And The Heat Goes On...

107 today, the 11th day of 100+ temps. Since we "average" 21 days a year of 100-degree days, I'm hoping that this means we are getting them all out of the way right up front, but I'm not holding my breath on that one.

Good news for the weekend, though: Temperatures are going down. Should be no more than 101 by Sunday.

This is getting boring, isn't it.

Summermore!

I learned a few things today:

• The last time it came close to this hot was on this date in 1943, when the record-breaking temperature of the day was 104. Today it was 106 degrees, a new tongue-hanging-out record. A dubious distinction indeed.
• According to the local weatherman, in this neck of the woods we have, on average, 21 days of 100-degree temperatures. In a whole year. So far this year we have had nine such days already. And summer is only four days old... AGH! This can't be good.

So far, this is shaping up to be A Summer To Remember, a summer on steroids. All I know is it's a darn good thing I have decided not to care about the summer heat anymore.

Happy Father's Day!

• First call of the day bright and early from D in Kansas.
• Church with C and family.
  
• Cookout lunch and backyard swimming and Wii games with C's family and S's family.
• Baseball game with S and Gi and the Blue-Eyed Boy.
• Phone call from rain-drenched M, standing at the foot of Cell Phone Hill at Buckner.

And that is everyone heard from and accounted for. What else can a dad want? Happy Father's Day!

Happy Summer!

Not. It is Summer in Texas. With a vengeance. Actually, it has been summer for days already, it just hasn't been official summer yet. Well, it is now, and it is already 100+ degrees with humidity to match, and there's nothing quite like a hot breeze blowing in through the open window. I know a lot of people love their fun in the sun, but I am not one of them. To be honest, I have never understood anything fun about baking and sweating and burning to a crisp...? I just don't get it.

Shortly after I moved to Texas waaaay back during the last century, it was one Africa-hot summertime. My mom and I were "downtown" in SmallTown, Texas and had wandered into the "variety store" where we overheard part of a conversation between two little old ladies. One of them said to the other, "Hasn't it been a nice, cool summer." My mom and I looked at each other, eyes incredulous and mouths gasping open. Nice? COOOOL????? Had they seen the thermometer at the bank? The one that registered 112 degrees at 6 PM? Had they been outside? Were we even on the same planet? "Hasn't it been a nice, cool summer" has become a family joke over the years ~ The hotter it gets, the more it is invoked, complete with the rolling of eyes and the shaking of heads.

So now here we are, hotter than Phoenix, and I have a True Confession: As much as I ha-a-a-te to admit it, after aaalllllll this time of actively despising the good ol' summertime...I'm not saying I like it, but...so what. So what that it's 100 degrees by mid-morning. So what that I am out here with the sun pounding on my head. So what that I am melting into a puddle, or that there is sweat pouring down between my eyes and running down inside my clothes. So what that the heat of summer shimmers up off the road in waves, and the pavement is so hot it is actually oozing. So what that you can bake cookies in the trunk of your car, or put a pot of rice and water out in the sun and it will be cooked by lunchtime. So what that you can get a third-degree burn from the steering wheel or the seat belt buckle when you get in your car. So what....

So it's summertime in Texas, that's what, and I'm starting to worry about myself, because after 30+ years, I have just decided not to care anymore. I can't afford the effort or the energy. Hmmmm....Maybe those little old ladies were on to something...??? Whatever...

By the way, Mom, wish you were here. We sure are having a nice, cool summer.

Another Good Day

I was all set for a night of tossing and turning, but surprisingly enough, I slept soundly last night after propping my foot up on a pillow. My ankle hurt quite alot, enough for even me to consider the ER, but the specter of BB1's recent marathon in that pestilential hellhole reinforced my natural inclination to allow my fearfully-and-wonderfully-made body the opportunity to heal itself. So I had gone to bed last night, barely entertaining the possibility that I might make a trip to the ER this morning, and I was ready to get ready when my Man got up dark and early to head to work. Imagine my everlasting amazement when I got out of bed and did not crash to the floor on my bad ankle!

