There is no one that bitches and screams more than I do in the summer. I'm like Faye Dunaway in "Mommy Dearest" except that I don't have her eyebrows, on a side note, Erica reminds me often that she hates her eyebrows "I got your eyebrows mom!" Sorry daughter, sorry that you didn't get my midget hands and thick calves too. I digress. I detest the summers in Phoenix, there is no relief from them, day or night it doesn't matter. You wake up sweating and go to sleep sweating, you can't touch your steering wheel and you hunt for pockets of any type of shade in parking lots like dehydrating lions in Africa. The thought of going anywhere in the middle of the day brings fear into your soul. You literally live in catacombs called the mall and movie theatres, central air conditioning becomes your only friend. Summers here are not for the weak.
Which brings me to why I love Phoenix in the winter. Yesterday, I walked out to my orange tree in my backyard and instructed Tim to pick me 2 dozen shiny oranges, then I skipped back inside and made myself a fresh glass of the sweet elixir. That picture you see are my oranges! Aren't they beautiful? In the front yard grows the finest navel oranges in the land, sweet as honey. I have flowers blooming, birds chirping and green soft lawn with bright blue sky overhead. Sometimes, when I watch the news and see poor folks struggling in snow and sleet, I feel guilty for my abundance of perfect sunny weather, and then I think "eff them" I put up with degrees in triple digits 4 months of the year.