Enough!

Y’all, it’s hot. I’m talking pit stains before 9:00am hot. I’m talking sweat down your butt crack hot. I’m talking sticky, unpleasant, relentless, late-August HOT! And I don’t know about the rest of you, but it is making me cranky as Hell. If you’ll recall, this time last year, Central Texas was reveling in a wetter-than-normal cooler-than-normal spring filled with gorgeous wildflowers. I don’t think we even hit 100 but a couple of times last year, and it was way later in the summer. But now? The rivers are quickly receding, we’re already on water rationing per the City, and the grass is crispy beneath our feet. To the east of Austin, it’s not quite as bad. To the west, it’s worse. I’m a Texan. I understand “hot,” and normally I can tolerate it. But to have it be so brutal so early in the year (Hell, it’s not even “officially” summer yet), is enough to turn even the toughest Texan into a sweaty, miserable grump.

Now that I’ve gotten THAT out of the way, how was your Father’s Day? Ours was good. BH’s boys were in town with one of their friends. The Geej and I skeedaddled for Saturday and Saturday night so that they could do “dude stuff” without us getting in the way. They fished. They skateboarded. They swam. They grilled. They had a nice time, and BH was a happy guy. I tried to get BH a new grill to replace our crappy one, but the jerks at Lowe’s weren’t helpful (i.e., I couldn’t get anyone to help me lift the huge box the grill I wanted comes in), so he ended up getting a Lowe’s gift card (designated for a grill purchase) instead. Totally unoriginal, I realize, but I know he—and the rest of us—will enjoy it.

Speaking of fathers, I had a funny memory of mine today: I remember when I was about 6-ish—skinny, with a light blonde and VERY unflattering chili bowl haircut—I would go visit my dad at his “Singles Only” swinging 70s apartment complex. His unit was on the ground floor, right in front of the pool. So of course I spent every waking moment of the summer days I was over there swimming. Daddy would lay out by the pool with a cooler of cold Coors and a portable radio next to him and doze all day while I yelled, “Watch this! Watch this! Watch this! Daddy! Watch!” at him about a gazillion times. (As if he might actually be interested in my canon balls or water ballet moves.) But the thing I remembered today was how annoying I was when he’d dare to bring something poolside to read. He’d be checking out the newspaper or a magazine, and I would splash him from the pool, getting whatever he was reading all wet. If THAT didn’t work, then I’d actually get out of the pool and come punch the back of the paper or magazine. And if I still wasn’t getting what I thought was adequate attention from him, I would administer a karate chop to the spine of the reading material that was often times fatal (since whatever it was probably already wet). God, what a brat, right? He would just sigh, light another cigarette and pop open another beer, and watch me for a while until he fell asleep. Those were the days…

And speaking of getting attention: I’m auditioning for a GAME SHOW on Thursday. Seriously, if there were ever a game show a) made for me that b) I might actually have a shot at winning some money on, it’s this one. I’ve never actually WATCHED the show, mind you, but I know the premise, and it taps straight into my special gift/curse, which is remembering a ridiculous amount of song lyrics in my tiny little brain. Remember my aunt’s birthday? No chance. Remember every word to “Right Down the Line” by Gerry Rafferty? I’m you’re gal. I’m actually taking a day off of work and going to the auditions, which are from like 7am to 7pm. If I don't get on the show, at least I’ll have some good people-watching story to tell with you freaks.