I've been back in Tucson as an official resident since July 1. I've learned being native doesn't mean desert heat and I are naturally simpatico. Before I turn this into a Fitzsimmons cartoon (not that there's anything wrong with that), I want you to know the exact moment I embraced the heat and came home. 

One night, 2 1/2 months after the move, I was at the Brandi Carlile show at the Rialto. Sure, the music helped, but what happened was close to religious -- it was a sweat lodge due to all of the people on the general admission floor. Perhaps it was the flashback to the last time I remember true bliss in Tucson -- standing in the middle of Club Congress at a Camper Van Beethoven show. It was a sweat lodge ... it was heaven. 

There are those at music venues, however, who disturb these experiences. When did it become en vogue for young ladies to bring large handbags to shows? I remember putting my ID and cash in my pocket. What else did I need? The large-purse users whacked me several times. Use Queen Elizabeth as your role model. Take a small bag, or use your pockets. It is not nice to hit fellow concert goers with your large squishy metallic designer bags, especially during a religious experience. 

On the flip side of religion and returning home, last weekend, my worlds collided. I accompanied my husband to Yom Kippur services Friday night. I left early to attend the funeral rosary of my mother's cousin at Carrillo's Mortuary. There, in the shadow of the cathedral, I was surrounded by family all holding rosaries. The only real comfort was sitting with my mom on one side and my first cousin on the other. I thought to myself, "What great company we are -- three people who've turned the moral compass of my family upside down: my mother who gave birth out of wedlock, my cousin who came out to me when she helped me move to Seattle, and me, the girl who gave up the rosary for Yom Kippur. 

It's good to be back Tucson.