The dog days...

Aaaand we're back! Much thanks to Hubby on the tech support front as he, once again, saved our computer from certain death at my incapable hands.

I definitely could have used the distraction of writing as I suffered through this first heat wave of the summer. Generally, I am a fan of this hottest of seasons with its laid back attitude and license to eat as many hot dogs as I want. But it was too much to go from pleasant spring temperatures to living in Satan's armpit, wrestling my children to the ground to coat them in sunscreen only to have one of them wipe some in their eye and begin screeching in agony, shoving them into the oven otherwise known as the van in order to drag all three of them to Dunkin' Donuts for my third iced coffee of the day in order to fortify myself enough for yet another grocery run to pick up something for dinner that requires zero heat to be edible (it's got a vegetable right in the name - corn chips). After just one day I was reminded of all the things I hate about the dog days.

First and foremost the thing I hate about summer is sweating. For those of you not intimately acquainted with me, I sweat like a convict working on an Arizona chain gang the minute the mercury climbs above seventy-five degrees. Seriously, I can only wear black, white or yellow t-shirts as those are the only colors that hide, not only pit-sweat, but back and cleavage sweat as well. Ignoring the other-body-area sweat, doesn't everyone get wet pits in the summer? So who the hell is buying all those heather gray t-shirts from the Gap? I actually test summer tops before buying by dampening my finger with saliva and dabbing it on the hem. Major color change? No thank you, then. And, yes I have tried Certain Dri and all that other crap with no results. I am told my excessive perspiration is a sign of a healthy metabolism. My husband jokes when he comes downstairs and I'm on the treadmill dripping away, "Welcome to Gold's. Would you like a towel?" But, really? I can do without looking like I always have the flop sweats.

The second thing I hate about summer is the sun. I am Irish, my people were not made for sunny climes. I am supposed to be on some foggy moor digging up potatoes (actually I'm supposed to be watching my tenant farmers do that from the tower of my castle, but I digress...), not being fried to death in the August sun. If I do not coat myself in at least SPF30 I burn to the point of blistering. Poor Hubby spent many a summer vacation "getting my back" until the invention of spray-on sunscreen (genius!) and now he gets to live the entire experience over again with our kids since the spray on stuff doesn't work as well and I insist we use old-fashioned lotion lest they burn. He does not know the absolute agony of a second degree sunburn on young skin. I know they weren't as a savvy about sun protection back then, but what the hell were my parents thinking? I feel like a broken record every summer, "Come out of the water so I can put on more sunblock!" As both my girls and they will tell you, The sun is bad for your skin and makes you old and wrinkly." Indeed, George Hamilton.

The third thing I hate about summer is the twelve straight weeks of bad hair days. Granted, most days my hair does not see the light of day not restrained in an elastic or covered by some kind of cap, but it would be nice on those days I do actually get to blow out my hair that it didn't look like a hood made of steel wool the second I'm done despite the use of hundreds of dollars worth anti-frizz products. June through August my only hair options are bun or ponytail. And forget about the bangs that I am so happy I got September through May. They spend the summer curled up against my forehead like pubes.

Looking over my reasons for hating summer I realize most of them are vanity-related. I think the fact of the matter is I always wanted to be one of those golden-skinned, beach-haired goddesses pictured in swimsuit catalogues looking gorgeous with their bronze glow highlighted nicely by the white sand dusting their skin. In reality, I am a pale, sweaty, frizzy-haired mess who has half the shore's sand stuck to my thighs thanks to the four layers of sunscreen I've already applied by noon. Again, my people are not meant for the beach, hence our love of wool sweaters.

So while I will take the bad listed above with the good - aforementioned hot dogs, ice cream, frozen drinks included - don't think it makes it any easier. Come see me at Christmas time, Giselle, and we'll see how your Brazilian ass feels minus a tan and string bikini. Because, with my coloring, I can seriously rock some green and red plaid. Can you?