Pet Peeve

It was really hot here this weekend. Really hot. I think the high was 108 degrees today, according to the weather sites.

Okay: So it's hot, and it's the end of September. Turns out that typically, for Southern California, our hottest month of the year is October.

Still.

Some people seem surprised, even taken aback, by our heat this weekend.  And if you just moved here, from say...Idaho? New England? Canada?  It would be okay to be surprised at our Indian summer heatwave. But those of you who have lived in California all your life? Have lived specifically in SOUTHERN California all your lives?

Y'all need to get a grip, and like, get a longer memory, or keep a daybook or something.  Because, people! It gets this hot, at this time of year....every year!  And still, I have to hear: "Can you belieeeeeve this heat?  And it's FALL."  Yadda yadda. You can't really blame folks, what with Halloween costume catalogs arriving, and my magazines full of robust and hearty autumn stew recipes for those chilly September weekends in...Vermont?  Wisconsin? 

Tomorrow is supposed to be even hotter.  And then it will cool down later in the week, and probably return to a normal 83-ish degrees by next weekend.  And then, in a week or two, the Santa Ana winds will kick in, and it'll heat up again, and you'll all start talking about the end of the frickin' world again.  It's a CYCLE, people. It's what autumn looks like, in our part of the world.  Write it down. Remember it for next year.  All right, I'm done.

Peace out, homies.  (And no, the above pics weren't taken this weekend. Are you kidding me? It was HOT out.)

Paranoia (The Destroyer)

I could say lots about where I've been for the last eight weeks since the last post.  Detail my very real social anxieties and dread of other people, fill you in on all the charming anecdotes of the kids' first few weeks back at school (the cause of most of said social anxieties)  and how I internalize my utter failure to make relevant, chatty small talk as an utter failure at being a good ...mother,  citizen and human being. I'm not really quite that bad.  But some intense few hours can feel like that, sometimes. 

Instead, I'll summarize all that inner turmoil with this droll little poem, that I re-discovered the other night:

We who are
your closest friends
feel the time
has come to tell you
that every Thursday
we have been meeting,
as a group,
to devise ways
to keep you
in perpetual uncertainty
frustration
discontent and
torture
by neither loving you
as much as you want
nor cutting you adrift.


Your analyst is
in on it,
plus your boyfriend
and your ex-husband;
and we have pledged
to disappoint you
as long as you need us.
In announcing out
association
we realized we have
placed in your hands
a possible anecdote
against uncertainty
indeed against ourselves.
But since our Thursday nights
have brought us
to a community
of purpose
rare in itself
with you as
the natural center,
we feel hopeful you
will continue to make unreasonable
demands for affection
if not as a consequence
of your disastrous personality
then for the good of the collective.

HA. Poetry, a mighty good dousing of cold, fresh water on all my hand-wringing, head-banging self obsession of late.

The poem is by Philip Lopate, who also wrote the mighty words: "They fuck you up/Your mum and dad./They may not mean to/but they do."   Ah.  Truer words, and all that.  And (this time) I don't even mean me own dear mum and dad, but myself, as a parent, as a stay-at-home mom -- one who has volunteered herself way out onto new and scary precipices.  And so early in the school year! 

Ah well.  Here I am folks.  Been reading, been nesting, been thinking of the blog and then losing the train of thought, or the will.  That paranoia, it eats up the hours.  But if nothing else, it's gotta be a good omen to title the first post-dry spell post after a Kinks song.  Ray Davies rocks.

Which reminds me: barely three months left in the year, and we haven't seen a live show or concert.  How to fix that?