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I feel like I am trapped in a Southern Gothic novel where everything is languid and there are heatwaves wafting out from the sidewalk. It’s just that hot today. I feel like this has been a recurring theme in my blogs this summer. Can you guess that I really hate the hot, humid and yucky weather? Yogi Judith hates it too. I think it’s because the two of us were born in December so all this is just contrary to how we were naturally wired. I’m sorry if I’m boring you with my own take on Global Warming but I can’t help it. The heat today is putrid.  In fact, it is hot as the blazes and it’s the third, or is it the fourth, day in a row that the temperature is over 100. The newscaster on CBC keeps repeating that we shouldn’t complain about this because, hey, we could be in Iraq where the temperature reached 130 degrees. But I’m not in Iraq and if I want to complain about the heat in Toronto I will. So, take that smug-CBC Newscaster!

I have all the blinds drawn and the curtains closed to keep the sun and, perhaps, some of the heat out of the house. It’s not doing such a bang up job. Margaret said it’s because after three days of this heat, the bricks in our old houses are heated up and creating a nice little oven of our places. I don’t know whether that’s true, but it sounded about right to me. So I just have to pretend that my efforts to “manage” the temperatures will be as effective as possible.

It worked in literature so why not here? I remember years ago reading this book that took place during the dead of the summer in the American South — way before air conditioning. I don’t remember the title or the author, which is no surprise, but I do remember the description of the house and the heavy, purple velvet drapes closed over the windows and the dust mites swimming in the slits of sun coming through the crack. I remember feeling extra hot and shadowy just reading that part of the book. And, that’s what I feel like now, with the house all closed up and a hot, sombre darkness floating over everything.

I try to pretend that my window treatments and turning on fans is enough, at least in the morning and evening hours. However, there are furry beasts in this house who think otherwise. If I tarry too long switching that knob on the air conditioner, a certain female cat will start following me around nagging, begging, demanding that I take pity on her and her brother and turn on the blasted air conditioning. I remind her that every moment it’s on, my hydro bill goes up and up and up. She is not impressed and just keeps meowing. I finally decide that any amount of money is worth shutting her up. As soon as I turn it on, she walks away, climbs up on the back of the couch and goes to sleep until supper time.

Perhaps, the cats and the slow moving Southerners in those Gothic novels have the right idea. I should just “chill out.” All this complaining of mine doesn’t drop the temperature by a few degrees or bring on some much needed rain showers. So I should just “enjoy” it, fix myself a gin and tonic — I don’t have the makings of a mint julep — and think how much better this is than the ice, snow and sleet of winter.