My cell phone rang this morning just as my alarm was due to go off; it was my parents' number, and I had a moment of panic where I wondered who was going to the hospital today. I hate it when I get calls at odd or off hours — too early, or too late, or when I'm supposed to be sleeping. It leaves me shaky and takes a while to calm back down.
At any rate, this phone call was more excitingly newsworthy than horrible — the neighbor's house burned down, and all humans were safe.
So okay: yes, that was horrible for the neighbor (she's 80 years old and has lived in that house with about a million animals for over 30 years ... the only animal that survived the fire was one of her three dogs, unfortunately). And it could have been horrible for us: there's a fence between our houses, and some yard, but her side of the fence has (had) a lot of foliage and trees and a bunch of other pretty flammable stuff. But we all survived (I guess there was little chance of me not surviving), and three of my family members ended up on the news. True, my dad's clip had him labeled as "Kahled Labib", which is our neighbor's name, but still: family famous. Even my mom's damned hamster/dog was on there.
In other news:
Living in this city as long as I have, I've forgotten how to be hot. Hot as in 90 degrees hot, which is just about what the temperatures got to this Tuesday afternoon. It was sweating hot. I wore a skirt. My legs blinded people. No one wanted to move, but we all wanted to be outside. It was a minor miracle and now, two days later, we're back to humdrum fog city and already the memories of warmth fade away. Thirty-six hours of summer, that's all you get, San Francisco.
To celebrate (the weather going back to cold normal, and the failed plans for my evening), I ordered Chinese food and put on my Scottie Dog pajama pants. I love you, crab rangoon, sweet-n-sour pork, and chow mein. Love love boof.