I think I've shown a lot of restraint over the last several days -- heck, the whole summer -- by not discussing rain. I mean, c'mon, this time of year, talking about the rain is the opening gambit for every conversation, e-mail, blog post, postcard and monologue for the desert-dwelling population. How 'bout that rain? or The arroyos are finally deadly, thank the good lord. Which triggers a memory of an English 102 course at UNM, a pissed-off TA and 18 freshmen trying to pass La Llorona off as an urban legend, but that's another story.
While I am thrilled about the moisture (and sweet merciful Jesus, thank you for the rain), can I go ahead and admit here that I'd just a touch ready for the return of the 7% humidity? Skin that doesn't need lotion is just unnatural, y'know what I mean? Also my hair's just a clump of unruliness. What's managed to pop out of my severe bun's come out all ringlet-y and I keep waiting for Adam to grab onto one of those whispies and boing it right off my head.
But again, my hair woes are so minor in comparison to what we're getting, it doesn't bother to register on the grand scale. Break out the champers and pull up a chair. The monsoon season is here, thank God.
The change in weather changes everything. Swamp coolers, like the one sitting on our roof, are no longer the efficent cooling waterhogs as they were a month ago. Refrigerated air, on the other hand, suddenly kicks up to eleven. My trusty black hoodie has taken up residence in Bucky's trunk, because every restaurant, movie theater and book store is suddenly Antartica in August. Rain becomes an afternoon occurance, with an encore (complete with light and sound show) after midnight. Cars caught out in the downpoor look car-wash fresh. Adam puts away the hose for six weeks and lets nature water our xeroscaped yard. The air smells like wet sage and sand. And lightning on the way home reminds me oh, yeah. Big wuss. And, um, do the support spars in the Miata's ragtop provide enough protection to form a faraday cage?
I'll get back to you on that last one.
While I am thrilled about the moisture (and sweet merciful Jesus, thank you for the rain), can I go ahead and admit here that I'd just a touch ready for the return of the 7% humidity? Skin that doesn't need lotion is just unnatural, y'know what I mean? Also my hair's just a clump of unruliness. What's managed to pop out of my severe bun's come out all ringlet-y and I keep waiting for Adam to grab onto one of those whispies and boing it right off my head.
But again, my hair woes are so minor in comparison to what we're getting, it doesn't bother to register on the grand scale. Break out the champers and pull up a chair. The monsoon season is here, thank God.
The change in weather changes everything. Swamp coolers, like the one sitting on our roof, are no longer the efficent cooling waterhogs as they were a month ago. Refrigerated air, on the other hand, suddenly kicks up to eleven. My trusty black hoodie has taken up residence in Bucky's trunk, because every restaurant, movie theater and book store is suddenly Antartica in August. Rain becomes an afternoon occurance, with an encore (complete with light and sound show) after midnight. Cars caught out in the downpoor look car-wash fresh. Adam puts away the hose for six weeks and lets nature water our xeroscaped yard. The air smells like wet sage and sand. And lightning on the way home reminds me oh, yeah. Big wuss. And, um, do the support spars in the Miata's ragtop provide enough protection to form a faraday cage?
I'll get back to you on that last one.
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