One of the first selling points of moving to Houston was the weather. I’m a tropical, warm-weather, umbrella on the beach kind-of person. When my husband was fairly sure that he was going to take the job that moved us to this great state, the company was kind enough to fly me down so that I could check out the area. When we left Nashville, it was 32 degrees. Upon landing in Houston, it was 81 degrees.

Hello, Texas. Someone hand me the tape gun and a box. I’m packin’ my stuff!

This winter has been so bizarre. We usually have a couple of cold weeks. Rarely snow. Never ice. In the past two weeks, we’ve seen it all. Well, we dodged the bullet on the snow, but the kids still got out of school for the projection of such. (Houston is the 4th largest city in the US and only owns 8 salt trucks. Panic hits at 32 degrees.)

Our poor furnace is working overtime and having a heck of a time heating our house. I’m counting the days until I receive our gas bill. Something tells me it won’t be the average $36.

My mother-in-law bought my kids gloves, a hat and a scarf – we had none. I bought a sweater for the dog. I’m sleeping in socks.

It stinks.

Old Man Winter, take a hike! We’re sick of your stinkin’ face. I want some summer sun around this place.