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Entries in summer (3)


Gone is the summer of my discontent


I’m sure it is of no surprise to anyone that summer is not my favorite season. While others bask in the sunshine, laze by the lake, picnic on the patio, and devour s’mores around the campfire, I can be found sucking up all the ice-cold beverages and air-conditioning I can handle.

Am I the only miserable person on the planet because of summer?  .

I know I’m a terrible person.  It’s unheard of to hate summer.  How dare I? 

Summer. The season where intelligent beings are reduced to watching Wipeout while waiting on the fall TV season. Sweat. And did I say bad TV?  Really bad.

Football withdrawals.

Ill-tempered drivers. 

Hot car door handles.

Hot steering wheels.

Forget about going barefoot. 

But, whatever you do, don’t forget the sunscreen.

Ah, but all that is behind me now.  It is September and the temps in Vegas have gone from the 110s to the high 90s.  I may need to don my winter coat. Vegas locals have thin blood, which is partially from the free booze at the casinos, but mostly from the weather.

My ever-present OCD has me making a spreadsheet listing the fall TV shows and their start dates and times.  I refuse to miss a single episode of Dancing With the Stars or Scandal

Football is nigh and I am giddy. Oh Peyton, how I’ve missed you!

Soon I will be able to open a car door without using a towel to keep from getting scalded.  That, in and of itself, is epic.  You’d have to be a Vegasite to understand.

Summer! I bid you a fond farewell! I would say I’m going to miss you, but instead, I’m doing the happy dance.  You know the dance.  It’s just like the one parents do on their kids’ first day back to school.





Don't wake me until September

Yes folks, summer is upon us.  And I’m living the nightmare dream.

Bikinis, cool drinks, BBQ’s, outdoor concerts, swimming pools, the ice cream truck, no school, and the yearly vacation in the trusty family truckster.  Wally World here we come!

That’s what summer means to a lot of people.

But for me?  Not so much.

Summer is to me like winter is to someone living in Minnesota.  I dread it every year, and I swear that it seems longer Every. Single. Year.  Maybe that is because of global warming.  Thanks a lot, all you hairspray abusers from the 80s out there. I’m melting and it’s because of you and your need for big hair.

Having lived in Las Vegas for almost nine years, one would think I would hate summer because of the 110+ temperatures from late May until early September.  Oh wait, that is why I hate summer!  However, I was never very fond of summer, even long before I moved to the desert.  I lived in Ohio before Vegas, and although the summer was not as long, it still kicked my ass with the heat and humidity. It really brought out the worst side of me. I was a grumpy bitch. I fretted and I mumbled. I was dripping sweat all the time. I even perspired while getting out of the shower.  It was not pretty, people. My apologies for any visuals you may have conjured up that you will never be able to un-see.  Consider it a gift.

Second only to the heat, mosquitos and creepy-crawly critters make me want to wrap myself up in a box and mail it to Alaska.  I’m not proud to be a squeamish fraidy-cat. However, “Damn the conservationists!  The world would do just fine with a lot less spiders and snakes.”  They are all just sneaky little spawn of Satan! 

My third reason for hating summer would be my poor hands.  All summer long, I get burned touching the car door handle. You’d think I would just stop that behavior, but it’s not easy.  I never seem to remember to bring along anything to put between my hands and that gaud-awful freakishly hot vehicle.  It’s just not right. The car industry needs to invent a cooling mechanism for said handles that can be remotely controlled or even triggered to immediately cool down after reaching a certain temperature.  I wonder if anyone has thought of that. I could invent it and go on Shark Tank and be mocked, humiliated and insulted by a panel of rich assholes.  What an adventure that would be!

But I digress, as I’ve been guilty of so many times in the past. Forgive me. I didn’t have my oatmeal this morning. You might want to keep your distance today.  I could blow any minute.

My fourth and final reason for hating summer is the dance I call The Thermostat Shuffle.  You may not be familiar with the name, but I’ll bet you’ve experienced the dance.  It requires two participants with opposing preferences for room temperature. The way it works is Dancer #1 does the sneaky slide over to the thermostat, hoping not to be noticed by Dancer #2. It is just too freaking cold in the room, and she has to make her move before morphing into a human Popsicle. She changes the thermostat setting with one smooth flick of the wrist, and then glides away, ever so graceful and pleased with herself.

Shortly thereafter, Dancer #2 begins fanning her face because of the sudden lack of coolness in the room. With stealth-like precision, she leaps from the couch, does a double-looped turn, and sashays on over to the thermostat like a sexy jewel-thief about to lift the Hope Diamond.  Yes, folks, she’s done this dance before.  She’s got skills.  She slides the thermostat needle silently upwards with a perfectly manicured fingernail. (Wouldn’t want to leave any fingerprints)  She is, after all, a professional.

As the room continues to cool, Dancer #1 takes notice and is mildly amused, knowing Dancer #2 is only flirting with her. It’s all about the dance, of course.  Dancer #1 decides a few more forceful moves might be in order.  So she boogies on over to Dancer #2, who is obviously enjoying her nice cool air, and shake–shake-shakes a finger in her partner’s face.

“It’s too Cold in here, honey”  says Dancer #1, with a sweet but determined tone.

“No No, it’s too Hot in here, honey” says her partner, turned adversary, turned pissed-off, turned determined to win, whatever she has to do.

“We’ll just see about that, HONEY” says Dancer #1, face getting red, pulse racing.

