Hot, baby. HOT. And I mean hot.
Of course, the sixty-eight-year-old guy washing his car in a Speedo is hot, too, because it's ONE HUNDRED freaking degrees outside.
That's not what you expected, huh?
I'm funny like that.
Here's what I don't understand. We spend six months out of the year bitching about how cold it is, about the snow, about the gray skies and days that turn dark by 4:30 p.m. We say things like, "How about that snow!" and "Hey, Ethel, there's a six foot drift against the back door! Go shovel a path for the dog!" and "God damn snow!" and "Summer is never coming!"
Inevitably, though, summer does come, and then we say things like, "God damn, it's hot out there!"
(and we say that when it's about 80 degrees...those in the South should laugh heartily at us...go ahead...we laugh at you when you get an inch of snow and you buy six gallons of milk, twelve loaves of bread and a gallon of Jack Daniels before you shut down your state for a week)
Now New England being what it is (COLD and OLD), you're not likely to live in a house with central air conditioning. Those farmers...and really, farmer is a generous word since it's been proven nothing of value can grow in granite...of 1822 were too busy trying to stay warm in January that they just weren't thinking about staying cool in July. Sucks for us, eh?
If you're thinking that New Englanders do a lot of complaining about the weather, you'd be right. We're proud of it, too. Face it. If you had to live with the kind of cold that freezes your eyeballs or the kind of hot that melts the underwire in your bra...and nothing in between...you'd be cranky, too.
Now pass me the sunscreen and the tequila. I'm hot.