For A Gentleman
A few years ago, I wrote an entry for our dear friend, Mister Phil, who had just been diagnosed with cancer. And I asked everyone to leave comments wishing him well, and almost 300 people were kind enough to send him their best. And slowly, he got better, beat his cancer, and we were all thankful that he'd made it through.
Very recently, though, the cancer came back. And Phil went through chemo and radiation, and all of those awful things you do when you have cancer. Up until the end of September, it looked like he'd beaten it again. But unfortunately, the cancer kept spreading, and even though he fought hard, it just kept getting worse. So, three weeks ago, Phil decided he'd had enough of that, thank you, and went home to spend his remaining time with his family and friends, so he could say good bye to everyone on his own terms, like the true gentleman he always was.
Phil died at home last week. He left behind his beautiful wife, my Aunt Rie (who STILL turns bright red when I talk about anything remotely scandalous, but loves me anyway) and two wonderful sons, who are like my brothers, only without the spitting and pinching. He was my Daddy's best friend, a surrogate father to my sister and me, and a dear, kind friend to pretty much everyone we knew.
Phil's funeral was Monday, and my father gave a beautiful eulogy, where he talked about Phil's many talents and their various Manly adventures. Then my parents held a wake immediately afterward at their house. And let me tell you right now that if you die, you would like for my parents to hold your wake, because turns out, regardless of the situation, these are people who can throw a party. Seriously, both the police AND the fire department came. To...the wake. In peace-keeping capacity. Because, we are a people who say good bye in style. And our style is apparently both "loud" and "with a tendency to create a teensy traffic problem, as well as major fire hazards."
But, so. We got to say good bye. But Mister Phil loved my website and read it often (by which I mean three times a year, when I actually...update it; LISTEN, I KNOW I KNOW I KNOW, and I really AM trying here, but clearly, things have been a bit sad and busy lately)(See paragraphs 1 - this one.) But, given that, and given that so many of y'all know Mister Phil, either in person or just through years of my own rambling, I couldn't come back here and write about my silly little adventures without first paying tribute to a wonderful gentleman with such a kind soul, who loved his people, and who left all of us much too early.
I'm glad I had a Mister Phil in my life. I'm glad the Sasquatch Senator got to meet him, and that we were lucky enough to be there when he took his last boat ride in August, back when we didn't know that he wouldn't be getting better. I'm glad he left all of us with so many happy memories, and I'm glad that he got to say goodbye to the people he loved. But even though I'm glad for all of that, I'm still sad as hell that he's gone.
I'm sorry that this entry isn't funny or light and is...totally a bummer, actually, but it was important to me. And not to worry; I've got a few happy entries ready to post (or..."happy," in a manner of relatively speaking. They involve my Adventures, which included bodily fluids that were not my own, in a city where I was nearly killed repeatedly, but we'll get into that shortly), and I also have a ton of pictures of my adorable Senator-Who-Still-Doesn't-Have-A-Name, and I'll post all of these in the next few days. But it just seemed more appropriate to do this first, and to honor someone I've loved and admired for most of my life.
So, I'll be back in the next few days with tales of the debauchery that is my daily existence. But in the meantime, if you get a chance, please say a quick prayer or think a kind thought for Mister Phil and his family. The world was a gentler place while he was here.
And, good bye, Mister Phil. I hope your heaven is filled with mountain streams, starry nights, and brown liquor. We will always remember you.
So, in short:
1. I am alive.
2. Thank you for asking.
3. Things were not okay.
4. But now they are better.
That's...pretty much the whole of it. Hello, y'all.
I've been dreading this entry for a long time, but it finally occurred to me that, hell. I know that I owe everyone an explanation as to my absence, and I'm tired of being alienated from my own website. So, I've made the decision, all of...oh, approximately six minutes ago, apparently, to just come out and tell everyone what's been going on. I'm just going to type without editing, and post this before I start thinking about it too much. So let's all grab a bottle of something, and settle in for a Very Special Episode of Miss Doxie.
As you have probably guessed, things broke bad over here in the Doxie land. And, oddly, it all started on the VERY DAMN DAY of my last post, which shows you precisely how long it's taken me to come to terms with this mess. On that night, back in December, Dukay and I had a talk about our future, and it...did not go well. To put things in the simplest terms, we'd been together for six years, and I wanted more. Indeed, I'd expected more; I'd been thinking our future was right around the corner. It turned out, however, that he wasn't ready. And lo, there was great mourning in the land, and the rending of many adorable garments that had been purchased on sale.
But then, around 1 a.m. ON THAT SAME NIGHT, my sister called with the news that, hello! She'd just gotten engaged. And so I switched gears and screamed and hollered and broke out the champagne and threatened to expose her most vile secrets to one and all if I was not designated as the maid of honor THAT SECOND, because this engagement is...perfect. It's just perfect.
Ziz is marrying Bob of the Baby Burning Video, and everyone who loves her could not be more pleased. And, hearing their voices on the phone, and seeing how they looked at each other when I saw them the next week -- I don't know. I guess I saw how wonderful it could be to simply be in love, and to look at someone and know that he's just so excited about the prospect of spending the rest of his life with you, he can't wait to get started. I mean...y'all? Bob learned how to play the ukulele for Ziz. THE FUCKING UKULELE. (WHICH FRANKLY I JUST HAD TO SPELL CHECK, TO BE PERFECTLY HONEST WITH YOU.) And that is some devotion, right there.
But, the timing was interesting, to say the least, and it forced me to put a lot of shit in perspective. And because I am not particularly good with perspective (there are angles involved! Like in geometry! In which I believe I earned a C!), that whole business took me a while.
And so, here I am. And Dukay and I are no more. It's nobody's fault. But in the end, it was the very best possible thing for everyone involved, even if it took me a long time to figure that out.
And, I've been fucking dreading saying this to you, sweet internet, because I hate to disappoint anyone. I've put this life in front of you, and that life just didn't work out. In fact, I've been terrified of admitting my failure for so long, I've actually been avoiding my own website for fear of the awful things that are inevitably going on in the comments. Seriously, I haven't even looked at them since...January? Probably January. And, allow me to tell you why: because I am a big enormous coward, THAT is why. Every once in a while, Cookie will come into my office, her eyes the size of dinner plates, and say, "Do you...know what is happening? With your website? BECAUSE IT IS ANARCHY OVER THERE, DO YOU HAVE A GUN," and I would groan and put my head in my hands and think that dear Lord, I cannot handle this in the SLIGHTEST, because I am a woman with Issues Already, and my poor head is already filled with enough self-doubt and crushed pride to fill up the whole entire internet, and I am just going to run away to Guam, so be it.
So...wait. Yeah, that's neither here nor there, but seeing as I'm not editing this (HELLO), I might as well go ahead and tell you that I haven't looked at whatever drama is raging over there in the last entry. And I don't intend to. Because, I'm chicken. And because I really did have my reasons for being gone so long.
But, okay, there was actually a point I was attempting to find here, and if I recall, the point is that I've been dreading this whole business. I didn't want to tell y'all. I didn't want to ruin anyone's day, and bring you down to the place I lived. And I also wondered whether this site could even survive, with just me at the helm. After all, Dukay was a huge part of my life for so long. He's in almost every picture I've posted, and I've talked about him in pretty much every entry. Because, he was my world -- after all, I spent almost seven years (SEVEN. YEARS.) thinking that he was my future, and crafting a life around him. So I guess it couldn't have been any other way.
The fact is that Dukay was a great friend -- one of my best friends -- for a long time. We had a great time together. He made me laugh, and I don't have a single bad thing in the world to say about him. It's just that when push came to shove, we were in different places. We wanted different things, and I finally realized that what I wanted -- more than anything -- was someone who just wanted me. And, as simple and lame and naive as that may sound, it wasn't what I had. And it broke my heart.
Sooooo. For a long time, I didn't write, because I didn't have anything to say. And I guess it's okay to admit that I was pretty fucking depressed for a while. I mean, yeah, this was a small tragedy, in the grand scheme of things. People deal with worse shit every day. But it hit me hard, and I stopped being okay for a little while. And I stopped laughing. Incidentally, as you can imagine, I was a fucking JOY to be around, and I will be forever grateful to poor Cookie and my other wonderful friends who tolerated my post-teen displays of angst. As in, I am super glad I did not decide to write any poetry during this period. I am equally glad that I did not dye my hair. (Because, honestly, I totally thought about dyeing my hair, and it would be BLACK to match my FEELINGS, except that my eyebrows would still be BLOND to match...like, SOCIETY, or SOMETHING, and let's just say that I settled for purchasing a few Smiths albums on iTunes, and that probably ended up better for everyone involved, frankly Mr. Shankly, the end.)
But, okay. So here I am. And, I'm not sad anymore. Instead, every day, I've gotten better. And at this point, I'm feeling pretty awesome, actually; in fact, I'm happier than I remember being in years. Things work out the way they're supposed to, it turns out. And I've learned that sometimes, you're running a race that you really don't want to win.
Similarly, I have learned that sometimes it is important to speak in cliches. Today, evidently, is that day. So if anyone needs a gift horse looked in the mouth, I am totally your girl.
But point being, that starting now, a new generation of Doxie is underway. I'm going to try to make some changes, like...well, to the About Me page, for starters, but don't expect me to find THAT any time soon, because HOLY SHIT I forgot everything I ever knew about code, turns out. I don't even know where my actual control panel is. And, since I have a new computer (I'm on a Mac! Could you tell? Is it prettier?), I've lost all of my bookmarks, so all these planned updates may be an exercise in supreme futility, but WHATEVER, I'm going to see what I can do, and hope for the best. Because, that is the way the cookie crumbles! And the ball bounces! And there are too many cooks in the kitchen! And etc.!
But, anyway. There you have it. I'm so sorry that I couldn't talk about any of this until now; I just wasn't ready. But I'm finally at the beginning of Doxie, Version 2.0, and I'm truly excited about it. I'm looking forward to new stories, new people, old friends, lots of wine, and really interesting bruises. I'm headed out on my brand new, shiny life. And if you'd maybe like to come along, I'd be honored to have you.
Day 6: LOL CRAP
Hello! I am back! And I am up to my eyeballs in work again. Which rocks, as normal, in my usual manner of being exceedingly lame.
But, hey! I did go to Vail, though. Which was not lame, but not much of a vacation, either, given the insane amount of travelling involved, and the fact that we were only there for a total of...oh, maybe 30 hours. Still the 30 hours was a little break, and was very gorgeous and wonderful. The other parts, with the multiple layovers, and the part where we had to leave the hotel at 4 a.m. to fly home, and everything else that involved either the "getting there" or "coming back" components of the trip, were not gorgeous and wonderful. Those parts also took about 30 hours, and every one of them sucked mightily. But during the happier times, I got to wear my coat AND boots because it was cold in Vail, and that pleased me, as did the fact that we got to see some snow. Not, like, a lot of snow, but let us not forget that I am from Atlanta. In terms of what I am used to, snow flurries = blizzard, and I joked about leaving the wedding so I could go stock up on vodka, Dura-Flame logs, and wine. Which I said with some authority, because that is actually a comprehensive list of what we did stock up on the last time we had a snow situation in Atlanta. Notice how we forgot "food."
(I am really not joking about that. We ended up making chili out of a jar of spaghetti sauce, which is something I would not recommend that you try.) (Ever.)
But, Vail! So, we went, and the wedding was really sweet and personal, and the whole town is just gorgeous now in the Fall. I took a ton of pictures, and if you are looking to get yourself into a Fall kind of mood, I will put them up on my Flickr account just as soon as I figure out how to use the mysterious uploader (Hey, Uploader! You are an Uploader of mystery, with the only working sporadically! So coy). So that is fun for all.
But, an – oh, wait. Want to hear our awesome travel stories? There are two tales of stupid events that could only happen to us. They are as follows:
First, it turns out that our flight was slightly later than I’d thought, but we still left at 4:30 a.m., because the Atlanta airport on a Friday morning is a clusterfuck not to be believed. So Dukay and I figured we would just stay awake all night, which we did, and we got to the airport and parked in Siberia before blearily walking the wrong way for ten minutes, both of us spitting profanity and hollering, "DUDE HOW IS IT THAT WE HAVE LOST THE WHOLE AIRPORT," until we found ourselves looking at an explanatory sign in the airport parking deck. My camera was in my suitcase, so I will have to recreate the image for you using Microsoft Paint, but this I will do in the interest of science:
Yeah, so. We flipped a coin, found the airport, and went through security, where neither one of us was chosen for a body cavity search, which was really just shiny of TSA given the fact that we were both disheveled to the point of looking like we’d spent the last year living in an isolated cabin somewhere, stockpiling weaponry and furiously typing letters to governmental agencies. And also Dukay was wearing his red pants. Which is just Crazy on legs, right there.
But, all this awake and walking and general confusion meant that by the time we got to our gate, we were starving slap to death. However, it was morning, so all anyone was serving was breakfast. Neither of us is particularly fond of breakfast food; I don’t really eat it, and Dukay can’t even look at an egg without convulsing in disgust, so we were both hoping to discover something a little…lunch-ier. But there wasn’t anything, so we got some coffee and figured, hell, we’ve got a two hour flight and a layover; we’ll just eat something at the next stop.
Only, guess what they have now, in this Brave New World? Time zones. We weren’t really thinking about those, though, and so when we got off the plane in Memphis, we were less than thrilled to be greeted by the smell of rubbery sausage and eggs. Because at that point, it was 9:00 in the morning. Again. And we just had that time.
So then we flew to Denver for another two hours, and again, we got off the plane, and again we were immediately assaulted by the smell of airport-breakfast-fare, because now it was 10:00 in the morning. And we’d just HAD THAT TIME TOO, SEVERAL TIMES IN FACT, and OMG WE ARE STUCK IN THE BREAKFAST WORMHOLE.
The upswing of all this is that we learned something that day, which is that Quiznos workers will take bribes. Especially if you are wearing red pants. Then they just want you to leave as soon as possible, and they will do whatever it takes to get you off the premises. Woo, Quiznos workers! Power to the people, and thanks for the sandwich!
But our never-ending morning just set the stage for our second adventure, because after we’d managed to apprehend some lunchmeats, we had to pick up the rental car for the trip to Vail. Now, the trip from Denver to Vail is about two hours, and Dukay thought it was a straight shot on I-70. Given my abilities to get lost while two blocks away from my office, however (yes), coupled with my tendency to infect and befuddle normal people with my inherently-incorrect instincts, resulting in them being equally lost (example: I recently got our firm’s managing partner so turned around after leaving a funeral that we completely missed the graveside service, despite the fact that the cemetery was within walking distance of both of our houses. This is how great my power) – anyway, I totally got off track there, but point being, we rented one of those Garmin Navigational devices, plopped it on the dash, and headed off to Vail.
We were not, at that point, concerned about the lack of instructions for the operation of the Garmin. We figured it must be self-explanatory, like TiVo, or most refrigerators. You just type in your destination, hit go, and voila, directions happen. So easy, we thought. SURELY WE CAN HANDLE THIS, we thought.
But, no. No, we thought wrong, because we left the parking lot and hopped on I-70 to Vail, and we coasted along without incident for about five minutes before the little Garmin started chirping at us to exit, you GUYS, exit NOW YOU GUYS, HURRY!
And because we are obedient sheep people, we did so, and thus began the most pointless romp around Denver ever experienced by anyone, because we’d drive all over the city, and then the Garmin would tell us to get back on the highway, and we would, only then five minutes later, it would change its tiny mind, and command us to exit, and we would, and then it would lead us through downtown in a sputtering, labyrinthine journey of stops and starts, before screeching at us to get our asses back on the highway to do the whole stupid thing all over again.
And, because neither one of us wanted to argue with technology, it wasn’t until we found ourselves stuck behind a school bus on a residential street for the THIRD time that Dukay finally chimed in with: “Uh.”
After spending the next 20 minutes accosting a gas station attendant, purchasing an enormous map, and pressing every button on the little Garmin’s face, we came to the realization that:
1. So it is a straight shot to Vail. If you stay on I-70, YOU END UP IN VAIL. You can’t HELP it. It is REQUIRED of you. Except:
2. The Garmin had been set to “avoid highways,” so it was trying to get us to Vail without resorting to interstates at all. Which one cannot do when going to Vail (see: “straight shot”, #1, above) and this contradiction had blown Garmin’s mind, much like the computer playing tic-tac-toe at the end of War Games (only with less nuclear war!), and so the machine had decided to just lead us in confused circles all about town, hoping we’d forget our original destination and just decide that KNOW WHAT, SCREW VAIL, DENVER’S FINE; which is why:
3. After one and a half hours of driving, we’d made it a grand total of four miles away from the rental car lot, GO TEAM.
