Or Gala in Oregon, the cranky edition:
Sorry dear readers dad*, this moving back to California business really threw a wrench in my blog plans. It has thrwon a wrench in EVERYTHING. California is HOT – and I don’t mean in a Daniel Craig way. It’s the middle of October, almost Halloween for eff’s sake, and yesterday at noon it 97 bloody degrees outside. HRH has not stopped panting in 3 weeks, I am convinced I have taken her back to California to die, to die a slow, heat-induced death. To top it off, the street I am on has daily, DAILY, trash removal service, apparently one for each house on the street, and the trucks make the panes on my lovely but quite inefficient french-doors-to-a-rickety-balcony shake. And they wake the almost dead Highness up from her geriatric slumber.
Mmmh, let’s see, what else irks me here? The noise, the wastefulness, the lack of a single small deli-type store that I can do my shopping, my forced reliance of Trader Joe’s or Wholefoods, that icky flavor of tap water, the dry, brown, drabness of the views. Million dollar homes in the Hollywood hills are nice, but they hold no candle to this
That’s my gorgeous mom looking at a beautiful tree behind our house, and that’s my hand shielding my eyes, looking at the wonderful PB who was taking the picture this summer.
It doesn’t help that since this Gala is no longer in Oregon, we have had too much bad news – it would sour even the biggest optimist in Optimistville. Friends are ill, friends have died, friends are going through traumas the likes of which I cannot imagine going through without a generous helping of Scotch, valium, or both.
So is it such a wonder that I can’t find much pleasure in my academic life again, that what little satisfaction I get from it is completely drowned out by this avalanche of ick?
But November 4th is aorund the corner, and next week a w-e in Oregon, and this w-e a visit from my peeps from Oregon, and soon Thankgiving and Xmas, and more Oregon, and more peeps and more PB. I keep my eye on the good stuff, trust me, but sometimes, when it’s a million degrees above what is seasonal and humanly allowable, and when your old dog can’t stop panting at you, a transplanted Gala gets cranky.
* my dad commented on my Nike sneakers – the ones I posted about last month, the ones he could not possibly know about unless he read the blog!