Covered in day old sunscreen and a smidgen of fresh puppy spit, I want to remind everyone ice water is delicious. It’s almost June.

The Sinaloan woman on the Tucson to Nogales shuttle does not care for Sonora: “There are no trees and the dry heat of the desert is inferior to the humid heat of Culiacan, which keeps one’s hair wonderful and curly all the time.”

A Sonoran woman tries to be diplomatic: “There is a lot of life in the desert, but it’s different life. Also, when I go to Sinaloa, I immediately miss carne asada. I need tacos.”

Another woman from somewhere else gets on the shuttle as we are leaving South Tucson and sits with them. They arrange their purses, hold hands, and start praying, asking for a safe trip and thanking God for all they have.

Once they have said amen, the Sinaloan laments how much Tucson has changed. “The quality of the stores is so bad now.”

The Sonoran says, “I like Macy’s and JC Penney. I always find things I like.” Then she maneuvers to the front of the van and sits in the passenger seat.

The Sinaloan continues without missing a beat: “Everything at Dillard’s is awful.”

The driver puts on Spanish language Christian music.

The Sonoran turns to the Sinaloan and asks: “Is it true that el Chapo financed Peña Nieto’s campaign?”

“No. That is absolutely not true.”

Blah, blah, blah. Then the three women begin talking about God and Jesus and who will go to heaven the way people talk about their favorite basketball players and who will make it to the playoffs. Children are going to heaven, of course they are. However, people who find ways to get the government to pay for their sex change operations are not going to heaven.

If I enjoyed cooking for myself as much as I do preparing even the simplest healthy meal for the two of us, Top Ramen would need a divorce lawyer.

If you don’t get a good night’s sleep you may never discover your building has a secret penthouse with monorail and scale model maquiladora.

At New Year's Eve mass in Hermosillo it dawned on me that the Psalm on the wall about fearing God could easily be set to the tune of "Santa Clause is Coming to Town". Then a man is a Santa suit drinking brandy from a plastic Coca Cola bottle showed up and hugged the priest while he was giving communion.

The news that Southern California used car dealer Cal Worthington has died reminded me of something from when we were kids in Santa Ana in 1972.

One day a salesman came to the door and asked my mother how much we spent on bottled water every month. After she told him, he replied that for the same price, we could be drinking as much generic root beer as we wanted. My mother closed the door and my brothers and I looked at her like she must not have understood.

“Didn’t you hear? He said we could be drinking ROOT BEER for the price of water!”

Then she went back to my baby sister’s diapers, a phone call, or a nap. And we went back to Gilligan’s Island, Brady Bunch, and Cal Worthington and his dog Spot.

We went to our favorite spot on Sandy Beach this afternoon.

Although the water and rising tide were fine for swimming, the wind is still cool enough that we decided to stay on the shore and just enjoy the sun and the breeze and our beers. Sundown came around. I asked a passerby for a photo and noted that sunsets from that spot are actually more scenic during the winter because the sun is out over the sea. Now it’s setting behind the hotels and condominiums.

Last year a Tucsonan who has owned a vacation home here since the Eighties was telling me she didn’t like Sandy Beach much anymore. All the hotels have ruined it for her. At the time I thought it was just sour grapes for the masses now enjoying the things that had brought her here in the first place. I suppose if one of those those things was seeing the sun set over the desert and its dunes, the estuaries, and the Pinacate range in the distance all at once while sitting on the beach, I understand.

Day of the Dead. Today, I'm honoring the memory of my mother, whose sacrifices and perspectives I appreciate and miss every day. Her ofrenda would include a box of Jordan Almonds, dark cherries, black walnut ice cream, an LP of The Sound of Music soundtrack, fresh biscuits with butter and honey. Dr Pepper. A frayed paper nativity scene alongside a dream catcher.

Of course, if my mother's spirit is true to her earthly self, the holiday would hardly require an entire day. It goes something like this: Her soul arrives at the open door, spots the ofrenda and insists: “What's that? Well I'm not coming in. Which of your Catholic friends put you up to this? Get in the car. We're NOT staying!”

Questioning if that hot dog was really the answer.

These days, people want either a big dog or a small dog.

Until people started mistaking me for you, I didn't realize just how high you had raised the bar for me to just be myself.

You know?

What did the original cover of the 1983 Peter Godwin recording, Correspondence, look like? I only remember it didn't look like this. And what were the names of those two songs by other artists from that same time period? The one a sultry recitation of New York City personal ads at the time and a chorus that went: "Person, to person, to personal announcements." The other half-spoken, half-sung by a fey voice with a seemingly feigned British accent intoning: "Cardboard sidewalks. Breakdance! Breakdance!" I can't remember and typing the words person-to-person and cardboard sidewalks into a search engine is useless.

I don't remember if I was counting lasagna noodles into boiling water or measuring diced onion in a cup when my nephew, who was going through some kind of superlative phase at the time, exclaimed, "That is more than anyone has ever done before!" Although he was saying that about everything at the time, it was perhaps flattering taking into account it was only dinner for six.

I am wondering now how many times has this woman served me breakfast? I don't know that either. Once again, though, I have forgotten to use the mustard I always remember to ask her for.

Leaving the tip and waving to you, I think about how I don't know your name anymore, but I can picture clearly and even feel the cool and breezy afternoon long after what's-his-name introduced us when I stopped worrying if your quirky mix of attention and indifference was shyness or scorn.

And which of my friends was it who came out of the restroom shocked because the man at the urinal next to him was peeing arms akimbo? You tell me. This afternoon I remembered to do the same after almost an hour of sorting through compact discs at the bargain music store and not wanting to touch myself because I hadn't washed my hands first.

Who knows the names of the other three people who have told me I look like that one guy? I only remember it's you and the woman I always see in the checkout line, so there are five of you.