#TBT: House of Fling…

It’s the perfect day for a fire in the fireplace. Check.

It’s the perfect day for blueberry-peach-chocolate cobbler. Check.

It’s the perfect day for Earl Grey tea. Check.

It’s the perfect day for Throwback Thursday.

And check.

House of Fling…

A Highland Fling, you say?

No. No. Not a Highland Fling. Though it will make your skirt fly up.

A romantic fling, then?

No. No. I’m in what you might call a romantic long haul. Right, Mr. G, honey? Of course, that could make your skirt fly up, too?

Aside: Mr. G, honey is shaking his head. What is she talking about now? I can read his mind. That’s what happens when you’re in a romantic long haul.

No. Today, I had a little spring fling — a  fling of the self-indulgent variety. I was hoping to put it off until May because I #amwriting, but I had a moment of clarity yesterday. A moment when I realized I was…I was…I was…looking a little like a hag-in-waiting.

It was a long, hard winter of shuffling around in socks and yoga pants — not the cute kind — socks and sweats, socks and mitts and boots and coats and hats and long underwears. We’re still doing it every other day.

So this morning, I hied myself off to the House of Fling and had my eyebrows waxed and tinted, some random threading done, ouch! — don’t ask — and a mani/pedi. It took three hours for me to no longer look like Mrs. Bigfoot.

And as I am hooked on OPI, my toes went with their signature color of I’m Not Really a Waitress red, but the fingers had a little fling of their own with the soft and sheer Bubble Bath. Have mercy!

That’s how the Northern Girl marks the coming of spring.

House of Fling, baby.

Elen (April 2011)

I’m about due another fling.

Who’s with me?

Men fling, too.



Fridaaaaay!… aka Scrunched

We watched The Age of Adaline on iTunes last night for 99¢. What a bargain.

I admit it.

I enjoyed that movie — the pace, the filming, the storyline, and how it unfolded.

I had no problem suspending disbelief.

And it gave me my music for Fridaaaaay!

I’m Just A Jitterbug

Chick Webb Orchestra, featuring Ella Fitzgerald.


In Other News ~

I’m wondering. Do people who live in northern climes, such as Northern Girls in the Great White North, suffer more neck and shoulder pain? Do they creak and moan like something out of Pirates of the Caribbean?

Yes, I think about these things.

It’s the whole scrunching thing.

You go out for a walk in the cold damp of Oct/Nov/Dec and the cold, blowy snow of Jan/Feb/March… and you scrunch.

The shoulders go up and the head gets pulled in like a tortoise-shell situation.

Scrunch, scrunch, scrunch!

You slip under the duvet onto ice cold sheets and the body folds into the fetal position, shoulders scrunched, hands clutching the duvet to the nose, head tucked down, with only the spiky fringe showing.

You sprawl on your mate, eliciting the surprised man-shout.

Are you even alive, woman?!

Who, me?

And the next thing you know, he’s all scrunched.

I have a vision of the Southern Girl in a sunny warm clime, sprawled on a warm bed in booty call shorts and tee, limbs relaxed over the head, legs stretched long, the little piggies hanging off the bed… toasty warm.

I bet there is no neck and shoulder tension there. No leg cramps.

No scrunch!

No one in a red cotton, flannel-lined night shirt, with long sleeves and a polar bear on the front, over red and white striped leggings and fuzzy socks.

Northern Girls know how to get lucky rock that winter nightwear.

Is it just me?



Oh, let’s all be happy little jitterbugs.

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


P.S. I always listen to Uptown Funk writing the TGIF posts. Huh.

Note: This image is a licensed, royalty-free image from Fotolia.com. No poaching, please.