Fiiiiiiiire!

On September 9th, we had an amazing thunderstorm.  Thunderstorms are my total favorite.  They don't scare me in the slightest and I simply find them fascinating.  Farrah and I watched from the porch and it was incredible.  Strike after beautiful strike followed by a bellowing boom.  Sometimes when I watch the storms we get out here, I'm quite vocal about my amazement with them and of course, my neighbors come out to see what all the commotion is about.  Unfortunately, sometimes I let out a "Holy SHIT!!" when it is a wicked forked bolt.  This time of year, we can get them several days in a row.  Well, Saturday was the night that went throughout all of Wenatchee, East Wenatchee, and behind us toward Cashmere.  It lasted for hours and hours.  Sunday, Farrah and I did some chores, took advantage of it being Sunday and didn't even bother to look around at what was the beginning of a nightmare.

Monday morning, I read the weather report and that is how I help determine what Farrah and I will be wearing for the day.  It's super cool in the mornings and then hot in the afternoons.  We also judge what could be awaiting us by checking out the sky before we leave to see what types of clouds are in the sky.  Puffy innocent clouds?  Sheet clouds that could create wind?  Dark balls of clouds which could be more lightening?  So on and so forth.  Farrah said, "Mommy, those look like storm clouds. They're pretty dark."  I wasn't looking in her direction and said, "What are you talking about?  There's only cute puffy clouds out here." "No." Then she pointed me towards what she was seeing.  An all too familiar site that I'd seen out here before.  Brown clouds.

Brown clouds mean smoke...and a lot of it.  Hmm, well I figured we'd see where it was coming from. We drove and the closer we got to Farrah's school the more smoke we saw and we started to see fire.  This was freaking us both out.  However, to put Farrah at ease I pointed out that the fire wasn't heading down the hill toward her school, but rather over the other side.  The day went on and the wind picked up...toward Farrah's school.  By the time I picked her up, I saw that the fire had crept down the hill more and close to a house.  Mind you, when I say "hill", it's more like a small mountain really up close.  Apparently, when I picked her up, Farrah had been very upset and scared about the fires.  However, her fear wasn't that the fires were getting closer and bigger, but whether or not I was okay.  She's awesome.  She worried about me while I worried about her.

Well, it has been weeks since the fires in Central Washington broke out and it hasn't improved.  In fact, it has gotten worse.  The worst part about the fires is the smoke.  Wenatchee has 300 days of no rain...in Washington State.  It is why many people have packed up and headed over here.  It's not as depressingly grey as it is towards the coast.  Now, however, the skies have been covered in a thick fog of smoke everywhere we go.  I got a little emotional one day watching kids walk home from school covering their faces with their shirts because it was so hard to breathe.  I hated seeing that.  Everywhere I went I saw what I thought were little white bugs flying around when in fact, it was ash.  We've been breathing in what we can see...so who knows what we've been breathing in that we can't?  Air quality having a range between 0 (perfect) to 500 (hazardous)---we're at 500+.  I've heard that they can't even give an accurate number of how bad it truly is because it's really beyond the 500 mark.  And it took almost a WEEK for anyone to give us any type of information as to what that even meant.  Supposedly, it is worse than breathing in Mount St. Helens ash when it blew, one week is worse than breathing in L.A.'s smog for a year, and it's as bad if not worse than being a lifetime smoker.  Smokers take a drag of their cigarette and then breathe in oxygen.  We are all simply breathing in toxins with every breath we take.

