Category Archives: Just sad

RIP, Barnaby Jones Pickles

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.

The dictionary is an asshole

Last week my family came down to visit and we took all the kids to the community pool.

me:  Have you swum to the end of the pool yet?

Lisa: “Swum?” What are you, some kinda hillbilly?

me:  You can totally say “swum”.  Swum is a word.  Swim, swam, swum.

Lisa:  Like bring, brang, brung?

me:  No. Like…climb, climbed…clumb?  Fuck.

mom:  Like ding, dang, dung.

me:  Stop helping.

Lisa:  I think mom just called you “dung”.

Mom: I’m not getting involved in this.

me:  Whatever.  Swum is totally a real word.  Who’s the writer in this damn family?

Then they both just looked at me with their eyebrows raised because apparently real writers don’t have fights about whether “swum” is a word but then as soon as we got back to the house I googled it and swum totally came up as a real word in the dictionary and I was just about to yell “HA!  I FUCKING TOLD YOU SO!” but then I stopped myself because I’m a gracious winner.  And also because the dictionary is a tremendous asshole:

I've just been insulted by the dictionary. Awesome.

Comment of the day: All of them.  For real.  You need to read them all.  As usual, my commenters are way funnier than me.  The bastards.

Netflix thinks I’m a religious psychopath

So last week Victor installed Netflix on our Wii and I don’t understand how that works so I just stared at him blankly when he tried to explain it and the entire time I’m like “You are wasting money” but he did it anyway and now I can’t stop watching movies about serial killers.  And then this morning I woke up and Netflix is all “Hey, you like dark biographical documentaries…here’s a movie about cremation” and I was all “Well, okay, Netflix, if you say so” and then I totally did like it and Victor came in and was all “Aren’t you supposed to be working?” and I was like “No.  I’m taking a break because Netflix gave me an assignment.  You started this” and then he was all “IS THAT A DEAD BODY?!  Why are you watching that?  WTF IS WRONG WITH YOU?” and I was all “I happen to like ‘dark, intellectual biographical documentaries‘ so stop judging me” and he just stared at me and so I flipped back to the menu to show him that I wasn’t just making this shit up and he was all “It doesn’t actually say ‘intellectual’ anywhere” and I was all “Well, it’s implied” and then Victor flipped through the other “I bet you’d like this” movie suggestions and all the suggestions were about serial killers and Jesus and he was like “Really? You are going to get the cops called on us” and I’m all “How did the hell did Jesus get in there?” and what’s really unsettling is that I HAVE NO IDEA HOW JESUS GOT IN THERE.  I don’t know if it’s a sign from God or if the Netflix people trying to convert us.  Either way it feels kind of inappropriate and a little pushy.

PS.  Oh.  Wait.  Turns out Netflix thinks I need Jesus because Hailey keeps watching these vaguely Christian Veggie-Tale movies.  Awesome. Netflix is sending The Passion of the Christ to my 5-year-old.

PPS.  Okay, true story?  Netflix was just like “Hey, you know what you should watch?  Grey Gardens. Here it is.  I got it for you” and I was all “OH MY GOD, I LOVE GREY GARDENS” and then Victor was all “Grey what?  It’s 2:00 in the afternoon.  Why are you still in bed?

Netflix officially understands me more than my husband.


