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.

P.E.C. for Short*

We dog-sat over the weekend for Flute Randi, whom I've decided to just call "Flute" from now on because I'm tired of typing her entire name, and really, how many penis-free "Randi"s do you know?

Flute went to New Ulm to get fucking blitzed on good ole' Minnesota beer at the Schellabration, that lucky bitch, and left with us her giant mattress spring wrapped in a buffalo muscle French terrier named Mac. Since I'm busy packing for our move, I thought it would be a good idea to have MORE fur in my house. I'm going to use it first as dog-scented packing material and then weave it into a fine wool and sell it on Craig's List.

Dis dog. He can haz adorablenezz.

Bampa hates having other dogs in the house, especially BOY dogs, and I think it has something to do with the fact that Bamps pisses like a girl, but it may also be because it means he has to share the treats. These two have met before, with mixed results, and I say "mixed" when I mean "hmmm maybe we should clamp Bampa's jaws shut with a rubber band like he's a giant, furry lobster".

Which is what we ended up doing, except with a Gentle Leader instead of a rubber band, but I can assure you if a rubber band of an appropriate size had presented itself, I would have used it instead. If I can put one in my hair, he can have one on his face.

The primary effect of the Gentle Leader was that Bampa spent the next 24 hours rubbing his face on every available surface, which was really very cute (unless it involved Gray's crotch) and which meant he was distracted enough not to notice when Mac moved in on his chick:

You can't see it, but my pretty pink lipstick is riiiiiight down there...

The red shirt in the photo is Kylie, and she's very clearly giving Mac the romantic signals (note the placement of one hand on his broad shoulders and the other in her crotch), and we were not surprised when this exchange resulted in a VERY! ENTHUSIASTIC! LIPSTICK! EMERGENCE! and we spent a short while discussing the implications of such a reaction.

I realized that if my virtuous, motherly touch ever provokes such excitement in Bampa, I will promptly chop off his lipstick with the nearest available weapon and teach him once and for all that incest is the work of the devil.

Or I'll take consecutive showers. I'm still undecided.

I have always been fascinated by the idea of the lipstick, though, and I believe my first eye-witness of the phenomenon was driving by a field in which an incredibly virile horse was grazing. I was very concerned for the health of that poor animal's private parts, which appeared to have been flipped inside out and then blown up like an unformed balloon animal. I was educated in the matter soon after, however, when I had the occasion to help a small Dotson get his rocks off.

Since I'm loathe to do any actual research, I must assume that the lipstick (aka Penile Extension Cord) was invented to accommodate the semi-long-distance mating rituals of the large-boned and multi-ton-weighing animals, and of course this line of reasoning  leads me to suspect that incredibly overweight people may also have a form of penile extension cord, or are in the process of evolving such, at the very least.

Having only reached a moderate level of chunkiness myself, I've decided that the answer to my question lies in only one place: Fattie fetish porn.

Stay tuned.

PS - He weally weally missed his mama. And also, his penis touched the chair, but Gray assured me that since he was "not lippy" at the time, there was no harm done.

PPS - I'm not even entirely sure that Bampa HAS a penis, such is the girth of his old man flaps and fatty tumors on his undercarriage.

*OMFG I just realized where the word "PEC-ker" came from!!!

House. Also, Poor.

So. We bought a house.

That's what we've been up to. Gray and I have been searching for the perfect property since March, and this is the third time we found "it," the difference being that this time, the buyer agreed with us.

I was thinking our life would slow down after the wedding, but I was wronger than wrong, because now we'll be packing and moving (did I mention this marks the fifth time I've moved in three years?), and Kylie is moving in with us at Longfellow Deeds for a couple of weeks before she leaves to spend her autumn months with her hot boyfriend in Europe (I know, FUCK YOU KYLIE, is right) and I'm starting over with The Month of Ramen coming up this Wednesday. I thought we were broke before, and now we're exactly $House Amount of Dollars more poor than before. Lucky for us, Top Ramen doesn't discriminate. And also, we own all our porn.

Satan's. I Checked the Label.

It's safe to say I just ate my weight in mushrooms. And by "mushrooms", I mean mushrooms, not *mushrooms*. Don't worry, I had bacon for lunch. No, I just hosted my first writers' group meeting, which is not meant to imply that it's MY writers' group, no indeed, it belongs to the six of us equally as per the custody agreement.

What?

Exactly.

Wow ::ree ree reeeee:: this fucker is RUSTY.

I'm sitting here on the couch after having cleaned TWICE today, once because my friends were coming over, once because my friends have left, and I'm listening to a song about the stitches sewn in a fake messiah's eyes, and that's when I realized that my dog is farting and also that I had to spell check "messiah".

Which actually explains a lot about my so-called "karma".

And then I lied to my entire writers' group about cleaning. Because I WILL CLEAN. It's genetic. Don't try to stop it. You could host this fucker at your house and somehow I'd find a way to clean first. There has got to be a way to harness this power.

If none of this is making sense, it's because I'm gearing up for BlogHer '10 where I will meet my destiny, also known as Jenny from TheBloggess.com (SHAMELESS LINKAGE), and who everyone knows is exactly the opposite of what people think of when they say "making sense", but who everyone ALSO knows has a great rack and a fucking huge wig collection.

Ok, I'm actually sitting here typing. Typing here on this thing. INSTEAD OF MASTURBATING. That's how serious I am about my craft. I'm forcing my itchy fingers to remain above the waist band, which eerily reminds me of my middle school Valentine's Day dance where the teachers walked around the dance floor with wooden rulers and actually measured the distance (in inches, thank god)((for the middle school boys)) between Crotch A and Crotch B. And in hindsight, I'm kind of wondering what the fuck those teachers were actually thinking, like, "Is this what my life has come to? The inches between Crotch A and Crotch B? At work? ON A TUESDAY? Where is the nearest bridge and hand me that rope just for good measure."

