Everybody's working for the weekend. That's pretty much our reality during the school year. The husband spends weekdays facing upwards of thirty children during his twentieth year of teaching at the same school. It has become a journey that I share with him in many ways, in particular the long sigh of relief that accompanies Saturday mornings: OUR DAY.
This one greeted us with pure gorgeousness, which inspired the husband to conquer that front yard work and sent me indoors to deal with some long-procrastinated school stuff. We agreed to meet back up around mid-afternoon for our traditional, work-is-done, congratulatory beer and fries on the Derf's patio.
It can never be that simple, though, can it? We literally made it half-a-block around the corner before catching full view of the formerly beautiful day, which hadn't seemed so bad from our yard. The hazy smoke looked like the grosser-than-gross version of the smoggiest LA day enveloping our dear downtown Santa Barbara. As if on cue, the winds took this moment to really kick in, delivering us Zaca Fire Part Deux in the form of fine, dirty ashes squeezing through window sills and gritting their way into eyes and mouths all over town.
Always up for taking acts of nature as personal attacks, we headed back for home to commence our bitch festival. "Mother nature hates us!" "Is it so much to ask for one crisis-free day?" "The yard was perfect, but only for one minute!" "Why must this always happen on the weekend?!"
My weekday life is exponentially less hectic and energy-zapping than the husband's, so I was able to regain composure without too much effort. The day was saved with some Thai food leftovers (always better 24 hours later) and a little NFL channel. But what really turned it all around (and end-game for this entire post) was my brilliant assessment that we were experiencing...wait for it...
A Big-Ash Storm.
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