Not exactly your atmospheric river or bomb cyclone, is it?
Water managers along the Colorado will not be tossing their Stetsons skyward and shouting “Huzzah!” over this casual squeeze from God’s bar towel.
Shuckens, it weren’t even cold. Anticipating a brisk north wind that never eventuated Herself and I were massively overdressed for yesterday’s run.
But we did meet a delightful Newfoundland puppy, about 8 months old and already the size of a black bear. So we got that going for us, which is nice.
Speaking of dogs and Canada, “Letterkenny” is back for its 11th season on Hulu and Apple TV. And if yous haven’t ever watched it, yous owe it to yourself. It’s preposterous, mildly perverse, and occasionally hysterical, and if yous need subtitles, well, clearly yous have never lived in Ontario like Your Humble Narrator, eh.
And if yous wonder where the headline came from, well …
Tlaloc is having a wee this morning, and glad we are to see it. It’s been so dry even the cacti have the asthma.
If we’re really lucky this light rain will become snow and maybe stick around a while, soak in a bit. I can see a dusting up there along the ridgeline.
But the odds of any serious accumulation seem poor, on a par with Southwest Airlines returning your luggage (or you, for that matter) before the Fourth of July.
Still, it seems I was wise to get the ol’ bikey ridey in yesterday. Any outdoor exercise today is likely to involve running shoes and rain gear.
It feels weird to be sitting here, mostly high and dry, as an atmospheric river water-cannons the West Coast and the East Coast tunnels out from under a bomb cyclone.
One of the upsides of living in the high desert, I suppose. The downside being that in a couple years we’ll need “Dune”-style stillsuits for the long, hot hike to the farmers’ market.
“Thank you for calling Satan. Your call is important to the Dark Lord. Please continue to hold.”
The photo above is probably not of Hell rising, but rather a reflection of the heat boiling up from the unwashed brows of the uncounted hordes of angry travelers camped out in airports nationwide, watching through reddening eyes as flights are canceled faster than mouthy white guys, enduring the endless repetition of tinny holiday tunes while on perma-hold with customer service, and wondering if their gastrointestinal systems can survive another Happy Meal that is anything but.
Whoosh! Solstice in the rear view, New Year’s dead ahead.
So far it’s been a quiet holiday season around the rancheroo. Kinfolk were chatted up and a medium-light feast prepared (green chile stew with flour tortillas and an avocado-and-tomato appetizer, plus pecan pie for dessert).
No white Christmas here. The bomb cyclone gave us a miss and we were able to get out for a daily run without Jack Frost nipping at our noses or any other critical bits.
Today we’re looking at a high of … no, I won’t say it. It would be cruel to any of yis who have to crawl out of a second-story window to take a leak in the snow because the terlets are all frozen solid.
In other tidings of comfort and joy, we failed to move the economic needle very much in a gift-giving sense.
Herself acquired a new vacuum cleaner to replace a battered unit that would be old enough to run for president if it were human (and is still smarter than many of the humans currently surveying the campaign trail).
Me, I ordered up a pair of Merrell Hut Mocs because wearing socks with Tevas, even in winter, is apparently a fashion no-no. I also scored some Darn Tough micro crew cushion socks because my DT light hikers are starting to feel a tad beat down after a couple years of stumbling around on the local trails like some homeless old soak who hit the exercise-wear jackpot at a Sally Ann clothing giveaway.
I doubt we’ll be crushing the after-Christmas sales, either. Herself and a co-worker have some pagan ceremony planned (a dark rite involving fire and French 75s). And while Capitalism is carpet-bombing my in-box with any number of fabulous deals, I get a jolt from my shock collar every time I — Yowtch! — reach for the credit card.
I don’t really need anything anyway. Except maybe some insulated bolt-cutters for this goddamned — Ow! — shock collar.
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