There is something about the first of every month, don’t you think?  Or am I alone in that I get a touch giddy when I get to flip the calendar page?  Especially when I’m flipping aforementioned calendar to the month of September.

September has long been a favorite of mine.  Though no month could ever oust my October.  September, though, still garners my favor.

Especially this September.

Why?

September ushers in our vacation season.  And this year’s vacation season is a doozie; we’ve got Disney trips coming up that practically piggyback one another!  {More on those soon}.

As if that weren’t enough…we have a sweet sixteen to celebrate in the very near future.  {More on that soon, too}.

September is also anniversary month for my lovie and I.

AND it’s the month when I can start opening the windows again after a too-long, too-hot desert summer.  Don’t get me wrong, we’re not exactly pulling out the winter coats just yet.  But there’s definitely a change in the air–the tease of crisp mornings and brisk nights to come.  I can’t help but look at the hot tub through eager eyes.

Pumpkin bread and chili and baked ziti and iced chai cookies: these will have to wait.  One more flip of the calendar page, though, and these, too, will be mine.  All mine.

I wouldn’t dream of rushing September though.

Come on in.  Stay awhile.

If we’re not Facebook friends then you may not know that our power was out last night.  For twelve. hours.

Have I mentioned that we live in the desert?  And, um, AC?  Powered by electricity.  Of which we had none.  For twelve. hours.

Things shut down right around 3 pm yesterday afternoon.  It started with the midnight blue sky that I’ve come to love.  And then there was the rumble of distant thunder–the flash of lightning bolts in the distance.  The trees whipped to life in response to wild, monsoon winds.

Jayce and I sat by the window awaiting Cassidy’s bus.

“It’s windy out there, mommy.”

“Yes, it is.  A storm is blowing in.”

“Yes,” he answered, having liked the sound of the words, “a storm is blowing in.”

As if on cue, the lights flickered.  And then again once more.

Cassidy made it home just as the first fistful of plops fell from the sky.  She made a run for the front door, hollering her daily “thank you!” to Mr. Lou, the bus driver, as she ran.

With her safely inside, the sky let loose an angry summer rain–gigantic pellets beating down.

What it was that claimed the pole I can’t say.  But claimed it was–one massive power pole reduced to splinters.

Clearly, I couldn’t make dinner.  So Mexican it was.  As it always is.  {Because I could eat Mexican 7 nights a week if need be}.

We came home to find our neighbors cloaked by the black of night.  Luckily we’d thought ahead and left a candle in the garage.  We had to scavenge the house for them.  Summer time–it seems–isn’t candle burning season ’round these parts.  Eventually though, we found enough nubs from last year’s fall stash to maneuver through our bedtime routine.

And so–with the house infused with the scent of pumpkin and maple–we made our way to bed {minus the covers}.  It was so hot that I peeled off even my shirt, and slept in nothing but my skivvies.  {I’m not really a skivvy sleeping kind of girl}.

I heard the AC groan to life at 3 am.  Hallelujah.

There were casualties: some chicken breasts, the milk, and possibly the yoghurt (too soon to tell).

But it was an adventure nonetheless.  One that gave Jayce the opportunity to come to the rescue with his Buzz flashlight–the only working flashlight in the house, believe it or not.

I’ll be shopping for both candles and batteries this weekend.   ;)

July in Tucson.

It’s when the skies turn the color of tornadoes.  If tornadoes had a color.

The air is ripe but the rain is stubborn–not easily convinced.

The occasional zaps in the distance quite literally send electricity–excitement–coursing through the air.

Even the lizards seem to beg for a storm, puffing their proud chests upward.  Waiting.

All of us.  Just waiting.

Dear Monsoon.  Ready when you are.  No pressure.

Two Christmases ago we bought Jayce the Fridge Phonics from Leapfrog.  We did so with good intentions, hoping that he’d learn to spell his name and various other CVC (consonant vowel consonant) words.

He loved the toy.  For about fifteen minutes.

It wasn’t long, though, until all of the magnets were relegated to a corner of the fridge, where they remained mostly untouched.

Until.

Until one day I stumbled to the kitchen first thing in the morning and went to the fridge in search of components for school lunches.  When what to my sleepy eyes did appear?

Aww.  He’s so sweet to me.  And no.  He doesn’t have any brothers.

The magnet love note remained for quite some time.

Until.

Until some snot-nosed-brat came along and basically pooed on my pocket full of sunshine.

Well howdie doodie to you too.  Punk.

And with that it was as if the flood waters let loose.  Everybody (or at least those who can spell) gets in on the action now.  Rarely, if ever, is there not a message spelled out across our refrigerator for all to see.

