How I Know It's Hot

It's hot. Not that I'm complaining, believe me...this is what I dream of when I'm cranky and whiney in February. But, it is hot, I'm just saying.

We've had the air conditioner on far more this summer than any other summer, I think. And I hate having the air conditioner on; I'd far rather have the windows open and let the breeze in. (When there is a breeze, mind you.)

How I Know It's Hot:

• Toby has spend the day asleep on the glass coffe table in the living room. He has reached a state of, as my friend Barb says, "cat butter".
• When I went for a run with my friend Tracey this morning, I felt as though I was running with a wet sleeping bag over my head.
• The bathroom door will only open with some strong persuasion and a good talking to. Guests are held hostage until we can wrestle the door open and let them out.
• I base my week's menus on what does not heat up the kitchen. We are likely to have cereal and cold beans for dinner. Toast is too much work.
• There is very little point in ironing anything. All my clothes look like I've been wrestling pigs in a sauna by the time I get to work, no matter what I do.
• Every drinking glass that gets put down leaves a small lake on the table.
• When you get in the car, you end up trying to steer by ESP, since holding the steering wheel is impossible until the air conditioner ramps up.
• Ice cream is an acceptable choice for breakfast.
• I see way, WAY more of other people's bountiful flesh than I ever want to. Yesterday, at McDonald's on the highway, there was a woman wearing a bathing suit and a bra, and little else. I get that it's hot, but come on.
• The cicadas are buzzing like jet engines all day and well into the night.
• Our neighbours went away for a week and they came back to find their pool water is the same colour as their lawn.
• All I want to do is lay in the backyard and let my mind wander. Oh, wait...that happens all year round.