Farrah's school finally got cancelled on Friday and Monday.  We were pretty much hunkering down in the house because if we even opened the door once, it was like getting punched in the face with campfire smoke.  We had to sleep in the living room with the humidifier going and fans blowing the air in the house we already had all around.  Even if it got hot outside, it was best to turn off the AC.  Eventually, I couldn't take it and had to turn it on and hope I set it right for recirculating air.  Ugh.  I hadn't even noticed how lethargic I was.  I had't noticed the mucous-yness in my throat.  I hadn't noticed that I constantly felt like I was breathing through two cotton balls.  And I hadn't noticed that my voice started to sound like a 70 year old smoker's.  But I did notice the massive migraine I got that knocked me on my ass for almost 2 days.  Finally, I decided we needed to get out of town.  I'd called Farrah's teacher and she was shocked that we hadn't left for a little reprieve since they'd started.  Well, no.  There were several times that I did go out and see how bad the smoke was and found that I didn't smell it anymore.  I still couldn't see much further than 100 feet past my back yard when I can normally see the valley and all of Wenatchee, but the air smelled better.  I would take in deep breaths, oblivious to the fact that: just because I couldn't smell it, didn't mean it wasn't there.  I couldn't smell it because I was used to it.

Farrah and I packed as fast as we could because it was getting late and driving over the pass at night is dangerous but I wasn't about to spend another night there.  That's when it's the worst.  We bailed and as soon as we crossed the pass through a haze of what looked like fog, but was smoke, I rolled down the windows and it smelled sweet.  It smelt like pine!  It was the craziest smell!  It was fresh and healthy air.  So, we've been on the West side to clear up our lungs...for now.  At some point, we need to go back.  That's my home and my stuff and Farrah's school.  But now I'm hearing from Mike that it's back to very hazardous levels and the particles that they're measuring out there are so fine that it will be impossible to cough them out.  They'll be stuck in our lungs.  What would the long term effects be?And, we're not even sure if they measure carbon monoxide.  What a freakin' nightmare.

However, to put a kinda funny spin on it... the night of the thunderstorm, Farrah and I pretended like we were shooting our arms out and causing the lightening strikes.  We do silly stuff like that...because I have a 5 year old.  There were so many bolts it was easy to pretend that one of us made one of the bolts strike.  Well, 2 days ago Farrah quietly told me she was concerned that it was one of her bolts of lightening that started the fires.  I told her it was possible.  And her response was, "My bad."

What?!!

A Lil' Dilemma

So, I got a tattoo over a year ago on my wrist that says, "Who Cares" because it is a motto I have lived by for a very long time.  It began sometime around 2001, when I wasn't going to be able to make my car payment on time (mind you...it was going to be like a day or two late).  I called Mike from work in tears telling him about my problem.  I NEVER went to Mike for money.  Ever.  And I didn't then either.  He and I were very independent with our money and I clearly didn't make what he made at the time.  We didn't even share a checking account until we'd been married for a couple of years and that's after we'd been together for 7!

But, I digress.

I was working in escrow at the time and in my little office crying about paying a bill on time and he had to pull himself away to comfort me with these words, "Who cares?"  I was shocked.  Who cares?  I did.  But then he added, "If you don't pay it today, are they coming to take the car?  No.  Are they going to break your legs?  No.  Are you going to die?  No.  Is it the end of the world?  No.  So...who cares?"

I've held onto that moment and those words for a very long time.  I've used them when I've felt like my world was falling apart and others had the joy of shitting on it in the process.  I've used those words when I've thought all was lost, and I found myself.  I've used those words even against the man who shared them with me in the first place in order for me to find peace in a moment.  But they are words that forever mean something to me and they are words that Mike has shared time and time again in moments when I've needed to hear them the most throughout our 15 years together and 10 years of marriage.  I have, since, changed the phrase to "Don't give a shit" on my mirror included in a long list of positive affirmations.  Not as pretty, but very effective.

But, I digress...again.

Here's my problem.  My tattoo...kinda looks like shit.  The ink didn't take in the word "who", so it looks faded and well...like shit.  I'd like to get it fixed, but the irony is what I'm fixing.  If I were to share this with a tattoo artist to fix, the hilarity that would follow would be a tad uncomfortable.  But "who cares," right?  My tattoo looks like it is in need of a touch up, but "who cares."  I'm not happy with how it turned out, but "who cares?"

