I woke up this morning to something evil falling from the sky. It was pretty humorous as snow was falling and I had robins on the ground looking for some breakfast.



I was pretty sure that the day was going to turn out okay because at 7 am it looked like this:


However, by 9 it was more like this:

And 11 am saw the beginning of my own personal hell:




I had planned on working in the yard. Cutting back old growth, weeding the flower beds and generally getting ready for the coming spring as my great grandmother's lilac was already getting ready to bud. It's difficult to follow through with those plans when you can't see the yard. Has Mother Nature no respect for the sanctity of my GG's lilac bush? I ask you!

Being thwarted in my effort to work in the yard, I supposed I would have to tackle the office, which looks eerily similar to WWII London after an air raid. This is something I have been putting off for quite some time. And managed to put off for a little longer. Which is sad really, as I couldn't go anywhere until my food order was delivered. It was supposed to come at 9, but didn't get here until one thirty this afternoon. And without my knives! But that is another story. So, I accomplished very little today. I worked out, showered, got dressed, and watched World Cup skiing. That's about it. In my defense the rapid change in weather caused the arthritis in my left ankle to flare up. I resembled a hunchback with a shortened leg the way I was limping around the house. The pain was such that I was rifling through my cabinet for ibuprofen like a recovering heroin addict late for her methadone. 800 mg of ibuprofen later and the pain was unabated. Oh, sweet Percocet, come to me with your siren song! My ankle feels better and I am now in a pleasant haze. I question the wisdom of frying chicken over a gas stove when I'm stoned, but as the children are fed and the house is still standing, I think it's a moot point. I can't figure out if the 17 years of sobriety has made me more susceptible to the effects of narcotics or if I metabolize them slower as I get older. Strange. Perhaps there's a dissertation in there somewhere. Not mine, of course. That would require more effort than I'm capable of at this point.

Here's a little known fact: I love Peeps. It's true. Those sugar infested, marshmallowy concoctions from hell, those diabetic nightmares are my crack. I pant in anticipation for each holiday and the Peeps permutations that come with them. Even the bastardized versions of vanilla cream and strawberry cream Peeps that show up at Valentine's day...heaven in a box. But, soon, soon my precious, Easter and the original, the one true Peeps will be back in the stores and I will achieve a near orgasmic state.

Yep. Need more Percocet.