Great Southern Trendkill. Fuck Yeah.

CHRIST, YA'LL.

No, seriously. Christ. Have you heard? He's all the motherfucking rage down in Arkansas. Somebody needs to tell the queers here in the Twin Cities before it's too late. Because...CHRIST.
Apparently that is my mission, should I choose to accept it. That's Option A, according to my family.

Option B is to "become Lutheran" like Gray. Because that's what Garrison Keillor would want.

Gray and I literally just rolled (slid) into our driveway (fucking icy! who was in charge of this weather business?) after an exhausting 7 day, 1500 mile round-trip stint At Home with My Mother, et al, where I came ::this:: close to losing my damn mind. From all the Christ.

Did you know that there are those down there in Arkansas who are SO! EXCITED! ABOUT! CHRIST! that they never fucking shut up about him?

Like...it's nothing new, Mom. I'm pretty sure it's a rerun of the SAME ANCIENT STORY we've all been told a few times. Oh, and also? I <3 Jews.

Wow, this is making very little sense, so in that case I suppose it's business as usual around here. And let me just say GOD BLESS THE MAN WHO LEFT A CAFFEINE -FREE COKE HERE AT MY HOUSE because I need a drink. Immediately. God really does answer prayers.

And apparently I should go away more often because I gained, like, 10 followers while I was gone. (By the way, I feel I should warn all of you newbies that Jesus sees you reading this.)

So stay tuned. For posting and shit. Because we're back, and our anuses (annui?) were only marginally violated.

It's like a Christmas miracle.

I Know I Had Another Midget Joke, But It Escapes Me Now...

Ok, so a few random updates I never got around to actually updating because of all the porn. And the midgets. Which, by the way, what the fuck, TLC? The Little Chocolatiers? ANOTHER MIDGET SHOW? I'm sure they're probably cheaper to film because they're so tiny, but you're not fooling anybody...the Gosselin children are IRREPLACEABLE. It's almost like the camera crews are no longer capable of filming humans over the height of 3 feet. Permanent neck crick, or something.

Anyway, so the fridge no longer stinks. It took 4 people and a hell of a lot of different screwdrivers to solve that one.

I think I broke up with Dr. Crazy Socks when I stood him up last week. It's ok, though. I think I need a shrink who appreciates the value of solid-color footwear.

Chantix is awesome. I haven't smoked since...honestly, I don't remember anymore. It's been at least one month, and according to the waistband of my pants, it's closing in on 10lbs. The best part is that I haven't wanted to smoke in the same amount of time.

I've only had one craving in all of that time, and since the craving coincided with my hot date with a younger woman, I'm not entirely sure what I was craving was a cigarette. If you know what I'm saying.

I'm saying that I'm hetero-flexible. Just kidding, Jesus.

Gray just started taking Chantix this week. Fingers crossed for him, huh?

I'm going to be offline until at least the 30th due to our impending trip Back Home. I hope to be safely south of the Mason Dixon before the Midwest gets nailed by this winter storm I keep hearing about from the Weather Terrorists. Assuming, of course, there is such a thing as "safely south of the Mason Dixon." (I've used that line about 5 times today and I'm not sick of it yet.)

I know you're all heartbroken over that, but I assure you that as long as you're well stocked with Hustlers, Skittles and cannabis...it will be like I'm not even gone. Or, if you're already stoned, then I'm already not really gone. I may even be INSIDE of you. Think about THAT for an hour and a half and then remark on the size of your finger swirls. It'll be awesome.

As for the TOTAL! MONEY! MAKEOVER! let me just say that I've paid off over $5,000 in old ass, sucky ass debt since May. Instead of making the minimum payment of $70 on my current project, I'm making a payment of $593. That's, like, a lot more money and the balance will be knocked out by February. It's fucking remarkable, ya'll. Not only that, but I can honestly say that this is the very first Christmas EVER where I didn't charge a dime.

THAT'S RIGHT, VISA. I paid cash. For. EVERYTHING.

