Happy Fucking New Year

This morning was a cold one. I had the bedcovers tucked up and under my chin; all my limbs were tucked under the comforter. Anything hanging outside the warmth of the covers was returned as a slab of ice. What was once an arm, a hand, or, god forbid, a foot, came back to me as a well preserved, frozen piece of meat. I let relief wash over me, knowing I had nowhere to go, nowhere to be, nowhere but the warmth and comfort of my own bed. I sighed, nestled my head onto my pillow, and closed my eyes, refusing the idea that it was time to get up.

Rumblerumblerumble. My intestines had a different idea.

I ignored the first warning sign, not wanting my storybook sleep to end. Not wanting to step onto the cold tile just yet. But the second demanded my attention. I had precious seconds to make a wiser decision. I left the warmth of the bed and hightailed it upstairs. Yes, it was cold. Yes, I wished to live somewhere tropical. Yes, I made it in time.

A-ah. Now I could go back downstairs and crawl back into the warm bed, not necessarily to go back to sleep, but to warm up before facing a downright chilly day.

I pushed the handle of the toilet down, thinking only about spooning my wife's sleepy, warm body.

Nothing.

I pushed it down again.

Nothing still.

I manhandled the two inches of stainless steel, forcing all of my will, my prowess, my authority, into making the toilet flush.

It remained eerily silent.

Shit.

I went into the kitchen, turned on the cold water. The faucet stuck with its buddy, the toilet: nothing happened.

Motherfucker.

Fantastic. What a great way to kick off the new year. No water, shit in the toilet, cold enough to host an ice carving contest. And until it warms up, the water will not return. In the meantime, I'll be peeing in the bathtub.

Fucking funny, 2011. Is this because yesterday I said I was going to make you my bitch? Anyone keeping score, 2011: 1. Me: 0. But there are 364 days left. We'll see who has the last laugh.