life according to me

Tag: Paradise

Right on Day One.

The day has finally arrived. It feels as if I’ve waited forever and think of all that has gone on in this country and the world in the past eight years. Almost a decade with someone in the White House that I believe never should have been there. Ever.

That’s quite a bit of water under the bridge, wouldn’t you say?

I’ve had much on my mind as I’ve watched the candidates line up over the last year and begin their campaigns. It’s been an incredibly long year. Too long. And when I realize that as much as I’ve waited for today to arrive, we still have nearly nine months left to see how big an ass Rush Limbaugh can make of himself over the outcome of the presidential election. Did you hear what he said about John McCain yesterday? O.M.G.

Unbelievable.

He’ll flap all the way to the bank. I’m sure.

In the meantime, I’ve placed my vote in the same garage I’ve been placing it for the past five years since moving to this area of Paradise. The same pleasant people greet me and chat each time.

“How’s business been today?” I asked one of the women. “Busy?”

“No,” she responded, surprising me.

“What’s wrong with this neighborhood?” I teased, knowing what her comeback would be.

“We’ve got over 65% who vote on absentee ballots here!” she smiled. The young man assisting asked me how I’d be voting today because I’m registered as non partisan.

Um. I sort of forgot that I get a bit feisty about this whole choosing sides from time to time and hadn’t remembered changing or when I’d changed. He patiently explained that I could vote Democratic, or N/P, or…

I confessed that I would be voting as a Democrat, just to cut to the chase, grinning as the woman handed me a ballot. I made sure I knew what I was doing because we’ve had umpteen gazillion changes over the past few years about HOW we cast our ballots. Having gone seriously high tech now, we are using a black ink pen and a ballot printed on card stock. No poking, no punching, no scanning, or beeping or page flipping. All I had to do was fill in the bubble.

They continued casual conversation over my shoulder as I scanned my ballot, laughing because more than one of the volunteers had submitted an absentee ballot, and now, as we all know, many names originally on that ballot are no longer present for the primary today.

Interesting…

And more than 65% in our area alone vote absentee ballot? That could prove to be interesting with respect to the Republican votes, so much has changed. We have so many absentee ballots in Paradise, I heard they began to count them very early this morning to get a head start on results.

On the short drive home, I noticed only two campaign posters — one attached to a stop sign and the other a light pole. The Vote for Ron Paul poster seemed out of place here, but anyone’s would. But his posters are the only ones I’ve seen anywhere in the last couple of weeks. Even bumper stickers have been rare. Although I did notice one plastered on the bumper of a Lexus when I was walking the dog yesterday. And then there was that forty-something woman who was standing on the center divide early this morning with a huge homemade sign that encouraged passers by to cast their vote for Obama… And the youger woman outside the mall with a small, but official looking Vote for Hilary sign in one hand hanging next to her side, and a much larger, homemade Obama sign in her other, held high above her head.

Still undecided?

What did Obama say during the debate with Hilary in Hollywood the other night?

“I’m right on Day One.”

And I believe it more than I’ve believed anything in a very long time.

February 5, 2008
Target Smiles

Remember to click the post title if you’re wordy today…

You know you’re in San Diego when your favorite Target has already stocked the big sale area where they display the fake Christmas trees with patio furniture, brightly colored canvas pillows, bug candles, and all things garden. Trowel, anyone? Perhaps the latest in cheap outdoor party lighting?

After a squashing the beginnings of annoyance similar to that of what I feel when I see Christmas decorations in October, I roll on with very little purpose in mind. I venture to Target to waste time and frequently spend money, somewhat like it’s a sport. It makes me happy.

Well, until I see the beach towels. Jeez. Will somebody give us a break here?

We’re trying to have a winter, and it’s going better than it normally does. You know, with rain and angry looking clouds more than once every eight weeks or so. Some wind thrown in for good measure.

Hell, one of the palm trees across the street actually lost one of its fronds in the last “storm.” The wind wasn’t strong enough to actually knock it from the tree, so it hung there, limply, for an entire day until the garden crew came to put it out of its misery.

Someone in the ass-ociation must have complained about its unsightliness.

(more…)

February 3, 2008
Politics & Paradise: What’s your vote?

*If you want to make a comment, please click on the title of the post…sorry. Don’t know why the comment button at the bottom of the post isn’t functional. I’ll get around to figuring it out after I’m done complaining.*

I’ve been biting my tongue about politics and the various campaigns for the presidency. It isn’t because I don’t have an opinion. Hell will freeze over before I am caught without an opinion, let alone one as important as how the next four to eight years of my life will be influenced. That’s right. When you really get down to business, it’s really all about me.

Just kidding.

But I have been circling my wagons, and keeping an eye on the situation. It’s quite challenging to watch debates like the one CNN aired last night when I was lovingly kneading what would turn out to be a fragrant braid of Finnish Pulla. Does Mitt Romney ever, EVER stop talking? And does he ever NOT have that smirk on his face? I can barely bring myself to listen to anything he says. And when I hear him, I don’t believe any of it.

Remember the old Charlie Brown cartoons on television? When the adults spoke, they sounded like, “Mwha-wah-wha-mwah-wah-ah…”. That would be Mitt for me, except his diatribe is more like, “blahblahblahblahdee-blahdee-blahhhhhhh. Chuckle.” Go ahead and plug your nose, grin like a silly ass and try it. It’s annoying. He’s annoying. His eyes are glittery, which can’t be good. And he’s accomplished at the “he said, she said” junior high school game which doesn’t look good on a man in his position. Wait. Dubyah’s good at it, too.

Ugh. It’s all so depressing. *this is the part where Chicken Little can be heard saying, “The sky is falling…the sky is falling…”*

Not too long ago, NPR was interviewing people about the Republican candidate they’d most likely vote for and why, and more than one woman in the “my age” bracket actually mentioned that at least he “looked presidential,” and that’s why they’d vote for him.

Excuse me?

Don’t you wonder about people who actually don’t have a problem saying things like that for a national audience? Okay, so ANY audience. Oh. My. Gawd.

Or my personal favorite comes from women who state that they vote the way their husbands vote. You know, so they won’t cancel each other out? Huh? They’re kidding, right? As much as one might think these voters could be compared to June Cleaver, I’d say June was a tough mother and most likely had Ward voting her way or else he’d be sleeping with the Beev. Yanno?

(more…)

January 31, 2008
Sunshine and Big Surf

This morning when I popped out of bed… *wait, that was yesterday*

This morning, after I listened to the guy who rants each morning on the radio station the alarm is set on, I got up a bit more slowly than yesterday and went right to the window. I always do this. It’s a strange habit that helps me think about what kind of day it will be, thereby informing me about the attire I might don for the day. How sad is that?

But I’d opened the window about an inch last night just to hold the flashing demons at bay. Hot flash demons. Not demons who flash. Well, unless they’re menopausal demons, and then I supposed they’d flash. And if they were creative demons they could do that more than one way.

Moving right along…

Because the window was open, I could hear the sound it took us a while to adjust to when we first moved here. That distant roar when the wind is just right, or there’s been a storm in the Pacific. It was very loud this morning, and I could smell the salt in the air.

Of course I had to go outside and listen. I had to stand in my driveway and enjoy it, weather related phenomenon starved human that I am.

I went back in the house and had to tell the MoH, so I turned off the radio to his moaned, “Nooooooo…” and threw open the window. “Listen! Can you hear it? Cool, huh?” Although he was less than enthused, he didn’t throw anything at me, because he’s a weather sap, too.

I knew I’d be down oogling the waves before the day was out. But the MoH couldn’t wait. He drove down to the beach before work this morning.

Can’t you just smell the salt?

The air was misty blocks away, and the sidewalks damp.