::please hold while I run to Costco and ruin everything I just said by charging $100 to my Costco credit card because CHRIST, Mom, thanks for waiting until the last minute to inform me that what I should get for my sister for Xmas is a winter coat, because those things grown on trees PLUS I'm shooting down filling out of my ass these days, so SCORE::

Ahem.

To finish the update...I am neither pregnant nor engaged despite some rather zealous assurances from Gray to "trust him" and "stay tuned" and "if you let me do this thing I read about in Maxim WHILE I'm playing Call of Duty online, then we'll talk."

Although, I did read a short bio about a 16-year-old who is awaiting adoption in the Twin Cities. She is beautiful, smart, well-spoken, enjoys reading and writing, music, and family traditions. Ironic, huh? The part about the family traditions? So I immediately texted Gray and asked, "Do you want to adopt a black teenage girl?" to which he replied a very non-Christmasy, "No."

Apparently he hates black people. But it's probably for the best because I wouldn't have a clue what to do with her hair.

I aced both of my classes. Miraculously and with much drinking.

And my wack-job story Humility will be printed in Haute Dish, the online version. So technically it won't be printed anywhere. Just like it is now. Except now it will feel the disdain of the population of my academic community.

Good thing most of them only speak Somali.

Christ. And Not In The Good Way.

Gray and I decided to celebrate our Christmas together on Friday for several reasons, one of which being PRESENTS! Why wait when you can NOT wait? Right?

Also, I didn't feel like making dinner.

And also we are driving to Arkansas on Wednesday night to celebrate the holidays with familial torture and pubescent flash backs, which means there were gifts between Gray and I which should not be given in view of my Arkansas relations, not to mention baby Jesus, who seems to reside at my mother's house. Along with my dead step-grandfather and a few cats. She's got a thing for ghosts, my mother.

So we went out to dinner at one of our favorite restaurants because I had a coupon. And also because it was CHRISTMAS! On Friday! This was our first time going out to eat together since $2 taco night in July, and unfortunately I am not exaggerating. Goddamn debt reduction plan.

So because it was CHRISTMAS! Gray was able to order a huge bacon cheeseburger and fries without technically cheating on his diet (although I believe those several dozen McDonald's bags on the floor of his truck ::might:: be an issue) and I was finally able to order the Grandfather Of Vodka Beverages for the first time in my life: a vodka martini. Dirty, of course.

And I must say, it was not unlike swallowing a mouthful of ocean water, except not the sparkling blue kind of ocean water you find the Caribbean, but the kind you might encounter at Seal Beach on one of those days when the city has posted "Swimming Prohibited" signs because some guy at the waste treatment plant accidentally sent all the raw sewage down the wrong pipe, and there's a bleach bottle floating along the shore line, and the seaweed is neon yellow.

It was like that. PLUS VODKA. And it wasn't just one mouthful, but sip after sip after godforsaken sip of the shit until finally dinner was over and we were ready to leave but FOR THE LOVE OF GOD I MUST FINISH MY $15 SEA WATER BEFORE WE GO! Because of the budget, of course. And also because booze is booze, you know what I mean?

Actually, I kid. Not about the nastiness of the martini, but about how much it cost. We hit up the restaurant at the remarkably geriatric hour of 5 p.m. which allowed us to be seated immediately AND to order our 1/2 price happy hour drinks. With my coupon for one free entree, our entire CHRISTMAS! dinner (2 drinks, 1 appetizer, 2 entrees) came to $26.43. How's that for holiday spirit, baby Jesus?

Now we prep for our impending 12-hour drive through forecasted snow and ice into the depths of the Bible belt/Incest Land in order to "worship the Lord Jesus for coming to the earth as a baby and to become the bridge over which people can receive eternal life instead of the eternal death we deserve for our sins," in my mother's words.

Which she sent via text. At 8:30 a.m. Before my first cup of coffee.

In case you were wondering, she is also praying for Gray and I to, "have a safe journey here and a safe journey to God's throne when you leave this life on Earth."

It's like she doesn't even WANT us to show up.

High Fecalty

Let's talk about poop, shall we? People say death is the Great Equalizer, but I say screw death.

