The Things I Don't Post on Here... for Various Reasons
So many times throughout the day I think of things I could be writing about on here. I think of them at work, before work, when waking up, when going to sleep, when I am dreaming, and most funny when I am drinking. For the most part the ideas seem to run straight out of my head. A head that run’s 100,000 a minute, and regardless of the times they have put me on anxiety medicine or Adult ADD medicine they just keep racing by. However, when on the medicine the thoughts still race by and I also get to experience great things such as racing thoughts, and the idea that I could shit myself at any second. Or, racing thoughts, along with nightmares, shortness of breath, nausea or vomiting. The kind of vomiting that does not happen as a result of a bad gag reflex when brushing your teeth, but the kind that makes you pull your car over to heave anywhere but in your lap at 5:00 pm even before you make it to happy hour. Getting my brain to stop or even just slow down is next to impossible for me. So in an active effort not to shit myself, or go even crazier, I opted a few years ago not to take these prescribed medicines. The result; Lots of good ideas lost, lots of lost sleep, and lots of big ideas I never follow through with. Most of all I love it when I wake up from a night of drinking to find words scrawled all over everything in my purse and my body. On my hand it might read “Cousin/Ladder” on the match book I read “library mystery not book” and on the old target receipts I usually find thing like” Fuck you,” “stick it to them,” or “I love hippies because of the Clash= band not the purple and red pants.” Ideas which, at the time I knew were good. And not as in- hey I’m drunk it’s a good idea to kick over mail boxes while simultaneously calling every ex boyfriend I have ever had- but more in the way I can promise each and every one of you that I knew they were good ideas I just forgot them, or how to decipher my notes of them later. Note to reader: this is not all a result of drinking as I often cannot read my sober “to do” lists as they mention things such as: “Socks taken in” “Call Number” Figure this out” and “Dad”.
This is simply how my brain works. Smart enough to come up with things, too stupid to remember to make good notes. Too freaked out to take medicine that potentially makes me brown in my pants.
Regardless of the above issues I notice most recently that I leave out good stories. Stories I want to write about on here but don’t because
1. I forget them
2. I can’t decipher the notes
3. I am so excited to tell another story that I leave a good one out
And #4. most importantly I just don’t think it’s funny enough for you all
I used to write what ever I wanted on here. And now more of you read this. And more importantly, more of you that know me in the real world read this. And some of you read this, and don’t have any idea, I know you read this. So, sharing who “I” am becomes a different story. When ever anyone writes online for a time they develop a “personality.” Something the reader expects to read when they come to the site. And shit, I’m not saying a thousand people come here a day but I know for sure most of you expect some kind of laugh. So I tend to skip the stories that are not necessarily laughable.
So after the longest explanation ever I give you the lost dog story I briefly mentioned yesterday, in order to make room for the “Things On My Tard” story.
I said once before I would never mention my divorce again. Mostly because the whole scenario of the marriage was strange and also because I don’t really believe in airing out some one else’s dirty laundry online. The bottom line being, I was married to a very amazing person who happened to be the opposite of myself in ways in which it just could not possibly work.
One of those differences was apparent the first time I found a lost dog. We were living in a house here in St. Louis and had two dogs of our own. I was outside on the porch smoking, (because I smoke, and yes I should quit, but no I am not going to. Not yet.) I was home alone +2 dogs and I saw a dog wandering around outside. This was a dog that was obviously someone’s. It was groomed well, clean, and well behaved. I got the dog into my backyard. I was careful about doing so, because I am not totally stupid. Stray dog secure in my yard I called the husband. The husband that was responsible, and safe. So safe my family and friends called him “Safety Patrol” and mind you, to his face because my family is loud mouths, and my friends are bitches. He immediately told me how crazy I was and this dog could have rabies or be aggressive, or fleas, or maybe he mentioned herpes but I wasn’t listening at this point, because I didn’t care, all I knew was there was a lost scared dog and he needed his mommy, and more than he needed his mommy I knew somewhere out there his mommy needed him. I hung up with my husband after I suggested we keep him over night to see if anyone was looking for him. He politely declined my offer, mostly because we didn’t even know if this dog was packing heat and he might shoot us in our sleep. Or he could be a trained jewelry stealer and could quite possibly take not only my wedding ring off my finger but manage to coax some other dog into getting my dead grandmothers wedding ring out of the fire proof box that was locked and labeled “Shit you don’t want to steal/dirty socks” that was hidden in the closet under the box of coats, old bills, and porno’s of his my mother found while helping us move in.
This dog was not allowed in my house, and I am not going to say he was wrong because in reality “safety patrol” in his own way was protecting me and our two puppies. Mostly though, he was undermining my ability to make a decision. And more importantly he wanted me to let go someone’s baby.
