So I have a certain amount of disdain for those who complain about the weather namely because it's neither very interesting nor very original. And I like to be both. Yet this particular breath of summer does have side effects beyond discovering new places on your body with sweat glands.
My tan is suffering because it is simply too hot to go to the beach. Our cuisine is suffering because it is simply too hot to contemplate crafting a lovely meal - I now consider cold cuts to be dinner. We bought a grown-up sized kiddie pool for eff's sake and it's too hot to sit in it!
This is a concern as devoted partner and I have been throwing darts at a map trying to determine if we would like to move somewhere completely different. And since I seem to be a far bigger baby when it comes to snow, all the places our darts have landed, thus far, have been south of here. Which means this delightful, moist airlessness will last longer. I console myself with the knowledge that once removed from the most expensive real estate this side of the Atlantic, we could possibly have a pool (and a dog).
I find myself having unwholesome anthropomorphic thoughts about our central air conditioning - thank god I haven't gone so far as to name it. Intimacy is an idea best achieved in one's mind or after the central air conditioning has set the mood, so to speak. The idea of turning any of the glorious summer produce into preserves, which I love having the rest of the year, is a galling one: I simply don't want to stand over a boiling spluttering pot of fruit mush.
So I have failed my test of not talking (complaining) about the weather. On the bright side, listening to/checking the forecast is totally useless for the next 3-4 weeks - you know exactly what you'll be getting.
3 days ago