Apparently, I Like Parentheses?
Wednesday, Nov. 17, 2004, 1:17 p.m.

(Written yesterday)

It's gotten chill-lay-lay down here in North Cack. I'm not complaining per se, but damn. Makes you want to crawl into bed, eat bob-bons, and take naps. (Who am I kidding--that's my routine 294 days of the year anyway.) I mean, I appreciate still having the four seasons and all, but I used to feel like I had bought a cabana on the tanning beach of Hell--I was perenially HOT. In the middle of winter in Massachusetts or New York, I could brave the inclemencies more often than not without a coat even. But somehow, since I've moved "South", I've turned into my Grammy. I'm all, "Baby, git me my sweater. Make me some tea." It's true. Not that my house is a spectacular indicator right now, being that it's nipple-erect freezing in here, but still. I can't tough it out like the sunny days of long ago.

The reason it's so preternaturally cold in mi casa, though, is because on Sunday we had what we believed to be a gas leak. I say "we believed" because we rushed the Piedmont Natural Gas dude away from his Sunday brunch (though I use "rushed" somewhat loosely, we waited three hours outside--because the Gas peeps were all, "Flee the house! Evacuate! You're all gonna die!" and then took their sweet-ass time getting over here) and then after a thorough once-over PNG guy says, "Yup. Seems like you have some gas (HA! If he only knew the kind of gas I've had since The Procedure...) but I can't seem to pinpoint the source of the problem. I suggest we turn off the gas entirely and you call your HVAC peeps tomorrow." (DouchebagsaysWhat? It's 52 degrees in the middle of the day with the sun shining. What am I supposed to do when the lights go down, honkeyfool?) But we slept with the windows open with (obviously) no heat, and I woke yesterday with Headcold from Gehenna and the thermostat in my bedroom reading 41 degrees. I remeeber waking in the night to make pee-pee, and thinking the room was not unlike the bedroom in The Exorcist. I let one bare leg touch the air, my head spun around three times, and I said to myself, Self, Hold It.--or else, piss the bed. Either way, at least you'll be WARM." (I'm smart like that.)

So, anyway, the HVAC dudes check out our shiz yesterday and after running tests on the stove, then the fireplace, and then the water-heater, and then the furnace, they've concluded that nothing is wrong. OK, finefine. But then last night, we turn on the heat, and I'll be a monkey's adopted half-nephew if it didn't stink to high heaven of gas AGAIN. So, lather, rinse, repeat of Sunday evening's agenda. I called the HVAC guy again and was all, "Meep, it smells" and I get, "Hold on. *mufflemuffle* (crazy woman) *mufflemuffle* (checked the whole goddamn house) *mufflemuffle* No problem, ma'am, we'll swing by tomorrow." So we slept once again, windows-open-sans-heat. But at least we slept upstairs, as it is considerably warmer up there for some reason (duh, heat rises, Einstein) and I was sweating like Paris Hilton in her sex video (that is to say, not really, but moist perspiration on the upper lip).

Anyway, today, I have the heat on and I'm sitting here shitting my pants waiting for the HVAC posse to show. Because, see, no gas smell now. So they might *Gullet, Gullet, Goodbye* me and tell me to lose their number. And then Matt'll come home, the gas smell will miraculously reappear, and then he'll punch me in the gut for not getting this taken care of, and having to sleep, Day 3, in the chilly-his-willy house. (So I got that going for me.)

(Fast Forward to Today)

Yep. As anticipated, Gassy folks did show, found nothing for the third time, and then a half-hour after they left, it stunk of gas again. I was actually embarassed to call them back, but I swallowed the little pride I have, and bit the bullet. Amidst 47 heavy sighs, they agreed to come back AGAIN today, which was mighty gracious of them, but I called this morning to cancel because Ghost Gas had gone back into hiding, and I figured, at this point, they are going to open all the gas valves and throw a match on their way out. (But when I die from gas inhalation, please sue Piedmont Gas on my parents' behalf, won't you?)

So, I never got to finish about the weekend, but I did want to say that we did, in fact, shop for a couch and had dinner with "friends" on Saturday night. First thing first, the couch. Or should I say, (well, maybe I shouldn't, oh too late) a sectional. I know, I know. I'm becoming more white trash as the seconds tick on. But I can't help it! I've been known to sacrifice good looks and high fashion for the sake of sensibility and comfort (see also: my entire wardrobe) and this "couch" is no exception. But it's not all my fault. The room it's going in (also known in builders' circles as The BONUS Room--"Hey what's this enormous room doing here? Bonus!") is ridiculously large and awkward and we needed to have a big ol' monster couch to chomp up the space. Plus, someday, if offspring ever do spring from these loins, I'll have this nasty-magasty room that can be the catch-all shit-kicker room for my chil'ren. Bonus! I'm not going to bother to post a picture of it, as your imagination's ugly rendering of it is probably better then the real thing. (Did I mention that it has recliners in it? Wheeeeeeeee!)

So, dinzer on Saturday. Went to Macaroni Grill for this dude's birthday and while I am not.at.all a fan of the chain Itals? I had a superfantastic pasta meal there (Capellini di Mare or somesing?). Maybe the 4 glasses of wine before dinner had to do with my dining enjoyment, but all in all, I had a fine time. Apres face-stuffing, the car of the guy-whose-birthday-it-was broke down and they had it towed back to our house (as we were closest to the restaurant). I moved my sweet V out of the garage to make room for his Porsche, as I thought it highly unprobable someone would steal my vizzan (a girl can dream, though, right?) and he was suffering from le panique thinking of his beloved vehicle being abducted from my neighborhood. It's not like I live in the ghetto, fer crissake, but it was his birthday, and I was drunk, so I accomodated. On Monday, the mechanics came to tow the car back to the shop, and I got to move it from the garage! Of course, it wouldn't start, so they had to push it from my garage, while I expertly steered. (Figures the only time I'll ever drive a goddam Porsche, it wasn't running, but ohhhh, I could just feel the thunder beneath my fingertips.)

Anyhow, that's all that's happening on this end. After a doctor's appointment this morning (surprise, surprise), I had lunch with Matt which was not only delicious, but highly amusing. Kid cracks my shit up. That's been the highlight of my week so far (aside from coming home now, and seeing Sadie chilling on the couch as if she were reading the paper), but next up: le dentiste. Gotta spend the next twenty minutes brushing so that I can pretend that I've been flossing for the last six months.

(Over and out.)