My dog just traded up his fart smell for a beef-flavored hoof smell. I'm not sure if it's actually a cow hoof or if it's a different kind of hoof soaked in beef bullion.

QUICK - What's the cheapest kind of hoof?

Whatever the cheapest kind of hoof is, that's probably the kind of hoof it is because the bag says "Made in China". And isn't it funny that I go out of my way to feed this dog holistic, organic dog food that is made with chicken bits instead of Styrofoam, and is fully of unicorn jizz and Obama juice, apparently, because it costs more than my health insurance, and then I buy $36.00 bags of blueberry-flavored, glucosamine-filled nibble treats. And then I hand that same dog a dead animal's foot to chew on.

And I don't even know what kind of animal it's from.

AND I ONLY SPENT $4.99 ON THE BOTTLE OF WINE I JUST FINISHED.

My priorities are officially fucked.

I'm Not Sure He Knows How To Use It. The Lipstick, That Is.

Where were we?

Oh yes, that's right: this is the part where I WRITE SOMETHING already.

What is it about hot weather? Yesterday was 96 and humid. I bought a plastic kiddy pool "for my dog" and sat with my feet in the pool until Gray got home from work and I considered that a productive evening. I guess by "productive" I'm including "didn't get heat stroke" as a qualifying accomplishment. Also on the list were "sample new box of pinot grigio", "pick up dog shit with plastic bag-covered hand", and "get Gray to eat kale again". No wonder I was exhausted!

Poor old Bampa bear is a hot mess because he has so much fur. He has almost as much fur as he has aversion to the kiddy pool I set up and filled for him. At first I thought he was going to love it because A) my previous dogs loved it and B) after I unfolded it from the backseat/trunk of my car and left it on the deck, I came back outside and Bampa was standing in what would have been knee-deep water had there actually been water, which clearly implied his intent to love it.

I dragged it out to the yard and filled it up (with much sprinkler detaching and fence-climbing)((in a skirt))(((in front of the impressionable neighbor boy))) and Bampa promptly ignored it. Not only did Bampa ignore the pool, but he ACTIVELY ignored the pool, which is to say that each time I tried to draw his attention to the Nice! Cold! Water! he looked very pointedly in the other direction, an urgent sniffing matter having caught his attention.

I put MY feet in the pool and cried, "Ooooh! Nice and cold! Come on, dog who doesn't speak English, understand my words and enter the pool of bliss with my feet!" to which he replied by walking over to the back door and staring intensely at the handle, obviously trying to will himself into the house with nothing but his hefty aversion to Being Wet.

Then I dragged him over the to pool and put his front paws into the water, assuming that his back paws would have to follow suit (right? RIGHT?) to which he responded by literally leaping backward with the force of Tigger on crack, and I was left standing over the pool with two fist fulls of fur and a bewildered expression.

On a mostly unrelated note, Bampa has a giant lipstick. Which...maybe now I'm glad he wasn't in there with my feet after all.

School's Out

I've been doing a lot of reading in the last two weeks, which in turn has let to my doing a lot of Couch Cocktail Sipping, only augmented by the fact that it's been coldish and raining for a couple of weeks, so the fireplace is oh so very delightful, and what else would one do by the fire besides drink and read? Nothing, that's what I thought. In the process of vegging out so hard that my brains have melted entirely and drained out of my rectum and onto the furniture, my Muse has filed for divorce citing, "Smells Like Brain Farts".

I have five books going at the moment, all of them piled haphazardly around my house and car along with ten other books I haven't begun but must return to the library in a week, bobby pins and crossword puzzled shoved in as place holders, all of them are equally wonderful in their own special ways, but mostly they're wonderful because I don't HAVE to read any of them. Which is not to say that I did not enjoy basically everything I did have to read this semester, it's just that the berries which ripen on the Pleasure Tree are ever so much juicer than their Required Tree counterparts, if only because nobody is telling me to pick and eat them.

Well, that, and that I don't have to analyze their juiciness until my head explodes.

I had my first true English major experience yesterday. I was reading an achingly beautiful memoir by Joan Didion (only because I happened to pick up that book on my way out the door, else I might have been devouring a juvenile book about wilderness survival or the end of civilization and a teenager's decision to repopulate the planet) when someone commented, "Joan Didion. That's kind of...high brow, isn't it?" As I was completely unprepared for this question about the level of brow-iness of Didion's book, my only possible response was, "Yeah, well. I'm an English major," as if somehow the fact that I am majoring in English would explain the writer's pomposity. My next inclination was to confess that I also read Penthouse, but somehow (after all, this was my gynecologist I was speaking with) I was able to keep that tidbit to myself.

My dad asked me not long ago what I was reading, and I ran down a laundry list of titles and authors, none of whom he seemed to recognize, then he inquired about whether I'd read any Vince Flynn lately. The answer to that, as it has always been, was "no". I told him I'd picked of Middlemarch because I have chosen to use two different quotes by George Eliot in my wedding ceremony, and I figured I owed it to the author to see what other brilliance he'd written. Of course, I explain to my dad, this was before I realized that he was actually a Victorian she, writing under a male name because that was the loophole women found when they wanted to be taken seriously in that time. I am glad that I am alive now, in a time when I'm just as unlikely to be taken seriously whether man or woman, especially since I have small tits.

I am, as I said, devouring literature like I devour BLT's or Skittles or K-Y strawberry lubricant. At first, I found it unfortunate that the trade off for such bliss seemed to be that I could no longer write. And I don't just mean that I couldn't write anything decent, I mean that I literally was afraid to open my Blogger dashboard because of the sound of violence of the Nothing that would happen. My fingers seem to quiver in fear. My brain remains filled with ideas and words and dreamy images and IDEAS but I am physically incapable of translating them from the existential mush they are into actual keys and letters and words, etc.

