Igloo, sweet igloo.

It's good to be home. After spending the last month with our in-laws and parents (very nice to visit, but it gets to be long) Julia and I are finally back in Duluth. And it is really flippin' cold here. I guess 7 degrees really isn't unusual for Duluth (it's almost tropical, based on my experience with January in this frozen town), and certainly not something I've never seen before, but seriously. Either the ten degrees difference between here and Saint Cloud is more than it seems, or I'm getting wussy in my old age. Of course, it might have something to do with the fact that we keep the house at about 58 degrees. Like I said, brrrr!

Julia says: "It's good to go home, but only if you drive and I sleep."

I'm trying not to be cynical. There's a certain expectation I have for myself that, when I write, it should be fun to read. "Fun" in this sense equates with "funny", at least, for me. I like to think that I can be funny if given enough time (here I go, claiming more talent than I probably actually have) but my particular brand of funny is sarcasm, which so easily lapses into cynicism. And I think there are enough real cynics in this world without me adding to the mess with my vain attempts at comedy. So forgive me if (when?) I become cynical. It's the cold, I tell you.