Most of the time my house is bearable. It may be hot, but the ceiling fans, ugly as they are, serve their purpose. I brag to folks who rely on air conditioning to survive that we don't use it and it's just great and we should all save the earth by cutting down on all that and blah blah.
There come a few weeks in July/August each year that just slap me in the face and give me a stern lecture about bragging about how well I tolerate the heat. Those days are here.
Everything smells. I clean, wash dishes, take out the trash, clean the litter box, freshen the carpet with that powder that's supposed to absorb oder. One second after I throw a piece of trash into the freshly lined trashcan, it starts stinking again. The dog and cat do nothing but lie on the floor. "Do something with your lives!" I shout. It's no good. Occasionally the dog will munch an ice cube if I give her one, but that's about it.
Yesterday I wore shorts. Shorts! That's a big deal for one as cold blooded as myself.
It's not all bad. Tonight there is a charity clothing swap at a hip boutique. I have been assured that all the sylish ladies of Asheville have donated so I'm hoping to score some fabulous threads for back to school.
I have completely neglected my front yard. I must go hose it down. Yes, I am officially complaining about the heat.
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