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.

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…

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

But there were some things that took some gettin’ used to.

Take, for instance, the rear auto window dedication.  You know what I’m talking about?  Apparently Arizonans are big fans of this practice, though I can’t make any sense of it myself.  I’ll be driving down the road and there, on the car in front of me, I see:

In Loving Memory of Mama.
6-12-54 to 9-1-2005
She’s Been Given Her Wings

What?!

Seriously?  Who does that?  What’s wrong with a headstone?  Or do you really think that honor and respect is brought to Mama via the dusty back window of your 2002 Buick?

Moving right along though.

I also am amazed at the vendors who set up shop right there on the roadside.  I’ve seen everything from rugs, to metal yard art, to locally harvested honey to slot machines.  Yes.  Slot machines.  Because if that’s not a spur of the moment purchase I don’t know what is.

Not all of the strange sights are bad necessarily.

Just this weekend we were stopped at a red light and noticed some nice folks in neon vests camped out in the median.  They had positioned themselves at a few of the major intersections in town and were offering cold bottled water to motorists.

How cool is that?  I was telling Torri that visitors to this fine city of ours would be so impressed with our hospitality.  Don’t ya think?

Unfortunately though we also seem to have our fair share of homeless people.  They, too, camp out at major intersections and don the neon vests.  Instead of giving out bottled water, they sell newspapers.  Where they get the newspapers from is beyond me but at least they’re trying right?

Last week I saw one homeless lady trying extra hard.

She wasn’t selling newspapers; she had a different approach.

An approach that involved a pillow shoved up her dress in a misguided effort to appear pregnant.  She even delivered her best rendition of a pregnant waddle.  If the corners of that pillow hadn’t been so obvious she may have convinced a passerby (traveling at a very high speed and in need of vision correction) or two.

Lots to see here in the desert southwest.

I’d be happy to play tour guide should you ever venture my way.  :)

First rattlesnake spotting of the season.  And yes.  It is suspiciously missing a head.  Don’t ask.