A Word About the Neverending, Ass Sticking to your Underwear Heat

It never rains in California
But girl, don't they warn ya
It pours man it pours.
Out of work, I'm out of my head
Out of self respect I'm out of bread
I'm under loved I'm under fed
I wanna go home
It never rains in California

Okay, I was very little when this song came out but I remember it playing on the radio that sat in our kitchen when I was this high. I have to talk about the heat. I've been trying to ignore it, avoid it and possibly even thwart it but it ain't happin'. First, let us delve into the genealogical history of Btchwstix, to completely understand the complexity and gravity of this situation. My mother's mother is from this country. My mother's father is from this country. Both of my father's parents are from this country. Specifically, here. As much as I have always wished to be dark, tanned and exotic looking, I am not. Not even close. As a matter of fact, when I was born, all the neighbours thought my mother adopted me, I was so fair. Now don't get me wrong, I don't look like this, but I am still not exotic looking. My point is, I am not a tropical flower that thrives in the heat, humidity and sultriness of Southern Ontario. I am more of an English Rose that thrives on temperate conditions with the odd rain shower thrown in for good measure. I was not built for this weather.

As stated in the title of this post, my chaci gaucies are sticking to my rump. My hair will NOT curl, straighten, bounce or style. When I undo my bra at night, it is so sticky, it continues to hold up breasts without outside help. My already rosy cheeks are permanently tattooed with that "she looks like she's about to have a coronary" look and the sweat above my upper lip could water my now permanently brown grass. I haven't turned the oven on in almost three weeks and I'm going to have to learn how to barbecue pasta. The central air conditioning has been running straight for 3 weeks and every night I have to pray to the Energy gods (as opposed to the Water gods, we remember them well, yes?).

I want to move. I know I can't but I want to. Really. Now. Here looks good. I could knit all year round with local wool. And you wouldn't have to read these pathetic posts about Toronto's tropical weather.