So, you know. That was all very adventurous, in a Lewis-and-Clark Griswold kind of way. And then we drove to Vail on the highway like normal people, and had no further drama until we left the hotel at 4:30 Sunday morning to do the whole business all over again. Only this time we turned off the Garmin. And Dukay did not wear his red pants. And things were somehow much improved.
* * *
Now that I have spent ten years compiling our travel log, I am all tired of typing. Which is unfortunate, seeing as I am just now getting to the actual point of this entry, which was supposed to be Day 6 of CRAP. But forces are clearly aligning against me, because in addition to leading us all off on a tangent, I also thought I had the disc where I saved all the scanned pictures, but the CD I grabbed has actually turned out to be a burned compilation of the greatest hits of Air Supply. Which…I mean, obviously not a bad thing, and o, happy discovery!, but while they can make love out of nothing at all, I can’t make an awkward teenager out of a power ballad. Not without a shitload of alcohol, anyway.
So instead, we are resorting to a sort of odd assortment of pictures I have found on this laptop. They are kind of amusing to me, but I’ve definitely seen worse. Plus, because I am rapidly running out of cleverness, and also because I am unoriginal, and I continue to be entertained every time I look at I Can Has Cheezburger, I have decided to make today LOL CRAP day. For all of you who have no idea what I am talking about with this LOL business (hi, Aunt Rie!), I apologize. Pretend it is something hilarious, only in another language. Like Sanskrit. And…well, actually, that goes for all of you. Let’s act like this is funny to people other than me! And let’s do it together.
So, here we go, in no particular order and covering no particular time period: LOL CRAP, brought to you by travel, some old photos, and Air Supply. Which, now that I think about it, sounds like a recipe for a bomb.
Why, hello, Tiny Dancer!
My Milkshake: Failing To Bring All The Boys To The Yard.
My milkshake did, however, bring Ziz to the yard, where it appears that she is getting very handsy with my lady business:
Dude, tone down the perv, toddler.
And now, jumping forward to a demonstration of (1) how much I clearly valued my parents’ attempts to broaden our horizons by taking us to foreign lands when we were growing up; and (2) how to match your scrunchy socks with your shroud.
Bet those tan lines looked pretty.
Know what? This LOL talk is actually kind of hard. This has ended up taking longer than actual entry! Maybe it is easier with dogs.
Or, I could do a series!
Or...not. (Hee, though. A little!) But, okay, maybe it is easier if I actually steal one of their pictures from their actual factory and try that. I shall try:
Hee. Now, see, THAT is kind of funny. If you speak Sanskrit.
I am off, but will be back ASAP. See you all soon, and KTHXBYE!
I Interrupt this broadcast
I just deleted a VERY LONG ENTRY. By accident. I don't want to talk about it.
Here is the short version of those many, many paragraphs:
It's my Daddy's birthday. As you can imagine, we are feeling especially lucky to have him this year. "Lucky" may have translated to cocktails. I will neither confirm nor deny, but I just ran full-speed into an end table, so you can draw your own conclusions there.
Anyway, I have a ton of pictures to post, and I am believing you pretty people who say that you, too, have pictures to share, and so I set up a Flickr group. But, I am not going to deal with any of that right now, because right now, I AM GOING TO BED. Sleepy in the head! And fall over. Ow to knee, the end. (But hi, new bruise! You look like France!)
I won't totally leave you hanging, though. Want some Bo? Want to see how he sleeps now, every night, like a little brown crazy person? Too bad if you said no!
YOU TELL BO STORY. ABOUT HOW BO KILL STUFF.
Honestly, I know it looks absurd, but I didn't put him like that. That's how Bo arranges himself, head on pillow, covers drawn. I don't know how he does it, because I never actually see it happening, but I am pretty sure he has evolved himself some opposable thumbs and is keeping it on the downlow. To which I say: well played, dachshund. You are a crafty, crafty mammal.
But, hello. Speaking of bed, I am about to fall asleep standing up (actually I am sitting, but details are boring), so I am going to go join him. I'll talk to y'all tomorrow, but for now, I just hope I can get my pillow back with a minimum of bloodshed.
Day 5: Super Mottled
Hi! Remember when I said I would be back on Monday? I meant Tuesday. Of...the next week. Sigh.
I am sorry. I lied to you and told you a story that was made of snips and snails and falsehoods, but that is because I had no idea of what the following week would have in store, all of which was Bad, to put things mildly. To put things more accurately, the last week turned out to be a total fucking nightmare, and I had to go out of town with zero notice except "QUICKPACK", and then I got whacked with this emergency project that we usually have ten days to file, but in this instance we had a grand total of 72 hours, and so I was awake for 72 hours, which I thought was just fucking shiny, and then I got incredibly, disgustingly sick and sneezed on everything before going to bed for a day and a half.
But, hey. HEY. Wasn't I supposed to be doing something funny in these paragraphs? Indeed, I was, so let's get on that and not complain about anything else. Except maybe my forgotten love affair with high-waisted jeans, which ultimately came to a tragic end for everyone involved.
So, moving on! Day 5! This was sort of an in-between period, apparently -- the first year or two of high school, when the braces came off and I finally started to get a little less funny looking. Still, not to worry, as I compensated for my relative decrease in Ugly by dressing in clothes that made me look like any one of the following:
(a) I’m heading off to a PTA meeting in my wood-paneled minivan, in spite of the fact that I am not yet old enough to vote. Why, a bake sale?! I vote "Yum!"
(b) I am a crossdresser.
(c) I am an armchair.
Seriously. BEHOLD THE EVIDENCE:
Photographer: Okay, first: pull up your pants.
Self: Like this?
Photographer: No. Higher. Can you get them boob-level? It's slimming.
Self: This is as high as they go, I think.
Photographer: Hmm. Not good. Maybe if...okay, tuck in your sweater.
Self: Tuck in my sweater? But it's...a sweater.
Self: And...boxy, though.
Photographer: Look. Sigh. Do you want to be fashionable, or do you want to look like a complete idiot?
Self: I think the first one.
Photographer: Good. Okay, now, we're going to need a belt. Something...wait, I am having a vision right now. And in this vision I see: gold.
Self: This belt has a really shiny gold buckle; will it work?
Photographer: YES. It is PIRATE CHIC. Now roll up your sleeves and slouch.
Photographer: Slouch a little more...a liiiiittle more...really hunch those shoulders....YES! YES PERFECT. Now sneer and squint, and we're looking at the cover of Seventeen!
...At least, that is what I imagined happened.
I blame that same photographer for coaching me in the following picture, where I continue to be plagued by high-waisted jeans, only now I'm burning my fashion candle on both ends, so to speak, with the pinch rolling:
DOG ESCAPE FROM SCARY PANT NOW.
But, you know, it wasn't all bad jeans and frump. I mean, frump stayed, and then somewhere along the line I decided that it would be a good idea to wear my father's clothes. Specifically, the clothes that did not even begin to fit me, even in my imagination. So I stole pretty much all of the poor man's dress shirts, which I then wore buttoned alllll the way to my chin. Of course, they were enormous on me, so the result was a visually unsettling triangle effect, and either the shirt ballooned around me, tentlike, or I tried to stuff eight yards of starched cotton down into my jeans, which made me look like I was pregnant in both the front and back of my body. And I remember doing this intentionally, all the time, yet as far as I know, I have never suffered a head injury.
I wish I had a better picture of this phenomenon (which...really, this lasted for ages), but we will have to settle for this, the bonus being that when this picture was taken, hairbrushes were illegal in my state. Seriously, look it up if you don't believe me.
I learned it from watching you, Dad!
Apparently, all this starched shirt counterculture led naturally to the next stage of being, wherein I decide that I am some kind of badass, and this is a fact that must be broadcast to the world by my apparel. And that is what is happening here, where I am about ten times cooler than Christmas tree decorating, GOD, and also: HEY WORLD. I WOULD LIKE FOR YOU TO KNOW THAT I AM AWARE OF THE EXISTENCE OF ALCOHOL. I HAVE ITS SHIRT.
But my hair is a rastafarian!
Hee. Oh, I was dumb.
But, hey. It could have been worse. I could have gone all obnoxiously girly, right? With lace and layers and floof and tremendous patterns in a variety of pastel hues? That would have been awful! Ha ha!
Hello. I'm your curtains.
Yeah. But at least I am not the only one. And, actually, judging from y'all's comments, it sounds like plenty of you have excellent pictures, as well! And someone smart in the comments suggested we do a group or something, so we can see them all, and I thought, Hey! That would be a fun idea! Go, Smart Person!
So, know what we should do, and what I will actually do myself, if I can figure it out? Flickr Group! Flickr Group of discomfort! A special place! A Clubhouse of Crap, all ours, and we could crimp each other's hair and compare acne treatments all day long.
So, y'all think about that; if I build it, would y'all come? Or am I going to be left with my pinch rolls, all alone?
Day One: A Bad Beginning
Aw, y’all, thank you for welcoming me back all nice, and for saying all your nice words. Please check me out now, drunk with the excitement of being able to type on here! TYPE TYPE TYPE. This is what I am doing! I am not even kidding you! TYPE TYPE! Soon I will start writing gibberish (I mean, more so than now, even), and we will see why maybe too much access is a bad thing, and why the Internet saw fit to divorce me in the first place. Hey, Internet! The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog! Did you know? TYPE!
Aaaaaanyway. So, back to the point, that being my Comprehensive Retrospective of Awkward Periods (code name: CRAP), which continues today. I am thinking I am going to try to do this CRAP chronologically, which in this case means, “Let’s sort of go from bad to worse,” or “at least I was still kind of cute when I was a little kid, but by the time I start doing my own hair, we are entering some seriously troubling territory.” But, that is awfully structured, what with the chronological business, so I might give it up. I especially might give it up since Dukay and I spent the better part of last evening going through even more pictures in an effort to locate even more examples of my own humiliation. This is how that went down:
Self: Hey! Come over and help me.
Dukay: Is it the kind of helping that is heavy?
Self: No. I need you to pick out all the ugliest pictures of me.
Dukay: Oh, yeah, because THAT doesn’t sound like a trap AT ALL.
(Hee. DUKAY SMART!)
But, actually, no. He is not that smart, because he eventually agreed, and we settled in with several enormous boxes of photographs (also maybe several enormous glasses of wine) and went through them, one by one. And we found some prime examples of CRAP, but I haven’t had a chance to scan them yet, so they might get interjected later this week. Or, maybe we will find even worse CRAP. Dukay specifically remembers a picture of me that made him “shudder,” a revelation accompanied by him actually, physically shuddering at the very memory, but he can’t remember anything else about the picture, including its current location. Apparently, it was so bad that he has blocked it from his mind, so it now lives deep in the land of Dukay’s nightmares. And, hello. THAT SOUNDS PROMISING.
Anyway, maybe we will find that one. Who knows! I should probably involve my mom, who allegedly showed Dukay the shudder picture in the first place. Or, ooo! I should look on my Dad’s desk. Dad’s desk used to be a clearinghouse of personal embarrassment, so you know there has to be some quality there, maybe even in a special drawer of unspoken horror. And thus, a plan was formed.
But, anyway. So, today we are going to look at outfits that are arguably not my fault, because I am small enough that someone else (MOM) chose them for me, with an evident lack of concern (MOM) regarding humiliation or subsequent therapy bills (MOM MOM MOTHER MOM). At this time in my life, I lived outside of Washington, D.C., and harbored a serious, non-platonic crush on He-Man. As the impossibility of that relationship began to dawn on me (too muscle-y!), I shifted my affection to Michael Knight, because He Is A Knight Rider. That love proved much more long-lasting, persisting until I was seven or eight, at which point I left him for…Christian Slater? A member of Poison? I forget, but don’t feel bad, Michael Knight. It wasn’t you; I grew, and I changed. And that just happens sometimes, when you are six.
I am sure I had additional interests during this time, other than imagining tongue-kissing David Hasselhoff, but I can’t remember them now. Except, oh, wait. Yes I can: Star Wars. I have previously described my childhood Star Wars obsession, and my relationship with a very special pressure cooker, but the short version is that the year I was five, I watched an illegal copy of Star Wars pretty much every afternoon on the Beta Max in my parents’ living room. I loved Star Wars, LOVED IT, and please check out this unbelievably fantastic Leia getup my Grammy made for me:
Aren't you a little short for a stormtrooper?
Now, granted, this was Halloween, but I wore that Hood of Endangered Princesses until the fabric actually disintegrated off of my body, thereby displaying the Leia Underoos underneath. And God in heaven, what I would not give for any of those fashion items today. Those were totally kick ass.
Unlike…well, a lot of other things I wore during this period of my life, which were significantly less ass-kicking. Although, I have to say that now that I am looking at all these pictures, I realize that I touched upon a lot of cultures with my ensembles, much in the manner of a melting pot, if a melting pot wore plastic accessories. For example, have you ever seen someone wearing lederhosen and a lei before? Like, at the same time? Lederhosen and lei? Lei and Lederhosen? No? Liar!
When I was not acting as an ambassador of Hawaii, Germany, or Alderaan (I just googled that), I apparently spent my time kicking ass as the smallest member of Miami Vice:
You can put my car seat in the Ferrari, Tubbs.
By the time this next picture was taken, we’d moved to Atlanta, so I’m guessing I’m…nine? At any rate, by now I at least have the decency to look appalled by my all-bunny ensemble (MOM):
Happy fucking Easter! LIKE MY HEADBAND?
Around this same time:
Guess who got braces a week after THIS class picture was developed?
KITH ME, DAVID HATHELHOFF!
(And here I just have to say, O CLEAR BRACES OF OLDE, you were the lie of orthodontia. Back when I had them, clear braces were not clear. They were yellowish, and they made you look like an insane and crafty farmer had superglued a single kernel of corn to every tooth in your head. Which is maybe the epitome of “sexified” to an insane and crafty farmer, but not so much in junior high, and that dingy plastic mess postponed my first kiss for a solid five years. Or…well, okay, maybe not just the braces, but they certainly didn't help matters in the slightest.)
Sigh. Anyway, that is all I’ve got for today, but with that last picture, you can probably tell that we are beginning to enter whooooole new territories of Awkward. So gird your loins for tomorrow, and kitheth and aloha to you all!
Moon Over Atlanta
So! Happy Wednesday! I am back in town for about six minutes, which gives me the opportunity to ask this question: Who wants to hear my most embarrassing story of the year so far? It's the sort of thing that is completely typical of me! You are forewarned!
Also, it involves a side bar. Which is: when Ziz was just a little person, she was so skinny it was hard to find pants that fit her in any meaningful way. (Not a lot has changed in this regard, because if you remember, her family nickname continues to be "Tits on Sticks." But shockingly, I digress!) Anyway, one day, she went on to kindergarten in a pair of cute little corduroys; when my mom picked her up at the end of the day, however, she found Ziz in tears, proclaiming a great hatred for her pants. When Mom asked what the problem was, Ziz explained that she had been on her way to her classroom in a long line of kids when her pants had suddenly "slud down her legs." At this point, Ziz turned to Mom and, through tears, shrieked out, "I WAS SO BARE ASSED." And Mom had to agree. And now, y'all, I know exactly how she felt.
That's a bad beginning, isn't it? Also, foreshadow-y. Like literature, only with lots more curse words.
But ANYWAY. SEE, WHAT DONE HAPPENED WAS, I was at work. And I was wearing my favorite skirt suit, which I really love[d], and which actually fits me properly, which is kind of hard to say with the majority of suits in this world. I was getting ready to go on a car trip with Cookie and a partner, and so I was trying to finish up about eleventy jillion things before we had to leave. Mister Partner had explained that we were leaving at 11:15, on the dot, and I was busting ass (theme! THEME!) to get everything accomplished before then.
So, when another partner called me at 10:45 and wanted me to get in on a conference call with a client, I said bad words in my head, but quickly picked up a pad and began hauling ass (am I overdoing it? Possibly) down the hall. Which happened to occur at the same time that the partner sitting next to me (YET ANOTHER PARTNER, because let's maximize the number of professional people involved in my bare-ass-ment) also exited his office. From behind me, I heard him clear his throat.
"Uh, Leigh," he said. "I think you got a lady problem with your skirt."
I turned around, trying to look at my rear. "What?" I asked. "Did I sit in something?" ( I am always sitting in something.)
"NO," he said, turning red. "I think you have a LADY PROBLEM. With your ZIPPER."
