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These boots ain’t made for Texas

So my little corner of Texas got over a foot of snow last week.

That NEVER happens. Seriously. It’s never happened before. Ever. Unprecedented.

I’ve seen a foot of snow before. Many times. When we lived in Iowa, that kind of snow happened every year. After we lived through our first dreadful Iowa winter (which just happened to be the coldest winter Iowa had seen in 25 years), the first snowfall of subsequent years would send me into the depths of despair because I knew that it would be at least April before that snow would completely melt. Michael swore I had Seasonal Affective Disorder. Which is just…you know…sad.

But in Texas, a foot of snow makes me happy. It’s real purty.

Why? Because in two days, it is gone.

HOWEVER, my poor Southern children lack the proper attire required for full enjoyment of the winter frivolity. In other words,

The snow started on Thursday morning, and it did not stop until the middle of the night. The schools closed early on Thursday and were canceled on Friday, which was also Meghan’s 11th birthday – so my kids had two days, more or less, to play.

Which meant for me – two days of wet clothes changed at least seven times between the three of them.

And, oh yeah, my washer & dryer were disconnected to make way for the new tile being installed in the laundry room in preparation for putting our house on the market.

Which also meant the washing machine and dryer and all of Tile Guy’s stuff was in my stall of the garage. Which meant that on the one day of the year of the century EVER that we have a foot of snow on our very sloped driveway, I can’t park in the garage and we had to enter and exit our house through the front door. On the wood floors. With the wet clothes. And shoes.

But, really, I love Texas snow.

Even though I had to shovel my driveway with a dirty garden shovel – because, of course, we threw away our snow shovel when we moved to Texas because who needs a snow shovel in Texas?

Like I said, unprecedented.

The snow stuck around for most of the weekend, so my kids were outside for a good chunk of that time (when they weren’t running inside on my wood floors with wet clothes, stripping them off and sticking their hands and feet under warm running water because we don’t own waterproof gloves and snow boots, then changing into dry clothes, going back outside, then repeating the entire process 22 minutes later). With children outside and occupied for short stretches of time, Michael and I were able to make a significant dent in The Great Clean-Out of 2010.

We attacked our closet, the kids’ rooms, and the playroom with the fervor of two people who have been waiting three years to build their house so they can sell their current house during the spring real estate rush even though that means moving into a transitional apartment where they will likely kill each other before moving into aforementioned new house.

(But they’re not thinking about that right now.)

Every year – at least once a year, if not more – we clean out our closets, and every year we throw away/give away a load of crap. I still can’t figure out how this happens. How can five people accumulate so much junk in the course of one short year? Or six months?

On Sunday, the soccer fields were too wet from all the melted snow to play our first “spring season” game (my tongue is totally hanging out in the side of my cheek as I say “spring season.” Doesn’t “spring” equal “warm”?)

So I had all afternoon to clean out The Craft Room – which was originally a guest room, then a combination guest room & nursery, then it was transformed into a haven of scrapbooking/card making/gift wrapping/crap storing. For the last several months, you could not walk across the room without risking your life. It was that bad.

Four hours later, it was…better.

Our long, snowy weekend resulted in this:

All waiting to be magically transported to a storage unit. And the scary thing? We still have more to clean out. I’m afraid, too, that when we unpack all of these boxes (and who knows when that will actually happen), I’m going to open up a box and declare to the high heavens, “What is this, why do I still have it, and where do I put it?”

(In my mind, that declaration is a little more colorful, but I’m trying to keep this blog G-rated family friendly.)

The good (?) news is that while Meghan was working on the playroom, she found the culprit for the monster carpet stain tucked (hidden?) between two books on the bookshelf.


The other good news is that Michael found this in our attic:

Hence, a slightly lowered level of stress in my life. Slightly.

I just need to find someone who can cut out the stain and cleverly replace it with a new square of carpet and make it look just good enough that no one (read: potential buyer) notices.

(If you’re reading this and you want to buy my house, forget you just read that last paragraph. My house is perfect! No cleverly disguised stains here, no-siree. Just unadulterated perfection. Really.)

In the words of my used-to-be three year old daughter who is now eleven and has her own email account, which totally freaks me out because I’m having disturbing visions of someday in the near future using this email address to communicate with her when she’s in college:

In Jesus’ name, Bye-bye.


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