Well, I never...

When we first came to live in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, far below the Tropic of Capricorn and almost a quarter of the way round from the lovely balance of the Equator, we were told that Winter would blow us away. Literally. In a city known, nationally at least, for its persistent and severe wind, we were guaranteed a frigid August that would have us chipping crisp little icicles, formed from tears of submission, from our eyelashes every time the southerly blew Antarctica's polar breath upon us. Some people went so far as to say that Winter would break us. I was led to believe that merely opening my car door would present hazards that I would need to overcome to see Spring: I could lose the door to the wind; I could lose my leg to the door; I could freeze my vulnerable, numb, shivering hands to the frosty metal on every attempted egress. Finger by finger, I would surrender my ability to cope with the glacial punishment, and eventually, I would succumb to hypothermia, captured in my car forever by Winter's stinging slap. Good thing it's a Volvo.

Well, let me tell you about today, as I watch young children frolic loudly hither and thither, erecting castles on the warm sand across the street. There are no clouds; there is no wind. The sunshine casts a bold, golden light on the water and infuses the vast, textured brush on the mountain across the strait with intensity. More than a mile across the water, I can discern the conglomeration of wild flowers springing up from the hillside. The blue sky beams from horizon to apex, and everything in between radiates heat and color. The math required to tell you the actual temperature in Fahrenheit is just too much for me, but I'd estimate we're at a balmy 72. Hey, 72. Isn't that the average temperature for America's formerly most beautiful city, San Diego? I believe it is. To all those silly cats who preached such a ghoulish winter and thought that we would fall to 72, I say this: I'll be at the beach.

And that, in a nutshell, is what I did today. After rescuing my husband and our friend from the clutches of the dreadful Company, we bought pies and threw the ol' pigskin on the sand. I love to throw the ol' pigskin in New Zealand. I don't know what materials makes up a rugby ball, which boasts a greater girth than an American football, but rugby balls are thrown underhanded. And that, of course, makes me laugh. To be completely honest, I don't laugh too loudly about it in public because that would be rude and, more importantly, invite quite an extensive amount of ire upon my sweet head. But as a younger sister constantly derided for "throwing like a girl," I have no real choice in this existence but to laugh (quietly) at all the big, tough, bulldog-looking, testosterone-producing males who throw that chunk of a rugby ball with such fearsome gusto... underhanded. Ha ha. Ahem. Ha.

Here's to Spring and 72!

Questions?