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.
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.
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.
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 Doctorand 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.
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?
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.