At the precise moment he said those words, I realized that: hello. My zipper, the one holding my skirt together, and the one that runs all the way down my backside, had split. And so the skirt had yawned entirely open, and there was my blazingly white butt, clad only partway in a pair of bikini briefs, hanging happily out of the suit, and enjoying the freedom of the law firm's hallway. I was officially Bare Assed.
"AHHHH!" I said, and immediately put my legal pad over my bottom. I stared horrified at the partner; wisely, he turned around without a word and walked directly back to his office, as if he had suddenly realized some very important work that was sitting on his desk and that did not involve full backside nudity. But then, from the other partner's office, I heard my name being called. Helplessly, and with the pad still over my backside, I hustled in there, mind racing and back to the wall, hugging it Jack-Bauer style, as if enemy forces would immediately appear and expose additional flesh to an office full of well-mannered gentlemen.
I got into the office and made an immediate beeline for the couch. As the conference call continued, I sat there, trying desperately to figure out what the hell I could do. There's a store across the street that sells women's clothing, I figured. If I can just get out of here, then I could go over there, and buy some black pants or a skirt or something. Whatever I buy, I could just wear out of the store. And if I really, really hurried, I could do all of this by 11:15.
I spent twenty minutes staring at the clock, watching the window of opportunity for re-skirting growing smaller and smaller. Finally, at 11:10, the call ended. I stood up, back still to the wall, pad again placed against my tookus.
"Leigh, I need--" began the partner. I interrupted him.
"LISTEN." I said. "MY SKIRT SPLIT OPEN. I HAVE TO LEAVE THIS OFFICE IN FIVE MINUTES. THAT IS HOW LONG I HAVE TO GET TO BROOKS BROTHERS AND BACK WEARING SOMETHING THAT DOES NOT EXPOSE ME IN AN ILLEGAL WAY."
"AHHHH!" said the Partner, who had probably wanted none of that information whatsoever. Seizing upon the obvious opportunity, I bolted.
Once I was back in the hallway, I took off my jacket and tied it around my waist. I grabbed my purse, and hollered at my assistant that "IGOTTABUYASKIRTNOW! BERIGHTBACK!" Wisely, I don't think she responded.
I rode down in the elevator, eyes on my watch. 11:11. Four minutes.
I popped out in the lobby and made a mad dash from the street. And then I stopped at the curb and considered, and these were the things I thought:
1. I work on the busiest street in downtown Atlanta.
2. They do not like it when you cross the busiest street in downtown Atlanta.
3. By "they", I mean "the police", who have recently set up camp and started ticketing jaywalkers like they are evil thieves running away with old women's purses (because, jaywalking: it's the gateway crime! One day, you're crossing in the middle of the road; next, you'll be masterminding an elaborate plot to overthrow our government. Seriously, it's how Manson got started!)
At the same time, I weighed these facts:
1. The store is DIRECTLY across the street from the office, just tantalizing in its direct route-ness;
2. My office is slap in the middle of an unusually long block, meaning that I would have to walk aaaaaaaallllllll the way to the end, then cross, then walk aaaaaalllllll the way back in order to make my booty-covering trip in a legal way;
3. It was chilly, and I was freezing my ass off (sorry! Cannot help it anymore!) with my jacket tied around my waist and wearing only a little camisole thing on top;
4. I had four minutes to complete this ENTIRE task; and also, Yeah, By The Damn Way:
5. My SKIRT is SPLIT the FUCK OPEN.
I made up my mind, looked both ways, and -- not seeing any officers of the law -- bolted across the street. And I'd almost made it, too, when I saw the telltale blue hat coming up from the escalator in the underground mall in front of me.
"Shit," I muttered, as the cop turned and looked directly at my lawless self.
"Ahem," said the cop.
For my first evasion technique, I tried smiling stupidly, finished crossing the street and kept moving toward the store, all, "It is pretty today! I am just going to go participate in some commerce! I am not a lawbreaker! I like pants!"
But he was not having it. "Come here," the officer said, motioning with his hand. I froze. And, in a split second, I knew the only thing I could do.
I turned around. I lifted my jacket. And then...I mooned the cop. On the busiest street in the city. In an attempt to avoid jailtime.
Bending over, and with my head between my legs, I hollered, "MYSKIRTSPLIT! I HAVE TO LEAVE TOWN IN FOUR MINUTES! I CANNOT SEE CLIENTS LIKE THIS AND I HAVE TO BUY PANTS NOW NOW NOW!"
As I looked upside down at the officer, wondering vaguely if it is...you know, bad to moon a policeman on Peachtree Street, he busted out laughing. "RUN!" He hollered at me, pointing at the store. "GO GO GO!"
I stood up, overwhelmed with gratitude, and waved at him as I rushed into the store. Which I descended upon like a damn hurricane, all, "PANTS! I WILL TAKE THESE! NO I DONT CARE! PLEATS MAKE NO DIFFERENCE TO ME WHATSOEVER! START RINGING THEM UP WHILE I CHANGE OVER HERE!"
Throwing a credit card at the horrified saleswoman, I was halfway out of my skirt (well, obviously. But, like, in a taking-it-off manner) before I'd even made it to the dressing room. I got the pants on in six seconds flat, and ran back to the counter so that the poor woman could wordlessly hand me the sales slip, her eyes as big as dinner plates.
"THANK YOU!" I hollered, grabbing a bag and stuffing my sad skirt inside. Then I bolted out of the store, and back to the street, where the officer was waiting, still laughing at me.
"IT IS 11:14 AND I AM WEARING PANTS!" I informed him gleefully. He agreed.
And then I turned and promptly ran across the middle of the street again, in front of God, the law, and everyone else.
"Hey, now!" hollered the officer disapprovingly. "I AM SORRY! I LOVE YOU!" I called over my shoulder. Wisely, Mister Officer did not pursue.
At precisely 11:15, I walked back into my office, out of breath and shoulders heaving, and threw the bag containing the skirt of my discontent onto the floor. And then I turned, coming face to face with Cookie and the Partner, who were, of course, right on time. Cookie looked at me.
"Were you wearing a skirt earlier?" she asked, puzzled. I just nodded and pointed at the bag. "DO NOT ASK," I advised her. And off we went to practice some law. And then I told everyone in the world what had happened to me. The end!
So, y'all, there is my story of PG-rated nudity for your Wednesday. Have some breakfast! And pants!
Now, on to the news. (Which I have kind of always wanted to say. I like living my dreams!)
***GIRLY SHOPPING BORINGNESS ALERT***
I have gotten enough emails about The Dress (which...awesome. In love with dress. Thank you, dress, for hiding evidence of fried-chicken eating!) to attempt to point y'all in the right direction, but I can't find it online anywhere. I've looked all over the place, but...no luck! It's Nicole Miller and I got it at the Bloomingdale's in Atlanta, but if someone manages to find it online, will you please post a link in the comments? I am afraid people will actually break into my house to steal it from me, such is the appreciation for this dress, and if that happens, I will have to slap a bitch. Or stick Bo on her. Whichever.
The other dresses came from Bloomingdale's and Nordstrom's respectively, and the first Kimono one was on sale for $80. Which was bargain-y! Woo!
***END OF GIRLY SHOPPING BORINGNESS ALERT***
***PEOPLE WHO COULD GIVE A SHIT ABOUT FORMALWEAR ARE INVITED TO RETURN NOW***
And, one final thing: speaking of bargain-y! I am having the first-ever sale at Shop Doxie. Which I tried to send a newsletter about, but...that ended badly. And so instead of a cute newsletter with pictures and links, roughly three trillion people got a newsletter from Leigh that included a lot of ????????????????//////////////////////////////////&ndp????!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! in it. And then their eyes fell out of their heads and they sued me.
But, anyway. So I don't usually like plugging the store over here, but given my complete inability to use any other avenue to communicate these facts, I'm a-doing it anyway. I am sorry! But, sale, y'all! Everything in the whole entire store! Plus you get a free gift with every order, and let me just say that the reason I am doing this is that at this moment, I have so many boxes of cards, stickers, stationery and other assorted doxie-ness that it has taken over two bedrooms, plus it is inching its way, Blob-style, into the den and dining room, and I am beginning to sort of FREAK OUT about it. To be perfectly honest. So I made everything practically free so it could live somewhere that is not my den. Seriously, I am starting to live like a crazy person who has to tunnel through her house, and the dogs are communicating by smoke signals, and they hate me, and we can't have company over because there are CARDS and ribbon bits everywhere, and I could go on, but it is kind of getting to be a desperate situation over here, is what I am trying to communicate. Were I not filled with shame, I would show you a picture of my dining room table, and then you would make fun of me anon.
Also, hee! I said anon! I am so dorky today. Probably because it is only 8:30, so I haven't had any wine yet.
At any rate, please check it out, and have some cards or something. Also, there are magnets now! And stickers! Both are sticky. Because I am clearly a lady who likes a theme.
And that's all I got, as I have to leave for work now. Where we all sincerely hope I stay as un bare-assed as possible.
Y'all have a great week!
Also Cookie Was Almost Killed By A Gaggle of Geese, But We'll Talk About That Later.
Gaggle of geese? Goose? No combination of the words in that sentence look anything close to right. Also, hello!
This is sort of a listy entry, with no actual "point", per se. So let's kick things off with:
Things that were incredibly funny to me at the time when I should have been reviewing my presentation for a really big room filled with people drinking iced tea:
Things that were incredibly funny to me when I grabbed the wrong pad and went to the podium, looked down for my speech and found the Leggings Dachshund instead:
And, that has pretty much been my week. Also funny, in a kind of horrifying way: When I actually said, during my speech, "Okay, we're...we're going to skip this slide with all the words on it." Please, start engraving a plaque in my honor now. Don't wait! The profound nature of my thought process should be memorialized! And together, we'll just skip the memorials with all the words on them.
Other items of note: We had our firm retreat, at which we were made to stay in cabins, which were located inside of Nature, which is not so much my thing, based on the proliferation of Wildlife living in such areas. Wildlife, y'all! Like squirrels and wild turkeys and unicorns and the terrifying chupacabra, which lies in wait to eat attorneys wearing highly impractical footwear in the woods. And, I would like to point out the additional fact that our firm retreat actually fell over the weekend of the 13th through the 15th, which meant that I had to stay in a CABIN, by MYSELF, on the night of Friday the Thirteenth. Where I waited in horror to be carved into sushi-sized pieces by an angry zombie in a hockey mask, because THAT would be just my luck. When I expressed my concerns to Dukay, however, he assured me that I would be safe from the slow-moving undead so long as I avoided the following undead-baiting activities (some of which were made famous by the movie Scream, I have been informed), and which of course are:
2. Drug use; and
Seeing as I was in the Woods of Potential Death And Confirmed Existence of Wildlife with all of my co-workers, these possibilities seemed highly unlikely, so I felt a little bit better then. And, sure enough, I lived. Woo! And, now that I think about it, I think that calls for another plaque! Which we will call, "Official Established Rules For Surviving An Attack Of The Slow-Moving, Knife Wielding Undead." That engraver is going to be busy!
But, as I just done said, I survived my time in the mountains, and then I survived my presentation to all the iced-tea people, and then I got to finally come home and sit still for fifteen minutes. And this is why I feel like I should be given a cocktail, a sedative, and some quiet time to reflect upon my own little chupacabra crew, which are about ten times scarier than any damn thing living in those woods:
GIMMME SUCK BLOOD OF GOATS! Then take nap.
(Gimmme nap now. Suck blood of goats so tiring.)
And, that's what I've been up to! Woods, doodles, and goat suckers. And everyone who has sent me an email wondering where I have been is probably very, very sorry that they asked.
My Internal Has A Dialogue
Why It Is A Wonder I Ever Get Anything Done At All: Proceed With Caution
Left Brain of Miss Doxie: Holy shit, I can’t believe how long it’s been since I updated my site. I haven’t even written anything in there since, like…holy SHIT, on my BIRTHDAY. At this point I am practically thirty-one! I must do that! I must write something NOW NOW NOW.
Right Brain of Miss Doxie: Oh, hush, mister practical. You know you can’t force the creative process. Just calm down, and soon, we will hear the sweet song of the muse! She will give us our subject, and then she will take us by the hand, and lead us down a path lined with butterflies and ice cream cones.
Left Brain: …ooookay. Except we don’t have hands.
Right Brain: I am speaking figuratively, Left Brain. You need to think outside of the box.
Left Brain: Or, you know, I could ignore your irritating box-talk, and just write something already. Which is what I am going to do. I am putting it on my to-do list right now. Right under “Finish Legal Stuff,” but before "Laundry, plus spray dogs with something to make them smell less like dead squirrel parts."
Right Brain: But if you just write any old thing, then it will not be beautiful. We should not write now. I think we should sing a song, and then make potholders covered in unicorn glitter.
Left brain: Oh, for the love of GOD, woman, this is a blog. After all this time, it doesn’t need to be beautiful; it just needs to be “not blank.” That is really the only requirement for today: “Not blank.”
Right Brain: You know, when you say things like that, a fairy dies. She just falls down dead.
Left Brain: No fairies die…
Right Brain: FALLS DOWN DEAD SPLAT. Like that. Because of you.
Left Brain: Sigh. Oh, also, we should get some lunch. There’s a salad bar…
Right Brain: TWINKIES.
Left Brain: And, that sandwich shop downstairs has got some spec---
Right Brain: TWINKIES TWINKIES TWINKIES
Left Brain: JESUS CHRIST, FINE. We will HAVE TWINKIES for lunch.
Right Brain: (and potato chips.)
Left Brain: AND POTATO CHIPS. OKAY. THEN WE WORK.
Right Brain: Noooo, then we daydream.
Left Brain: We don’t have time to daydream. We have to write! Write write write.
Right Brain: Hey! Lefty! Did you see that thing on the news? About the Tyco guy throwing the party on the Greek Island?
Left Brain: Yeah, and he is currently in prison thanks to things like parties on that Greek Isle.
Right Brain: But, did you see the pictures? Where they served up all the male models on big platters, as if they were a buffet of glistening man-entrees? And I was all, “Men! On…plates!” and I have been sort of intrigued by the idea ever since. Why doesn’t anyone ever bring me a man on a plate? I’ve been good!
Left Brain: I…what in the world are you talking about?
Right Brain: Do you think Santa brings men on plates?
Left Brain: No. I don’t. Do I. And we have to write now. We should write about…
Right Brain: Men on plates, probably. And Santa.
Left Brain: NO. No, let’s write about how much work we’ve been doing since---
Right Brain: Oh, snore. We are not going to bitch and moan about our workload. That is so, so boring, plus you do that all the time.
Left Brain: Well, all you’ve come up with is “Men on Plates” and Twinkies and potato chips for lunch.
Right Brain: And Santa.
Left Brain: Yes. Exactly. Let us not forget Santa. You are making my point for me, and I thank you.
Right Brain: Hey, Stiffy! know what I really like? That song from the Neverending Story.
Left Brain: No, you don’t.
Right Brain: Oh, indeed I DO. And I shall start singing it right now, until you agree not to write about how busy you are.
Left Brain: Oh, please…please, don’t do that.
Right Brain: Close your eyes…tell me what you SEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
Left Brain: AIEEE
Right Brain: In…something…the something of your DREEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAMS…
Left Brain: JESUS HOLY CHRIST, will you PLEASE SHUT THE HELL UP.
Right Brain: (humming).
Left Brain: Sweet, great. Awesome, now I’m singing it. WE HAVE THINGS TO DO.
Right Brain: No, you have things to do. I am going to come up with new names for Girl Scout Cookies.
Left Brain: Fantastic. Do it quietly.
Right Brain: …Mintsalongs.
Left Brain: ….?
Right Brain: Mintsalongs…Samoafoils.
Left Brain: Please. Oh, please, I beg you. I have so much to do…
Right Brain: Thinadoodle.
Left Brain: Right. Great, that’s it. I am getting nothing done, plus I have gotten nothing done all day, and I am a person with deadlines and lists…
Right Brain: Let’s write poetry about how boring you are.
Left Brain: Are you even LISTENING to me? LET’S WRITE A BRIEF.
Right Brain: Ooo! Let’s write a poem about how you live at the bottom of the ocean, but are still totally boring.
Left Brain: I’m not boring, I’m responsible! Someone has to be responsible!
Right Brain: Way down on the floor of the sea;
Covered with anemone;
Sat boring Left Brain,
Who’d loudly complain
That it had to complete subpart (b).
Left Brain: That’s not fair!
Right Brain: Left Brain was so horribly bland, that all of the fish moved to land…
Left Brain: Shut up! I’m not bland!
Right Brain: Snooooore. Oh, hey! Look at that: you talk, and I immediately fall asleep. That’s amazing how that happens, considering that you are so fascinating and all.
