Now I really WILL cut a bitch

Gray and I didn't celebrate Valentine's Day this year because we were broke and also because there are only so many stuffed animals an adult female can pretend to adore before things slide over into the Ridonkulous category.

Two gorillas, an ancient Curious George, a stuffed lobster, a caricature elephant, and a Harley Davidson-clad Build-a-Bear is enough.

On that day this year, I happened to catch a post from Kristine who writes the blog Wait in the Van. She made this kickass card and I stole it, printed it, and gave it to Gray in lieu of actual Valentine's paraphernalia:

Ever since, all our references to awesome things (like vodka, free vodka and bacon) have been replaced by the phrase "magical unicorn." For example, Gray decided to buy a video game last month but WISELY chose to double check with me before the purchase.


Gray's text: Ima get a game if that's okay. It's about $50.

My text: Okay, you BIG NERD.

(later that day) Gray's text: Sorry, it was closer to $80. Hope that's okay.

My text: JESUS CHRIST, did you purchase a magical unicorn or a video game?!

Gray's text: This game is awesome. It's the magical unicorn to gamers everywhere.


For the next several weeks, when I asked what he was up to, he's inevitably say he was playing with his magical unicorn.

As my birthday approached, Gray assured me that my very own magical unicorn was forthcoming. I wasn't sure if  he meant that literally or not because I know that they are real but also VERY hard to find unless you're a member of the Saudi royal family.

Yesterday, my unicorn came out of the gift wrap closet:

 



Unicorns are hard to disguise.

A variation of the strap-on: The uni-horn.

My very first husband-sanctioned sharp object!





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.

Romancing the dogs

I know.

I know there is no excuse for this. But I can't help myself.

I must. Push. "Post".

Happy Valentine's Day from the (very fucked-up, dog-kissing) Zipbag Family.

Despite the Medical Bullshit

July 17th, 2010 was the best day of my entire life. Everything else that has happened pales in comparison. Despite it all, 2011 will be hard pressed to top this year in which I got engaged, adopted our doggy son, married my best friend, went to BlogHer, bought our first home together, and celebrated it all with friends and family from all over the country.

Happy New Years, you losers.

Coulda Used the Camera for That One

So we're back from (rainy-ass) California and I have a slew of awesome mediocre photos to show you, but I haven't gotten around to downloading them onto Landers yet. I planned to spend the day Sunday doing laundry and unpacking and moving pictures from camera to hard drive. I slept instead.

Apparently travel is hard on the brain.

Monday and Tuesday after work I raced home and went promptly to sleep again for a few hours before bedtime. Right now I'm wishing I were curled up under my desk and snoring and/or farting happily away, but no such luck. While it's true there's a door I could close, my friends here know me too well to let me get by with office fart naps. At least without filmed documentation, and you know how I always forget to wear panties.

Last night, I sat down to finally transfer pictures onto Landers and my motherfucking camera battery was dead. Stupid thing hasn't been charged in 15 years and suddenly it's all worn out or something. That little battery fucker sleeps ALL THE TIME and he can't be ready for a quick download session. Asshole.

By the time he'd charged enough to use, I was asleep again.

Asleep, that is, until Gray sat bolt upright in bed and bellowed, "Jesus, did he fart?!!"

I thought Gray meant my camera battery and I began to silently tally the un-thought of uses for a farting camera battery. Then Gray, mumbling about stinky dog farts, stumbled around the bed and discovered Bampa sleeping soundly.

Along side his giant pile of shit.

That's right, our dog is deaf AND incontinent.

The best part? Though Gray was gagging and racing around, opening windows...I. SMELLED. NOTHING.

Crappy Xmas Post

We are flying to Long Beach tomorrow to spend the week before Christmas with my family. I've really over-done it this week running errands, working half days, organizing bills, taking care of some insurance matters. I"m exhausted and my throat is swollen, hopefully due to being tired and nothing else because otherwise I WILL INFECT YOU IF YOU ARE FLYING FROM MILWAUKEE TO LAX tomorrow.

I am not taking my laptop with me and I will not be posting - it's the least I can do to thank my folks for spending two weeks waiting on me hand and foot last month. I'm sure you'll all be devastated. 

These photos are from January 2010 when Gray and I got engaged out in Malibu. Thought they might tide you over a bit.

Me (left) with Jessica Bern of Bernthis.com last January

I haven't spent a Christmas in California with this side of the family since I was a kid. It's about damn time. It's also surprising because this is the side of the family that is easy going even when I'm not wasted on boxed wine from a plastic cup.

This year, the wine has been hidden and the plastic cup forcibly removed from my grasp.

So this is the perfect time to resume old traditions, no?

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.

Gray Is Old & I Think It's Awesome: The Sequel

Wow, twice in one day. This is ridonkulous. But it's for a good reason: Gray turns 55 years young today!

That's not true because he's really 34, but I figured I'd start with a high number to freak you out and then his real age wouldn't seem so...elevated. Kind of like telling your parent's that you're pregnant when you're not really pregnant because you totalled their car. Same principal at work here.

Last year, I wrote one awesome thing about Gray for each year of his life. No fucking WAY am I going to be able to come up with an entirely new list, so go read the old one and then come back here for #34.

Go ahead.

I'll wait.

There now, wasn't that awesome? I know what you're thinking and no, you can't have him. But you can come over and shave his neck whenever you like. And you can probably play Call of Duty online with him.

Ok, so #34 WAS going to be that he gets choked up when we watch movies that involve 1) pregnancy, 2) births, 3) babies, or 4) fatherhood, like Marley & Me and Away We Go, and then he tries to distract me from noticing that he's choked up by handing ME a tissue (because, of course, I'm bawling uncontrollably), but I didn't want to make him seem like a total wussy puss here in case any of his friends stumble across this post.

So instead, I decided that #34 is: You give killer head, darlin'.

(Also, it should be noted that #20 from last year's list is officially reneged. It no longer applies. Which means now you're short one whole awesome point. So think about that the next time you want to pull the blankets over my face and pin me down. You think I'm kidding, but I'm not.)

We're going to spend the evening holed at home playing foosball on his new table, eating pancakes and bacon, and probably playing Strip Uno by the fire.

Happy Birthday, LOML! I cannot wait for another year kicking your ass at Uno! And every trivia game ever made. And Sequence. And Scategories. And being cute. But you've got me at foosball.

You May Have Heard...

I have this friend who has every album, jingle, theme song, soundtrack, and (apparently) muppet musical known to mankind on her Itunes. And probably other stuff I can't think of because my Itunes consists of 40,000 Dave Matthews Band songs (and that's just his Live at Radio City disc set!) and a very large playlist under "metal".

So this friend created 4 separate, limited edition, individualized compilations for her friends for Christmas. And although I haven't know this particular friend too terribly long, I think it's fair to say she's got me fucking figured out. The first three compilations were 1) Christmas songs, 2) mommy/daughter ballads, and 3) dance music. And then there's mine.

Mine is called "Awkward & Inappropriate Song Mix." Fucking Awesome. It features such songs as AC/DC's Big Balls, The Internet is Made for Porn from Avenue Q, and Ben Folds' heart-wrenching cover of Bitches Ain't Shit.

And the best part? I found my personal anthem.

I think it's fair to say this friend has earned her blog nickname. From henceforth, she will be known as Kylie.

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.

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.

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.

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.

This Is The Sound Of My Brain Exploding And Landing On That Guy Who's Just Minding His Own Damn Business. Wrong Place, Buddy. Can I Borrow That Book?

Some of my classmates and I were discussing how fucking dorky we are because, unlike MOST students, we're looking forward to the end of our semester in just a few weeks not so we can take a month off and relax, but for the opportunity to read even more than we already do. So we can read books for, like, fun. And stuff.

I know, it's crazy.

I've got a giant stack of books in the basement calling my name, but I just haven't been able to get to them. Some of them are fluffy crap, some of them are classics I've never read, there are at least 4 different Joyce Carol Oates novels, and (of course) there are the King novels I haven't re-read in over a year.

I keep requesting books from the library (like In The Woods and The Magician's Elephant) that have to be transported from one location to another and scanned along the way and marked with my name and put on a special shelf...so that I can cancel my request when I realize I do not have the time to read them until December. What with all the Say Yes to the Dress and 48 Hours Special Investigation episodes. What the hell is wrong with me? PUT DOWN THE PORNOGRAPHY AND READ A DAMN BOOK.

Ahem.

Anyway, so I started reading Lady Chatterley's Lover and I had to put it down. The only book I've sort of stuck with is the 100 Ghastly Ghost Stories that I read aloud to Gray after dinner by the firelight or out by the bonfire after dark. Because I don't torture him enough with requests to please "look for bugs in the sheets" and "rub my back, boy!" I have to forcibly molest his eardrums at night. It is important to our relationship that I do what I want 100% of the time.

So I'm not sure exactly what I was going to tell you now, I'm all distracted wondering if that one chick ended up buying that one dress that was $4,150 over her budget because I missed the end of the episode because the other show about the guy who murdered his wife and framed the pet rabbit was starting and my DVR was already taping The Little Couple.

Oh, that's right - so Christmas break. I've opted to take 6 days of PTO which mean that starting Christmas Eve, I will be on "vacation" from both school and work until January 4th.

In case you suck at math like me, I used my calculator and discovered that is ELEVEN ENTIRE DAYS of not working or schooling. In a row. To be used for reading and opting not to shower and possibly catching up on my obese Google reader.

And if that isn't a Merry fucking Christmas, kids....well then I don't know what is.

