Hello, Spring!

I'm sitting up - it's after midnight - and it's starting to thunder and lightning; and I can't tell you how happy I am right now.

Why?

Because 1.) that means that it's SPRING and I haven't been dreaming the weather of the previous week, and 2.) Weather.com shows that by the time I get up again in the morning, the short rain will be gone and it should be sunny.

What a great end to a beautiful Easter celebrating the resurrection of Christ!

And I leave you with this photo of my middle son, Joel, and me taken yesterday while coloring Easter eggs. He has such an incredibly nurturing heart, just like his dad; looks just like his dad; has the comedic timing of his dad; and someone, some day, will be blessed to have him for a husband.

Who Are You to Someone Else?

God gives us all kinds of people in our lives to fulfill different needs. Some make us laugh uncontrollably, some make us think deeper than we necessarily would otherwise, some give us hope, others give us strength . . . and I could go on and on. The point is, everyone we know lends something important to our journey and is there for us at different times, depending on what our needs our. And the same is true on the flip side - we are exactly what someone else in our life needs at some point, for some reason.

So you're in a pit - a deep one - for whatever reason. It happens to us all. I work visually, so this is how it feels to me.


You are literally in a deep, narrow pit. All by yourself sitting there, and the sun seems so far up above you that it is only a speck - way up - where the entrance to this pit is. You've tried 10 different ways to climb out, but you just keep slipping back down. You can't seem to get a grip on the sides; it's slippery, or maybe so dry and rocky that it just crumbles when you try to dig in somewhere to go up.

You're tired of trying, so you slump back down and think, "Maybe tomorrow I can do it."

In the meantime, plenty of people stop by. You know all of them. There are those who have busy, chaotic lives of their own who genuinely care about you, but really can't help you. They do care enough to check in, make sure you are okay, and perhaps lend an encouraging word or two. It feels good to see them, to hear from them; but you're still down here and they are still up there, looking in.

There are those who recognize the pit you are in, but their decision is to yell at you from up there, outside the pit, to try and get you to come on out, already. This is their style, they think they are helping. But really, they don't get it and probably don't really want to. "Come on! You have to get out of there now. People depend on you. GET. UP. Get on your feet and CLIMB. Just do it!" They do not understand how hard you have been trying. They have not felt the walls of this pit - how impossible they are to navigate. They just see that you are not where you are supposed to be and you need to get out. Now. They almost always play the devil's advocate role. Sometimes this works. Other times it just makes you want to run from them.

There are those who stop by, it seems, just to make sure you are still there. They sort of wander by, look down at you in the pit, "Hey, just wanted to confirm you are still there! Take care!" and are gone again. Okay. They aren't meaning any harm, they are just not the people God intends to use to help you.

There are those who recognize the struggle you are having, really really want to be able to do something, but haven't a clue where to start. Their concern is genuine; and they will sit at the edge of the pit, dangle their feet over the side, and listen to every word you have to say. They will ask you over and over what they can do to help get you out of there. I like to think that God puts these people there to lend you an ear, make you feel loved - even if only for an hour or so- and, honestly, just to get the chance to feel a sense of "thank goodness I'm not her." No, I'm not joking. I truly think that we are sometimes put into someone else's life to give the other person some perspective.

Then there are these people. These very special people God has chosen this time to make a whopping difference. You know who they are.

It's the person whose voice you hear at the opening of the pit, waaaaay up there who rolls up his or her sleeves, grabs whatever they can for the journey and simply says, "I'm coming down there." They don't wait for your response, don't expect an answer. They don't know what they're getting into and have no idea how they, themselves, will get back out; but it doesn't matter to them. What matters is getting into it with you because if you are there, they want to be there, too.

It's the person who, in the face of your trying to hold back the tears, looks you dead in the eye and says, "I'm here. And I'm getting right in this with you." I'm. Coming. Down. There. They may have all these ideas of advice, of what they think you should be doing, visions of shaking you to bring you to reality. But what they do is simply get into the pit with you to be able to give you a boost from there. And sit and listen for as long as you need to until you are even ready to try once again to make the climb.

On the day we were leaving our home in Houston, Texas, I was in about the worst emotional shape I'd ever been in up to that point in my life. I had spent four years making the best friends of my life - friends who'd become my family in the absence of my actual family. On this last day, during these last hours, my very special friend across the street was gone for the day at an important class. We had said our tearful, ugly-cry goodbye the night before, knowing that Sean and I would be gone before she returned home the next day.

