Today, as my mother would also say, is a day for the ducks.
This awful perma-drizzle that we’ve going on is pretty much the equivalent of operating within the water arc of the world’s finest (but also largest) sprinkler.
Or, to put it in much simpler terms: it’s like living inside a very, very, low hanging cloud. (Which isn’t that too far off from the truth – the sky is so low, I feel as though I could touch it, if only my name was Ms. Stretch.)
Also, it’s DANG cold.
For someone like me, who has terrifically bad circulation, this is a recipe for disaster.
For one, my hands are always freezing.
This, of course, means that every time I introduce myself to someone and shake their hand, I get the obligatory “your hands are so cold!” to which I have to reply “well…you know what they say – cold hands, warm heart!”(After saying this for some reason I always feel like dancing a short jig, or slapping them on the back, or something equally as strange) and then they think I’m basically a nine hundred year old weirdo.)
Full disclosure: that observation is only half-correct.
Seriously though, whilst at work (when I’m not typing away like a typing thing), I have to alternate warming my hands between my legs (when I have them crossed,) sitting at my desk, lest I lose feeling in them for what can range from a couple of minutes, to pretty much the rest of my day.
There were times in my undergrad when I would be writing an in-class essay and I would lose all feeling in a two, or three of my pen-holding fingers. They would grow strangely stiff, before turning a (terribly off-putting) bone white (with just the faintest tint of blue), and I would be stuck rubbing them for what seemed like hours, post-exam, in order to get them back to a “normal” range of motion and, you know, hue.
Unfortunately, I’m pretty sure one of my office mates (a rather shy and awkward gentlemen) thinks that I am completely barmy, because every time he walks by my office I have my hands mashed betwixt my legs.
I am sure that his impression of the situation is this: me (el grade pervo) mashing my hands (enthusiastically) in my general crotchular area ALL THE FRIGGEN TIME.
(I am well aware that “crotchular” isn’t a word, but I feel as though it is the best way to sum up what it is I am trying to describe.)
No joke, sometimes when I see him casting (covert) glimpses into my office (although this of course could just be a symptom on my growing insanity, and or paranoia) I just want to yell out “I’M NOT A PERVERT! MY HANDS ARE JUST REALLY COLD!”
Even though these are probably display cookies, I still want to eat them all.
In my head, the “I am not a pervert” part would always be done in the voice of Richard Nixon.
(Okay, now I know for sure that I am completely deranged.)
Anywho, today my delightful and hilarious colleague J and I went and had tea and macarons at the lovely little French bakery Soirette, just down the street from us in Coal Harbour.
It was such a brilliant way to spend our lunch hour, on an otherwise dreary and bleak Friday afternoon.
We both decided to order “Pink Champagne” tea (seriously out-of-this-world amazing – it was a black tea with strong raspberry undertones, that somehow came out yellow when poured!) before selecting three cookies to taste.
J chose passion fruit, fererro rocher, and salted caramel, whilst I picked (also) fererro rocher, lemon, raspberry.
For real, I could eat these tasty treats until they started growing out of my ears.
In short: they were simply divine! Crunchy, but smooth – silky and flavourful, but not overpowering, nor were they too sweet.
My favourite was hands down the raspberry flavour, and J gave the salted caramel her top marks.
Come on. Dunk me. DUNK ME!
Afterwards, we strolled up the street, talking the long way back to our building. When you are filled to the brim with sweets and tea, facing the rain-soaked murk is such an easier task!
(Although, living in Lotus Land, you have to be extra careful not to have your umbrella crash into the many others parading down the sidewalk. We had a few close calls.)
Also, am I the only one of the mind that if there is even the minutest possibility that an individual could use their parapluie as a substitute for their tent the next time they go camping, it might be just a tad too large for everyday use?
This is the kind of flower power Mario and Luigi fight AGAINST.
Come on people, we’re (possibly) in a recession here. Learn the art of downsizing!
Speaking of outrageous excess, a couple of week ago I was walking the south Granville corridor (I could probably just stop there, couldn’t I?) when I espied the current window dressing at the store Anthropologie.
I don’t know if 1.) I am becoming more and more disconnected from what is actually “fashionable”, 2.) I am turning into a cranky old codger, or 3.) the fashion industry is trolling us all, (perhaps the answer is a mixture of all three) but the clothing on display was (to me and to put it mildly) MAJORLY OBJECTIONABLE.
Skin tight, floral-print skinny pants and some kind of fishing net inspired, mesh top?
Do not want.
But of course I went inside (with the full intention of trying the outfit on to further illustrate my point), however my upchuck reflex was fully engaged when I saw not only that the pants were priced at $240.00 (!!!) but that they also had wide-legged floral nightmares for sale (priced at a similar amount).
No. Just no.
Good thing my fainting couch was nearby, because the intake of that information alone damn near well killed me.
(Okay, I won’t lie, I did try on a couple of cute dresses, and some non-violent seizure inducing priced pants, but none of these articles of clothing took my breath away, so they remained at the store for another day.)
P.S. I am still thinking about that Zara dress from Monday. I may just have to return for another try…
In terms of my blue mood from this past Wednesday, I have not been one hundred percent successful in righting myself to my normal level of joie de vivre – but do not despair, my lovely cyber pals – I am getting there.
Slowly but surely – one macaron, one potential party dress, one fashion diatribe at a time –
I am getting there.