It may happen to everyone, but it certainly isn't the SAME for everyone. Which, on a side note, should I be concerned that Gray wants to, "die at the same time in each other's arms"? Because I'm pretty sure he's going to die first, and what if I still haven't achieved my goal of State-wide Domination or Being Rich or Fucking Steven Colbert? It sounds romantic and all, but I really don't think it's practical. Ok, back to death.

Everybody dies, sure, but generally only once. On the other hand, everybody shits, like, all the time, all their lives. Babies, teenagers, addicts, soccer moms, models (ok, they might be the one exception here but if they actually ate food instead of Kleenex, they would shit, too), bloggers, George Clooney, JESUS.

EVERYBODY POOPS (just like the book says).

Shitting is truly the Great Equalizer. And so I've developed a fondness for the various poop varieties ("baby mustard", of course, being my favorite, followed closely by "corn fed toddler paste" and, finally, "the kind that doesn't hurt coming out").

Not surprisingly, shit is a common topic in my house. We talk about the where, when and what of our shit over romantic, candle lit dinners. We discuss preferred shitting locations and activities. I struggle to understand the whole "reading material" thing because I never have time to peruse a magazine before my business is expelled, the difference being I don't go sit and hope to shit, I wait until it feels like the poo-tip is exposed, and then I hustle. I think my mother is responsible for my phobia of Sitting Too Long. I remember her saying my intestines could fall out if I "strained". Not something I want to test in my spare time.

Despite our high tolerance for all things excrement, something new happened the other day and I'm still a little bit disturbed by it.

I forgot to flush.

And then Gray came home, loaded up on Call Of Duty manuals, and headed into the bathroom for his daily Waiting Game. And then I heard him cry, "EEEEEEEEEEEYYYYYYYYYWWWWWWWW-UH!"

He claims it was funny. He says he still loves me.

But my Taboo Anal Pleasures 8.0 has mysteriously disappeared, and in its place is a religious tract about abstinence and a tub of baby wipes.

Is It Too Early To Metion Rape?

I bought this toy for a "toddler girl" on the Giving Tree at work.

On my drive to work this morning, I kept hearing mysterious voices and clunking sounds and I'd whip my head around to look in the back seat because OHMYGOD I'm living that urban legend about the guy with the hatchet and where the hell is the car that's supposed to flash its lights and warn me of my impending Death By Escaped Lunatic With Axe?!

Did I mention Gray and I watched a marathon of Paranormal State before bed last night? Because we're brilliant. How either one of us has avoided over-breeding for so many years is beyond me.

I didn't sleep AT ALL, but when I did, I dreamt I woke up several hours late for work but that's ok, I realized, because I'd just been RAPED the night before and then found a severed hand in the attacker's house. So surely my boss would understand.

So anyway (shake your head to clear that imagery) back to the car - Finally I realize it's the damn toy talking to me and not some otherworldly being (THREE TO ONE, HEATHER, THREE TO ONE!!!!!!!!!)((that would only make sense if you happen to have seen that very same episode of Paranormal State, so WOO HOO to that one guy in Poughkeepsie!)) and I breathe a sigh of relief and resume actually paying attention to the road instead of the back seat, and I think it's all over. Which I should know by now from all the horror movies I've seen that it's NEVER over, especially when you think it's over.

Because now I'm sitting in my silent office listening to this fucking thing say, "BEADLEY BEEP!! BEADLEY BEEP!! BYE BYE!! BYE BYE!!" over and over and over and over and over...and there's no "off" button and I'm not touching or moving or even breathing on the fucking thing, but still it's all, "BEADLEY BEEP! BYE FUCKING BYE, LADY!!!" and I'm ::this:: close to looking for a sledge hammer to smash it's primary-colored, battery-operated ass into smithereens, "toddler girl" and her "Merry Christmas" be DAMNED.

Also, her parents will smash ME into smithereens if they figure out who gave her the talking, beeping monster from hell.

