Heat on, in heat, no difference really

Well, the heat is back on at our house. Turns out it was this exhaustingly complicated process of replacing a tiny purple fuse inside the furnace. Thank fucking GOD there are trained professionals who know how to handle this type of futuristic machinery. I thought the rapture was upon us.

Fuck.

I learned how to replace the tiny purple fuse in our furnace. I even flashed my tits at the HVAC guy so he'd leave me a spare fuse. Then he showed me how to remove the heat sensor stick thingy and give it a good "polish" - we're pretty sure the accumulated dirt on that stick is what started the problems with the furnace. What a dirty, dirty stick.

The good news is that I can stop wrapping my feet with sheets of insulation every time I get up to pee in the night. The bad news is that we're supposed to hit 55 degrees (Fahrenheit, you Canadian morons) today, which means that we're unlikely to take full advantage of our gas-powered capabilities.

But don't worry - I will fart as per usual, so at least THAT gas-power won't go to waste.

In other news, we're pretty sure that our little Scary monster thinks she is pregnant. With ghost puppies, apparently. She's doing a cave dweller's variation of the standard Dog Nesting Procedure where she hides in the smallest possible nook of the room before digging fruitlessly into the un-dig-able floor coverings. Then she licks her belly until (what I'm pretty sure is) fluid leaks from her boobies.

She (out of the blue) started getting up twice in the night for a drink of water and to pee. She has begun carring around her tiny squeaky babies in her mouth.

Now...I'm no dog expert, but I'm relatively certain that the combination of vet-issued spay certification paperwork and hideous belly surgery scars are enough to rule out the possibility of ACTUAL pregnancy, but who knows. Perhaps Scary is the next Mother Theresa.

Wait, that's not right. Help me out, Catholics...Mother Goose?

In any case, she DID come from a puppy mill in Kansas where she spent her life in a cage, giving birth to litter after litter of scary little babies, and so perhaps this is her "time of the month" or something. We're not quite clear on that point.

What I DO know is we could have saved a fortune on the furnace if she'd done us the courtesy of telling us she was already in heat.

Poor guy will probably end up burning himself at the stake

It's Valentine's Day, a holiday with suspicious beginnings (who's your baby daddy, V-day? NOBODY KNOWS) and guilt trips induced in the name of sentimentality and blow jobs.

I love Valentine's Day, but mostly because it gives me an excuse to dress all in pink and red without having to give a shit either A) about heart health or B) breast cancer, the two leading causes of stress and alcoholism in women named Lolita Razzle Dazzle.

Typically, Gray and I celebrate this lovers' holiday by eating Chinese food from the floor (he and I on the floor, not the food, although Gray's chopstick skills DO need some improvement), watching movies all night long, and having illicit living room relations.

Tonight, though...tonight is a Monday night, which means we both work tomorrow, and our furnace is no longer functioning, which means that sleeping in our 96-year-old-house feels a lot like Bella and Edward in the tent before Jacob showed up, and simultaneously our checking account is overdrawn so that calling the HVAC guy is completely out of the question until next payday, which means Gray and I will likely spend this Valentine's Day eating crumbs from the floor (literally)((I think I saw a jelly bean under the couch))(((I CALL DIBS))) and going to bed at a reasonable 9:30 p.m. after flossing our teeth and packing our lunches for tomorrow.

I know, I know - we're really not taking advantage of the holiday. It is our first MARRIED Valentine's Day, so it's really my premier opportunity to implement Operation: Wife Guilt, but the truth is I'll kill him with my bare hands if he charges another penny to our account, plus I totally don't feel like shaving today.

No, not even there.

So tonight will be one of those regular nights, except we'll probably make a few more inappropriate boob jokes than usual and, if my period doesn't start before bed time, maybe Gray will get lucky. MAYBE.

On the other hand, I'm beginning pre-conception preparations for Operation: Knock Me Up (coming to theaters in May), so it's possible I'll decide I'm too tired for marital relations and I'll tell Gray he has to save his sperm until this spring.

Or maybe we'll just masturbate together.

Kind of depends on how warm the house is.

The Only Downside: Having to Watch Jackyl Play ::Updated::

Gray and I.

We are allofasudden totally hooked on some television that never piqued our interest previously. Unfortunately, the new shows don't say many good things about either us as a mentally stable couple or as intellectually ripened individuals. Don't get me wrong...I realize it's too late for ME to be sane. It's just that I was clinging to the hope that Gray would pass some genetic stability on to whatever future children (or demons) we may produce.

I'm afraid that is no longer a viable hope.

