Open letter to 20-30 mph winds.

Dear 20-30 mph winds,

I do admire how you started the day with such splendid gusto. I appreciate that you did not falter at the counterintuitive sunniness of the day, not in the morning, not at noon, not at dinnertime. You blew so impressively. You were the kind of wind that makes a person reconsider how she might spend her day.

For instance, 20-30 mph winds, I thought I might write today. I still might, but it's fair of you to point out: only now that you've died down. What is it about you? Sunny + 20-30 mph winds + June = the weather that diverts a soul from its purpose.

Or perhaps writing was never my soul's purpose--is that what you were getting at? I'm not sure why wind, even 20-30 mph wind, would have that kind of power: to interpellate me at the crossroads of intention and act, to seethe and whoosh and gust as if you were yourself the soul, its intentions, and the dust to which both come.

Melodramatic? Sure. So are you, though. So loud. So gusty. So diva-esque. So like a harbinger yet so coy about what is to come.

Is it rain? Snow? A precipitous drop in temperature? or maybe all three? Regardless, you have done your work. We ventured forth at 8 p.m.; the blackbirds clicked at us as we rounded the corner past a sagebrush expanse--maybe you did some damage to their nests. Maybe they were still just a little unnerved, just as we were, by the very force of your bravado. And, 20-30 mph winds, as I look back at how I whiled away the hours today, reading a little of this, crosswording a little bit of that, I am brought, finally, to this point: you've had your way with the day and you were the imperious master. But I hope that tomorrow, you'll move on to some other mountaintop.

Good day,

htms

Thought-free zone.

It is too hot to think.

Instead of thinking, I did this:

• took Bruiser for a spritely walk.
• bought Sprite for singing son, because he had a sick stomach.
• drove to Park City to work on a syllabus with colleague.
• kvetched about work with colleague. (I have to get in practice for the regular academic year--the marathon event of kvetching about work.)
• went to lunch with colleague and talked about television and movies. And kvetched about work.
• went to the Gap outlet store where I picked up a skirt and walked around with it, spritzed myself with Grass eau de cologne which I have a nostalgic fondness for even though these days it smells like the chemical formula for "grass." Put the skirt back. Bought nothing.
• drove down the mountain to a meeting.
• went to meeting.
• kvetched about work with another colleague, after the meeting.
• drove home.
• arrived at the same time as the historian. Whined about the heat. Turned on the swamp cooler. Poured myself a tall glass of ice water.

Which brings us to now. We are preparing for an evening of crosswords and television and some dinner at some point, with possible ancillary heat-related whining (on my part--the historian does not whine. Seriously: never.). Also, many iced beverages.

Dear Weather Robot,

My husband reports to me that there's supposed to be a cold front, which he heard about on the radio while driving home. What does the term "cold front" mean, with respect to how hot it is now? And the fact that it's August? I just want some assurance that the Doppler Radar, or whatever, is correct about this, and that I will recognize it when it happens. Tell me, Weather Robot, what will the weather be like?

Sincerely, htms

Dear Hightouchmegastore,

Today the weather is like this:

Please do note that, while the temperature is 96 degrees, it feels like a mere 91 degrees! I'm sure that, if you happen to be currently taking a cool shower, while sipping a Slurpee and thinking of Antarctica, you will concur.

On Friday, however, the weather will be like this:

77 degrees, with scattered T-storms, is cool enough that it doesn't have to feel like anything more or less than its own damn self.

Robotically yours, with hints of rain,

The Weather Robot.