LB has returned to her normal, jovial 2-year-old self. It only took me two days to completely rid her of Oreo/ice cream hair (seriously, I found hidden ground-up cookie crumbs in her scalp LAST NIGHT TOO!). Like a true Gemini, she has bounced back from the miserable, filthy monstrosity she embodied on Sunday night, into the laughing, skipping wonder child she is.
Temps have been hitting upper 80s/lower 90s this week, which I know is nothing compared to the inferno that is the state of Texas. In Colorado however, the high altitude sun is unforgiving, and summer storms are fast and furious. Hardly anyone carries umbrellas out here, because they don’t do any good. We don’t have the soothing, gentle drizzles that used to lull me to sleep in Vermont. If anything, an umbrella in Colorado is asking to get struck by lightning. Exhibit A (except she was holding a golf club).
Everyday at about 2 pm, the clouds start rolling in, and everyone in Durango looks up to see if maybe we’ll get some rain. My office has no air conditioning, so at 2pm, I’m really feelin’ the heat. I’ve gotten away with wearing tank tops all summer long, but school is about start soon, and I have to revert back to “professional” attire. Its not easy being professional when you are literally sticking to your chair.
At least my boot is off (though I did hit the dance floor this weekend, boot and all). Last night the clouds broke at about 5 pm, and blew the cheap blinds off everyone’s windows at the apartment complex. Since we all come home to a hot box after working 8-10 hours, usually everyone opens their windows, jams their door, and pulls out lawn chairs, while the kids run rampant.
When I moved into the “housing community” last November, I barely talked to anyone. I barely saw anyone. Even my next door neighbor was invisible for the most part, but it was cold and wintery, and everyone was hiberating, so I understood. Now that summer has reached its climax, everyone is chatting it up, hanging out, bumpin’ their systems…you know, the stuff you do during the summer.
LB goes to daycare with one of the girls down the row, so usually by 6:30 pm, they are reunited in a screaming frenzy. The single mom near the laundry room lives with her mom and 3 daughters (one of which is the 6 year old who has befriended LB). We have promised to take her out when her divorce is final. Even the Mexican family across the row from me says hi once and a while. The little 4 year old boy usually points to his baby sister, who has morphed into a toddler during these last 6 months, and I say in my broken Spanish “Tu hermanita es mucha grande.”
Even though the rain and wind were starting to pick up, nobody wanted to go inside. LB was running through puddles in her bare feet. I was listening intently to the single moms talking about their sh**y jobs. Both mother and daughter work at Detox, where they give the probationary clients UAs all day long. Their supervisor is a certain breed of a**hole who likes to take a dump in the restroom before all the clients come in. He thinks since they are criminals they should be subjected to smell his rauncy turds. Unfortunately for my single mom friends, they have to smell it too.
“We don’t get paid enough for the s*** we have to deal with,” they say. I couldn’t agree more.