miss Catherino. When I looked back at her comment, I saw that she is actually the parent of a [very small] cancer survivor. That is a very cool coincidence.
So, Catherino, kindly email me your address, and I will promise not to show up on your doorstep demanding wine. As for the rest of y'all, thank you again. But I can't promise that your doorsteps are safe.
You Deserve To Be Adored
All of you! All of you deserve to be adored, except those of you who leave comments about Texas Hold 'Em. And yet, I am a bad journaler-type who leaves you with a blank page for days on end, because I am boring. I know.
Furthermore. Y'all, that last entry messed with my head in several ways. I just have to say. Firstly, I've been singing We Didn't Start the Fucking Fire for a week and a half. Billy Joel has taken permanent residence inside my brain, and there seems to be nothing I can do to remove his freeloading, broody, car-crashing ghost. And, to provide an additional dash of "psychotic" to a mix of Crazy, I keep finding myself...writing additional verses. Like, if I am thinking about things I need to get at the grocery store, my brain will immediately start sorting items into a song-friendly format, and suddenly I'm all, "Bacon, eggs and dryer sheets, cheddar cheese and sandwich meats, chardonnays, two filets, Joe DiMaggio."
It's not healthy. Also, you cannot buy Joe DiMaggio at the grocery store. But you can try.
So, anyway. Hi! I've been busy! I've been working a lot. A lot lot. Plus, I've had a whole bunch of other things going on; there was the Super Bowl (which, honestly, professional football kind of confounds me, but there's a party involved, so yay!), and there's also been this sudden onslaught of dinners and various celebrations and movie-going, and etc., and it isn't all that exciting, but it is fun, and there you go. That is how we roll.
And on top of that, is the Secondly, which is that suddenly, I've become all self-conscious, I guess, about posting. I mean, I kind of went all out for my last entry (and let me just say, writing that song? Took no time. LINKING to all those entries, on the other hand, was a many-houred affair), and now it seems like my regular whining is sorely insufficient. In short: apparently, I suck now! Sorry about that.
Also, I haven't really had any interesting drama as of late. I haven't fallen down or anything. I haven't smacked into any columns in the parking garage, even. Mine is suddenly a quiet life. And, yes, we all know this can't last, but let us embrace it for now! I am not even bruised anywhere! It is eerie, like ghosts.
So, seeing as I have no new news, and seeing as I am home from work today, we are going to do something new and different. Or...well, okay, not totally new, or even particularly different, and I think I am actually stealing this idea from Coleen, because I'm stealy, but it is the best I can do at the moment, so there.
Anyway, I have been getting all manner of questions in my email, and there tends to be a lot of overlap, so I've been meaning to answer them all in an entry, or on a separate FAQ page or something similarly high-tech and important sounding, but there's something kind of...I don't know, self-aggrandizing, maybe, in thinking that your life requires a list of frequently asked questions, and I think it is certainly necessary for some personal websites, but, man. I am just not that important. Or interesting, for that matter, and so I haven't done it.
But then, I keep getting the same few questions. And I keep sending the same few answers. And that makes me think, "Self, is this not the very definition of a frequently asked question? Do these questions qualify as both 'frequent' and 'asked'? Why, indeed they DO," and that is how we got to this entry. Hi!
So, this is how we are going to play this. I am going to start a list of questions. Y'all are going to ask more, either in the comments or over email, if you'd prefer, and I'll answer them here by updating throughout the day. I'm closing the inquiry tomorrow-ish, I guess, and then voila, we'll all have a handy little place to go when you are about to die because you can't remember something tremendously and terribly critical, like how many dogs I have, and all human life hangs in the balance of you knowing this answer, and there, shining like a HOLY BEACON, is this entry, thank God.
(Incidentally. The first time I typed that sentence, I typed "holy bacon." Which is just so, so much funnier. People, do you shine like a holy bacon? Why, I think you do!)
So, here we go! Frequently Asked Questions I Get All The Time, Here Come Your Answers!
1. OMGWTF WHERE IS DUKAY'S ENTRY ALREADY?
Oh, that. Uh, yeah. We've been waiting for that story for a while now. This is, by far, the most often-asked question in the history of the world. It is more often asked than "What is the meaning of life?" or "Where are my car keys?" Friends, who I have met outside of this site, who I have known for years, leave me voicemail messages about this. They send me emails written in the blood of virgins. Even my mother is like, "What the fuck?"
And yet, all I can tell you is that I think Dukay is maybe...I guess we can say "terrified." He is terrified of having to write his own entry, and I swear that the poor boy is working on something, and ultimately, he'll finish, but he's never exactly had to do this before. So Dukay has entered a realm of befuddlement, armed with only his Sherpa (FAQ #2: What, exactly, is a Sherpa?) and, like, a walking stick, and we may never see him again.
So, answer: Um. I don't know. But one day, it will arrive, or else I'll get fed up and write the damn thing myself already, because...hee. It really is a funny story. But now I am just taunting you a second time.
2. Wait, how many dogs do you actually have? Four or eight? Also, how many is that in square feet?
I have four dogs living at my own house: Boris and Natasha, Gimmme that Ugly Dog, and Pugsley the Wunderkid. My parents have the other four, and they live at their house. They are Max, Maggie, Wednesday (to go with the Pugsley), and the toothless Lucy. Combined, they are infinity square feet, particularly when they are all in bed with you.
3. Why do you never post? You never post. Just like you never write, or call, or visit.
Dude, I know! I'm sorry. I just get so damn busy, and I feel like it is cheating to just post something little, and so I wait until I actually have the time to do an Actual Story Thing, With Plot And Characters, and by then the screen's gone all blank. Also, somehow, when I sit down and think "Now I will write something funny!", sometimes what comes out is actually all dark and broody and not funny a bit, and I'm not exactly sure where "dark" and "broody" come from, but I am going to blame the fact that I watch really depressing movies. (Capote, I am looking at you right now.)