However, much like things often happen, we'd been delayed in leaving for several reasons - the very last one being the fact that, when we pulled up the rug we'd had in our foyer in front of the door - the two-sided tape we'd used to keep it in place was now on the tile like super glue. No big deal, right?

Well, in my crazy, emotionally-frazzled state, this tape had to come off. We couldn't leave it for the new owners to deal with. We tried everything to get this stuff off to no avail. We'd planned on getting on the road by a certain time and it was hours past that. The next thing I knew, here was my girlfriend, walking in the door, having seen our van still in the driveway, wondering what in the world we were still here for.

And when she saw what we were doing and why we were still there, she could have done a million different things. She could have been excited that we were still there and suggested that we go to lunch one more time before we left for good. She could have suggested that we go back to her house, forget this stupid tape, and spend time together before we took off. She could have told me how crazy I am, and pulled me up and tried to shake some sense into me - this TAPE DOESN'T MATTER. GO.

But no. She knew me, she knew how I was feeling, and she did what God had sent her to do.

Still in her nice clothes after spending the day in an intense class learning about how to teach dyslexic kids a certain type of way, she rolled up her sleeves, kicked off her shoes, got on her knees and started scraping away at this tape with me. Tears from both of our eyes coming down and laughing at how we were spending our last moments together, we scraped and scraped at that tile until all of that glue was gone.

I'm coming down there. 

So right now, in my pit, my husband has been rolling up his sleeves and climbing into the pit with me. He lets me come undone without judgment, without telling me all that I'm feeling is foolish or wrong. He hugs me, lets me cry so hard that my eyes hurt, admits he has no idea how to fix it, but will do everything he can to make it not so hard on me, and loves loves loves me. And that's really all I need right now. No advice. No one to try and turn me around and make me feel that what I'm feeling is wrong or something that I shouldn't be feeling. Just let me feel it and then we'll go from there.

I hope God puts me in a position so I can be this for someone else at some point. Because it's awesome when you've got it when you need it.


photo by Caetano Lacerda

Keeping Up With the Andersons

This is my blog, and I can do with it what I please. It is all within my decision to write about weird things, things that go through my mind that make sense only to me, emotional journeys, mental breakdowns, issues I am struggling with, etc. This is all fine because it is my blog and these are my experiences.

However, when it comes to my experiences that happen to intertwine with someone else's journey, I am more hesitant to pour it out here. That is not my call to make. Yes, I talk about my children here, but less so as they get older and more and more in a broad sense. This is to protect them and not sell them out. But I also have relationships with other people that mean very much to me that also take me down paths that I'd love to talk about here, but do not feel I have the right to. So that being said - if you find me talking vaguely about something or something seems as if it has a story behind it, well, it probably does. And this is why you may not hear it.

Now let's carry on, shall we?

I want to talk about something very briefly that disturbed me yesterday as I laid in bed trying to make my body heal my open wounds.

Okay - let me preface this by saying that odd things happen when I am told to rest and do nothing. I watch reality TV. Stupid daytime reality TV. I have no idea why this only appeals to me when I'm sick or on pain meds or otherwise told to sit and do nothing. During my normal life, I don't really watch tv except what I have DVR'd - and even those stack up like crazy (I have 21 episodes of Lost to be watched right now).

I don't watch American Idol. I don't watch anything about any bachelors or survivors or racers. (Okay slap me now ...) I don't even watch anything about home makeovers, extreme or otherwise. We do watch Deadliest Catch, and have since the first episode, and have oddly deep knowledge now of king and opilio crab fishing - like what it means to place a "string of pots" and and how many crabs in a pot is a good number, etc. Oh dear.

So when I'm grounded, apparently my brain cell count decreases exponentially with my energy level; because I sit and watch episode after episode of Keeping up with the Kardashians. But it must be something in my DNA, because my sister does the same thing. HA! See what I did there? I just got through saying I wouldn't talk about my relationships with other people, and then I went and threw my sister under the bus!

So now along with the 8.5 trillion other things my sister and I have to talk about every time we ring each other up, we talk about when Scott got so drunk that he ruined Kim's birthday dinner, and when Bruce and Khloe and Kourtney took Kris's dress hostage and got Bruce's dignity back, or when Rob was given Viagra accidentally by Kris (it was meant for Bruce). Ahhh - now that's quality reality television right there, y'all.