I sat outside with the dog until a torrential downpour and then I realized, as I sat there watching her-or him (never checked) shake down to the bone that we perhaps had different ideas on life. That I lived for the moment. That even if this dog bit me on my face or mauled me until I was screaming uncle, (even though all my uncles lived in different states and were to far away to hear my calls of mercy,) that I couldn’t leave someone’s baby all alone because I was scared of a little dog herpes, fleas, or bites.
I put the dog on a leash and walked it for over and hour all over my neighborhood. Hoping that at some point it would recognize where it was and lead me to it’s home. When I was soaked, and cold and out of hope I returned home. I did the only thing I could do at that time. I put the dog in my car, against my husbands wishes, and drove it to the shelter. I begged them to call me if they didn’t find the owner, knowing that this wouldn’t work as it is against the policy of 99.9 percent of shelters. I left it there. And I drove home and cried. Cried because someone’s baby was going to spend a night without them, and that could have easily been MY baby. And I did it not because I wanted to, but I did it because of someone else’s fear.
Life is very different now. Yesterday I was at a coffee shop a few miles from my house with Tom. I was getting some work done and he was busy staring out the window because he can stare at things for hours in complete peace, where as I have to have the radio, TV, oven, computer with 40 websites open and a party of people playing twister in my living room before I can get any peace. After a while he left me there to go to the bank. On his way back he found a dog in the street and called me. What follows is proof that my life is different now.
Tom: I was driving and there was this dog in the road.
Me: Go Get Him!
Tom: I have him… he doesn’t have tags.
Me: Be careful… he could be mean (the silly things I learned from “Safety Patrol”)
Tom: No he’s really nice… he’s someone’s dog, someone is missing this guy
Me: Guy? Is the first thing you did was look for weiner? You are such a guy
Tom: Really… what do I do with him? I can’t leave him here
Me: Put him in the car and bring him to me
He did. He did because he loves my babies as much as I do. He did because he isn’t afraid of living, and doing what is right. He did because he knows what love is and what loss is.
Her name was Ginger. I found out when I drove her around looking for a vet to see if she was chipped. Her name was Ginger she was ten years old and walked over fifteen miles form where she lived to where we found her.
As I waited in the car for her owner to come get her I called Tom
Me: Her dad is on the way
Tom: I love you
Me: I love you also
And right before I hung up
Tom: Tell Ginger I love her
Me: You lover her? You don’t even know her…
Tom: Tell Ginger I love her
Then I think I called him dumb or something and hung up. But deep down it felt nice to be with someone who has compassion for all things.
This is simply how my brain works. Smart enough to come up with things, too stupid to remember to make good notes. Too freaked out to take medicine that potentially makes me brown in my pants.
Regardless of the above issues I notice most recently that I leave out good stories. Stories I want to write about on here but don’t because
1. I forget them
2. I can’t decipher the notes
3. I am so excited to tell another story that I leave a good one out
And #4. most importantly I just don’t think it’s funny enough for you all
I used to write what ever I wanted on here. And now more of you read this. And more importantly, more of you that know me in the real world read this. And some of you read this, and don’t have any idea, I know you read this. So, sharing who “I” am becomes a different story. When ever anyone writes online for a time they develop a “personality.” Something the reader expects to read when they come to the site. And shit, I’m not saying a thousand people come here a day but I know for sure most of you expect some kind of laugh. So I tend to skip the stories that are not necessarily laughable.
So after the longest explanation ever I give you the lost dog story I briefly mentioned yesterday, in order to make room for the “Things On My Tard” story.
I said once before I would never mention my divorce again. Mostly because the whole scenario of the marriage was strange and also because I don’t really believe in airing out some one else’s dirty laundry online. The bottom line being, I was married to a very amazing person who happened to be the opposite of myself in ways in which it just could not possibly work.
One of those differences was apparent the first time I found a lost dog. We were living in a house here in St. Louis and had two dogs of our own. I was outside on the porch smoking, (because I smoke, and yes I should quit, but no I am not going to. Not yet.) I was home alone +2 dogs and I saw a dog wandering around outside. This was a dog that was obviously someone’s. It was groomed well, clean, and well behaved. I got the dog into my backyard. I was careful about doing so, because I am not totally stupid. Stray dog secure in my yard I called the husband. The husband that was responsible, and safe. So safe my family and friends called him “Safety Patrol” and mind you, to his face because my family is loud mouths, and my friends are bitches. He immediately told me how crazy I was and this dog could have rabies or be aggressive, or fleas, or maybe he mentioned herpes but I wasn’t listening at this point, because I didn’t care, all I knew was there was a lost scared dog and he needed his mommy, and more than he needed his mommy I knew somewhere out there his mommy needed him. I hung up with my husband after I suggested we keep him over night to see if anyone was looking for him. He politely declined my offer, mostly because we didn’t even know if this dog was packing heat and he might shoot us in our sleep. Or he could be a trained jewelry stealer and could quite possibly take not only my wedding ring off my finger but manage to coax some other dog into getting my dead grandmothers wedding ring out of the fire proof box that was locked and labeled “Shit you don’t want to steal/dirty socks” that was hidden in the closet under the box of coats, old bills, and porno’s of his my mother found while helping us move in.
