At work today, we all got little notices in our mailboxes on burnt-orange paper, with about 25 little check-marked pointers on how not to die in the approaching heat wave that's said to smother Boston tomorrow and Wednesday. Good lord... and praise jesus for my ever generous neighbors and their three-week vacation to Maine.
I don't handle extreme heat so well. I can hear people scoffing at that because -- well, I bitch all winter, too. It's true - there seems to be a pretty narrow range on the thermometer in which I'm comfortable and, frankly, pleasant. Last weekend I visited Matt's hood in Cambridge after far, far too long, and also decided, for some reason, to wear some of the least comfortable shoes I own. We oozed like mercury from Porter Square to Harvard Square, back to Porter, up to Davis, and to the porch party in honor of the birthday of Joe Keohane, minor celebrity and Editor in Chief of the Weekly Dig. I sat on the porch with a mint julep and tried to aim myself strategically so that the breeze would go up my skirt. My feet felt like sausages wrapped in twine, and it took us a year to get back to my neighborhood where the neighbors' central air awaited us, and I'd turned into a veritable troll by the time we got there. Matt swears otherwise, but he's just being nice.
In spite of waves of such heat, humidity, thunderstorms, and lack of spare time, I finally got the walls of my room painted, and they look good enough to eat. Sadly my card reader died recently, but once I replace it I'll post some Good Housekeeping-Esque pictures. In fact, I've been quite handy as of late; after work today I schlepped three steel rods on the bus from Home Depot, and created myself a solid clothing rack, base boards and all, to accomodate my lack of closet.
My friend Brooks is moving to North Carolina to attend grad school at Duke, and in down-sizing sold me a lighting kit with three nifty hot lights and stands. I'm eager to put it to use. He also gave me a few photographic knick-knacks, including a Poloroid camera with some impressively old film inside. He and Rachel and I decided to use it up. I love how dated these photos look; Rachel and I could be our own mothers (if I looked anything like my mother) and Brooks definitely looks like somebody's dad.
And... well, that's about it. Life is good. If you want me to take pictures of you, call me. If you want to come over and sit on my bed and look at how pretty my walls are with me... we could do that, too.
Oh oh! and my favorite new word: recreate, as a verb.
v. rec·re·ate·, rec·re·at·ed, rec·re·at·ing, rec·re·ates
- To impart fresh life to; refresh mentally or physically.
Drink lots of water, even if you don't feel the need to.
Avoid alcohol and caffiene.
Get plenty of rest.
Call in to work and tell them you have heat exhaustion.
Lay low and recreate people you love.
Don't move, basically at all.
Good luck, lovelies.