The high today at our house was 74 degrees with a cool breeze that, from the smell of it, came straight from the Pacific. It was like this all of last week, maybe a degree or two warmer, and will be the same for the next week. I know people on the east coast may envy us as they shovel snow for the thousandth time this year, so I’ll make an offer: I’ll trade you.
I will trade you a week of southern California weather for a foot of snow. I will trade you a sand castle for a snowman; snow boots for flip-flops; a wool hat for a straw one. Just send me some precipitation, via Fedex.
A few weeks ago, we did get some rain. I stood in front of the window, star struck as if Brad Pitt was in our yard, beckoning me. It was a welcome distraction, but now that it’s gone and there’s no chance of rain in the coming weeks, I’m only missing it more.
The lack of rain has left me feeling uninspired. I crave weather. If I had to choose between a rainy day or a sunny day, it’s a no brainer. I’m the one who moved from Phoenix to Seattle. Twice.
So please, send me some precipitation before I become as dry and brittle as the hills that surround the valley we live in. I will be forever grateful.
So this is what starting a blog feels like: I step out onstage, wearing my black yoga pants covered in dog hair and my grey thermal shirt with stains of last night’s dinner down the front. My shoes – my sole-worn Crocs – provide no traction against the polished wood floor as I cross to center stage. The spot light blinds me and I look out onto a blacked cavern, unable to make out any of the faces in the audience.
I look down at my notes and panic. Suddenly everything I want to talk about feels petty. Off stage, to my left, I can see the red glowing letters above a door: EXIT. How tempting.
But there is no turning back, because doing so would only make me look like a fool, a stooge, a flake, a laughingstock, a schlep, a chowder head. It’s just a blog, I tell myself, it’s not like I’m running for Congress or curing cancer. I take a deep breath and say my little welcome speech:
Welcome to my blog.
There, I did it. I probably could have said it better; I could have said more, I could have said less. But at least I said it.
The lights come on; my time is up. I look up and see the rows and rows of seats that go on and on, past the horizon. No one is there. What a relief. As long as no one shows up, this is going to be easy.