Homemade convocation for our university grad, complete with hastily printed diploma, polar fleece gown and dog bouquet.
I keep forgetting to photograph my creative endeavours lately. There have been the cakes and muffins and crisps that we set upon before I can think to grab a camera. There were four pairs of boot cuffs for the girls, which would have looked nice in photos, but they’re both off here, there and everywhere, living their lives instead of posing patiently while I take pictures of their ankles. I just finished a pair of wool slippers for myself, but didn’t even bother trying to photograph my own feet because I can just imagine how unimpressive that would look.
But I did think to get a shot of Charlotte’s most recent masterpiece:
The Pickle Bouquet. A Valentine’s Day gift for her friends.
I want one, but with chocolates.
Glen and I went with Foster to The Look Off yesterday morning so he could paint with the Annapolis Valley Plein Air group and we could enjoy the view.
Here he is, hard at work:
And here’s the finished product:
I had the full posse accompaniment on an artist-scouting trip to the South Shore last Saturday and managed this snap of the fine young people who make me a mother.
(P.S. Graves Island Provincial Park is a lovely place for a spring walk in the woods.)
So it’s officially spring. Whoopee. Spring is nice for about seven minutes and then it’s all biting insects, allergies and incessant roadwork everywhere you go. Even worse is that spring is the slippery slope to summer. Which is the worst.
Reverse SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) is a real thing and I have it. As the temperature and hours of daylight slowly climb in March and April, I experience the same impending doom regular SADists (that can’t be right) must feel in October and November as the days grow shorter and colder. June, July and August are my December, January and February: months I need to white-knuckle my way through, nauseous and headachy, cursing this stupid, hot country I live in and literally counting down the days until I can look at a pair of pants without bursting into flames. By late September, I begin to see the (thankfully dim) light at the end of the tunnel, but it’s always still uncomfortably warm until October, when I’m back to my usual self, rejoicing that the monster has been defeated for another year.
For five straight months, I’m preoccupied by my futile attempt at keeping the house as cool and dark as possible by closing the blinds and drapes that a certain unnamed ignoramus keeps opening in our passive-aggressive tug of war. I go outside only when absolutely necessary. (It’s never necessary.) I sit in front of a fan, daydreaming about being a reverse snowbird, fleeing the heat and humidity for a cool, cloudy environment where it’s never too hot for a cup of tea, I don’t sweat sitting still and I can dress with some semblance of dignity.
The most depressing part of all this, of course, is that it’s the exact opposite of what the vast majority of other people are doing and feeling all summer long. Having winter SAD gets you sympathy, commiseration and a hot tip about where to buy a light therapy box on sale. Having summer SAD gets you mockery and scepticism. From everyone, including the winter SAD people, who have forgotten what it’s like to feel persecuted by the weather.
No, I don’t think I’d feel better with ‘a bit of a tan.’ Yes, I am going to wear a gigantic sunhat and a men’s XXL white dress shirt if I risk a trip to the beach, which I guarantee will not be between the hours of ten a.m. and four p.m. No, I definitely do not want to eat outdoors. Yes, I do own not one but two pairs of enormous, wraparound sunglasses that fit over my regular clip-on sunglasses. No, I’m not joking, I really do hate those bloody endless days when it’s still light out at nine o’clock at night. Yes, I often wish my Cameron ancestors had managed to stick it out in the misty highlands of Scotland where wool is always the right choice.
So yeah, great, woohoo, it’s spring. See you in October.
Behold my Christmas present from Foster. Oil on canvas. 8×10″.
I have two issues with this magazine ad:
(1) it’s ugly
(2) nothing good will come of teaching your kids that healthy foods are inherently less desirable than unhealthy
So we have a broody hen. I went out this morning to take a picture of her because, well, that’s the sort of thing I do. My kids don’t realise how grateful they should be for the invention of digital cameras because otherwise they’d have dumpster loads to pitch someday.
The intruder squirmed:
Meanwhile, the rooster heard me enter the coop and came rushing from the run to investigate: