Dear Arizona

Happy belated birthday, Arizona. By this time next year, many of us will have recently celebrated your centennial. How exciting is THAT? Yes, it's true, a good contingent of your residents will probably figure it's not worth it, what with the end of the world upon us and all. (That is, if we're even still around after May 21 this year.) Those people will probably miss your 100th birthday, barricaded as they'll be behind armaments and emergency provisions and stacks of credit bills they amassed when they figured the world was done for. But not most of us. Most of us are still trying. Most of us are still sane.

We've gone a bit crazy, haven't we, Arizona? We're sorry. Don't worry, you're still a great state. You're hot and dry and extreme, and your people are even more so. Your landscape is rocky, and your people even more so. Your critters and plants are rough and prickly and deep rooted and real pains in the asses, and your people? Yeah. You know where I'm going.

This has led to some bad stuff, for sure.

That's what's come to define you to the rest of the country lately, but that's not what defines you for Arizonans. I wanted you to know we remember that.

You, Arizona, are two-hundred-year-old saguaros, home to countless birds, with big waxy flowers that open at night. The first saguaro bloom I remember first blossomed the evening of my seventh birthday and attracted bats. I'd never seen a bat. I thought I was magical or something. I thought this place must be.

You're the dirt-caked undersides of upturned silicate rocks, scorpions clinging fast and flat. You are arroyos cut through the dry landscape by decades and centuries of flash floods ("washes" for those of us who grew up sustaining countless lacerations playing in them). You're turquoise waterfalls and deep blue pools; you're rushing rivers that churn up sediment until they resemble chocolate milk. You're lazy rivers and the lazier tubers who get sunburned on your rivers, trailing tubes of beer behind. You're a sandwich my mom packed for a fifteen-mile hike, and the perfect boulder that exists somewhere in the Superstition Mountains, which cradled me while I ate the sandwich. (You're not, however, Ramen Noodles and instant oatmeal, which comprised my entire diet while I camped in the Grand Canyon, and which I cannot stomach to this day. I don't blame you for that.)

You're foxtail seeds in our socks and desert breeze in our hair. You're speckled cactus wrens with their raspy calls, fourth-generation cotton farmers, modern-day pioneers, and the guy I know who sells cactus jelly and has a million unbelievable (in both senses) tales. You're cholla cactus forests so big the ends reach the horizon. You're the Grand Canyon, ancient cliff dwellings and the OK Corrall. You attract everyone from learned geologists and historians to fanny-packed, trucker-hat-wearing tourists, and somehow you manage to make them all feel welcome.

You're the event invites in my inbox, to (staged) cowboy shootouts, horse and burro auctions, skydiving, cave treks, spider feedings, salsa tastings, and chili festivals. You (along with my son an an abnormal, innate curiosity) are the reason I will never be bored.

You're spring training, wineries, the olive mill, and trail rides. You're artist enclaves and private household arsenals. You're the most progressive environmentalists I'll ever know, and also hunters and rodeo cowboys. You're what made me acquire, and later shed, my cynicism and stereotypes. Honestly, you're really damn hard to live in sometimes, and while I'm never ashamed of my state, I have been ashamed of individual Arizonans. But you've forced me to deal with the world and people as they truly are; nuances, compromises, bullshit, and all; and I am stronger for it.

You're conservative, sure, on balance, but most of your people are just ... people. We rightfully pay extra attention to borders here -- the state's boundaries and our own ideological outliers. But this isn't about that. This goes out to the heart of Arizona -- and as someone living (geographically) south of center and (politically) left of center, I'm still not so far from the middle that I can't see that it's where most people live, ideologically.

You're the Grand Canyon State, but you're also the Copper State, Apache State, Aztec State, Sunset State, Baby State, State I Used to Think I Hated, State I Now (Usually) Love, State to Which I Don't Deserve to Lay A Claim Despite People Thinking I'm An Expert for Some Reason, State of Which I've Seen Far Too Little, and the State the Rest of the Country Seems to Think is Backward and/or Exotic.

It seems most appropriate that one of the most maligned and misunderstood states should celebrate its birthday on such a maligned and stereotyped holiday. I guess, given your own propensity for being behind the curve in most things, Arizona, it's appropriate that this goes out late. I know you'll understand.

There is more to Valentine's Day than misanthropes would like to admit, and there is much more to you, Arizona. We just don't always do a great job of reflecting your better side. Completely our bad.

Happy belated birthday. Happy belated Valentine's. Here's to hoping we make it to 100.

