Random Thursday Thoughts: The Vacation Edition

I’ve been ignoring my blog and I really didn’t mean to. The past week has been full of milestones. I have turned 40, celebrated my 10-year wedding anniversary, and went on vacation. I’ve had a million things to write about but haven’t been able to direct a single thought into a coherent post. In fact, I started writing this post TWO DAYS AGO with a glass of wine in hand, thinking I was going to relax and let the words flow but I got sidetracked (OOH, SHINY THINGS! PRETTY), so this is what ya get… I’m sorry.

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We were in Sonoma/Napa for a week, and as amazing as the trip was, I think I’m thrilled to be home. We had an amazing time, but I’m on wine and food overload.

When we got to the Napa Valley, we were armed with a list of wineries we wanted to visit, and we agreed that we were just going to taste—sip and savor the wine and spit it out—not drink.

On Friday—our first full day—we hit three wineries. And I’m guessing it was one too many. Somewhere along the line, that whole tasting plan went out the window. I didn’t eat breakfast that morning, and by the time we had lunch it was about 1:00. Since it was our anniversary, I had wine (natch) with my salad. After that, we walked down the block to a tasting room for a winery we like. They sent us to another winery, and that winery sent us to yet another…

I’m sure I got carried away with the whole Hey It’s Our First Day of Vacation and It’s Our Anniversary! And I drank. We split a tasting of about 5 wines at the first place. At the second, we tasted-—and I use this term loosely because these are pretty generous servings—about 5 or 6 more. The third place? I’m pretty sure there were about 7 wines. And my tastebuds were numb.

Add to that the fact that it was 105 degrees.

I didn’t get super sick/drunk, but I definitely had too much wine/sugar/heat that day. After that, I paced myself, but I have eaten my body weight in parmesan cheese, salami and sourdough bread—all with a heavy amount of olive oil. Plus, we had dinner in some amazing restaurants and I felt compelled to try a little of almost everything. I feel like that guy on The Travel Channel’s Man vs. Food, who takes on every food challenge he can find. 96-ounce steak? Sure! 12,000 hot wings in 10 minutes? Done. I ate the equivalent of a wheel of cheese, had more frisee and tomatoes than I can count. I slurped soup, peeled shrimp and inhaled pasta. I know I’m lucky but I was so happy to have a plain green salad with iceberg and Italian dressing on our way home.

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Last Friday was our 10-year wedding anniversary! Ten years is a big deal for us. We have stayed together through raising three sons (his), the death of two parents (his), biological clocks ticking exploding (mine), job changes (ours), and a million other little things that added up together make for a crazy life.

It hasn’t always been easy, but I probably wouldn’t change a single day of it (well, maybe a couple). I feel lucky to have met and married my best friend, my partner in life, and the one man who’s most equipped to deal with me and all of my idiosyncrasies. I love him more than my shoes and I’m looking forward to many more years together.

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So I turned 40 and it really wasn’t that bad. Certainly not as bad as I thought it would be. I’m not sure what I was expecting—maybe I thought I’d suddenly become decrepit overnight, hunched over, blind as a bat, complaining about my sciatica—but it was a pretty smooth transition. No additional wrinkles, no gray hairs (as far as you know), and I actually feel better than I did in my 20s. I think I look better, too, if I do say so myself.

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When I was in Northern California I spent the day with one of my best friends. We met on the first day of high school (twenty-mumble-mumble) years ago and we’re still in touch. She saw me through braces, bad perms and ugly school uniforms and she was my maid of honor at my wedding.We don’t talk often and probably see each other even less, but we seem to pick up right where we left off when we do, and for that I’m eternally grateful.

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Tonight I’m putting Crazy Gracie to work. We’re going to take our first agility class together. I’m sure much humiliation (for me) is in the cards. Stay tuned for the update.

Random Tuesday Thoughts

Chowing Down

I had one of the best meals evah! This weekend Bill and I drove down to L.A. to eat at Mario Battali’s Pizzeria Mozza and it was day-um good pizza. It’s not like that Domino’s crap or even Pizza Hut. It was even better than John’s Pizza on 44th in New York City where I have eaten entire pizzas by myself once or twice. Mozza’s crust is thin and airy with just enough weight to hold whatever is on the pizza, but not so much that you get a face full of dough. The toppings were amazing—proscuitto, house-made sausage, you name it. Clearly, Mario knows good food.