I've also begun listening on tape to Anne Lamott's instructional Bird by Bird multiple times in a row, and now I'm piling inspiration and drive on top of my ideas and characters and words, so that the whole lot of them are squishing my attention span into the floorboards of my car, and still I'm unable to do anything about it. For now. It's like everything is organizing itself into piles in my brain - the Funny pile and the Heavy pile and the Characters with Small Penises pile - and once they've been sorted and the floor has been swept, then the tiny OCD Muse who lives in my brain will appear with a tiny desk and a rusty typewriter and then she will begin to work again.

Perhaps it's my spirit's version of spring cleaning. Perhaps it's just the same old fucking procrastination I perfected in high school. It's definitely not the first time this has happened, and it certainly won't be the last. What it feel like this time, though, isn't so much like a well running dry as a runner stretching, lining up in a row across the track, preparing to take her mark.

She is preparing to Go.

Here

I have shit to do, ya'll, and I am not even joking when I say that I'm so wound up with anticipation and twisted tight with anxiety about an ever-growing List Of Shit To Do, Or Else that I feel as if I'm crawling all over the walls and hanging from the chandelier, and I don't mean that in the good way. Actually, so far as the chandeliers go, I mean that literally because Gray and I began to try to install a new, sparkly, pimp-smacking, daddy-mackin' light fixture that Veronica purchased for our dining room.

And then early twentieth-century electrical work happened.

So now I need to stop and try to explain to the good people in the aprons at the hardware store that I need this adapter thingy that I know exists, if only by the sheer force of my will that it shall turn out to exist, because otherwise we're looking at needing a new ceiling box, which will require a saw (it's plastered in place, thanks to early twentieth-century plaster work) and I'm pretty sure I'm not down with sawing a hole in somebody else's ceiling, even if that someone knows me well enough to poop in front of me. By accident. In her pants.

I'm also finishing up two weeks of homework before we leave on Friday (did I mention we're flying to motherfucking CALIFORNIA, bitches? Because if not, then consider yourself foresworn. Wait, is it foresworn or foretold? Foreskin? Foreplay? I think I mean forewarned, although now the prefix of "fore" has totally lost its meaning and looks like a made up word, kind of like the word "here" did after I finished writing the essay below.)

Which brings me to the essay below. I'm so busy that you losers are stuck with reading recycled posts. I guess technically it's not recycled so much as it's reworked. Renown? Rehashed? Re-FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK.

I (re)worked this piece for an assignment in my creative writing class. The original piece (wow, aren't those bulleted numbers fucking FANCY?) can be found here. Enjoy.

I started in the corner house in Bellflower. That was where we had citrus and plum trees and where my dad built the playhouse in the back and he bounced us on the eucalyptus limb in the front and I found a dead sparrow and we buried it after mommy told me about God. There our neighbors had an avocado tree and my parents were happy together and I felt the earthquake as I sat watching robot cartoons in the den and the walls started shaking and the white figurines on the shelf fell and shattered on the floor, like lovely plaster bombs detonating around me.

Then came the condo, where I called 911 just to see what would happen and hung up when the woman answered and I pretended to be lost in sleep when daddy came upstairs but really I was wondering how he knew what I’d done. I was there in my bedroom when another earthquake sloshed the fish bowl so hard that Teabag and Fleabag nearly spilled onto the carpet and I imagined their demise would be blamed on me and so I was relieved when the shaking stopped and the fish stayed put. It was where I tried to pee standing up just to see what it would be like and where I played doctor for the first time, with Shane, under his bed, because he had a skate board and hair so blond that it hurt to look at it.

Then we drove a long ways from the beach and all four of us squished in the front seat of the moving truck and I realized you could get so hot that it actually hurts and I lost my best friend, the stuffed cheetah, left him at a gas station in the desert. We came to the house on Cannock Lane which was my grandparent’s house and my daddy paid cash so we could live there, and that was where my sister and I raised ourselves after daddy went back to California and mommy’s new boyfriend was younger than I am now. There we walked to the lake and jumped off the docks, the last one down was the best, but we always watched the water for moccasins that glided on the surface like S-shaped Jesuses. That was where I believed my playmate, the woods, was alive and magical and once I saw a thick snake, midnight on top, cotton on the bottom, wrapped around the phone pole like a slick pile of licorice whips and it reminded me of French braids, in the yard where Jingle fell out of a very high tree and had to wear a neon pink cast on her paw.

Then, sadly, we lived with a friend so my mother (no longer mommy) could go back to college after she was let go, and that was the house where all shared one bedroom for years in the neighborhood where I fell in love with the boy down the street who is now married happily to someone else and living somewhere distant from our block where he liked to push my face into the snow. That was the unhappy house where I read an article in Seventeen about cutting and I got inspired and where I walked three blocks to middle school every morning and saw the cat in the road with its eyes bulging upward in total defiance of gravity.

Next came the new husband's house where I had my own room, so I tried out the new school for three months and decided that home schooling was for me, a bad decision, because of which I showered three times a day and still never felt clean. That was where I lived when I got my first job at Kisor's Grill & Bakery and went to the church where I learned to hate God. That was the house where my baby brother was conceived and then everywhere we went, people assumed I was a teenage mother and it made me proud in a way I never understood. That was where I fell in love with his big forehead and bigger smile, where I left at seventeen (because they couldn’t stop me) and never wanted to return.

I moved in with my boyfriend and his parents and I cranked the heat up to ninety degrees once when I was hung over and shaking and sitting in the bathtub with my clothes on. I’ll always remember that I had sex in the backyard beside their bedroom window and liked that it was risky but hated that the night could see us. That was the house where I was left in charge of ironing his father's shirts and Dockers and ties while his mother was at the Mayo and where I felt like a part of a real family for once, useful, but also like I was being tested.