So, that's why. I'm sorry it's not more, but I do try to post whenever I've got something interesting to share (and, oftentimes, despite the fact that I do not have anything interesting to share whatsoever. See: this entry.)
4. Where oh where did the title of this entry come from?
Okay, so, this is not actually a frequently asked question, because nobody has asked it ever except for me. But I am asking it now on behalf of all of you, because y'all want to know that it comes from a song called Sentimental Flaw, which is performed by this band, and you can listen to it right here or right here, and I will wait while you do that.
(I am waiting.)
Okay, now, wasn't that so good? I sing it kind of all the time. Anyway, that band is very nice and Glenn is actually related to me now (he married my cousin one time!) and Michael is very cute and is the lead singer, and he is very good with the dogs. Furthermore, when he is sitting on my couch and I tell him to play me that song right now, seriously, yes, he will actually do that and not look at me like I am some crazy fangrrrrl. They're about to go on tour, so if they come to your town, y'all should totally go, but if you live in Atlanta, then you should totally come to their show on February 10, this Friday night, and you should say hello to me and Dukay, and we should totally have a drink together, like, totally.
(And, yes, this has no place in this entry, but, you know. Whatever. Now you have something in your head besides We Didn't Start the Fire! You are welcome!)
So! That's all I can think of. Y'all come up with some questions, and I'll do my best to answer them. I guess I should go ahead and tell you that I won't answer anything too personal, and that I can't give legal advice or anything, but other than that, go to town. Starting...now! If you...care! Which you...might not! And that is...also fine!
But, anyway. So, here are some questions so far:
When are you and Dukay getting engaged?
Oh, Mom. You are not fooling me with the fake name and website, you tricky lady! Shoo!
In all seriousness, Dukay and I have been dating for four years, and we both plan on getting married (to each other, even!), but now's just not the time. Dukay's only 25, anyway, and I'm in no particular hurry. So, when we do ultimately get engaged or whatever, I will let y'all know, but nobody should be holding their breath.
And yes, Mom. That means you. Exhale!
How did you and El Dukay meet?
This is kind of what Dukay is supposed to write about, but I'll tell you this much: blind date. Yes. My sister set us up. I may now owe her my firstborn, except for when Dukay is bad, and then I call her up and curse her repeatedly.
How did El Dukay get his name?
Sadly, I can't even answer this, because I didn't give it to him. For some odd, unknown, mysterious reason, Dukay's been called that for years by some of his friends. They don't remember where it came from, either, but feel vaguely that it may have something to do with his hair. And, feel free to puzzle away on that one, because I don't have a fucking clue what that's supposed to mean.
What sort of law do you practice?
The hard kind! Basically, employment stuff. And that is all I will say about that, because I don't want to be up 'n fard.
Will you write a book, because books are way funner than briefs?
Oh, good one. I do get that one a lot. And the answer is: hopefully, maybe, some day. I don't have the brainpower for a novel or anything, but maybe I'll put together a book of essays. I don't know how well my writing would translate into a book, though, so who knows. If I do write a book, however, I will have much fun naming it. I am leaning towards either "Estelle" or "Spot."
How do you know so many intelligent and generally fabulous people?
This is another one I get asked a lot. Y'all are way, way better at this than I am.
I know most of these intelligent and fabulous people through this intelligent and fabulous person, who introduced me to these two intelligent and fabulous people, and ultimately I met some more intelligent and fabulous people, and it just keeps on going and it is all very circle of life! or something. All of these people, incidentally, are ten times more intelligent and fabulous than I am, so I lucked out.
Will you be my friend?
I am your friend! I am very close to you right now! In fact, I am so close, I might actually be (dun dun DUN) in your house. Check the closets.
Why are you so pretty?
That is very kind of you, but obviously, you have never seen this previously-undisclosed picture, in which the world finally discovers what happens when a pufferfish mates with a linebacker:
See? THAT could be hiding in your closet! Flee!
Do the dogs like having their picture taken?
Let me tell you something. Bo recognizes the camera, and whenever it appears, he immediately goes into a series of poses, opening and closing his mouth, looking at the camera, stretching, and basically being an enormous, brown, log-shaped ham. All the other dogs are much more reserved, and couldn't give a shit one way or the other. Bo, however, would like to be famous, please. Any day now, Dog Fancy will finally call!
Why do I still have red eyes in that about picture/why haven't I updated my about page/similar questions
Hee. Because, dear internet, I can do nothing on my own site. I really can't. There's a typo on that about page (can you find it?) that's been there ever since the beginning of time, but I have no idea how to get in there, or how to make changes, or how to switch out the picture (Dukay hates that picture, by the way, and I have repeatedly promised to replace it with something else, but I am lying), and so we all just live in an uncomfortable place where I may be driving this bus, but I have no idea what all the buttons do. Or something. Okay, that was a lame metaphor, but you know what I mean.
Short answer: because I'm a moron. And, now that I think about it, a lot of these questions can probably be answered this way. I'm an idiot! Moving on!
How old is Dukay?
He is a wee little 25 year-old. We started dating a little after his 21st birthday. (See, I have some minimum requirements. Like, he has to be able to buy me a drink. Or else, he needs a really awesome fake ID.)
If you weren't a lawyer, what else would you have done?
Ooo. Good question. I want to immediately launch into a list of professions (and, here comes the song again: "Pilot, spaceman, doctor, cook, author of a children's book, stock broker, midnight toker, Joe DiMaggio!")
Just kidding. I don't really want to be Joe DiMaggio, as I believe he is currently dead.
I kind of always wanted to be a lawyer, honestly. I thought about being a doctor for a while, but know what I hate? Blood. Vomit. Urine. Fluids of any kind that can come out of someone and splatter in various places. So, "doctor" was not so much the path for me.
