Really It Is Not Even Real Goulash

The other night, my parents lost their heat.

Yes, during our snowstorm. I mean they got THREE INCHES. So I don't think my mother has been truly warm for about ten years. She is freezing in the summer. She wears fleece in eighty degree weather. My father jokes that at night if he licked her ass his tongue would get stuck (yes I know that is ALARMING to hear, they are my parents you think I ENJOY THIS?).

It is because of my mother that I keep blankets in every room of the house. I have strongly considered putting an afghan in the bathroom (for those moments on the toilet where the less clothing makes you feel well a little chilled) but I haven't found a place to hang it that is not scary and just WRONG. My mother leaves her coat on in my house. Sometimes she wears a scarf. The woman is cold (I am sympathetic to this because this is my future y'all and it scares the shit out of me). So that woman being without heat is possibly the most cruel thing that could have happened.

It is like the evil minds of every secret organization in the world got together to torture her for her secret recipe for Very Not Hungarian At All Are You Kidding Me Goulash. SHE WILL GIVE YOU THE RECIPE. The repair man was able to come right away but the part he needs to fix their furnace is not going to arrive until Monday. So my mom is having to spend all of her time in front of the oven or the fireplace and with a tiny dachshund wrapped around her for a personal heater.

Good luck getting that dog out of your bed once the heat works.