Man, is it hot. Criminetly, as my mama says. And the weather people here, strangely, crow about the clear skies and high temperatures as if everyone wants it this way. Um, hello? It's too frickin' hot, man. One of the first things I noticed when I moved here 10 years ago was that the majority of people wanted the sun and looked askance at those who expressed a certain delight with clouds and rain.
Guess which group I fell into.
I really hate 100-degree temperatures, even though I do recall the Midwestern version of this kind of heat wave, where the high temperatures were linked with high humidity, and those weather people talked about a thing called the "heat index." As in "The heat index today is expected to reach 118 degrees in Davenport." Oh, thanks. Thanks for that. That helps motivate me to get through my work day. A person ought to be able to call in hot. "Hi, Denise? Yeah, it's me. Listen, I can't come in today. No, it's, uh, too hot. Yeah, I'm calling in hot. Well, go ahead and call Human Resources. I'm just sayin'. It's too hot. My dog and my three cats are lying balls down on the tile. They know it's too hot to move."
Which helps explain why I don't have a job there anymore.
At my current rate of posting, you'll see something here again in about November. See you then!
Heh-heh.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Monday, May 28, 2007
Hello, world
I am Auntie Murray. And I talk.
It's 62 degrees in beautiful downtown North Hollywood, (sorry, Johnny C.) and, oh my word, what a world we've got going. Another Memorial Day night, another how many soldiers dead, (we'll never know, because Uncle Georgie won't let us see the caskets) and even Cindy Sheehan says, Ok, I'm done.
My word. My word. Hubby and I just back from a week's blissful vacation, and no more than five minutes into L.A., La La Land, that we're itchy and bitchy and wishing we were anywhere but here. It's loud. Too many sirens, too many crying babies across the alley (and by "too many" I mean "one") and here we are, wondering whether to call the manager of their complex or our own, and wishing with all our hearts that the baby is okay, okay, and not the recipient of some sort of sly abuse by their caretakers. Do you call the authorities and hope they do the right thing, or do you wait and wait and ultimately understand that these people have a baby that needs more attention than it gets and that the authorities would only complicate the situation irrevocably? There are no websites to help with this one.
We were in a place that was so quiet, so remote, that any whisper, any cell phone conversation, any noise beyond the plaintive woo-oo-oo-oo call of the mourning dove seemed an affront, an assault on the senses, and all we can do is remember it and resolve to return there. We're not plebes, by any means, having lived happily in L.A. and Manhattan for years, but oh. As one ages, one yearns for peace. And there are certain places in California and elsewhere that provide it, and certain others that do not.
I'm not sure where this blog is headed, but I do know that I have many strong opinions, and many travels ahead, and maybe you and I can get there together. Hang with me, and we'll see what's there.
It's 62 degrees in beautiful downtown North Hollywood, (sorry, Johnny C.) and, oh my word, what a world we've got going. Another Memorial Day night, another how many soldiers dead, (we'll never know, because Uncle Georgie won't let us see the caskets) and even Cindy Sheehan says, Ok, I'm done.
My word. My word. Hubby and I just back from a week's blissful vacation, and no more than five minutes into L.A., La La Land, that we're itchy and bitchy and wishing we were anywhere but here. It's loud. Too many sirens, too many crying babies across the alley (and by "too many" I mean "one") and here we are, wondering whether to call the manager of their complex or our own, and wishing with all our hearts that the baby is okay, okay, and not the recipient of some sort of sly abuse by their caretakers. Do you call the authorities and hope they do the right thing, or do you wait and wait and ultimately understand that these people have a baby that needs more attention than it gets and that the authorities would only complicate the situation irrevocably? There are no websites to help with this one.
We were in a place that was so quiet, so remote, that any whisper, any cell phone conversation, any noise beyond the plaintive woo-oo-oo-oo call of the mourning dove seemed an affront, an assault on the senses, and all we can do is remember it and resolve to return there. We're not plebes, by any means, having lived happily in L.A. and Manhattan for years, but oh. As one ages, one yearns for peace. And there are certain places in California and elsewhere that provide it, and certain others that do not.
I'm not sure where this blog is headed, but I do know that I have many strong opinions, and many travels ahead, and maybe you and I can get there together. Hang with me, and we'll see what's there.
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