“Okay, bring it on, HONEY” retorts her beloved Dancer #2, matching her volume, neighbors-be-damned.

Dancer #2 rises from the couch to meet her partner, toe-to-toe, eye-to-eye, stubborn streak to stubborn streak.

Then, as if a gun had gone off to signify the start of a horse race, both dancers jumped the couch and sprinted to the thermostat. 

I get there first. Ha!

Oh wait, I forgot to tell you…I’m Dancer #2. 

I protect the thermostat setting with my life. I even gloat a little by dancing a little jig and humming a little tune.

My partner, Dancer #1, love of my life, just smiles.

I hate it when she does that.

She walks away, knowing full well what we both know.

She’ll be back when I’m not looking, damn it all.

And the dance will begin all over again.


So you’re probably wondering if there is anything at all I like about summer.  I sat down and gave it some thought.  I think better sitting down.  Especially with a glass of wine in my hand.  So I sat down and had a glass of wine while I searched my brain for something I might like about summer.  And then it hit me like a gallon jug of Boone’s Farm Tickled Pink!

In fact, I came up with two things!

Wine coolers. And watermelon. Watermelon Wine Coolers! 

Bring it, Summer!  I got this.






 *Images from Google Images


Monday Listicles - Ten summer memories


Happy Monday!  I’m linking up with the lovely Stasha over at The Good Life for Monday Listicles.  This week’s list is Ten Summer Memories.  Ever since I had to start coloring my hair and grew underarm flaps, I haven’t been a huge fan of summer.  I no longer go swimsuit shopping.   I’ve worn the same one-piece for at least a dozen years now.  That should tell you something. I do have summer memories and many of them have to do with swimming or trying to swim.  Or being near the water.  Or puking in the water.  Well I don’t want to give it all away up here.  Check out my summer shenanigans down below:


Summer of 1965. September 6th to be exact, my birthday.  My mom was throwing me a party that night. While she prepared everything, she allowed our neighbor to take me and my little sister to the lake for a picnic and swimming.  I was eleven and my sister was seven and the neighbor was freaking stupid.  She sat on her ass on the little sandy beach and applied sun tan oil and drank beer while my little sis played in the sand.  Of course, I had to take full advantage of this situation, so I promptly made a beeline for the water and soon had a couple of friends.  These new friends could swim much better than I could swim.  They went way out over their heads, and consequently yours truly followed them. 

Are you thinking this can’t end well?

You would be correct.

I came within a second or two of drowning.  I can remember going under and all I could think about was that I was going to miss my birthday party.  I was almost dead when one of my new friends pulled me to safety.  I stumbled out of the water, choking and puking.  I walked up to our neighbor and she said, “What happened to you?”  I just sat down and waited until we went home.  She didn’t seem too concerned.  Maybe she was used to hanging around kids that were blue and spitting up sand.

Unfortunately, we didn’t go home as quickly as we should have.  Both my sister and I ended up with extreme sunburns that made us both sick.  I remember telling my mom who was horrified, “I hope that lady doesn’t ever have kids because I don’t think they will live long.”

Yea, summer memories.

I promise the other nine will be shorter.  I just had to share that one.

Summer of 1967.  I strutted my stuff at the lake in my very first bikini.  I was thirteen going on thirty and my Dad caught this much older guy hitting on me.  I don’t know what happened to that guy.  Dad never said, but I can assure you it wasn’t pretty.  Have you seen my Dad?  He’s a badass.

Summer of 1971.  I was seventeen and just two months away from going in the Air Force.  Again, at the lake, and in a very small bikini, I had the boys’ heads-a-spinning.  Man that felt good.

Summer of 1973:  Son number one (Abe) was born.  I was (and still am) smitten.

Summer of 1979:  Very first trip to Hawaii. It was my honeymoon.  I fell in love.  Not with my husband, although I did like him a lot, but with Kauai, Oahu’s north shore, and Hilo and Kona on the Big Island.  It was a magical three weeks.  I did lose my swimsuit in some really rough waves on the north shore.  My husband thought it was hilarious, and people stared.  I was so stubborn, I just walked my naked self over to my towel, which was a long stroll, as if nothing was out of the ordinary. I probably gave some old guys a few memorable moments of Hawaii. 

Summer of 1982:  Spent summer in last trimester of pregnancy with son number two (Glenn).  He was born in late September.  It was a fat, hot, miserable summer, but once the nurse put my son in my arms, all went right with the world.

Summer of 1999:  Joan, Glenn, and I went on a road trip from Ohio to Washington DC to Atlanta and back to Ohio.  In a small car.  We did have fun, though.  Except for the heat.  And the stinky feet.  And all those other unidentifiable odors.

Summer of 2001:  Glenn graduated from high school in Hawaii.  Valedictorian.  Proud Momma.

Summer of 2004:  Both sons graduated from college on the very same day.  I lived in Ohio.  Abe was in Boise and Glenn was in Hawaii.  I had to choose one graduation, so I went to Boise for Abe’s ceremony.  Amazing day.  I was double proud!  I have amazing kids.

Summer of 2007:  Glenn graduated from law school.  I made the trip from Vegas to Honolulu for the graduation.  It was beautiful. They had Hawaiian music and hula girls during the ceremony.  Even some of the professors danced.  Again, I was one proud Momma.

Summers since 2007?   I try not to go outside.  Too freaking hot.  Now I have back fat and a bubble butt to go with my underarm flaps.  It would be a bit of a stretch for that old swimsuit.