Snowed-In and Dune

Bet you thought I lost power yesterday when I stopped updating that blog post.

Wrong. I died of BOREDOM.

Snow is beautiful (it’s what we’re getting today) and it’s so much better than ice. But I am ready to throw in the towel on this winter business. I love cold weather. I love rain and thunderstorms. We’ve never reached a point where we had so much rain in Oklahoma that I have tired of it. I think I’d enjoy Seattle or London a lot.

This winter weather though? I’m tired of it. The whole thing might be different if I lived in a state that was equipped to take care of this kind of thing without any major hiccups. But the snow and ice are so rare that it doesn’t get handled very well. I know that the various groups in charge of taking care of things are working their hardest, but man oh man. I’m done. No chains to put on my tires. No back up source of heat if the power goes out. No place to get water if there’s a problem with a line (like there was this morning). First world problems, I know.

Unfortunately, this afternoon I made a deal with my husband that if he would watch William Shakespeare’s Romeo + Juliet, I would watch Dune. I should have realized whenever he laughed maniacally and said, “Yeah, I’ll definitely watch Romeo + Juliet if you’re going to watch Dune.”

We’re only 20 minutes in and the faint of heart need to be warned. (If any of my uber-squeamish cousins are reading this, stop NOW.) There is an alien in this movie whose mouth was clearly modeled after a cow’s girlie bits.

I’m going to collect quotable lines from this movie for your entertainment (and in italics, things that they should have said):

“The itching becomes burning.”
“There is a place terrifying to us…to women.”
“Stains become a warning.”
What up. I’m Sting. Look at me rockin’ this red hair and leather.
“You are so beautiful, my baron. Your skin, love to me. Your diseases lovingly cared for, for all eternity.”
Allow me to unplug your heart, bleed yourself all over me, and sexually assault you.
“Spice. Pure, unrefined spice.”
“I want to spit once on your head. Just some spittle in your face.”
Let me now use a type of sign language that looks like a poor attempt at vogue-ing.
“It’s yours to squeeze, as I promised! Squeeze! Squeeze! Squeeeeeze!”
They’ve just told a man he must milk a cat every day for the rest of his life if he wants to live. I’m so confused.
Let us fight them with our pelvic thrusts!