I’ll see you in September when the summer’s through


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.

1827_hot_man_melting_in_the_heat-1 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.

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