Left Brain: I wonder if it is possible to plan a stroke. To plan a stroke that only affects the RIGHT SIDE OF ONE’S BRAIN.
Right Brain: Oh, let’s not fight. Let’s cuddle.
Left Brain: I don’t WANT to cuddle. I WANT to write this brief, and then I WANT to update the website, and then I WANT to do laundry.
Right Brain: Or we could snoogle with the dogs.
Left Brain: …well, they do need snoogling.
Right Brain: And they are just sitting here, all smooshy.
Left Brain: They are smooshy. It is scientifically proven that they are smooshy. Okay, maybe a small break, for snoogling the smooshy.
Right Brain: That’s right, just…ew. Oh, ew. Dude, what’s that smell?
Left Brain: Oh, sweet Jesus. Look, it’s BITS OF DEAD SQUIRREL.
Right Brain: What?! Why do the dogs smell like bits of dead squirrel?
Left Brain: Because a squirrel DIED, and then it somehow ended up in our YARD, and then the dogs FOUND it, and then they ROLLED AROUND IN IT, and NOW THEY SMELL LIKE BITS OF DEAD SQUIRREL. But apparently, you MISSED all of that, because you were too busy drawing RAINBOWS and CENTAURS with the face of MORGAN FUCKING FREEMAN, THAT IS WHY.
Right Brain: Well, why didn’t you, like…clean them, or something?
Left Brain: Why didn’t…? LOOK. LOOK AT THIS LIST. Right there, under “Laundry”, it also says, “plus spray dogs with something to make them smell less like dead squirrel parts."
Right Brain: Well, you should really get to that, you know?
Left Brain: I HATE YOU.
Right Brain: Do not. I sparkle!
Left Brain: (sob.)
Right Brain: Oh, come on, now! Come on, what do you want to do? Do you want to write that brief? Will that make you happy?
Left Brain: No.
Right Brain: Do you want to draw some more pictures of Morgan Freeman as a centaur?
Left Brain: NO.
Right Brain: Okay, okay. Do you want to play solitaire?
Left Brain: I…sort of.
Right Brain: Well, okay! THERE WE GO, LITTLE CAMPER. You go play some solitaire, with all that logical, deductive reasoning of yours.
Left Brain: (sniff). Okay. What are you going to do?
Right Brain: Think about George Clooney on a really big plate.
Left Brain: Is that all?
Right Brain: Well, I’ll also update the website. Okay?
Left Brain: But…you? Nobody will ever come back! If you write it, they’ll see the innermost workings of Leigh’s brain, and they’ll all run away, screaming.
Right Brain: Oh, shush. It’s better than blank, right?
Left Brain: I mean…yeah. Okay, you’re right. Just…
Right Brain: Yes?
Left Brain: Promise not to mention the squirrel.
Hi, y’all! Look at how I am not gone! You are still stuck with me.
I need to tell y’all about this, which is a really awesome craft contest where you can win all sorts of prizes from eighty different stores; naturally, it ends in about two days and I am coming in at the tail end, but you know. Still crafty! Still good!
And finally, if you’re in Atlanta and want to buy very cool stuff tonight, the annual Tossed Out Treasures Preview Party is this evening, and it is where you can get lots of previously-owned neato things for not a lot of money. Plus also, you get wine. Wine and discount! And, charity, because the money all goes to the community, which is ever so nice. So check it out if you are so inclined; I think it’s $20 at the door, but usually that includes, like, food and drinks, so that is good. And if you see me, make sure you say hi to my right brain; the left side is staying the heck home.
(P.S.: Thanks to everyone who volunteered about the Thing with the Thing. I've got a bunch now, but thank y'all again!)
Been Caught Stealing
Hi, y'all! So, here is something that I find enormously funny, and also, a testament to the lengths to which I will go in order to avoid washing the slipcovers. That is pretty much all the explanation I can provide for my actions, which are both crafty and criminal. But, even though I can't give you an explanation, I can give you some backstory. Which I will begin...now!
So, Monday was our managing partner's birthday. He's awesome, so everyone in the firm was circulating cards, and sneaking cake into the conference room for a surprise party, and generally telling the partner how cool he is for not replacing all of us with robots.
And, amid all this excitement, I thought: you know, I should do something. Sure, I signed the group card, but I've known the managing partner since I was nine! A group card is not enough for someone you've known for twenty years. I needed to do something more to show my appreciation, affection, and similar fuzzy emotions.
I figured I'd go downstairs and buy a card from the little convenience store in our building. So down in the elevator I rode, and into the convenience store I went, and many, many hideous cards did I see. Cards with...teddy bears. And butterflies. And Jack Handey-style Deep Thoughts along the lines of, "You are special to me. Also amazing. Being with you is an amazing experience. Also special." Each card was like the transcription of a reality makeover show (Journey! Transformation! AMAZING!), and none of that really screamed me, and it certainly didn't scream "Appropriate card to give to the managing partner of your law firm who, let us not forget, could replace you with a robot. Or a well-trained monkey."
I rode back up in the elevator. Around floor 14, I thought, "You know, if only I had the gift of foresight, I would have made him a card yesterday, and then I would not be in this predicament."
And then around floor 19, I thought, "Well, maybe I could make him a card now! Like, with scissors, and tape."
And then, as the elevator dinged onto my floor, it was like a lightbulb went off over my head, and I realized the solution to the problem. And that solution was: office supplies. Jackpot!
Twenty minutes of unbillable time later, and after forcing my poor assistant to go on a mad hunt for a glue stick, and then allowing her to help with the assembly because, as she correctly observed, "That looks like more fun than doing work," my masterpiece was finished.
And let me tell you: my office supply card was pretty awesome, if I may say so myself. First, I doodled a picture onto white paper. Then, to maximize the amount of trouble involved, I scanned the picture and emailed it to myself as a jpeg. Which I then opened in Word, and added text, and then printed, and then -- using my trusty glue stick (THANKS, MRS. P!) -- attached to some heavy red paper. Which I folded, and decorated quite prettily with those little white hole reinforcer thingies for "interest." And then, my masterpiece was complete.
Unreasonably proud of myself, I bounced down the hall to the managing partner's office, and knocked on the door. And, as soon as it opened, I did not say, "Happy birthday!" or, "Hey, is this a bad time?" or "Are you on a conference call right now?"
Instead, what I said was:
"HEY I MADE YOU THIS CARD OUT OF STOLEN OFFICE SUPPLIES."
And then, after a pause, I said, "BUT DON'T TAKE THAT THE WRONG WAY." Because it was at that exact moment when it occurred to me that: oh. Yeah, giving your boss a card made, on company time, from pilfered office goods, is maaaaaaaybe the sort of communication I didn't exactly intend. Specifically, it is a communication that says, "There is no way on heaven or earth that I am spending $2.99 on you. And to emphasize my point, I shall now squander your resources. Happy birthday, dickhead!"
Fortunately for me, mister partner did not get that message at all, and was very touched by my Card Of Master Thievery. He even said it was his best card. (So, you know; top that, Hallmark. "Amazing," my ass.)
For the rest of the day, I remained mildly pleased with myself for my quick thinking. But, I also kept on coming up with other things I should have done; like, ooo! I should have used post-its to make a scalloped border! Or, you know, a highlighter would have added so much. Oh, sad, wasted opportunity!
The more ideas I had, the more entertained I became. And it occurred to me that many people do not like their bosses very much. And maybe, my unintentional message of, "I care about you only in a way that costs you money" was one that other people would like to intentionally convey. Like, on purpose, even.
So, I did what any self-respecting person would do: I stole more office supplies. (Only, not very many, cool bosses! Only a very few office supplies! Nothing significant like a copier or those little triple-A batteries we keep in the downstairs supply room for an unknown reason.)
Here were my materials:
Listen, mister parole officer, I am pretty sure this does not count as actual stealing. Can we stick with "pilfering"? It sounds so much more ladylike!
(Oh, and not pictured: a few inches worth of those white reinforcement thingies. Assume that they are like vampires and cannot be photographed, and not that I just left them in the other room.)
So tonight, when I should have been doing about sixteen thousand other things, I used those materials -- plus scissors, glue (THANKS AGAIN, MRS. P!), a marker, and wine -- and I created the following cards. All of which you, too, can make at your own office if you find yourself in a crunch, and all of which will send the message of; "Hey, boss. I stole from you, to give to you. It's complicated. Happy birthday, though!"
Y'all, don't you think I should be given my own show on a do-it-yourself network? Or possibly the prison channel? Yes.
Card One: The Hangman Cometh
Pilfered office supplies used: 1 sheet heavy paper; staples (and, actually, they were my own staples. I suck at stealing).
I learned something when I made this card! I learned that it is hard to put staples in a straight line. I also learned that 75% of the letters in "BOSS" are BS. This is funny to me.
Card Two: Fat Ass + Skinny Legs = What We Have Here
Pilfered office supplies used: 2 sheets heavy paper in white and red; rubber bands for legs; round dot things for ugly shirt-making; 2 post-it notes for shorts.
I am strongly in favor of casual Friday. I am not, however, in favor of looking at scary boss knees. Go away, scary boss knees! It is possible that I was once traumatized by this in a previous workplace, but I will not go into the knobby, hairy details of all that I have endured.
Card Three: Cutesy Is Nauseating
Pilfered office supplies used: 1 sheet heavy paper; post-its for petals; file folder for the center; paper clip for the stem; green page-flags for the leaves; white reinforcer stickers for eyeballs.
I am not really a fan of cute adorableness and things that announce that someone is someone else's sunshine, as it is not my particular cup of tea. Toss in a peptic ulcer, though, and I hop right on board. I'm fickle.
Card Four: Okay, This One Is Actually Kind Of Nice, My Bad.
Pilfered office supplies used: 1 sheet heavy paper; two paperclips; green page-flags.
Apparently, I can make a dachshund out of anything. I am a woman obsessed. I am also a woman who could not come up with anything snippy for the inside of this card. But, that is okay! Because instead, I am providing an option that is not very evil. Sure, it's still stealing, but it's the happy kind.
Card Five: When You Are Stealing Office Supplies Because You Have A Little Something To Say About Your Paycheck
Pilfered office supplies used: 1 sheet heavy paper; file folder for branch; post-it for bird's body; yellow page-flag for tail; white reinforcement sticker for eyeball; white copy paper for talk bubble.
I know the cheep! joke is not exactly new, but I am all about reinventing one's self over here, in the manner of John Travolta. Only with less Scientology.
Card Six: The One You May End Up Having To Use If You Follow My Ill-Advised Lead
Pilfered office supplies used: 1 sheet heavy paper; white-out for body; paper clips for arms; yellow flag for nose; correction tape for ground; binder clip for hat.
Yeah. Sorry, boss! Clearly I have learned my lesson!
So, that is it! This is what I do with my time. But everyone please ignore the fact that I am a freak; instead, enjoy my freakishness! And of course, feel free to try any of these at home.
But, if you get caught trying to shove a Xerox machine down your trousers, don't go saying you got the idea from me; blame it on a robot instead.
It's Friday Night! Do you know where your Viking Baby is?
So, what I was going to do, was that I was going to write a long entry about our New Year's Eve celebration. I was going to explain, in significant detail, how we ended up inadvertently littering, and how we failed to give a hoot on that occasion, and how we proceeded to break (a) laws, (b) moral codes, and (c) our mothers' hearts, all in the course of approximately six minutes, and how that pretty much rocked in a very rocking fashion. And I was also going to describe all of the people present, and I was going to tell backstories, and I was going to do these things in an attempt to make some SENSE of why nine fully grown adults decided to spend their New Year's Eve staging a Viking Funeral for a small, pink babydoll. I was going to try to explain all of that, but know what? I am beginning to think that I should just let the video speak for itself. And, using my magical powers, I have even added captions to the video. So now, in addition to speaking for itself, the video practically reads to you! Like Mom does!
Anyway. In case you are still stuck up there in paragraph one, sounding out the part where I mention the phrase "Viking Funeral" in conjunction with "small pink babydoll", let me tell you now: I know. Listen, I cannot help you make sense of this. The best I can tell you is that our lovely friend Spam -- who is the same person who set up the Trap For Vermin last year -- decided that this year, we would say goodbye to 2006 in a nontraditional manner, namely, by:
1. Purchasing a little pink babydoll;
2. Writing "2006" all over the little pink babydoll in colorful marker;
3. Packing babydoll in a styrofoam cooler;
4. Placing an atlas in the cooler with the babydoll ("It represents the weight of the world," Spam explained to us, clearly exasperated by our lack of vision);
5. Duct-taping beer bottles to the side of the cooler for buoyancy (who among us guessed that this was Dukay's idea? Yes);
6. Packing the entire cooler with explosives;
7. Dousing the cooler with LIGHTER FLUID;
8. Releasing little 2006 off the end of my parents' dock, while simultaneously setting her aflame; and
9. Watching 2006 blow the HELL up, and float, burning, into the night. Like our Viking forefathers probably did NOT do, but we are not here to pick apart history, people. That is what National Geographic does. We just blow shit up sometimes.
In case you need some clarification of the items described above, allow me to illustrate my points by showing you:
1. Babydoll (Doomed)
2. Shit Blowing Up
3. What Bo's Ears Were Up To Before The Explosion
4. What Bo's Ears Did When The Explosion Happened
So! Now that you have a sufficient background, and because today is a truly disgusting, nasty, gray day here in Atlanta, and because I am in no fucking mood to spend one more second doing any of the ten trillion things I need to be doing, I hereby share with you our New Year's Eve video. But, wait, I am lying, because first! Please bear in mind two things before you view it, which are INCREDIBLY SUPER DUPER IMPORTANT DISCLAIMERS:
1. People, this video is NOT SAFE FOR WORK. Not because we are all running around all buckassed naked (possibly we are!), but rather, because there is a lot of profanity involved. That profanity is screamy. Seriously, you need sound to appreciate this video, but you will appreciate yourself all the way down to the unemployment line if you try watching it in a typical office, so do so where you can turn up the volume and truly embrace the fascination that was Viking Funeral.
2. It's a windows media file, because that is just about all I am capable of in my life. Any other type of conversion will make me whimper, and this is not what you want, I do not think. If you cannot see it, I guess you will have to just hit me with something heavy. Like a Viking.
So! All that being said, please enjoy:
...and its drunk cousin, the Flickr Photoset.
Y'all have a good day, and try not to set anything on fire. Especially if it is a Viking.
Law Students, You Are Asking For Trouble, And I Am Now Forced To Bring It.
Law school? People, what the hell? Do you...I mean, seriously? You want to know about law school? Hee. OKAY!
Law school sucked! The end.
No, not really. I mean, yeah, it DID suck, but that's not the end. I will go into detail
momentarily IN NINETEEN PARAGRAPHS. First, however, I will note that apparently, you all have a burning, itching desire to read about the following. This is how the votes went down:
1st place: How I Met Dukay
2nd Place: Dog stories/dog photo essay
3rd Place: Law school stories
4th Place: Ziz Stories
Honorable Mention: Stories about the Amish; stories about accidentally showing my boobs; stories about getting drunk and falling down; stories about falling down; stories about throwing poop; photo entries of my art; stories about high school dramas; stories about my need to obsessively purchase bohemian skirts whenever I visit the city of Charleston, South Carolina; stories about interesting New Years' Eve experiences; stories about shoes; stories about the trouble I got into as a child (NONE, NONE at ALL, as I was an angel princess. I am offended, madam.); stories that involve conversations; and, finally, romantic love stories about Bo falling passionately in love with someone while they sat together on my couch and drank pink tequila.
Plus, Sarah B would like for us all to fuck democracy. Heh. Dude, y'all are funny.
OKAY. So, anyway, that's the tally, with an overwhelming number of requests for the Story of How Dukay and Doxie met. And you guys, it is a super good story. It spans years. People who know this story request it at dinner parties! It is THAT good! Really! Which is why...I am not going to write about it.
But guess who is! Dukay. Internet, hold on to your collective hats. My boyfriend is coming for you. And probably your daughters. Lock them up immediately.
Seriously, is this not a perfect idea? Thank you. It was mine. At some point last night, I officially announced my intention not to rest until Dukay has provided me with his version of our "how we met" story. And Dukay has agreed. Because it is safer to just agree with me when I get Like That.
But here is the thing about Dukay: Dukay tells lies. Dukay is a procrastinator, plus he has an actual job, so he's all, "Oh, my joooooob, so important, I have to woooork," and I'm like, "Pssh. Whatever. Write me a story now, slacker!" and as a result of this difference of opinion, we will probably end up coming to blows. So, I was thinking, that if you would like to help me...uh, "gently encourage" Dukay along in his writing efforts, please send me an email with "Dukay" mentioned somewhere in the subject line, and I will forward them all to him. At work.
