ccb and the bookbinders: a new kind of self-publishing AND a hell of a band name

It seems that my fanclub is growing. Either that or someone I know is playing a joke on me. Or I really am awesome enough to inspire a cult-like following among impressionable youths. On an unrelated note, someone remind me to sign up for a PayPal account.

Despite my apparent awesomeness, things have sucked around here for a while. I adopted a doggie whose first order of business was to run away. While dealing with the heartbreak of losing my dog (and I cannot express to you how truly horrible I feel -- I may have had a miscarriage once, and I'm infinitely more upset about this) I have also had to deal with the dog-search nazis. These people. Oh, god, these people. They don't seem to understand that I still have to go to work and I cannot be everywhere at once. (Oh, yeah, and there's the fact that this dog happens to be brilliant and has no desire to be caught.) The head crazy person asked me if I've ever had a dog before. Um, yes. But only for about 15 years. Who is still alive, by the way. And my mother, who raised two children to adulthood without any loss of limb or kidnapping incidents, obviously needs help checking a dog trap set in our own yard.

Not only does this woman like to ask me insulting questions, (such as whether or not I am setting out food for MY OWN DOG) but she also enjoys fine dining, existential discussion, and addressing adults as though they were retarded children. We all know how I enjoy it when people speak to me as though I have a vocabulary of about 12 words. It always makes me want to be pleasant and gracious and not leave fingerprints.

My mother and I have always had a certain way with animals, but I'm a little angry. (Just slightly.) Phrases like "I am Snow White, bitch," have been running through my head, but the anger detracts from the fact that the wild deer that sleep in my yard aren't afraid of me. And that more than once, I've had wild bunnies who got to know me and would let me sit right next to them. Or that all my life, when dogs in our neighborhood were lost, they'd come into our yard. Or how about the time a dog led me to its friend that had been chained up in the woods behind my house? Or how about how I got my cat -- I walked outside and a feral cat ran over to me, threw herself onto her back at my feet and started purring. I'm goddamn Cinder-fucking-ella. Mice have never made me a ball gown, but they have let me pick them up and take them outside. And I've never had bluebirds sing a duet with me, but butterflies like to land on me all the time. I've stepped on a wasp in my bare feet and didn't get stung. In fact, I've never been stung or bitten by anything. Except mosquitoes. Because I'm lovable AND delicious. I have twice stepped right next to an angry rattlesnake and didn't get bitten.

I think we all know what I'm getting at here. I should cut this bitch. Or possibly sic an army of impressionable youths, adopted grandparents, and rogue wildlife on her. CCB and the Bookbinders, I'm going to need you to get on that. You can hide out with the Texas grandparents for a while afterwards.

(For those of you confused about the CCB and the Bookbinders thing, check out the comments on some of my recent posts. I totally love this kid and the vaguely frightening level of devotion he seems to have for me.)