Bodhisattva

Well, this is a first.

It's currently 1:11 AM, and I was recently asleep like any normal person would be at this hour, when something unusual happened: I was roused by the sound of a kind of violent crying--sobbing, actually--that turned out to be coming from me. I don't know how long I had been just blubbering away in my sleep or what finally woke me up, but anyway, it happened, and now I can't sleep. So here I am.

Even though the mechanics of sleep blubbering are somewhat mysterious to me, the reason for my sleep blubbering is not. Ruby, my dog and dear friend, isn't doing so hot. I think I'm probably going to have to help her out with the actual death part of dying--probably pretty soon--and the thing is I just don't think I'm brave enough to do it.

People are always making wild and unsubstantiated declarations about the specialness of their pets; dogs especially. I happen to think that in general, one dog is very much like every other dog: furry, optimistic, driven by an insane appetite for human love and garbage. Ruby, however, is a bodhisattva. She is a pure, wise, compassionate soul and there's not anybody like her.

When I first met Ruby, it was impossible for me to have a dog. I was 21, living in a house that didn't allow dogs, and I didn't have any money. Ruby was 4 months old, had paws the size of dinner plates and was severely--severely--incontinent. But there was nothing I could do about it being impossible. Because Ruby's the closest I've ever come to love at first sight.

So, I took Ruby and named her and got her a red collar with a tag that said "Hey! I'm Ruby!" on it. No phone number or address because I didn't have one. For a while my boyfriend kept her at the farm he was working on. One winter Ruby and I slept in different peoples' yards in a one-person tent. I flew her to Georgia after I graduated from college and she pooped in airport in front of a whole bunch of horrified bystanders (Jane almost died laughing). The time I got divorced, I lost her for a year and a half, but I got her back in the end. Once she got food poisoning from eating out of the dumpster behind the frat house on Nacoochee Ave. and she had to get these fluids injected into her back that made her look like a camel. One time my mom's dog Beezie caught and killed a young deer in the pasture behind the house, and Ruby ate almost the entire thing before Mom found her. She looked like she had swallowed a 20 pound sack of potatoes.

One time I picked Ruby up at the airport in Bozeman, Montana after that year-and-a-half separation. She traveled in a giant crate and I watched them unload it from the plane and drive it across the tarmac on a little motorized cart. When I unlocked the crate, she exploded out the door and ran a couple big circles around me. But after she calmed down, I knelt down in front of her and she sat on her haunches in front of me and put one of her enormous paws on each of my shoulders, and licked my nose.

"Let's not waste any more time not being together," she said with her big, brown cow eyes.

"Agreed," I said with my regular human voice.

That's our standing agreement. I'm just not sure what to do now.

Presents!

You guys, I have at last discovered the Number One reason to keep writing this blog, which is presents.

Yes, presents.

Friends, I have received a gift from an anonymous benefactor. You'll remember that in my last post, I mentioned that my hair was looking all bedraggled due to the fact that I ran out of the virgin unicorn spit that I use to make my hair so supernaturally soft and voluminous. And virgin unicorn spit is expensive on account of it being so difficult to harvest. Veeery difficult. (The process is pictured above. They basically have to wring it out of that girl's Pashmina once the unicorn is finished slobbering on her bosom.)

Anyway, imagine my surprise when Bryan called today to let me know I got a package in the mail. And ya'll. Somebody has sent me 3.5 ounces virgin unicorn spit. Anonymously!!

Whoever you are, thank you from the follicles to the tips of my soon-to-be-lustrous mane.

To the rest of you lowlifes: if you appreciate this service, you too can begin compensating me for my time with beauty products.

I expect presents from now on. I am so serious.

Pros/Cons

WARNING: This blog post is not recommended for those suffering from seizure disorders or an aversion to Lindsey Buckingham.

Con: It's getting cold. Which means Not Summer is approaching.

Pro: I just had a really nice weekend all to myself.

Con: Well, the strap on my purse broke because it's cheap and isn't Man Enough to carry all of my stuff which usually includes a bike chain, a gallon of water and a foozball table. But whatever, STEVE MADDEN.

Pro: Tomorrow is Bryan's and my 3rd wedding anniversary!

Con: We can't go out for a romantic candlelit dinner because he has to work on a grant proposal.

Pro: But Audrey will be here from Texas on Friday!

Con: But she isn't going to stay with us because our elderly dog, Ruby, has a soft-ball-sized rotting tumorous pustule on her shoulder that makes her smell like she took a bath in a week-old elephant carcass.

Pro: But at least she's alive for a little while longer.

Con: But....

