It seems like literally every one of my Facebook friends is all YAY FALL this weekend, talking about scarves and apple bread and football. Meanwhile, we have at least 3-4 more weeks of summer to slog through down here. Mom wants to go to New Orleans tomorrow, and even though I haven’t gone since I moved down here and I’d really like to go, a visit to New Orleans always entails a lot of walking around outside, and I’m understandably hesitant. Mom’s like “Oh, it’s supposed to be nicer than it has been!” But that doesn’t mean nice. It just means every pore on your body won’t immediately gush perspiration upon leaving the house, which won’t ever dry because it’s so fucking humid.
04 Sep 2010 1 Comment
I’m sorry, I really didn’t want to be a northen transplant that bitched non-fucking-stop about the weather down here. And it’s really only started bothering me in the past month or so. My patience, never deep in the best of circumstances, is starting to wear a bit thin. I would have held up all right if we’d had a normal summer, one that started around the middle of June instead of the start of May; where temps in the mid-90s was an occasional fluke instead of lasting for months on end. I was here last August for Granny’s birthday and it wasn’t anywhere near this brutal. I mean, I wouldn’t want to have run a marathon or anything; but we ate supper on the porch several times, and Rian and Mom and I did a lot of stuff outside, and it was perfectly comfortable. Very warm, of course, but you didn’t feel like you were melting.
But of course, because I moved here, we got hit with the hottest (and earliest) summer since they started keeping records. (That is not an exaggeration.) Because that is just the kind of shit that happens to me all the damn time. I remember this one time when I moved from one house to another, it was in February — statistically always the coldest month of the year — and it shot up to like 80 degrees, just on the day I moved. The day before and the day after, it was a normal upper-50s/low 60s day. 80 is pleasant when you’re sitting on the porch with a cold beer. When you’re lugging boxes of your crap from one non-air-conditioned house into another non-air-conditioned house, not so much.
Because I am a masochist, I looked up the forecasted high for Fremont, CA today: 77 degrees. I will fall on my knees and kiss the ground the day it doesn’t rise above 80 here.