Sto-ormy weathe-er-er

I know dear friend, I know.
I know that you are lost, LOST without the Arizona sun.
Beside yourself in sorrow over the greeny-green-ness of Washington.
And all that beautiful (I mean...terrible, obviously) northern rain.

And so, just for you, here are a few pictures of the haboob as it rolled in. Of the sun, pink behind the storm clouds, and the bizarre tan lines on my chubby little feet. :)

Also, as promised, a picture of me, not in scrubs.
(Look ma! I got dressed all by myself!)

Sending tons of love your way.
Hoping each day is better than the last.

Song of the Day!

This is one of my favorite songs
Of all time.
It reminds me of summer days
When I was small
And my mother was away.
Just me and my dad
And our little songs.

Weather.

I love monsoon season in Arizona. I love the wacky way it manages to rain hard while the sun is still shining and it's still nearing a million degrees out. I love the way we are not prepared for rain. The way all the roads flood, the parking lots flood, the campus floods. The way everyone drives at 15 miles an hour just in case the sky actually falls. I love the massive, MASSIVE haboobs we've had this year. Really, I just love the word 'haboob' in general. What I don't like is the impact it's having on my adventuring.

This is the second weekend our plans have been hampered by monsoon weather. It's particularly irritating because it's sunny and boiling hot here, too hot to go outside, and storming everywhere else.

We had just great plans. Brilliant plans, even. Plans of hiking, swimming, fossiling. Plans of diving from cliffs into crystal clear pools. Plans of running like hell from javelinas. Dodging rattlesnakes. Possibly trying to evade bears. Plans of tea parties in the middle of nowhere. Plans of hot springs. Plans at Wet Beaver Creek...yes, you heard me. Wet. Beaver. Creek. The name alone would have made it worth the journey. Even in my little Honda Accord, which is not at all designed for any of the roads around any creeks, Wet Beaver, Fossil, or otherwise.

But no.

No.

Just before you left we went fossiling, out in the mountains, you know the place, staring down the black clouds of monsoon doom. What's a 60% chance of thunderstorms, we said. Nothing! We fear you not ominous clouds! Not even when standing atop a mountain, swinging a metal hammer about like a maniac! We will battle the clouds, the winds, the dust! We will emerge victorious!

What fools we were! The lightning started up just before we reached our spot. Misty rain. Booming thunder. But we were fearless. We scampered, high on adrenaline and the summer rain, hunting for ancient treasures. The lightning strikes came closer. Closer. And still we played.
Then.
All.
We.
Saw.
Was.
Red.
Have you ever had lightning strike so close to you that you didn't even see the flash? Just saw your vision go totally, completely, red...then black...then fade back? Me neither. And I hopefully never will again.

We scampered back down the mountain in the now pouring rain. Soaked to the bone. Backpacks filling up with water. Slip-sliding down the old waterfall to the car. Laughing. Always laughing.

The drive home took three times as long as usual. Several times the rain was so thick I couldn't see the road. Twice I drove into the wrong lane because I couldn't see anything. Luckily, when you're out in the middle of nowhere in a storm, no one else is stupid enough to be driving in it, and no harm came to us. Luckily we were driving with the storm instead of against it. Luckily the road never flooded out in front of us. Luckily we made it home.

Now, we are more cautious. Maybe not about that spot in particular, as the road is always paved, and the hike back to the car is only a few minutes. But these new spots, these blissful wilderness spots we so long to be crawling all over, these are not the places to be trapped in during a monsoon storm. These are at the end of miles and miles of sketchy dirt roads driven until the car can go no farther. Then hours of hiking, uphill this time, back to the car. They are areas prone to flash flooding, and I do not want to wait out a flood. In my car, on the ground, in a tree, whatever.

So instead, we're sitting in the house, staring at the sun. Burning down on us. Mocking our foiled plans. Ick.


I owe you pictures. Pictures of me looking like a big kid. Pictures of me not in scrubs, and I am frantically seeking the cord to my camera to give you just that. Pinky promise.

Please frolic in the woods for me. Scratch all your critters. Say hi to J. Tell him we miss you both. Terribly.

Much love.
Us.

Song of the Day!

Song of the Day.

i watch you braid your hair
you're from another time
when the earth wasn't so angry
and god was on our side.

searching west and east
all points in between...

The rise and fall of frumpzilla.

Ugh.
I work in a hospital.
I wear scrubs.
EVERY.
DAY.

Not fun colorful, funky, me-esque scrubs, but plain old blue, hospital issued OR scrubs. They are baggy. Big baggy, unisex, drawstring waist, hospital logo stamped scrubs.

I brought this on myself. Five years ago, when I was sitting in the small board room being interviewed I asked, with a little too much excitement in my voice, if I could wear scrubs. Not just any scrubs, but these abysmal, soul crushing hospital scrubs.

I had to change into them anyway, I rationalized, as I would be spending time in the OR. I might as well just keep them on.