So upon watching the Kardashians yesterday, I inadvertently stumbled upon another, equally time-wasting reality series called, Pretty Wild about a former model who is raising her three daughters in Hollywood. The disturbing part is this. During the show, she says that she homeschools all three girls (who range in age, I think, from 15 to 17), and has based her entire curriculum on the movie, The Secret.

I am not even kidding you, chills ran down my spine and I instantly felt completely lucid and out of my pain meds. That is about 48 different ways of disturbing, people. They are taking this crap and basing their lives on it.


I was so immediately grateful that I am raising my family based on the word of God, and insanely grateful that my mother raised me that way. Because, and you've all heard it before, if you don't stand for something, you'll fall for anything. And my mother wanted us to stand for the truth, and that is what Sean and I want for our boys.

It was a sobering moment. Thank you God, for my grandmother and my mother, who are responsible for raising me with my beliefs, and who are now responsible for us raising our boys with their love of God.

Now, if God could only help me not watch the Kardashians today, I'll be one step closer to sane.

I Think I'm Lazy. Until I'm Made To Be.

So it turns out that it's not in the best interest of anyone in the family that I have open wounds that are being stubborn in healing. I'm dragging them all with me.

It's been 5.5 weeks since my surgery and things were going along great until I began experiencing wound separation at some of the incision areas, which has turned into a gigantic mess. Well, comparatively, anyhow. Comparatively in that - anywhere there is open flesh on my body constitutes a mess of any proportion. And when there are several places, and it means my body needs to expend energy doing nothing but trying to heal, well this constitutes as gigantic.

This encompasses my house, my body, my hair, my mental and emotional state, and what I am allowed to do with my time. All a mess.

gigantic: physically or metaphorically of great magnitude
mess: dirty, untidy, disordered condition; a state of embarrassing confusion

So yes, a metaphorically as well as physically dirty, untidy, disordered state of embarrassing confusion. Well said, Dictionary.com, for putting into perfect prose what my existence has boiled down to until I heal. Bravo!

It must have become obvious by now that I'm not taking this so well today. I have eaten Thin Mints and Doritos. I have watched episodes of Curb Your Enthusiasm from the first season. I have Stumbled the internet finding interesting and downright weird sites. I have researched tropical vacation destinations that I will mostly likely never set foot upon. I have used a Crest Whitestrip. Now do you see how desperate this has become?

And what will I do tomorrow?

I am dreaming of miraculous healing, of sons who long to clean for their mother, of the day Starbucks offers delivery.

HELP! I'm Grounded and I Can't Get Up!

My house is a mess. And not that cute new catchphrase - beautiful mess - that everyone is using. No. Just your plain, old, run-of-the-mill mess. Well, run-of-the-mill if you happen to have three boys who view nothing as trash, two dogs who insist on acting like dogs, and one husband who tries his best to keep up when mama's been grounded from most physical activity.

I have a new Dyson vacuum. New. I need to show it around. I need to make it feel welcome. I need to introduce it to all the nooks and crannies in our home that collect all kinds of sinister things. I neeeeeed to.

I need to do laundry, which I cannot carry downstairs to the laundry room. I need to, I need to, I need to ...

I need to dust. HA! That I can do!

You get the picture. I am trying incredibly hard to steer my body into healing several wound separations from my breast reduction surgery a month ago. (Go Google it.) And my surgeon grounded me.

So I have two different, lovely friends coming over today at different times; and they will both want to do things for me. And I will not let them, because I have an unbelievably hard time doing that. It makes me feel awful. And I hate even more when I have to ask for help. I absolutely love, love, love doing things for others; but when it comes to needing help myself, I'm a bit stubborn unless backed into a corner.

So when a time comes when I am less than up-to-par, I tend to just disappear - try to fade away - until I'm me again.

So now I must go fade for awhile; and ignore, as best I can until the shakes begin, the monumental mess I am having to try and "rest" in the middle of.

This will be fun.

I'll Take Mental Stir-Fry for $1,000, Please, Alex.

Well hello, blogosphere! Where have you been? Oh. You've been here all along? Hmm.

It has been four weeks and one day since my surgery, and HOLY CREAMSICLES, if I haven't had a few problems. Shocking, I know, for someone in this family to experience complications. With life.

First of all, part of the incisions in my left breast have separated (wound separation), which is wreaking havoc on my sense of CLOSURE where this surgery is concerned. Okay, bad pun. So I'm nursing one side to get it to heal. This is all a very short and sweet version of what Mrs. Zipps, my BFF, would certainly title, "The Weeks That I Have Had To Yell At Holly About Having Patience Regarding Surgery Recovery; Volumes 1-42."