One time I worked as a gift-wrapper though, and I discovered that I really rock at gift-wrapping, like I am some kind of wrapping prodigy, so maybe that was my Destiny, but I got sidetracked. You never know.
Can we watch Ziz on TV?
Right now, Ziz is just doing behind-the-scenes stuff, so she's not actually on television at the moment. Sometimes she gets tossed in for roles, though, so I'll tell y'all when she'll be on, and we can all watch, and agree that she is the very best "Second Girl From Right" in the history of all "Second Girls From Right" everywhere and at any time.
How did you start with a blog?
Boredom. Total boredom. I started a new job (not this one), and had nothing, ZERO to do, and basically surfed to the end of the internet. I stumbled upon some other sites, realized that other people were doing this writing thing, online, gasp, the possibilities!, and so I put together the most basic website ever, using a drag 'n drop program, and possessing no knowledge of HTML whatsoever. And lo, the site was born, and I am still completely shocked that anyone actually reads it.
Why do y'all have those dachshund dogs? Why not a nice lab? What's WRONG with a nice LAB?
(Anyway, that is how Dukay asks that question.)
My mom grew up with chihuahuas, and has always liked small dogs. Chihuahuas, however, as a breed, hate my father. They attack him at random. Apparently, his aura offends their tiny pride or something, I have no idea, but my dad and chihuahuas just don't mix.
My parents have been dating since they were 15 (yes), and so Dad decided he'd better do something to curb the chihuahua trend and save his bloody ankles, and so he bought my mom her first dachshund. This was Saucie, and Saucie lived with my parents for something like 15 years, and was still kicking when I was born. And she was great with me, and used to push the side of my cradle to rock me, and it was all very adorable and tugged many a heartstring, and my parents were both just crazy about this breed.
So, later on, we got another one when I was nine, and then I got one when I finished law school, and then, much like Gremlins, we got them wet and fed them after midnight and now we have EIGHT, run for your LIVES.
How old are you?
Seven million! Alpha! Paisley! Twelve! Twenty-eight!
One of those is correct. Guess which!
Although, I will be 29 in less than a month, so go ahead and anticipate drunken debauchery.
Where do you shop for house things/where did that coffee table come from, and why in the name of God is it so blue?
And, once again, I have rephrased a question in the form of "things Dukay says." Actually, he likes that table, but it is quite blue. Which stands out a bit, considering that nothing else in the room is anything close to that color, but "matching" is not my strong suit, and -- oh. Question!
Honestly, I get a bunch of stuff from random places; Target and Ikea for some stuff, random antique or junk stores, estate sales, whatever for others. I tend to like the kind of furniture in West Elm or Design within Reach, but then I always end up softening it up with pillows or something, because I can never really decide what look I'm going for. The effect can be described generously as "eclectic," or less generously as "Wait, but none of this actually...matches. Does it."
And, the blue table came from a street fair in Atlanta; there's this guy who goes to these old, torn-down farmhouses and takes the wood, then builds it into furniture with other old house pieces (the blue table has a glass top that covers an old tin roofing tile, for example). It's awesome, but possibly illegal, so maybe my table is a crime. Shh!
Why does Gimmme have three M's in it?
Heeee. Because I thought it was funny. That's really the only reason. Sometimes, Gimmme wants things that are outside the box! Sometimes, you can't be bound by traditional rules of the English language! Sometimes, you just need that extra M! And, if any dog has ever had extra M, Lord knows that it is my Gimmme. Especially if the M stands for Mmmmanliness. Or, Mmmmaybe slightly overweight.
How did you recover from the stranger's porn story?
I am pretty sure my screams of terror did well in convincing him that the porn was not my own. And, yes, I did end up explaining the whole thing to him in painstaking detail, which probably had the unanticipated effect of making me appear to be a complete psychotic ("I have to look under BEDS! For BODIES!"), but there you go. It all worked out fine in the end, and I like to think he found me to be "charmingly quirky" and not "person who needs to be heavily medicated."
How come there are never any children on your site?
I really don't know any children. Only a few of my friends have had babies, and those aren't anywhere near me, so I just never see kids, I guess. Also, sometimes when people bring over their children, I accidentally show them porn. So maybe there is actually a reason behind all this, and I am just now figuring it out, and y'all! I will try not to scare the children! Bring them back! I will not cook them into a pie!
What profession would you not like to do?
Anything involving splattering fluids, as described above. Unless they are delicious fluids.
What movie could you watch over and over?
One time I accidentally watched Doc Hollywood twice in a row, but I was on some pain medication and cannot be blamed.
For some reason, I love the original Poltergeist, Jaws (yeah, yeah, I have no taste), and To Kill a Mockingbird (that is reasonably classy!). I am also strangely compelled to watch Working Girl every time it comes on TV. I am a huge dork when it comes to most 80's movies, and I strongly believe that nobody puts Baby in a corner.
What is your favorite curse word?
Hee. Obviously, it's "Bo."
Where would you go on vacation if money were no object? Would Dukay be invited?
I'd go to London, probably, because my French is le terrible and it is already too easy for me to get lost and confused and turned-around in my own language. And of course I would take Dukay, because he speaks English, too! It's, like, this total coincidence.
Where did you go to college/law school?
I usually don't answer that kind of question, just because I try to maintain some semblance of anonymity here, but I'll say that the Nashville guess was correct, and then I spent some time in Athens. (And, just so you know, I'll probably actually delete this question and answer before too long, but it seemed rude to ignore y'all, because those are perfectly reasonable questions, and I am just a big old chicken. Hi!)
Do you have a My Space account/flickr account/friendster thing/etc.?
I think I had a friendster thing about a million years ago, but I am sure it's up and died by now. I have a flickr page here. I don't have anything else, though. So, if you find someone claiming to be me, you are required to stand up and scream "IMPOSTER!" before slapping them about the face with your clean white gloves.