Pro: My friend Erica is currently overreacting about this particular situation so I don't have to. (Update: Erica texted me this weekend: "You son of a bitch. You said that I'm over reacting about The Bear!? What's in my heart is true!" So now I feel remorseful. Rubybear has touched the hearts of many.)

Con: My hair is all bedraggled because I ran out of my special magical hair beautifier. And I'm too broke to buy more.

Pro: It's sleeping, snuggling and down comforter weather.

Con:

Pro:

(whatever--you know you've always wanted to karaoke this shit.)

Jimmy Au

Friends, I take up my little white laptop to raise a delicate subject, never before addressed in these hallowed interweb pages. That is the topic of my husband's height.

That's right! Shit just got real.

Here's the deal: I am married to possibly the handsomest man I know. Bryan is gorgeous like what would happen if Johnny Depp and Keanu Reeves from 1995 had a baby. He is also 5'6 and weighs 130 lbs in a soaking wet track suit.

So, yeah. My man is petite, which I don't generally notice except when it makes me feel like a Clydesdale. I am 5'8 before I put socks on in the morning, and my ancestors were Scottish peasants who evidently had Stegosaurus bones. When he was my age, my dad looked like Zeus. He threw lightning bolts at us when we were bad. I'm lucky I made it out of that gene pool as femininely petite as I did.

ANYway, Bryan is short. He very rarely talks about his height, and seems genuinely unconcerned with it. However, when you are a smallish man, it is tough to find clothes that fit, and that is why he wears cutoff jean shorts. Every. Single. Day. And they all basically look like this:

So, when we got married, I was all "You are NOT getting married in cutoffs." And Bryan was all "But whyyyyyyyyyy?" And then I put the hammer down and made him go look for a suit with his sister Abby.

Now, to be fair, I had no idea how difficult this would be. I know Bryan hates to shop for anything, including groceries. But I thought he would have more fun with Abby than he would with me, plus I was like "How hard could it be to find a suit? There are like 800 stores in Atlanta--at least one of them has a stylish and flattering suit for my husband to get married in." Well, it turns out I'm wrong sometimes.

I sent them on their way at around 10 AM on a Sunday morning and got a call from Abby around 4 telling me to come over to the Jos. A Banks near Phipp's Plaza because Bryan was about to buy something. So, I went over there. I walked in the door. I looked around and couldn't find Bryan. It turned out it was because he had been swallowed by pile of charcoal herringbone wool.

I will not emasculate my husband with a description of what he looked like in this suit, but I'll just say it was too big for him. Abby was understandably frazzled and Bryan looked like he might have the capability to shoot weapons-grade lasers from his pupils. They had not had a good time. Bryan literally had his credit card out and was handing it to the man at the counter when I stayed his hand. This was a delicate moment in my relationship with Bryan's family because they were all there, were all encouraging him by telling him how dashing he looked. Plus Abby had spent the whole day engaged in a futile search with her grumpy brother. And I was like "Ya'll, he looks like a 9-year-old Bible salesman. We can find something better."

Abby and Bryan refused to ride in the same car with me on the way home. Bryan forgave me that day, but I think it took Abby a couple of weeks.

So, I did a bit of light Googling that evening and found out that while there are over 100,000 Big and Tall men's clothing stores in America, only a handful of stores in the country are dedicated to dressing short men. I found the number for one of them in Beverly Hills, and called it.

A woman who didn't speak super duper good English answered the phone "Jimmy Au's." I just launched into my story like I was calling a suicide hotline. I told the woman about the whole day, that I was frustrated, that my fiancee was short and needed a suit for our wedding, and I couldn't accept the fact that he had to look ridiculous in order to look nice.

"I think you need to talk to Jimmy," the woman said. For a couple of minutes, all I heard was a muffled conversation in Chinese, and the next voice I heard was an older Chinese gentleman who sounded like a chorus of angels.

"Thank God you find me," he said.

Thank God indeed. All he needed to know what Bryan's height and weight.

"Okay Okay, I send you suit." he said.

"Um, are you sure? Do you want me to measure him or anything?"

Jimmy Au laughed. "No, no. I just send you suit and shirt. Tom Cruise come here and buy suit for Oscar. I send you nice Tom Cruise suit."

And you guys, a few days later we got the most exquisite, stylish wool suit in the mail. It fit Bryan perfectly.

In conclusion, today my friend Ben who works in my office came in with a magazine clipping for me. Ben loves Jimmy Au and the and very nearly peed himself with glee when he found THIS ARTICLE in the Fashion Week issue of The New Yorker.

Thank God he find it!

It's f$%^ing fall!

I sincerely apologize to those of my readers who dislike extremely salty gangsta language. Please, please do not read any farther if this is the case.

