The end of July.

(--although not the very end, obviously.)


Anyone else feeling it? The doldrums, the dog days? The heat?

July is where, in terms of summer, the real collides with the myth, and it is brutal, that collision. Everyone ends up in the ER, where they don't have enough ice and the AC is busted.

Our swamp cooler, which right now is just bringing in the night air on the vent setting, sounds like it is making ice cream or something strenuous like that. It sounds effortful. It sounds earnest, and to be frank, it sounds a little sweaty. That, the people, is synesthesia, the synesthesia of summer.

Here's what we have in the house: no popsicles.

Here's what I want to do: lie on my bed, under the fan, and do crosswords. And reach over and grab my sweaty glass, and take a swig of ice water or lemonade on ice. And complain, let's not forget that. Complaining is my cardio.

Tonight, we went to Brewvies and watched a movie about which we had previously asked ourselves, every time we considered it, "Do we really want to see that? It might be terrible," and when we sat down in the theater, after having downed some lemonade and ice water and pub food, we said to ourselves ahhhhhhhh. On account of the AC. Which was stellar. The movie was not half bad, either. You know, for a summer movie.

And now it is time to walk the dog. In the dog night of summer.