Hee. Oh, he is going to LOVE that. Seriously! Dukay LOVES nagging! Nagging is like sweet, sweet music to his darling, nibble-able ears.
But, ANYWAY. So, the second place request was a dog/dog photo entry, which I will post once I take some new pictures of the dogs. I am charging my little friendly camera right now, for that express purpose. I may even bathe the little bastards! So expect that shortly. And at that point, I will either tell the story of How We Found Out That Gimmme Is Not Gay, or the story of The Cat Food Incident. Or maybe both. I am just kicky that way.
Coming in third is the law school thing. And, that is really funny to me, because I don't think I've ever written about law school. Are y'all just sitting there, all sad, waiting for an entry that never comes? Are you like starving kittens? I kind of imagine y'all being sad, like starving kittens. I am sorry! I did not know! I will address your starving kitten needs first, because I can't do the dog entry until I have pictures, and Dukay's tackling the meeting story, and...uh, I guess fuck democracy, indeed, because I'm doing this all the heck out of order.
Lastly, before I [fucking finally] get into the story, thank everyone for the ideas; I may end up writing about all of them, because...y'all are clever! And I was sitting there, all, "Hmm. I have nothing to say," and now I have all KINDS of ideas, and it is kind of like a whole bunch of little assignments, and did I mention that I have always been kind of a nerd? With the assignments? Love them.
AND ANYWAY. HERE WE GO. After NINETEEN PARAGRAPHS of idle chitchat:
Doxie Goes To Law School
A Cautionary Tale!
People always ask me if I hated law school. And I never know what to say to this question. Honestly, I am not really sure how I felt about law school. I did have a good time, and I met a lot of great people; I also worked my ass the hell off of my body, and often went without sleeping for literally days at a time. I ended and began some of the most important relationships of my life during law school. I also clocked over seven million hours perfecting my game of Minesweeper, and consumed enough wine to fund the college educations of every man, woman and child in all of Napa Valley.
"Law school is fucked up," I usually say. And that is certainly true.
The worst part of law school (besides the Socratic method, which...I hate you, Socrates. I truly do) is the lack of sleep. I missed out on an enormous amount of sleep while I was in law school, though a lot of that was my own fault, because unfortunately I am just one of those obnoxious people who has to get her grubby little hands all over everything. That is how I ended up competing on our moot court team while also writing my law review note in my second year. It is also how, in my third year, I ended up working 20 hours a week at a pro bono law clinic, while also finishing classes, while ALSO being on the managing board of both my law journal AND the moot court board, AND serving as a student/faculty liaison for international law, PLUS this is when I started dating Dukay and ALSO had four dogs, and THAT was a fun time.
(Note to people not in law school: seriously, you guys. That is a lot of shit. Everyone who is/has been in law school just let out a little shriek and backed away from their computers in horror. They are scared of me now. They fear my spooky ability to multitask.)
Let me tell you what I learned about all of my extracurricular law school activities: they will not help you get a job. No, wait, I'm lying: okay, they help some, but they are not determinative. Don't kill yourself doing everything. Do not do what I have done, gentle readers. For I was an idiot.
Still, oddly enough, what I remember about law school is not suffering from paralyzing exhaustion, or miserably studying for civil procedure (which, wait, civil procedure is actually the worst part of all of law school, even worse than future interests and the rule against perpetuities), or trying to finish my note the same fucking night I had the rest of my moot court team over to finish our competition brief, which just happened to be due on the same exact day. All of these things have been blocked from my memory, probably due to an unhealthy combination of alcohol and delusion, and for this, I am absolutely not sorry.
What I do remember about law school is kind of a collage of things. I remember that I started law school fresh out of college in a desperate attempt to prolong the student experience by not becoming employed. I remember that back then, I was dating the boy I planned to marry, until law school so skewed my view of all things that I kicked him out of the house one morning at dawn, before then attending all of my classes for the day. I remember sitting at a bar downtown, holding the hands of a classmate I had never before spoken to, taking tandem tequila shots and crying to each other that law school is the FUCKING STUPIDEST THING WE HAVE EVER DONE, OH MY GOD, I AM TOTALLY CALLING MY MOTHER.
Because, see, law school makes you insane. There are no exceptions. Soon you will be nuts.
And it comes on slowly at first; you'll be at a party with other first years (note: in my experience, "partying with other first years" will only occur immediately after you turn in your first major memo, because prior to that, you are all too terrified to Funk). Someone will fall over during a keg stand, or fall down a flight of stairs, or SOME accident will occur, and instead of calling the party foul, as would be appropriate in such an instance, one of your classmates will instead turn to the group and say, "That is a tort."
And you will AGREE. And you will LAUGH. Because it is TRUE.
Now. You have just passed an important milestone! At this point, your soul is dead. Sorry.
I mean, don't feel bad; it happens to everyone! I myself have stood in a party and announced that the unlocked liquor cabinet is an attractive nuisance. YOU WILL DO THIS. It is going to be okay.
But seriously. Your soul is gone. Hope you weren't using it. Oh, and also, all your non-law school friends? They hate you now. "Please do not talk about the law anymore," they are thinking. "Do you not see my looks of desperation? Have you no shame? HAVE YOU NO SOUL?"
Nope! You don't. But it's kind of a good thing, because the loss of your soul is the first step toward the Not Caring. The Not Caring is awesome. It has a tendency to manifest in the second year, but fail to take full effect until some time in third year, when you will proceed to sign up for all survey classes and something taught by a guy in a cowboy hat, and you stop (a) giving a shit, and (b) attending, and yet somehow you pull off the highest GPA of your legal career. You loooove the Not Caring.
In the first year, however, You Care. Oh, You Care Deeply. You live in terror of hearing your name called. You find yourself slouching low in your seat, praying for invisibility. You lie awake at night, wondering if you should really be sleeping when you still don't have your future interests straight.
"Oh, God in heaven," you will think, staring at the dark ceiling. "I have forgotten what a fee simple determinative is. Surely I do not deserve to live."
The Caring of the first year will make you crazy and unhappy. Which is why, at some point, you will have to just loosen the hell up. And in our case, we accomplished this through a series of games.
For example, I have very fond memories of playing Asshole Bingo. Current law students! Do you play Asshole Bingo? I bet y'all do, because there is some variation of this game everywhere, but here is our own recipe:
During the first year at many law schools, you have all of the same classes with all of the same people. So you spend all day going tromping from class to class in an annoying, sixty-person-wide clump. (Psst. Y'all is...."tromp" a word? I feel like it is. Whatever, it is now.)
You get to know all the other people in your section very, very quickly. There are things about those people that you learn extremely quickly. In our section, before the end of the first day, we already knew whose hand would shoot into the air whenever a professor asked a question. By the end of the first day, we already knew that there was a girl in the back who would forever condition her every response with, "Well, as a former CFO of a COMpany..." REGARDLESS of what was being asked. We recognized these people early. Our hatred was both immediate and all-consuming.
And this is where the brilliant notion of Asshole Bingo came in. Let's say you are taking five classes: torts, contracts, property, criminal, and civ pro. And say there are five horrid classmates that always, ALWAYS have to pipe up at inappropriate moments, or who feel the need to make some sort of self-congratulatory pronouncement every time they speak, or basically just irritate the shit out of you. Say you've got five of those.
Well, you make yourself a little bingo card. And you put those names down the left side of the grid, and your classes across the top. Everyone else playing will have different cards; you can put people and classes in whatever order you choose. Plus, your friends might think that different people are more obnoxious than the ones you've chosen. Whatever! As long as you've got five names and five classes, though, you are golden, and you are ready to play.
Now, in Non-Asshole Bingo, someone stands at the front of the room with a metal cage filled with little balls and calls out the numbers to rooms filled with senior citizens. "B-12," the ball-caller might say. "D-6." This is not how Asshole Bingo works.
In Asshole Bingo, you get to mark off spots when one of those people listed on your card does something obnoxious in a class that is also listed on your card. For example, let's say "Bob" acts like an asshole in torts. Let's say "Bob" just can't wait for another student, who is struggling a little with her answer to the professor's question, to finish speaking, and so "Bob" lets out a pained sigh, raises his waving hand in front of the teacher's face, and announces, in an exasperated tone, "That is so OBviously gross negligence."
This means that you go to the spot on the grid where "Bob" and "Torts" come together, and now? You get to mark that spot. Good for you!
We had a group of ten people in our Asshole Bingo game, and every time someone would do something obnoxious in class, ten heads would immediately drop, as we scanned our cards to see whether we’d just made our bingo. I AM SURE WE WERE SO SUBTLE.
But we did not care. We were not fucking around with Asshole Bingo, in part because there was money involved. At the beginning of the week, everyone playing Asshole Bingo put five bucks into the pot. Whoever made their bingo first – and traditional rules apply, so you have to make a vertical, horizontal, or diagonal line on your card – won the pot. BUT WE DID NOT MAKE THIS PART EASY.
Because you are required to actually announce your bingo. In class. Out loud.
I made my first Bingo when our classmate informed us, once again, that as the former CFO of a COMpany, she believed the property we were discussing was subject to eminent domain. And as soon as the words were out of her mouth, ten heads shot down to look at their bingo cards, and that is when I saw that the space for “Jane” and “Property” was now filled, and I had myself a real, honest-to-God, Asshole Bingo.
Which I then had to announce. I raised my hand.
“Miss Doxie?” the professor asked.
“I was just trying to figure this out last night, this eminent domain stuff?” I began. “And it wasn’t coming to me? But then, what you just said? Man, that did it, the way you just explained it, and I was like, bingo! I’ve got it now!”
Three different people cursed under their breath and threw their cards to the floor. The professor stared at me.
“So I just…wanted to say thanks!” I told him.
“You’re welcome,” he said. “May I continue?”
Several minutes later, class ended, and we were walking out when the professor came up behind us. “Asshole bingo?” he asked quietly. When we nodded, he rolled his eyes. “Please tell me it was that damned ‘CFO of a COMpany’ remark that won the game,” he whispered.
This taught us that we were not smooth. Apparently, ALL of the professors were very aware of our little passtime, and were filled with delight every time someone managed to pull off a bingo in their class. Over the year, bingo was called in numerous ways, but my favorite came from my friend Dan, who plaintively informed our contracts teacher that he'd "bingo-ing to the library looking for books about the UCC, but they were all checked out."
We had other games, too, including Word Of The Day. This involved a mass email every morning; the email contained one word that section members were encouraged to use in the event that they were called on to speak in class. Using the word earned you street cred and the respect of your classmates; failure to use the word resulted in public shaming. Some of the words chosen for this experiment included:
This led to many fascinating answers.
"An interpleader action is like an STD," one brave classmate once offered, before losing the will to continue. Our ancient civ pro teacher just shook his head in disgust.
But as silly as they sound, the games served an important purpose. They reminded us that law school really isn't that bad. That you have to laugh at yourself, and that even the most terrifying contracts teacher cannot, in fact, kill you and grind your bones into a fine powder. It really is going to be okay. Really.
So...no. I didn't hate law school. It wasn't exactly a party in my pants every day, but we all survived. Everyone I knew graduated; everyone passed the bar, and is now doing what they want. It's not easy, but it's worth it, even if it costs you your soul. Sure, you'll be embarrassed at some point, but so will everyone else. You can't take it seriously, so you might as well embrace the embarrassment, announce that the contracts homework gave you a hemorrhoid, and call it a day.
Honestly, The Things I Do To Have Something To Write About
Hi! I'm back! Almost immediately!
I know that you can't miss me if I don't go away, and the site is still brokey and the comments counter still not working, but this has been an...interesting morning, WHAT WITH ME GOING TO THE HOSPITAL AND ALL, and now that I am sitting on the sofa, taking my second sick day of the week, I figured: what the hell. I might as well write about it, seeing as I'm feeling pretty fucking sorry for myself at the moment. Y'all can feel sorry for me, too! I'm very pitiful.
But, first, let's start with a warning! Gentle readers, if you are easily squicked out by descriptions of nasty lacerations and bloody bits, then this is not the entry for you. No! You can go read about soft bunnies, or people who put hats on cats, or whatever else causes fuzzy feelings. Feelings that do not involve BLOOD. EVERYWHERE. There is BLOOD in this entry, and I just barely survived the pasta on Sunday, and why is God testing me so?
Anyway. Besides blood, there is also backstory! See, apparently, Dukay and I should never ever ever go out to dinner with our friends Al and G, because dinner with Al and G and Dukay and I is cursed. I shall present evidence now:
LAST time Al and G and Dukay and I all went to dinner was about a month ago. And we had a lot of fun, and yay double date, etc. And the next day was a Saturday, and I was just about to take a much-deserved shower when the phone rang. And it was Dukay, and Dukay explained that G? Was in some sort of horrible accident, and you can SEE BONE, PEOPLE, and he knows nothing else except she is in the emergency room and Al just called and he is in South Carolina and everyone is FREAKING OUT and I have to get down there NOW.
So. I hopped into the car, and drove seven thousand miles per hour to the hospital, thinking that G was in a car accident, obviously, and that maybe she was missing limbs, and maybe I should be looking on the side of the road for, like, her LEG, so that I could toss it in the trunk and MAYBE THEY COULD STICK IT BACK ON, and I was KIND OF FREAKING OUT.
Dukay was supposed to be finding G's purse and her insurance card, and he kept calling me, trying to figure out what the hell was going on, and I kept telling him to just wait until we find G's leg and get it...I don't know, NAILED back onto her stump, and just GIVE ME A MINUTE, MISTER, and there was much confusion and terror.
Eventually I got to the hospital, got totally turned around, ended up in the wrong unit about ninety times, and then finally made my way to emergency. I walked to the front desk and told them whom I was there to see, and a doctor IMMEDIATELY grabbed my arm and said, "Come with me, I know where she is," and all I could think was GOOD LORD, SHE IS A HEAD ON A PLATTER, AND I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO.
And he took me back to her, and there she was, WITH ALL OF HER LIMBS, but with a massive cut in her arm from falling down a flight of stairs.
And I ran to her, and was so glad to see her that all I could do was sputter things like, "You're not just a head! I looked for your leg! But it's on your body! You have two of them! I am so glad!" and this helped matters not at all, but shortly we were both calmed down and laughing and everything was FINE. Until the doctor came in.
He immediately announced that G needed stitches, and turned to the nurse and NOT SO SUBTLY requested "the big needle."
G turned about six shades of white. And I was like, dude. Can't you, like...not freak her out? She's obviously freaked out. I don't care what you have to do. Ask for the "ig-bay eedle-nay," but LOOK AT WHAT WE HAVE HERE. A PANICKED BLEEDY PERSON. And you should stop scaring the bleedy girl.
I held G's hand while he did the stitches, and I blabbed on about totally unrelated shit for twenty minutes, with the doctor every once in a while popping into the conversation by announcing, "Know what she's doing? Distracting you. She's good at it!" Thanks, Doc!
But while she was getting stitched, I COULD NOT STOP WATCHING the stitchy part. I had never seen such a thing. First there was all blood and gore and oozy bits, and then there was a straight line of stitches. Just like on Frankenstein.
And I made up my mind right then that I? WOULD NEVER GET STITCHES. Give me a helmet, put me in a fucking bubble, whatever, but I AM NOT GETTING STITCHES, because they are TOTALLY GROSS and look EVER SO PAINFUL and listen, I'm not having it.
Know what I say to the "me" of last month? HAAAAA! That is what I say.
Because, last night, for the first time since that fateful evening, Al and G and Dukay and I went out to dinner. And again: wonderful time! Excellent friends and excellent food, and oh, the fun and goodness. And Dukay and I came home, and we went to bed, and he woke me up with little kisses this morning and I thought, shit, man, this is going to be a good day.
I walked him out, and a few minutes later, I went to shut the door leading to the garage. And I was barefoot at the time. I plan to never be barefoot again, even when showering or sleeping, and this is why:
As I was pulling the door shut, I somehow managed to run the door over the toes on my right foot, thereby smooshing them to within an inch of their little toe lives. And that hurt. But the real problem was that the metal thing? That is attached to the floor and goes under the door? Which I guess is a door jamb, or something, but WHATEVER, it is fucking SHARP, SHARP LIKE RAZOR, and it sliced off the pad of my toe.
I did not immediately know that, because I was too busy screaming OH MY FUCK as the dogs cowered in terror. And then I do what you always do with a toe injury, which is:
(1) Not look at it; and
(2) Attempt to walk it off.
