I know it seems I only come here to my little blog spot to complain about the heat, but we are far beyond the dehydrating water bra stage now. My beloved front yard magnolia tree, the one that gave us a single white bloom the day we brought Kate home from the hospital, has turned a sickly shade of greenish-yellow. Living things are just not designed to withstand thirty consecutive daily doses of 103-plus temperatures.
Dave has gotten his marriage-long wish. I have been forced by this ceaseless bakefest coupled with my pink-faced entrance to pre-menopause to give up wearing my flannel pajamas. The ones decorated with merry sock monkeys and bright snow domes. The black polka dotted ones that made my husband brighten hopefully when I told him I'd brought home something black and fun from Victoria's Secret, only to have his face fall when I slipped into these Ralph Cramden specials. Yes, the nights of thick, comfy flannel are no more.
I'm sure Dave will find me equally fetching in his ratty old tee shirts.
Whew. Ovaries shutting down now. Apologies to my male readers. Tracy out!