Hump Day: The Neverending Winter Stew-Roast-Root Vegetable Vortex…

Two weeks later and I’m still wrestling with the fact that the G-Man told someone we were going to Oscarbrate on the evening of the Oscars. Never mind that it sounds a little sketchy. I can’t get over Mr. G verbizing a noun, and a proper noun at that.

Each day I wonder — If I go outside and see my shadow, will it add six more weeks to winter? It already feels like the winter that will never end. The Neverending Winter… without a Luck Dragon.

I’m so over soup, stew, chili, pork roast, roast chicken, roast anything, and ROOT vegetables.

Yeah. They are root vegetables non grata.

The fruit and vegetable section of the market is looking mighty thin. I paid a dollar for a single lemon. One. Une. Uno. Einer. And didn’t bat an eye.

I drink lemon or lime water every day, because I’m fixated on scurvy.

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Yeah. One of those winters.

I look at PEI and wonder how I ever waxed enthusiastically about moving there. Like that’s going to happen now. Toronto, honey, you are looking mighty fine, even if you had the coldest recorded winter temps in your history. I won’t be throwing you over or under the bus for PEI. New Brunswick, you’ve been put on the naughty list, too, even though you have a wild beauty that I love. #sorrynotsorry

I’m contemplating shooting icicles off the rain gutters like skeet.

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Just below this fence section is my garden box, aka the crypt. Doesn’t that look just like a head about to pop through the snow? Below that is the eye of an alligator, aka some straw bale peeking through.

Every day, I run to the mailbox hoping to find the travel guides on London, Paris, and Ireland that are due to arrive any minute. I’ve already read through Amsterdam, Switzerland, Great Britain, and Italy. Somebody wants to get out of town.

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This is a shot that got the Glaze App treatment. How fun is that?

Hump Day… You’re standing between me and my travel guides. Outta my way.

Elen

Note: The first image is a licensed, royalty-free image and is not for sharing. Thank you.

Hump Day: There Is No Difference…

I can’t call this BIP — Best In Post. I’ll just have to call it a repost.

Repost ~

See the difference?…

The Great White North

Snow ShovelingHammock

February —————————————–> July

Any questions?

Yes. I know there are no palm trees in TGWN. But this is my brain on February, and there should be.

February sucks. Big time.

_____________ The End _________________

Yeah. That was a blog quickie from February of 2009.

There is no difference.

Actually, I can no longer say there are no palm trees, because last summer I saw two of them being container grown at the sandy lakeshore — Do we even have beaches here? — of Lake Ontario.

Let us shift our gaze.

Here.

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Take a moment.

Ah. I feel better.

Infinitely better.

Hump Day…. Let’s just crush it with our bare hands — like it’s February — and move on.

Move on, people Elen.

I might be watching too much Agent Carter. Mebbe.

Elen

Note: The first two images are licensed, royalty-free images. They are not for sharing. Thank you.

Close Shot Friday 087… Stickup!

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Go ahead. Click it bigger. You know you want to.

This was taken at Edwards Gardens in Toronto in November of 2013. Hence, the lack of color and foliage, etc.

I just wrote 1013. Heh.

That tree has a face, arms, and forward motion. Unbelievable.

Looks like a stickup to me.

TGIF, baby!

You know what to do. Meet you in the bar in 3…2…1…

Elen

Note: This image was first posted at The Daily Tree in January of 2014.

Hump Day: And I Am A Writer…

I have loved Lily Tomlin’s body of work from Edith Ann to Ernestine to West Wing and on to A Prairie Home Companion.

Some days it feels like my stories sound like this, which would be okay if I was 5 1/2, but…

Hump Day might be one of those days.

Some days, we all just need a good dose of Edith Ann.

Let’s rock and read right over Hump Day.

Elen

Not The Same As A Dark And Stormy Night At All… + Lucy

The last Sunday in January found us socializing with the Anglicans. Again.

Therein lies a story.

It was a frosty, sunny, Sunday morning. Not the same as a dark and stormy night at all.

Living in the Great White North, I tend to wear trousers, jeans, leggings, jeggings, and more trousers, jeans, leggings, jeggings, repeat. But this Sunday morning, I decided to break with the norm and don a fave black skirt with leather panels, purple tights, and my DAV MOTO Liverpool boots.

[Insert warning bells/alarm bells/whatever here.]

