We’re hot and tired of the hot.

Everywhere I go and everyone I know is talking about the hot weather. It’s nothing new. It seems to be here to stay. And there. And everywhere. There’s Christine in Dallas. Her children are roasting on the school bus. The bus doesn’t even need flashing lights, because the kids have such red cheeks. There’s Debbie in South Carolina. She’s sweating in her yard. We can’t even one-up each other on the humidity factor. And Nick in Champaign, IL where his window A.C. unit was confiscated by the frat police for being too cool, because it was too large. Great. There’s nothing better than a room full of sweaty, stinky, guys.  And finally, the White house. We think we’re hungry, but it’s too hot to grill. And we don’t want to warm up the kitchen with the oven. Neither of us wants to get in the hot car in the hotter garage to go get food.  We paw through the pantry, which is sparse after returning from vacation. Finally, we settle on a soup mix. Wild rice mushroom. Sounds awful, but okay. “It probably needs milk,” he states.  “We don’t have any!” I whine defeatedly.  I quickly scan the directions and, Hark! The mix requires only water. Woohoo! Dinner is served. Soup. When it’s this hot? How does that make any sense. It doesn’t. Until we realize Seinfeld is on T.V. It’s the Soup Nazi episode. And finally, dinner makes sense. Bon appe-heat!