What kind of makeup do you use/how do you put it on?
I really can't believe that I actually get this question with any regularity (which I do), because I am absolutely clueless about all makeup. Like, shamefully so, and I only buy makeup at Target or the grocery store. My guiding principle seems to be "cheap is good enough for me!" and I am sure this makes my dermatologist shudder in terror, but you know. Whatever works.
I don't really have any tips, either; I guess I just -- I don't even know! I am no use here whatsoever. I'm sorry! I mean, look, y'all, we have finally stumbled upon a subject where I have nothing to say.
I will note, however, that I do really like one pricey-ish thing, and that's Dandelion by Benefit, which is just a happy pink powder thing you can sweep across your cheeks. You can wear it with or without any other makeup, and it really takes away the walking dead thing I usually have rocking in the morning (and, don't believe me on that? Ask Dukay. Seriously. My head wakes up last).
But, I don't really have any other tips, I guess. I am no help to you!
What's your favorite color?
Blue-greens. Like the table, actually. Or the top of this site. But I wear a ridiculous amount of black, because I am a little attorney in mourning.
How tall are you?
About five nine, five ten. Dukay is six four, so we are a towering people. This is why the king bed!
Do you smoke? Does Dukay smoke?
I do, but shouldn't. Every once in a while, I try to stop, and I should. Mostly, I smoke at night, and particularly when we're out drinking or something. And yes, it is a nasty habit, and yes, there goes my complexion and my teeth and my pearly pink lungs, and yes, I know all of these things, and I agree with every last one of them. I'll actually suck it up (pun!) and stop before too long.
Dukay doesn't smoke, and I am sure it annoys him to no end that I won't just quit already.
What's your favorite alcoholic beverage?
Wine. Wiiiiine. Any color except pink, any flavor that is not sweet. It doesn't have to be nice or expensive, or even served in an actual glass, but it's my drink of choice. I don't like beer, and I don't drink much liquor, but if we're out and there is no wine (gasp!), I will have a dirty martini (with exxxtra dirty) or a seven and seven. I don't do shots because I am lame, and also, eighty years old.
Are you a good cook? Is Dukay?
No and NO. With a capital enn oh, NO. Last time Dukay cooked me dinner, we had Chef Boyardee and grilled cheese sandwiches. I am not kidding.
We do a lot of takeout or heat-up food, but I can cook some things, and I make those pretty regularly. I make a good baked ziti, and Dukay can grill the hell out of some steaks or chicken, so we can, like, feed ourselves. But if you are looking for someone who can make you a roux, whoa nelly, are you in the wrong place.
Coke or Pepsi?
Diet Coke is lifeblood to me. I will not hear any words to the contrary, and don't anybody dare slander this perfect, God-like beverage.
Why did you move to Atlanta?
I just really like Atlanta. I went to high school here, I have a lot of friends here, my family's here. Also, I am not very adventurous. My sister can move off to L.A. and be all big, but I'll just stay here, thanks.
What happened to the embroidered pants, the pants of terror, the cause of great shame?
I will let you in on an little secret. I actually...hee. Okay, I actually do not hate the pants. I mean, yes, they're very different and all, but if anyone can pull them off, it's Dukay. He's just too damn cute. So, the pants are safe for now. But if he irritates me, I make no promises, because he loves those pants probably a little too much to be healthy.
Do you talk like you write?
I talk exactly like I write. Which is to say, I talk a lot. Seriously, you would really like for me to shut up now. No really.
And, more more more, just like Billy Idol says:
Did you ever get into trouble as a kid?
Listen, I am, and have always been, a tremendous dork. I was the teacher's pet who cried too easily, who wore her hair in the perfectly obnoxious little braids, the whole fucking deal. So I didn't get into too much trouble, unless it somehow involved, say, my innate clumsiness.
As a little kid, the worst trouble I ever got into came from the time I tried to sit on my grandmother's coffee table. Which was, at the time, home to her antique tea set. The table collapsed, the entire set (like, every single fucking cup) shattered into one jillion pieces, and I was in what was, up to that point, the biggest trouble of my little lame life. To this day, I am still nervous when I'm in the same room with expensive breakables, because I really am the bull in the china shop. I'm a blonde bull, but I am a bull all the same.
Now, when we move on into high school, there were maybe one or two things I got busted for, but honestly, not too many. And that is only because I am cagey, and did not get caught. And, they were all kind of boring anyway, because again: I am a dork.
What does your family think about this site?
I really can't tell you how lucky I am when it comes to my family, because they're all insanely awesome. My parents and my sister are all my best friends, and I'll tell them pretty much anything. They support me, they love the site, and they've never asked me to not write about anything. My sweet mom, in fact, doesn't even read it, because she's afraid it will make me self-censor. And when she told me that, I went out and had sex with a lot of very hot men to celebrate. And then I did some crack!
No, I kid. But, they're awesome. And, while they've never requested that I not write about something, I guess I just don't do it on my own; I wouldn't expose some huge family secret here or anything. I won't write about secrets anyone tells me, obviously, no matter how completely awesome a story they might make. And, when Sis died, I know my whole family read all of your comments, and everyone appreciated those so much. They're just very cool about all of this.
Have you always been funny?
I just can't believe anyone thinks I'm funny (right now, a whole bunch of people at home nodded in agreement, all, "Me either!"). But, I guess, this has always kind of been me. I do write the way I talk, so the sort of things you see here are pretty much the same sort of things that will come spilling out of my mouth. Including all those bad words I use. Like ass.
Does anybody else in your family write?
My maternal grandfather was a writer, but he wrote books about religion and important scholarly things. I don't think anyone else has ever devoted seventeen paragraphs to describing how they once threw their own poo out a window, so I'm blazing a trail here. Future generations! Follow my lead!