Then we left for Stanley, where we lived in a heated yard shack for two months while I worked first as a housekeeper and then as a prep cook at the lodge and I talked to the does on my walk to the kitchen each morning where they stood along the narrow road, ears at attention. That was where I jumped off a boulder into the glacial lake and finally understood what “glacial lake” meant, where I got sun poisoning in the paddle boat and where I thought I was free for the very first time and I sailed on a rope swing out over a two-hundred-foot ravine and wasn't afraid on the same day that I drank a liter of vodka and wasn't hung over, which is how I knew that we had to leave.

Then we lived in a basement which is where I hosed his vomit off the driveway and gave him a bath without waking the family, where my nephews were born and where I broke down and cried at the dinner table because I missed a spot with the lawn mower and they thought it was funny. That is where I lived when I watched Teletubbies and learned to drive stick and I we could hear them making love through the ceiling.

At the apartment I paid all the bills by myself which set the precedent for paying all the bills by myself and I once I called the cops because I was drunk and somehow it made sense at the time and it was there where my boyfriend accused me of being a lesbian because I finally made a girl friend whom I met where I went to college for the first time. I worked as a waitress at the Mall of America and after my shift I rode the bus to the apartment, which is where I helped an old lady get up off the floor where I found her laying where she'd fallen by the laundry room on the third floor which overlooked the pool where the ducks lived.

I bought my first house three weeks after I turned twenty-one and it happened to be that I loved my neighbors as much as I loved to guess what type of crops would grow in the field behind us each spring. There, I took pride in my lawn, at least up until I got "the call,” then I lived alone with the dog for long months which is probably why I called the escort service, but only to talk. Then my sister came to live with me so that I wouldn’t be alone and it was later that I met my Jill who was there when my niece was born and came home wearing pink for the first time to that house where I fell in love for a third time and I told my husband I wanted a divorce. I never wanted to leave but couldn't afford to stay.

Then was the apartment where he and I moved in together, alone for the first time, and where it was tiny but we didn’t really notice because it had a dishwasher and we had each other. That was where we smoked, then quit, then started again until I got pregnant and we moved across the hall in pursuit of a second bedroom, which is where I lost the baby before we’d even turned in our key to the one bedroom place. But there I learned to bake wheat bread when I wanted to forget we were paying for an empty room and we hung the curtains from IKEA without any yelling at all.

And now we are in the new house where I can garden in the warm months and where we grill our dinner almost every night, even in the winter, dinners which we eat in a real a dining room that I can paint if I want to. Now he can mow the lawn with his IPod cranked to Pantera while I wash the windows and laugh at his sorry excuse for a voice, and we are one block from the Mississippi and I can step out the front door and run as far as the elementary school and then back, moving the air all around, until I get home.

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.

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.

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.

Total First World Problem, But Still...

Holy fucking Christ, ya'll. My refrigerator STINKS.

It smells like dirty boy Brad Pitt crawled in there but died and his mane kept growing 'cause that's what hair does when you die and it ended up sort of creeping around the fridge when the light was off and it discovered a whole, raw chicken (which happened to have a raging yeast infection) and held it close to his rotting face as he smeared it with horseradish and moldy pineapples and they all had a latex orgy and then exploded. And then the fridge was unplugged for 3 years and left to moulder in the hot, desert sun.

That's what it stinks like in there right now.

This all started about a week ago when I noticed that ripe smell that you normally associate with, "Get your lazy ass off the PS3 and take out the motherfucking garbage already!", but when the garbage was removed, the smell not only persisted...it grew legs.

After an inspection of the interior workings of the garbage can, I was able to determine that it was not, in fact, the source of the stench (which was augmenting at an alarmingly fast rate, I might add), and I moved my search to other areas of the kitchen.

When I opened the refrigerator door, it was like the hand of god pressing down upon my face, and my eyes shone with the glory of the lord, and then I realized I was crying because my nose was just that offended. The stench was in the fridge, no question about it.

Thus began the process of systematically picking shit up off the shelves, recalling how old that shit actually was, checking for science experiments in the Tupperware, and generally searching for the offending food stuff. I did the same in the freezer, just for good measure. Goodbye goose balogna ring (don't ask).

Let me just be clear about one thing: I run a tight...er...fridge. You will not find 4-year-old yogurt in there, nor old cheese, nor slimy lunch meat, nor wilted carrots. I clear the damn thing out once a week on Trash Day Eve and throw away any leftovers from 3 or more days ago, as well as any questionable items or unknowns. There is no spilling in my refrigerator. There are no unidentified sticky puddles or bugs or hairs. Basically, I already knew exactly what was in there and I knew that none of it smelled like Brad Pitt.

Nevertheless, I sprayed down each shelf and wiped it clean, hoping that would solve the problem. By about Sunday, when I could smell the stench FROM THE LIVING ROOM, I got pissed off.

I pulled that big fucker out from the cabinetry (which was built around the unit as snug as a condom on a bratwurst, I might add). I jimmied and jammied that thing until I could see behind it to check for dead mice. Because that was the only explanation left.

And then I grabbed a flashlight from my handy Flashlight and Screwdriver drawer, and I checked underneath the fridge, at which point I also realized I could have seen behind the fridge via the flashlight (without all the yanking and swearing and sweating)((now that I type that out, it sounds sexier than it actually was)).

NOTHING. No rotting animals. No wayward grapes. Not even any centipedes, which is a whole other issue, but one I'm willing to work with because THEY DON'T SMELL LIKE BRAD PITT.

Thus began the pouting phase of my refrigerator caper. I stomped around the kitchen, grabbing bleach solution and paper towels, pulling each item from its chilly, ripe respite and scrubbing the hell out of each shelf and drawer until nothing remained but the scent of bleach any a glimmer of hope.