The surfers were out in clusters, just waiting for that perfect wave.

And lifeguards were just waiting for that surfer who couldn’t quite make that perfect wave.

Spectators lined the coast to watch the show. There were so many people in business attire mixed in the crowd, the productivity level must have been non-existent in nearby offices.

The sea wall near the Children’s Pool was closed.

The seals were thoroughly uninterested, however, and basked as they normally do in the early afternoon sun.

Just another day in Paradise.

December 6, 2007
Tiffany’s and Dust Motes

It rained in Paradise yesterday. Now don’t all fall over at the same time with that news, stupendous as it is. Not only did it rain — it poured much of the day: a record-setting .73″. I can’t remember how long it’s been since it rained enough to do more than dampen the top layer of soil in my flower bed. But yesterday water filled the gutters and at many points during the gloriously soggy day, moved in sheets across the road as the wind whipped the palm trees into a frenzy, fronds no longer sheltering the birds that normally perch there.

The MoH called from work to ask what I was doing. He wondered whether I had popped open the garage door, settled in a chair and bundled in layers to watch the show. He knows I love this weather.

What he struggles with is being practical — as in, too practical. Overly, cautiously so. I have thin streaks of practicality, and depending on the situation, will listen to my inner nagging voice that chastises me I really shouldn’t or better not.

Or, sometimes not listen.

Last night, he and I ventured out in the weather.

We thought we’d have a quick dinner and begin our leisurely search for gift ideas for Christmas. I’ve learned that it doesn’t really do any good to try and get this done earlier in the year, because he likes waiting. He enjoys thinking about it, talking about it, and then going to purchase after he’s found the perfect gift for each person on his list. I like that about him, because although the routine does lend itself to quench his selective need for systemic order, it’s also a little messy around the edges because he waits so long.

But this year, we are celebrating our 20th wedding anniversary. I know. It’s a doozie. We were married the day after Christmas, so have always sort of collapsed our acknowledgment of one another into a dinner out in January, or a quick weekend trip before tax season exerts its ugly coils around our free time.

But this is a mile stone. How many people today can not only say that they’ve been married that long, but actually like one another. Look forward to doing things together. Love one another. Act sappy about it.

So over dinner last night, the MoH begins with, “I didn’t want to talk about his last night, so I waited to bring it up until tonight since I knew we’d be out and about.” And I knew what he was going to bring up, because I always know. “I was going to buy you something very expensive for your anniversary,” he continued, and then proceeded to wonder whether I’d prefer something for the house instead, or perhaps a trip somewhere. I could tell he was struggling with the topic and was thinking aloud more than talking with me. The MoH doesn’t like to spend a lot of money. Ever. And although I don’t have that particular problem, I do have that practical voice in me that has been in full scream for the better part of a year now because I cast my former income to the wind to sow the seeds of possibility for our future life. Sounds good, doesn’t it? But still. It has been quite the generous gift to myself and I wallow in it daily, knowing how fortunate I am to have this time.

As I listened to him, I had to be careful. I had to make sure he couldn’t see that ridiculous, tiny piece of the stereotypical girl left inside me after all these years that, no matter how much she doesn’t want or like or have to admit it — wishes for a fairy tale.

I know.

And you thought I was Matilda the Hun.

I did too. And I am, most of the time. But I guess not this close to a 20th wedding anniversary.

And the funny thing is, it’s not the “expensive” aspect of the whole thing that I’m interested in. Truly. Unfortunately, lovely things can cost quite a bit of money. They don’t have to, though. Not if one thinks about it for a time, savoring the possibilities.

Right now, I’m not comfortable with the whole “costs a lot of money” part of this. The sprinklers in the flower bed don’t work. The lights on the patio don’t work. My car needs a tune up badly, the carpets need to be torn out and replaced with wood flooring so the MoH can breathe in this house. It needs a fresh coat of paint…there’s annual physicals to pay for, and the RT’s college tuition is just around the corner.

