A moth has committed suicide in the pool of melted butter in our butter dish. That’s how bad things are here, folks. The air is as thick as buttermilk. The bell pepper in the fruit basket that once was firm and lovely has now lost its youth. It sits wrinkled and haggard. I am like the bell pepper. This heat and humidity has turned me into a frizzy hag, staggering around the house in my birthday suit, lying on the almost cool floor, weeping.
Mollie is in Hyper Pant mode. She thinks that if she pants hard enough, she will create a cool and refreshing breeze in the apartment. I tried it. It doesn’t work. We spent a while last night bonding in a cool bath.