Listening to the Fog

This is ridiculous. Vogue has launched it's Fall Fashion issue and we haven't even had summer yet. It's been foggy and rainy for three weeks. Three weeks, People! Ever since I returned from Hawaii, the land of blue water, palm trees and sunshine. Sun...hmmm. That's that bright ball in the sky, yes?

This refusal by Mother Nature to commit to the season, however, is only happening here on the Coast. Portland is sunny and 98 degrees. In fact, last night's news was peppered with hot weather warnings...seek shade, stay hydrated, use sunscreen. Even the pup is blowing her summer coat...is she crazy? Where does she think she is?

Here on the Coast, it's 60 degrees, socked in with fog. And I'm wearing fleece. Can't see the ocean. Or the lighthouse. Or the front yard. We are all bathed in a muddy, misty light. We are moldy. And extra cranky.

Ranger, honey, love of my life...can we move to Portland? Or Bend? Or Corvallis? Can we? I promise I'll start cleaning the bathroom and stop tucking your side of the sheet. I promise. I'll even COOK MEAT. The red and bloody kind. I'll stop sneaking wheat gluten into your spaghetti sauce and calling it sausage. I'll wash the seagull shit off the car the day it lands and not a month later. I'll vacuum. Okay, maybe that's an exaggeration. But I'll quit nagging you about closing your mouth when you chew and pulling your pants up. I'LL BE A GOOD WIFE. Let's please just find some sun.

My yogic Book of Awakenings says that fog teaches us faith and patience, that we must learn to wait for the reveal, we must trust that what we know to be true is really out there. Sure, that's possible. Or maybe fog just teaches us why we should always check weather.com before running away from home.