You know when you go to a party, and you're having an amazing time and you think, "I'm having so much fun, nothing bad could possibly come of this!"? But then a few days later, you see photographic evidence, and you're horrified. Not because you were dancing like a lunatic with a drink in each hand--eyes staring off in two different directions because you couldn't focus anymore. No, you're horrified because the camera caught you at an angle where you could see your ass. And damn it if they didn't Photoshop the hell out of that picture, because THAT. Is. NOT. My. Ass!

Oh, but it is (see what I did there?) And when, exactly, did I stop paying attention to said ass to the point where it needed it's own area code? I can only blame so much on the camera and its so-called extra ten pounds. I think modern cameras must add twenty, sometimes even thirty pounds. Ah, the digital age. I think we either need to go back to hand-painted portraits, or I need to give up the cupcakes. And let's be honest...that's a tough call. Especially with a dozen frosted cupcakes in the kitchen, at this very minute, whispering my name like the sirens of the deep.

There's just no escaping it. I'm going to have to go on an actual--gulp!--diet. That means no more cupcakes. No more milk shakes. No more chocolate. I may not survive this ordeal. But then again, I fully expect more pictures to be taken in the near future, and I just can't bear to see that wide angle view.

Did I mention my laptop caught fire yesterday? Fire! This sort of thing is stressful and cupcakes are magical stress relievers.

No. I mustn't fall back on cupcakes. I must remember my new mission. Project Ass Buster. This farm is now a cupcake-free zone. We've gone from burning laptops to burning calories. I can taste the satisfaction already. Or is that the frosting still on my lips?

Eh, baby steps, right?

Until the next time...I'll be eating salad.

I woke up this morning...Groundhog's Day morning...to discover two things.

One, the groundhog didn't see his shadow, so my diet plans have gone completely out the window...again. This means I officially have six less weeks to squeeze into my favorite jeans before spring is busting out all over...or more aptly, I'll be busting out all over.

And two, the snow was coming down as if hell had indeed frozen over. So, of course, I had to wonder how these two unrelated things were, in fact, related. And I came to only one logical conclusion. Since we have six less weeks of winter this year, winter decided to pack them all into one weekend. This weekend.

But it's not the first time the groundhog failed to see his shadow. Oh, sure...it's rare. But it happened just a few years ago. How can I be so sure, you ask? Well...because I blogged about it, of course. And if you don't blog it...it didn't happen.

So for all you naysayers out there, here's the proof...a rerun from 2011...

Six Less Weeks of Winter.

If you get seven years of bad luck for breaking a mirror, what price do you pay for running over the groundhog on the same day he predicts an early spring? Should I be more concerned about six weeks of bad luck or six more weeks of winter?

From the minute I woke up this morning until the moment I sat down to write my blog, my day was a total disaster.

Honestly, it should have been a good day. I was due. For starters, the groundhog—my nemesis from last year—didn’t see his shadow, and we are expecting an early spring. This doesn’t happen very often, especially with news crews surrounding him with artificial light. I don’t know exactly what an early spring means. When can we expect winter to be over? Can I please get a precise date?

But I digress…

Upon discovering that winter was officially on its way out, I decided that it would be a great day to take the dog for a ride. I needed to buy dog food (a store he can actually enter) and he loves to go with me. I got his leash out, hooked him up, and let him drag me to the driveway.

That was as far as we got.

Mike had forgotten to unhitch the trailer from the back of the Land Rover. I would have put Indy in the backseat while I struggled with the trailer, but the backseat was still filled with things from moving. I apologized to my dog and took him back to the house. There would be no trip for him today. In hindsight I could have used his help to move the trailer once I unhitched it.

One sprained wrist and a partially dislocated finger later, the trailer was parked haphazardly in the grass and I was on my way to buy dog food. Another hour after that, three hungry dogs were pushing to be the first one to eat, as I tore into the bag, careful not to hurt my already hurt hand. Once they had eaten, I put them out in the yard—pretty standard lunchtime stuff. I would love to say that having one of the dogs escape the yard isn’t standard, but where Joey is concerned, it is more standard than I would like. So I hopped back into the Land Rover, armed with his favorite squeaky toy, and began my forty-five minute circle around the neighborhood.

I was almost ready to give up when my cell phone rang. It was a man who lived three streets over. He had found Joey.

Once that adventure was over I decided to do something more ordinary—dishes.

Doing the dishes would have been far more effective if the sink had drained. As I ran the water, the sink filled. The only problem was, I hadn’t put the plug in the drain. I didn’t get very far washing dishes before I had to stop.

I added the drain and the hole in the fence to the growing list of “to do” items for Mike. It is a very long list. He would need those extra six weeks to get it all done before spring.

For the rest of my day, I attempted to unpack as many boxes as I could, and put as much away as I was able. I am definitely feeling a little overwhelmed with everything that needs to be done around the house now that we have boxes and baskets of stuff everywhere. I was happy to take a break from the unpacking when my daughter asked me to run an errand.

It was cold and dark when I got into the Land Rover and headed out into the night.

I was driving along minding my own business, paying attention to the road (not texting or anything,) when he ran out in front of me. I tried to stop, but there was no time. I hit him. The groundhog. On groundhog’s day.

What are the odds?

Actually, the odds are against it. On closer inspection I realized that it wasn’t even a groundhog. It was an opossum. They don’t care if they see their shadows. They have no effect whatsoever on spring. But I still felt bad—poor little thing.

I am just glad today is over. I just hope I don't wake up and have to live it all over again like Bill Murray!

Until the next time…I’ll be starting my spring diet early since winter is ending soon!