The shaded thermometer outside the back door now reads 100◦F, which feels like 105◦F to 107◦F when we factor in the New Jersey humidity, or roughly meaning "you're FRIED, Pineys!" Under these conditions, the New Jersey State Bird has been known to swarm out in choking clouds, even at mid-morning, from the low-lying foliage. The cloud then heads straight for the average NJ housewife at her clothesline. Within five minutes, there is left only a heap of collapsed skin and bone in a housedress, a couple of clothespins and a cigarette poking out from between its clenched teeth.
Junket and I are gratefully hunkered down in the cool darkness of Pseudonym Manor, two wall-unit G.E. air-conditioners straining under the load, confused animals gathered at our feet. Daisy the Terrier doesn't understand why we can't go play frisbee; the cats are staring listlessly at the sliding glass door which lets out to the back yard, wondering who will stalk the birds in their absence. Solid food doesn't go down easily, but lies at the bottom of my stomach, complaining bitterly.
An old friend once told me she watches certain films on very hot days. Her favorite cool-down film is Waterworld, which I have never seen in its entirety. (If I'm going to watch a hosed-down leading man, it ain't gonna be Kevin Costner; I'm more of a Mel-Gibson-in-his-tight-leather-pants, c. Mad Max, kind of girl.) When the temperature exceeds 95◦F, I like to watch Fargo, It's A Wonderful Life, The Day After Tomorrow or Smilla's Sense of Snow. Well, that last one sort of irritates me with its implausibility; Mr. Pseudonym just bought it so he could look at Julia Ormond. Mr. Pseudonym also likes to look at Audrey Tautou. Both of these ladies look somewhat like I did in my youth, which is of some small comfort. Well into having completed my sixth decade in this body, my skin is a bit rumpled and careworn these days.
It's OK, though--I've given up makeup, for the most part, and J.Q. seems to find the crosshatched wrinkles on my face to be of considerable interest. I still hold him when he's sucking down his milk or juice, even though he's been capable of holding his own bottle for quite some time. He stares into my eyes, pats my face, tries to stick his fingers up my nose or rips off my glasses and giggles while driddling milk out of the corner of his mouth and down his neck. We only have these few precious minutes before he flings the empty aside and chases off on all fours after the cat or the nearest available electric outlet. He's tall, solid and wiry at 15 months, and he doesn't believe in holding still for much these days. My babies didn't either, and they've run all the way into a time in which I cannot comfort or protect them.
Oh, never mind me. It's just the heat. I need to brave the baking sun just long enough to get to an icy-cold Target and buy myself some toys.
Or maybe not. It's just not worth the stress. I'll pop in my Oceanscapes DVD (fishies, foamy waves, coral reefs, blue-green coolness, tranquil tinkly music), make some iced tea and let the day wind down.
3 comments:
It's about time you posted, Momma! Hahahaha... I love the idea of stuffing the rats into a cooler with ice to take them to the vet. Very funny!
I think Boda's movie crushes are cute. They obviously look like you when you were our age.
It's amazing how holding him can still be sweet even when he's clawing at your face like an itty-bitty Hannibal Lechter.
While at the shrink's office yesterday, he cruised up to me, patted my chest three times and gave me an impish smile. Could this kid GET any cuter?
No, I don't think anybody could be cuter.
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