Greetings my lovely feral, dark, and bright ones,

It is around 8:30 Sunday night as I finally sit down to finish writing this, and today was exactly the kind of day I needed. Nothing spectacular happened. We did not embark on some grand adventure, accomplish anything monumental, or have one of those supposedly life-changing Sundays where you reorganize every closet, meal-prep for the next seventeen years, and somehow emerge by bedtime as an entirely new human being.

We simply had a really nice, peaceful day.

We are fully into monsoon season here in Tucson, and I am loving every glorious, cloudy, rainy minute of it. Yesterday morning we woke up to rain, and today still carried that wonderful monsoon feeling—cooler temperatures, heavier air, gray skies, and clouds hanging over the mountains instead of the relentless blazing blue we see so much of the year. Tucson summers have all the subtlety of opening an oven door and sticking your entire body inside, so when the monsoons finally roll in, the whole desert seems to exhale.

My garden certainly does.

There is something almost magical about what actual rain does to plants here. You can faithfully stand outside with a hose, sweating your ass off while making sure everybody gets a drink, convincing yourself you are doing a perfectly respectable impersonation of Mother Nature. Then one good monsoon rolls through and every plant in the yard basically looks at you and says, “Oh, THIS is what we wanted.”

Rude, but fair.

Afterward, everything looks refreshed. Leaves deepen in color, flowers seem brighter, and that wonderful earthy smell rises from the wet desert ground. The breeze coming through the screens feels cooler, the light becomes softer, and for a while Tucson loses some of its harsh summer edges.

I grew up around green landscapes, trees, grass, and rain, so weather like this reaches something deep in me. I may live in the desert now, but apparently some part of my soul still sees a gray sky and immediately thinks, Ahhh, there you are.

Ronnie and I were both awake around 4:30 this morning because sleeping late on a Sunday is apparently an activity for other people. The funny thing is that we were both weirdly excited about the day ahead even though we had absolutely nothing extraordinary planned.

Maybe that was part of the appeal.

There was nowhere we had to rush off to, no giant agenda hanging over our heads, and no pressure to turn Sunday into some marathon of productivity just so we could feel appropriately accomplished by bedtime.

I had easy listening playing on the Echo early in the morning, then switched to soft jazz later as the weather settled into that wonderfully gloomy mood. There is something about jazz on a gray morning that just fits. Add animals wandering around the house, plants everywhere, coffee in my hand, and approximately seventeen unrelated thoughts fighting for custody of the same brain cell, and you have a fairly accurate picture of me before most sane people have finished breakfast.

Our newly screened-in patio has quickly become one of my favorite places to enjoy mornings like this. Ronnie did such a nice job with it that it no longer feels like just an outdoor slab attached to the house. It has become another living space, especially when the weather cooperates.

We have our gray and blue rattan furniture against the warm terracotta brick, surrounded by plants that seem to multiply every time nobody is looking. Our umbrella tree is leafing out beautifully, the angelonia has stalks loaded with buds, and our dracaena looks gorgeous in its green-and-burgundy glazed planter. The hanging basket has been showing off little yellow and pink purslane blooms that seem especially pleased with the monsoon humidity, and we have herbs tucked into the mix because apparently I have decided every available surface in our lives should eventually contain chlorophyll.

Do I think the patio needs more plants?

Of course I do.

What kind of ridiculous question is that?

I would eventually love to add an outdoor rug too, because I am physically incapable of looking at any room or space and declaring it finished forever. There is always another plant, rug, lamp, pillow, piece of art, or mysterious decorative object somewhere in the world waiting to convince me it has been missing from my life.

Our Celtic Tree of Life hangs against the brick wall, and an Echo Dot near the kitchen window provides the soundtrack. We have talked about eventually replacing our Echo Dots with Apple HomePod minis, but that is another rabbit hole for another day.

We also have a decent-size swamp cooler on the patio because while I may wax poetic about the romance of Arizona monsoons, I still have standards. Being slow-roasted alive like a Sunday chicken is not among my preferred spiritual experiences.