It was still sore and painful, and I couldn't really walk, but, no swelling or bruising, and compared to crawling around last night, it was a miraculous recovery indeed. I was positively giddy that we had elected to stay home, saving ourselves probably $500 and getting a restful night in the bargain.

Today I am profoundly excited about being able to get around all by myself. I don't remember ever feeling pain like I felt yesterday, and I have never been so invalidated.

"Would you get me a drink?" "Would you climb up in the closet and dig out the Epsom salts?" "Would you reach my nightgown off the hook?" "Would you warm up that leftover soup for dinner?" "Would you lock the door, close the window, answer the phone, turn on the light, bring my book, fill in the blank?" It disturbs me mightily to be waited on at all, never mind so completely.

I am a good patient, if you consider my outward behavior. I demand nothing, and I ask, ever apologetically, only what I absolutely cannot manage on my own. I have certainly waited on endless multitudes in my day, so why does it bother me so much to be on the other end? I have never understood people who enjoy being the center of every attention, but I believe there's something here on a deeper level. True confession time: as much as I hate to say it, I think there is an issue of pride at work. In my case, anyway. There is something humbling about being at the mercy of someone else...something God is still having to try to teach me. Poor Guy.

So, am I ready to take the lesson...? I want to. I would hope so. My head gets it. But, alas, I know me. My spirit is basically rebellious and independent. Rebellion and independence...Good servants. Bad masters.

I still can't actually walk. There's a whole lotta limping and hobbling going on, but I am ever so thankful that today I can do whatever I want/need, even if it takes me a little bit longer. It is, as they say today, "all good." It really is!

TOOOOOO MUCH "INFORMATION"!!!!

Ok, so that's what I get for watching tv. Only I wasn't really watching it. I was hanging out in another room, within earshot of the offending commercial, held captive by a never-have-I-felt-so-much-pain-EVER ankle, injured when I stepped in a hole this afternoon.

It seemed perfectly ok at the time; I even walked on it back into the house to start the arnica protocol, and then went on to finish what I had been doing, after which I sat myself down with an ice pack and a book and elevated my foot. Only to my sad surprise, my ankle not only hasn't gotten any better, six hours later it is actively worse.

First it got harder impossible to walk, and then it progressed to no standing; at this point forget flexing, extending, rotating. In fact, forget even leaving it alone. There is no comfort for it in any position. I'm almost considering a trip to the ER, but I feel quite certain there will be no driving on that foot, especially not in a car with a standard transmission. Besides, I can suffer endlessly in my own home, just like I can in an ER, but for free and without the chance of getting SARS or swine flu or a staph infection or who-knows-what-other-ailment lurking about amongst the halt and the lame of a hospital "emergency" room.

So anyway. I was minding my own business in one room, not really paying attention to the murmuring pitter-patter of the television coming from the other room, when suddenly I heard a woman's voice shout, "Am I in MENOPAUSE? You bet I am!!!" Whooooaa!!!! And then, of all things, she started singing the praises of JACK IN THE BOX!!! You know, the hamburger joint.

"When I'm having hot flashes...." she began, and I can't really say what came next, because she pretty much lost me after that. Actually, Jack in the Box pretty much lost me after that one. Not that I go there with any degree of regularity whatsoever....Ok, ok, to be honest, on the survey I would have to check the "less often than once a year" box, but still. Now I'm going to have to check the "less often than less often than once a year" box.

I'm thinking this little episode basically documents what I have been increasingly afraid of the last few years, and getting worse all the time: There are no limits to indecency anymore, and no limits on where you might witness it. I would like, just once in awhile, to go someplace where I am not assaulted by somebody's perverse notions of open-minded self-expression.

In fact, as I'm writing this, I hear that the tv has moved on to a "sitcom" in which a group of men and women are talking about, what else, menopause. Sigh. Excuse me while I run crawl in and turn off the tv. I'm thinking I probably should have turned it off when I left the room, but I'm a hands-on watcher when it comes to tv, and I didn't think I had the endurance to hobble all the way across the room to turn it off in person. So now, well, here I go again. Like I said, that's what I get for watching tv.

Menopause...Jack in the Box...What can the connection possibly be???