I HATE heat waves. I do. For one thing, they make me feel like a cave dweller. I huddle in the air conditioner like The Croods, and when I go outside it’s always a carefully orchestrated maneuver to not let the sun kill me ded. (sic) The one thing that will cause me to snap during these times are children that think the car after it’s been turned off is a PERFECT place to lounge around and count their belly-button lint, because, you know, when it’s 110 outside and you’re in a tin box, you have ALL THE TIME IN THE FUCKING WORLD.
For another, they are one more reminder of the things I personally haven’t done, the times I haven’t recycled, the unnecessary trips I personally have taken, and all of the styrofoam cups I used in the nineties– I personally have helped destroyed the ozone layer to the point that our planet is killing us dead, and I’m sorry. Seriously. I’ll never get the mixed recycling in the garbage again if only, please only, we can sink to double digit numbers sometime before next week? PLease? If we could? Because, you know, armageddon by heat wave is a really shitty way to go!
Anyway, so we spent this morning at my parents, playing in their pool, and we’re going to spend tomorrow at the health club, playing in THEIR pool, and sometime in the morning I need to go out to the store and come home with food. It MUST be in the morning, because when it’s 90 degrees by ten a.m., if you do it in the afternoon, you get home and your ice cream is liquid and your milk is solid and this is a BAD THING.
Chicken only has a couple more days with us– she’s talking about transferring to a two semester college, and I’m actually rooting for her to do this. I miss my Chicken. I resent time I spend working when she’s here, but I cannot possibly not write for three weeks, so that’s sort of a drag. So I’m taking her tomorrow after our time in the pool with the short people (who are getting taller– EEEEK!) to go get our toes done. For one thing, I’ve got a convention in two weeks, and if I get them done now, they’ll only be a little shoddy by then. (I’m going to RWA in Atlanta, but I’m sort of at minimum visibility– I think mostly I’m going to be the Dreamspinner dogsbody, and this makes me very happy!) And, you know. We can get pedicures– and that just SOUNDS like a mother daughter thing, right? Although I’ve read her tarot twice and we’ve done our nails, and, basically had late night talks. She’s still my little girl, really– although, apparently, I’ve trained her to be a wedding guest to the Ancient Mariners of the world. I’m not sure how I feel about this– raising compassionate children is something to be proud of, but the wedding guest didn’t have an easy time of it. And while I personally feel a degree of safety among the ancient mariners of the world, because I’m an adult and capable mostly of defending myself, I don’t like sending my daughter in among the crazies and telling her to listen to their stories. Remember, my bio-mom is an ancient mariner– I grew up with the phenomenon, but I sort of made it a point to keep my children out of that particular nursery rhyme. But I think it’s like the belief in the American Romantic hero– the belief that every story needs to be heard, and everyone needs validation is something I’ve passed to my children without even realizing I was doing it. So, when I send my daughter out into the world, I’m sending a wedding guest out into an ancient mariner’s playground, and I worry. From one wedding guest to another, I guess.
Whew! Okay– so, I just spent an hour ranting here and I just eliminated it, and it’s probably for the best. Anyway– no rant today– just the chance to go watch Four Weddings and a Funeral, which is one of my favorites.