And I had done about ten laps around the kitchen island, thinking that this was just the worst stubbed toe, like, EVER, when I finally looked down and saw that I had left bloody footprints all over the kitchen. And this is when I LOST IT COMPLETELY.
I ran upstairs and turned on the bathwater and stuck my foot under the stream, and that is when I saw that MY TOE was essentially CUT IN TWO, with half of the toe-ness just...flapping there. And I screamed bloody murder, and grabbed a phone, and called: Dukay. Of course. Because of his extensive medical knowledge, seeing as the man SELLS ADVERTISING for a living and all.
Poor Dukay answered and was treated to a hysterical me, shrieking things like, "MY TOE I CUT OFF MY TOE OW OW OW," and when he tried to get me to explain this in a manner that was, you know, remotely coherent, I just kept on saying things like, "THIS little piggy is still attached, but THAT OTHER little piggy IS STILL IN THE FUCKING GARAGE OH MY GOD, and I TRIED WALKING IT OFF but I think I walked WRONG and AHHHHHHH"
He explained that I needed to keep it under the water and then to put pressure on it and to get it over my heart, which is...y'all, that is hard when you're dealing with a toe. I ended up laying on my bed with my legs stuck in the air, FREAKING OUT and watching as blood ran down my leg, and that is when I knew I would need to call A Professional, and so I called my mother.
(Somewhere in here I also called the office to tell them I would not be coming in today, as I had lost a toe in a nasty garage incident, and I think my lovely description of the flapping and the bloodshed pretty much convinced everyone that NO, the office is NOT the place for you, please never mention your toe again, ever, in any context.)
Mom immediately announced that she was taking me to the ER, and for me to put on some flip-flops or whatever and she'd be right there. While I waited for her, these are some of the actual thoughts that ran through my head:
(1) I wonder if I should go back and look for bits of toe and put them on ice;
(2) I wonder if the dogs have already eaten the bits of toe; and
(3) I wonder if the Medical Professionals who are about to see my toes will mind that I have not had a pedicure in ROUGHLY ELEVEN BILLION YEARS, and is there time for me to like...file? Buff? ANYTHING?
The hysterical thought-train that was my brain was eventually halted when my mom got to my house. She staunchly refused to even glance in the direction of my feet, because...ew, but she took me to the emergency place. And there, the doctor DID look at my feet, and was completely squicked out.
"Ew," he said.
"OW," I agreed. "Unless you are talking about my pedicure. I'M SORRY! THERE WASN'T TIME TO BUFF."
He cleaned the wound (OW OW OW) and then tried to figure out how to best stitch it, but in the end he decided that it was just too weird of a cut, and so instead he just used those glue-stitchy things and wrapped the sucker up like a little piggy in a blanket, and I was free to hobble on home. After, you know, I got a tetanus shot so I don't get the lockjaw. Because THAT sounds like fun! Lockjaw!
And...here I am. Back on the sofa, feeling IMMENSELY sorry for my bloody self. And thinking that I will never, EVER have dinner with Al and G again, because WHY COME does a girl always have to go the hospital the next day? People, do you SEE the pattern here? Is it not scary to you? It is scary to me! Next time, someone could lose an eye.
(Not that it would be any more painful than losing a toe. Which fucking hurts, if I have not mentioned. And I don't know what you've heard, but if you have heard that I am a wimp, that is entirely accurate.)
Anyway. Y'all watch out for damned doors. And for the LOVE of all that is HOLY, don't go ANYwhere with Al and G.
Oh, I'm Just High On LIFE
Uh, HI. Something had to happen to rid us all of the White Page of Website Emptiness and Sorrow, and seeing as I am the only one who can actually do anything about that, I figured I'd better step to the plate and all the rest. So, hello! I HAVE NOTHING INTERESTING TO SAY.
I really don't. It is sad. Basically, the gist of it is as follows, in list form:
1. This website is, apparently, very ill. See the comments thing? See how it says zero even though it is probably lying to us all? Yeah. Well, this seems to be the first step in a path towards Total Death, and other odd things are happening, as well. Like old entries reopening themselves and getting filled with forty-two thousand spam comments offering everything from Jessica Simpson lyrics to Exxxtra HARD VIAG-ARA FOR THE LADIES. I spent AN HOUR of my life, time that could have been spent drinking or shopping or kissing, deleting those stupid comments. My website is haunted.
Miss Pretty AB is having to redo the whole site, because the problem is serious, and when she started talking about it, I just put my hands over my ears and wailed, because I do not understand anything about my website. I understand nothing at all about my website. I know that I write on it, and then I say the magic words and do a little dance to the mystic gods of the Smart Box, and then my words are broadcast out over the land and take up residence in your brains. And for that, Y'ALL, I AM SORRY. Sometimes my words are really, really dumb, and now you're stuck with them in your brain cells. An example of words that are dumb would include, oh, I don't know, possibly THESE WORDS THAT YOU ARE READING RIGHT NOW. These words are totally dumb, but I can't fully be blamed, because of thing number two, which is:
2. I poisoned myself with spaghetti. Because I am a total asshole. Please allow me to explain.
See, last year, my doctor told me that I am allergic to beef, to which I said, "...?" And then I promptly ignored him completely, and really very little has happened on that front. Except for sometimes, beef gets me, and it turns my body inside out in the style of reversible loungewear, and this is what my own fucking spaghetti did to me. So I had to stay home and be sick yesterday, and now I am on kind of an interesting mix of prescribed pharmaceutical products plus coffee, and I am not thinking...uh, clearly. Not so clearly right now. I am kind of confused. For proof of my confusion, I offer you:
3. Thing number three. This really is neither here nor there, but remember when we were talking about brain cells a little while ago in earlier paragraphs that I typed? And also we talked about how sometimes stupid things (see: this entry) get all stuck in them? Well. That is about to be relevant, when I get done telling this long-ass story:
So, this weekend, Timmy and Dukay and I went to my parents' lakehouse to visit. And drink. And make important discoveries.
You may recall that the last time Dukay and Timmy and I went to my parents' lakehouse, we ended up in a long, laborious discussion about the career of Matthew Sweet, which somehow led to the discovery that the people who work at 411 do not have mouses on their computers. This time, the biggest discovery of the weekend turned out to be that Dukay, despite years of systematically destroying his brain cells (see? I can bring it all together), somehow has managed to retain the entire McDonald's rap song (circa 1987 or something) in his oversized noggin.
Now. Y'all! Do you remember that? I kind of did, but now that I have heard it, oh, SEVEN HUNDRED TIMES, I can recall it specifically. It is as follows:
I'd like a Big Mac,
A Quarter-Pounder with some cheese,
A Happy Meal.
Tasty Golden French Fries,
Regular or Larger Size,
And Salads: Chef or Garden,
Or a Chicken Salad Oriental.
Big Big Breakfast,
Hot Hot Cakes,
Bacon, Egg and Cheese,
Hash Browns too.
And for Dessert
Hot Apple Pies,
A Soft-Serve Cone,
Three kinds of shakes,
And Chocolatey Chip Cookies.
And to drink a Coca-Cola,
Diet Coke, and Orange Drink,
A Sprite and Coffee, Decaf too,
A lowfat milk, also an Orange Juice.
I love McDonalds.
Good Time Great Taste,
and I get this all at one place.
And...I don't know. LET'S TALK ABOUT THIS! First, I have lots of questions. Like, why come did they say "Hot Apple Pies" and try to rhyme that with "varieties"? Those words only rhyme if you pronounce varieties as variet-EYES, but that is about fourteen levels of wrong.
And what makes the chocolatey chip cookies so...chocolatey? Why can't they just be chocolate chip cookies? Because they really didn't need that extra syllable there.
Such questions kept us occupied for literally tens of minutes! I am telling you. TENS. Of minutes.
But anyway. So at some point, it was determined that Dukay possessed this, uh...knowledge, which entertained Timmy and me to no end, so at about two in the morning, we decided that KNOW WHAT A GOOD PLAN WOULD BE? To call people we knew and leave them the entire McDonald's menu on their voicemails. In rap form. Sorry, Ziz!
And, that is how brain cells and a twenty-eight year old attorney making prank calls sort of come together in one story. A story that, upon rereading, does not even make any sense. People, I am absolutely high right now. CAN YOU TELL?
Which brings us to thing number four:
4. This weekend, when we were not singing the McDonald's song, I began to compile a list of Things I Will Never Be Able To Do. But, because this whole entry is already a list, and it is weird to have another list inside of a list AND OH TOO MANY LISTS, and my brain might just pop from all the listiness, I am just going to bullet some of the finer points. I hereby resign myself to the fact that I will never, ever be able to:
- Fold a fitted sheet;
- Drive a car with a manual transmission (I have TRIED, LORD HAVE I TRIED);
- Cut my dogs' fingernails;
- Update a website with any degree of regularity (maybe you noticed this);
- Stop myself from gleefully watching movies with titles that rhyme with, I don't know, something like "Flirteen Going On Shirty";
- Prevent self from crying at same, because, magic dust! and happiness;
- Balance a checkbook, thanks to the life-giving invention known as the "debit card";
- String two coherent thoughts together when I am on any kind of drug whatsoever, including just Tylenol, because it takes NOTHING to get me looped, apparently; and
- Keep my cell phone charged.
And that is all. I mean, there were more, but I forget them now. Believe me, there's TONS of shit I can't do! "Make sense" comes to mind at the moment. "Speak and type coherently" is also occurring to me.
And...you know, that is all I have for you: the deluded, rambling rants of a woman on a variety of legal substances. There is no rhyme or reason. There is no theme here! This entry is the equivalent of a brain fart on crack, and I am just trying to make it through the day, dammit.
But it's better than the blank screen, I suppose. Still, with God as my witness, I promise you, internet, that I will NEVER EAT SPAGHETTI AGAIN.
Wardrobe Junction, What's Your Malfunction?
Two things! Both clothing related. (Hello, THEME!)
But did you know that these people have sung songs in my very own living room? Did you know that one of those songs was The Facts of Life theme song? Did you know that you take the good, you take the bad, you take them both and then you have...the facts of life? The FACTS OF LIFE?
It is true. We sang that one time! We may have been drinking a little bit.
Anyway, maybe you don't know that the Damn Millionaires are in the process of putting out a new CD, and that they also have a shirt for sale. I am hereby chiming in to note that I have bought my shirt (which I keep typing as "shit," because OF COURSE I do. I have bought my shit, people, have YOU?).
Anyway, I got a girlie shit. You need a shit, too! Go here and get yourself something nice and skeletonny. Go on, and I'll wait.
Did you go? Did you get a shit? Because you only have until the 31st to get one. That is very soon from now.
(You guys, ha ha! That "shit" joke is JUST NOT GETTING OLD for me. I know it is getting old for you. Tough shirt! HA!)
Annnnyway. That's one thing I wanted to talk to you about. The other thing is:
That, guess what I did today? So! We're supposed to wear suits to work, but I am lazy and haven't gone to the dry cleaners, so I just wore a nice skirt and a nice shirt, and figured hey, CLOSE ENOUGH. There aren't a whole lot of female attorneys in our office, and frankly, the men around here are a little confused as to what constitutes "women's office attire" anyway, so I figured that as long as I didn't wear, you know, spandex tie-dye, I would probably be okay. Besides, I looked nice, and put together, and relatively matchy, so whatever. I'm just going to be sitting behind my desk all day anyway! Nobody's even going to notice!
...I thought. I thought this, until the managing partner invited all of the associates, a group that includes myself, to lunch. This has never happened before. (I immediately imagined beatings. It is time for beatings! I thought.)
Immediately, I sent an email to the only other female assocate. The email read, "AHHHH I AM NOT WEARING A SUIT I AM SO FIRED. In happier news, free lunch! Woo! Unless beatings." Despite the...um, INSANE character of this email, she came into my office to review my ensemble (this is what we do all day, Men! We review our clothing choices), and together, we determined that I was probably okay. It was suit like. I was safe. Just play it cool, she advised, and nobody would notice!
And I felt better about things, until I decided to stand up. Now, because there is something Wrong With Me, I always sit on one of my feet. My right foot. I always, always sit on my right foot, and it looks ridiculously uncomfortable, but...it's just what I do! It's how I roll. So, I try to stand up, and THAT is when the heel of my right shoe got hooked in the hem of my skirt, and ripped it the heck out. Rrrrip!
So, now I'm in Not-A-Suit, with a hem dangling down all raggedy, and I must attend a big fancy pants lunch in about...oh, six minutes. So, I panicked. Obviously. I tried taping the hem back, but NOOOOO. Tape = not sufficiently sticky.
So then I started going to assistants, begging someone, ANYONE, for, like, a safety pin, or a needle, or some thread, or SOMEthing, PLEASE.
What was ultimately produced by my MacGuyver-like assistant:
One package dental floss
Y'all. Dental floss.
So, there I was, hysterically trying to stitch dental floss into my skirt before the managing partner came to pick me up for lunch. And as a side note? Y'all, I DON'T KNOW HOW TO SEW. How the fuck do you sew?!
Nevertheless, what is amazing, is that I almost did it. I almost made it. What is not amazing is that: I didn't. And, as I was almost done, I heard someone clearing his throat in my doorway, and looked up from my desk -- where I was sitting with my legs spread apart, my head down, and my skirt bunched up in front of my face, trembling fingers wrapped around a length of dental floss (minty!) and a bitty little needle -- and there was the managing partner.
I just stared at him, and he just stared at me, and finally I said, "Just...give me a minute!" in a falsely cheerful voice. He nodded, CLEARLY PETRIFIED, and walked backwards out of my office, shutting the door firmly behind him.
Hi. I am so, so fired.
ANYWAY. So I guess what I'm saying? In ever so many words? Is that I think you should buy a Damn Millionaires shirt.
And I think you should listen to me, because I'm clearly a pinnacle of fashion today. I'm a fashion icon. Seeing as I'm wearing...you know. Dental floss.
Someone needs to come save me from myself, like, today
So, bet everyone's wondering what I bought at Ikea.
Are you? Are you wondering? Are you very sure that it is Swedish and made partly of particle board?
Well! HERE IS THE THING!
I haven't...gone yet! NO! AND LET ME TELL YOU WHY!
Actually, there are a number of reasons. The first reason is that the traffic, getting TO the Ikea, has scared me senseless. I keep on getting stuck in it on the way to and from work, and the idea of being trapped in an enclosed space with the very person who almost HIT ME, THANK YOU, is very scary to my mind. So, I've been kind of waiting for the hype to calm down, and for people to...you know, go back to their jobs and families, so that I may go shopping in peace.
And I kept thinking, well, I'll just go at an "off" time. But, people, there is no "off" time at Ikea! Ikea is always On! It is omniscient and omnipresent and there is always a line out the door. Will it always be this way? I am kind of freaked out.
But, another main reason I have not gone to Ikea, is that APPARENTLY, I will be spending quite a lot of money somewhere else very soon. And that "somewhere else" is the body shop, 'cause REMEMBER MY NEW CAR?
I ran it into a pole. Whack!
Sigh. You guys? Seriously? What is wrong with me? I drove the same car for thirteen years, and for the majority of that time, NOTHING HAPPENED. I did not run into things. Things did not run into me. We just went on, happy with the universe and the interstate highway system, and even though sometimes the car broke down or caught fire, AT LEAST it did not attack nearby objects. This new car? Not like that! It has anger issues! It hits!
And again, what it hit, was a motherfucking pole.
(Please let us note how I like to think I am not at all responsible for this. I blame the car. Possibly I should blame the POLE, which obviously jumped out in front of the car. EVERYONE is to blame, really. YOU ARE LOOKING GUILTY TO ME RIGHT NOW.)
Anyway, so what happened, was that I was leaving the office. And I hopped in my car, and there was another car behind me, kind of, and another one on the side, and so I had to eeeeeeeease out of my space in this horrible, awful parking garage where I park every day. And I was going very verrrrrrry slowly, because there are walls and poles, like, EVERYWHERE in this garage, and people are always banging into them, and my dad got so sick of having to repair his car from the many times he has sideswiped this one particular column that he finally decided that large scratch = FINE, and went on with his life.
So, I backed out, and I did not hit anything! Yay! And then I went forward, kind of proud of myself for my super sweet maneuvering abilities, and as I turned the corner, THAT IS WHEN I HEARD THIS:
At which point my heart? The one in my chest? It stopped. I slammed on the brakes, tumbled out of the car and ran around to the passenger side, AND THERE WAS THE SCRATCH. And of course it was huge, enormous, metallic and toothy and grinning and EVIL, and I had to bite my lip and remind myself that we do not CRY when we are wearing our Big Girl Suit. We do not cry! WE BLAME OTHERS.
