How is it possible that Chicago is hotter than Tucson?
TBG and I are dripping... exhausted.... overcome by the humidity and the crowds. Little Cuter's building hasn't turned on the air conditioning yet and we are perched on the edge of the couch, faces straight on into the fans. We've forgotten how debilitating the combination of high temperatures and water in the air can be.
We took the bus downtown this morning and did some serious shopping. We had a plan to hang out with Not-Kathy, but it flew out of my brain as we left the vertical indoor mall and were confronted by a wall of heat. The 147 Express bus was 7 minutes away (according to the very helpful digital display on the outside of the shelter) and I nearly melted.
Thomas the Wonder Dog is energy-less. Lying on the couch, snuggled close to the humans, is his usual modus operandi. Right now he is in the shade on the hardwood floor, in front of the stationary fan, tongue lolling and lungs heaving. He's hot, too.
My brain is fried. My fingers are damp. The box fan is blowing on my left arm and my right elbow-pit (the other side of my elbow.... well, what would you call it?) is coated with a sheen of sweat. I've been trying to type to you and my brain is melted.
Come back tomorrow, denizens. There's a post full of love on its way. For now, think cooling thoughts of your faithless correspondent.
I'm sorry. I'm, just too hot to type.