I don’t want to discuss what I want him to give me for our 20th wedding anniversary. “I know you wouldn’t turn down a nice ring if you got one,” he concludes after other possibilities have been pondered. No, I probably wouldn’t, but I’d been attempting to explain to him that the idea of a diamond to signify our time together didn’t quite fit anymore. I use my hands so much and don’t get out amongst the masses. And was the purpose of wearing such a gift to show others? No, that just seemed all wrong. It would be shiny, and throw fiery shards of light against my face, distracting me from mundane tasks, but dust motes wafting in a stuffy room already do that and cost far less.

If the MoH happened to surprise me by capturing one of those motes, enclosing it in a crystal box and then tell me he knew how much I love the idea of a moment suspended in time, I’d sigh knowing he’d thought about that perfect gift, just for me.

See? Fairy tales. Actually, it’s the idea of a fairy tale.

Better than a sharp stick in the eye, as my mother would say. Yes, most things are, Mom.

And it’s especially better than having to ride in a smelly pumpkin to have a guy you’ve never met try and fit a glass shoe on your foot.

I’d have to wear a party dress to do that, and you know how I feel about those.

Still, Breakfast at Tiffany’s would be quite romantic. And DVD’s are cheap.

December 2, 2007
The End of NaBloPoMo: The Heidi Chronicles

So I’m officially a NaBloPoMo failure. I figured I would be when I never realized in the beginning that Thanksgiving was actually in November…whatever. But I was rolling along, and then when Wednesday hit and I was up until after midnight (looking longingly at the clock watching that minute hand creeping ever closer to the magic hour which would cast me into the ranks of blogging quitters and thinking that I could run upstairs and just squeeze out a fake post to keep in the game….)

But NO.

I let my faithful followers down. My NaBloPoMo compatriots. *heavy sigh*

I was too tired. I was whipped. I was everything but perky in the waning hours of the day, sitting in my chair, enjoying the wafting scent of spiced candles and final bottle glass of wine before retiring for the night. Staring at a chic flick I’ve seen a million times so I wouldn’t dream of scanning lists of ingredients in recipes, and filling small white porcelain dishes for mise en place or whatever the heck that’s called. Watching the time evaporate, ending my quest for NaBloPoMo fame.

It just wouldn’t be a class act to slam out a crappy post at 11:57pm.

But the dinner tables (yes, that’s an “s” on the end of tables) were set, the flowers arranged and the candles organized just so. The old linen napkins were lightly starched and softly folded.

Nary a cat yack stain was visible. Well, maybe one because Freshness, Her Royal Butterballness Barf-o-rama on wheels in disguise did summarily regurgitate her afternoon snack upon my freshly cleaned carpet. Just. Once. To let me know she was still in control of my destiny.

Dumb ass cat. Lovely pet that she is.

But I digress.

We fell into bed for a night of tumultous passion exhausted sleep (we, because the MoH seriously pitches in during the holidays, lovely man unit that he is) with windows open (yes, in Paradise, we’ve still not shut our windows for the winter) and covers nicely fluffed.

Ready to begin again at seven-freaking-ay-em the next day.

But there was plenty of bubbly on hand throughout the day for mimosas and champagne cocktails, or just a plain glass o’ bubbly.

Thank. Goodness.

And thank Mr. and Mrs. Diestel who grow turkeys somewhere in the Sierra Nevadas for our lovely bird whom I immediately named Heidi when I saw her cozied up in that little box all tricked out with handles.

She performed well on the day most revered by this foodie — the super bowl of Food.

Oh. My.

If there was ever a question that a bird should be ordered by phone ahead of time, fresh-not-frozen, heavily discounted because your son works there WOOT!, artfully brined, and lovingly basted each half hour by the MoH, this was it.

Simply droolworthy.

And the guests were jolly, filled to the gills with the tasty fare.

