Last night, the heavens finally opened and spewed forth the deliciousness of its bounty. Yes, it finally rained. I don't even remember the last time it rained around here. Maybe a few sprinkles here and there, but that also could have just been sweat drops from the taller person walking beside me. Who's to know for sure?
All I know is that the grass, once lush and green, has been rendered a baby-poop brown with a crusty edge. It hasn't been pretty. The birds, bunnies, and squirrels roaming my backyard stand and stare at me in desperation until I turn on the garden hose and spray them down. They pretend not to like it, but I know they do. How can they not? Seriously, where does a bunny or squirrel go to get a cool drink? It's not like they can just hop down to the local bar and ask for a shot or two.
It has been smoking hot here in Ontario, Canada. A friend of mine posted a picture on Facebook of Ontario's Twelve Seasons with 'Hell's Front Porch' circled in red. This is the most accurate portrayal of the past week or so. Now I know you're all saying, quit your whining, it's way hotter where I live. Which is true and also why I don't live there. I don't know how you folks in the tropics do it, I really don't. I would be a miserable, grumpy sack of bitchiness all the time.
'Would you rather it be 40 below?'
Yes. Yes I would. I can always put on more clothes or snuggle under more blankets to get warm, but there are only so many clothes I can remove before my middle-aged ass is naked — and trust me, that is not a sight you want to see walking down the street anytime soon.
So fine, you've stripped to the core to cool off but you're still hot. What happens now? Well, your body starts to sweat in a drastic effort to cool itself down. It works for ten seconds. Seriously — ten seconds — and then the sweat is evaporated by Satan who is standing there, invisibly of course, shooting waves of hot hellfire all over you, hoping you'll drop dead and he can take you home with him. This is the truth, the Gospel Truth. I know it. I had sunstroke as a kid and as I lay on the ground in a dark haze, I swear in those shadows I saw Satan laughing. Then my mom punched him in the gut, picked my saggy self up, and ran to the car, shoving my head as close to the air conditioning as she could. My angel saved me that day for sure.
And let's be honest. Sweat stinks. You might think your sweat smells sweet like a newborn baby, but it doesn't. You've been deceiving yourself.
I want to talk about my hair in the heat but I'm not sure I can. The subject is quite traumatic, and I'm not afraid to admit that I suffer from HHS — Humid Hair Syndrome. There, I said it out loud. My name is Trish and I suffer from HHS. I feel like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders just saying those words out loud.
HHS is common amongst the population but so horrific and disturbing that no one ever really wants to admit that they suffer from it. Compared to some, my HHS is more on the mild side, but that definitely does not negate the horror I feel inside every time I happen to catch my reflection in a shop window.
The only thing that can remotely save me from a catastrophic meltdown is finding myself a good barbequed hot dog. Whether it's from a vendor or just throwing a wiener on the searing black pavement and letting it cook there, a good hot dog always makes me happy. It makes my HHS seem a little more bearable. I realize I'm not alone in this mess — there are many others walking around sweaty and dishevelled, and it's very comforting.
I don't wish Hell's Front Porch on anyone, I really don't. It's a bitch. I hope I make it through. The rain has given a little reprieve, but the temperatures are set to rise again into the next week. Lord help me. Lord help those around me.
If I don't make it through and Satan pulls me off the front porch and into his house, it's okay — I've lived a good life. I really have. Just do me a favour. Next time you fire up the grill, throw on a wiener and think of me.