Category Archives: Just sad



Last week I had to catch Dorothy Barker’s pee in a ladle 6 different times to get enough for the giant sample I needed to take to the oncologist and two different neighbors drove by and stared at me as they tried to figure out how the lady with a full-sized bear dressed as a wizard in her living room could get any weirder and I was just waiting for the all clear on the test to share that funny story, but.


But unfortunately Dottie does have bladder cancer.

Which sucks.  It’s about the worst cancer dogs can get.  There isn’t really a cure.  Usually dogs live for 6 months or less after diagnosis.  Because we caught it so early our oncologist thinks that with drugs we might be able to slow it down and could possibly have a year with her.

So yesterday I cried a lot.  Then I told Hailey and we cried some more.  Then Dottie looked at us like we were crazy and tried to distract us so we took her swimming in the pool and she had a blast.

And so did we.

A year is a long time.  It’s not long enough, but it’s something.  And at the moment Dottie is still the same crazy dog as ever so we are grateful.  And we will enjoy her and each other and all the fleeting things we take for granted when we think they will last forever.

Hug your pets.  Hug each other.  Remember to enjoy every moment.  And then remind me to do the same.


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Goddammit, Chris.

I’m sitting here at my computer, crying on my dog who is very confused about what has happened.  What has happened is that Chris Cornell has died.  It seems crazy to cry about someone you never met but he affected my life with his music and words from the time I was a struggling teenager until this very day.

I was lucky enough to see him in concert half a lifetime ago and it was worth the anxiety of being around so many people because when he started singing I could feel him reach into my heart and everything else fell away.  I cried as he sang, as I almost always do when someone sings the words you thought only you felt.  I was luckier still when we became internet friends…that weird sort of friendship that mainly exists in following each other on twitter and in “hearting” things each other had written.

When I heard this morning that he died my first thought was that I couldn’t remember if I ever told him how much he’d meant to me, so I looked through my DM’s.  And I found this:


And it made me feel a tiny bit better.  I’m sure I’m one of millions of people he touched but I was relieved that I had told him.

I will miss him and the music he will never make again.  But I’m glad I said thank you before it was too late.  And tomorrow I will turn my hand at making sure that I’ve reached out to others that have helped shape me in ways they never know.  Because too late comes too soon.

Thank you, Chris, for everything.


PS. Depression lies. Do not go gently. We need you.  The crisis chatline has helped me before so I’m leaving it here if you need it:  Or google “suicide prevention” and your local hotline should pop up.

I can’t.

Ugh.  Just.  No.

This morning Victor woke me up and took me to coffee because he wanted to break the news to me that Alan Rickman had died.  And then I cried so hard that he decided to go through the drive-through and the cashier at Starbucks looked at me like, “Should I call the police?” and Victor was like, “She’s just upset because you don’t offer snozzberry tea anymore” and then she got flustered and left.  And I laughed.  A little.

It feels incredibly stupid to cry over a man I never met.  I cried a bit when Bowie died because he inspired me to be weird.  I cried a bit when Philip Seymour-Hoffman died for the same reason.  I cried when River Phoenix died because it’s when we became mortal.  I cried with Eartha Kitt died because her music was the soundtrack to much of my life.  I cried when Robin Williams died because I was proud that he’d lasted so long and brought joy out of sadness and insanity, but also because so many of us saw ourselves in him.  But I’m crying over Alan Rickman for the same reason I cried when we lost Ray Bradbury.  Because I never got to tell him how much his work meant to me.  It was obvious if you read here.  He’s mentioned in my books.  He’s always on my list of “people I’d invite to my dream dinner party” and I once wrote an entire post about you could divide the world into people who utterly adore Alan Rickman and people who are total fucking liars.

But I never told him.

Not that it would matter.  He didn’t know me and he already knew he was beloved, and me saying it would only be one more time he’d have to graciously say, “Thank you, dear,” but I’m sad that now I’ll never have that chance.  And it makes me think of all the other people who touched me and changed me and who I never said “thank you” to.  So I’m starting now.  Thank you.  To you.  For being there.  For inspiring me.  For making it easier for me to be me.  For forgiving me when I fuck up and helping me forgive myself.  Thank you for sitting beside me when I panic in empty hotel rooms.  Thank you for making me laugh so hard it makes me want to be funnier myself.  Thank you for pushing me too hard and for having my back both when I failed and when I succeeded.  Thank you for letters and comments and kind words and irreverence and honesty.  Thank you for shaping me.  This thank you is for my family, and friends, and readers, and idols,  and all those out there who have no idea how much they changed my life….made my life.  I will never be able to go back and thank those who are gone, but I suspect they would be proud to know they inspired me to tell those who are still here how much they’ve done and how incredibly important they are to me.  I love you and I’m so grateful you are alive. Thank you for everything you have done, not just for me, but for the world.  You don’t know the impact you have had.  But at least I told you.



