Greetings from The Land of Too Much Sunshine,
We have returned to California at last, and there's one thing we really can't say here in the foothills: "It's not the heat; it's the humidity."
It is the heat.
When Buckaroo and I get in my tiny silver bell of a car for our daily drive to the fully air-conditioned public library, the temperature reads an ugly 110. I'm thankful for my minuscule car for many reasons, one of which is that it cools down ever so quickly.
After the days on end of summer rain in Massachusetts, I promised myself I would never complain about California heat, so I won't, but I do complain often about my wimpy swamp cooler. I'm sure it's powered by squirrels, and those guys need to lay off the cookies.
I'm blaming the heat for my inability to think a complete thought, write a poem, read a book, cook a meal.
In fact, I had big plans to turn Buckaroo into a real foodie once we were in the land of plenty, but instead he eats hot dogs for dinner nearly every night, and that's if I remember to make him dinner at all. There have been evenings when I've announced, "Time for bed!" and he's responded, "It can't be bedtime! We didn't have dinner!" Oh, he's a clever one.
This is all by way of saying that I know I've been on the quiet side for a minute or two, but moving across the country really is something of a sucker punch. I hope to be back here soon enough with all sorts of poetic explorations for your reading pleasure-- or I may just post pictures of kittens. It remains to be seen.
Tra Laaaaa
We have returned to California at last, and there's one thing we really can't say here in the foothills: "It's not the heat; it's the humidity."
It is the heat.
When Buckaroo and I get in my tiny silver bell of a car for our daily drive to the fully air-conditioned public library, the temperature reads an ugly 110. I'm thankful for my minuscule car for many reasons, one of which is that it cools down ever so quickly.
After the days on end of summer rain in Massachusetts, I promised myself I would never complain about California heat, so I won't, but I do complain often about my wimpy swamp cooler. I'm sure it's powered by squirrels, and those guys need to lay off the cookies.
I'm blaming the heat for my inability to think a complete thought, write a poem, read a book, cook a meal.
In fact, I had big plans to turn Buckaroo into a real foodie once we were in the land of plenty, but instead he eats hot dogs for dinner nearly every night, and that's if I remember to make him dinner at all. There have been evenings when I've announced, "Time for bed!" and he's responded, "It can't be bedtime! We didn't have dinner!" Oh, he's a clever one.
This is all by way of saying that I know I've been on the quiet side for a minute or two, but moving across the country really is something of a sucker punch. I hope to be back here soon enough with all sorts of poetic explorations for your reading pleasure-- or I may just post pictures of kittens. It remains to be seen.
Tra Laaaaa
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