I’m wearing yesterday’s underpants

And not because I spent the night at Dick Cheney’s house again. I was actually at Karl Rove’s. Because Nick Lachey stopped returning my calls.

No, seriously. I kid. Nick and I are totally cool. He’s just a little jealous of my blogging celebrity. But we’re working through it.

In any case, Day Four Without Gas is ostensibly our last day of living like medieval serfs. But I had to dress up today for work because I have a client presentation this morning, and in my early-morning fog of packing gym clothes, a monkey suit for the day and rehearsal clothes for tonight, I forgot to grab a pair of underpants. But being forced to shower at the gym every morning has also forced me to get in better workouts than I’ve been having. So my nice clean butt is like totally pumped, even though it’s spending the day in yesterday’s squalor.

Oh, dear. I fear I’m spending way too much time talking about my underpants here. Though I sure love saying underpants. Underpants! (See?)

So let’s get back to the People’s Gas story, the resolution of which I’m sure you’re all waiting breathlessly for. I called the gasholes first thing yesterday morning and got on their schedule for getting gassed sometime today before 11:30. Which the boyfriend, who is standing by at home all morning, reports has yet to happen. I hope he’s at least being productive while he waits. (Honey, the bathroom floors still need to be regrouted.)

But while I was on the 30-minute call to get this weird little we-shut-off-your-gas-just-for-fun-because-we-CAN nightmare over, I asked the guy on the phone if the gas company’s policy really is to give you one notice that they’ve decided they need more identification—when you’re in the middle of all the chaos of moving and likely to miss it, as I did—and then wait three months and just shut off your gas without checking back if they haven’t heard from you.

His response: “That’s the policy.”

And when I asked if that was the policy even in the dead of winter when it could be 80 degrees below, he responded, rather efficiently, with a “Yup.”

So it’s official: People’s Gas is the Antichrist. And just as soon as I get enough hot water to do some laundry and get my butt in some clean underwear, I intend to complain about them some more. Gasholes.