On Monday, the 27th of September, we here in Southern California experienced the gosh-darndest Hottest Stinking Day of the Year.
This is the thermometer (excuse me, Comfortmeter) in our backyard.
For those of you who are impaired when it comes to reading old-school-liquid-filled thermometers, the red liquid (possibly alcohol or mercury; both expand when heated, which is one of the things I learned from having homeschooled my children for so many years, but that's not important right now), is registering just past the 112 mark.
Which put the temperature in our backyard at a scorching 113 degrees. Without a breeze. It was brutal.
If you live in places that routinely get this type of heat like Palm Springs or Las Vegas or Phoenix, you would most likely call me a whiner and tell me to get over it.
The thing is…. I live in Mission Viejo, California. The Bubble!
I have not chosen to live in any of the aforementioned desert communities. So when we get record-breaking heat here in our little suburban bubble, I'm going to complain about it. Loudly.
And do nothing. (Who can work in this heat?)
And sit very still.
And not cook.
Or do laundry.
And try not to die.
And call my mother who is 96 to make sure she's alive.
She knows I do not tolerate heat well. Hearing my voice on the phone, she immediately laughs.
Luza: "Estas derretida?" ("Have you melted?")
Me: "No, Mami. Y tu?" (<–You probably caught on to that from your high school Spanish. "No, Mami. And you?")
Luza: (again with the laughing!) "A mi me gusta el calor, yo soy bacteria." "I like the heat, I am a bacteria."
She spent a few more minutes fully mocking my inability to deal with the heat, and singing her own 'I'm a Bacteria' praises.
I hang up.
Now I am hot.
And I am fussy.
And I'm been taunted.
By my own mother, who even though she's 96 still wants to keep her Queen of the Hill Crown intact.
So to all of you who are calling me a whiner, and to my own mother who is amused by my discomfort, I just have two words:
Shut up. That is all. Rant over.