Are you the same person as you are on the Internet?
Again, I'm really just not that different. I don't think, anyway. Now y'all have got me all curious, and I'm kind of tempted to call Robyn and be like, "Hey! Am I a big liar? Is it raining where you are? Do you want some wine?"
Have you made any progress w/that guitar playing thing?
I can play a really fucking awesome E. And besides that...no, actually. I can't switch between chords! Dukay says it just takes practice, but I am pretty convinced that there must be, like, a pill I can take that will give me this ability. Also: guitar strings hurt your fingertips. And I am a massive wimp. That is an inauspicious beginning to this relationship.
Is Ikea all it's cracked up to be?
Well, yes. And, no. It's huge, and there are a lot of very awesome things here, but it is also a pain in your ass. Because you can't just run in for something; you must commit for several hours of your life. There is no dating here! Marriage only!
But, I've really liked everything I've ever gotten there, and considering my propensity for breaking shit, $2 wine glasses are exactly my speed. So, yeah. You should definitely be sick with sadness if you don't have one near you. They should make a pill for that.
What restaurants/activities/shops would you recommend in Atlanta/where do you buy your clothes?
We're all over the place in this city, but a lot of what we do depends mostly on what we like, and where our friends are, and all that. We like One and Two, but hate Piebar. A lot of people go to Compound, but I'm not a huge clubber-type, so I'd really rather hit a little wine bar or something. And there's always the new Aquarium, and the gorgeous Oakland cemetery, if you like to take pictures.
For shopping, I'm not tremendously creative, and I usually just get my clothes at the mall. But there are also a whole lot of very cool vintage stores I love in Little Five Points, and some great boutiques (I am partial to this one) in Highlands. And I get a lot of stuff there. And, in turn, they keep a substantial chunk of my income, so I guess it works out for everyone.
Did you have to buy a whole new wardrobe of suits?
Having your suits machine washed and dried was...well, it was a new experience for me, but you'd be amazed at how many came out looking pretty much exactly the same as before. Only, you know. Cleaner.
A couple were totally fucked, and anything made of silk died a nasty death that fateful day, but for the most part, it turned out to not be the biggest catastrophe of all time. And yet, I think next time, I will just go to the dry cleaners.
What is your favorite lame joke?
HA! That is an awesome question. It is as follows:
Q: What is green and fuzzy, and if it falls out of a tree and lands on you, you'll die?
A: A pool table.
This is funny, because this is true.
Have you ever heard this joke? - Two snowmen were standing in a field. One turns to the other and says, "Do you smell carrots?"
Hee. No. But I love lame jokes. Could you maybe tell?
If you adopted a little boy and a little girl RIGHTNOW, what would you name them?
Annabelle and Ryan. Or, Olivia and Parker. Or, Paperclip Stapler Candlestick Joy and Bottle *Moon* Redux, if I also decided to take up a variety of hard drugs.
What is your favorite TV show?
Lord. Listen, it's...24. I know it's impossible, and I hate it so much, and I wish Kim would just get mauled by a damn bear or whatever this season and that maybe people would start doing one thing that makes some degree of sense, but still! Still. Kiefer. I can't disrespect Kief, after all we've been through together (and, this would include two nuclear attacks and a smattering of biological warfare. Which is kind of a lot, you guys).
I also watch Arrested Development and Family Guy whenever I can, I love the Office and My Name is Earl, and I cannot be dragged away from an episode of the Sopranos or, my personal broody favorite, Six Feet Under. And, this is yet another reason why I am a nerd. In case you were keeping track.
And, why, looky there! I'm finally caught up. Granted, it is...yeah, 12:49 in the morning right now, but I am enjoying this sense of accomplishment for the moment. I'll pick back up tomorrow when I can, and then I'll close comments before too long, because I am nowhere near interesting enough to warrant all these questions.
So, thank you all for participating; this has actually been a lot of fun, and I hope y'all are mildly entertained, at least. And if you're not, then I think we can all be comfortable blaming someone else. Someone like El Dukay.
new! Entry! Coming! Afternoon!
Go away, blankness!
New entry this afternoon, when I get a minute to edit and post; it is nine thousand pages long. I was feeling wordy!
And how are y'all?
P.S.: Oh, look: I'm LYING. I am a liar liar with pants on fire. I meant, new entry this evening! Evening is what I meant! I can't imagine why I typed all those extra "afternoon" words. I bet I was drunk then!
AB Is Brilliant, But I Am Not.
Well, it must be said, again, that AB is the most beautiful, talented, sassy, and stylish web designer anywhere on the ol' world wide web. Thank you, AB, for the gorgeous site! Thank you for the working comments! Thank you for giving me the ability to (gasp) upload PICTURES, actual PICTURES, onto this site, which will invariably lead to seven million photo essay entries, and doesn't that just make everyone...happy? Yes! Of COURSE it does. YAY AB! Everyone go hire her to do y'all's own sites now, so she can make a million dollars and whisk me off to Tahiti.
So, missdoxie.com is growing up. We are officially in our third generation, people, and doesn't that make you kind of...proud? We're getting Big! I mean, I still do not know what a "gig" is, but we will overlook that kind of thing.
Sadly, as growing cannot be done without a certain amount of pain, there is also the unfortunate matter of my email. Being that I am an idiot who doesn't understand words like "gig" or "ports" or "portals", I successfully deleted about one million email messages when I was trying to set up my new account. Those include interesting messages from people like yourselves, possibly even YOU, sending me interesting facts about craft things, and your weird dreams, and all manner of wonderfulness. I deleted ALL of these. So please do not think I am ignoring you, but if you sent me an email in the past two weeks or so...well. I lost it. It has left this world and gone to live with Jesus and all the missing socks, and I will therefore ask you to kindly resend. Especially if it was something interesting. I don't have enough entertainment in my life, and I am relying on you to fill that void. Hop to!
