It's so hot here. Near a 100 every day this week, with lows of 79 or 80, at four in the morning. Our air conditioner keeps the house near 80 during the day; it's two in the morning before I'm cool enough to sleep. God, I hate summer.
It's also too hot to exercise unless I wake up at six or wait until sunset (at 8:20, these days). Even then it's too hot to take the little dog out. I have to walk by myself. Poor little dog misses his walks.
Only six more weeks until I can start reasonably expecting fall to start, though. "Then this winter you'll be wishing for summer," Dr. Skull predicated. "You'll be wishing it was hot."
"You must be thinking of your other wife," I said, because I have never once wished for summer. Or heat.
My father seems to be doing a little better. He's gained twenty pounds -- he was down to 137 after my mother's death, which given he's six foot one and heavy boned was way too thin. Every time I talk to him, he weighs himself while I'm on the phone and reports his weight. This past Monday, he was up to 158.3.
"Food must be good there," I said.
"Oh, well, you know," he said. "There's plenty of it, at least."
It's being made to eat three times a day that's doing it, I suspect. Before, he ate a few bananas for breakfast, and drank skim milk, and then had salmon or something for dinner. This while running ten or fifteen miles a day.
I don't think he's running as much anymore either. My brothers have managed to convince him to stop driving, which means someone has to drive him anywhere he wants to go, so he can't go run on the levee as often, or go to his swim club as often either.
Every time I talk to him, he tells me how lonely he is, and how much he misses my mother. But he does seem to be making friends there, among the other "inmates," as he puts it.