My name is Liz. I need direction. I overuse commas, my house is a mess, my hair needs a trim and I have no marketable skills: It's fun here, you'll see!

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July 7th, 2010

SHH!… You’ll Piss Off the Sun

Oh, East Coast, you poor, poor bastards. I’m so sorry about your heat wave. What an awful time you all must be having. I spent the Fourth of July wearing a scarf by a lake in Seattle. To me, that’s how life should be all the time. But, alas…

Heat changes everything. I’m generally a pretty nice, relaxed person. My default attitude is to love everyone and everything. In the late Fall, the Winter, and the Spring, I can often be heard positively hyperbolizing: “I love that guy! He’s the best!”or “Hey, let’s sit outside for dinner tonight- I love patios!” or “Have you ever had kimchi? It’s AWESOME.” However, when it gets above 80, I turn into a sweaty jerk: “That guy looks like he’d be an idiot.” or “How come all the movies out look like crap?” or “I only like ice. Everything else can go to hell.”

But Liz, you all say, don’t you  love those balmy summer nights? And the lazy days spent on your porch drinking lemonade?

To you I say, Shut up, Norman Rockwell. Let me finish.

My entire world is turned upside down when it’s hot. The light down comforter, which during the wintertime I’ve actually considered proposing to, becomes a hated foe. “What are you looking at, blanket?” I find myself thinking  when I pass it, wearing shorts. SHORTS. I hate shorts. If I were tall and had beautiful legs, summer would at least be more tolerable in the garment department. But no. I’m 5’3″ on a good day and have bruised shins from climbing out of the pool. Shorts make me look stumpy and abused.

And, oh god, housework. Now, let’s not kid ourselves. It doesn’t matter what temperature it is, chores suck. But have you tried to do the dishes when it’s over 90 degrees in your apartment? Have you lugged 48 pounds of clothing to and from the laundry room in 100 degree weather? Housework in the summer makes me sweat from the strangest places. For instance, the crooks of my elbows. I’ll be hauling a basket of clean clothes and suddenly feel as though something is crawling on me. Looking down, I will be enchanted to find that it is in fact a substantial amount of perspiration, dripping from my bent elbow, right onto one of Paul’s freshly washed polo shirts. Poetry.

Not to mention how all of my toiletries warm up and melt, and how I can’t cook anything because it heats up the house. Once I tried to subsist for a summer on only refrigerated cucumbers. It was a nightmare that lasted all of two hours before I broke down and went to Souplantation. SOUPLANTATION, PEOPLE.

We aren’t friends, summer and I.

Which is why I am trying to tip-toe quietly around the fact that it’s drizzly and 65 and is supposed to be cool all week. But don’t make a big deal about it, or you’ll attract the attention of the Sun. I’m serious you guys. Keep it down, or he’s gonna come back from the East Coast and then we’re totally screwed. Just act natural. Just for a couple months.

3 comments to SHH!… You’ll Piss Off the Sun

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