Further Proof (as if you need it) That People Are Stupid

So the Lakers won the NBA Finals on Sunday night. That’s exciting and all, but winning seems to bring out the worst in this town. Exhibit A:

Asshole (Photo courtesy of the L.A. Times)

Really? What makes you ever think that throwing a garbage can on an LAPD patrol car is ever a good idea? Especially, when you’re doing it in front of the cameras.

What I’m Reading

I just finished The Beach House by Jane Green…

and just started Handle With Care by Jodi Picoult.

Yeah, it’s kind of chick lit, but they’re both very well written. Picoult’s books always tackle headline-worthy topics with gripping storytelling. Years ago I read My Sister’s Keeper and I think I cried the whole way through. Last weekend I watched the trailer for the movie. I’m not sure I’ll be able to get through that—not without 16 boxes of Kleenex. Jane Green is new to me—I think I found her through one of those “Readers Who Bought XYZ Also Bought…” on Amazon. I will totally make my way through her other books. Here’s their synopsis:

Sixty-five-year-old Nan Powell has lived comfortably and happily in Nantucket since the suicide of her husband, Everett, so she is thrown for a loop when she learns that she is in danger of losing her beloved house. After weighing her options, Nan decides to turn her home into a bed-and-breakfast. The guests she gets for the summer are all at a crossroads in their lives in one way or another. Daniel has just separated from his wife and is facing something he has denied for years; Daff is recovering from the heartbreak of a divorce and getting a much-needed break from her anger-filled 13-year-old daughter; and Nan’s son Michael is on the run from a disastrous affair. Nan finds herself opening up to her guests and enjoying their company, but she is shocked when she discovers a person close to one of them has a startling connection to her. Peopled with likable, flawed, realistic characters and moving seamlessly between them, this is Green’s best novel in years, a compelling, unputdownable read.

There’s That News Van!

This morning on my way to work I got caught up in what, to me, is typical Los Angeles. Apparently, a robbery suspect is holed up in a storm drain on the 405S freeway—one of the busiest freeways in Southern California. And my main route to work. All lanes except the carpool and the left lane were closed. There were no fewer than 8 firetrucks, a half dozen California Highway Patrol cars, a dozen  LAPD patrol and undercover cars, paramedics and a full contingency of Department of Water and Power trucks. I’d estimate there were about 60 people standing around a storm drain looking down, chatting and drinking coffee. Meanwhile, Channel 7 reporter Leo Stallworth was reporting from the side of the freeway, most likely saying the same thing he had been saying since 3:00 a.m. when the whole thing started. Like traffic on the 405 isn’t bad enough…

Dear New Neighbor,

We haven’t met yet, but I don’t like you already. You’re clearly new around here, so let me clue you in to a few rules.

1. Though shall not park in front of your neighbor’s driveway, blocking them from entering their own property. Ever.

1a. If you do, even temporarily, do not shoot me dirty looks when I want you to move so I can pull in to my own garage. Asshat

2. Though shall not park 375 cars on the street. This is not a used car lot. This is where we live.

3. Though shall not covet your neighbor’s space. You live three doors down and across the street—claiming the space in front of my house (and everyone else’s) isn’t cool.

4. Though shall not drive 2 inches off my bumper while driving through our neighborhood.

5. Though shall not try to pull around me when I’m turning onto our street. Especially, when you clearly don’t see the 20 three-year-olds running around.

6. Though shall not drive down our cul de sac at 60 mph.

Follow my rules and we’ll get along just fine.

Signed,

The Bitch On Your Street

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For more Randomness, grab a martini and head over to Keely’s at The Un Mom.

Multitasking Is Overrated

Dear Asshole in the Pontiac Grand Prix,

When you are behind the wheel of a car, especially one careening down the freeway at 75 mph, please actually pay attention to what you’re doing, fucktard. This is not the time for you to pick up your cell phone, fumble around and dial without your earpiece while you simultaneously light your cigarette and pick your nose. Because what usually happens happened. You suddenly looked up, realized you had no idea what the fuck was going on in front of you and slammed on your brakes. Hard. With smoke and everything. This, of course, made me slam on my brakes, swerve into the adjacent lane and pray like holy hell that the semi in the next lane had dropped back to let me in.

You are a fucktard and should have your license revoked.

