A gathering of angels appeared above my head
They sang to me this song of hope and this is what they said
They said, “Come sail away, come sail away, come sail away with me lads
Come sail away, come sail away, come sail away with me
Come sail away, come sail away, come sail away with me baby
Come sail away, come sail away, come sail away with me
My 28-year-old self, yeah, she’s a liar.
She lies a lot.
She says things, like, “Oh, I’m going to wear a sparkly pink dress to my birthday dinner. Hey! Maybe I’ll curl my hair too! There will be gnocchi and vodka! And I’ll throw myself a birthday party at Disneyland! Yay! Yay, look at me! Look at me doing all the things!”
But then, she doesn’t.
She doesn’t do any of that stuff.
She throws on one of her signature outfits – black, on black, on black – and heads out to Bencotto’s.
Black leather leggings, a black “It’s not me. It’s you.” t-shirt, a black blazer, black Mary Jane’s, and red lipstick. Her hair isn’t curled. It’s straight. Okay, whatever, it’s straight-ish. She doesn’t order gnocchi and vodka at dinner either. She gets a ginger ale and some sorta seafood tagliatelle with squid ink. There’s unidentifiable pieces of sea animals and squid ink in her pasta.
It’s cool though.
It’s cool, ’cause she’s 28, and she’s into weird shit like that.
She’s into squid ink.
She cancels on Disneyland too. Not because she’s lame. Not because she’s embarrassed or sad. She cancels because she’s tired. She hasn’t slept in days. She hasn’t slept in four. whole. entire goddamn days. And she’s fucking tired. She’s tired and has a headache. Her head is pounding, her stomach is churning, and she’s exhausted.
“The Happiest Place on Earth will still be there next weekend,” my 28-year-old self says aloud. I groan. I toss and turn. I check the clock four-thousand times. “Why are you forcing yourself to get up? Why are you forcing yourself to go on this trip? Because you said you would in a blog post? Fuck that noise, man. You don’t have to do shit.”
But then, I got hungry. I wanted biscuits. Seventy-three million biscuits. It was 11:00 a.m. Chick-fil-a had already shut their biscuit-maker down. Son-of-a-bitch.
So, I went to Wendy’s instead.
I got a #1 combo (cheese only), a 4 piece nugget (two BBQ sauces), a coke, and a puppy.
That’s right, a fucking puppy.
As it turns out, my 28-year-old self isn’t any less compulsive than my 27-year-old self. She certainly isn’t any better with her money. She isn’t any more mature or more responsible. She also isn’t any more aware of her lack of time, space, or knowledge. And she sure as shit seems to have forgotten the fact that she’s never successfully trained anything in her life.
Trouble is, she isn’t any less into puppies either.
So this is what happened:
I got up on Saturday morning feeling like crap. Eventually, I talked myself out of going to Disneyland. Now, don’t get me wrong, I put up a huge fight with myself. But in the end, I won.
Around 11:30 a.m., I decided to throw on a hat and go grab Wendy’s for brunch. My thinking was, “If I can’t have Bojangles…”
The absolute wildest thing I had planned was hunting down some donuts.
And then, I thought, “Well, since I’m out, I guess I could go walk around Target for a bit.”
First of all, I’m here to tell ya…
These words – “Well, since I’m out, I guess I could go walk around Target for a bit.” – are always the famous last words of a woman fixing to fuck some shit up. No woman ever just “goes to Target for a bit.” There are no “quick trips” to Target. There is no “just running into” Target. There isn’t “I only need a couple of things” at Target. Fuck. I’ve honestly came out of that place a time or two, sat down in the front seat of my car, and had to check the back seat for six kids and a llama before.
You want your life ruined, fellas? Let your significant other go to Target.
Just look what happened to me.
And I wasn’t even in a “fuck shit up” sorta mood! All I wanted to do was leisurely walk through one of their little shops. Maybe get some exercise. See the sights.
You do know the place I’m talking about, right?
The communist-colored devil stores with bullseyes everywhere, and fucking snacks, and cutesy shit, and the free-for-all bathrooms?
Moving on. I had only maybe planned on buying some razors and a DVD. Okay, so if a graphic tee caught my eye, I probably would’ve went home with that bastard too. But goddammit! I couldn’t even get through the booby-trapped parking lot before the Target Life-Fucker-Uppers (disguised as puppy peddling greeters in front of PetCo) swooped in, put this tiny nugget in my hands, and then forced me to be his Momma.
“Be his Momma,” they said, “Or die!”
So, here I was, snuggling this baby black sack of love and I thought to myself, “Hey, self. Wonder where you pay for this puppy?”
