I'm convinced that I'm cold-blooded. I am one of those people who is always cold. Even in July, I sleep with a comforter. My sweatpants know no "off-season." (Partially because I share them with Jeff, but still.) I'm a block of ice--slightly hairy ice, like ice that's been dropped on the floor of a barber shop and then put back in your white wine spritzer. A little dangerous, kind of suspect, sexy if you're into that. But I digress. My point is that I'm a frosty little mofo. So it follows that I should love summer, right? I should love that feeling of being hot-boxed into a room filled with pudding, the kind of heat where you can actually feel your hair frizz, at the exact moment that the sweat gathering under your thuttocks begins to drip down, making a lackadaisical run for your inner knees.
Not so much.
There are many things I hate about summer in general (see also Volume 1 and Volume 2), but now that I have a kid a whole other level of curmudgeonly loathing has been awakened. For instance, toddlers are sticky by nature (they make their own sap, in between tantrums), but add in the grab bag of the average summer day's bonus toppings--sweat, five coats of sunblock, runny popsicles, cheap drugstore bubbles, and approximately fifty-two rounds of sprinkler/sandbox dipping--and you have the human equivalent of Slimer from Ghostbusters. And it wants to be carried, snuggling its grimy 98-degree body against your already steaming flesh.
But once again, I digress. On to my shit list:
Yup, I said it. THE SUN.
Is a lie. The sun is not happy. It doesn't rise each day looking like it just pooped a mile-long rainbow, and it's not the color of a shiny, free-range egg yolk.
No, the sun is a giant, angry ball of fire that wants us all to melt to death.
A quick clarification: Don't get me wrong, I like solar power and light and stuff, and I need my vitamin D like everyone else. I just want worldwide cloud cover from June through September so that when I inevitably try to walk through a sliding glass door, no one mistakes me for the Kool Aid man based on skin color.
I live in Brooklyn, where an 8-ounce cafe latte can cost upwards of $14*. But at least that's eight precious ounces of liquid caffeine, not two handfuls of ice with a light misting of something brown that may or may not once have existed in bean form.
Maybe I wouldn't be so harsh if the privilege of being served less coffee over a giant scoop of free frozen water didn't result in a 50% markup. Or if watery milk tasted, I don't know, exceedingly delicious, instead of like sad, cold ass.
But as it stands, iced coffee, you and me are not bros. And therefore I will stand in the 99-degree heat and I will drink my burning hot latte, and it WILL TASTE LIKE JUSTICE.
*P.S. Of course I'm not being serious. It's actually $14.35 with tax.
I'll let a meme do the talking here, because I don't have much more to say than:
So, yeah. Enjoy your summer, kids. I'll be over here, shaking my cane. As usual.