She'll see it later, Clark. Her eyes are frozen.

This weekend, the girls and I took off on our annual post-Christmas shopping trip. In the past, we've flown to California for the day, but this year we spent the night at a hotel downtown and shopped closer to home. We had a fantastic time, even if we did nearly die from the cold. 

Oh, haven't I mentioned the cold? No? That's because my fingers are frozen. Let's just make it clear for the sake of history that this winter is so cold I've started my normal February I hate the winter whine-fest a month early. Or I would, if my lips weren't too frozen to complain. If hell is supposed to be eternal punishment, there's no way it has as much fire as those Far Side cartoons let on. Instead, hell is 9 degrees with a stiff breeze, and you never get to wear a coat.

Basically the only reason the Schmoopse and I still live in this frigid, frozen icy nightmare of a town (besides, you know, jobs) is to keep the pumpkin snacks close to the grandparents and family members who love them so. It's a sacrifice I won't soon let them forget. 

Thanks a lot, kids! When my toes fall off from frostbite, you just remember all those Sunday family dinners with fondness, and don't mind my limp.

It's a good effort, son, but even that little smirk can't warm my heart from it's current position in my frozen chest cavity.

Hmm. That's a little better. Check back again in March.