Subliminal messaging is real, people.
One thing led to another, and the next thing I know, I’m filling out adoption forms. Halfway through the first page, my heart sank, “Holy fuck balls. What the hell am I doing? I can’t get a puppy! Wonder if I can just throw the clipboard down, slowly back away, and then start running. Would they think less of me? Oh, who cares. They’ll see Sonny still has his nuts and refuse me anyway.”
And then, I blacked out.
I woke up at the PetCo cash register cleaning puppy shit out of my cart.
Styx was named Styx for many, many reasons:
- I just always assumed my next dog would be a little girl. Her name was going to be Luna. At that point, I could be done with dogs. I would have my “sun” and my “moon.” And then, I adopted a little boy dog. His adoptive name was Willow. That wasn’t going to work and I really liked the sun/moon thing. So, I called him “Lu” for the first eight hours, or so. Mace and Bubs weren’t really into Lu. Bubba said it sounded girly. After I got off the phone with my brother I Google’d: “Names of moons in our solar system.” When I scrolled down and saw “Styx” I was sold. Styx was a Styx if I had ever saw one. It was settled – I had my moon.
- Styx is the second moon of Pluto. Styx is my second baby.
- I’ve been told Styx is slang for the number 11. I became Styx’s Momma on June 11, 2016. (Fun Fact: Styx [the moon] was discovered on July 11, 2012.)
- The Goddess Styx was the spirit personification of hatred. My Styx hates everything. Except for his Momma, and his Bubba, and destroying things.
- The River Styx – a river that forms the boundary between Earth and the Underworld – was a corrosive Arcadian stream. Again, my Styx really digs destroying stuff.
- Lastly, Sonny is named after Adam Sandler’s character in “Big Daddy,” Sonny Koufax. Sonny Koufax’s favorite band is Styx. Coincidence? I think fucking not.
The last four days have been a shit show.
At first, Sonny was all, “What. tha. fuck.” He went into what I like to call “Mines” mode. Styx walked around the house sniffing at things. Sonny trailed very closely behind humping anything and everything in Styx’s wake. I imagine their conversation went something like this:
Sytx: “Oh! Wow! How neat! What’s this?”
Sonny: “That’s mine.” [humpity-hump-hump]
Sytx: “Oh, my gosh! And this! I’ve always wanted one of these! What is it?”
Sonny: “That’s mines too.” [two-humps-this-time, two-humps-this-time]
Styx has turned our world upside down – yet, sorta right side up.
He peed in my bed and shit in the floor within the first four hours of me bringing him home. Whatever. Better him than me. He licks my armpits after I put on deodorant. He’s kicked Sonny out of his night-night and makes him eat out of bowls small enough for a cat. I came home yesterday to a crate covered in puppy poop but fuck was that asshole happy to see me. He’s into hauling ass through the apartment and jumping onto Sonny’s bed. He likes toys – all the toys – and my shoes. And he thinks his crate is the seventh circle of hell.
I should’ve named him Osama.
Sonny is over it. He’s over the humping and the newness. He doesn’t mind that Styx uses his tail and ears as chew toys. He’s patient, and sweet, and always concerned. And he really doesn’t like when I give his baby brother baths. Which is unfortunate considering it’s always “0 days since our last accident.”
We all sleep together in my queen-sized bed. We all go outside approximately 146 times a day. I come home at lunch to check on them. We play. We nap. Everywhere I go, I have two sets of eyes watching my every move. They come to the bathroom with me, and help with dinner, and drag out everything I pick up. There are eight paws kicking me in the back at night. Every inch of every everything I own is officially covered in dog hair, slobber, and possibly urine. Even as I write this, I’m having to stiff-arm one fiend with my left hand and shove the other off with my elbow.
People keep asking what type of dog Styx is, “Is he a black Lab? Oh, I had a black Lab when I was young!” I’ve just started telling people he’s a bunny. He’s a bunny-mutt-puppy-terriost. Or sometimes, I’ll tell them he’s 31 flavors of goodness and to stop being so goddamn breedist. #allbreedsmatter
Anywho, I leave you with these few things, Ballas:
- Being one year older doesn’t mean shit.
- I didn’t need Bathroom Gate 2016 to tell you Target fucks up people’s lives.
- Adopt and shop. All the puppies need the homes.
- When you tell your boyfriend of several years you want to get another puppy, and he responds with, “Do it and you can forget about this [+ a photo of an engagement ring].” Always choose the puppy. You can train a puppy not to chat up other bitches and bang anything with a pulse.
- Sir Styx-a-lot San Diego likes big mutts and he cannot lie.