So, I kicked the pole. This...did not help. And now I may need new shoes, and possibly I broke my toe, because it turns out that the poles are metal.
So. That should be, you know, cheap to fix. Only not. So I decided maybe I should just wait and see how much that's going to cost before I fall into Ikea and spend the dogs' inheritance.
But obviously, I still really wanted to go, so I was thinking maybe I would go today! It's been KIND OF A CRAPPY WEEK, with the pole attacking and the scratch and unforeseen money spending. I deserve a break today! I should go have some meatballs and purchase some housewares.
So, I decided I would leave work early. And so I was finishing things up (punctuated by the bi-hourly arrival of people in my office, all, "Did you hit a pole? I TOO HAVE HIT A POLE. I HATE THE PARKING GARAGE SO MUCH. THE PARKING GARAGE IS MY SWORN ENEMY").
And, I was getting ready, and getting things accomplished, and all was good in the world. And my plan was:
1. Finish brief
2. Go home and change from work clothing and shoes into Ikea Kloothink and comfortable shus.
3. Drive back to Ikea.
4. Experience shopping orgasm.
5. Eat meatball(s).
6. Learn what Lingdonberry is.
7. Despite explanation, continue disbelieving that Ligdonberry is actually real fruit.
8. Purchase housewares.
Good plan! Good thinking! Until sometime in between numbers 1 and 2, I FELL DRAMATICALLY DOWN THE OFFICE STAIRS, when the heel of my left shoe somehow entered the hem of my right pants leg.
And what happens, if you miraculously manage to impale the heel of your left shoe into the hem of your right pants leg, is that both legs become...confused. Disoriented. "Toppling" ensues. The "toppling" is head first.
Also: "Ripping." Of pants.
And, I would be so glad that at least nobody had seen me, IF INDEED NOBODY HAD SEEN ME. But unfortunately, that was NOT the case, and my personal downward spiral was witnessed by many, many people, including people whom I try to impress. Bet they're impressed now! All, WHOO, that Leigh! She is a force to be reckoned with! As she somersaults down the main staircase!
SO, that happened. And then I was just pissed off enough to not want to deal with driving all the way home, and changing into Ikea friendly jins and tee shuurt and shus, and driving all the way BACK, and I couldn't just go in what I was wearing, because...rip, and so I just came the hell home, and went to bed.
And, probably good thing that I did, because I just looked at the news. And apparently, the traffic to get back to where the Ikea is? Is going at one mile per hour.
Seeing as I don't have sixteen hours to waste, I am now sitting here, feeling sorry for myself, aware that shiny new Ikea closes in twelve minutes, and ONCE AGAIN I will not have availed myself of its Swedish ingenuity, and ONCE AGAIN I will fall asleep tonight feeling empty and beaten and hungry for Lingdonberries. And, also, bruised (see: "toppling," above).
And let us also note that this means that TWO bad things have happened in the last two days, and obviously that means that ONE MORE is coming, because these things travel in threes. This, alone, is enough to make me want to turn off all the lights and lock myself in a closet, because does a girl really need any more body shop bills? Or bruises? This particular girl DOES NOT.
But, really, I need to just suck it up and stop acting like a whiny little brat who falls down a lot, because Ziz and her boyfriend devin are coming into town tonight (yay!) and then Ziz and devin and Dukay and me and my parents and Lord only knows who else are all going up to the lake for the Fourth, and that is AWESOME, and I am EXCITED, and everyone is taking bets on exactly how long it takes before I fall IN, or possibly set the boat on fire, or run myself over. Somehow people have decided that all three will probably occur within the first twenty minutes. Good times!
So, that's the plan for the weekend. Next week, Ikea awaits! Let's all just pray that the parking garage doesn't have any damned poles.
Happy Fourth of July, everyone! Be safe!
The Thing With The Bug
Setting: At the wedding rehearsal dinner last weekend, the day before I would walk down the aisle in front of 500 people in a remarkably blue dress. With the 500 people looking at me. At myself. At the person that is me, and I am POSSIBLY A LITTLE NERVOUS.
Self: Drink drink! Drinkdrinkdrink. Wine!
Self: I love this rehearsal dinner! Outside, great band, great food, great wine...
Dukay: Wine! So good!
Self: I am even starting to not be so nervous about the walking down the aisle thing.
Dukay: Good, baby.
Self: Yeah, it'll be fi...YEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGHHH
Dukay: What? Happened?
Self: BUG! BUG BIT ME! HEAD! FOREHEAD!
Dukay: Hee. Seriously?
Self: OW. YES.
Dukay: Hee. Well, that sucks.
Self: Dude, I...there's a BUMP. There is ALREADY A BUMP.
Dukay: Oh, there is not.
Self: I FEEL A BUMP.
Dukay: You lie so much. There is no bump.
Self: Dukay. There is an ENORMOUS bump. A golf-ball sized bump.
Dukay: There is not!
Self: Indeed there IS. It...it feels like I'm growing a HORN.
Dukay: Could you lie any more?
Self: I DO NOT LIE. FEEL THE BUMP.
Self: I HAVE TO WALK DOWN THE AISLE IN FRONT OF 500 PEOPLE WITH A BUMP.
Dukay: Oh, it'll go away by then.
Self: It will go...what, the bump you swear I don't have?
Dukay: Wait, what?
So I asked my mother.
Mother: Yes, darling child that I love more than breath?
Self: Mother, do I have a bump?
Mother: You have no bump, sweet precious wonderful baby.
Self: Hmmph. Because I feel a bump.
Mother: Ask your father.
Dad: NO BUMP!
Ziz: GOOD CHRIST, SHUT UP ABOUT THE BUMP. THERE IS NO BUMP.
Self: (I still feel a bump.)
So, one would think that, after your FAMILY, who is your BLOOD, and your BOYFRIEND, who sometimes has SEX WITH YOU, would not LIE TO YOUR BUMPY, BUMPY face.
The next morning, I woke up, bump-free. So I forgot about it. Until we got back to town, and I took a look at all the pictures from the weekend. And all I have to say is:
So I walked around like that, all night, talking to extended family and people who haven't seen me in years, and who most likely wandered away, shaking their heads, and thinking, "Poor dear, with that tremendous FOREHEAD TUMOR. Bless her bumpy little heart."
But, you know what? It's not SMART to fuck with me, and to cause me public humiliation. Because I will GET YOU BACK, DUKAY, DON'T YOU EVEN THINK THAT I WILL NOT.
So. Want to see where Dukay ended HIS evening? Want to know that, at some intervals, he would raise his finger but not his HEAD into the air, and announce, "PEOPLE, I HAVE A FORMULA," and then immediately drop his finger back onto the ground, having completely exhausted all remaining energy in his body and prompting everyone in the Embassy Suites hotel room to scream, "You have a formula? Is it the Quadratic Equation? Is it the Pythagorean Theorem? TELL US YOUR MATH!"
Want to see that? Do you want to? OKAY!
Revenge is sweet, my darling little mathematician. Kisses! And, watch out for bugs!
Because really, what else are you going to do on a Thursday morning?
Dukay and I spent a lot of time together in the car this past weekend, driving to and from Charleston. And Dukay is not the best little road tripper in the world, because when Dukay is driving, he wants to FOCUS on driving. He is CONCENTRATING on the road. He just wants to listen to his music, man, and he does not want to make boring old small talk with me, whom he sees every day.
This is boring to me. So I basically just bother the fuck out of him whenever we're in the car together, all, "What's wrong? Are you okay? You haven't said a word in six miles. SIX MILES! Do you want to talk about politics? Do you want to talk about art? What's your favorite color?"
And so on. I am really, really obnoxious. But that's okay, because I am also kind of cute. So it balances out!
Anyway. So we were driving forever, and I decide to try to engage Dukay in a conversation about our most embarrassing moments, and he, naturally did NOT bite. But I did! I got snared in my own little trap, and I ended up telling Dukay my most embarrassing story ever, and now that I've told him, and he didn't break up with me on the spot? I figured, well, what the hell. I'll tell y'all, too. Don't judge me.
So here it is. In honor of this nasty, rainy, cold St. Patrick's Day, and the ridiculous amount of alcohol that will probably be consumed tonight, I give you: My Most Embarrassing Moment EVER. And, for the third entry in a row, I'm writing about poop. Let's stop this trend really, really quickly. Just as soon as I finish this story.
Okay. So. Back in college, I was dating this guy we called Lumberjack. Jack lived with a shitload of other guys (oh, it's a PUN! Reread! You’ll laugh!) in this highly-sketchy, crappy (ha!) house near campus. All the guys in the house had girlfriends, and all of us girlfriends found ourselves hanging out a lot of the time, while our boyfriends played video games and got drunk and generally acted like frat guys. So on one of these occasions, I was on the front porch smoking cigarettes with the other “house” girlfriends when girlfriend #2 (Just you wait!), who I kind of knew but not really, felt the sudden urge to “drop the bomb,” if you get my drift. So she went inside, hit the bathroom, and did her thing. And then: TERROR. The toilet. Would. Not. Flush. Of course.
So she came tearing back outside, freaking the fuck out, not knowing what to do, because she had just taken an insanely not-ladylike shit in the boys’ toilet, and it was just a matter of time before the odor of it all overtook them in their Playstation trance, and her boyfriend would realize that she was a HUMAN PERSON who did things like MAKE WASTE and he’d break up with her and tell everyone and she’d never get married and so forth. We other ladies sprang to action, if by “sprang to action,” you mean laugh loudly at the predicament and light new cigarettes. But then when we saw that #2 (see? SEE what I did there?) was really honestly panicking, we stubbed them out and headed inside to find a plunger.
And, y’all. There really was something insane going on in that toilet. I’m just saying.
But we dealt with it. I dealt with it, actually, because of four girls, I was the only one who had mastered the art of the plunger. So there was relief and much thanksgiving and so forth, but #2 was also extremely, extremely embarrassed, and probably thinking that maybe we would run down to the sorority houses and tell EVERYONE about the experience, so she started crying.
Now, at this point, there were four of us. Myself, #2, my best friend Ames, and another tertiary girlfriend. We were all trying to comfort #2, who really kind of needed to just calm down already, but she just wasn't having it. She was, like, BAWLING. So I did what any good friend would do, namely, I told her an embarrassing story of my own. Involving poop.
See, the first time I went home to visit Jack’s family, I was sharing a bathroom with Jack. His parents lived in this old farmhouse, which was very nice, but the plumbing? Not so much in the “advanced” category. The plumbing was from Little House on the Prairie. Possibly the plumbing was Amish.
So anyway, the first night I was there, I used this plumbing. And it did not respond...well. It did that gurgling, water-rising thing. And I freaked out accordingly. And there was nothing I could do -- no plunger, not even a toilet brush, and there I was, staying at a house with random parents I hardly knew and a semi-new boyfriend, and all of them had already fallen asleep. I thought fast. Fast! And this is what I came up with.
1. I opened the window.
2. I grabbed a dixie cup.
3. I scooped out the poo.
4. I threw it out the window.
5. I hid the cup in the trash can.
So...yeah, that’s what I did. And, eventually, the water sort of went down and the toilet went back to normal, and I thought all was right with the world. Until the next day, of course, when it turned out that I had thrown the poo ONTO THE BACK PORCH. But even THAT was okay, because they had a big dog.
I know. Oh, I know. Y'all, this is awful. You can stop reading now if you want to.
And...and it wasn’t until I watched LJ’s dad scooping up my own, personal deposit with the dog’s pooper scooper that I almost died of abject humiliation and shame. At that moment, I decided that this was the exact sort of thing I would take to my grave.
Until I had to deal with an uncontrollably bawling #2.
And told her, and the tertiary girlfriend, and Ames, the whole story.
Everyone laughed, and #2 felt better because she could now be secure in the knowledge that, if I were to ostracize her for the circumstances of her bowel movement, she could respond with equal ammunition. We all swore each other to secrecy. We. Swore. We went on with our lives. Until.
Senior year fraternity formal. Imagine twinkling lights, a fine restaurant. Expensive wine and nice dresses. We actually drove from Nashville to Florida for this event, it’s that big of a deal. And about twenty of us were all sitting at this long table, sipping our wine and playing “I Never.” Which is...always appropriate during a fine dining experience, but whatever. Still, though, it was pretty tame stuff, all things considered (by which I mean “considering how ridiculously drunk most of us already were”), like “I never had sex in the fraternity house,” or “I never threw up on that nasty ass couch and pretended I didn’t.” It was tame, people. TAME.
But then? It was Ames’s turn. Ames. Who is missing that part of your brain that filters things. And also that part that remembers things. Like where she was sworn to secrecy. That part. Because she promptly announced, in the loudest voice imaginable, “I never threw my own shit out a window in a dixie cup.”
Total silence. No one was drinking. I actually wasn’t paying all that much attention, and for some reason, I did not immediately realize she was talking about me. I was thinking car window, road trips, some drunk thing one of the drunk ass guys did on the way down here or something. But no. ‘Cause at that point, Ames pointed her finger at me, and hollered, “DRINK, WOMAN!"
Oh, the mortification. MORT. IFICATION. I died. Right then, I died. I am writing this entry from beyond the grave. I did not survive that experience. And the worst part was that...uh, I had never told Jack about it. And so of course, Ames told him (actually, she told EVERYONE, because everyone was now SPELLBOUND) the whole story, INCLUDING the part about JACK'S DAD having to POOPER SCOOP my POO, and Jack almost lost it, but not so much in a good way. Everyone else DID lose it. And, of course, remembered the whole story, detail for excruciating detail, when we got back to school on Monday. Thank God we graduated the next month.
So, to summarize:
1. I have bad poo experience in Indiana
2. I tell friends about bad Indiana poo experience in Nashville
3. Bad Indiana poo experience is shared with everyone I know while in Florida
4. I feel need to share bad poo experience with Dukay somewhere in between Charleston and Atlanta, and:
5. Now I feel like sharing bad poo experience with everyone in the WORLD, and THANK YOU, INTERNET, for allowing me this golden, golden opportunity.
And, this concludes Miss Doxie's Poop week. From now on, I'm talking about bunnies and unicorns, and I don't want to hear SHIT about it.
Happy St. Patrick's Day!
P.S.: Also, a big, non-poop related thank you for the nominations for the Diarist Awards! Y'all nomiated me for best comedic entry AND best journal. That was so nice of you! It makes me feel special and loved, and makes me feel comfortable sharing very, very excruciatingly embarrassing stories with y'all. Aren't you GLAD?
Anyway. If y'all want to vote, here is the main voting page thingy. Now, go drink a green beer!
Once Upon A Time, Not So Long Ago
So. Guess what I did last night? It is four words long. Each word is beautiful and glorious, and the words are:
That is right. Thank you, Dukay, for introducing me to the world of FauxJon and his tight blue jeans and beautiful overprocessed hair. This may be the best gift I have ever received. Bon Jovi Cover Band is the gift of love.
Now, let's talk about the Bon Jovi Cover Band for a moment. First of all, let's discuss the fact that the FauxJon looks EXACTLY, TERRIFYINGLY, PRECISELY like Jon Bon Jovi. EXACTLY. And he sounds EXACTLY, TERRIFYINGLY, PRECISELY like Jon Bon Jovi.
EX. ACT. LY. I really can't emphasize this enough. It is a doppelganger situation. One of the two is clearly an evil twin.
And this made me think. Really, there were not a lot of options about what FauxJon could do with his life. At some point he had to have a Major Realization, that, man, I do look exactly like Bon Jovi. What the hell do I do with that?
I mean, he couldn't be, like, an accountant. What would you do, if you went in to see your accountant, and he WAS Jon Bon Jovi? You would freak the heck OUT, is what you would do, and you would say, "Dude, you look JUST LIKE BON JOVI and it is FREAKING ME THE HECK OUT." And then you would find someone else to do your accounting, because you don't really know what kind of money management skills Jon Bon Jovi possesses. I mean, yeah, he wrote Livin' on a Prayer and all, but that does not qualify him to handle my IRA.
FauxJon was directly in front of me, which enabled me to see his rippling thigh muscles through his criminally tight jeans, and which also allowed for some Very Special Moments between FauxJon and myself. It was a standing-room-only situation, and I was there with a bunch of people, and I ended up front and center, DIRECTLY in front of the FauxJon, where I proceeded to develop a HUGE FauxCrush because...Bon Jovi! Almost! I was tremendously in love with Jon in the early eighties, and last night, I felt all that prepubescent, statutory affection rushing back in an Exclamation!-perfume-scented wave, and it made me nostalgic for a simple time where my greatest challenge in life was convincing my father that it WAS TOTALLY COOL for Boy George to wear more makeup than my mother, and that large, teased hair = perfection from Jesus.