:sniff:  Jesus.  YES, PLEASE.

PS.  Victor just pointed out that I’d included Rickman in my 2009 list of “men we think are incredibly sexy but that our husbands don’t understand”.  Also included in that list were Bowie as the Goblin King and Philip Seymour Hoffman.  I’m starting to suspect Victor is taking them all out, one by one.  Lock your doors and look both ways when crossing the street, Neil Gaiman, Prince and Eddie Izzard.  I can’t stand to lose any more of you.

Next class: How to keep bees with handguns

I don’t have a lot to say here because I live in a mixed political home and so things are always a bit tense here after election day, but I will say that we can all stand together as one nation in hatred of that sound  you get when you try to erase something, but you don’t have any eraser left and so the metal part of the pencil squeals over the paper and then accordions it all up.  I think we can all agree that that shit needs to stop.  Also, overuse of the word “moist” and the word “panties.”  People using the phrase “moist panties” should have to spend two weeks in community service replacing worn pencil erasers.  The end.


But not really because I had too much caffeine and can’t stop writing.  So instead I’ll share a bunch of shit I wrote that wasn’t funny enough to publish alone, in hopes that it gets funnier algebraically.


True story:  I get these emails from Amazon recommending local stuff they think I’d be into.  In the last week I’ve been offered special deals on Beekeeping Classes, Handgun Practice, Permanent Makeup and Reflexology/Zip Line…which just sounds dangerous. I can’t tell if they really know me, or if they really don’t know me at all.


Yesterday this thing happened to me that so blew my mind that I freaked out and called everyone I knew to tell them about it but then it turns out that I can’t write about because (swear to God) it might endanger the well-being of The Doctor and myself.  I have never in my entire life wanted to write about anything so much and it’s killing me inside.  I don’t have anything funny to add here but just pretend that I just proved without a shadow of a doubt that a possible real-life Time Lord and I spent some quality time together talking about testicles and I have pictures to prove it that I can never show.  And this is exactly why being a companion must be so bloody hard.


My friend Edwin sent me this tweet:


And I thought it was weird that he would send me something so rude that twitter would actually hide the image from me, but I went ahead and changed my settings to let even the most horrific images come through and then I clicked it again.

Oh. Awesome.

Thanks, twitter.


Posey died today.  If you’ve been here long enough you already know that he was a special little person in a fur suit and I’ve had him for almost half of my life.

I’m too sad to write about him right now so instead I’m posting a video we once made together for some orphans in Africa.  It’s sort of a long story.  Much like Posey’s life.

Please go and hug your little friends a little tighter for me.

Well that was disappointing.

Conversation with Victor:

Victor:  What are all these?

me:  I liked my Beyonce/Copernicus ornament so much that I decided to make ornaments with Hailey on them so we could give them out as presents.  Because I’m brilliant and think ahead.

Victor:  Huh.  Why do they all say “2010” on them?

me:  Because…wait.  What year is this?

Victor:  You bought half a dozen ornaments with the wrong year on them?  

me:  Motherfucker.

Victor:  Wow.  That is…so classic you.

me:  You know what? It’s fine because if her grandparents/great-grandparents notice it’s the wrong year then I can just say that this was all just an elaborate test to make sure that they don’t need to be put into a nursing home.  And they passed.  MERRY CHRISTMAS, EVERYONE.  Honestly, it’s almost like I planned this.

Victor:  Or like you ordered a whole bunch of fucked-up ornaments because you don’t know what year it is.

me:  I’d like to think it’s a little of both.

UPDATED: The trials and tribulations of Ferris Mewler (self-proclaimed “Fabio of Cats”)

Obligatory pictures of my cat:

Ferris Mewler: "Rowr."

Ferris  Mewler:  “I am trying to seduce you. Is it working?”

me:  “No. It’s not working. Because I’m married.  And you’re a *cat*.”

Ferris Mewler: “You’ll come around eventually.  I’m like a damn Adonis.”

me: “Please stop this.  You’re making us all uncomfortable.”

Ferris Mewler: “I am the Eric Northman of Cats.  Worship me.”

me: “You’re not allowed to watch True Blood anymore.”

"What the FUCK, lady?"


UPDATED:  Several of you are not big vampire fans and are confusing True Blood’s Eric Northman with South Park’s Eric Cartman.  Which is ridiculous, because why would my cat pretend to be a cartoon character?  That’s fucking ludicrous, y’all.

