Humpity Day: I do…

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Don’t you just love these little orchids?

That’s 19 inches tall, 24 with the pot.

Don’t you just love it when the sun shines and the fat fairy snowflakes fall at the same time?

Don’t you?

I do.

But I might not be getting out enough these days.

It’s pretty time consuming putting on all those layers + the scarf and the gloves and the toque and the sunscreen and the lip balm. Okay, that came out ‘lip blam’ the first time but I self-corrected, which I find more reliable than auto-correct. Just sayin’.

And the boots and the sunnies.

And then you have to pee, and it’s reverse and repeat.

And then you feel all Amy Adams-ish in ARRIVAL, when she just has to get out of that respiratory protection helmet and suit.

Speaking of ARRIVAL, we watched it last night and my brain is still bent… in a good way. The musical score by Icelandic composer Jóhann Jóhannsson was brilliant. And that’s all I’m going to say right now. 

Here be the first Hump Day in February.

Don’t you just love that?

I do.

Elen

p.s. I thought it was Tuesday.

Single Shot Monday: Snowscape… +

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Snowscape.

I’ve taken this winter shot more than once.

The way the tiny heads of the moonbeam coreopsis pepper the snow never gets old.

Now, the lavender is adding its shadow.

The ornamental grass brings enough subtle colour to make it interesting.

It looks as cold as it is.

We’re bracing for another winter hit. Blowing snow you can measure in double-digit inches and low visibility.

Which reminds me.

I must stop scrolling my Instagram faves. They are mostly photographers and travel and food bloggers. That’s how I roll on Insta. Art and travel and food are my valentine. And I’d say a goodly portion of those grammers live in a sunny clime, where the strawberry margarita and nacho reigns, and pedicures and flip-flops are year-round fashion. Living the tulip dream.

Exits left for a private crying jag.

Outside of the shower, I haven’t seen my feet since sock weather began in the Great White North. I’m living the Northern Girl life of perpetual toque head, chapped lips and hands, and red nose.

True Confession: I do not have the head shape that supports the beauty that is the winter toque. If someone were to shave my head — Don’t even think about it! — you’d discover something not unlike a topographical map of the moon. Full of dents and craters, baby.

I think food bloggers might naturally gravitate to warmer climates, where they don’t have to face six months of photo-blogging root vegetables and some protein-on-the-haunch that hangs from a pine out back in nature’s icebox. Away from bear and coyote.

Just kidding. We don’t have any coyote bear in Burbville. Okay. We have the occasional poor little bear who’s lost his way. Roar. Roar. Roar. That usually ends with a tranquilizer to the hiney for the bear and a free ride back to the greater Great White North.

Really. I love my Northern Girl life, where water is constantly on the hob — mainly as a humidifier and static electricity controller — and layers are your fashion friend, and shoes taken off at the door are a matter of national policy, and liquor soup is a nutritious restorative against the cold, and not hot-rolling your hair is okay, because you’re just going to stuff it under a toque anyway, and when you take that toque off your hair will be equal parts smashed and static-y. Run-on sentence alert! Aaaaand where mascara is optional, because it’s only going to end up on your cheeks from the winter leak that is your eyes. And nose.

But I digress.

Here be Monday, cresting on a wave of the February whines.

Let’s work.

Elen