Then I returned each item to its respective shelf (pausing to reconsider my egg carton placement in the grand scheme of things and opting to switch up the location of the beer), and then I poured a generous amount of Arm & Hammer baking soda into an open dish and placed that square in the middle of the fridge to help soak of the aroma of death, and called it a day.

And when I got home last night, the first thing Gray said to me was, "Fridge stinks again." And it did. IT DID. God help me, this thing is stronger than BLEACH. THERE IS NO HOPE.

I'm basically gibbering mad at this point, the muscle below my left eye has been twitching like a severed hand for three days now.

And that thing you smell? The one like Brad Pitt with a pineapple yeast infection?

That's dinner.

It Appears I've Become the Kind of Girl Who Asks the Internet for Decorating Advice

I'm totally obsessed with weddings right now, thanks to the bouquet incident, a fact which is both pathetic and inappropriate, and therefore perfectly in keeping with my character.

Apparently I'm making my co-workers uncomfortable by assigning them personal attendant duties (someone has to wipe my ass, I won't be able to reach it through the layers of taffeta) and detailed instructions for the bridal showers they are responsible for planning (of course I want 10,000 white doves to perform on a tiny stage made of clouds. This IS my ((second)) BRIDAL SHOWER, dammit, and I ((probably)) won't ever be getting married again ((again)).

My girlfriends are begging me to find a project that does not involve researching the different variations of butter cream frosting. Gray is begging me to stop looking at tuxedos (apparently he is opposed to wearing a lavender bowtie, but if there's one with SKULLS on it, hook the brotha up!) and come back to bed, it's 3:00 a.m. for the love of god, who am I planning to marry, the goddamn Man in the Moon?

For some reason, everyone feels I should actually get engaged before they spend any time or money planning my wedding. Selfish, huh?

Because I'm so selfless and giving, I've decided to carry on wedding plans in secret (plans which must involve embezzlement in some form, because CHRIST have you seen how much fucking CAKES cost these days?!), and concentrate my visible energies into choosing new paint colors for the living and dining rooms at Longfellow Deeds.

The color of the walls isn't bad. The problem now is that there are many spots that need to be touched up, and I don't have any of the matching paint to use. Plus, I kind of want a new color scheme that ties the living room, dining room and "eggplant" kitchen together, and that makes the GORGEOUS new tile around the fireplace sizzle. I installed that myself. God, I'm awesome.

See the pretty blues and grays?

The tile is EXTREMELY blue in person, especially in dim lighting.

My idea is to use one of the paler, grayish blues from the tile to paint the living room walls and a darker, slate-y blue from the tile to paint the fireplace surround and the dining room. The trim and mouldings will remain white throughout the house.

The couch is beige.

Clearly, since my midterms, papers, class presentations, job, car trouble, baking, cooking, cleaning and fall yard work aren't enough to keep me busy, I NEED A PROJECT. Painting seems the saftest, although I've also considered making some formal drapes like these.

But...but.....BUT!!! What colors should I choose? Should I tape off the barrel vault and paint the ceiling, or leave the huge mass of OH SO WHITE up there? The rug is about as maroon as a rug can get, as is the front door (kinda), so what to do with those?!

Keep in mind, this house belongs to Veronica, not us. We are forbidden from doing what Gray wants to do, which is to paint every square inch black and then have a muralist recreate a biblical hades scene on the ceiling. If we could somehow work real brimstone into the design, he'd be down with that, but he'll settle for a CD of screams set to "repeat".

Please help me think of options! Or you might wake up tomorrow with a really bad hangover and a brand new, crazy Minnesotan wife.

Yes, I DO realize that's redundant.

Don't Worry, They Were Strippers, Not Hookers. Probably.

So we got into a bit of trouble with some of our new neighbors (us being the "new" ones).

Turns out? We're loud as fuck.

I know, I was surprised too.

Gray hosted a bachelor party for his buddy at our house last Friday (yes, it totally involved strippers and blow job solicitations and dollar bills and oh so very much booze)((it was a true-blue bachelor party)), and the boys were up until almost 6:00 a.m. I was trying to sleep through the commotion (whoever had the brilliant idea of playing Guitar Hero at 3:00 directly below my bedroom, I thank you from the bottom of my heart)((oh, and whoever was singing along? don't quit your day job and for the love of god, get your dog a pair of earplugs)).

They had a great time and didn't get arrested or catch any venereal diseases or accidentally sleep with each other or any of things that occasionally happen to make a guys' night out end badly.

They did, however, sit outside on the deck almost all night long because they smoke, which is verboten in our house, and so there they sat, smoking and giving each other noogies and saying "fuck this, fuck that" until an ungodly hour of the morning.

Our neighbors directly behind were displeased.

So we tromped around the block on Sunday, homemade goodies in hand, to apologize for disturbing their slumber. We felt very much like naughty little children, and I don't mean that in the way that pedophiles mean it.

Since that humiliating experience (yes, I cried, but not until after we left) I've been thinking what we could have done differently to avoid this awkward social situation, and I came to a brilliant conclusion: We have to deafen our neighbors.

Think about it for a second. Imagine if everyone living directly around your home were deaf. Just picture, if you will, the liberation such an arrangement would provide you. FARTING! FIGHTING! FUCKING! Everything could be as loud as you wanted. You'd never worry about "keeping it down" or shushing your guests or offending the children with graphic limericks or adult subject matter.

THEY WOULD ALL BE DEAF. You could call your next door neighbor a "moron" five feet from his face and he'd never know (disclaimer: deaf people read lips, so always be sure to hide your face. it's a qualified liberation, now that I think about it. just walk fucking backwards, you big babies).

I think I could do the job with an ice pick. Or is that too big? I've never actually seen one. Or I could pull some ninja shit and reach up to plug their noses just as they're sneezing. I'd have to aim for allergy season with that plan. I could just detonate an explosive right by their faces. Or discharge a gun inside an aluminum garbage can that they're crammed into.

