HellHull

I try to keep my complaints to a minimum, but hot temperatures are like low blood sugar. They cause me to lose all reason and sensibility. The temperature on my iGoogle desktop shows 76 degrees in San Diego, while the thermometer in the cabin of Mother Culture reads a sweltering 85 degrees.

Here I sit working (or blogging), in my bikini, sucking down iced tea like it's going out of style, wishing the sun would go out of style instead. "Sunny San Diego." They say it like it's a good thing.

Since we still don't have the reefer going (that's "refrigerator" to you landlubbers), I make a daily trip to the store to pick up ice to keep in my cooler in order to have cool drinks on board. Since eating soup is out of the question, the main dish on my summer menu is now tuna. With warm olive oil.

Lola was attacked by the clippers last night. Though she wasn't happy about it while it was happening, I believe she must feel at least a little bit of relief today. It's hard to tell because, like me, she doesn't dare move too much or too fast in this Hell we call Home.