Signed,

The Bitch in the Blue Car

Guilty Pleasures

1. Sitting at the bar alone in a restaurant with a good book, a nice dinner, a shot of tequila and maybe even dessert.

2. Reading Entertainment Weekly and Us Weekly in a hot bubble bath.

3. Fudgesicles

4. My morning sugar-free vanilla latte.

5. Watching really crappy reality TV.

6. A perfectly dirty Belvedere martini

7. Driving home from work with the top down and the stereo blasting.

8. A big dollop of whipped cream in a cup of coffee.

9. Fresh, clean sheets on the bed. With multiple pillows stacked on top.

10. Multiple pairs of my favorite jeans.

11. Sleeping in on a Sunday morning.

12. Opening a brand-new book.

13. Bacon. With just about anything.

14. Tacos and beer on a weekend afternoon.

15. A matinee movie on a Sunday afternoon.

DC or Bust (or, how a bitch creates a law)

I don’t know the first thing about our local politics (well, I know who the mayor is, but beyond that? Meh.), but I know people who know people and they have people. And I have an idea that I’m going to push and work tirelessly for in order to make sure my bill becomes law.

In Southern California it’s hard to get around unless you own a car. Our public transportation system kind of blows. Yeah, we have buses, but not enough. We sort of have subways, but they only go about 5 miles in one direction then you have to get off, and get on another that goes in another direction. Kinda pointless. This is a car culture, baby! We love our cars. Every year there are about 1.5 million new cars (about 9% of the total market) sold in California. And every morning, I commute to work with about 1.2 million of them. And every morning, when I get to work and realize that I am not only still alive but unscathed, I get down on my knees and kiss the ground in gratitude.

For a culture that spends so much time in our cars you’d think we’d be better drivers. Not so much. We suck.

The experience of driving a typical L.A. freeway is to be terrorized by an entire population of people driving 1990 Honda Civics and 2006 Toyota Prius’ racing each other, trying to break the land speed record on their way to Starbucks. I’m an aggressive driver, but I think it’s more out of necessity than psychosis. I don’t willfully and purposefully cut people off, tailgate a quarter inch off someone’s bumper, change lanes without looking, apply makeup while piloting a one-ton SUV at 90 mph, while talking on my cell phone and texting on my Blackberry with 6 screaming kids watching DVDs in the backseat. I have been known, however, to extend a salute with my lovely, manicured middle finger out of my adorable little topless convertible to thankyoumverymuchforbeingatupidbitchnowgetoffmyass.

And I never commit my personal pet peeve—lazy lane changes. In the last couple of years I’ve noticed that fewer people actually execute a proper lane change—you know, signal, look, wait until it’s clear, slow down if necessary until you can move. Instead, they rush up to your bumper as fast as they can and then…lacksidasically…turn the wheel Ever. So. Slightly. to get into the adjacent lane, but not before giving you a heart attack thinking they’re about to take your rear bumper with them, sending you careening into oncoming traffic. It happens to me every single day.

I don’t know what the laws are across the country, but I know that here in California the only time you actually take a physical driving test is if you are between the ages of 16 and 18 and are applying for your license for the first time or if you’re over the age of 80. That’s it. Otherwise, you take a written exam every other time that your license comes up for renewal. If you get your license after the age of 18, you don’t have to drive around doing three-point turns or parallel parking. You just take the written test, they hand you a slip of paper and off you go, free to commit random acts of terror behind the wheel.

A couple of years ago, I had to go DMV to take my written test. While I was waiting my turn, I heard them paging my license plate number over the loudspeaker. Turns out this stupid 16-year-old, who was parked next to me, went to back out of the space to take her driver’s test and took out the whole side of my Tahoe. In spite of my total temper tantrum, they let her take the driving test anyway. I think that should have been an automatic fail. Instead? DMV=FAIL.

So here’s what I propose. Every three or four years, or however often it is that your driver’s license comes up for renewal, we should ALL have to retake the actual driving portion of the test. And not just up and down a city block. They should make you drive in real-world situations—morning traffic, in front of a school getting out for the day, in a parking lot (please, don’t even get me started on this one. Parking lot does not equal speedway. Slow down, you fuckers.) This will weed out the weak, the bad and the stupid. I guarantee it. If you fail, you have to retake driver’s ed. Then you can try again in a month.