I just went to brush my teeth but we were out of toothpaste so I pulled out this tiny little travel tube that the stewardess gave me when I went to Japan and it’s the size of a hamster femur so I squeezed it all out onto the toothbrush and then I started to feel really sorry for the people who live in Japan because that shit is awful.  Then it got worse and worse and it started making my mouth all dry and sticky and when I tried to spit it out it was sticking to my teeth and  and I wondered if maybe toothpaste can go bad in Japan so I looked at the tube to see if it had an expiration date and that’s when I realized that I had just brushed my teeth with FUCKING EYELASH GLUE. No shit, people.  Like, the glue you use to keep fake eyelashes on.  And then I panicked because I was afraid that I was going to die or that my teeth were going to get glued together and so I opened my mouth as wide as it would go and looked on the internet for “Will eating eyelash glue kill you?” and the internet was all “Um…maybe?” so I went on twitter and asked them and everyone was like “This is twitter, dude.  Not poison control.  What the fuck is wrong with you?” and they had a point but I didn’t want to call poison control, both because I’d have to explain that I just ate eyelash glue and also because I didn’t know if I could talk on the phone without accidentally closing my mouth and then I started to worry that if I went to sleep I might wake up dead or with my teeth permanently glued together and then I’d have to pretend that I somehow caught contagious lockjaw because there’s no way in hell that I was going to confess to Victor that I’d accidentally brushed my teeth with glue.  So then I called the ASPCA because they were very helpful a few months ago when Barnaby Jones Pickles ate that bottle of homeopathic cold meds but they told me that they didn’t give medical advice to humans and I told them that that seemed vaguely racist and they insisted that I call poison control.  So I did.  And they were dicks.

I mean, technically they were very nice but I had to explain the problem like three times before they finally seemed to understand the situation and then they assured me that eyelash glue was non-toxic and that I’d be fine but they kept asking me why I’d done it and every time I’d explain they’d say that they didn’t understand and I assumed they were making a tape of all of this to play to their friends later or possibly  they honestly just couldn’t understand what I was saying since I wasn’t using my lips so that they wouldn’t get glued to my teeth.  I tried to explain that to them but there was a lot of silence on their end so I finally just hung up.  It’s bad enough I just ate a bunch of glue, poison control.  I don’t need your damn judgement.

PS.  I just woke Victor up to tell him what happened so that he could check to make sure I’m still breathing every few hours and Victor rolled over and said something about how I brought this on myself because “who the fuck confuses glue with toothpaste?”  Well, obviously *I* do, Victor.  Way to blame the victim, asshole.


PPPS.  This post is probably full of typos and run-on sentences and I’m sorry about that but I JUST GOT FUCKING POISONED, Y’ALL.  It’s kind of heroic that I’m even able to write this post at all, you guys.  If anything, I deserve a goddam medal.

Obviously Japan is trying to kill me. Probably. This is exactly like Pearl Harbor, but worse because I got vaguely poisoned AND I'm out of eyelash glue. So it's like a double tragedy. Plus, I don't even know where the fake eyelashes this glue goes to are but when I do find then they'll be totally useless. Worst. Day. Ever.

Comment of the day: You’re right. Medical professionals are often nosy and judgmental. I almost cut my hand off with a skilsaw one time (severed 3 tendons), and after the surgeon assessed the damage, he was like, “and what’s with this?” as he motioned toward his own eye. I was like, “With what? What the fuck is this?” motioning toward my own eye. “The black eye,” he says. I forgot that I had gotten a black eye a couple days earlier when my dog headbutted me while we were wrestling. I explained and he gave me that look that says, “I know your game, you goddamn shiftless tweaker. You’ll do anything to get on disability, won’t you? Well, you’re not gonna get away with it this time, buddy boy.”   But I totally did. ~ beta dad

I honestly still don’t know what the answer is. UPDATED: Wait. Yes, I do. But I think I was happier when I didn’t.

Conversation with Victor at iHop:

me:  Ugh. I hate it when they don’t give you enough spaces to write the answers.

Victor:  What?  Why the hell are you doing the puzzle on the kid’s menu?

me:  Because you’re too busy playing with your phone to talk to me and also because puzzles help stave off early dementia.

Victor:  But you’re not even doing them correctly.  You don’t draw in extra lines in fill-in-the-blank.

me:  I realize that, but it doesn’t fit otherwise.

Victor:  Are you fucking kidding me?

me:  I know, right? I thought it was inappropriate too.  I mean, this is supposed to be for children, for God’s sake.

Victor:  I’m reasonably sure the answer is *not* “Hiding the sausage”.

me:  I tried “Bury the bacon” but that didn’t fit either.  “Grasp the links?”