Including Trouser Snakes

We went to this Christmas party last night and despite the frigid temperature and icy driveway, it almost felt like we were in Hawaii. Underwater. Where all the fish live. Or maybe in a pediatrician's office, minus the snot-covered chairs. Plus a lot of extra food. Which I assume they don't have at the pediatrician's office due to all the snot. That would not be sanitary. But I could probably get Gray to go to the doctor more often if they served Swedish meatballs. I'm just saying.

Where was I? Oh, that's right - this house was full of FISH! Saltwater aquarium next to the bowl full of beta fish in the room next to the goldfish aquarium. Except those weren't goldfish, they were those other kind that look like a streamlined model goldfish. I don't remember what they're called, besides "bait".

I didn't explore the rest of the house, but it would not at all been surprising had I encountered a big mouth bass in the guest bathtub and a few craw daddies in the washing machine. That's how many fish they had.

And you know what else they had? A cat. Yeah, made perfect sense to me, too.

Surrounded by all these swimming creatures, I couldn't help but remember my own childhood full of Salt Water Aquarium. Anyone who has ever owned a salt water aquarium knows what I'm talking about. You don't own it, IT owns YOU. And probably a good portion of your 401K, if you've got more than a couple of tangs swimming around in there.

My parents had one, except knowing the dynamic as I do now, it's probably fair to say that my mom wanted a salt water aquarium and my dad decided he wanted to keep getting laid for at least a few more years, so they got one. He built a beautiful, black lacquer stand to match our black lacquer, glass-topped dining set, and they set to work creating a miniature ocean world in our living room.

Kind of superfluous, if you ask me, since the beach was minutes away and a hell of a lot cheaper, but whatever. Nothing about the 80s made sense.

So we had clown fish and anemones and live coral and live sponges and neon-colored, pancake-flat fish, and sea crabs and snails and plants and scallops and shrimp and (the Mother Load of salt water creatures) a snowflake eel named Cecil, who always looked to my three year old eyes like he had boogers hanging out of his nose and needed to blow into a tissue.

Everything in a saltwater aquarium falls into one of two categories: Scary Looking or Vaguely Sexual.

Exhibit A:

Lion Fish. Poisonous. Scary Ass Motherfucker.

Exhibit B:

Anemone. Definitely turning me on.

Did I mention they're soft and silky to the touch?

::takes cold shower::

So where was I? Oh yes, so Cecil the eel. He was fascinating to me because he hid in the coral and only came out to snatch food (frozen scallops if my parents remembered to feed him in time, small fish if they didn't) and then he would SWIM BACKWARDS back into the coral to eat. Every now and then I could glimpse what looked like hounds tooth swatches moving around in there, but he was a startlingly sneaky and incredibly secretive animal.

And then one day my dad let me feed Cecil his scallop. And Cecil darted out from his cave to grasp his meal and drag it backwards to its doom. And he overshot the scallop by about the length of a three-year-old child's first knuckle.

AND HE WOULDN'T LET GO.

He tugged on my finger hard enough to convince me the only thing stopping me from being pulled into the coral and EATEN BY THE EEL was my dad's grasp around my waist as he held me over the giant fish tank, and even then I wasn't sure if he was strong enough to defeat the evil sea snake and his giant yellow boogers.

My dad had to pull my little arm all the way out of the water, over my head, and flop it around for a while before Cecil realized he really should go ahead and stop eating my fucking finger already, but by then, the damage was done.

Never would I look upon eel-shaped animals with child-like wonderment. Only with fear and repulsion and (oddly) the compulsion to blow my nose.

Which is why I'm in sex therapy to this day.

Well, Not So Much

Yeah, so it turns out I can't drive after all. Apparently all those feminists are wrong.

Although when he got home last night, at the end of the day that was the day on which I backed into another car in the parking lot at work and word spread so quickly through the building that I got a phone call from Gray asking if I was okay because he heard it from Don who heard it from Mark who overheard it on the walkie talkies, and now they call me "Crash", on THIS of all days Gray looks at me earnestly and says, "You know I think you know how to drive, right baby?"

MELT!

Oh, and Karma's a bitch.

