Ice, ice, baby

My hands are cold. So cold, in fact, that they could be used as evidence global warming isn't occurring. Think the planet is getting warmer, my friend. I could interject whenever coming across rational discussions of the Earth's temperature. Feel these bad boys. At which time I could offer up my frozen mitts for examination. Surely nothing this cold could exist in a place that is getting warmer. I don't know why but these babies have lost their heat-retaining properties and are now merely frozen appendages at the ends of my arms. Sometimes I shove them under Henry's shirt to warm them on his tiny toddler belly. Sure, he thinks it's a game of Crazy Tickle Time from his abnormally cold-handed mother, but really I'm just trying to get some heat on these ice cubed paws of mine. I'd swear I was suffering from Marine turtle poisoning if I'd gone anywhere near Southeast Asia and eaten turtles recently.