Some are practical:

Some are political:

Some have ulterior motives:

While others are motivational (in this case, motivating me to step away from the leftover cheesecake):

There is that on which my teen/tween daughters and I cannot agree:

And thus my added commentary:

Of course, there is also that on which we find common ground:

And perfectly explains the itch we get around this time every year:

*sometimes we have to take creative liberty with our spelling*

I’ve also been know to leave reminders for my dear daughter, who dabbles when she should be doing dishes:

But the most profound messages?  Those which put into simple terms that which weighs heavily on our minds:

If only God would post a reply via the fridge magnets.  Life would be much easier right about now…

I’m a California girl.  Born and raised in what’s now a cozy wine country town.  Where vineyards line the hillsides and world-class wineries dot the map.

Back in the day the wineries weren’t nearly as prevalent as the horses and cattle.  I was born in the wrong decade, apparently.

Marrying into the military proved to be a one-way ticket out though.  And–at the time–I looked at a cross-country move with wide-eyed wonder, imagining all the seeing and the doing.

All that only to find out that it’s true what they say: there really is no place like home.

Yet here I am.  At home all over again.  A new home.  One that doesn’t come close to rivaling the real thing.  But home it is, nevertheless.

There are thoughts tumbling in our heads.  Opportunities swirling.  Lots of maybes.

And so I’m looking at this home through different eyes.  Slightly more romantic eyes.  Nostalgic ones.

Driving does it to me every time.  This desert terrain makes my heart yearn, in spite of the fact that we haven’t gone anywhere just yet.

I’d miss the topography: the charcoal mountain outline backed by a bleeding sunset.

I’d miss the cuisine.  The fresh, far-from-greasy Sonoran tacos and enchiladas and fajitas.

I’d miss the monsoon.  Especially sitting on the porch mid-July and watching as the midnight clouds in the distance give way to sheets of summer rain.

I’d miss the night sky.  How it stretches on and on, interrupted only by the city, blanketed with lights.

I’d miss prickly pear margaritas.  {Some of the} curious creatures that find their way into our backyard.  And the friends we’ve made.

I’d miss the home we built, with all of its just-the-way-I-like-it charm.

I’d miss the Catalina mountains.  The midnight howls of coyote.  Pink, yellow, and magenta blooms of the cacti in spring.

I’d miss the Ocotillo.  Desert jackrabbits that scurry about each morning.  The promise of an early fall.

All of this I’d miss because even though it’s not really home?  It sort of is.

How about you?  What would you miss?

Today there was rain.  In the desert.

And there were peanut buttered jelly sandwiches.  And boiled eggs.  And itty bitty cartons of orange juice with itty bitty orange straws.

There were homemade Valentines.  Toes warmed by the fire.  Hiccups.

A blue balloon.  Jumping jacks.  Homemade bread cooling on a wire rack.

Cinnamon tea.  Clean sheets.  And–oh yeah–a speeding ticket.

All the while, the pitter patter.  The gentle song of it–the soundtrack of one February day.

Like a pulse it hums along: a soft and welcome patter.

I listen as it falls.  I watch the drip.  I breathe in its crisp folds.

I snuggle him.  Brush her teeth.  Give welcome home hugs and goodnight kisses.

Tomorrow the sun will peek through.  The desert will dry out.

But today there was rain.  In the desert.

And in our own way, we danced right along.

We had an unexpected guest arrive tonight.

Don’t you just hate it when company drops in without calling?

Especially when they’re difficult to accomodate.

You know the kind.

They use all the hot water when they shower.

They make long distance calls.

They eat the last doughnut.

Sigh.

Our house guest was even worse.

He wanted a foot massage.

Or, feet massage, as the case may be.

As if I have that much time on my hands.

Jeff showed him the door though.

Via the shovel.  Cut him split in two.

And he still had the nerve to crawl away.

Headed two different directions.  Presumably trying to throw us off the trail.

Smart.

But not smart enough.

We’re seasoned desert dwellers.

Don’t take my word for it.  Ask the scorpion.  Maybe you’ll run into him in creepy invertebrate heaven.

We’ve lived in this house for four years come October.

In that time, we’ve had snakes.  A tarantula.  Countless big, hairy spiders.  A gecko.  A gazillion and one lizards.  Horny toads.  I could go on.  But you get the point.

After having lived here for one year I came across a scorpion.  A bark scorpion.  Which, wouldn’t you know, is the deadliest kind.  Jeff promptly disposed of it without incident.  We went about our business, paying extra attention to shaking out our shoes.  Our vigilance lasted a couple of weeks.