So, I almost die laughing every October when I reread this here mini essay from McSweeny's. I don't know who the guy is who wrote it or why it tickles me so, but it does. I wanted to share it with those of you who are man enough to take it (oh yes--and even you may want to have your smelling salts at hand). Because it's fall outside, you guys, and it makes me want to decorate some shit with gourds!

IT'S DECORATIVE GOURD SEASON, MOTHERFUCKERS.
BY COLIN NISSAN

I don't know about you, but I can't wait to get my hands on some fucking gourds and arrange them in a horn-shaped basket on my dining room table. That shit is going to look so seasonal. I'm about to head up to the attic right now to find that wicker fucker, dust it off, and jam it with an insanely ornate assortment of shellacked vegetables. When my guests come over it's gonna be like, BLAMMO! Check out my shellacked decorative vegetables, assholes. Guess what season it is—fucking fall. There's a nip in the air and my house is full of mutant fucking squash.

I may even throw some multi-colored leaves into the mix, all haphazard like a crisp October breeze just blew through and fucked that shit up. Then I'm going to get to work on making a beautiful fucking gourd necklace for myself. People are going to be like, "Aren't those gourds straining your neck?" And I'm just going to thread another gourd onto my necklace without breaking their gaze and quietly reply, "It's fall, fuckfaces. You're either ready to reap this freaky-assed harvest or you're not."

Carving orange pumpkins sounds like a pretty fitting way to ring in the season. You know what else does? Performing an all-gourd reenactment of an episode of Diff'rent Strokes—specifically the one when Arnold and Dudley experience a disturbing brush with sexual molestation. Well, this shit just got real, didn't it? Felonies and gourds have one very important commonality: they're both extremely fucking real. Sorry if that's upsetting, but I'm not doing you any favors by shielding you from this anymore.

Have you ever been in an Italian deli with salamis hanging from their ceiling? Well then you're going to fucking love my house. Just look where you're walking or you'll get KO'd by the gauntlet of misshapen, zucchini-descendant bastards swinging from above. And when you do, you're going to hear a very loud, very stereotypical Italian laugh coming from me. Consider yourself warned.

For now, all I plan to do is to throw on a flannel shirt, some tattered overalls, and a floppy fucking hat and stand in the middle of a cornfield for a few days. The first crow that tries to land on me is going to get his avian ass bitch-slapped all the way back to summer.

Welcome to autumn, fuckheads!

Dislikes

I'm not in a bad mood, I promise.

But today I was driving down Milledge Ave and saw that the antique store on the corner of Hancock had a bunch of Adirondack chairs on the front porch. And I thought to myself, "Those bad boys are seriously uncomfortable."

And so, I kept driving and sort of unconsciously started making a mental list of all the things I dislike. Not hate. The things I hate include children getting blown up by landmines and the fact that some people starve to death. Destructive, evil, unnecessary things. The following I just find mildly irritating. In no particular order, here are 20 of Today's Dislikes*:

• Adirondack Chairs
• ambient music (I don't care if it IS Brian Eno)
• liver (I can still taste it)
• short stories in The New Yorker
• this advertisement**:
• when people call their car or truck their "vehicle," as in "I left my mobile phone out in my vehicle."
• flimsy handshakes
• men with Australian accents
• this book Odessa has called Guess How Much I Love You
• horror movies
• the fact that my calves are too big for tall boots
• the nap you take after Thanksgiving dinner that results in groggy-bubbly gut.
• folding and putting away clothes/doing dishes/vacuuming/"tidying"
• those chocolate oranges you get in your Christmas stocking
• when you're minding your own business and all of a sudden you're informed that it will be necessary to roll play.
• Thunder Pants, which are those little bloomers that come with every single baby dress you buy, but which just end up piled in the corner of the drawer and never worn.
  
• things that are monogrammed in general, but particularly in this font:
• being woken up, particularly in the morning
• most white foods that are also gelatinous (ie. mayonnaise, sour cream, tapioca pudding, etc.)
• Peter Frampton

So there it is. My list of things I don't like today. What is it you dislike today?

*Today's Dislikes are subject to change after 11:59 PM on October 5th, 2010.

**I very nearly hate this ad. I consider it revolting.

they just grow up so fast

On the first Sunday of October, 2009, I started this blog. On that same day, this photo was taken of me and baby Odessa:

And here's one from yesterday, the first Sunday of October, 2010:

She is HUGE, you guys. You should feel my bicep muscles, because they are BANGIN' from picking up a 25 lb lump of love and affection 20 times a day.

But anyway, I wanted to thank you guys for reading my wordy words this past year. You are delightful like a cute little baby that I birthed myself. If I have enough chutzpah to keep it up another year, how sweet the victory will be!

Yours in flagrant exhibitionism,

Jesslyn