Welcome to the Oven

Sylvia Plath would be disappointed, there's no gas in this oven. Its just pure, hot summer, baby. I mean, we ain't in Austin, but the Swamp's getting to people; making 'em cranky. I met a girl the other night who wouldn't shake my hand for a proper introduction because she was too sweaty. Come on now, I understand fore-going a hug goodbye, but damn, no handshake? We are all sweaty. We are all glistening, dehydrated, shade-seeking, ice cream-craving, arm pit-stained, hair-stuck-to-your-forehead-in-the-most-unattractive-way, swampy complainers. But damn, when you meet someone new, you shake hands. Make it official, man.

I don't think she was Southern (I say with an Elvis lip-curl scowl). I'm just sayin'.

My trip to Austin felt like I got dropped off in the middle of the flames of a brick oven, and my fingertips exchanged pleasantries with more palms than I can recall. Not that Texas is necessarily the South, but its something all its own and I liked the part of it I got to see. And that was June. Its now August, and hello...

Other things I find hot as hell: an August wedding in Tennessee, even at 7pm; booking it down the sidewalk on Park Street, late to an appointment because I jumped on the metro in a hurry- the wrong damn way; having to blow dry my hair so I don't look like a mushroom; Shia LeBeouf... mmmmm; making out in the pool to get hot (and keep cool).

Speaking of keeping cool. That's a good one, too. like the AC blasting all the time; listening to music when I walk down the street and hearing a song that makes me walk a little taller; a great haircut; an idea brewing; even on like reaching in the fridge to grab jalepanos as the last spicy topping on Black Bean Soup, just before discovering that your roommate has eaten the last of them. Oh wait- not cool.