The biggest challenge I foresee with this clearly unstoppable scheme is that we'd have to drive really slowly around the neighborhood. According to those big yellow signs, deaf people have a tendency to run right out in front of cars, although I never understood why fucking BLIND people can get across a busy street no problem, but deaf people can't seem to remember to look both ways. Who the hell judges traffic by SOUND, for christ's sake.

I know, the whole plan sounds tricky, but the only alternative I came up with was for US to be deaf because you never really hear deaf people talk, so theoretically we'd be much less obnoxious to the world in general, but I don't think that would actually solve the problem because deaf people seem to make a lot of strange noises when they sign, noises which resemble what I do on the toilet, so we'd probably be in trouble with the neighbors for "pooping loudly" when really we were just discussing the economy.

I'm glad we talked about this, you people really helped me realize that it makes the most sense to just stab everyone in the ears.

Juicy

These little fellows are as ripe as they're going to get and are starting to fall off the vine, the vine which happens to climb all over the arbor, the arbor which happens to be positioned directly over our deck, the part of the deck which happens to support our deck chairs, the chairs which happen to be where we sit outside smoking, which I was doing last night, which is how I came to step on what I thought was a gigantic green booger. IN MY BARE FEET.

Time to prune, yes?

The Price of Fame

I've sunk to new lows for you people: stalking deformed animals for your viewing pleasure. I might as well paste "Flab Beach Bodies" all over this post just to sell more copies. I don't think I can make it in the tabloid world. I'll have to leave that to Courtney Cox and her lipstick vibrator.

Nevertheless, here is the best shot I could get of Mr. Albino Squirrel. I literally followed him around the neighborhood until I was close enough that he didn't wind up looking like a Q-tip in the damn picture. Did I mention I was just wearing a t-shirt? I can still hear the neighbor's laughing as I turned back towards the house, and one lady asked, "Did you get it?" meaning the shot, and she was totally snickering. Bitch.

"MUST HIDE ACORNS FROM RACCOON."

"QUICK. AM BEING FOLLOWED BY HUMAN."

The white raccoon has proven more elusive than his rodent counterparts. I spent most of Saturday peering out into the yard through the rain, watching for him to make an appearance. And then I remembered that raccoons are nocturnal so I planned an all-night stake-out, but Gray convinced me that the chances of the same white raccoon showing up at a specific location on our property three times in one week was incredibly unlikely, so I decided to cheat and instead of a picture of our albino raccoon, I provide you with this:

This is a dead albino raccoon. I know it doesn't look like a raccoon, but it totally is one. Hence the confusion at our house.

Now I Want To Make Him Into A Hat

All of the wild animals in our back yard are turning white. WHITE. I'm pretty sure there's a serial Animal Bleacher running amok in the Longfellow neighborhood, and I'm going to DO something about it.

I cannot stand idly by, waiting for some kind of Cruella De Ville wanna-be to destroy another innocent woodland creature's chances of hooking up with other woodland creatures. STRIPES WERE MADE BY GOD, people. It's just not natural to take that away from them. It's all they have: they eat acorns, for christ's sake.

And I'll be damned if I'll let a white (animal) supremacist infect the superior, liberal group-think of our closely knit, bluer than balls, upper-middle class community by heartlessly and repeatedly dunking helpless animals in a giant vat of bleach. Or maybe it's peroxide. EITHER WAY. It's just wrong.

I began noticing the problem a few weeks ago when I had the opportunity to meet Mr. Albino Squirrel. At first, I thought he was a Swiffer Dust Wand, just blowing in the breeze, so I almost chased him down and snatched him up for use inside the house. I'm on a budget, don't judge me.

But do you see? THAT RIGHT THERE is what the government likes to call RACIAL PROFILING. It happens even to the best of us. I've made my peace with my faults.

Recently, I began seeing other albino squirrels and then I realized that maybe there is a whole family of blind, white squirrels and that they're crowding out the regular old grey squirrels which is totally possible because when I was in Vancouver, all I saw were black squirrels, GIANT ones, and it was sort of ironic because I don't remember seeing any black people the whole time we stayed in the city, but now that I think about it, it totally makes sense because Vancouver is surrounded by all that ocean and everyone knows home boys can't swim.

So remember when I told you about the raccoon? Well, I didn't mention this part because it sounded so ludicrous at the time that I wanted to spare Gray's reputation and only post about the fact that the raccoon scared the manhood out of him, but now that I know that a serial Animal Bleacher is on the loose, I feel it's my duty to flesh out these details. I didn't tell you the part of the story where Gray exclaimed that the raccoon was white. Like ALL white.

Being the rational, animal-color-knowing woman that I am, I said, "Psh. It must have been a opossum." (Now that I typed "opossum", I'm not sure if I'm supposed to use "a" or "an" in front of it because I know you use "an" when the word starts with a vowel, but in this case the vowel is silent, and it sounds funny to say "an opossum" out loud. God, English is hard.)

But he insisted that it was, in fact, a WHITE raccoon. I was convinced he was mistaken. Until last night. (Pretend there's dramatic music emphasizing my suspense-filled pause right here...)

Last night, I was sitting on the deck with Gray & Veronica* when I heard a creeping noise from the direction of the driveway, which I immediately assumed what the sound of the devil coming to take my soul, but when I strained my eyes into the darkness...a pair of yellow eyes strained back, and everyone knows the devil's eyes are red, so clearly it was some kind of animal.

Gray also heard the noise and when he turned to look, the animal's head popped briefly up so that all three of us could see that it was a gigantic WHITE raccoon.

I raced to get a flashlight so that I could seek out this mysterious creature and marvel at it's lack of markings, and just as I knelt on the ground with my face under the deck, Veronica decided she wanted to stomp from above and "scare it out". AT MY FACE.