Victor:  I don’t know what’s more tragic.  The fact that you’re doing the child’s puzzle, or the fact that you can’t figure out the child’s puzzle.

me:  You now, you could help me instead of making fun of me.

Victor (going back to his phone):  If I help you you’ll never learn.

*long silence*


Then Victor made me leave because I was “causing a scene” but I think it’s more likely he was just embarrassed that he couldn’t figure out the answer either and now I’m worried that we both have early-onset dementia.  This has been haunting me for weeks, y’all.

PS. Okay I just googled “take the breakfast meat” to see if that gave me a non-smutty answer and this was the most relevant thing that popped up:

Yeah. It's a link to an extremely raunchy video"playing hiding the sausage".

Awesome. I rest my case.

UPDATED: After many impressive guesses (Ham and Go Seek, Grand Ham Theft, Swipe the Tripe, Pound the Sausage, Pilfer the Pork, Hide the Salami) several people finally insisted there was an actual game called “Steal the Bacon“, which I’ve never heard of and doesn’t even involve real bacon.  It’s basically a variation of “Capture the Flag” but instead of a flag it’s bacon.  Except the bacon is actually an eraser or a mitten or something.  Why?  No one knows. So it’s basically the shittiest game ever.  Thanks for wasting everyone’s time, IHOP.

Comment of the day:  Steal the Bacon? Really? Huh. Never heard of it. Probably because I was raised Jewish, and the only thing we hide is matzo. Oh, and Anne Frank. ~alonewithcats


I can barely even type this because my hand is all swollen but I was just putting Barnaby Jones to bed when he suddenly did this flip which almost broke my flipping-off finger and then he ran in between my legs and I fell so hard that I couldn’t even move and the dog was jumping on my head and I yelled for Victor and I was laying on my stomach and he was all “What.  the fuck.  did you do?” and he started to call an ambulance and I was all “DO NOT CALL AN AMBULANCE” and he came back and was all “If you don’t move your legs I’m going to call the ambulance.  Except that I’m probably going to get arrested for domestic battery because what the hell happened?!” and I was all “The dog tried to kill me” and Victor was like “OUR DOG?  Our little dog did this to you?” and I was all “HE’S LIKE A NINJA!” and he was all “He’s a fucking pug, dude” and I was all I’M VULNERABLE, ASSHOLE” and he was like “Where is all this blood coming from?”  And that’s when I noticed I had a long, shallow gash on my hand and I was all “How the hell did that happen?” and then I realized that I was bleeding BECAUSE I’D BEEN STABBED BY CHICKEN.  And this is when I realized that no one would ever believe this and that Victor was definitely going to jail because who gets stabbed by chicken?  I do, apparently.  But it was a dried chicken breast that I was going to feed to Barnaby Jones so it was totally sharp and apparently quite stab-able with enough force but I’m still pretty sure I’m the only  person in the world to ever get stabbed with chicken.  I win.  Or lose.  And then I told Victor I got stabbed with chicken and he started to call the ambulance again because he assumed I had a concussion but then I grabbed the chicken breast in my good hand and made a stabbing motion and he stopped threatening to call the ambulance because he understood or maybe he thought I was threatening to stab him.  Then he said that he was afraid to call the ambulance anyway because there’s no way anyone would believe that a dog did this sort of damage to me and he said it in a really condescending way and I was all “YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT HE’S LIKE” and Victor was all “Barnaby Jones? Our dog?” and I was all “He would have pushed me down the stairs if we had stairs!” and then I realized I was overreacting and probably in shock.  I shouldn’t even be allowed to type this right now.  I should be wrapped in a warm blanket and not be allowed to go to sleep.  Or I should be made to sleep.  One of those.  Or maybe I need a hot toddy.  I probably knew the correct procedure before the dog tried to kill me with chicken.

PS.  Victor totally owes me because he would have gone to jail automatically because he was only wearing a half-shirt and if you aren’t wearing a whole shirt when the police come you go to jail.  That’s how jail works.