Second of all, the medication I was given for the nerve damage in my arm from the surgery turned me into about 14 versions of crazy. Two and a half weeks of it from start to finish, which was two days ago. So just yesterday and really more today am I starting to realize that it was, in fact, the med that was making me want to hang glide into the side of a mountain and not some twisted new reality I'd stepped backwards into.

Seriously, I fled my family to stay at a hotel because my life was closing in on me. I ate seven orange scones from Panera Bread in that hotel room. In one evening. That alone should tell you how desperate I was feeling.

Now granted, I do have an overwhelming existence at times with the issues my boys have going on. With one with autism, one with a mood disorder and one with severe ADD, I am more a circus ringmaster at times than a mom; but this was frightening - even for my life. 

Turns out, the med I was on was capable of producing "unusual/sudden changes in mood, thoughts, or behavior including signs of depression, suicidal thoughts/attempts, and thoughts about harming yourself." Really, I just wanted to harm everyone else, but I digress.

So the last few weeks have been a complete blast. Not to mention the fact that I am in the middle of being offered an extremely unique opportunity career/life-wise. So throwing a life-changing decision into the mix has just pushed it all right off the charts.

I believe my mind and mental state are returning to normal (normal for me), though you would have to confirm that with my husband and the Zipps, whom I spend the majority of my waking time with. So here's to making rational life decisions, quick and efficient wound healing, and the love and happiness of all mankind.

Just thought I'd throw that last one in for good measure.

Day Eight

Today was a definitive turning point in my surgery recovery. I feel nearly completely back to normal! All in one day. Wow. It's an amazing feeling of relief to be back in my life. Truly. It was fun spending a week high on painkillers in my recliner - I think - from what I can recall - but my real life is so much more interesting and never dull. So glad to be back!

I had an appointment with my surgeon this morning regarding the nerve issue going on in my left arm. Ironically, I woke up this morning and my arm felt significantly better. The pain has decreased almost to nothing, but the numbness is still there and quite bothersome. My dr. reassured me that none of the nerves in my arm where I am having trouble connect anywhere near where he was working during the surgery. So he believes it probably has to do with the way my arm was positioned during the surgery or something to do with the blood pressure cuff - perhaps a nerve was pinched and is trying to heal now. Either way, he believes it is temporary. We shall see.

As a bonus, since I was there, he removed all of my bandages and clipped a few stitches that were sticking out of the skin where my drain tubes were removed earlier this week. All is healing nicely and at this point, the incisions just need to heal and the swelling needs to subside and I'll be as good as new. Woot!

I questioned him about what he thought about using silicone strips along the incisions after they are closed. Basically, these are strips of silicone that are *said* to aid in the healing of scar tissue - making it more flat and less red. He said he'd never seen evidence of any product that helps scars heal better than just letting them heal, and he spent 15 years in the burn unit at Riley Children's Hospital. So the dude knows scars.

He said he'd never had a patient take him up on this: putting the strips on one breast and nothing on the other to see for himself whether they work. Me being me, of course, immediately said, "I'll do it!" That's so right up my alley. I love stuff like that. So we laughed, shook hands, and agreed that once the incisions are closed, I'm going to put the silicone strips on one side and not the other and do our own experiment! I'll keep you posted ...

Mrs. Zipps took me to my doctor appointment, so after that I was so excited to be feeling normal again, we went shopping at Costco. That's right. Not Nordstrom or Macy's. Costco. And we had coupons.

Just livin' the dream, baby. Just livin' the dream.

Hey, Did You Cut Your Hair? Lost Some Weight? Get A Chemical Peel?

Well, today I am seven days post-op. I've got sutures - something like 50-60 of them - all over my chest. If you know me IRL (in real life), you know that I've been, let's say, given more than my share in the upper chest area - and last week I had breast reduction surgery. 

Yes! I've been very well-endowed my whole life since adolescence. Always the one with the rack; the big hooters; stacked. One ex-boyfriend would call me "Hollywood" (because I've got the "hills"). That is absolutely true.

My sister and I were both blessed in this area - passed down from our similarly-endowed paternal grandmother. We are both similarly-shaped; I am 5'2" and she is slightly taller than I am. We have both dreamed of having normally-proportioned bodies since we were in junior high.

Around 15 years ago, I tried going through insurance to have the procedure covered, and was denied. I never tried again until this past fall after my sister's insurance company approved to cover it for her. So she had it done in October and here I am now.

Thank you, God! Even just one week out, I would do it again in a heartbeat.