And then we went two full years.  Without a single scorpion sighting.

Last weekend we had some friends over for dinner.  After the meal, we locked occupied the kids in the playroom with a movie while the adults played a board game and imbibed.

At one point our friends’ son came crying from the playroom, saying his toe hurt.

His toe showed no signs of injury.  No marks.  No swelling.  Nothing.  But he was clearly in pain.  He described it like a thousand needles pricking his skin.

Ouch.

I assumed that maybe we had a staple coming up from the carpet and that he’d caught the wrong end of it.

I went on assuming that until last night.  When we solved the mystery once and for all.

We sat down after dinner to watch the Chronicles of Narnia with the kids.  We pulled out all the pillows, cushions, and blankets, just as the kids had done the weekend before.

After the movie, Jeff was cleaning up popcorn kernels and blankets when he, too, got a toe injury.

Only he wasn’t so quick to pass it off as a random carpet staple.  Mostly because his injury didn’t occur on the carpet.

At first he thought he’d stepped on a leftover popcorn kernel.  But when his toe went prickly numb he had second thoughts.

A scorpion.

A bark scorpion no less.

A bark scorpion that stung him not once, but twice.  The first time when he initially, accidentally stepped on it.  And the second when he went back for the kill.

That second sting may have slowed him down, but the kill eventually came.

Squished that sonofagun and flushed him.  Taught him a thing or two about showing his nasty exo-skeletal self around here.

I guess we’re true Arizonans now.

We’ll be shaking out our shoes for awhile.

81:  the digital number displayed on my thermostat even as I type this at 9:41 pm.

102: the forecasted high for tomorrow.

2: the number of air conditioning units our home is equipped with.

0: the number of air conditioning units currently functioning.

You know what all those numbers add up to?

One.

Yes.  One.

One very overheated desert-dwelling Mama who may just have to kick some serious butt if those AC guys try to pull any crap.

For real.

You might remember me mentioning that Jeff was gone all last week on a business trip.

Normally he gets the better end of those deals because while he’s dining out on the company dollah and coming “home” at night to a whine free zone I’m stuck wiping poopy tushes, cleaning spilled milk and refereeing countless screaming matches.

Not quite a fair trade right?

But this trip was a little different seeing as how he was held up in rainy Baltimore working a gazillion OT hours.  Yeah, I was still on tushie duty but at least I had the weather on my side.

Not to mention National Mom’s Night Out to look forward to.

He made it home on Thursday and I turned promptly around and headed out the door to hang with my two favorite Tucson bloggers, Nicole and Stephanie.

Nicole {Apron Strings Aflutter} was a perfect hostess and served up the most fabulous munchies.  Her coconut cupcakes were SCRUMP-tious and can I just say that she was a little Martha-esque in that instead of putting out sugar packets for her iced tea she whipped up a fancy simple syrup and served it in the cutest mini pitcher EV-er.  If you’ve not stopped by Nicole’s blog you simply must.  I totally dig her.  She’s technically gifted for one thing so if you’re looking for a new design for your blog she’s the girl to call.  She’s honest and kind and responsive.  And what’s more is that she’s got a super cute (testosterone filled) family and a little Chihuahua named Nacho who wants me to adopt him.  But shhhh! I promised Nacho I wouldn’t tell.  He’s afraid Nicole will turn him into taco topping if she hears about it.

Miss Metropolitan Mama herself was there too.  Stephanie is one smart chickadee let. me. tell. you.  I’m not big on degrees and stuff so I can’t speak very intelligently about that sort of thing but Miss Metro is, like, brilliant or something.  And she is a great resource for learning all about the buisnessy side of blogging.  Seriously.  But all that stuff aside she is one of the nicest people you’ll ever meet.  For real.  I’ve never heard her say an ill word about anyone and I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if her nose literally grew if she ever were to tell a lie.  She’s got two beautiful little girls to whom she is completely in tune with.  It’s the cutest thing ever.  Totally reminds me of how I was as a mother before I started letting the kids play in the freeway and stuff.  Oh c’mon.  You know I kid.  But really, Stephanie is a very inspiring blogger.  You should check her out if you haven’t already.  At the very least cruise over and look at her picture.  I discovered last night that she has the most flawless skin I’ve ever seen.  Honest.

Yeah, so that about sums up my night out.

It was well-deserved and much appreciated.

Maria Bailey (MomSelect) deserves a huge pat on the back for thinking up such a brilliant excuse reason to celebrate.  Heck.  Forget the pat on the back.  Someone buy that woman a martini.