Shit.

I guess I do.  The irony is thick with this problem and I'm conflicted because I truly have lived a pretty hard freaking life by these words and how can I even think about fixing it?  But "who cares" that I want my "who cares" tattoo fixed?  Ugh.  See?  Not sure what to do.

Salad Debacle Part Deux

Had to write about this one because it was (at least for me) too funny not to.  Recently, at my favorite little place I go every weekday, I've ordered a mixed green salad rather than the Caesar salad that failed miserably.  Every time I order the mixed green, I'm asked, "Would you like them to mix it with the dressing?"
"Yes, please."
But what I receive is a side of Balsamic Vinaigrette.  Why?  I've ordered it three times, been asked the same question three times, and three times...they refuse to toss my salad.

Why won't they toss the salad?  They have all the tools in the kitchen to toss the salad and yet, they just won't do it.

So, we all know what that means.  I have to end up tossing my own salad.  This is a very difficult and awkward task as I do not have the right equipment to do it.

Also, I'm usually surrounded by some of my things so I have to bend to the side to toss my salad.

Okay...do you get what I'm doing here?  My mind went right to the gutter this afternoon when I had a conversation with Mike about why the cafe wouldn't toss my salad and BAM! Blog-story.

Dumb...but I told myself I'd write about it.  Mission accomplished.

Potter Curiosity

Seen the movies a zillion times, and yet I'm puzzled with the very last scene of the very last movie.  Spoiler Alert:  I'm going to Spoil the ending here.

This is a complaint I have with the final scene of the last movie because it simply struck me as odd that when it shows Hermoine, Ron, and Harry & his wife at the end...they kinda all look like shit.  I mean, the kids are dressed okay, but everyone else seems to have completely phoned it in.  Dark circles under eyes, shabby clothing, dirty shoes, crappy coats, and weirdly unkempt hair.  And their noses.  All their noses are bigger - quite noticeably.  Is mine that much bigger than it was when I was 17?  Holy shit, I hope not!

Here's where my confusion and disappointment comes in:

Harry, Hermoine, and Ron were all responsible for KILLING VOLDERMORT.  I guess that's kind of a big deal, right?  Like if a few children got past security and killed Hitler or some other evil example like that...they might be considered heroes, right?  But then why, why do they look like they work at the DMV?  I would imagine that Hermoine would hold some sort of position in politics.  Harry would probably be taken care of for the rest of his life as a sort of "thank you" from THE WORLD.  And Ron, well, he'd be equally praised for just being super rad.  Harry's wife...meh.  But, she did marry "the boy that wouldn't die, who died, an then didn't die again".

So what does someone have to do to get commended?  For Christ's sake, freakin' Malfoy at the end of the movie is looking all suave and fancy-pants, but he was a douche bag his whole time growing up and tried to MURDER people.  He may not have been a fan of the potential murdering, but still...douche.  His whole family followed the big 'ol bad guy, and he gets to show up at the train station looking all awesome sending his son off and barely nods any type of acknowledgement to Harry.  "Yeah, you're welcome for saving your freakin' life.  You're welcome. I could've let you burn to a crisp in that fire and watched you cry like a little girl, but no, saved your life so you could have a son and your super hot wife." said Harry, in my version of the ending.

I don't know if others feel the same as me about this movie or not because I think I've watched 100 marathons of the movies.  Great background noise.  So, now I have a stupid opinion that doesn't even matter, and yet here I am typing about it...because for some reason...it does to me.

One more thing, when all his dead friends and family come to greet him before he goes off to confront Voldermort and voluntarily die, where the hell is Fred?  He'd been very close friends with Harry for years and wasn't part of the "send-off" party.  Why?  He should've been there.  He should've been there.

Oh, why do I watch these movies so many times to formulate a non important subject to write about?  What has become of my life?

Oh well, better stop typing so I can go back to my marathon...again.

Pffffft.