And not only will this get all the morons out of their cars and onto buses where they belong, it’ll pour money back into the California economy. California can take a cut of the driving school fees, plus any additional fees for the driving tests. I’m not great at math but 1.5 million cars at about $20 a person is a lot of money.

I think I’m going to write to my congressman.

I just need to figure out who that is.

Operation Workout Begins (Soon. Today? Maybe. Or not)

I used to be fit and healthy. But no longer.

I used to go to the gym at least four days a week. And I just didn’t go to hang out and chat. I trained. Hard. I even broke a sweat. At one point I hired a personal trainer who kicked my ass. I could bench press my body weight and I could leg press my body weight and then some. I was strong. I was fit. I was clear-headed. My ass sat where an ass belongs (in fact, it sat where a 19-year-old ass sat—now it’s where a 39-year-old ass sits). My arms didn’t jiggle. I had calf muscles.

Those were the days.

Damn, I used to look good! (Although I should learn to match my makeup to my skin color.) Okay, only my shoulders looked like this, but still...

Sadly, that wasn’t all that long ago. Until a little over a year ago I worked at a fitness magazine and it seemed easy—if not mandatory—to get to the gym on a regular basis. Not only did I need to walk the walk to talk the talk, but it was an amazing stress release for me. I’d have a crappy day, go to the gym, throw some weight around and feel better. I slept well, my skin was clear and I ate better (for the most part). It was fun to try new workout programs or exercises.

Since switching jobs 14 months ago I haven’t gotten to the gym with any kind of regularity. I think the last time I worked out was in August (yes, of THIS year). Technically, my hours are 9:00 a.m to 6:00 p.m. but at certain times of the year that just isn’t reality. I’m heading into the four or five month period of total insanity where getting off work at 7:30 or 8:00 p.m. is going to feel like I’m leaving early. I’ve been at work until 11:00 p.m. or midnight.

The stress is immeasurable. I eat like shit, and it throws a wrench in my sleep patterns. I’ve thought about working out in the morning (which tells you just how desperate I am), but with those hours I just can’t get up. I can’t barely wake up on time—forget about waking up EARLY. There are also a few days coming up where I need to be in my chair at 5:00 a.m. And, sadly, coming in at the butt-crack of dawn doesn’t mean I’ll get to leave at 3:00 p.m. Not even close.

With my crazy hours and stupid eating habits (Corn Pops for dinner if I eat anything at all) I have actually lost weight, but when I check myself out in the mirror (Yo! How you doing?!), I see a soft, weak person looking back at me. (The only part that I AM happy about is my gut. No more muffin top for me, baby!) I’m like the Pillsbury Dough Girl. I’m tired. I have bags under my eyes. I have no energy, and walking the dog wears me out. And the worst part for those around me? I am one cranky bitch. (Yes, bitchier than usual.)

I ran into my trainer at Starbucks this morning. While he got his black coffee with Splenda, I was holding my Venti Skinny Vanilla Latte and a cranberry orange scone. He looked me over from head to toe, and was like, “So, I haven’t seen you in a while. Your husband looks great.” Bastard couldn’t even fake a compliment.

So shut the fuck up and do something about it, right? I’m trying. I have my gym bag in my trunk (although I just realized I took my tennis shoes out. Can’t run on the treadmill in my boots, can I?). I’ve made an effort the last few mornings to get up, stretch and do some push-ups and sit-ups before I get in the shower. It’s pretty pathetic—I used to be able to do about 30 guy-style push-ups without breaking a sweat. Now? I’m lucky to do 10 of the girlie push-ups. But it’s something, right?

I’m looking into alternatives/substitutions to hitting the iron (wow, doesn’t that make me sound tough? No. Oh well.). There’s a new yoga studio opening after the first of the year near me. I think I’ll check them out. I don’t like the yoga classes at my gym, but I want to try something less jarring, more Zen. Lead with the body and the mind will follow. Or something like that.

Even this kid is stronger than me.

So Operation Workout begins. I’m working up to making my way to the gym. This week. I swear. I can’t pick a day and go (okay, I probably can, but, you know…). I know it’s the only way I’m going to feel better. But making the time with a ramped up work schedule, grooming the dog for dog shows (that’s a whole other post), being married to Julie the Cruise Director and the holidays? It’s going to kick my ass. But I suppose not as much as me NOT going to the gym will.

Until I get my strength (and my body) back, if you see me pinned under a barbell, could ya call for help? I’d appreciate it.

