Yesterday's comment section was most dramatic. I got a migraine, and did not check them all night, so when I got up this morning, I was all...
Yesterday, I asked you what you wish your significant other was doing that he isn't, and we got some interesting responses, including, "I wish mine weren't dead." Which is awful. I felt bad for everyone who said that one. I would feel bad if Ned were dead. You know. -ish. Do I have to raise his cat? I'll bet I have to raise that fucking cat. Just what I need. Imagine if I were dead. Ned would be saddled with four new children, including Edsel!
One woman in the comments yesterday, Lonely Heart, commented, and I read her comment thoroughly and felt sad for her. Well, then ANOTHER commentor said she was angry that no one responded to Lonely Heart, and that my comment section is a giant clique, and I thought, "It is?"
Then YET ANOTHER commentor said, "Someone DID respond to Lonely Heart. Look at comment 117." And I thought, "There were 117 comments? Dang." I see the comments in my email, and rarely go to my actual blog page to look at them. In fact, I STILL haven't looked, so for all I know there WEREN'T that many and I'm making shit up.
Anyway, here's what I think, since you asked. I think people who've been commenting forever tend to respond to each other more often because they know each other well and know what they can get away with. Like, I knew I could tease Cheech about her poor dead boyfriend, and I know I can tease bettydh about having sex with her husband 47 times a week. I know they won't get mad.
As for supportive statements, I don't really go in for that sort of thing. I'm more the cynical, make-fun-of-you type. I know. I'm horrific. But it's the way of my people.
It's like that time my Aunt Sue won a bunch of money at the casino, and she called my Uncle Jim to tell him, and to let him know she was on her way home. Then later she called, really upset. "There's been an accident," she said. "The car tipped over. It was really scary. I thought I was gonna die."
My uncle said he sat on his end of the phone wondering how soon he could ask about the money. "How's the money? Is the money okay?" he wanted to ask. He knew inquiring right away would be crass. Ten minutes in? Would that be acceptable?
Finally, Aunt Sue said, "I didn't lose the money."
"Oh, who CARES about the money!" said Uncle Jim.
See. That's my bloodline. So.
And I have seen people, like Sadie, welcome new commentors, and I think we can all make an effort to be more welcoming to new people. Do I have to be kind and fake at first? Do I have to be all, "WELCOME!" or can I be all, "You got any treats?" Which is what Tallulah would say.
Oh, and Marvin commented for the first time in years. WELCOME, MARVIN! You got any treats?
Speaking of Tallulah, she and I schlepped her stigmata foot to the vet yesterday. You should see it. It's just this big hole in her footie. And a terrible rawness on her pad, too. Talu knows each trip to the vet means a Happy Meal after, so she was down with it.
When we got there, this old lady with a fat dog was CRAWLING into the lobby. I was just there to drop Lu off, and get her at noon, because work is particularly insane right now and I can't take time off. But you know how Lu is when shes's on a leash, and I just wanted this woman to whip in there and get a room. So to speak.
But no. She was all stopping and talking to her fat dog. And playing with him, and I'm all, "GET THE FUCK IN THERE WITH YER FAT DOG ALREADY." Finally, I choked up on Lu's leash and walked in, holding Lu zero inches from my body. I sort of shouted to the receptionist. "Yes, I'm here to drop off Tallulah?"
Of course they weren't ready yet. So I had to stand there and hope my dog didn't go over and murder Fat Dog in cold blood. Truth be told, she wasn't even acknowledging him, and it might be that Edsel brings it out in her, and vice versa.
Then of course someone came OUT of a room with a Schnauzer. She seems particularly hateful of Schnauzers. "GodDAMMIT," I thought, getting sweaty.
When some asshole with two teensy dogs walked in, and I like how I get mad at people for taking their dogs to the vet like I'm the ONLY ONE WHO HAS THE RIGHT, I shouted over to the receptionist again. "Can you just call us from the parking lot? My dog is gonna have a fit with all these dogs in here."
In the meantime, Talu was like this. She was calm as you please. I know I looked like a total asshole, but she gets one low growl going all of a sudden and then it's devil chaos dog.
"We can put you in a room right now," they said, and I know everyone in there thought I was an asshole, plus also THIS WAS A DROPOFF. But they did get her pretty quickly, and I got her at lunch and learned she has, um, something with lick in the title. Lickalottapuss or something. In other words, she liked a hole in her foot.
Now my dog is as neurotic as me. It was probably from allergies, which she's always had. Anyway, now she's getting drops, and antibiotics and pain meds. Poor Luis.
But then we went to McDonald's! I told the Millennials at work that's what I was doing, and you'd think I'd have said I was taking her out to a field and shooting her. "So, she gets a clean bill of health and you take two years off her life."
Oh, fuck you. One little Happy Meal a year won't kill her. She dines on cat poop on the regular. Oh, but a HAPPY MEAL. People need to calm down.
Here's Lu, all Happy Meal anticipatory.
Have you ever tried holding half a hamburger in one hand and photographing your eager dog with the other? Do you people even appreciate what I do for you? Do you? It's all for you, Damien. All for you.
Last night, when I was felled with that migraine, Ned brought me some ice and my pills and sat next to the bed. "What'd you do to get a migraine?" he asked. "Did you eat anything bad?"
"No," I said, my hand dramatically resting on my head.
"What'd you eat today?"
"Well, for lunch, Tallulah and I had Happy Meals."
"Wow. What about dinner?"
"I had Spaghetti-Os."
Ned shut off the light and left the room.