I don't know about you, but I'm planning on cowering in dark, air conditioned rooms until January. Good lord, it's hot.
I always manage to forget June is the brutal month until Bill Eisenhood's replacement smirks about highs in the upper 90s for the first time and it comes flooding back to me in shimmery-from-the-heat clarity. We are now entering the hottest days.
Adam calls from his air conditioned office, giving me updates on the heat. He reports the temperature read-out on the PNM building was 92 when he trudge back from Flying Star with his morning coffee and cookie. He claims the pigeon on his window ledge just plumeted six stories to its untimely pigeon death, struck down by heat stroke. He swears up and down KOB's up-to-the-minute temperature tracker is flirting with four digets. And he reports he ate a sidewalk-fried egg for lunch ("needed salt").
I remind him of the homemade raspberry ice cream in the freezer, but admit if I could drape myself over a 50 pound block of ice I would.
He asks why we live in the desert (a word we've managed to avoid the whole conversation), and I remind him it could be worse. It could be Phoenix.
He reports the current temperature in Tempe is appropriate to roasting Thanksgiving turkeys, and suddenly our heat doesn't seem to bad. This change of heart will last five minutes at most, and then we're back to planning the first annual indoor waterballoon toss tournament. For the first time this year, I will seriously consider shaving the cat just so she can have a little relief from the heat.
Which prompts Adam to tell me to douse myself with some cool-ish water. He can tell, the heat's gone to my head.
It's too darn hot.
I always manage to forget June is the brutal month until Bill Eisenhood's replacement smirks about highs in the upper 90s for the first time and it comes flooding back to me in shimmery-from-the-heat clarity. We are now entering the hottest days.
Adam calls from his air conditioned office, giving me updates on the heat. He reports the temperature read-out on the PNM building was 92 when he trudge back from Flying Star with his morning coffee and cookie. He claims the pigeon on his window ledge just plumeted six stories to its untimely pigeon death, struck down by heat stroke. He swears up and down KOB's up-to-the-minute temperature tracker is flirting with four digets. And he reports he ate a sidewalk-fried egg for lunch ("needed salt").
I remind him of the homemade raspberry ice cream in the freezer, but admit if I could drape myself over a 50 pound block of ice I would.
He asks why we live in the desert (a word we've managed to avoid the whole conversation), and I remind him it could be worse. It could be Phoenix.
He reports the current temperature in Tempe is appropriate to roasting Thanksgiving turkeys, and suddenly our heat doesn't seem to bad. This change of heart will last five minutes at most, and then we're back to planning the first annual indoor waterballoon toss tournament. For the first time this year, I will seriously consider shaving the cat just so she can have a little relief from the heat.
Which prompts Adam to tell me to douse myself with some cool-ish water. He can tell, the heat's gone to my head.
It's too darn hot.
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