The weather this summer has been less than ideal; far less than ideal. If it’s not raining for days and nights on end, it's likely that the heat and humidity index is sufficient that I have crossed ironing my summer cotton wardrobe off my list. I just put a shirt or shorts on all wrinkled and disheveled and after two minutes outdoors, they’re as smooth as permanent press.
It’s bad enough that my summer days have been limited ever since my birth in the land of the north. Close to the Canadian border, I am lucky to count on June, July and August for temperatures high enough to pack away the Cuddl Duds and expose my sickly white flesh to those essential Vitamin D boosting rays of the sun.
I’ve gone through more than half of all the summers I’m ever going to get. The older I get, the more precious the salad days of sunshine and balmy breezes become to me. Every single one that I am cheated out of fills me with resentment and an urge to shake my fist and rail at the gods of weather.
So far this summer I have been either cold and wet, or wet and sticky and I can’t get that darn quack, quack, waddle, waddle song out of my head. “We are nippersinkers, we’re in luck, if it rains all week just pretend you’re a duck.”
In fact, I’m so desperate that if I thought doing a sun dance at high noon in the village square, naked except for my rubber rain boots, would guarantee the next thirty days of summer unfold in the low 80s' with a balmy western breeze (make that the last 30 days – one and the same around here), I’d be shakin’ my tush off.
Do the butt dance . . .
(_|_) (_\_) (_|_) (_/_) (_|_) (_\_)
. . . doo, doo, doo, doo . . .
Not sure that would have much affect on the weather, but it would certainly give new meaning to the name MAD Goddess around here.
I’ve got places to go, people to see and things to do that don’t accommodate rain dates. I’ve been in my swimming pool twice this year – and one of those times was to bail the water down after a deluge so my air mattress wouldn’t float over the edge with the over flow.
The only thing this weather is good for is growing mushrooms and mold. Come to think of it, this jungle climate has me feeling a lot like a moldy mushroom and at this age I could go bad real fast.
Maybe I could just install fluorescent lighting fixtures in my “sun” room, fit them out with tanning bulbs, turn the fan on, haul the deck furniture inside, mix up a pitcher of umbrella drinks and call the girls over for for a little age-preservation therapy.
. . . . . . mid
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