secret love.

Still unpacking from our holiday road trip and it's fun, going through the loot, eating the smashed hershey kisses at the bottom of the suitcase, etc.

Although I shouldn’t admit it, I love stuff. I know that’s the wrong thing to say. I’m supposed to say keywords like “simplicity” and “simple” and “living simply.”

How about, “I simply love stuff”?

Does that work?

When we were little, we always got to open a present on Christmas Eve. It was always either pajamas or a board game. This year, my dad went rogue on us and changed it up.


You see right. Those are definitely three snuggie wearing ladies.

And being the stuff-loving lady I am, I’ve taken to this blanket with arms like a fish takes to water. In other words, I love it. No, really, I love this damn thing. It’s actually embarrassing. I’m embarrassed. I’m blushing right now. With embarrassment.

The worst part is that it’s so cozy, being all curled up on the couch completely covered up (yes, even my arms) while doing something (yes, like drinking coffee or reading a book or yes, even using the remote control!) that I get lazy and warm and when I want to refill my coffee cup, say, well, I stand and apparently hope that my snuggie somehow becomes a robe that I can walk in to the kitchen and back.

It doesn’t. Become a robe, that is.

In fact, it becomes a dangerous long blanket that drags in front of me, tripping me up and mocking my constant attachment to the thing.

I’m actually quite worried that if I don’t manage to separate myself from this thing while doing normal things like walking, I’ll be found by my loved ones in a mangled heap on the kitchen floor, the damn snuggie wrapped precariously around my ankles, empty coffee cup rolling away.