Of Socks and Snow

In the winter I tend to wear my husband's socks.  They are thick and cozy and adorned with "Carhart", "Smart Wool" and other warm sounding names.  And under my jeans nobody can see them pulled high up on my legs like an old man's sock.   My socks tend to be either ankle running socks, (invariably with huge holes in the heel) or in cute patterns like spots or stripes with absolutely no thought to keeping my little toes warm. 

This morning as I got the kids off to the bus, and was heading back to bed to rest a fuzzy feeling head, I took a peek outside.  The light on the snow was brilliant.  Hmm, go out with the camera or stay in with the covers?  Camera won.  I will not describe the outfit I went outside in, but suffice it to say that I was rocking the "eccentric artist who was about to head back to bed and suddenly decided to go outside" look.  (And "Carhart" socks).


My ever faithful hiking buddy who gets really excited when I bring out my camera because he wants to "Go".


The car temp said that it was 14 degrees outside.  I was just enough of a weenie to leave the car running with the heater blasting while Roscoe and I ran around in the snow.


My husband doesn't understand my fascination with barbed wire.  Neither do I, really. But there it is.


When both of our feet were numb with the cold, Roscoe and I headed back to the overwarm car and home.  Me to a bath and book, and Roscoe to stretch out in the rays of sunshine on Chloe's sheepie rug.