The Tropic of California

I grew up here in sunny Southern California.

Though not a particularly long enough life to justify my sitting in a rocker on the veranda and waxing poetic about "back when I was a pup...", I do have a recollection - and not a long ago one - of the arid climate that goes along with living in what is essentially a desert.

I mention this because it's raining today.  I'm in my shorts and a tank top, barefoot.  It's not horribly hot, but it's warm enough that twice this week I've come home to put on the AC.  I'm pretty hard to convince the AC needs to be on.  Today was muggy all day and now it's raining.  75 degrees and raining.

This is Mexico City weather, not Southern California!  What in heaven's name is going on?  It's the apocalypse, I tell you.

The Nina, The Pinta, and a Soccer Ball

Poppa decided to watch the world cup soccer final today.  ‘Twas Spain versus Italy.  Sometimes it’s hard to tell how invested Dad is in any given game. And sometimes it’s hard to know where our allegiances lie when the teams that are playing are particularly foreign.  Usually we default to any team from Latin America, just on the premise that, being Mexican, we all come from a similar culture.  In this case I heard him exclaim from the next room when the first goal of the game was scored.  Here’s how it went down:

Dad:       Goal! Spain scored!

Me:        (From my room, attempting solidarity) Yay! (… and then realizing I didn’t know who was playing nor who we were rooting for, I walked over to the TV room…)  Wait, who are we rooting for?

Dad:       (Somewhat shadily) Um… I guess Spain.

Me:        Because … it’s the motherland?

Dad:       Sure.

Me:        Ok.  Hey, Mom!  We’re winning!

Mom:    That’s nice, dear.