Back when I first became a blogging person, in eighteen aught six, someone told me about another funny blogger named Miss Doxie.
What I just did, there, was call myself “funny” again, and that’s twice in a row, now. But I’ve only called myself funny twice since eighteen aught six, so that’s saying something.
The point is, I took to reading the Miss Doxie, and I was what you’d call a big fan. Oh, she was hilarious, and like me, was also incredibly successful and ridiculously pretty.
The day June lost eighteeen aught six readers.
Eventually, Miss Doxie and her long-term boyfriend, who never deserved her, broke up, and she met a new boy, who did. Deserve her, I mean. Whereas the first guy was not as…pretty as she was and also was a commitmentphobe, the new guy was cute cute cute, and proposed in less than two years, I think it was.
Oh, it was exciting when he proposed. So there I was, all caught up in someone else’s life story, and her wedding day was almost as exciting as my own.
She got married in a cemetery, and Dear Miss Doxie: I stole this off the internet please do not arrest me.
The point is, she was someone whose blog I read and occasionally commented on, and then one day in 2011 I was at my lawyer’s office, commencing to get a divorce and I get an email from her.
From her! From Miss Doxie!
I can’t recall what it said, exactly, but I know she told me she read MY stupid blog, and boom, there it was. We became friends. I visited her in Atlanta later that year, and we stayed in touch, and she’d say, You have to come back and visit, and I’d say yeah.
This weekend, she had her annual oh-my-god-this-woman-loves-Halloween Halloween party, and she invited me, and I said, You know what? Hell yes Ima go. So I slapped on some antlers and drove six hours.
I went as Frida Kahlo. I mean, for Halloween. Not as a houseguest. Yes, I’ll come visit, but you must call me Frida all weekend.
If you’re not familiar with Frida, and really?, you may wonder why I had the antlers going. Sometimes she painted herself with antlers, but I did not have time to search for Frida photos for very long, because it turns out I took 168 pictures this weekend, which took 800 years to upload, it took eighteen aught six hours to upload and oh my god now I’m in a hurry.
Miss Doxie had moved since I last visited, but as I pulled onto her street, I pretty much knew I’d found her house.
No scary stone was left unturned, man. Miss Doxie is in the details.
The best part was, you never knew which thing was just gonna START ANIMATING when you walked up to it. A bear rug would start roaring and glowing red-eyed at you. A fucking creepy-ass doll would follow you and whisper.
Or, for that matter…
I got to stay in the guest house, which was pretty cool, man. Miss Doxie is an excellent hostess, on top of all the other, you know, positive qualities and so forth. I eventually retired there to get ready for the shindig, because I’m from eighteen aught six. The jamboree. The gala.
I remember somebody once telling me that getting ready for the prom was the most fun part of prom. I kind of feel that way about getting ready for a party. This part is just so anticipatory.
One hour of makeup, three hours of shopping at basic-girl stores for jewelry, half an hour of Amazon shopping for antlers and flowers, and zero time spent at the waxer this month, and fin. I am Frida. Where is my Diego?
I was pretty pleased with other people’s costumes, and it should be noted that Doxie’s bartender came, which slayed me, and he was downstairs at her bar and said, “Let me make you an old-fashioned.” Who was I to argue? I’ll tell you who I was to argue. How about an adult who should know her limits? Maybe that’s who I coulda been. Later, a friend of Doxie’s said, Let me make you a spiced rum-and-cider drink. Who was I to argue?Oh, June. That’s not actually a person, June.
I was having a high time, till somewhere around midnight, that six-hour drive and oh, possibly the eight gallons of alcohol hit me, and I was bone tired. Tired. In m’bones. I tried to go tell Doxie I was wandering back to my Fonzie guest house, but she was saying goodbye to people at the door.
I got in my pajamas and as I told her the next day, left a Shroud of Turin on her washcloth, washing off that Frida makeup.
I was just drifting off when my phone buzzed. “We’re just girls left, and we’re having girl wine!” Doxie texted me. “I’m already in my pa” I wrote back, then fell into a dead sleep till morning.
Turns out, she stayed up till 4. FOUR! Who is a pussy? Is it me?
Even little girls drank harder than me. Had I had any more alcohol, I’d have been less Oz and more paging Dr. Oz. So.
The point is, I survived, and got to kibitz with her dogs, and her spouse, and her people, and it was so worth driving 12 hours in one weekend.
And the possible alcohol poisoning.
Now tomorrow I gotta, you know, put that outfit on again, as it is actually Halloween.
But I can do it. I’m not a Frida-cat.