It’s hot. Too hot. I don’t know why the state of Michigan has decided to play sauna this summer, but I wish it would stop.
We’re hot. The contractors who are slowly (oh, so slowly) painting and repairing the exterior of the big, big house have removed all but a few of the screens from the windows. The bugs are bad, so every window without a screen has been shut tightly to keep the moths and mosquitoes out. So much for cross-breezes.
We’re hot. After the last electric bill, we’re doubling down once again on our intention to never, ever, ever (unless our brains are about to fry) turn the A.C. on. So much for air conditioning.
Now Ken and I have one tiny adjustable screen wedged into one open window in our bedroom, with a box fan propped next to it blowing straight on us. And still we’re hot.
(All my dear relations in the southern states are probably now feeling tempted to smile smugly at me and think something like: “You think that’s hot . . . ” To which I say: yup, ya’ll. It’s hot. I’ve spent sultry summer nights in southern climes before — climes that felt a fair bit like the summer we’re experiencing in Michigan this year — and I wouldn’t dream of trying to do it without the A.C. cranked up or, at the very least, all the windows in the house flung wide open to catch every last little puff of available evening breeze.)
All this whining is to say: I’m trying a little light blogging to get myself to sleep. Blogging is like warm milk, right? I don’t know if I’ll finish to my satisfaction the reflection I have planned to follow this preface tonight, but I’ll at least be getting on with it until my eyelids finally get so heavy that they quit caring how hot and sticky they are.