The highlight of the evening was the iChat session with family in VA which broke into a bawdy session of, well, you’d have to know my family to understand. Suffice it to say that we all seem to have a fixation with the posterior portion of the human anatomy and it’s only a matter of time before a parade of buttocks fill the screen. I do think it must have something to do with not having a proper number of opportunities to share on Show ‘n’ Tell day in kindergarten. Thank goodness for the Internet and family members who are only a sign-in away. We aren’t for the faint of heart.

They sort of resemble that Chumbawumba album cover, don’t they?

But the sink backed up, we ran out of counterspace, and I believe there was not a dish in my kitchen left unused. The stacks of dishes and pots, bowls and platters, wine glasses and utensils riveled Dr. Seuss’ buildings in Whoville.

But I survived.

Barely.

Sorry I haven’t been by to visit…I have serious catching up to do, and tagging to unleash on unsuspecting neighbors in Bloggsville. Be warned.

Life is grand, isn’t it?

November 24, 2007
Dear Neighbor Lady…

Is this Day 5 of NaBloPoMo? Jeez. Are we having fun yet? It has served one purpose thus far. I’ve corrected my time/date stamp and so now it’s actually correct! Amazing. Too bad nothing else is. Well, except my letter writing, which continues today and is sponsored by: Milk Bone Dog Biscuits…

November 5, 2007

Dear Neighbor Lady,

I’m sorry I don’t know your name, although there’s no real reason I should. I’ve seen your house on my walking circuit for the past couple of years now, and outside of its very verdant landscaping, its situation at the end of the block, and what must be a spectacular view, it blends in with all the others. And I’ve only seen you outside once in all that time, carefully avoiding making eye contact as I passed, even though I was ready to say hello and smile, practicing good neighborlyhoodness.

Of course, that was until you attached the sign to the front of your garage door.

It only took a few seconds to glance around and notice that you had just finished adding upgrades to your driveway and the retaining wall surrounding the rear of your home. Although the stone, which appears to be a type of limestone is new and attractive, it isn’t something I’d choose (the flecks of ore that glisten in the afternoon sun are a bit gauche), it is an improvement over the concrete and stucco that it replaced, and I’m sure your neighbors appreciate the added value to their property and have already checked with their realtors to obtain comps and analyze possible gains that they may brag to one another about incessantly.

What exactly were you thinking when you wrote that sign? And what grievous error had someone committed? Surely it isn’t the eight million service and delivery people who crawl in and around our area throughout every day. Or the landscape maintenance trucks. I’ve noticed they only park alongside the curb, and never in a driveway. Was it the errant traveler, looking for a particular address who became lost and needed to use your driveway to turn around? And if so, did said lost soul make the mistake of turning the wheels of his car at a standstill, thereby making black rubber skid marks on the pristine stone intricacy of your driveway?

I’ve wondered as I’ve walked by, and imagined you out there, down on your knees, compulsively scrubbing at the marks. Wait. No. I’ve gotten that wrong. Standing over someone you hired to scrub away the offending black marks.

In any event, clearly, you antagonized someone out there in the world. Someone who just couldn’t let a sleeping dog lie. Someone who just had to pick up that bone you threw in your driveway. Someone who came in the night, in the dark, and most likely had their particular brand of fun marring the perfectly arranged stones in your driveway. How could you not know that there are people in this world who live for those opportunities? Who thrive on what you may as well have just invited them to do.

Perhaps a better sign might have been: “To the Jerks in the World. Please vandalize my new driveway. I paid so much money for it, and it’s so beautiful, I think you should break your neck to figure out a way to destroy it. Please hurry.” Yes, your neighbors might have thought you crazy, just as they most likely do because you put a sign on your garage. But still.

It must have been a mess, because I can see where the sealant has been eaten away by whatever caustic substance was used to remove whatever the vandals poured on it to damage the stone work. I imagine it’s paint, as it’s a favorite of the ~~stupid entitled as*h*les~~ adolescent pranksters who toss it out of their cars at night onto the freeway so oncoming cars can drive through it, not realizing they have, and then the next day when it’s too late, find a Jackson Pollack design all over the wheel area of their cars. That is, of course, less harmful that the ones who throw large rocks from their cars into the windshields of oncoming traffic. But still.

