Smoke but no mirrors

Is there anything worse than a telephone conference call?  Why yes, there is.

What’s worse than a telephone conference call?   Being in charge of that conference call.   That’s how my day started: with the dreaded morning conference call.  I’m not sure why I dread the call so much–during the call, it’s fine.  After the call, I realize it wasn’t so bad. But before?  I dread.

After the call, I worked for a few more hours, then quit working a couple of hours early.  (I worked overtime last week.)  I’d dreamed briefly of a pedicure or a movie or lying on my bed, reading all afternoon.  But the extra two hours instead turned into de-cluttering and straightening up and cleaning off my desk, all while watching the constant local news coverage of the brush fire that had popped up about ten miles away.

Then I had to go pick up my son from his high school which was dismissing early because of poor air quality.  As I drove over to pick him up I could see columns of smoke from three separate fires billowing into the sky.  Waiting in the line to sign him out, I witnessed a dad losing his mind over the requirement that he sign out his kid–he was yelling and gesturing and finally pushed his way past the waiting parents standing in line to get his son.  The lady behind me mentioned that he was upset because their neighborhood was being evacuated.

So, free pass to that dad.  You are allowed to lose your mind when you’re worrying about picking up your kid before you evacuate your burning neighborhood.

If you look at a map, it seems like we’re surrounded by burning hillsides and canyons.  Eight separate fires have raged and ravaged today near us, but we are not in any immediate danger.  The air smells of smoke, though, and school is canceled.  I’m hoping that when we wake up the fires have subsided and that the winds will be calmer.  It was about a hundred degrees here today with gusts of hot wind.

In non-related news, here’s a recent conversation I had with the order-taker at the drive-thru at McDonald’s:

Him:  Can I take your order?

Me:  Yes.  Can you tell me–what is a Horchata frappe?

Him:  Huh?

Me:  The Horchata frappe? What is that flavor?

Him:  Um, just a minute.  [Insert two minutes of complete silence.]

Him:  Uh, the Horchata frappe is a frappe made with Horchata.

Me:  . . . .

(Fortunately, my iPhone knew the answer.)