Can You Please Fix This For Me?

I love summer. I LOVE it. I love the warmth and the scalding heat, the quality of the light, the million amazing intensified smells, the sounds--yes, even the cicadas and the pheromone-laden bass overload from drivers who are newly 16...it's my season. I thrive in it.

I don't like complaining. Complaining is different than a good old fashioned bitch-fest with a friend, which is both desirable and necessary on certain occasions. But people whose main mode of discussion or existence revolves around how bad things are drive me nuts. That is not conversation. Either do something about it, or suck it up and shut up. Especially if you're complaining about the weather. Especially if you're going to say global warming probably doesn't exist, or doesn't matter enough for you to change your habits. If I can go two weeks in winter without feeling my toes and still respond to "cold enough for you?" with "well, I haven't felt my toes for twelve days, but I'm grateful that I have a house and heat!" and a smile on my face, then you can stop griping.

But even with those two fundamental aspects of my personality out there, and even if I adjust my threshold of "too hot" to be 90 instead of 95, I am over The Hot. It needs to be done. It was 92 here today.  And because I only drank 24 oz of water before leaving the house for church instead of my usual morning 32, and because I did not drink another 32 oz of water between church and the farmer's market, I wound up nearly passing out on the way home. And I have been a useless lump since walking through our door and downing a 12 oz ginger ale, 16 oz of chilled red raspberry leaf tea, and 32 oz of water, then laying down to read. Then getting up to get more liquid, then peeing, then laying down and resting. Then getting up to pee, then getting more liquid, then laying down and resting. Repeat. A lot.  (Sidenote: I've officially decided that, fabulous as True Blood is, the Sookie Stackhouse novels are infinitely better. She's far more interesting and less sniveling, and there's less of a rushed, gotta-fit-everything-in-at-once globby mess of a plot. The show does Lafayette better. The books do everything else better. Anyway.)

And as good as I usually am about drinking lots, and lots, and lots, of water--over 100 oz a day doesn't bother me--apparently The Hot means I need at least 150% of this. And that's just too much. And since I like not passing out, and I like Bugbear, no matter how much I like being warm, I need The Hot to go away. I'll still happily settle for 89 and sunny (bonus points if the breeze off the lake magically reaches me), but this over 90 stuff needs to be done.

Bugbear is fine with this. Bugbear has taken my increased fluid intake to mean it's time to play the xylophone from the inside of my right ribs with renewed gusto. S/he has even been happy to provide the headbutt to my bladder that reminds me to empty it and make room for more fluid. But if the weather listens to you, and you could put in a good word with September for me about getting this sorted out, I'd appreciate it.