Remember that old song from the 60s? I’ve been humming it all day long while Mississippi slowly melts.
Just so you know I didn’t die or anything, I’m alerting all my friends that I won’t be leaving the house until this long, hot summer has ended.
I’ll be hibernating until fall, spending time standing in front of an open freezer or curling up in front of a roaring air conditioning vent with a good book.
I’m deathly allergic to heat, and I’m the only girl I know who gets diaper rash on her ear lobes.
We had such a lovely summer last year. In fact, I don’t think we hit 100 degrees the entire season.
Not being a natural beauty, I depend on Miss Merle Norman to correct the mistakes God made at my birth. But even she can’t combat these summertime conditions.
Down south, we’re dragging around with heat indices hovering between 105 and 110. So when the heat climbs above 95, the make-up slides off like an oyster on an oily half shell (absolutely no pun intended), and I’m left “au naturelle,” which is not my good side.
Last week, I went to the St. Jude PGA Golf Classic in Memphis and thought I looked pretty cute. I had glued on my false eyelashes and painted on my eyebrows. What was I thinking? By the fourth hole, my eyelashes had re-glued themselves to the inside of my sunglasses and the brows had slipped south to form sideburns Elvis Presley would have admired.
My escort suggested I return to the clubhouse and cool off. But good sport that I am, I plowed ahead growing hotter, slicker and more miserable with every step.
A friend gave me the greatest gift this week. It’s a little hand-held, battery-operated fan. I won’t leave the house without it, if I leave at all.