I quickly abandoned my raccoon-level post and retreated to bed, but as I lay in the darkness, those glowing raccoon eyes haunted me. "Help me, I've been bleached by a madman," they said. "I am no longer welcome at home and must live amongst the herd of albino squirrels across the street. THEY EAT ACORNS," those eyes said.

Then and there, I resolved to stop the monster that is stripping the Longfellow creatures of their respective markings. Whoever he is - whatever he may be capable of - I will find him and I will put an end to his twisted games.

And then possibly I might have him color my hair. I don't know, we'll have to see how it plays out.

*So I asked out landlady-slash-roomie what she wanted me to use as her anonymous blog name (obviously, nobody wants to be associated with this particular blog), and she came up with Veronica. I'm still trying to decide if I'm going to write her as the Archie version or the Mars version.

Melty Hair

Ya'll, the Housewarming BBQ was so much fun and went off with not one hitch unless you count the thunderstorm which drove our guests into Spider Town (aka the garage) and the food turned out to be delectible and we had more than enough beer for the masses (and nobody even drank wine, so I've got, like, an entire case of it ALL TO MYSELF) and most of our good buddies were able to make it to the party and they brought me even more wine and they brought Gray beer and we were given several very thoughtful gifts and complimented endlessly on the work we've done to the house and we got to spend some time with the fascinating new neighbors and their hyper-verbal children and everybody had a great time despite the massive thunderstorm which rolled overhead no more than 3 seconds after Gray lit the bonfire...

...in fact, we had such a great time that I should have known I was going to pay dearly for my contentedness and relief. Such is the life of a pessimist. So it goes.

So in preparation for Gray's annual family reunion on Saturday, I was drying my hair using a round brush like I've done every single morning for the last 8 million years, except this time because I owed a debt of contentedness and relief to The Universe, and probably because my blow dryer is 5 years old, instead of my hair winding up dry, it wound up melted.

And when I realized I smelled burning hair, I started to panic and thrash my head about this way and that, and then I got really close to the mirror, close enough to realize my pores are getting bigger (WTF?) and that's when I saw the dark circle in my hair.

It was about the size of a dime, and in my head I went NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO and I'm pretty sure out loud I went, "No no no no no no no no no no no!" and then I brought my arm up to touch the dark circle and I could hear all the demons of hell cackling and I could smell the brimstone that awaits me in the afterlife, and my arm was all moving in slow motion and I had time to think, "Dude, my eyes are REALLY big right now".

And when finally my trembling fingers reached up to touch the dark circle of my melted hair, they jostled the melted area and it all fell away from my head in clumps and tiny little frizzes, and my life flashed before my eyes and then I died.

These are what I call my Eyes of Displeasure. They fit nicely within the Face of Displeasure, something I've been wearing all weekend, thanks in part to my $1,000 in unexpected emergency car maintenance.

Thanks, Universe. And by "thanks", I mean "Fuck you".

I Guess, If You Insist, I COULD Use A New Candle Holder...

Oooh boy am I tired, but I'm pretty damn sure we're, like, 95% ready for the (hopefully!) onslaught of friends and family who will (fingers crossed!) descend upon the house for our HOUSEWARMING BBQ! at 7:00 tomorrow night.

I've had to explain several times that we are renting, we didn't exactly buy this place, so technically it's a little strange to be "warming" someone else's house, and please don't buy us presents because technically we didn't really accomplish anything other than lifting all our possessions and transporting them to another zip code, so if you buy me a toaster, it's going to make me uncomfortable, but we've been cooped up in an apartment for so long, cramped in a space with no outdoor access, no means of barbecuing for crowds, no feasible way to host a large number of people...so we said FUCK IT!

We don't own this place, but we sure as hell are rockin' it at the moment, and we have worked hard the last month ripping out the overgrowth in the yard and scrubbing the house down and polishing it up and making it our own. It's party time, if you ask me.

I'm a little bit worried because I suffer from a lingering, sophomoric "nobody likes me" syndrome, so I've got this anxiety about having purchased way too much money's worth of food and incoming hangover from hell's worth of booze; about having spent so many hours planning this party that should have been spent recovering from my cold. If nobody shows up tomorrow night and forces Gray and I to beat the holy hell out of our little pinata by our sad, lonely selves...well I just might die.

Last summer, I planned a girls' night at the apartment - a Sex & the City party, if you will - complete with cosmopolitans and fancy little appetizers that must be purchased and consumed in bulk if there is any hope of staving off hunger. I bought an official SATC "I'm With Mr. Big" t-shirt. I bought the SATC dvd. I invited every friend that I have in the world that is dickless. I was SO PUMPED.

And then everyone cancelled at the last minute. And my "last minute", I mean all the food was ready to roll and the dvd was in the damn player, all queued up and practically begging to be watched. And Gray was headed out the door to do his pre-arranged manly things.

My Jill showed up for a half an hour, but she had been busting her ass doing yard work all weekend and was sore and tired and headache-y, so she left. And I spent the rest of the night pouting and re-living my 7th grade birthday party FAIL, and Gray spent the rest of the night fuming. I believe he even posted a largely passive-aggressive Facebook status, something about when people say they'll be attending a function, then he damn well expects them to show up.

So this time I'm hoping to spare everyone the shame of thinking possibly he's talking directly to THEM when he puts an angry face on his profile. I'm hoping we have an enormous turnout and that we nearly run out of beer and that the bonfire burns so long and hot that Gray ends up having to cut down a neighbor's tree simply to keep the party going.

I've always kind of wanted to see him in handcuffs.

You Should See How I Organize With Twist Ties

I don't think there's enough coffee in the world to steel myself for the barrage of post-BlogHer anecdotes on the Interwebnet today, so instead, I'm using heroin. Godspeed to you all, may you be subjected only to the best and brightest blogger recaps, and may you stumble upon countless incriminating photos of BlogHer panelists cartwheeling topless through Millennium Park.

