I think I've gotten to the point where I prefer hot weather to cold. Yeah, I need technology to be comfortable in heat, and sweating will always be icky. But the cold hurts. And I still need technology to be comfortable, because even bundled in sweaters and robes and blankets doesn't prevent the painful chill from creeping in. My hands don't hurt in the summer.
Yeah, I never thought I'd prefer the heat of New Orleans summers to New England winters, but I do, by a long shot. Also I had a lot of fear about falling on the ice and breaking something (I worked on a college campus the last several winters in Boston and had to walk around a lot).
Uhg.
I think I'm going to go drop a chunk of change at the nursery tomorrow and refill my pots and get a few things for the yard. Early is key, the place gets nuts this time of year; they actually hire traffic directors.
(I've been running numbers and investigating retirement plan and omg, the extra takehome, even being conservative, is still really significant to my world. And that makes me not feel vaguely uneasy about the bill I always get at valley view.)
I hope they find something that works, and soon, Dana.
Birthday, Sheryl? Did we miss wishing you happy? Happy Birthday, whenever it is, and many happy returns!
Oh Dana, may the pain disappear quickly.
I'm home. Today was quite the adventure, both from a social stand point and a political one. The dreaded snow storm had yet to truly arrive. Lots of wet stuff but noun much sticking. We did lose one big branch of the crabapple tree out front.
Our pro landscaper neighbor did our container gardens last year, even though she'd moved out of the neighborhood. This year we're on our own. I keep saying, "Combine contrasting colors--these purple flowers need white and yellow, the blue pot doesn't need lavender or baby pink. The flowers should be orange and shocking pink--think contrast. And we need a tall, a wide, and a fluffy plant in each of the big pots, or height, mass, and texture, please, not eighty-seven tiny pots with one plant each," but H doesn't seem to hear me. He's jumped into gardening with both feet, and frankly, whatever he does will be better than dead plants and empty pots. I've just thrown up my hands and said, "You go."
Interesting times indeed, Suzi. Glad you're home safe, with tales to tell.
My father-in-law is on the phone, telling us we are nuts for having given the IRS our banking information, in order to pay our tax bill (which was pretty low this year, woot). Because they lose things and get hacked.
Well, he's not wrong. But you gotta do what you gotta do.
Between Target, Anthem, and the OPM, we've already got our personal information spread out to god knows where. And if you send the IRS a check, isn't your routing number and account number already included?
Most things in my life are not sparking joy. I think that's an excessively high bar. If we are doing joy as a criteria, the only thing I might have left is my pillow and new mattress, my letter from the President, and some tights. I'm not sure I'd survive my own joy criteria.
