Monday, July 25, 2011

Feels like 115

Once you get into the triple digits of temperature, its a bit over-the-top but "feels like 115" is just insanity. This is New York, people, not Death Valley. I half expect to pass rat skulls and the skeletal remains of other street creatures when I exit the house to walk the kids to summer camp. Within a block or two, we're all panting like dogs and ducking into supermarkets, gasping for air, the more processed, the better. Making matters worse, Primo's camp is au naturale, no AC, which was all very well and good for the past couple of weeks when the temperature hovered in the mid 90s but now that that the weatherman's begun issuing advisories and putting us on the equivalent of Orange Alert, I've grown concerned. In a panic, I emailed the counselor at Primo's camp, who made the terrible mistake of giving me her contact info, and asked her what were their plans for keeping the kids cool. She didn't write back, the which I take to mean: "My plan is to watch your fucking kid, thus doing my job, rather than to respond to overbearing neurotics. That OK by you?"

Got the message loud and clear.

I remember the days when I was in my early twenties, before I had the money for an AC, when I would take an icy cold shower at night, run into my bed and be sweating like a pig within five minutes. I remember waiting to break up with this guy til the end of August because he had a great, heavily-air-conditioned apartment in Manhattan. Those were the good old days I guess but I'm glad they are behind me. Now, I plan to sit my fat ass down in front of a pimped out AC unit and blast my old face with freezing blasts of air until I have goddamned icicles hanging from my eyelashes from the TEARS OF JOY I am weeping. Its me and my AC from now til the wheels come off. Or Con Ed turns off the electricity. Whichever comes first.