I know, I promised, I wasn’t going to complain about the weather. You’d think we’d be sick of it by now, because I definitely am. (I discovered last night that my favorite Heliamphora died at the same time as my Nepenthes hamata, and I’m probably going to lose a loquat tree thanks to the insanely low humidity.) However, you have a nearly palpable disappointment in Dallas that we didn’t break a record for subsequent 100-degree-F days originally set in 1980. My father-in-law, a very sane and rational man who lived through both the 1980 and 1952 heatwaves, has the right perspective on this: “It’s not a record. It’s a losing streak.”
Trust my father-in-law to state the obvious. Summer 2011 is the Chicago Cubs of meteorology. (And I say this as a diehard Cubs fan, having seen the light thanks to one of my childhood role models.) I just want to know what we did to deserve our very own Billy Goat Curse.
Meanwhile, I’m reminded more and more of the summer when I finally moved out on my own and became a reasonably responsible adult. My father had a a lot to do with that, too. “The Emperor told us to go to Arrakis,” Dad says. “You won’t miss Caladan a bit,” Dad says. “You’ll make lots of new friends, and get some new hobbies, and maybe meet a nice girl,” Dad says. Dad, SHUT UP. The sun’s so hot that I have sunburn on the backs of my eyelids.