I mean, GOD. Dad, do you really want to hurt Boy George? Do you really want to make him cry when you make fun of his eyeshadow?
Anyway. So, moments of LOVE between FauxJon and myself, culminating with his singing, "You were born to be my baby," DIRECTLY TO ME (I have witnesses!), to which I shouted back, "BABY, YOU WERE MADE TO BE MY MAN, FAUXJON!"
And then I considered throwing my bra on the stage and screaming "NEW JERSEY!" but that is when I remembered that...FauxJon. It may walk like a duck, and sound like a duck, but at the end of the day, that guy's real name is probably Henry.
But I was, apparently, the only one to have that realization, because...y'all, people were IN to the cover band. Girls were shrieking, like old-sixties-film-Beatles-shrieking, and guys were pounding their fists into the air, and Dukay sat on the sidelines with our friends who are way too cool to be, like, MOSHING at a fake Bon Jovi concert, DUH. But not me, who was (let's recall) FRONT AND CENTER, receiving a personal serenade about how I was made for FauxJon, and he was made for me, and the love that we share will almost certainly result in several children who are all born with processed hair and dimples, and that is FINE, that is all I need out of life.
We built up to a frenzy of FauxExcitement, and everyone was screaming, and the lights were flashing, as they played the last, shrieking strains of Bad Medicine (that is what I NEED), the drummer (FauxSomeoneElse) stood from behind his drums, and, overcome, threw his drumstick into the crowd, and...
WHUNK! Right across my nose. Ow.
This morning I awoke with the bittersweet memories of my FauxEvening, my ill-fated, brief, FauxLove, and one VERY VERY REAL AND OW DON'T TOUCH PAINFUL bruise across the bridge of my nose.
1987, y'all. Good place to visit, but you wouldn't want to stay there, because...it's tough. So tough.
Admissions Department, Part One
So, the wireless died again. And I fixed it all by myself, ALL BY MYSELF, and now I strongly believe that I may be invincible.
Y'all, I probably am.
Because I am invincible, I decided that now would be a good time to come clean on some issues. Because if you're going to make a major pronouncement, like, if you are going to take a load off of your chest and make some SERIOUS ADMISSIONS, PEOPLE, what better place to do that than on the internet? Where everyone including your mother (hi, Mom!) can read them and judge you accordingly, for all time, forever and ever, amen? What better place, indeed! Hello, brilliant idea! Thank you for popping into my head.
So. Here is my list of Dirty, Dirty Secrets that Are About to Not Be Very Secret Anymore. Brace yourselves. I am feeling very proud of myself today.
1. I sing very bad folk songs in the shower. Oh yes, I do. It is all AM Gold, all the time in there, baby. Do not tell El Dukay.
Really, we should not be too worried about El Dukay, who never reads this site anyway, even when I tell him, "Dukay! I wrote about you! Go read!" When I tell him this, he invariably says, "Oh, I will totally read that, sometime in the future when I have nothing to do, even though I am sitting at a computer playing solitaire right now at this exact minute, but I cannot possibly be dragged away because HI, SOLITAIRE is more interesting than you."
Maybe that is not exactly what he says. But it is what his heart says to me.
Anyway, do you like how I managed to totally take all the focus off of my own admission, and place all blame squarely on the shoulders of Dukay, who has nothing to do with singing folk songs in showers? Do you like that? Not only am I invincible, I am also BRILLIANT.
2. Speaking of which, I strongly believe, and will point this out to people (see: Dukay, Dig, Timmy, y'all) that that whole BRILLIANT! marketing campaign that Guinness is doing? WELL. THAT WAS COMPLETELY MY IDEA, ASSHOLES, because DIDN'T I WRITE ABOUT THAT LAST YEAR? HUH? That's RIGHT I did.
You can send me my check, Guinness marketing team. I would also like a new bicycle and an adorable haircut. Get on that.
3. I hate my feet. Feet, I hate you so much.
Feet are not, as a rule, very pretty appendages. But I really hate mine. They are the ugliest feet in the land, and I will not go without shoes even if you pay me money. When El Dukay and I were first dating, we were over at his place, and we started with the kissing (MOM: STOP READING NOW. YOU TOO, AUNT RIE. See, when I say we were "kissing", that means "We were studying in the library.") Anyway, kissing, and you know, and onwards and so forth, and El Dukay tried to take off my shoes, AND I REFUSED.
That is how much I hate my feet. So much, that I was willing to convince a thoroughly perplexed El Dukay that I was a Woman With Issues, who will not TAKE HER SHOES OFF, even when she is in a bed. This disturbed him. He still brings this up. As in,
Self: Dude, did you eat the last frozen pizza?
El Dukay: WHY WOULDN'T YOU TAKE YOUR SHOES OFF THAT TIME? ARE YOU INSANE?
4. I spend a ridiculous amount of money on food that I never actually eat.
I do this every time I go to the grocery store. I cannot leave the grocery store without purchasing eggs, milk, bread, and sandwich meats. And then I never eat them. They sit in the refrigerator or in the pantry, all hopeful and fresh, and I reach past them for Diet Cokes. I kill their hope, the small hopes of these little fresh foods, and ultimately, they give up and grow very sad mold, and must be tossed in the garbage. And then I go to the grocery store and think, "Huh, I'm out of eggs," AND THE CYCLE BEGINS ANEW.
I have some problem wherein I feel like it is wrong if I don't have those staples on hand. Grown up people keep eggs and milk. Grown up people also remember to buy paper towels on occasion, though, and I am ALWAYS forgetting those fuckers.
That's it for now. I feel very naked, having made all of these admissions. I'm sure there are many more, but frankly, I can't think of anything shocking at the moment. Give me time; we'll be drinking tonight, so probably by tomorrow morning, I'll have all KINDS of shit to admit to. Right after I finish singing all of John Denver's Greatest Hits in the shower.
You fill up my senses. Every one of you.
Being Big, And, Apparently, DULL as FUCK
Tonight I was Big.
Tonight I made baked ziti, dried cranberry and walnut salad, fried cheese wheels, and garlic toast. And I served this meal with a fabulous red wine, in my candlelit dining room, for some close friends. And we listened to intellectual music, and talked about important, intellectual things. And then, when it was all over, I gracefully tripped over a doggie gate and went sprawling through the kitchen, banging my elbow so hard into the wall that I am PRETTY FUCKING SURE that the structural integrity of the house has been compromised. We must now wear hardhats inside. The ceiling will soon fall, THAT IS HOW HARD I SMACKED THAT WALL.
It was awesome, and also, totally to be expected. God thinks it is funny when I try to play grown-up. It makes Him laugh.
So, I haven't written much in the last week, but what is funny, is that actually, yes, yes I have. I have written two entries, both while drunk, and both so ridiculous and nonsensical that in retrospect, I decided they did not, NOT need to be posted.
Now, after a few glasses of fabulous red wine, I am having second thoughts. Why should such labors be wasted? That is what I want to know. Maybe y'all want to read the entry I wrote while we watched the Apprentice, an entry entitled "In Which I Hate Everybody." Do you? Do you really?
So maybe I will post them, maybe. If y'all leave me awesome comments telling me that I should. I am easily swayed, and have no backbone to speak of.
Also new and interesting: um. Nothing! Nope. Not much happening. We had some sort of Falcons play off something or other, but I don't watch professional football, so all of the drama was wasted on me. Dukay and Dig came over and watched the game, and there was screaming and teeth-gnashing, but I was busying myself making...(wait for it)...sausage balls in the kitchen. Yes.
You guys, I make some really good sausage balls. You don't even know the half of it. I would be like Betty Crocker, if she just drank more. She's such a prude.
But, with nothing new to report from over here (hi!), I just thought I'd pop in and say hello. Hello, y'all! There is nothing new to report! Soon there probably will be, as in the next few days, I will be doing more interesting things, and hopefully not falling down. These things include (1) planning my upcoming marriage to Kiefer; (b) changing the lightbulbs in the den, because almost all of them are out and it is beginning to look like a prison movie in here; and (4) castrating all of the dogs in my house and burning their respective manhoods over a spit in the backyard, because HOW MANY TIMES can you pee on the corner of the sofa? HOW MANY?
And, that's about it. Hope y'all are all doing well. Hope nobody is peeing on the corner of your sofa, because that is a TREMENDOUS pain in the ass.
Now, before I go, I must beg you to please, please go visit the gorgeous and talented Anna Beth, who designed this very site and is very adorable, and who is raising money for her Science Baby because some damn fool idjits fired her from her job. You can easily donate by purchasing a sticker here. And then you will have a sexy sticker, and EVERYONE WILL BE HAPPY, and maybe I won't fall down so much.
And that's...it. And so ends the most boring and pointless entry in Miss Doxie history. Y'all don't hate.
How Not To Take Down Your Christmas Tree
In case you were wondering, in case you were sitting at home pondering ways in which you should definitely NOT take down your Christmas tree, like, you were thinking to yourself, "Self, exactly what would be the worst possible way to take down a Christmas tree, and what is the way that is most likely to involve destruction?" and this question had been just EATING AWAY at your brain, then people, this entry is for you. Because I have recently learned the answer to this question. There may have been bleeding.
Step One: Believe strongly that it is VERY BAD LUCK to leave your Christmas tree up after New Year's Eve. Believe that demons will rise from the depths of hell and probably eat your kneecaps or hide your car keys. Believe that if you DO happen to leave your Christmas tree up one second after the stroke of the New Year, you are RUINED, FINISHED, and all the bad luck that will befall you in 2005 will be ENTIRELY ON YOUR OWN HEAD, the end.
Step Two: Despite this strong belief, procrastinate! Put off taking the tree down until 4:00 p.m. on New Year's Eve. Be alone at the time. Decide that undressing and removing a seven foot tree from your den is TOTALLY NOT GOING TO BE A PROBLEM, because you are a Big Girl, and you don't have to call anybody for help, even though you have a boyfriend with really big, strong arms. Ignore this fact. Call upon your twin inner resources of "stubborn" and "deluded."
Step Three: Pour self a glass of wine.
Step Four: Gaze at tree. Size up situation. Joke to dogs, "We're going to need a bigger boat!" Dogs don't get it. Probably because it doesn't exactly make sense.
Step Five: Start removing ornaments. Become frustrated with putting ornaments back in individual plastic containers. Also note that tree is very, very dead, having been erected in den sometime in November in flurry of misdirected Christmas spirit.
Step Six: Pour self a glass of wine.
Step Seven: Make executive decision that all ornaments will be placed in large box with tissue paper. Figure that any ornaments who do not survive trip to attic will have brought that upon themselves. Decide it is a "survival of the fittest" type situation, and praise self for appreciation of Darwin's natural selection process.
Step Eight: Realize process will be much more fun if self is also watching Sopranos Season Three finale on DVD while undresing tree. Take appropriate steps to make this happen.
Step Nine: Note again that tree is extremely dead. Pine needles are all in hair.
Step Ten: HATE LIGHTS. Hate lights INTENSELY. Lights are the worst idea ever in the history of Christmas. Also, lights will not come off of tree. Consider scissors.
Step Eleven: Pour self a glass of wine. Blame lights.
Step Twelve: TREE IS FINALLY UNDRESSED. Gaze at tree. Split attention with Sopranos season finale, which is really good. Begin appraising situation for getting tree out of den. Decide to just pick it up and haul it out the back door with stand still attatched. Good plan. GOOD THINKING!
Step Thirteen: Lift tree, directly into:
Step Fourteen: Ceiling fan, which is ON, which causes tree to:
Step Fifteen: Explode.
Step Sixteen: As pine needles rain about self, panic. Drop tree, which leads attatched Christmas tree stand to:
Step Seventeen: Spill water all over floor, causing:
Step Eighteen: Pine needle soup-substance everywhere, EVERYWHERE in the WORLD, all over sofa, floor, and self.
Step Nineteen: (Dogs are FREAKING OUT RIGHT NOW, by the way.)
Step Twenty: Pour self a glass of wine.
For the rest of the evening before going out to celebrate the New Year, I cleaned up pine needles and water. There were pine needles on the mantle. There were pine needles on top of the refrigerator in the kitchen. And, when I went upstairs to get showered, I found pine needles in my bra. And I had been wearing a turtleneck, people. Think about the physics that must have been involved for that to happen! IT BOGGLES THE MIND!
So! If you follow my plan exactly, you will end up with one less tree, scrapes all over your wrists and arms, and a faint pine aroma that will probably linger in your house until probably February. But one thing is certain: You sure as FUCK better not have any bad luck in 2005.
Happy New Year, everyone!
Even bad words look pretty on Movable Type!
I would like to direct your attention to the "Categories" AB has set up for me, because they are awesome. Times I Fell Down! The Stupid Thing El Dukay Did! I Got Drunk and Bought Shoes Online! This pretty much sums up my life. Which is interesting.
Already this morning, I have had an experience which actually involved several of these categories, and now MT is telling me I have to choose a "Primary Category," and this is sort of problematic, because -- as I alluded to previously -- this morning's experience involved a dog, some animal crackers, me falling down, and the breaking of some cute black boots. Oh yes. And the day has only just begun!
So, I'm driving to work, and I'm not bothering a soul or doing anything wrong at ALL, I'm not even singing or ANYTHING, and I decide to take the back way because apparently I'm an idiot. So I'm going down this looooong, windy road when all of a sudden I stop, because the other cars are stopped, because there is a woman standing in the middle of the road, staring daggers at this Lassie-type dog that is also, unfortunately, standing in the middle of the road. Which, apparently, is not where he is supposed to be.
So, being the Good Citizen and Dog Lover that I am, I immediately pull over onto the side of this long windy road, and hop out of the car without actually turning the car OFF, and I proceed to try to assist this lady in rounding up Rogue Dog Who Looks Like Lassie And Has No Intention Of Coming With Either One Of Us, Oh HELL No.
Well. FORTY FIVE MINUTES LATER, this poor woman and I had chased this poor thing all the way from one end of the long windy road to the other (two miles), through someone's yard and a POND I may have fallen into (R.I.P., boots!), and then back again, and there are approximately ninety five thousand cars just waiting now, and everyone is honking, and my hair is EVERYWHERE and my shoes are ruined and soaked, and then another woman throws a bag of animal crackers out the window at me and screams, "GOOD LUCK!" and then, when I can't get close enough to the dog to tempt him with the bribe of delicious, camel-shaped cookies (because, mmm!), I just start throwing the crackers at him in frustration.
And then the cops came. Technically because my CAR was still sitting on the side of the road. Running. And I hadn't seen it in an hour, so we are all a little amazed that it was still there. Meanwhile, I had accepted rides from about sixty million strangers, including a bunch of housepainters who let me sit in the back of the pickup truck. If any of you were ever interested in kidnapping or murdering or chopped me into bits, this was your golden opportunity, because I was just hopping from car to car like hitchhiking is just TOTALLY NORMAL FOR ME. And also, this includes one car where the guy wasn't technically expecting me to, you know, open the door and ENTER. In that case it was less "hitchhiking" and more "commandeering the vehicle." Whatever.
Anyway, once the cops became involved and we had a little chat about the pros and cons of leaving one's car unmanned and running on the side of a busy road, and also they made fun of my hair, the owner of the dog showed up, and we all learned that the dog is named NOAH, and that Noah is, according to his owner, "a bit naughty" with the running away and playing in traffic.
So now, we have four women, two cops, the owner, and three trillion cars all trying to round up Noah.
"NOAH!" we all screamed, running zig zaggity all over the street.
"HELL, NO!" Noah responded, zig zagging in exactly the other direction.
The last I saw of Noah, two very burly and tough cops were chasing after him as he bolted into a neighborhood. And his owner was following right behind, all, "Oh, that NOAH! Ha ha!"
We hate her. Frankly, we are not too fond of Noah, either, at this point.
Anyway, that's pretty much all there is to the story, and it has really no exciting ending at all (I mean, I left and went to work, figuring that between the LAW and the OWNER, the situation was about as "under control" as it was going to get, and I was helping approximately nobody with my animal crackers and ruined shoes).
But if there's anyone else out there who has, by ten a.m., managed to:
(1) illegally block traffic;
(2) abandon a perfectly good, RUNNING car on the side of the road;
(3) receive a stern talking-to from two cops, who then make fun of your hair;
(4) throw animal crackers at a canine named after a Biblical personage; AND
(5) fall into a FUCKING POND, then PEOPLE, I WOULD LIKE TO HEAR ABOUT IT.