And until then, all I have to do is:

• create, edit and present a 15 minute video about the importance of the madrigal to the validation of the English vernacular for use in music and literature
• finish reading King Lear, The Tempest, and a bunch of stuff by Jonathan Swift, Samuel Johnson, and John Gay
• finish a research paper comparing Shakespeare's treatment of female chastity to Chaucer's treatment of female sexuality through the Wife of Bath, and (OF COURSE) the implications of all that shit
• write a paper on one of 14 topics, all of which sound as daunting as this example: "The Infernal Ontologies of Marlowe & Milton - hellish states of beingness - compare the speeches of Mephistopheles and Satan in order to determine whether their respective authors are up to the same project and why does it matter?"
• take a final on Shakespeare's histories and tragedies
• polish off that bottle of Tanqueray
• quit smoking
• try not to cry a whole bunch

So what I'm saying is...what the fuck does "ontologies" mean?

My Apologies For the Retinal Scarring

Meet: Jane Fonda and her NASCAR-lovin' boy toy, Jed.

Blurry? Check! Inappropriate posture? Check! Way too much lemon vodka? CHECK! Nothing says Happy Halloween like Sing Star, venison and ass-smack circles.

Also, my bra is stuffed with socks and the bottom of my leotard is a bathing suit that I butchered for the occasion. And my hair is one gallon of Aqua Net. Still isn't moving.

I woke up today. VOLUNTARILY. This is something I wasn't sure would ever happen again, not after Saturday night. As much as I love kids, it was probably best I don't have any right now. I would have neglected the shit out of them on Sunday. I didn't even clean my ears with a Q-tip, that's how bad it was.

But this morning, I'm off to assist with the local chapter of Kids Vote! (the exclamation point is literally right there in the name) and I have to be at the Methodist church to set up by 6:45. I know that sounds early, but I'm normally at work by 7:00, so it's no stretch for me. I usually roll out of bed between 5:00 and 5:45 - RELUCTANTLY - to get ready for work.

Today, I woke up at 4:30. A.M.! I realize I can thank the disappearance of Daylight Savings Time (also, remind me to thank you for the darkness to and from work every morning and night for the next six months, motherfucker) but I feel like a warrior princess or something. I literally do not get out of bed voluntarily, EVER.

I either need to buy a lotto ticket or double check my medication.

Making Sense: Not Included

Ugh, you guys. I am totally beat.

It sorta feels like some hoochie mama in spandex with perky nipples and acrylic nails gave me a good pop square in the nose, presumably because I looked at her cross-wise or because she was hammered enough on ecstasy and cosmos to mistake me for her boyfriend Hernando, and she took offense to my making out with Gray, thinking I was cheating on her with a man (and a hairy one, at that), and I was lucky to escape with both eyes and only several chunks of hair missing. But no worries, 15 minutes later she was sitting on my lap and feeding me cocktail onions and trying (quite unsuccessfully, I might add) to give me a hand job under the table.

What I'm saying is that my nasal cavities are so dry and bloody and full of cracks that the outside portion is literally aching and sore to the touch.

I guess I'm worried I might get sick again. Again. Again.

What with all the people at work who have been out with strep throat and mysterious strains of illness bearing flu-like symptoms, and bronchitis and leprosy, I have an inkling I may have been exposed to the plague, and I'm feeling ragged and exhausted and ripe for the viral-picking. And Dr. Google totally agrees.

Dude named Dan, who happens to be in both of my classes, showed up on Tuesday night looking like Reagan from the Exorcist and declared (in a whisper) that he thinks he might have the swine flu. And then he sat in the chair beside me.

!!!!!??????!!!!!!??????!!!!!

What the FUCK, Dan? Infect me much?

I get that this class is dick-sucking-difficult and that missing one of the soul-leaching lectures is the literary equivalent of slitting your wrists and using the blood to scrawl bad limericks on the shower wall THAT DON'T EVEN RHYME, but for Christ's sake: THINK OF THE CHILDREN!

And, of course by "children", I mean "my ability to party like an 80s rock star on Halloween". It is vital that I Get Physical like Olivia Newton John. I cannot be ill.

So Dan proceeded to drip and moan and sleep through the first half of class before bailing during the break at 7:40. Good riddance, I thought. Get thee to a nunnery, motherfucker, and keep those germs away from me!

And then. THEN. Dan showed up for class last night. Again. He said he's feeling a little better, and I commented after the break that he lasted longer than the night before, but he informed me he was, "fading fast" which of course I took to mean that he was INFECTING US ALL WITH HIS DEATH RAYS.

I am buying a mask tomorrow. And probably some latex gloves. At least I know I can use those for other, practical duties in the bedroom.

ACHOO! and I NEED A NAP! and ANYONE HAVE A TAMPON? (totally unrelated, but equally urgent medical emergency).

PS- for my roomie Veronica: YES I HAVE TAKEN EMERGEN-C.
PPS - the upside to my impending demise is that I will finally have time to catch up on my Google Reader whilst I convalesce, which right now is so full with unread blogs that it's threatening to explode and break the internet, so I know some of you are rooting for me to get cancer so I'll be out longer. You assholes!