So, here I sit, STILL faintly in shock at the fact that I've "joined" two things since January. First, I cajoled the Wonderfully Patient Spouse into tackling Meatless Mondays -- a movement to reduce meat consumption by 15 percent for personal and planetary health. (Although, starting next week, it will have to be Meatless-Some-Other-Day-of-the-Week since we're launching an abbreviated version of Soup Night for the month of March. Fortunately, MM is a portable type of commitment.)
Second, I've gotten myself involved in Project 365, a photography project where professionals and amateurs alike try to take at least one photo a day and post it to a sharing website.
I'm not quite sure what possessed me to start a such a project at a time of year when most days look like this
Desperation does that to you.
Which brings me to that light dusting of snow. Which we had Monday night. And why you would have found me taking pictures OF THE GROUND on Tuesday's morning walk with Ben.
And, truth be told, taking pictures of the sky. I looked like a mad woman.
Even Ben, the most tolerant creatures of all when it comes to my eccentricities, was a little shaken by this turn of events.
See, when your landscape looks like this --
you have no choice but to look up or down for things delicate and joyful.
All decked out in Fat Bastard and puffy pants. That's me.
A puffball with a camera. Armed and dangerous. Taking photos of the ground.
Criminy. And on a daily basis to boot.
Repeat after me. It's hard to be glamorous in Bermtopia.