Also! Please kindly note my new About Me page, which is updated with a picture Dukay hates. Apparently, I am in big trouble for not displaying a more flattering image of him, but I am not afraid of Dukay. When I find a picture that meets his High Standards of Whatever the Hell, then we will change it out. (Or, to put it more specifically, AB will change it out. You think I know how to do that? HA! Nope.) Also, AB created pretty new archives, making it much easier to access all of those old, pre-MT entries, if you were so inclined. It's all very professional and shiny and new.
SO. Now that I have a new website, bet you were thinking I would...write something on it. Weren't you.
Weren't we all, really?
But I waited for a while, in part because I was afraid of logging in to movable type, fully convinced that I would do so and somehow manage to delete everything AB had done, and that she would then kill me. I am not afraid of Dukay, but I do not want AB after me. She may be small, but she could kick my ass six ways from Sunday, and I do not need that kind of fear in my life.
But, now that I've been given the go-ahead by AB herself, I have, of course, forgotten all of those things I wanted to write about over the past few days. And, kind of a lot has happened, some of which was funny to me, and I wanted to write about it, but...hmmm. Gone from the brain.
And I was sitting here, imagining my individual brain cells, hanging out somewhere else, smoking itty bitty vials of crack or whatever, when I was immediately reminded that this weekend, Dukay and I went to go visit his grandmother Mimi in South Carolina. (No, wait. Seriously, this will all come together, I swear.) And we love Mimi. Mimi is one of those grand old Southern women who speaks with a low, drawling accent, and lives alone, taking care of her damn self despite the fact that she is at least 88 million years old.
When you are 88 million years old, you do not mince words. Accordingly, to my endless delight, Mimi is always telling Dukay that he is full of shit. Dukay will say something, and she'll just shake her fist at him. "You're full of shit," she'll holler. This fills me with glee. "He is!" I immediately agree. "He is absolutely full of shit. I thank you and your wisdom for acknowledging this fact."
On Saturday night, when Dukay started talking about his future plans, Mimi waved her hand and cut him off.
"Don't you be smokin' those cigarettes and makin' those big plans," she told him.
And when Dukay told her about eventually switching careers, she had a similar response:
"Don't you be smokin' those cigarettes," she said, shaking her head. "Oh, no. Oh no, no, no, no. Don't you be smokin' THOSE cigarettes."
We have no idea what this means, but we find it enchanting. "Don't go smoking those cigarettes, Dukay," I tell him later on, as he tries to decide on a parking place. "Don't you go smokin' those cigarettes and parking here."
This is a fabulous thing to say, and I encourage all of you to use it liberally. "Don't you go smokin' those cigarettes and forgettin' what you were gonna write about," you might say to me. Or you might say, "Don't you go smokin' those cigarettes and post yet another entry about nothin' at all."
So, considering the fact that those lonely little brain cells o' mine are apparently smokin' those cigarettes and refusing to cough up my memories of funny shit, we are going to do something New, a Kick Off for the new site, if you will, and for the first and probably ONLY time ever, I am taking requests.
Yes! Just like on the radio.
I get emails all the time asking me to write more about the dogs, no, write LESS about the dogs and more about Dukay, NO, write LESS about Dukay and more about your sister, NO, WRITE NOTHING, but post pictures of the dogs, NO, JUST LEAVE THE INTERNET FOREVER, GOD. And it is all very confusing.
So today, y'all decide. What do you want to hear about? Lord knows I have a story about everything. Y'all give me a subject, and whichever seems to garner the most support will result in an entry, probably tomorrow (heh. We'll see), and it will be all about WHATEVER THE HELL YOU WANT.
This is so democratic! Now, comment away. But don't you go smokin' those cigarettes. You'll forget what you were going to say.
If you're happy and you know it, clap your hands!
ETA: People. Calm down. This site totally breaks in Internet Explorer, so aside from suggesting you download a browser that actually works (hello, Firefox!), you're just going to have to wait until I fix it. I am really not kidding about Firefox, either. IE has a reputation for being whack.
-The Mean Web Designer AB
Edited again, 2 PM CST: Everything should be working in IE now. I need a drink. (And yes, I do design sites for cash money, whoever asked in the comments. Email me!) -AB
When I Said "Monday Night", What I Meant Was "Tuesday Night, Really Really Really Late"
...because: uh. I kind of suck.
Anyway! What I did, was I wrote all of y'all's names down on little slips of paper (and we are talking, like, 200 little slips of paper, and now your names are everywhere all over the kitchen), and then I put them all in Devin's hat, and then I drew one, and Ziz drew one, and Devin drew one. (These are what we call Laboratory Conditions). And Dukay would have drawn one, but he doesn't get here until tomorrow. So too bad for Dukay, not getting to be a part of DoxieRaffle: 2005. It was very exciting, and I think maybe even Ziz and Devin took their eyes off of the television screen for about half a second, even.
Whatever. I thought it was awesome. Until I spilled the hat (that is why your names are all over the kitchen now).
200 little slips of paper is a lot of little slips of paper. It is like a ticker-tape parade in here.
ANYWAY. Thanks to everyone for donating, and for leaving comments and sending emails. You have all done a wonderful thing, and kisses to each and every one of you. It is nice to know that even when everything seems bleak, there are so many kind people out there, desperate to make a difference. All of your stories about kids donating their savings, or setting up lemonade stands, or y'all holding garage sales -- it really does make me feel better about our whole entire species. You are good people.
And so, without further ado, the winners of the donation raffle thingy are (drumroll!):
1st place, receiving a biggish type painting: eiffel87 (renee)!
2nd place, receiving a smaller type painting: rvaurio (rebecca)!
3rd place, receiving also a smaller type painting: messymama1 (lisa)!
And there you have it. Congratulations to the lovely winners! You are all girls (I think)! WHAT ARE THE ODDS?