Valentine's Day

Here's what my husband didn't get me for Valentine's Day this year:

Overpriced flowers:
Yeah, yeah, nothing says love like a bundle of decapitated vegetation. Does it seem odd to anyone else that it's become tradition to proclaim everlasting love and commitment with a dying or dead gift? Not the best symbolism, if you ask me. Which you haven't. But my husband, smart guy that he is, has. And he listened.

Fancy restaurant meal:
Yes, I know, nothing is more romantic than wooing and soliciting family members to babysit, having a protracted passive-aggressive argument because we both want the other one to "pick" the place, and overpaying to be wedged between the asses of other packed-like-sardines suckers waiting for three hours to eat at a crowded restaurant where we will be rushed through our meal so the next group can hork down their meals. But it's just not in the cards this year. I'd rather go some other day, preferably at an off-hour, when my husband's Sean Connery impression and my son's overly specific narrative about bathroom habits will garner a minimum of glares.

Dancing:
Yeah, right. I don't think I've made too awful of an impression -- of those of you who have had the misfortune of seeing me attempt dancing in real life, I've only done it once in the presence of each of you. But let me assure you: the falling-on-my-ass-under-some-guy's-groin incident, the guy who assumed I was drunk because I was performing no moves ever in style (nay, in existence), the ten-steps-behind attempt to learn a salsa move or two, and the clubbing-dancing experience that I dare not expound upon in mixed company -- these are not flukes. Dancing + me = disaster. Dancing + me + my husband = disaster times two.

Frilly, foofy, girly stuff:
You know, everyone thumbs their noses at gift cards, because it "doesn't take any thought." But seriously, how much thought and consideration would my husband be showing if he got me fancy earrings or a spa certificate, knowing I'd far prefer a gift card to Border's? And pink anything = blech.

What my husband did get me this year:

A card:
Know this guys: You could spring upon your lady a tropical vacation, two dozen roses, pearl earrings that were perfect for her tastes, and a thousand-dollar shopping spree (and even be willing to go with her), and she'd still want to know where the card is. And for the love of ever getting some Valentine's Night, don't just sign your name. Fortunately, my husband knows all this, and even appears to thoroughly mean all the sweet, poetic things he writes in the card. Plus, I know he picks out all cards for me with our son at his heels:
"Dad, let's get Mom this one!"
"I don't think she wants the Incredible Hulk."
"What about this one?"
"Or the Fantastic Four."
"Oooh! This one!"
"You know we're not picking them out for you. Mom doesn't really want SpongeBob."
"But the one you picked looks boring ... Hey, why does the guy on this card look wet? And he has a banana over his..."
"Hey! Where's the SpongeBob card again?"

I don't know who could help but appreciate the effort put into such a gift.

A living plant (roses):
Do I find the line in my card "I bought you a live plant because I see our relationship thriving and growing" kind of cheesy? Sure. But not nearly as much as I find it sweet, and exactly what I wanted.

Chocolate:
Spontaneity is great for trips and romantic gestures and such, but it's highly overrated when it comes to gift choices. Thankfully, my husband knows this. He also knows exactly where to find really good dark chocolates. And that he'd better not eat them all after buying them for me.

Time:
He worked Valentine's Day, so it's likely that after coming home late he would have rather just konked out, or maybe drowned his stress in a few mindless hours of computer gaming. But he listens to me talk about writing, and David's latest misadventure, and lovey dovey stuff. He's cool like that.

So recap: Card + healthy plant + chocolate + my husband listening to me prattle = (to quote a certain Steve Martin movie) That's all I need.

What I got him:

A card:
A funny one, because one of our greatest bonds is that we can make each other laugh until I make this really ugly-doofy face and he makes this sound like a donkey with emphysema. But also with a message from me, containing the very true but pretty sappy sentiment that (don't tell anyone) he really wants.

A DVD:
Because there's really no guy-department equivalent to stuffed animals and heart-shaped everything.

Reasonable immunity:
I promised not to discuss a certain funny incident involving someone's boxer short collection. So I can't talk about any of them. Not the ones with a character whose name rhymes with Schmopeye the Tailor Fan, who has an affinity for a certain greenery; not the ones with a certain fluffy blue, gluttonous character whose name rhymes with Schnookie Fonster. And definitely not the ones with the glow in the...
Promise. Immunity. Right. Never mind.

David got us both cards and goodies. My card has about a thousand hearts, and a handwritten message that says "I love you Mom. You take me on walks." Aww.