Traction

I didn't go to work on Wednesday because of this:

[insert photo of snow in my front yard that I was too lazy to take before it got dark at 4:00 and now am too lazy to google images of "snow" to insert here, so cut me some slack and use your imaginations, you assholes]

And also because of this guy:

And, I suppose if we're being totally honest, partly because of this guy as well:

In the interest of full disclosure, which apparently I've just decided to care about, Gray doesn't wear his hat crooked. I slide it over that way every once in a while because I think it's funny. And cute. Don't judge me. He's the one wearing a Fear Factory hockey jersey.

Fucking winter, man. We've been spoiled rotten this year because normally our first big Snowmageddon takes place anywhere from late September to early November, but not THIS year. THIS year, we were walking around all warm and toasty until the second week of December. I'd even convinced myself that winter was taking a sabbatical or global warming was really out of hand, and either way it meant No Winter For Catherine, so I was totally down with that plan.

And then, that bitch Mother Nature put down her crack pipe and was all, "FUCK! I'm late! Must unleash my wrath upon the entire country!" and then it snowed and we all died, The End.

You'd think this would be no big deal for Minnesotans, except you forget it's been 8 months since most of us have driven in snow - you think we're passive-aggressive in our speech? You should see us on the freeway. We will YIELD your ass to death, doncha know? So there's this interim period every winter when we all have to relearn the rules of winter driving, and in the meantime you can plan on getting absolutely nowhere anytime soon.

So Tuesday afternoon, the snow had been spitting all day and while there wasn't much accumulated, the wind was whipping it all around and causing what they call a "white out" situation, and Gray was all worried about me (the non-Minnesotan) driving home unattended. Because I'm a woman so obviously I don't know how to drive under the most primo conditions. Ah, misogyny masked as chivalry, isn't it grand?

Yet he insisted he had a "bad feeling" and decided to cut out of work early to follow me home in his truck. So we're on the highway going, oh I don't know, maybe 45 miles an hour behind all the other people who "had a bad feeling" and cut out of work early, and Gray was a few cars behind me. We made it exactly 100 yards when I glanced in the rear view mirror just in time to see him go sideways.

SIDEWAYS.

Across 2 lanes of traffic.

There was even this spray of snow that looked just like the rooster tail on one of those fancy speed boats. Except instead of tropical ocean water, it was snow. And instead of a fancy speed boat full of topless Latinas, it was Gray. In his tiny little truck.

SLIDING IN FRONT OF CARS ON THE HIGHWAY.

Then he bounced across the shoulder and down into the ditch. I believe I muttered something like, "Fuck, HERE WE GO," as I put on my flashers and slowly pulled over onto the shoulder, completely out of sight of the wayward truck, but near enough to help if needed.

Gray called as I was dialing his number and (BRILLIANTLY) said, "I'm in the ditch." Yes, darling, I know you're in the ditch because I fucking had a stroke and DIED when I saw you go in the ditch.

He was going to try to "get a running start" and drive out of the ditch on his own, which meant he'd come speeding up a snowy hill, hit the icy shoulder, and go sliding right back in front of the lanes of traffic. Brilliant idea, right? But what else was there?

Within 30 seconds, I had texted everyone I've ever met to say, "Gray is in the ditch. Please send dope. And the number for a tow truck." I sat watching in my rear view as he backed up and raced forward (actually, I think he tried doing it in reverse a few times), back and forth, until I thought for sure he was stuck down there, when finally he burst up onto the shoulder and, as predicted, rather violently into the oncoming traffic.

Fortunately, the cars seemed to sense his impending arrival and somehow cleared the way for him to "merge" in front of them. I did likewise, and we continued (much more slowly) on the long trek homeward.

And then I noticed his truck was kind of...leany. And that his tire was kind of...squishy. And that's when we realized he had a flat.

We stopped to fill up the tire, and it immediately gushed back out. Not good, I thought to myself, not good at all. But will we be changing a tire? "HELLZ NO," cried Gray, "We shall continue to drive in the darkening, snowy gloom on this flat tire until we've reached the Motherland: Tires Plus."

