harsh and cold

The snow has stopped, leaving a white blanket on the ground - I wonder if it will stay or maybe we'll have a green Christmas like last year. The sky is grey, but a bit of light reflects off the snow making the gloom slightly less depressing, although the light is harsh and cold.

I've been spending a lot of time on facebook these last few weeks. I thought that when the election was done the outrageous posts would stop. I feel an obsessive need to know what is happening as the bigotry and hatred comes into mainstream America. And Canada. People who have been quietly racist have come out of the woodwork. I feel saddened and stressed that the US will go backwards with human rights and equality. It seems like I'm in a bad dream and I can't wake up. The cruise will be a good break from the constant deluge…

I will admit to lazing around the last few days. Quiet puttering to move us towards the weekend and having the house ready for Pat. So far no racing around from here to there, spinning in place as I try to do too many things at the same time… that is sure to come on Thursday and Friday.

Huge mugs of tea keep me going. Earl Grey, Chocolate Mint, Spicy Chai, Lemon Thriller, all keep me feeling warm and comforted. But oh, a couple of hot buttered toast with New Zealand honey would cap off the comfort. I'm trying to keep away from bread, all calories really, to get ready for an eating extravaganza. At the end of it all I have to fit back into the same clothes as many of them are going to NZ with me. Assuming an earthquake doesn't swallow up the runways in Wellington.

I still haven't found those pink headphones.

A trip to the grocery store was a short diversion. I don't normally go with Carm but I needed my fix of crack… crack maple bacon popcorn that is. That stuff is wickedly addictive.

"November--with uncanny witchery in its changed trees. With murky red sunsets flaming in smoky crimson behind the westering hills. With dear days when the austere woods were beautiful and gracious in a dignified serenity of folded hands and closed eyes--days full of a fine, pale sunshine that sifted through the late, leafless gold of the juniper-trees and glimmered among the grey beeches, lighting up evergreen banks of moss and washing the colonnades of the pines. Days with a high-sprung sky of flawless turquoise. Days when an exquisite melancholy seemed to hang over the landscape and dream about the lake. But days, too, of the wild blackness of great autumn storms, followed by dank, wet, streaming nights when there was witch-laughter in the pines and fitful moans among the mainland trees. What cared they? Old Tom had built his roof well, and his chimney drew.”
~L.M. Montgomery