Summer came fashionably late in L.A. this year but when she finally arrived? SHE ARRIVED. Angry, unapologetic and 75% humid. I am one of the nicest people you will ever meet when I’m not sweating balls. I hug strangers, fill empty meters, dance down the streets high-fiving Suits while birds sing songs on my shoulders. But when I’m hot and my thong is stuck to my ass with itchy sweat and my shirt is soaked through and my feet are covered with a film of heat-dust-wetness? I might just punch you in the face for no reason.
It’s been in the 90′s and beyond these last two weeks- some days have reached well into the 100s and contrary to the usual LA heatwave, it’s been humid. Humidity is the single reason I could never live on the East coast. I will likely live and die on the West Coast of the US if only because I can’t deal with moist summers. Of course, humid or not, I suck at being hot. I’m a sweater. I don’t perspire like a lady, I sweat like a man. Like a LARGE, overweight man after a jog. It’s too bad, really, especially considering my hairstyle (bangs tend to get a little… piecy in 100 degree weather) but mainly its just wildly uncomfortable.
So all this to bring me to the following unfortunate truth: we don’t have air-conditioning in our house. Now, I realize there are people with far less who deal with far more and I am aware of that. I remind myself of this fact every second between the hours of 3-8pm when my house is at its hottest and I’m alone with two kids who are at their fussiest/neediest/hungriest/need-to-wrestliest.
We put a small AC unit in the kids’ bedroom hoping this would provide a sanctuary of cool during the summer but Archer refuses to play in his room and we can’t really eat dinner on Archer’s bed and who am I kidding, there’s just not enough room back there for the three of us. Especially when the dogs, who hate the heat equally insist on joining us.
So basically I’ve turned into a total nightmare bitch. The last few nights Hal hasn’t come home until well after 10pm, by which time my hair is sticking straight up with forty rubber bands, my shirt is tied up to my bra, my pants are non-existent and I’m bitter. I’m the bitterest, grumpiest bitch that ever lived. Because I just bathed Fable and then she pooped in her towel and Archer wouldn’t brush his teeth and then Fable wanted to nurse at the same time Archer wanted me to read him a story and then Fable pooped again and then Archer insisted on wearing his flannel pajamas which were too hot so we had to argue about that and then Archer wanted me to sing him a song but I forgot the words so he was like “NO! THOSE WORDS ARE WRONG!” and meanwhile Fable still refuses her crib like the plague so I’m pushing her around the house in the stroller and its a thousand degrees and Archer’s like “Mommy! Come back and sing me the gigalo song but this time SING IT RIGHT!” and I’m hot and tired and HOT and our house is too small for all of us when it’s THIS hot and I give up we need to move somewhere with central air immediately omg I’m going to cry and “Are you crying, mommy?” “No, honey. My eyeballs are just sweating” omg.
Last night brought my red-hot-bitchiness to a whole new level when after an hour and a half of rocking Fable I finally got her to sleep in her crib. It was 11pm. The kids were asleep. The house was clean. The dishes were done. I had just collapsed on the couch when Hal walked through the door, kissed me on the sweaty cheek, went back to check on the kids/adjust Fable’s crib bar and accidentally woke her up.
What happened next was not pretty. And it was in that moment of me freaking the fuck out and Hal looking at me like “OMG who are you and what have you done with my wife?” that we both realized that maybe the time has come for us to start looking for a new place to live.
Somewhere with a little more space and a lot more air-conditioning.