It’s raining. It’s been raining for weeks now. Right now outside my window there are sheets of rain falling. The sky is gunmetal grey. And I wouldn’t be surprised to see Elmira Gulch ride by on her bicycle. I know the sun peeked out a little over the weekend but I was mostly inside dealing with my overfilled mucus membranes (see last post for details) so I can’t be sure it wasn’t a Dayquil induced hallucination. But Boston is starting to look like Tim Burton’s version of Gotham City and with all due respect to Vicky Vale and Commissioner Gordon – no one wants that. I know very soon it will be hot and sticky and the sun worshipers will be in their glory. I know everyone is complaining how we never get a spring around here. But I’m OK with grey and cool – I just want to know when we should start building the Ark?

I’m not complaining. I’m not one to complain about cool wet weather. I hate the heat. I would have a hard time choosing between my darling husband and air conditioning in my car. I hate being sweaty. I want it to be 60 degrees forever. Day, night, morning afternoon, evening. And no humidity – like ever. Humidity is a cruel joke the devil played on curly haired women. In Boston in July there isn’t enough product in Sephora’s warehouses to keep my hair tamed. I end up looking like Little Orphan Annie’s haggard long lost mother. I want to like the summer – I really do. I was born in July so I should be a beach baby but there’s nothing I hate more than sand in my shoes and salt water in my hair.  I love the look of the ocean, the sound of the waves crashing, the smell of the sea air. But I’m not going in it – or probably even near it. I’ll be just fine here on the beach wall – thanks. I envy the summer lovers – with their sleeveless tops and flip-flops and sundresses. None of these things look good on me. I’d show off my bare ass before my bare upper arms. Flip flops give me a back ache and make a sound so annoying I actually sent one of my employees home for wearing them once. And sundresses just say chafed thighs to me. I always thought I’d probably like summer if I were thinner. But I’ve been thinner and I still hated the heat. The size of my thighs has no effect on my frizz-prone hair on a scorcher in August. Being skinny doesn’t help the smell in the subway when it’s pushing 90 and the guy next to you hasn’t bathed since there was snow on the ground.

But the summer is short – there will be fall clothes in the stores before the 4th of July fireworks are over. Football will be back on TV. And I’ll be spending a small fortune on school supplies again. In the mean time – I’ll start gathering animals – it’s like herding cats around here most of the time anyway.