PPS.  It’s a half-shirt in that it’s sleeveless.  Not that it ends under his nipples.  Victor can’t really pull that sort of look off. I don’t know if you go to jail for that kind of shirt.  I’m going to go lie down because I don’t think I’m making sense.

PPPS.  How do you know if your pupils are dilated?  What are they supposed to look like normally?  Why is Web MD so complicated?  Why can’t I stop reading about cancer when I’m trying to look up concussions?  Great. Now I have cancer.  Thanks a lot, Barnaby Jones.

UPDATED: Went to the ER this morning.  Explained the situation.  They wrote “Stabbed by chicken” on my chart.  Then they asked if I had any “psych issues” and I thought they said “psychic issues” and I was all “Like, can I read your thoughts?”  Then they put me in a private room.  Lesson here?  If you fake mental illness you’ll get better service.  The good news is that my finger is not broken but the bad news is that it’s still pretty fucked up so I have to wear a splint until it heals and I have to keep it elevated.  Me, driving myself home:

Stop honking at me. I'm *disabled*, you bastards.

Awesome.  The people in my neighborhood are lucky to have me.

Also, several of you indicated that Barnaby Jones was probably  just acting in self-defense because you’re not supposed to give dogs chicken bones but these are filleted, boneless chicken breasts.  Meanwhile, I’m eating ramen noodles and his sweater cost more than my entire outfit.  Way to blame the victim, people.  I may never play the ukulele again.

No one's falling for it, Barnaby Jones.

UPDATED AGAIN: Okay, so apparently people are finding this post when searching for real concussion advice.  I’d like to apologize to those people. But here’s a comment that my friend left me that might help you: “Here is what dilated pupils look like. Well on a cat. Well on 2 cats. Well on 2 cats that I drew in MS Paint. Whatever. ~ MODG

See?  Totally helpful.

RIP, Aunt Ollene

My sister, Lisa, just called to tell me that our great aunt Ollene just died and we decided to go in together on a flower arrangement and so I ordered it online from the florist across the street from the funeral home and it was very nice because their website basically pre-populates all the funeral home info since that’s where they do most of their business but then the end of the form left me a little baffled:

Huh.  Do I want you to remind me of my dead aunt’s death again next year?  Well, of course I do. Why wouldn’t I want you to bring up this painful event with an annual “Hey-your-aunt-is-still-dead” reminder?  Who would turn that down?  Nobody, I bet.

Also, my Aunt Ollene was awesomely funny and every Christmas she would give my sister and I enormous granny-panties and a roll of nickels.  Every year.  For like 20 years.  And the underpants were so big that Lisa and I used to pull them up to our armpits and pretend they were strapless leotards.  Also, I’m fairly sure that the nickels were given to us ironically because it’s not like this was back in the olden days when people really liked nickels.  I don’t actually remember a time when people wanted nickels.  I’m not actually that old.  Also, this post is rambling and makes no sense.  Probably because I’m grieving.  Stop judging me.

PS.  Hang on.  I bet that reminder thing is probably for when someone you don’t actually like dies.  Then you can have a happy reminder once a year that whoever you never liked is still dead.  Unless he was really just in a deep coma and comes out of it during the funeral and he’s pissed off that you didn’t pick out a nice enough casket for him and he storms out and disowns you and now you have to pay for a funeral that no one actually enjoyed.  Then it’s just a painful reminder for everyone involved.

Comment of the day: At my great aunt’s funeral (right her in San Angelo at Johnson’s Funeral Home on Beauregard Ave, no less) I sent a flower arrangement with the words “Aunt Fay” on a banner on it. During the funeral, I noticed that the banner read “a nut Fay” instead of aunt. By the end of the funeral the entire 2 front rows of family members where silently trying not to laugh. I wonder if we used the same florist, because I’m thinking this is a florist with a warped sense of humor. I guess that’s not always a bad qualily in a florist.  ~ Missy