Where the Wild Rose Grows

AB is Brilliant, But I Am Not

Well, it must be said, again, that AB is the most beautiful, talented, sassy, and stylish web designer anywhere on the ol’ world wide web. Thank you, AB, for the gorgeous site! Thank you for the working comments! Thank you for giving me the ability to (gasp) upload PICTURES, actual PICTURES, onto this site, which will invariably lead to seven million photo essay entries, and doesn’t that just make everyone…happy? Yes! Of COURSE it does. YAY AB! Everyone go hire her to do y’all’s own sites now, so she can make a million dollars and whisk me off to Tahiti.

So, missdoxie.com is growing up. We are officially in our third generation, people, and doesn’t that make you kind of…proud? We’re getting Big! I mean, I still do not know what a “gig” is, but we will overlook that kind of thing.

Sadly, as growing cannot be done without a certain amount of pain, there is also the unfortunate matter of my email. Being that I am an idiot who doesn’t understand words like “gig” or “ports” or “portals”, I successfully deleted about one million email messages when I was trying to set up my new account. Those include interesting messages from people like yourselves, possibly even YOU, sending me interesting facts about craft things, and your weird dreams, and all manner of wonderfulness. I deleted ALL of these. So please do not think I am ignoring you, but if you sent me an email in the past two weeks or so…well. I lost it. It has left this world and gone to live with Jesus and all the missing socks, and I will therefore ask you to kindly resend. Especially if it was something interesting. I don’t have enough entertainment in my life, and I am relying on you to fill that void. Hop to!

Also! Please kindly note my new About Me page, which is updated with a picture Dukay hates. Apparently, I am in big trouble for not displaying a more flattering image of him, but I am not afraid of Dukay. When I find a picture that meets his High Standards of Whatever the Hell, then we will change it out. (Or, to put it more specifically, AB will change it out. You think I know how to do that? HA! Nope.) Also, AB created pretty new archives, making it much easier to access all of those old, pre-MT entries, if you were so inclined. It’s all very professional and shiny and new.

SO. Now that I have a new website, bet you were thinking I would…write something on it. Weren’t you.

Weren’t we all, really?

But I waited for a while, in part because I was afraid of logging in to movable type, fully convinced that I would do so and somehow manage to delete everything AB had done, and that she would then kill me. I am not afraid of Dukay, but I do not want AB after me. She may be small, but she could kick my ass six ways from Sunday, and I do not need that kind of fear in my life.

But, now that I’ve been given the go-ahead by AB herself, I have, of course, forgotten all of those things I wanted to write about over the past few days. And, kind of a lot has happened, some of which was funny to me, and I wanted to write about it, but…hmmm. Gone from the brain.

And I was sitting here, imagining my individual brain cells, hanging out somewhere else, smoking itty bitty vials of crack or whatever, when I was immediately reminded that this weekend, Dukay and I went to go visit his grandmother Mimi in South Carolina. (No, wait. Seriously, this will all come together, I swear.) And we love Mimi. Mimi is one of those grand old Southern women who speaks with a low, drawling accent, and lives alone, taking care of her damn self despite the fact that she is at least 88 million years old.

When you are 88 million years old, you do not mince words. Accordingly, to my endless delight, Mimi is always telling Dukay that he is full of shit. Dukay will say something, and she’ll just shake her fist at him. “You’re full of shit,” she’ll holler. This fills me with glee. “He is!” I immediately agree. “He is absolutely full of shit. I thank you and your wisdom for acknowledging this fact.”

On Saturday night, when Dukay started talking about his future plans, Mimi waved her hand and cut him off.

“Don’t you be smokin’ those cigarettes and makin’ those big plans,” she told him.

And when Dukay told her about eventually switching careers, she had a similar response:

“Don’t you be smokin’ those cigarettes,” she said, shaking her head. “Oh, no. Oh no, no, no, no. Don’t you be smokin’ THOSE cigarettes.”

We have no idea what this means, but we find it enchanting. “Don’t go smoking those cigarettes, Dukay,” I tell him later on, as he tries to decide on a parking place. “Don’t you go smokin’ those cigarettes and parking here.”

This is a fabulous thing to say, and I encourage all of you to use it liberally. “Don’t you go smokin’ those cigarettes and forgettin’ what you were gonna write about,” you might say to me. Or you might say, “Don’t you go smokin’ those cigarettes and post yet another entry about nothin’ at all.”

So, considering the fact that those lonely little brain cells o’ mine are apparently smokin’ those cigarettes and refusing to cough up my memories of funny shit, we are going to do something New, a Kick Off for the new site, if you will, and for the first and probably ONLY time ever, I am taking requests.

Yes! Just like on the radio.

I get emails all the time asking me to write more about the dogs, no, write LESS about the dogs and more about Dukay, NO, write LESS about Dukay and more about your sister, NO, WRITE NOTHING, but post pictures of the dogs, NO, JUST LEAVE THE INTERNET FOREVER, GOD. And it is all very confusing.

So today, y’all decide. What do you want to hear about? Lord knows I have a story about everything. Y’all give me a subject, and whichever seems to garner the most support will result in an entry, probably tomorrow (heh. We’ll see), and it will be all about WHATEVER THE HELL YOU WANT.

This is so democratic! Now, comment away. But don’t you go smokin’ those cigarettes. You’ll forget what you were going to say.

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 Hamburger,
A Cheeseburger,
A Happy Meal.

Mc Nuggets,
Tasty Golden French Fries,
Regular or Larger Size,
And Salads: Chef or Garden,
Or a Chicken Salad Oriental.

Big Big Breakfast,
Egg McMuffin,
Hot Hot Cakes,
and Sausage.

Maybe Biscuits,
Bacon, Egg and Cheese,
A Sausage,
Hash Browns too.

And for Dessert
Hot Apple Pies,
And Sundaes
three varieties,
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.

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