Winners, please be so kind to send me your addresses (I will not show up on your doorsteps. Pinky swear! I won't!), and I will mail your paintings to you next week, when I get back into Atlanta.
Now. If you are sad that you did not win, and you would still like to own a painting while also Making A Difference, after-school-special-style (and...no, that makes no sense. I can't help it. I have been talking about after-school-specials all day (especially that one where Calista Flockhart is bulimic and throws up in tupperware? remember that one?) and...no, I don't know why. Let's just go with it), then let me know. If y'all want to, I can put a few pieces up on eBay, and we can auction those off. If there's any interest, I'll cover the fees and the shipping and supplies and whatnot, and then everything can go to Katrina charities; y'all just tell me.
And...uh, that's that. Congratulations to the winners, and thanks to everyone for their donations.
I will be back tomorrow, probably, to tell you the story about How I Went To Pick Up Dukay At The Airport, And Something God Awful Happened, Either That He Missed His Flight Or I Got Really Really Lost And Then I Somehow Wrecked The Car.
Bear in mind that none of these things has yet occurred. But honestly...would any of that surprise you? No. None of that would surprise you at all.
But for now, I am just going to pour myself a glass of wine. And try to ignore all the little pieces of paper all over the kitchen.
Two posts in two days? WHAT THE HELL
This doesn't even really count, but if y'all care, I uploaded a zillion pictures to Flickr this afternoon, after spending the afternoon taking pictures of the dogs because...uh, I was avoiding laundry. Yeah, I said it. AVOIDING LAUNDRY.
Anyway, here they are. And that's all I've got.
...to all those readers in London. I hope everyone is okay.
Guess Who's Coming to Dinner? And...Breakfast?
So, guess who's here.
This lady. And her handsome husband, and her beautiful daughter, the latter of which has descended upon Dukay and Bo with a packet of googly-eye stickers and now we all have several extra eyeballs. In various places. At one point, Dukay had about six, some of which were on his ears. And Bo did not like the eye on his butt, but I thought it was very fetching. And practical! We all need butt eyes!
AB says hi. Now!
Leigh just told me to say something cool, but it's hard when you are as hot as fire. Also, maybe a little bit drunk. I have to go now, to help El Dukay install something on his computer, but know this: I am not a Puerto Rican ballerina, and I can kick your ass in pool.
Heeeeeee. AB is funny. Also, Vince and Dukay are apparently in love, and have been sitting all close and sweet on the sofa for about sixty hours, and Vince wore Dukay's shirt, letter-jacket style, for two days.
It's all about the love here. Seriously. LOVE.
We have drunk (drinken? I completely forget. Blame wine!) everything. We have eaten seventeen pounds of Easter candy. Thank you, Easter Bunny!
I have to go now, and make out with whomever is closest. LOVE! Hope y'all are having happy Easters!
HOLY CRAP, Part II
Well, I think it pretty much goes without saying that y'all are the awesomest people in the world. As of right now, there are 364 comments wishing Mr. Phil well, and zero having to do with online gambling and pornography. (Incidentally, that is a miracle, right there.)
In all seriousness, I am overwhelmed by everyone's kindness. I am so appreciative of all of the wonderful comments and wonderful emails I have received over the past few days. I am very touched that so many of you took the time to leave a note; it means so much to Phil, and it means so much to me. Thank you, thank you, thank you, a thousand times, thank you.
I'm going to go ahead and wrap this party up at 4 p.m. so that I can get all of these printed and bound and everything (know how many comments there are? So many that a mere STAPLE will not hold together all of these good wishes. No! BINDING is required! At Kinko's!), and then I will make an online donation for the final amount to the American Cancer Society. And I'll let y'all know what that final amount is, of course. Again, thank you, from the bottom of my heart.
And, because I don't want y'all to think I'm, like, going soft or something with all of this love and squishiness, I will leave you with the most current list of google searches that visitors have used to land on my page. Welcome, new readers! Sorry I'm not porn!
GOOGLE SEARCHES USED TO GET RIGHT HERE, LIKE, WHERE YOU ARE:
Ding Dong Nutrition
My sister's tits
Who invented alcohol?
Biggest vagina ever
A normal day in the life of an Amish person
Picture of dog peeing on a tree
Pictures of people who have peed on me
That dog peed on me
Tricks to removing cockroaches from your ear
Ashamed in my sister's panties
Oh, y'all. Welcome to Miss Doxie: A happy place where charity, the Amish, and your sister's panties all come together. I'm so glad to have you here.
Anna Beth is the most brilliant person IN THE WORLD
A quick post to tell y'all that the site? This one here? It broke. It didn't work for days. It wouldn't let me update, it wouldn't let anyone post comments. It was MASS HYSTERIA, PEOPLE. Exorcism was considered.
And then...AB fixed it. SHE FIXED IT. Possibly using voodoo.
So, let's all send some thank-you love to AB. Because that girl is brilliant, y'all, and we all love her gooder than dirt.
P.S.: Do you have any idea how strong the temptation was to call that last entry "Ice, Ice, Baby"? It was strong. Also, incredibly wrong, and BOY am I glad I didn't do that to y'all.
By the Way, I AM BRILLIANT
Shut up. I am, too.
The reason why I am brilliant today is that I, Miss Doxie, the very person who becomes overwhelmed with glee when she figures out how to, say, turn off the computer without actually unplugging it, installed wireless internet in my home.
ME. I did it. Sort of all by myself. Sort of.
I say "sort of," because although I did make an attempt to install it my own self, I eventually had to call the 800 number for the router thingy, and have a very nice young man talk me through the whole process. First, he started at "Please put the installation cd-rom in the disc drive," but even that was rushing me JUST A LITTLE, like, WHOA, BUDDY, you're not dealing with a pro here.