Thank you Lesley for your Ah-May-Zing Photoshop skills. I laughed my ass off this morning! Check her out over at Um…What?? You won’t regret it!!

True Reality TV: Firestorm 2008

Talk about reality TV—I have been glued to the television since I got up this morning, watching all the fires in Southern California. The news is a little ridiculous—they’re floating “Firestorm 2008” graphics on the bottom of the screen.

The devastation is staggering. Down the hill about 10 miles from us, a mobile home park completely burned to the ground. 500-600 homes gone. Just like that. Down in Orange County, more fires, more destruction. I can’t imagine losing everything we own in an instant.

But one night I came close.

Years ago, a couple of years out of college,  I was living in a house in West Hollywood, in an area right off of Santa Monica Boulevard that I’d routinely see on “Cops.” The neighborhood had so much charm—lots of old bungalow-style homes—and was in the middle of everything (a good and bad thing). We were near a park that the homeless camped out in and they’d hang out in our neighborhood because it was quiet.

One Saturday night, my roommate had a couple of friends over, watching movies when someone went on alert and suddenly asked, “Do you smell that?” My roommate, who was totally baked, thought it was the funniest thing he ever heard. We all laughed and continued to watch the movie until I (who was actually sober and not high), smelled smoke. I got up, looked out our kitchen window in the back of the house and saw that our detached garage was starting to smoke.

Before I could get everyone’s attention, the old, wooden, tinder box of a garage became engulfed in flames. I called 911. My roommate immediately snapped out of his high (talk about a buzz kill) and his friends all ran out back with garden hoses and tried to fight the fire. It was starting to look hopeless. I was terrified that it was going to ignite the trees and the roof of our 80-year-old house. The heat was scalding. The air was suffocating with the thick black smoke.  I grabbed my car keys and backed my car out of the driveway, backed my roommate’s car out of the driveway, ran into the house to grab his dog, a fat, smelly, mean little dachshund named Cozette, and put her in my car.

Right then the firetrucks pulled up, hooked up and started to put out the blaze. For a small garage, it seemed to take a long time to extinguish. We were so lucky because it never hit the house, it never grabbed the trees and it didn’t creep over to the neighbors’.

In those minutes, I was terrified like I’ve never been before or since.

It turned out, a homeless man had camped out behind our fence, and fell asleep with a cigarette. It lit the trash back there, traveled to the fence and jumped to the garage. He was lucky and so were we, but every time I smell smoke, I go on red alert and panic a bit.

I moved into that house from a one-bedroom apartment, so whatever I couldn’t fit into my bedroom went into that garage for storage. Most of my books, all of my furniture, pots and pans, some clothes and, most important to me, pictures of family and friends were gone. It was those personal items that you can’t replace, that I hurt the most, but I was about to move out of that house and only had the basics in my bedroom.

But I was lucky. I had renter’s insurance and the “things” were replaceable. My parents helped me replace some of the other things that insurance didn’t cover. But my story is nothing compared to what I saw today.

Watching the news this morning, one man’s story broke my heart. When the reporter asked what he was going to do now that he lost his home and everything he owned. He shrugged, looked in the camera and said that Monday he’ll go back to work because he needs to keep his job to try and survive. It made me cry.

It’s going to be a long night. I hope the winds die down and the fires stall. Although we’re in the center of town and far from the hills, all of the reporters are talking about the flying embers (The Flying Embers. They sound like a tacky circus act. “Ladies and gentlemen, The Flying Embers!”), the unknown in the equation.

My thoughts are with everyone in the affected areas.

What Else Went On This Week

I’ve decided the name Friday Fini blows, so this is what I’m calling my weekly wrap-up instead. Sometimes you just have to call things what they are.

This was an insane week. We had fires, destruction (of my kitchen), work is ramping up, and I’m sick today (like body-wracking aches and chills with the flu and a migraine sick)

Monday

Monday was the one-year anniversary of my dog Callie’s death. She was 10 years old. When Callie was about 7 she somehow got a tick-bourne disease (Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever) and it affected her kidneys. Twice before she passed away, she went into kidney failure and we thought we were going to lose her, but miraculously (really, no hyperbole here) she came back. Callie was quite possibly the sweetest, smartest dog EVER. We rescued her from the pound (although I like to think she rescued me) and she immediately became part of the family. The entire extended family. She was just a cool dog. When went into kidney failure the last time, it happened so swiftly and she slipped into a coma. I really thought I was going to have to make the heart-wrenching decision to put her down. Fortunately, she slipped away on her own. Not a day goes by when I don’t miss her. I like to think she sent Gracie to me to take some of that pain away (Or annoy me. I’m not sure which).

