Disclaimer: You shouldn’t read this.
So I called a million (a million = 14) places to get someone to come disinter my dog that was already partially disinterred by the horrible vultures that I attacked with a machete but NO ONE would come because it’s the weekend and then I found a guy on craigslist who said he’d do it but then I looked up his email address and he also has ads for people who are looking for prostitutes so basically he’s a pimp and it felt weird to invite a pimp over when it’s just me and Hailey and WHY IS VICTOR NOT HOME YET? So then my friend Laura called and I was all “I’m fine” and she’s like “Well, you don’t sound fine. I’m coming over to dig up your dead dog” and I was all “NO! No one needs to see that. Especially you because you knew him” and she was all “You sound terrible. We’ll be right over. I’m bringing my four year old. And a shovel”. And she did. And I couldn’t let her do it alone so we put on a video game for the kids and told them we were going gardening and then we both put on gloves and she put on a bandana to mask the smell and we did it. And by “did it” I mean that we dug up my dog except that I did it with my eyes mostly closed because I couldn’t bear to look and so Laura was all “Okay, lift. Shovel to the left. Further…further…lower into the box…DONE! HIGH FIVE TEAM.” Then we carried the box we placed him in up to the house and as we did she said “Aw. We’re Barnaby Jones’ paw-bearers. Get it? Laugh now.” And I did. I laughed as I carried my sweet, dead dog from his shallow desecrated little grave. And that’s when I realized how incredibly lucky I am to have friends like Laura. Because she took something traumatic and awful and made it…okay. Then we came inside and washed our hands for an hour and then she told me that she had everything in her purse to make fresh salsa, including beer and a tiny cuisinart because she knows I don’t own appliances. And at the end of a week that was so horrific that I didn’t think I’d come out the other side again I somehow ended it feeling something that I never would have expected. Lucky.
Thank you, Laura. And thank you to everyone else who made this week so much less unbearable. Thank you.
PS. Hailey decided to take a picture of Laura and I after we were done “gardening”. It is the single worst and best picture I own.
It's like some kinda fucked-up American Gothic portrait but with less pitchforks and more rappers.
PS. DM I just got from Laura:
If there was a song for this post it would be the Golden Girls theme. But less douchey and with a kick-ass drum solo in the middle.
UPDATED: This has nothing to do with me touching myself inappropriately and everything to do with why I’m no longer responding to emails:
I don't know what's wrong with me either.
I didn’t want to write this but it feels wrong not to since I share so much of my life here. This isn’t a funny or entertaining post and you have my full permission to skip it.
Yesterday Barnaby Jones died. I left him outside on his dog run when I went to pick up Hailey from daycare and when I came back he was dead. His face was swollen and it looked like he’d had a seizure but there were no puncture wounds so we suspect he had an allergic reaction from a bee or wasp sting. I hope he died quickly and painlessly and I’ll never forgive myself for not being here. Victor is out of town so I put a movie on for Hailey so she wouldn’t notice and then I carried him down to the valley on our property and I buried him and cried until I couldn’t cry anymore. Victor said I should have waited until he was back home so he could do it but I just needed it to be over. We debated on the phone about what to tell Hailey and finally decided to tell her the truth. We cried and slept together on the couch and every few hours she’d wake me up to ask me if it was just a bad dream. Then she cried and asked if we could go buy another pug and call him Barnaby Jones and just pretend he never died. I told her that maybe one day we could get another dog but the truth is that I can’t handle this again. I will never own another dog.
This morning we went for a walk and I reminded Hailey that Barnaby was still with us in our hearts and was probably running around in dog heaven. Then she looked up at the clouds and said quite seriously that whenever it rained it would probably be Barnaby Jones peeing. Then she yelled “MOMMY! I FELT A DROP! I THINK BARNABY JONES JUST PEED ON ME!” and she smiled for the first time since it happened. And I smiled too. And it was good.
I'll miss your rabbity face.
PS. If you have a pet, please go hug them extra tight today.
Actual comment stuck in my spam filter:
I don't even know what to say here, y'all.
I’m not gonna approve it, but I am giving him points for creativity.
And finally…part 4 of my Blogher experience (as lifted directly from my journal). Parts 1, 2 and 3 are here. I swear I’m almost finished, y’all.
Walked to a public party at the Volstead. Hid in the bathroom, as usual. Was invaded by a group of women putting on impromptu KISS make-up. The usual. I left with them because you know that pretty much everything that happens at a party after people randomly put on KISS makeup is going to be anticlimactic.
I'm with the band. Sort of.
Then I walked to another public party for SexIs where women were encouraged to decorate dildos. Then I looked out the window and wondered to myself what must be going on at the exclusive private parties and I hoped for the sake of the attendees that it was the exact same thing as the public parties but with more swag.
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My inner thighs are chaffed from walking so much. And from being fat.
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Went to the panel I was speaking at 10 minutes before it started and there were like 6 people there. Tweeted “My session starts in 10 minutes and it’s fucking PACKED” along with a picture of the audience:
Also, the chick at the back was just there to check the microphones.
A number of people complimented me on a full house of bloggers who must also be ninjas but most of them just tweeted back stuff like “Of course it’s packed! You’re a rock star!” because I guess those people don’t know how to open my pictures. 15 minutes later though it was fairly full and I think it went really well but all I can really remember from the session is someone in the audience not being able to remember the name of an esoteric gay p0rn star that she didn’t want to name her son after and another woman in the audience helpfully yelling it out to her. I’ve found my tribe, y’all.
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(Photo by Justin Hackworth)
Just intentionally crossed a do-not-cross police line on purpose, so I can totally cross that off my life list now. Except that that wasn’t actually on my life list. But it is now because it makes me feel like I accomplished something if I can check something off of a list. Except that I haven’t actually written my life list yet so now I technically feel worse about myself than before. I should start a life-list in reverse order and just write down shit I already did so that I’m always done with it. Like “Button a shirt: Check“. ”Don’t murder kittens: Check“. ”Get gingivitis: Check.” Oh my God, I am awesome at this.
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In airport security heading home. Apparently this is a problem:
Huh.
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Handed the chick in the airport bookstore a copy of the Twilight Bree Tanner book and a copy of True Blood and asked her which one was less awful. She was all “Well, they’re both pretty bad”. I went with True Blood because the cover had more stuff on it. Then I clarified to the clerk that I own many, many non-stupid books. She totally didn’t believe me. (Note to self: When my memoirs come out, put lots of stuff on the cover. Stuff like naked vampires. Also, meet some naked vampires so I can put them in my memoirs.)
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I was mentioned in the London Times but my name was misspelled so I’m not sure if that counts as being mentioned as all. Victor says he understands because the same thing happens to him everyday when the newspapers write about him but use the wrong name and write about shit that never actually happened to him. Victor is very good at keeping me grounded. And by “grounded” I mean “stabby”.
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The end.
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I’ll stop now.