First came Full Throttle Saloon. Thanks a lot, Dad, for getting us hooked on this reality show about life behind the scenes at a Sturgis bar. Tits and ass and generous helpings of them both. Dred locks. Mullets. Midgets. A terribly disgusting fajita "chef". Hookers and pole dancers and painted ladies and mediocre rock stars and beer bellies. CHICK beer bellies.

Full Throttle Saloon is the greatest thing that has ever happened to me. Unless you count the boxes of Dots I've consumed while watching it.

The other obsession started some time ago for me, but last night I forced it upon my ailing husband (he has the flu and you would think he has stage four penis cancer with the way he's moaning and sweating), who was promptly sucked in as well, a fact I determined after he demanded more than once that I rewind so that he could re-watch funny moments or re-assess what the characters had said.

 The Millionaire Matchmaker features one of the world's awesomest (she yells at people, has giant breasts, and swears at rich bitches) Jewish relationship gurus setting up helpless, pathetic, yet financially successfully men and women with a bevvy of potential matches.

There is nothing more fascinating than watching fully-grown rich motherfuckers hem and haw about which supermodel is most worthy of their condescension. And money. In the episode we watched last night, a plus-sized millionairess (with the biggest fucking gums I have ever seen) decided it would be fun to impress her potential suitors by drinking wine from a straw and discussing her 100% PINK apartment and herobsession with Hello Kitty.

These shows. They are what is getting my seasonally-depressed and brain-damaged ass through the season of fire and brimstone (also known as the Minnesota winter) without sticking my head in the fish bowl.

Well, these shows and the thought of drowning in goldfish feces.

:: Some of my more brilliant readers have requested info on when these shows air and on which television station. FTS is on TruTV on Wednesday nights and Milly-Match is on Bravo all the damn time. I just set my DVR and the episodes appear as if from nowhere. Patti is a magical Jew. ::

On a Lighter Note

We got a lot of snow here this weekend. I was confined to the house (thanks to Nurse Gray) and therefore could only take photos of him clearing the snow. Nothing interesting, but also...nothing cold. Or slippery.

Or interesting.

Thankfully, some friends of ours had mercy and let us borrow their snow thrower. As you can see, the accumulation was rather deep on the driveway, so it would have killed Gray to shovel it all by hand. 

Our driveway, unlike most of our neighbors, begins on at the front of our house and continues all the way to the rear of our property. Then there's the front sidewalk, the side-sidewalk, the back sidewalk and the deck, then we have to shovel a path for walking to the garage, and another for rolling the garbage bins around the side of our garage, where most of the (SMART) neighbors have just a short pad to park their cars.

When the deck and yard was filled up with so much snow that Bampa was waist-high, and shovelling was pointless due to the crazy wind, he decided just to crap inside. We couldn't blame him.

The weather is much better this morning, but the driveway remains impassable. Gray is chomping away with the shovel until the snow is a manageable depth for the snow thrower, but he's also exhausted and probably losing his mind a little bit. Unless he's pretending he's an arctic explorer, in which case it's too late for him anyway.

Oh, and the Metrodome broke under the weight of the snow. HOORAY! No football today!

Bundle up, kids.

Things I'm Thankful For:

Tomorrow, I mean. Thankful for tomorrow.

There's a reason Thanksgiving is only a one-day holiday. Otherwise, people would get stabbed, or exsanguinated like Arnette, and probably by me. If you know who I'm talking 'bout, be careful not to fall down the well.

I am thankful to have an in-tact spine.

I am thankful for my houseboy/personal chef.

I am thankful for Excel spreadsheets.

I am thankful for the lusty dreams of adolescence, coming back by surprise.

I am thankful (in hindsight) for the taste of EVERYTHING.

I am thankful to friends when they send me cards in the mail.

I am thankful for shower chairs.

I am thankful that I can now burn my shower chair for warmth.

I am thankful for my handy father and his help around the new house.

I am thankful that, for the fist time ever, I have been able to hole up under blankets with mugs of decaf coffee during the first two snowfalls of the season.

I am thankful that SATC 2 is out on Blu-Ray.

I am thankful for Tootsie Rolls, which I hated until recently. They used to hurt my teeth.

Vibrators. Nuff said.

I am thankful for doctors who give the green light to resume...marital relations.

I am thankful that I get! To! Cook! just in time for Thanksgiving! Not exactly from scratch, but it beats Gray alone in the kitchen, although Stouffer stock may take a hit.

Have a good one, ya'll. Please PLEASE have a cocktail for me.

Gobble Gobble.

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.

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.