Kona, naturally, understands how the patio should be used better than anyone.

She curls up on one of the chairs on a colorful quilt and sleeps with the complete confidence of someone who believes the rent, utilities, landscaping, and furniture were all arranged specifically for her comfort. I doubt Kona concerns herself with trivial legal distinctions such as whose name is actually on anything.

In her mind, it is her patio.

We are staff.

Looking through the screens into the backyard after the rain is one of my favorite views. Along the fence we have cacti and agaves mixed with Texas Sage, Jasmine, Lavender, our little red pepper plant, butterfly bush, and a palm tree. Right in the middle of the yard stands the bottle tree Ronnie bought me two years ago.

When we got it, it was only about five feet tall.

Now it has grown well beyond that.

I love seeing that kind of growth because when you look at something every day, you do not always notice it changing. Then one morning you really look at it and think, Holy shit, when did you get that big?

Plants quietly get on with the business of growing while the rest of us are distracted by work, bills, laundry, groceries, and whatever fresh nonsense the universe has scheduled for Tuesday.

The dogs, meanwhile, have their pool sitting out on the gravel, and Winston absolutely loves that damn thing. He will charge into it, splash around, jump back out, and tear across the yard with the zoomies as though someone has strapped a rocket to his ass.

This would make perfect sense if Winston did not also hate rain.

The same dog who will enthusiastically fling himself into a pool will stand under the covered patio staring suspiciously at a wet yard as though we are asking him to cross a crocodile-infested swamp. One paw touches a puddle and suddenly he is a Victorian orphan facing unspeakable hardship.

Apparently pool water is acceptable.

Sky water is bullshit.

I do not make the rules. Winston does.

While he conducts his ongoing protest against precipitation, I can sit on the patio watching birds move between the feeders with the Rincon Mountains in the distance. Nothing dramatic is happening out there, and that is precisely what makes it so wonderful. The plants are wet, the birds are busy being birds, the dogs are engaged in whatever bizarre business they have deemed urgent, and music drifts through the screens.

For a little while, the world feels small enough to hold.

And this morning, I had something very important back in my hand while enjoying it.

Real coffee.

My magic bean potion has returned.

We officially decided to stop drinking the mushroom coffee. We had been drinking RYZE, and for a little while I even looked into trying Erth Labs because apparently my first instinct when something does not work is to research twelve alternative versions before accepting that perhaps I simply want my damn coffee back.

Ronnie had started having digestive problems while drinking it and was losing weight again, which he absolutely does not need to do. When something is screwing with his gut while causing him to lose weight he does not need to lose, I really do not care how many miraculous wellness benefits are printed on the package.

His body cast a vote.

It was not subtle.

The mushroom coffee was also getting expensive every month, but there was an even simpler truth: I missed real coffee.

I missed the smell while it brewed, the richness, the flavor, and that unmistakable first sip. I wanted something that tasted unapologetically like coffee instead of a wellness product wearing a coffee costume and hoping nobody asked too many questions.

So the magic beans are back.

Damn, I missed them.

I have also lost about five pounds recently, which I am certainly not complaining about. I have no idea whether the mushroom coffee contributed to that or whether it has more to do with the supplements I have been taking, so I am not handing out credit where I cannot prove credit is due.

All I know is five pounds disappeared, and if they would like to take several of their closest friends with them on the way out, I will not interfere.

Because my brain apparently refuses to remain in one lane for longer than fifteen minutes, the morning also included an extensive rabbit hole about my hair.

I have a LOT of hair. It is naturally wavy, there is enough of it to supply several additional heads, and what I want from hair products is pretty simple: moisture, smoothness, shine, and control without weighing everything down.

What I do not need is volume.

Yet somehow I kept encountering recommendations for volumizing shampoo.

Have you seen my hair?

If anything, my hair needs someone standing nearby whispering, “Calm down. There is no emergency.”

I do not need to encourage it.

