I think it has been so long my blogging muscle is atrophied.
I feel like social mores demand that I cannot just dive back into our normal intimacies without wading in the shallow end for a moment. For this reason, today I shall discuss the weather.
You might remember that every summer (April through October), I whine about the weather. As any self-respecting recovering Southern Californian would do, I curse the hot desert sun, and lament my sweaty armpits and my loud and raucous children who cannot play outside because they might get second degree burns or heatstroke. Now, though, it is chilly, and I would like to point out to all that I HAVE NOT COMPLAINED EVEN ONE TIME ABOUT THE COLD.
That is because I love it.
Last week we had a huge storm coming in, so after I got done watching the TV weather people soil themselves with glee over having something to do and talk about, I packed up all the kids and pestered Jake till he came home from work. (Reluctantly. Jake is from Nebraska and does not enjoy cold weather.) Just before we left for Payson in our minivan of the bald tires, it began to snow! Here, in our backyard! And on the golf course! And at the Costco! And on the palm trees! It was very, very thrilling. Then, we got to Payson, and we almost couldn't get up the hill to the cabin, there was so much snow. And it then it kept snowing, and I kept loving it and not whining! And then I spent New Year's Eve watching a House Hunters International Marathon (no cable at home, you'll remember), where there were ruins to renovate in Portugal, and fixer-uppers in the Casbah, and all the while the fire was burning and the snow was falling and Jake kept bringing me Nestle Drumsticks and fizzy white grape juice to my bed, where I was curled up reading Ruth Reichl's Garlic and Sapphires (during commercials). 'Twas a magical holiday.
And then in June, or maybe some 100 degree October day, instead of shaking my fist at the sky and cursing, I shall come back to read this, to remember why it is we live here in the desert.