And when I say “hell” I do mean that in the Hieronymous Bosch sense of the word. Holy mother of all flaming cauldrons but it’s hot out there: 8 pm as I write this and it’s 95 degrees! Daytime temps exceeding 100 degrees until Thursday. Every time I go outside it’s like being flayed by a flaming cat o’ nine tails.
You know, I grew up spending my summers in Palm Desert and Joshua Tree. I know what 125 degrees feels like. My mom spent her summers in Death Valley. We are hardy people where heat is concerned; when you grow up knocking around places named Furnace Creek and Badwater, you’re not a thermometer wimp.
But this … this … this is something else altogether. This is quite literally what it must feel like to be sealed in a plastic bag and stuck in the microwave on high for 5 minutes.
And what the fuck is this crawling across my lawn?
|I Named Him Pestilence|
It looked like the mother of all wasps, as big as my thumb, with thick yellow stripes on its fat body. It was crawling around in the grass like it was looking for its wallet.
I also have a platoon of ants marching across my driveway. They came out of a crack in the pavement I didn’t even know existed, a slowly spreading stain which, when I bent down to examine it, revealed that … Oh my God! IT’S ALIVE!!!! By this morning it was gone. I guess the heat has brought all the nasties out of hiding; even they know when it’s this hot, it’s time to head somewhere else.
And to make matters even worse, the pump on my pond blew and the replacement I ordered is a lemon. The motor is jammed, so until a replacement comes via UPS, my poor fish are slowly boiling alive in water that feels like a piping hot bathtub.
Add to this the loveliness that is our wackadoodle contingent racing each other to the bottom to be the Republican candidate for X, Y, Z office and all I can say is: beam me up.
I am definitely not doing another summer in Nashville. No way, no how.