Callie

Gracie (aka Nothin' But Trouble)

Tuesday and Wednesday

On Tuesday the contractor came to start the destruction demolition of our kitchen. I’ve been dreading this waiting for months for this to happen. The thought of having a new-and-improved kitchen that I will actually want to cook in makes me giddy. The living out of boxes, making coffee in the guest bathroom and washing dishes in the tub (my lovely, bubble-bath-soaking tub) while it’s being done? Not so much.

A couple of months ago we knocked out a wall between the kitchen and dining room and closed up a door from the kitchen to the yard in order to make a slightly bigger, more usable kitchen. We vacillated between gutting it completely or refacing the existing cabinets. In the end we decided to do a little of both. We left the basic kitchen intact, but changed one bottom corner cabinet so we could actually use it, and we added another top cabinet. Then the whole thing was going to be refaced.

The contractor came on Tuesday to start. I had to spend some time with him that morning going over the project before he started. When we were done, it suddenly seemed like a massive job and I asked when his guys were going to show up to help. “No guys. Just me,” he said. And I thought, “Shit. This is going to take a fucking month.” Little did I know I had hired Robo Contractor.

When I came home Tuesday night, all of the old tile counter top had been ripped out and whisked away somewhere so cleanly, you’d be hard pressed to prove its existence. The new cabinets were installed and the refacing of the cabinet boxes was totally done. That just left hanging the doors, installing the drawers, installing the hardware and attaching the moulding. When Robo Contractor showed up Wednesday morning he said he’d be one by 7:00 that night. 48 hours to completely re-do a kitchen. I felt like I was in an episode of Trading Spaces. But with better taste.

I’ve got some during and after pictures that I was going to post but I haven’t had time to go through them yet. I’ll do that over the weekend.

True to his word, he was done when I got home Wednesday night. I am amazed. And giddy! It looks great. Better than I imagined, in fact.

Unfortunately, we won’t actually have a counter top (which means no kitchen sink) for about two more weeks. So back to the bathroom I go to do my dishes and make my coffee.

Friday

The air has been bone dry this week so I knew I was due for a whopping sinus migraine. Sure enough it started to creep up on me last night, working its way up the muscles of my neck, to the front of my head, and settled right above my right eyeball. But because that wasn’t torturous enough, my body decided to slam me with the flu too. Talk about kicking someone when they’re down. I was sick last weekend and I thought I was over it, but I obviously didn’t slow down enough and rest. This morning I thought a hot shower would help soothe my joints and achy muscles but the heat was too much for me. I had to sit down on the floor of the shower (read: curl up in a ball) while I tried not to throw up. Or wished I could. I wasn’t sure which would make me feel better. I could barely stay in there long enough to rinse the shampoo out of my hair. The nausea finally passed, but I’d rather be curled up in bed with my electric blanket (even though it’s going to be 90 degrees today) than sitting here at my desk at work. It’s taking every bit of energy I have not to put my head on my desk and go to sleep. But I’ve got too many projects due today.

It’s been a long, exhausting week. Hopefully, after some rest, next week will be better and I will be healthier.

Fire Season

Sadly, it’s that time of the year again. Some parts of the country get hurricanes, others tornadoes. Here in California (especially So Cal) we get fires.

Every October (sometimes late September), the humidity drops ridiculously low (it was down to 9% at one point this weekend and it’s about 20% now) and the Santa Ana winds pick up (sometimes gusting up to 60-70 mph) and it creates a recipe for some nasty fires.

Right on schedule, the fires started up this weekend and now there are about 4 substantial fires burning around Southern California. At least three of these fires are threatening homes right now. And three of them are in the immediate area of where I live and work (but far enough that we’re not in danger). It looks like the apocalypse outside—dense black smoke so thick you can’t see 10 feet in front of you. Breathing? Forget about it. You can feel the ash in your mouth and throat as you inhale. Your eyes burn.

Mother Nature can be a bitch. But what’s worse? Some stupid motherfucker is most likely responsible for this destruction.

I hope there is an extra-special super hot spot in hell for these douche bags.