And then you put up the second sign. I’d have never known anything had happened if the first sign hadn’t been there, because the driveway actually looks fine. The stone looks as stone should; it’s coarse and not very shiny. You know, like the stones in the roads in Europe that have lasted hundreds of years with all kinds of traffic and weather, war, and general use.

What were you thinking? And how long will you leave the sign on your house, causing everyone to wonder what you’re really about?

Take it down, and give yourself a rest.

Sincerely,

A neighbor.

p.s. I certainly hope that you do not have a bumper sticker adhered to your car that cautions others to not tail gate.

November 5, 2007
Douse ’em all!
Ah, moisture in the atmosphere. Nothing like a thick blanket of fog to dampen things and cool a few tempers. A bucket of cold water would most likely work better for some.

So here’s my list of recipients of the “Bucket of Cold Water in the Face” award for a flagrant display of ego during and after a catastrophe.
- In a letter to the editor of the local paper, a woman from Imperial Beach (spitting distance to the Baja California border) for suggesting that “the power be shut down in the areas of high winds until they dissipate to the point that they pose little danger to the line.” Life is just so simple to some, isn’t it?
- Our city attorney for suggesting that the entire city be evacuated to Yuma. Excuse me? Could someone — anyone — please oppose him in the next election. Please? He’s completely bonkers.
- To the illustrious blow hard Rush Limbaugh for asking where all the “environmentalists wackos” are when the place is burning up and asking why they aren’t helping to fight the fires. What? Was he out of material that day? Oh, I forgot. He’s been out of material since Bill Clinton left office. Stupid me.
- People who know their homes weren’t destroyed, but who were vociferously complaining that they couldn’t return to their own while their neighbors whose homes are in ashes keep their chins up, smile, and sift through what’s left of their belongings. Ugly Americans, indeed. Douse ’em again for just being a**holes. Okay, one more for the road. Losers.
- Dub-yah’s motorcade and entourage for keeping people who had been told they could return to their homes sitting on the freeway for over four hours until he was done touring a burn area, and eating lunch at a fire command post. Sometimes, you just have to check your routines, right? Douse ’em good and then rub some mud on their faces.
- Talk radio crazies who began stirring the pot about blame before the fires are out challenging why aircraft weren’t up in winds that exceeded 70 mph in some places dropping water and fire retardant. Skip the water on this one. Drop some fire retardant on their heads instead. Or give ’em a few pills to put them out of our misery.
- A woman from Rancho Bernardo who felt that “the president picked a bad time to come.” Okay, so he could have waited a week, but Arnold was here for days, so Dub-yah had to be here, too, or he would have had egg on his face. Hmmm….No. Douse ‘er anyway for being self-centered.
- To the woman who applied for food stamps because the power was out and the food in her refrigerator spoiled. How much food is that? And how big is that fridge? And how long does it take meat in a freezer to thaw out if no one opens the door?
- To the media and their “helpful” public service advice with regard to the ash on our driveways and sidewalks: Don’t wash it off with the hose because it will end up in the water. (Um…has anyone noticed the large body of saltwater to the west? Do you actually think that it has remained remarkably free of ash to this point and that washing ash from our driveways will create a problem?) Oh, and absolutely don’t use leaf blowers. (Okay, so I agree with this simply because the make an annoying sound and do blow crap into the air — especially if someone hasn’t picked up after their dog.) Do use a broom. But sweep gently so the ash doesn’t go back into the air. By all means, do dispose of the ash in the garbage can. (Where it will go to the dump, get rained on sometime in the next century when it finally does rain, and then wash into the ocean.) Okay, so skip the water on this one. Just dump a truck-load of ash on her head. Or feed her to Rush Limbaugh for lunch.
And that concludes yet another day of ranting.
October 27, 2007
Nearly Wordless on Wednesday

The sunset was interesting last night.