"Okay," I agreed, "but maybe this time I should follow YOU."

I'll spare you the rest of this story, except to say that apparently everyone on earth suddenly decided that they needed new tires RIGHT! NOW! because it took almost 5 hours to repair Gray's tire (it was a burst bean...wait, that's not right, was it a bubble? A bauble? Fuck, the tire was flat, that's all I know*) which meant that I not only did not study for my final Shakespeare exam on Tuesday night (we were shoveling the driveway, which was covered in powdery-fine snow, so imagine trying to move little piles of dry sand from point A to point B, but IN A TORNADO), but also that I was up super late and had to wake up super early to shovel the driveway and slowly go back to work in the still-falling snow.

I stayed home. Yeah, because I'M the one who can't drive in this shit.

*Bead. A burst bead. Whatever that is.

Statistically Unlikely

Here's what not to do:

Don't decide to lay around on the couch and watch an entire day-long marathon of The First 48 on A&E, particularly when the first episode takes place in Minneapolis, Minnesota and particularly when you are home alone in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Especially when darkness falls around 4:15 p.m. Especially when you can't remember where you put your can of pepper spray.

Most definitely don't remember that you live only blocks from the Mississippi River or that Veronica warned you never to jog on the trails after dark because of the occasional murder. Don't obsess about the locks on your doors and windows, and definitely don't hide behind the armchair if a solicitor knocks on your door.

Forget all about the Chantix-induced psycho dreams you're likely to have in the wake of viewing multiple dead bodies and blood spatter and suspect interrogations and hearing the words "ligature" and "exsanguination" over and over in one day. You don't want to know about those dreams in advance. Trust me.

Don't start thinking about the movie Zodiac when you get up to pee in the middle of the night. This will not help you fall back to sleep quickly. Refrain from jumping at shadows and peeking out the blinds at 3:00 a.m. There's no one out there. That you want to know about, anyway.

Definitely DO NOT record future episodes of The First 48. You don't need to watch any more of them.

Here's what you SHOULD do: Keep extra underwear on hand. You know, just in case you ignore all my other advice.

Time To Switch Back To Straight Porn

There was a decidedly Gay theme to my weekend. And I don't mean that in a festive, holiday way. I mean gay. Like in the "Insert Tab B into...maybe just rub it up against another Tab B, but keep it decidedly away from Slot A," kind of way.

On Friday night, I had a hot date with a younger chick and I totally scored. Except not really. But we did discuss our most intimate secrets. Like that I HATE bras and I fling mine across the room the moment I get home, but that means I have to hold my boobs when I run up or down the stairs. Not because my boobs are big ::hysterical laughter and shedding of half-amused/half-sad tears:: but it makes them feel better about themselves when I fondle them on the way to the sock drawer. Plus, the slight movement might cause chest wrinkles.

And then she shared with me that I was scaring her.

Saturday, Gray and I spent the evening with our gay friend over at our tall friend's house for his annual Christmas party during which we fondled small dogs, corrupted young children, and made fun of retards. And then I gave our gay friend the applesauce cinnamon cock and balls (complete with veins and...um..."head" lines) that I made for him. For Hanukkah.

And then today, I attended the Twin Cities Women's Choir's annual "Illuminations" concert, which was really fun because they sang the exact same arrangement of "Go Where I Send Thee" that we sang in my high school, choir, which meant got to sing along, which meant that everyone sitting near me inched further in the other direction, which meant I had room to let go of the Chipotle Gas without being implicated.

And also, this concert is like a regional lesbian conference. Nothing says, "Happy Holidays" like a church full of high-waisted jeans and pixie cuts. So again with the gay.

After a weekend full of homo action I decided to get back to my straight roots and study a little for my Shakespeare final on Wednesday. Fortunately, reading Shakespeare isn't gay for me because I'm a chick.

Except that Desdomona...she makes me feel all tingly inside.

