There’re a ton of jokes out there about how hot it is. It’s so hot, the fire hydrants are chasing dogs. It’s so hot chickens are laying hardboiled eggs. It’s so hot I can’t be bothered to list another one. Round here we’re not telling jokes; laughing would generate too much bodyheat. So we’re just laying low. Waiting for the latest canicule to be over and done—make that “well done”—with.
It’s so hot, the flies lord it over us. Food stays under cover from those nasty little feet. It’s so hot—staying with the insect theme—the vines are alive with buzzing and even green is a warm color. It’s so hot, one of my favorite beverages isn’t anymore.
If you point your phone at the sun and “click,” the picture turns out like this. But in reality it’s just a blinding white. The world turns into a midday composition of black and white, where even the shadows are hot. Lawn chairs sit empty.
The only flowers that look “purty” are fake. (Though I gotta say, fake flowers have come a long way.) Gardening tools are on sabbatical. That includes the lawn mower, which sits parked, until further notice, in the head-high grass.
And last but not least, there will be no more hot baths. The tub is nothing more than a wasteful, wrought-iron accessory, but don’t tell the French plumbers who heaved it up the stairs. (Come to think of it, that’s a pretty hot, sweaty and slightly butt-cracky tale…but we’ll save it for another day.)