After wandering through recommendations involving Pureology, Kenra, Redken, OUAI, and eventually Oribe, I bought the Oribe Supershine shampoo and conditioner. I finally got to try them today, and I think I am going to love them.

The first thing that surprised me was how little product I needed. With the amount of hair I have, I am accustomed to using enough shampoo to make the bottle visibly nervous, so discovering that a small amount actually worked through my hair was impressive. It lathered beautifully, the conditioner spread through without needing half the bottle, and my first impression is that this may actually be one of those products where the higher price makes more sense because you are not using a giant handful every time you wash your hair.

Obviously, I have used it once, so I am not ready to pledge eternal loyalty and build Oribe a shrine in the bathroom.

But so far?

I am impressed.

And yes, I like nice things. I am 55 years old. I have paid my dues in Suave.

If I want shampoo that makes washing this enormous mane feel luxurious, I am okay with that.

Apparently my Sunday was also destined to involve a completely different obsession.

Autumn.

Yes, I know it is July.

No, I do not care.

Ronnie and I went to Michaels, where they had already begun putting out autumn and Halloween merchandise, otherwise known as things specifically designed to destroy whatever illusion of self-control I might have possessed.

There were witches, ravens, bleeding candles, miniature spooky things, and all manner of glorious seasonal temptation apparently created by people who understand that some of us are emotionally finished with summer by approximately May 17.

We found a Witch’s Workspace book nook kit that lights up, a raven candle holder, bleeding taper candles, a reading witch statue, a little woodland fox sitting under a mushroom reading a book, a vintage-style Halloween sign, and artwork with witches gathered around a cauldron.

Of course I loved all of it.

And apparently buying autumn decorations was not enough commitment to the cause.

I also bought pumpkin-shaped cookies to bake.

Because if I am going to celebrate autumn while it is still approximately nine thousand degrees outside, I might as well fully commit to the delusion. Nothing says “cozy autumn afternoon” quite like turning on the oven in Tucson in July and baking pumpkin-shaped cookies while the air conditioner quietly questions every decision that led us here.

Then I found Horizon Organic Pumpkin Cinnamon Roll Creamer.

Excuse me?

Pumpkin.

Cinnamon roll.

Creamer.

Obviously that came home with me.

I had only just returned to drinking my beloved magic bean potion, and apparently the universe decided to welcome me back properly.

Summer and I have not been on speaking terms for quite some time now. Monsoon season is the exception because summer occasionally shows up with dark clouds, cooler air, and rain and offers what I consider a half-assed apology for everything it has put me through since May.

Give me gray skies, moody mornings, witches, ravens, candles, pumpkins, books, plants, old-world things, and dark corners glowing with warm lamps. That feels far more like me than blazing sun and 105 degrees while somebody cheerfully announces it is a “beautiful day.”

Beautiful for whom?

A lizard?

At this point, if pumpkin-shaped cookies are waiting to go into my oven, pumpkin cinnamon roll creamer is going into my coffee, witches are appearing around my house, and monsoon clouds are hanging over Tucson, I have declared autumn.

The calendar can file an appeal.

I have also been enjoying making my own little spooky miniature scene. It has an archway with a white owl perched above it, tiny books with names like Nevermore and Web Weaver, bright moss mixed with darker textured moss, two little witches near a blue cauldron, and a glossy black tiered fountain.

There is something ridiculously satisfying about creating a tiny world with your hands. You move a piece of moss half an inch, reposition a miniature witch, stare at the whole thing for ten minutes, decide she looked better where she was originally, move her back, and somehow this constitutes an excellent use of your time.

Maybe it is creativity. Maybe it is imagination.

Maybe I simply enjoy tiny witchy shit.

All three can be true.

Our fur family wandered through the day too, as they always do. Jasmine is our oldest ferret now, and she was my first, which still gets me when I stop and think about it. She is the one who started this entire ferret adventure—the tunnels, blankets, toys, room setups, ridiculous purchases, and eventual acceptance that tiny furry criminals apparently require their own interior-design budget.

Then, sometime this afternoon, I accomplished something truly magnificent.

