Well, here we are. Summer.
The time of year when Texas feels like the devil's solarium, and you break a sweat just blinking.
We're looking at a solid weekend of triple-digit temperatures. That's hotter than Megan Fox in a miniskirt (at least that's the way Pete Delkus put it to me).
I have to confess, when the mercury hits 100, my Texas pride softens like a Popsicle on a Plano sidewalk.
I kinda stop bragging that Texas is the best state in the union, mainly because the part of my brain that controls language shuts down.
I can't think about state pride, or dinner plans, or global warming. All I can do is lay on the couch and pant.
You know what I care about more than global warming? Being hot.
I almost don't care if the polar ice cap melts, as long as it dribbles through my front door and pools around my ankles.
I'm part of the problem. See, I stopped wearing shorts about five years ago. Even in the summer.
I can't remember why I quit; something about my legs looking British, but my skin turned alabaster. In fact, my legs are now translucent, like a tadpole's body.
The nice part is, I can always see if my bones are in good shape.
Bad part is that jeans in 100 degree weather makes me crack Pete Delkus jokes under threat of dismissal.