I would just like to say that as swollen as I still am, with stitches all over the place, I am so excited to be even this small - and I'm only going to get smaller as the swelling subsides. It's amazing! I look normal!

You have no idea how your self-esteem and your outlook is skewed when people define you by some physical attribute you have that has nothing to do with your personality or who you are. An attribute that you didn't ask for. An attribute that you would do anything to rid yourself of. Well, on second thought, maybe you do.

It was the first thing people saw. It was the only thing some people remembered. You can't hide big boobs. If you try to, you look frumpy, twice as big as you really are, in a word - huge. If you don't try to hide them, and wear clothes to fit your body, it looks as though you are flaunting them because they make everything too tight. So you're either a frumpy mess or a showy Hooters girl.

Sure, over the years you learn ways to deal with them, but sometimes - like in a bathing suit - there is absolutely nothing you can do but be who you are and watch people just stare. And they do.

It's mortifying. Humiliating. Especially when you are a teenager and don't even know who you are yet. How I was treated and what people said about me because I simply had large breasts very much shaped my feelings about myself and my self-worth.

Beyond the mental and emotional impact - is the physical. My back has hurt every day of my life since I was about 15 years old. In addition to having so much to handle in front, my body also has to deal with the fact that I have scoliosis - curvature of the spine. So my back hurts along the top and shoulders from my chest being so top-heavy, and along the bottom from the scoliosis. It's been so fun being me all these years!

I am so looking forward to being able to buy clothes that fit, feel better, and not stand out in a group of people because my chest is large. I desperately just want to blend in.

The first six days were not as bad as I had anticipated; and here is how they have gone.

Day one. I check into the hospital around 11:30 am after not having eaten or had even a sip of water since midnight. And there is a Starbucks right beside registration at the surgery center. What kind of sick, twisted man in a suit decided that would be a good idea? I decided that someone, somewhere is AN IDIOT.

When we checked in a second time in the area where Sean would be waiting during the surgery, two women working at the desk begin singing the praises of my surgeon - talking about how he is so wonderful and they wouldn't have anyone else work on them, etc. Well, good. I'm so glad that I don't have Edward Scissorhands working on me today. Or some guy without opposable thumbs. This is of great comfort.

When we were taken back to the room, I was given the most adorable pair of thigh-high hose. They were hot. Sean could barely control himself. But the icing on the cake was the anti-embolism contraptions they put on after that which pumped my legs during the surgery to keep the circulation going to prevent blood clots. This and new boobs? Thank. You. Lord. 

My surgeon then came in to draw on me. With a purple marker. He had me sit on the side of the bed while he, very slowly and meticulously, drew where he was going to cut me open. He was very intense and serious. Which made me feel better; because if he had rushed through, stood back and shrugged like, "Good enough!" I might have been a bit concerned. No, he was more like Picasso contemplating his next brush stroke. I kept looking back at Sean and grinning. There was no room for modesty. Or humility. I was being drawn on by one man as my husband stood by and laughed. What world is this?

As I was wheeled into the OR, the table I was going to had a long hose pointed at it blowing warm air onto the bed. So when I got onto it, it was toasty. And the blankets they covered me with were heated. I asked if they could all come home with me and treat me like this every day. They laughed and agreed, but then one of them stuck a needle in my IV and I floated away. That was the last I saw of any of them, so I don't think they're going to follow through on that.

The surgery itself took around three hours, and I was in recovery for a few hours, and then I went home. I was put under general anesthesia, which I do not have any trouble with. So beyond being completely loopy that first evening, I was fine. This was last Thursday.

I was sent home with drains that had to be emptied every four hours. This was no bid deal. They were like little rubber hand grenades attached to tubes that snaked into the bandages under my armpits. The "grenades" would suction out excess blood and whatever else (no idea!) over a period of hours and Sean or my mom would empty them and record the amounts. As soon as the amount coming out in a 24-hour period was less than 25cc per drain, I could have them removed.

So for the first four days or so, all I did was ice my chest, swallow whatever pills they gave me every four hours, get up to use the bathroom, and eat whatever they brought me. And ice my chest. Seriously! I was so doped up, that is all I did. I couldn't focus on reading, so I just sat in the recliner with the tv on, though I really couldn't focus on that, either. It's all pretty much a blur. Did I mention icing my chest?

On Sunday morning (day three), I woke up with my left arm hurting like crazy - as if I'd really, really slept on it wrong. My bicep hurt so badly when I would extend my arm. There was no discoloration, it didn't feel different when it was touched. It just hurt. When I woke up Monday, it hurt even more.

