I have exactly one hour to sit down in front of this screen and type words into a browser, and because of that squeeze I’m experiencing the same panic-inducing anxiety that I developed over the last year or two when it came to updating this website. I desperately miss writing about my life and all the fucking absurdities that wiggle their way into almost every hour of it, but when a window of opportunity presents itself to do so I start to feel sick. And I’m feeling that way now, so excuse me and let me use two minutes to imitate the sound Marlo makes when she’s trying to convince me that she’s too ill to go to school. Oh, and I’ll also refuse to put on my shoes and throw my backpack across the room. And somehow blame Leta.
Coco is lonely without Chuck, has revealed a slightly more dour side to her personality. But what I have realized about her through Chuck’s absence is how good she is. Coco is a great dog. Phenomenal, even. I thought I knew this before, but I did not know this in any way whatsoever. I was an unknowing Coco Denier.
She’s gentle with kids, always happy to greet everyone (after the initial TSA-like screening if TSA probed your ass for any potential threat), obeys every command, watches over my girls as if they are her job, and never lifts her leg to pee on the couch because she’s feeling vindictive.
Although, whenever I look at the stains on my gorgeous Jonathan Adler Couch THAT I GOT FOR FREE BECAUSE OF MY BLOG YES OH YES AND I AM NOT ABOUT TO APOLOGIZE, I always experience a deep pang of sadness, never resentment. I’m hopeful that these pangs will eventually make me smile because those stains are the physical manifestation of Chuck’s gift to the world, his unparalleled ability as a dog to totally fuck with you.
Dane stopped by earlier this month to spend some time with Coco, a feast of attention she lapped up in squeals and shrieks and screeches of pure joy. Dane was and is by far Coco’s dearest friend.
He headed to Australia earlier this month for an internship through the Hinckley Institute of Politics, an endeavor that makes me even more proud of what he has overcome and endured, if that was possible in the first place. He’s participated in internships in Germany and Washington D.C., in places far away and lacking the comfort of the support system he has here. He like many of us suffers from an occasional debilitating darkness that can steal the ambition, the desire and, most devastatingly, the ability to enjoy these kinds of adventures. And here he is grabbing them, jumping in with abandon.
Ah, fall equinox. This could explain some of my anxiety.
He’s cataloging his experiences here if you’d like to follow along. It’s his way of keeping people updated if they want help offset the cost of this leg of the journey toward his eventual career. I love this kid so much.
Before he left I shared with him one of the many things I learned during the almost eight days I spent in Australia. Which was, dude. You are soooo going to wonder why the hell everyone is driving so slow. Like, serious goddamn turtles who just got stoned. You think you have bad road rage? My road rage will make your road rage look like Grandma’s vanilla pudding, Francis. Add that anger to the stress of figuring out how to drive on the wrong side of the car and the wrong side of the road and I must have looked like I was lip syncing satanic-inspired death metal behind that wheel.
Except, I guess THEY HAVE CAMERAS, DANE. And they are watching you. And apparently I’m going to get a hundred tickets in the mail because if they catch you with that camera going even one kilometer over the speed limit they get real pissed and send you a ticket. One. That’s the loneliest number, Dane. That’s the number just above zero. I can’t even eat just one Lay’s potato chip, and they expect me to obey a speed limit like I’m limited to less than one fucking potato chip.
Stop rationing potato chips AUSTRALIA.
Maybe if I blog about their Department of Transport they’ll waive whatever I’m gonna owe. What? I’m a mommy blogger. This shit happens all the time.