I never thought I would lack such creativity living in this other world that I would feel the need to begin with a sentence about the weather, but it is so unbelievable humid and hot outside that I can hardly contain myself from speaking with a southern drawl about fried food and wiping a cool cloth all over. I even uttered a “hooey, it’s hot”. It feels foreign to me, this tropical heat. It sucks all the creativity from my being…hence the silence for this month. It is just too hot to think of anything interesting to say. But I can’t stay inside, I just can’t. I keep telling myself that when it is 30 degrees below zero next January, I will kick myself for not going outside and sweating like a trooper. This is the time to run through the sprinkler turn up the Southern Rock by the pool and sip tropical drinks with my Copertone tan. But the punch of humidity that hits me in the face keeps me inside, the general “wetness” of everything outside has made me an agoraphobic. The thought of turning on my oven even depresses me. I have all these lovely vegetables and no heart to cook. Why can’t the men in my house be happy with cereal?