This dog was not allowed in my house, and I am not going to say he was wrong because in reality “safety patrol” in his own way was protecting me and our two puppies. Mostly though, he was undermining my ability to make a decision. And more importantly he wanted me to let go someone’s baby.
I sat outside with the dog until a torrential downpour and then I realized, as I sat there watching her-or him (never checked) shake down to the bone that we perhaps had different ideas on life. That I lived for the moment. That even if this dog bit me on my face or mauled me until I was screaming uncle, (even though all my uncles lived in different states and were to far away to hear my calls of mercy,) that I couldn’t leave someone’s baby all alone because I was scared of a little dog herpes, fleas, or bites.
I put the dog on a leash and walked it for over and hour all over my neighborhood. Hoping that at some point it would recognize where it was and lead me to it’s home. When I was soaked, and cold and out of hope I returned home. I did the only thing I could do at that time. I put the dog in my car, against my husbands wishes, and drove it to the shelter. I begged them to call me if they didn’t find the owner, knowing that this wouldn’t work as it is against the policy of 99.9 percent of shelters. I left it there. And I drove home and cried. Cried because someone’s baby was going to spend a night without them, and that could have easily been MY baby. And I did it not because I wanted to, but I did it because of someone else’s fear.
Life is very different now. Yesterday I was at a coffee shop a few miles from my house with Tom. I was getting some work done and he was busy staring out the window because he can stare at things for hours in complete peace, where as I have to have the radio, TV, oven, computer with 40 websites open and a party of people playing twister in my living room before I can get any peace. After a while he left me there to go to the bank. On his way back he found a dog in the street and called me. What follows is proof that my life is different now.
Tom: I was driving and there was this dog in the road.
Me: Go Get Him!
Tom: I have him… he doesn’t have tags.
Me: Be careful… he could be mean (the silly things I learned from “Safety Patrol”)
Tom: No he’s really nice… he’s someone’s dog, someone is missing this guy
Me: Guy? Is the first thing you did was look for weiner? You are such a guy
Tom: Really… what do I do with him? I can’t leave him here
Me: Put him in the car and bring him to me
He did. He did because he loves my babies as much as I do. He did because he isn’t afraid of living, and doing what is right. He did because he knows what love is and what loss is.
Her name was Ginger. I found out when I drove her around looking for a vet to see if she was chipped. Her name was Ginger she was ten years old and walked over fifteen miles form where she lived to where we found her.
As I waited in the car for her owner to come get her I called Tom
Me: Her dad is on the way
Tom: I love you
Me: I love you also
And right before I hung up
Tom: Tell Ginger I love her
Me: You lover her? You don’t even know her…
Tom: Tell Ginger I love her
Then I think I called him dumb or something and hung up. But deep down it felt nice to be with someone who has compassion for all things.
posted by KatieLauren at
10:40 PM
7 Comments:
I love this. I love the story and I love the outcome!
Obviously you are my kind of person! I could never leave a stray animal in the street either.
I kind of know what you mean about having all these great ideas for posts, but forgetting them almost as soon as I think of them. I've never had to be on meds but yeah, who the hell needs a drug that makes you squirt in your shorts and yack your lunch? Big pass.
I've just started reading you, so I don't have an expectation of being amused. I think you should tell the stories that you want to tell, regardless of whether you think we want to read them. Even a persona should have more than one facet, don't you think?
Katie this was lovely. I really enjoyed it. From your biggets fan. :)
Ha Ha! You had to look at your mom after she found the porno!
M
It's your site, say what you want. It you are editing what you want to say because of what you think it's not we expect, then you're still doing the same thing you did in your marriage. I don't think any of us expect you to be funny all the time. Peopple can't be "on" all the time and if we let other people determine what we are going to say, then we are living for them and not us.
I feel your pain though on the lost ideas. I've started carrying a small notebook with me so I can jot things down and take good enough notes I have enough to develop it fully.
I have never once thought anything of picking up stray animals, even though I have scars from a cat's bite from when I was 6, And I've also been attacked by like 9 dogs at once.......but sadly, your story is the first thing that made me actually rethink the fact that maybe there are dangers to taking in strays.
oh, another thing, I don't think people read your site just because it is funny...I think they do because your writing style is unique and makes the reader empathize with you...I don't really think it matters what you write, as long as it still remains to be a conversation with YOU.
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