I took a two-hour nap with Winston and Kona.

There is something deeply comforting about an afternoon nap when the weather is gloomy and peaceful, especially with two dogs nearby. I did not set an alarm or lie there mentally cataloging everything I “should” be doing. I simply curled up, closed my eyes, and slept for two glorious hours with Winston and Kona.

When did resting become something adults feel they have to justify anyway?

If I were a cat, nobody would question a two-hour nap. They would take pictures and call me adorable.

Therefore, I am adopting cat rules.

The nap was glorious.

No regrets.

We did eventually venture out to our local Asian market, and I love wandering through markets like that because shopping becomes an experience instead of a chore. The shelves are filled with ingredients, sauces, noodles, teas, snacks, produce, spices, and all kinds of things you would never see in the average grocery store. Some are familiar, some are completely new, and half the fun is picking something up and wondering whether you have just discovered your next favorite thing.

Of course, there is always risk involved.

Sometimes you try something unfamiliar and immediately wonder where it has been all your life. Other times you take one bite, look silently at the person next to you, and both understand that whatever just entered your mouths must never be discussed again.

That is the gamble.

One of the things we brought home was brown and red jasmine rice, and we had it tonight with ribs and corn on the cob.

It was a damn good dinner.

Nothing fancy, nothing complicated—just ribs, sweet corn, and a new rice we decided to try. I especially liked that something we discovered while wandering through the market actually made it onto our dinner plates the same day instead of being shoved into a cabinet with grand intentions, only to be discovered six months later hiding behind a can of beans like an archaeological artifact from a civilization that once believed we were adventurous cooks.

Look at us.

We bought the rice.

We ate the rice.

Functional adulthood achieved.

Yesterday we had also stopped at a Mediterranean market, which presented an entirely different category of danger because I found two of my favorite treats.

Halva and marzipan.

Naturally, I bought both.

I love that dense, crumbly, nutty sweetness of halva, and I have always adored the rich almond flavor of marzipan. Seeing both sitting there was basically the universe saying, “Rae, buy the damn treats.”

Who am I to argue with the universe?

I also picked up some new teas to try because tea has become another little pleasure I have been exploring lately. My current obsession is a London Fog, and there is something about it that reaches me in a way an ordinary cup of tea does not.

The Earl Grey brings that beautiful citrusy-floral bergamot aroma, softened by vanilla and warm milk. Even before the first sip, there is something comforting about wrapping both hands around the mug and breathing it in while everything around me grows quieter.

It is relaxing to my soul.

Maybe that sounds dramatic for tea, but I do not care.

Sometimes a cup of tea is just a cup of tea. Other times it becomes a tiny ritual that tells you there is nowhere else you need to be for the next few minutes.

And maybe that is what I liked most about this entire weekend.

None of it felt forced.

We were not trying to make memories or manufacture some profound meaning out of an ordinary Sunday. We were simply living it, moving naturally from one thing to another and enjoying whatever caught our attention along the way.

There was no enormous revelation waiting for me at the end of the day, and I am glad.

Not every good day needs to teach us something.

Sometimes a good day is allowed to just be good.

Now the house is quieting down for bedtime. The fur babies are settling into their nighttime routines, dinner is long gone, and that early morning already feels farther away. I am sitting here thinking about how full a day can feel even when absolutely nothing monumental happens.

Tomorrow will bring whatever tomorrow brings. There will be work and responsibilities, animals demanding immediate assistance with matters they consider critically important, plants requiring attention, another decorating idea I absolutely did not need, and probably at least three completely unnecessary rabbit holes for me to disappear into before lunch.

But tonight, I am content.

There are pumpkin-shaped cookies waiting to be baked, pumpkin cinnamon roll creamer waiting for my morning coffee, new teas to try, and an unreasonable number of witches beginning to appear around my house despite what July thinks about the matter.

As for the marzipan?

I have no idea what you are talking about.

There was never any marzipan.

You cannot prove a thing.

Hang tight, folks.

I’ll be back.