So, he had to back up a step, to "Please turn the computer on."
That was more my speed. Turn it on, you say? Well, I am excellent at that. I can do that blindfolded, if someone guides my hand.
The installation guy, whose name was Sam, was very, very patient, which is nice, and also, with every button he told me to push and cord he told me to plug in, he said "please." So polite, that Sam! This made me feel like I was doing Sam a favor, and made me temporarily forget that it was Sam, and only Sam, who could bestow upon me the ability to access the internet from the bathtub. And this is an ability that everyone should have, including household pets.
But the other thing about Sam, was that Sam had himself a little catch phrase, a little colloquialism that he kept tossing out there, demonstrating that Sam is cool, Sam is down, Sam can talk the talk and walk the walk, and also, Sam can bestow upon you the ability to access the internet from the bathtub.
Inexplicably, and repeatedly, Sam kept using the phrase "by the way."
By the way. Constantly! Now, to me, when you say, "by the way," you're essentially saying, "oh, and as a side note, I am now going to tell you something that is only peripherally related and borderline important, so feel free to ignore me, starting...now." This is what it means to me, but this is not what it means to Sam. To Sam, "by the way" means, "Now I speak."
I would say something like, "Okay, I've plugged in the blue cord thingie."
"By the way," Sam would respond, "Please plug it into the wall now."
"Okay," I'd tell him. "Done."
"By the way, is anything blinking?"
"Yeah, the whole thing's blinking."
"By the way, if it's blinking, that means it's on. If it's not blinking, by the way, you may have unplugged it, by the way."
And this went on, for AN HOUR! An HOUR of "by the way." Not one thing that Sam said to me was not somehow attached to a "by the way." EVERYTHING was by the way! There was no direct message!
Furthermore, he'd throw a "by the way" in for some of the most important information he had to impart, like, "By the way, I am about to give you a ninety-six character password that includes symbols and hand gestures, and you will need to type this in correctly every time you log onto the system, and, by the way, if you don't, we kill your family."
Somehow, the whole thing ended up actually working, and as I yelled with joy and bolted down the stairs with my laptop in order to shove it into Dukay's face and shriek that BITCH, I CAN TOO INSTALL THIS SHIT, O YE OF LITTLE FAITH, Sam remained on the line, all, "By the way, is that all I can do for you? Hello...? Hello? By the way?"
So, check me out, y'all. I can wander around the whole entire house, including the bathrooms, just internetting all the live long day. And it's all thanks to Sam, and my own brilliant, brilliant ability to follow directions given in an offhand and indirect manner.
By the way.
I said maybe, you're gonna be the one that saves me
Thank you, lovely people on the innernet, who have been so kind to me in the last few days, which have been NOT FUN, and I really cannot emphasize the real "lack of fun" that has been had by anyone in the last few days, but needless to say, there was NO FUN INVOLVED.
And I have been met with nothing but such love from Al, Hannah, and AB, who sent me a dozen roses, and Robyn, and Amy, and everyone else who has just been SO NICE. Why are y'all so nice? (And also, how come I can't make links work on a Mac? Someone needs to explain this shit to me.)
Y'all, I love you all more than breath. I really do.
So, all this is to say that things have not been very funny around the Doxie house lately, and I'm sorry I haven't posted, but y'all know. Shit's been going down. Hopefully, things are improving, and very soon, I'll have some fantastic post about how my sister and I got drunk and fell down. (People! Ziz just got into town! EVERYONE SAY HELLO TO ZIZ AND THE HILARITY THAT WILL MOST CERTAINLY ENSUE. Such "hilarity" may involve my obsession with the Amish, but I make no promises.)
But back to my...point. I am sure I had one, but frankly, I'm on Glass of Wine Number Threeeeee with Ziz already, and I am not kidding when I admit that it is REALLY KIND OF FUCKING TAKING A LONG TIME TO TYPE. In case you were wondering. And also, we are listening to my iPod, and the convergence of different styles of music when we choose the Shuffle At Your Own Risk option is kind of BLOWING OUR MINDS, and we listened to threeeee Smiths's songs, and then Peter, Paul, and Mary sang Puff the Magic Dragon, and it was getting verrrrrry Kumbayah! in here, and then SOMEHOW Mr. iPod decided to follow this up...with Marilyn MANSON. At which point my head blew up. Pop! As in,
Shiny iPod: PLAYS MARILYN MANSON.
Ziz: Haaaaaaa. Now pick up the pieces of your head and get me more wine.
(Also, on yet ANOTHER totally different note, can you tell that Oasis was playing when I started writing this entry? You could? Y'all, what gave me away?)
But I have veered so far away from my Major Actual Point, which was to say the following: I had no idea how kind, understanding, and thoughtful my friends could be, and I feel like the luckiest girl alive. Thank you all so much, and I love every one of you. More than breath.
Merry Christmas, y'all.
New and Improved!
Y'all! Check it out! It's my first ever entry ever ever on my new pretty site. With the doggie at the top! And it is all thanks to Miss AB Chao, so everyone please take a minute out of your morning to think very happy pink thoughts about her.
Now, I will tell you something interesting, namely that I have never made a post in MT before, so this is a VERY BIG DAY for Miss Doxie. I am typing it right now, wondering what will happen. Will it post? Will it go to heaven to live with Jesus? Frankly, things could go either way.
As soon as we've seen whether or not this will post (please cross fingers, etc.), then I will actually write a real, live entry, that involves:
1. Dog, Rogue
2. Falling Down, Self
3. Animal Crackers, Scattered
4. Shoes, Broken
Can't you just hardly wait?
Welcome to the new site! The prettiest girl in the world installed Movable Type and designed it. Can you guess who that could be? (Hint: She is very beautiful and smart and talented.)
Old entries are to the right, under "Old Doxie."
Enjoy! Voila! Je ne sais quoi!