The troops became even more restless.

And according to the RT, gas alerts were also something to be concerned with.

But not natural gas.

Teenagers.

Thirty-one words. Not bad for a nearly wordless Wednesday.

Okay, so now 41.

Um…

October 25, 2007
Grateful but aware

The house is quiet now.Â Â My brother and sister-in-law have taken their kids down the hill to get gas and take a break.Â The MoH and the RT have taken Big for a ride — her favorite thing.Â Someone made the mistake of saying “ride” and she heard it.Â Prancing and hip-hopping ensued.Â Bizarre dog.Â

If there’s anything more strange than sitting in my house (which is used to having only three people in it) with five more, and sitting in one room staring at a television with relentless coverage of fires that refuse to stop, I’m not sure what is.Â To break the hypnotic focus on the television, small diversions have occurred — most of which have been due to the antics of my four-year-old nephew.Â Who knew an ace bandage could be so entertaining, and that Big wouldn’t like being wrapped in one.Â Thank goodness for the RT’s old books and three trunks full of Legos.

We switch from channel to channel looking for something new and on each one, a continuous tape runs across the bottom of the screen with information about specific streets and series of addresses of homes that have been burned.Â There are so many.Â Currently, 346,000 homes have been ordered evacuated from Fallbrook in the north, to East Lake in the extreme south east.Â

The reporters have begun to respond to emails the stations are receiving about whether homes have been lost, and they’re taking the time to announce what information they have.Â At least then, people can call their insurance companies to get their recovery process going.Â I can’t imagine…Â

The most surreal scene I’ve seen is a massive condominium complex on fire.Â Some units on the edges wereÂ in flames, and on the opposite side of the development, SDG&E had a crew frantically digging down to shut off the main gas line into the complex.Â I’m not sure how it all ended because things change and the coverage shifts.

When you look at the line of fire in the south east that has traveled at an amazing rate up over San Miguel mountain, I suppose someone not involved would look at it and think, “How could that fire do any harm to anyone?”Â It looks so harmless, and it’s only burning brush.Â But what makes San Diego so unusual is the number of canyons that characterize the topography. Â Very little of it is flat — even near the beach.Â Fires are often set by arsonists during Santa Anas.Â Four years ago, the massive fire was set accidentally by a man who was out hunting and became lost, so set off a flare.Â This time, downed power lines caused by the high winds are to blame.

Regardless, a fire is a fire, and I think we are all lulled into a sense of security because we’re in our homes, but the recent years have shown that the fires are erratic, and that the firemen cannot possibly prevent them from destroying structures.Â As it is, most of the severe injuries currently are to fire fighters.

Yesterday when we knew this wouldn’t be over anytime soon (the current prediction for 100% containment of one of the fires is November 4…) my sister-in-law and I got in the car to go to the grocery store.Â What a zoo.Â No parking.Â People swirling around in the lot.Â Grouchy people honking horns at those waiting for a spot.Â Goodness.Â I do think it’s a good time to think about others and take a deep breath that in this area because we’re not at risk.Â But not too deep a breath.

The ash from these fires isÂ finer than sand and rusty brown in color.Â I can imagine that it isn’t too great to breathe it.Â It’s everywhere, dulling everything with a kind of sepia effect. The last time, fat ashes fell from the sky, floating softly to the ground to collect against our house.Â

The winds have died enough to allow helicopters to collect water from the reservoirs and begin dousing flames, but only in some areas.Â It’s so dry, but the humidity has climbed into double digits today.Â Thankfully.Â But the air quality is supposed to worsen as the week proceeds until the Santa Ana breaks up.Â My nose feels like it has rocks stuffed in it.Â

But my family is safe.Â Wheezing, and parched, but safe.

If you’re interested, this is a local site that has a live video feed.

October 24, 2007