I don’t mind saying I looked Elen-awesome. Green fuzzy sweater, black skirt, popping purple tights, dangly earrings, and my DAVS.

I love opaque tights. In fall. In winter. Tights. Tights. Tights. They are beloved accessories and great camo for the pale leg skin of the Northern Girl. Irish winter pale. Fish belly pale. OPI Alpine Snow pale. Pale, I say!

I digress.

Off we go to commune with the Anglicans, just a Kiss ‘N’ Ride commute away. Vroom. Vroom.

Lucky to get a parking spot just a stroll past the Starbucks to the church, I exit the car. A few steps out and those purple tights feel kind of funny. And not in a good way. They’re no longer sitting at the waist. They’re riding low. Low rider.

Now I’m on the corner waiting for the light to change and the walk sign to flash, wondering if anyone would notice if I gave those tights a good yank upward. I think about being the next viral video on YouTube — Woman Gropes Self On Sidewalk In Front Of The Anglicans — and decide against it.

The light changes and the G-Man watches as his one true love power-minces across the street, past the Starbuckians, like her purple tights are on fire, and disappears into the House of Anglicans. Any of you who have seen Two Weeks Notice with Sandra Bullock and Hugh Grant remember the scene where she exits the wedding in her floor length, narrow, pink dress heading for the Hugh emergency at the Grand Hotel.

Yeah. That would be me. Full on mince-sprinting or sprint-mincing.

The anxiety creeps up as the tights creep down.

I had one goal in mind as I moved through the doors of the main sanctuary into the great hall. I dashed past the concierge desk — yes, they have one — and the friendly greeters, waving and mincing and on and on to the women’s washroom, offering up prayers of intercession. If anyone was having a full on Twitter DM with God at that moment, it was me.

And in the midst of all, I could feel purple tight slippage with every step. Dear. God. In. Heaven.

I blasted through the door and into a stall just as those tights hit the tops of my knees, grateful for a skirt that was mid-calf and a coat that was even longer.

I peeled off the hat, the coat, the gloves, and hurled them at that handy, dandy hook on the back of the stall door, hiked up my skirt and did total tight recon.

And there it was. The master of my fate. It was too much to hope that I’d just lost a pound too many since the last time I wore those tights. Yep. Too. Much. To. Hope. The elastic of my fave tights had… eased.

Relaxed.

Okay.

Died.

Forget the mama wisdom about always wearing clean underwear in case you get in an accident. That just wasn’t going to cover it. Pulling an extra pair of tights out of a rabbit hat was looking pretty good about now. Where’s Copperfield when you really need him?

What’s a girl to do?

I’ll tell you what a girl does.

The only thing she can.

I stripped off those tights and shoved my bare feet back into the DAVS and prepared to bare my winter-pale legs to the Anglican world.

Between the length of the skirt and the height of the boots, there was maybe eight inches of exposed leg… while standing. Eight inches of snow white, winter, Northern Girl leg. Yes, I’m stuck on that visual and can’t seem to get off. You would be, too.

I made the trek from the loo to the room of early morning congregation at warp speed, looking neither right nor left.

Plunking down next to the G-Man, the number of exposed naked leg inches doubled.

We’re leaving before communion.

He looked at me sideways. An eyebrow went up.

I leaned forward.

Total tight failure.

He looked down, cleared his throat, and said…

You’re wearing undies, right?

And that’s another story.

By the way, I saw your shoulders shaking, G-Man.

And Monday rolls in on a blast of arctic air. Again.

And it may be summer before I socialize with the Anglicans. Again.

It’s Family Day here in Ontario, and I’m safely home in my wool socks and thermals, quietly burying the dearly departed purple tights in the backyard.

Elen

Note: These images are all licensed, royalty-free images. They are not for sharing. Thank you.

Close Shot Friday 086… Duck, Duck, Canada Goose

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The lunch view earlier in the week down by Frenchman’s Bay.

Click. Click. Bigger. Bigger.

Duck, Duck, Canada Goose!

This was a close as I wanted to get to this gaggle.

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Maybe just this close.

They moved more than once as we had lunch.

It felt like a Hitchcock moment.

When I told our server with the great red curls that I was going to venture out to take some shots, she said…

Hit the deck if they take flight!

Words to inspire.

TGIF, baby!

You know what to do. Meet you in the bar in 3…2…1…

Mebbe not.

This is the Friday of the Big Day of Love weekend.

Who knows what you’ll get up to.

Cheers!

Elen