So this cold. This cold has kicked my ass in a very big way, so much so that I've burned through a bottle of Mucinex and a bottle of Robitussin (both expectorants only, not even any of the good pseudoephedrine stuff) and my lungs are still full of sludge, as are Gray's. The coughing in our household has reached the Atomic Level, and luggies are being spit and swallowed left and right. Yesterday morning, Gray drove us to get coffee at Dunn Brother's, and I noticed an abandoned Chipotle cup sitting in his console, so of course my reaction was, "When did you go to Chipotle without me!?" and he replied, "No, this cup is still from last week when you were really sick and I brought home dinner. I've been using it as a 'spitter' since then." Which means there is a cup full of creamy white excretions just hanging out in Gray's truck right now. Good luck with that cream cheese bagel now, suckas!

My Jill came down with the same cold last Monday, only she has asthma, so instead of the cold kicking her ass as it did ours, her version put her at urgent care where she was given a prescription for steroids which should have cleared her right up, but against this Hell Cold, they had no effect. She's going back to the doctor today, and I'm going to ask that she go ahead and update her will while she's in town on the off-chance that she doesn't make it through another night of drowning in her own fluids. Michelle? I want your camera.

So what I really should have done this weekend is rest and drink lots of fluids. What I actually did this weekend was rip out entire portions of the overgrown yard at Deeds, plant some herbs and ornamental grasses, disassemble and clean the gas grill, laundry, cleaning, unpacking, hang artwork, plan a menu...basically everything EXCEPT rest and drink lots of fluids...We're hosting a big BBQ on Friday in honor of our new digs, and this was our last weekend to GET STUFF DONE! before everyone shows up expecting food and beer and a weed-free backyard. I had no choice but to push past the sickness and work from sunup to sundown. I'm like a farmer, except with fewer forehead wrinkles and more complaining.

I cannot walk today. Yard work is great for your buns, ya'll.

We bought and assembled our new fireplace thingy for the backyard, hosed off spidery-dusty lawn furniture, cut down several small-yet-well-established elm trees, installed a ceiling fan without electrocuting ourselves, and hauled 4 bins of yard debris over to the sinkhole across the street. I saw two neon-orange spiders, one neon-green spider, and had one ginormous beetle get stuck in my hair. I will never sleep again.

The ceiling fan was quite an adventure. Gray took the reigns, and I promptly tried to yank them out of his capable hands because, we determined, I? Am a control freak. (Don't all object at once! I hear you nodding your heads and I don't appreciate it. Sit down, Michelle, this isn't Oprah.)

I don't want to be this way, really. It's just that I know how to do everything. Like, KNOW-know how to do everything. FASTER! BETTER! Move over because I am BORED when you do stuff while I watch! Gray mentioned that perhaps the reason people think he's not all that terribly "handy" around the house is that I don't let him do anything around the house. I say he can do things like lead the ceiling fan installation, and then I sucker-punch him in the stomach so he'll drop the wrench, but not until after my instruction-highlighting system is fully deployed and my tool are lined up with surgical precision on a special towel-lined worktable (so nothing rolls around!) and my screws are all neatly labeled so I don't confuse part ZZ with part XX because that might mean the fan will come crashing down upon us as we sleep.

I'm looking for a psychiatrist as we speak.

So now our pre-BBQ list is whittled down to: buy food for an undetermined number of people, buy beer for the same unknown number of people, make sure we have sufficient propane, figure out how the hell to tell how much propane is in the tank so we can make sure we have sufficient propane, borrow and set up a shade tent, jimmy-rig enough table/chair scenarios for an undetermined number of people, mow the yard again, oh and STOP BEING DOG ASS SICK.

Oh, and scrub the toilets. Again. Any chance I could work this last one into the BBQ festivities? Toilet scrubbing contest? I'll totally flash the fastest wand-wielder...

Under Construction

We're almost finished moving.

Did I mention there are boxes everyfuckingwhere? This can be a problem for OCD freaks like me. Boxes on top of boxes, next to other boxes, all full of shit you have to PUT SOMEWHERE, and the pressure of knowing where to put things, things that you just figured out where to put in your old apartment, things that no longer fit the same way because the closets are longer and the shelves are taller and storage is located on entirely different floors of the house now and FUCK! Where do I keep the spare toilet paper!?

It's like a life-sized game of Tetris, except I can't just shut it off when I'm tired of playing. Instead, I lay in bed listening to the different night noises of the new house, and I continue to play mental Tetris with regards to the spoons in the second kitchen drawer and try to decide if my socks should go in a drawer or on a hangy shelf thing because the drawers are prime real estate, and I should really use things that close to house my knife collection.

I tried the whole "one box at a time" method, but inevitably there's this one thing in the box that can't be put away until I find this one other thing in another box, and by the time I find that second box and dig through it to find the needed accoutrement, I've forgotten what I was doing in the first place, but I noticed that the floor board needs to be wiped off, and OH DEAR GOD did you see the spider nest located INSIDE the cover of a book of canvas paper? And then I realize it's 1:30 in the morning and I still have to make fudge.

So yeah, we're under construction.

Not to mention I am without computer access at home for the moment until we mount the giant task of Figuring Technological Shit Out (you would think that the Satellite DVR situation is matter of national security), so I'm going to stop posting for a few days because I'm tired and sore and the number of cardboard paper cuts on my arms are uncountable and I have nothing to say except WAH WAH WAH, and oh yeah, Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Also we fucking LOVE the new place.

FYI: There are also BIG CHANGES! taking place here at Zipbag of Bones, and what goes better with big changes than big orgasms? That's right, all of that coming up in the next week, so stay tuned because YOU. DON'T. WANT. TO. MISS. THIS.*

*Unless you don't like orgasms, in which case: Stop reading my blog, Jesus.