It's sort of uncanny. Plus, Ferris' fangs are real. AND he has six nipples. And one time he got into my rainy-day crafts drawer and was covered in glitter for *weeks*. My cat is totally the next sexy vampire.

Someone get my cat an agent.

Because some things are worth more than a box of cereal

Hi.  I’m about to overstep my boundaries.  You might want to back away slowly because I don’t usually do this and I might get blood on you.

Okay, I’m pissed.  Legitimately, ridiculously, slightly irrationally pissed.

A few minutes ago I got a pitch from a company who wanted me to write a review for their cereal on my blog.  And they would pay me.  In cereal. Two boxes of cereal, specifically.  Except that the cereal wouldn’t actually go to me.  It would be used as a giveaway.  To promote their cereal.  On my blog.  Because as a blogger I’m so desperate for material that I will happily regurgitate any commercial bullshit that anyone puts in front of me.  Apparently.

I’m really struggling with writing this because I fully believe that people should be able to write whatever they want but if you as a blogger are accepting a box of cereal as payment for helping to grow a commercial ad campaign then you are undervaluing us all.  Companies have advertising budgets and some of those companies spend that money on bloggers.  And those companies should be applauded for helping to grow our community and for giving bloggers the same respect that you would give to any other profession.  Other companies give their advertising budgets to PR firms who are paid quite well to get bloggers and other outlets to advertise the product in exchange for cereal.  I can almost guarantee you that none of the PR people who contact you are working for cereal.  In fact, let’s explore that scenario…

Cereal company:  Hi!  We need a large, professional PR campaign so we’d like you to contact everyone on your mailing list with a pitch about our product, where you can buy it, and also convince them to write all about it on their personal blogs.  For cereal.  And we’ll pay you!  In cereal.

PR Company:  What the fuck..?

Cereal company:  But you can’t eat the cereal.  You have to give it away to someone else.

PR company:  Right. Is this a joke?

Cereal company:  No!  It’s real!  You get two boxes of cereal!

PR Company:  Um…we don’t work for cereal.  We all have mortgages.  And…desk payments.

Cereal company:  The cereal is worth FIVE DOLLARS!

PR company:  Is there something wrong with you?  Because we’d like to tell you to fuck off but we’re afraid to because we think you might be mentally unbalanced.


PR Company:  Never contact us again.

*end scene*

Look, I’m not saying that there aren’t good PR companies out there or that if you review products you’re a bad blogger or that writing about a product that you honestly love is bad.  It’s great, in fact.  Write about what you love.  Write about who you are.  Write things that are worthy of you and of your audience.  Because your voice is worth more than a goddamn box of cereal.

And don’t let anyone ever tell you any different.

UPDATED: To answer your questions, yes, this was a totally serious proposal. And no, it wasn’t even for Cap’n Crunch. It was for some obscure, made-from-applesauce, marshmallow-less crap WITH NO PRIZES IN IT.

I might have actually considered doing it for Cap’n Crunch. But not because I eat cereal. Because I support our Navy.

Comment of the day: I got one of these the other day. They want to send me two bags of candy which I would then in turn send to other people. Which just seems like a huge waste of postage.  I am letting them send me the candy. And then I’m going to eat it. ~ Abi

Oh. That was…unexpected.

You know what’s awesome?  When you’re having a crappy day and the doorbell rings and there’s a guy with a package that you need to sign for and you smile excitedly at him and you’re all “Awesome!  I love getting packages!” and he looks at you weird but you brush it off because Yay! Package! and then you sign for it and you start to reach out for the package and then you realize that the guy looks familiar and that’s because it’s the guy from the pet crematorium and he’s handing you a box full of your dead dog.  That’s awesome.  And by “awesome” I mean that I’m never answering the door again.

Comment of the day: I know exactly what you mean, because I got a package today too. Except mine was full of candy, not beloved cremated pet. If i was a unicorn, I would use my magical powers to turn Barnaby Jones’ remains into candy. I don’t know if you’d want to eat it though… ~ Jamie the Very Worst Missionary

Alternate comment of the day that is technically more of a “noise” than a “comment” but one that I want to remember for next time I have to send someone a sympathy card: [sad trombone] ~ Nanette

Sad trombone, indeed.


Worst. Linkage. Ever.

Updated comment of the day: I couldn’t agree more about the inappropriate linkage. If cremating your dog isn’t going to work, then nothing will. ~ kyknoord

Bonus comment of the day because this post is very short and I need to pad it: This is what I like to do (besides black tar heroin) — Halloween time I buy one of those fake UPS or FedEx costumes and when either guy brings me a package I open the door in a rush and go “thanks I’ll take it from here!” and slam the door.  Will also get you a free pizza if you stock up on pizza company costumes. ~ Chris Illuminati

It’s fairly obvious that we’re related. Also, we deal with pain through laughter in our family. Stop judging me.

