I's Gots Da Blues

....there's another draft written, but, my God is it a bunch of maudlin crap, even in her low state, the blogger was not stupid enough to press the PUBLISH button...

I've noticed something about my brain chemistry when the temperatures plunge into the frigid zone. I lose all ability to do, well, anything. Anything good, that is. It's not SAD, Seasonal Affective Disorder, it's FINTGOOTHAD, or, Fuck, I Need To Get Out Of The House Affective Disorder. Basically, I've been imprisoned in this hole for three days, and oh, crap, am I going crazy.

The long-winded explanation is locked away in a draft that is tucked away safely, and will never see the light of blog day. In brief, I will tell you that:

1) Because the pack rat has filled our garage with crap, we have been forced to park the car on the street. For those who have not spent a winter suffering on the bald prairie, I will spell out for you that this means disaster, because without a garage, you cannot plug in your car and keep the battery warm. So as I type, our frosty little Tercel is sitting out by the curb, a motionless hunk of useless metal, because OF COURSE IT WILL NOT START WHEN THE TEMPERATURE HAS HIT ABSOLUTE ZERO OUTSIDE AND IT'S NOT FREAKING PLUGGED IN.

2) We have actually had access to two vehicles for the last few weeks because Mr. IQ's parents are in Mexico and they left their van with us. This was excellent for me, because it meant that during the dark days of January, I could actually go places without having to swaddle up old Baby Fangs like she was a chunk of pork in a deep-fried Chinese dumpling.

3) Yes. Yes, I have wanted to kill Mr. Zero IQ for effectively sabotaging my one means of getting out of house during this latest cold snap. You just cannot walk to a bus stop with a small baby when it is this cold, no matter how well she is dressed. And yes, I have imagined a lot of scenarios where I deal effectively with my rage. The best one has him returning home, and I'm waiting for him at the door with a martini in one hand, and a large, shiny ax in the other. "Welcome back, darling!" I say. WHACK WHACK WHACK.

Basically I've spent the last three days stuck inside, and it has NOT been good for my mental health. All day alone with two kids and good old Mr. Bladder Infection, and, frankly, he hasn't been that great company. Dr. High Intensity has been trying to cure my condition by slamming fluffy stuffed animals into my abdomen, and then asking if I feel better. "Oh, much better," I tell her and then I go upstairs and change my pants.

Laffs, laffs, laffs.