Just cruel

I almost cried when I got this email today.

Because much to my dismay it is definitely NOT sweater season here.
Think 91 sounds balmy? It's not. Add 60% humidity and it "Feels like 103 degrees." And as you can see, it's not going to get any better later today.

If you are fortunate enough to be living near my homeland, you may be lamenting that it's hovering around freezing (I know this because I also have a Utah weather widget on my dashboard, which I covet daily). I will trade you. Think of all the benefits you have that I don't (and that I won't have until I move from here):

• Sweaters
• Socks
• Pants (although this is a small blessing since if I had to wear pants right now I'd be up a creek)
• Hats, scarves, & gloves
  
• Hot chocolate
• Warm baths
• Candles
• Leaves changing colors
  
• Using your oven without turning the A/C down to 70 degrees and then sweating anyway
• Actually sleeping under your comforter

You may say, ah, but Dani, YOU can go outside. No no, my friends. I can only go outside if I submit myself to be devoured by mosquitoes. I kid you not, I cannot walk from my front door to the mailbox without at least one bite.

I will concede one plus: no goosebumps when I get out of the shower in the morning. But I would gladly trade it for the benefits mentioned above. Besides, we are getting to the point where shaving my legs requires acrobatic contortions not safe in a slippery shower.

I don't know how people live here, especially those who moved from northern climes. When I say this to long-time residents, they just laugh and say, "Well, we just stay inside!" Then they mention how great it is to be able to go the beach at Christmas, as if this were consolation for 9 months of roasting. At which point I just whimper, because Christmas is about fuzzy slippers and cozy PJs and fabulous toasty aromas in the kitchen and playing in the snow (if we're lucky). Beach-going, for me at least, is a strictly summer activity.

Maybe you have to have Latin blood to survive here, because my quarter-Mexican husband doesn't complain, and HE has to wear a shirt and tie every day. I, however, being bred of 100% northern European stock, do not have the constitution for this.

Being a walking human incubator may have something to do with it too.... though I am a born and bred four-seasons girl, pregnant or not.

So there you go. Think of me next time you're complaining about how cold it is, and be grateful that you can always put more and warmer layers on, while there are only so many layers you can take off.

Reminiscing

One year ago today, I was on an airplane to Italy.

::sigh::

Fresh & Clean

If you're thinking this looks a lot like the remnants of a stash of 10 tithing envelopes forgotten in the pocket of a shirt that found its way into the wash today, you're right -- that's exactly what this is.

The San Antonio Church Tour of '09

The San Antonio Church Tour of '09 is in full swing! In an effort to broaden my religious understanding, I'm visiting various churches in San Antonio and blogging about it. So if you have any interest in reading (admittedly long) posts about my experiences, you can check out the blog at

sachurchtour09.blogspot.com

If you have suggestions of churches or worship areas I should consider, or if you want to come along, let me know!

I'm not as cool as I pretend to be

I butchered a French man's name today. And I mean wholesale slaughtered it.

It wasn't even a strange, unfamiliar name with bizarre French spelling that would have left me totally clueless. It wasn't Jacquot or Apollinaire or Émilien or Amaury or Théophile. THOSE I would have looked up online before even attempting. No, it was Jean-François. Which seems easy enough.

Now, I don't speak French. But I'm not totally ignorant. And I like saying things right, and usually I manage decently enough.

So before I called the guy, I prepped myself. "Jean" like on Les Mis, Jean ValJean. Zhoh(n). Got it. "François," like Froh(n)swa. Piece of cake. It sounded great. Not native, sure, but legit. Educated. Cultured. I felt ready.

Then when the guy picked up, I totally croaked. Totally. Croaked.

"Hello, could I speak with, uh, Zheen, uh, Zhoh... ::mumble, mumble:: Frons..frans...fronswah?"

The reply came kindly in perfect English tinted so attractively with French accent: "This is he." He didn't make a point to say, "Yes, this is Jean-François (you pathetic American)," he just moved on like it was no big deal that I just shredded his name. I would not have been so generous.

He's probably totally used to it, but I not only decimated his name but then I tripped over the pieces! I hang my head in shame.

Where there's a will there's a way

This is what happens if you wrap your dough in only ONE layer of saran wrap and put it in the fridge overnight. It will break through the saran wrap (not just find its way out a loose edge, but actually burst a hole clean through the plastic) and form a crusty goiter-y thing.

But do not despair—that persistent yeast hasn't gotten the best of you yet. You can still make an excellent pizza crust.

Today is a red-letter day...

(you may have to run an ActiveX control to get the above song to play)

















It's been a looong time since I've had this much style.