On Tuesday (day 5), the output in my drains was low enough that they could come out. This part I was very afraid of.  Once we arrived (after being sent on a wild goose chase by a receptionist at the hospital) and were in the exam room, the nurse told me to breathe in a few times and breathe out and on the second time, she would pull the drain out. Turns out - I didn't even feel a thing. It was a big nothing. Thank you, God!

By this day, the pain in my arm had begun to weaken the use of my left hand and give it a numbing sensation. Upon telling them about my arm pain, I was prescribed a med for nerve pain. After a bout with major dizziness in the exam room (I had to lie there for awhile to be able to walk again) and a few new bandages over where the drain tubes had been, we left to return home.

I never realized how comfortable I would be sitting in a room with no shirt on until I'd done it so many times in the span of a few days. My mom bought me a Starbucks on the way home, I no longer had tubes coming out of me, and I'd stood upright and even walked a bit. Life was getting better!

Day six was spent in the recliner, doped up, boohooing mostly about my left arm hurting like I couldn't even describe. I watched reality tv all. day. long. Keeping Up With the Kardashians was having some sort of marathon; and then there was High School Reunion. Honest to goodness - I am now hooked. I actually went downstairs for most of the evening when the Zipps brought over dinner and we all had what is a typical evening together.

All of this time, I am keeping ice packs on my chest because the swelling is crazy. I can only describe it as being like when I was nursing. The swelling feels exactly like when I would get very, very engorged and need to nurse or pump (or explode!). Ice packs, ice packs, ice packs.

Today, day seven, is the first day I've been up and around. My arm pain is still pretty bad, and my hand is so weak that I can't do much with it, which is scaring me a bit. Of course I've been searching the internet and finding that nerve damage after surgery is somewhat common. I'm thankful that it's my left hand and not my right, but still - this is not good. I cannot extend my arm out all the way without excruciating pain; and pushing on a certain part of my bicep results in the same pain. I have an appointment tomorrow morning at my surgeon's office to start to figure this out.

As far as the rest goes, I still have bandages only over where there are sutures, but the only suture area that hurts is where the drains were pulled, since they are a few days behind everything else in healing. The sutures are dissolvable, so they will eventually just go away. My greatest complaint right now (besides the arm issue) is the swelling. I have to keep 'em iced to feel okay. So I wonder when the swelling will subside?

I know this is a lot, but I am writing it so someone else searching the internet will, perhaps, benefit from it. I am lucky that I had my sister go through this a few months before me, so I knew a bit about what to expect. If someone stumbles upon this and it helps them, then I'm glad I'm being straightforward about it.

I know some would probably prefer to keep it hush hush and then just reappear looking different. But if you know me, you know that's not me at all. I never try to be anything that I'm not. I'm the first to confess all the hairbrained things I do so that I can laugh with someone else about it. So when you see me again - it's okay to notice! It's okay to say something about my surgery. It's okay.

I had a breast reduction. And it's okay that you know that. I'm excited! This is a good thing!

I will keep you posted on how it's going.

Let's See If This Works

This is my first time to try sending in a post from my Blackberry. If it works - lookout!

This morning I'm spending time with my favorite THREE-year-old. That's right! Reagan turns three today!

Happy Birthday, Roo. I can't imagine what we did before you!
Sent via BlackBerry by AT&T

Ha!

This:

Not This:

Remember the post Wanna Make a Bet from October? Let me refresh your memory. I stated that this winter I wouldn't be leaving the house - or even my pajamas - unless it was sunny and nice outside.

Today I am blissfully fulfulling that goal. It is a balmy 14 degrees outside; and though it is sunny, I am still choosing to hibernate like a grumpy bear. The only reason I have left the comfort of my bed with the heated mattress pad - which, by the way, makes me feel like a yummy toasted cheese sandwich at the point where the cheese is just starting to melt - is to switch laundry from the washer to dryer and eat lunch. (Well, and to get my boys off to school at 6 and 8am. BLEH!)

Heaven on earth!

If any of you have the desire to judge my hibernating winter goal, I issue this challenge. 1.) If you aren't local, first come and run errands in weather that is so cold that your boogers freeze before you even reach the Walmart greeter's irritatingly cheerful voice (or displaced snarl, depending on which location you frequent); and 2.) then come spend 10 minutes in this bed with this heated mattress pad. Then tell me how reckless my goals are.

Let he who is without snow cast the first stone.