First of all, thank you to everyone for being so supportive about Barnaby Jones.  You made me  cry (in a good way) and I needed to do that.  It’s almost Sunday and I’m supposed to be writing my weekly wrap-up but I’m just not myself right now so I’m going to skip it until next week.  Instead I’m going to paste the emails I exchanged with my sister today because she made me laugh out loud about something I thought I’d never be able to laugh about and I think we could all use a little bit of levity after the single most douche-canoe of a week ever.  Also? Yes, I’m totally phoning it in here.  Stop hassling me.  I’m grieving, you asshole.

Emails from my sister:

Lisa: Barnaby Jones Pickles dies and I have to find out through facebook?!?! What has this world come to??

Me: It is kind of ridiculous that you found out that my dog is dead through facebook.  If you’d been following me on twitter you’d have known days ago.  You are a terrible sister.

Lisa: I think that the foxes in your neighborhood were really drug dealers and got him hooked on heroin and then they gave him some bad stuff. All so they can get closer to the house and rob you blind.  I mean seriously, did you ever teach him “hugs not drugs”?  I bet not.  Better teach the cat how to bark. Now at least I won’t feel so bad when Granny kicks the bucket and I tell you over Facebook.

Me: Don’t be ridiculous.  You know I never read your facebook updates.

Lisa: Next time instead of a dog, get a pet pig.  That way when he overdoses you can have pork chops instead of having to dig a hole in the backyard. The hallucinations from all the heroin he shot up will just be like a bonus.  WAIT A MINUTE! You actually buried him yourself and aren’t injured?  No missing toes from a not-so-well aimed shovel?  No rattlesnake bites?  I’m not buying it.  Barnaby Jones isn’t even dead, is he? This is all a ploy so you can convince Victor to get you a pig isn’t it?  Well played. May I suggest the name ‘Dr. Reverse Kevorkian’, then he can “magically” bring BJP back from the grave.  You can call him RV, because within a year he will be the size of a mobile home.

Me: I broke two nails pulling up rocks to make a deep enough grave but the ground is 95% rock and I guess I didn’t dig deep enough because THOSE FUCKING CRACK FOXES DUG HIM UP.  Then I spent an hour crying and running around my yard with a machete trying to murder vultures.  This is how I spent my Saturday. I called mom and dad to ask what to do and daddy said to dig him back up myself (um…no) and mom said to just let the vultures eat him like some kinda fucked-up circle-of-life Tibetan Air Burial.  WTF? Mom is the worst Atheist ever.

Lisa: Now I can’t get The Lion King’s “Circle of Life” out of my head. Thanks for that.  You have a freezer you know, just push the Toaster Pastries to the side and toss him in there.  The next time Mom and Daddy come down they can take him home with them and Daddy can stuff him.  I think he would look super cute in a tiny leather jacket, riding a motorcycle.  Oh, or Zombie Barnaby Jones!  So there’s my vote.  Oh, and now, I totally need some Toaster Pastries.

Me: I just looked up “how to dispose of a corpse” on the internet so now I’m totally fucked if Victor turns up murdered.  Hey, did you know that quicklime doesn’t actually destroy a body?  Because I do.  Now.

I’ve called 10 animal removal/cremation places and none of them work over the weekend.  This is like when you can’t find a plumber on a Sunday, except worse because my dog is dead.

Lisa: Evidently you aren’t supposed to off your pet on the weekends.  Did you try taking him down to Frank’s Bait and Tacos?  I’m sure they would know what to do with him.  I’m only 1/2 way joking here.

Me: Oh! And the cat knocked over Hailey’s frog tank and killed them all.  So I’ve managed to kill 3 out of 5 pets in 24 hours.  That’s like the worst record ever.

Lisa: So did the fish die because the cat knocked over the tank and ate them, or did they just reverse drown?  They always say that deaths come in 3’s, so you should be good.

Me: I think they reverse drowned.  The cat’s not hungry, just…sort of evil.  I found one of the frogs my bathroom and it was desiccated but intact.  God knows where the other one is.  I’m sure the cat is probably saving it to put on Hailey’s pillow because this week just hasn’t been shitty enough.

PS.  Now I’ll never eat toaster pasteries again.  Awesome.

Lisa: More Toaster Pastries for meeeeeeeeeeee! Also, without the ‘Pickles’ at the end, his initials were BJ, and I just now figured that out.

me: This is all getting blogged.

Lisa: Cool. It’ll be kind of like an obituary, but with more frozen goodness.  (For the record, I’m referring to the Toaster Pastries, not Barnaby Jones.)

Me: Noted.