Or however many.  It’s March first.  I’m going to try to get back into the blogging habit.  Write down something more substantial than a Facebook status update.  You know you’re in trouble when you think in updates…I’ll be stuck in traffic and think “is irritated by the traffic on 15.”  or look at the family room “cannot believe how hard it is to get socks into the laundry hamper.”  “doesn’t feel like making dinner.”  “is uninterested in your dream.”  “has an ouchy tummy.”  It feels a little Tyler Durden at times.  Which is seldom good.

I hear the Olympics are over.  The only evidence of the Olympics at our house was mild cursing when The Office and 30 Rock weren’t on.  What people seem to forget is that the Olympics are sporting events.  And we don’t care about sports.  Not even when they’re tied to jingoistic flag-waving.  I have nothing against it, I just don’t care to watch.  I think it’s very nice that these kids who are really good at some thing they love get to come together and compete at that thing with other kids from around the world (or at least the cold parts of that world, Jamaican bobsled team notwithstanding).  But if *I’m* going to watch it, they need to trash talk in the confessional about the horrible outfit that piece of trash from Uzbekistan is wearing for her short program.  The problem with the Olympics, you see, is that they claim that they ARE there to make friends.  And I don’t need to see that.

The snow fell on the 10th and we still have plenty of it about.  It’s been warming up, and there have been glimpses of  earth here and there.  The rumor, however, is that more is coming this week.  I choose to ignore those rumors.  In truth, I have kind of liked having a very wintry winter.  As long as I can get out when I need to and don’t lose power, I like the idea that spring means the snow melts away and the grass turns green.  I’ve alway been one for distinct seasons.   Not being able to go to the store for two days really isn’t that much of a hardship.  My goal for the year is to get some sort of fireplace insert, though, so that a power outage doesn’t seem quite so scary.

And now I await the arrival of two foster babies.  Baby guinea pigs, that is, far less hassle than human babies.  Soon the house will be filled with little wheeps.