Tiger Woods Sleeps With Self, Mistresses

AP - 34 minutes ago

Orlando, Florida

Amid persistent rumours of infidelity and domestic discord, Tiger Woods issued a statement this morning on his blog (Tiger Woods.com) in which he admits that he has been involved in numerous "self-touching" affairs since his marriage to Elin Nordegren in 2004.

"I am ashamed of my behavior and how it has affected both my foreskin and my family," writes Woods, "but I ask that the media respect our privacy during this difficult time. And that you deliver a case of Jergens to my home by this afternoon."

Woods, formerly known as sports' Golden Child for his squeaky clean reputation, has recently been accused of sleeping with several women over a period of roughly 6 years, two of whom have come forward with confessions of the affairs.

Most shocking, perhaps, are the allegations that Woods has been secretly meeting with himself in hotels all over the world to "beat off", spending as much as $14,000 on romantic suites from Rome to Sydney, in order to "romance the stones".

TMZ is reporting that Woods' housekeeper found an entire hidden passageway in his Florida mansion that Woods' used to store his collection of Taboo Anal Pleasures I through XXX, as well as several "home movies" of himself and his hand frolicking on vacation in Tahiti.

"Married or not, there is tremendous pressure on professional athletes to touch themselves," says Dr. Larry Boyde of the International Institution for Masturbation and the Arts. "These men travel almost constantly, and the price for maintaining prostitutes becomes increasingly exorbitant as the risk of discovery by the media increases. It is only natural, in these cases, that men like Tiger Woods might resort to masturbation."

In this photo from 2007, Woods slips in a little "quiet time" with his left hand below the hill, out of sight of the cameras.

Boyde believes that Woods developed romantic feelings for his "wanky" after the birth of his second child 9 months ago. "He was feeling neglected by his wife, and he probably just wanted someone to tug on his trailer once in a while."

That someone, claims Woods, was Woods.

Speculation on whether Woods' sponsors would pull out of their contracts prompted Nike to issue a statement supporting Woods: "Like we've always said...Just Do It. If we wanted to qualify what "It" meant, we would have done so long ago."

I Also Need To Shave. Everywhere.

It's Tuesday again. Seems like it's Tuesday a lot these days. Like, every few days or so. What the fuck, Tuesday?

So I was laying in bed last night and I realized that I needed to put some lotion on my legs in a BAD way. They were so dry that I was using the heel of my right foot as a leg scratcher. I also realized I need a pedicure if my heel is sharp enough that I can use it as a leg scratcher.

I'm really not sure if I'm going to get up the "oompfh" to decorate for Christmas this year...that's a whole lot of crap to haul in and out when we won't even be in the state for the big day. Sure, it'll be festive and it'll give me some extra shit to dust around and vacuum up every week, and boy will those light be a pain in the ass to untangle. But what's Christmas without some extra "fuck me's" and some random "grab the fire extinguisher's!"?

I got a refund from the State of Minnesota for an small overpayment I made a couple of months ago. Except I was paying $1,100 my ex-husband and I owed from tax year 2006, so both of our names were on the account even though I made all the damn payments. And, of course, the check was made out to BOTH of us so I can't cash the damn thing without his signature, which means I can kiss that refund goodbye.

What the fuck is up with that "Come on man" guy on ESPN? Gray was watching the pregame show last night while I baked cookies, and I wanted to STAB MYSELF IN THE EARS. Dude was so black I couldn't understand one fucking word (except, of course, for "Come on man") he said. For minute there, I thought Gray was watching Univision again. I cain nunderstan you, MAN.

Sudoku is hard.

I officially have about 85% of my Christmas shopping done, which isn't really that great considering I'm buying NOTHING for NO ONE this year. In that case...how the hell did I spend so much money on Amazon?

I saw a guy have a seizure on black Friday. It reminded me of when people have seizures.

I realize I forgot to update you all on my fridge stink situation back in October. My bad.

Of all the commentary about the whole Tiger Woods controversy, I believe Wanda Sykes said it best. My favorite part is where she says "the black in him bought the Cadillac and the Asian in him crashed it".

Are you paying attention Mastercard? THAT is priceless.