Part of the problem was that I spent my early education in Catholic School. In my formative years I was never held responsible for dressing myself in something presentable. Every day was the same. Same plaid jumper, same white blouse, same navy shoes. Every day. For years.

And
I
Loved
It

I looked exactly the same every day. I looked exactly like everyone else. Uniforms were school issued, right down to our scrunchies and our shoes. There was no leeway. No scrambling around the mall to find something cute in navy. Nuh-uh. Everyone wore exactly the same thing, by exactly the same company, in exactly the same way. Every day.

This was great for me. It meant I could sleep in later. It meant I never had to think about what I was going to wear. It meant, no matter how bad my morning was, I was going to show up to school looking exactly like everyone else. Marvelous.

Well after my mom lost her mind and the school finally kicked us out, I headed off to public school. ... . and I never really did learn how to dress myself.

You remember right? Junior high? The perpetual disaster that was my taste in...everything? I know, I know, we were all odd kids, and we all had odd taste when it came to dressing ourselves, but I wasn't working on that awkward, angsty, weirdo look. It just came naturally.

Do you remember my lime green jeans? I had a matching lime green shirt that I often wore with them. Oblivious to the fact that I looked like Kermit the Frog after exposure to nuclear waste. In my mind I looked perfectly presentable. Someone said something to me on the bus about it one day on my way home, I don't remember what he said, but I do remember trying to figure out what on earth there was to criticize about my outfit. They're just clothes, right? What does it matter what I look like?

That was the year, somewhere around the end of seventh grade, that I finally learned that I did in fact, need to brush my hair in the morning. Yeah. I was totally that kid. (I'll scan my yearbook picture for you when I get home, I promise.)

Decorum was always wasted on me. I had things to do! Books to read, trees to climb, stamps to collect...who cares what I look like while I'm doing it? The answer apparently is everyone. *laughs* Oh well.

Makeup is much the same. My sister started collecting it somewhere in elementary school. I was in high school before I ever even tried to wear it, and in my early twenties before I started wearing it even semi-regularly. And even then, it was mostly to impress girls or because my roommates were doing it.

I did however, learn to dress myself...for the most part...if I had to. If we were going out somewhere where pictures were going to be taken of me, or where I would run into one of my ex's, or better yet, one of my ex friends or roommates. I did a reasonably good job at building up my wardrobe. I learned to walk in heels. I cut my hair so that shaggy and sticky-upy was what I was going for rather than what I ended up with, and then, then I started working here.

There's something comforting about scrubs. And I think it goes back to grade school, and knowing, really knowing that no matter how bad I looked, I was going to look just like everyone else. That it would never ever matter. And it doesn't.

I LIVE in scrubs. I mean it. I don't even wear anything else anymore. I go home, strip off my scrubs and lie around in my unds. The prospect of picking out an outfit, dressing myself, doing my hair, it's all just too much effort.

No thank you.

As I have become more and more comfortable in my scrubs and with my scrub life, other aspects of my decorum have fallen to the wayside.

I never, ever do my hair. I wear a bandana every day. My dad calls them head rags. I look cute in them, in an earthy, lazy-mazy kind of way, but that's not why I wear them. Really really, I'm just too lazy to do my hair. Too lazy to comb it out when it's wet. Too lazy to blow it dry. Too lazy to straighten it. Too lazy to even just defriz it. Nope. Why waste the energy when I can just slap a bandana on my head and call it a day?

You may be asking yourself then, why on earth do I pay so much money to have my hair cut if I refuse to do it? Why waste the $100 every couple of months for something I don't appreciate. Why not just pay $12 at great clips for a pixie cut and call it a day?

The answer is that I like the OPTION of being able to do something with my hair. I may never actually do it, but I like to know that should the mood strike me I could. And it would look damn good. Better than your hair. Better than everyone's hair. Because I'm awesome.

What's the point of all this you say? Well the point is it's got to stop. I'm damn near 27 and at some point decorum is going to matter. I can't possibly get away with this for much longer, and leaving this particular path of least resistance is going to be hard. Really hard. Possibly epic.

And
I
Don't
Want
To
Do
It

Growing up sucks. In case you missed that. Okay, maybe not, but parts of it are definitely not as awesome as expected. Like this...and bills. Not a big fan of those either.

Moral of the story- I WILL post a picture of me. EVERY DAY. Wearing something that is not scrubs. I can't promise that it will look good, but we've all got to start somewhere. At least this way you can laugh along with me, and hold me to my promise to grow up at least a little bit. To brush my hair, to pick out my own clothes, to wear eyeliner when appropriate. All that stuff I've been so diligent about avoiding.

I'll update this with pictures when I get home.

I hope you're lungs aren't struggling to handle all that fresh air up there, and that the scenery isn't smashing your soul. :p Call when you can. Lots of love to both of you from both of us.

Song of the Day!

I'm lost. . . and the shadows keep on changing. . . . .



:)