I would like to begin this post with a statement: it's July.
Let me rephrase that: it's July...isn't it?
Before you answer, consider my ensemble for the past two days:
Yesterday:
-Long-sleeve shirt
-Sweater
-Sweatshirt
-Two pairs of socks
-Jeans
This morning:
-Wool socks
-Wool slippers
-Sweatpants
-Long-sleeve shirt
-T-shirt on top
-Sweatshirt
-Cat on lap
-Heater on highest setting (which is not all that high)
Now I ask you again: it's July, right? I could see my breath yesterday morning. No way in H-E-double hockey sticks is that acceptable for July.
The cold is making the days pass so much more slowly than they should be passing. I have to plan my meals (breakfast in particular) around how much warmth my palms can glean from the plate or bowl I'm holding. I chose poorly with cereal this morning, and had to boil some water for tea, even though I did not want tea, just to reintroduce the novel concept of bloodflow to my fingertips.
Oh good. The rain just started. Wonderful. Because, since it hasn't rained since yesterday, I was getting worried that the crops would start to perish the 5 EFFING MINUTES of sun we've had in the past 24 hours.
My boss just lent me the first four seasons of her favorite television show: an Australian series called McLeod's Daughters. It takes place in South Australia on a cattle ranch called Drover's Run. Now, I'm faithful to my Aussie soaps--Packed to the Rafters, Home & Away, Neighbours--but the deceased McLeod and his feuding half-sister daughters are a whole different breed of entertainment. The very first episode featured such intense plot points as death, inheritance, greed, lies, scandal, stealing drums of petrol from an unsuspecting lady rancher, accidentally letting the cattle out of their pen, a car accident resulting in two dead cows (well, one was dead; the other had a broken back and Claire had to shoot it in the head to put it out of its misery) and the explosion of a ute (SUV) carrying petrol. And then, in a final scene that was undoubtedly stolen from the end of The Princess Bride, the McLeod daughters and their three female cohorts go galloping into the wide green abyss of pastureland to round up the cattle to a country love song that was likely written and performed by a prepubescent city boy. No, it wasn't that bad. I have actually come to love it (the song AND the show). The dialogue was amusing and witty, and of course I appreciated the inclusion of words such as "ute," "avo," and "ta." When the episode ended and I turned off my light and slid under my covers, I couldn't help but fall asleep brainstorming ways to get back to my beloved Oz.
Also, I would like to share with you my morning triumph. Every few Fridays the garbage man comes to collect trash from the dumpster right outside the yurt (about seven feet from my head). He's a loud garbage man. It certainly doesn't help that most of the trash is stiff clay scraps, and the sound they make when they hit the cold metal truck bed is akin to dropping the truck itself down an empty well...on top of your ear. Every Thursday night I have to mentally prepare myself for the next morning's rude awakening, and even with this preparation, Mr. Vociferous Garbage Man (let's call him Vocy) is always a surprise. Time after time I am jolted from sweet slumber by the cacophonous noise that could, to my groggy mind, only mean one thing: 2012 has come early. Now you may be thinking, "Oh, the inhumanity! Where is the triumph in this story?" The triumph is here: this morning I was awake--get this--before the truck arrived. That's right. I outsmarted the Orcas Island trash collecting system. I heard Vocy snorting up the driveway in his beast of a truck as I sat happily at my computer watching Lie to Me (my new favorite show) and cheerfully munching on cereal with fresh peach slices. As he approached the yurt, I couldn't help but think, with a sly grin, "You're too late, Vociferous! You can ruin some other poor sap's slumber this morning, but I'm through with your shenanigans! I am moving on."
Olivia for the win.
Also, Mama: still no Orca sightings. I have, however, made several positive kelp identifications.
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