(Another quilt growing in my garden. This is a small wall-hanging, maybe 20" x 20", that I machine-pieced, but hand-quilted.)
My dears, it is hot. Too hot to go to the pool hot. Too hot to sleep even with the AC running full-blast hot. Too hot, period.
It's probably even too hot to blog, but if I don't, then who can I complain to about the heat?
We had a good July 4th weekend. On Saturday we went to a cook-out I'd been maybe just a little bit dreading. Love the couple throwing it, but didn't know whether or not to trust their taste in guests. Well, clearly, we were invited--evidence of excellent taste, yes? But maybe we were an aberration; after all, our friendship is the product of our sons' friendship. Just sheer luck that the grown-ups get along.
Well, get this: the guest list consisted mostly of 60-year-old Puerto Rican transplants from New York City, and you know what that spells? Fun! Oh, yes it was. We had a blast. The hostess's parents just happen to be the original Puerto Rican transplants from New York, and when they moved South, so did all their friends.
Of course, all the men ate together on the porch, and all the women ate together in the dining room. My contribution to the evening was to ask the questions that got the funny stories rolling. I drank Champagne and thought, I really should do this more often.
On Sunday, we went to Danielle's, our annual tradition. Danielle's husband, who shall remain anonymous, is the King of Fireworks, which is why he shall remain anonymous. That the cops didn't show up at the front door this year astounds me. The kids would have loved it, though! My two boys and Danielle's boy and girl--a small group, but up for a good time (including cops and paddywagons, if it came to that)--were a chorus line of hoots and hollers. A good time was had by all.
The heat left us alone until a slow build yesterday and then today the full frontal brunt of it. Will we survive? If you'd asked me two hours ago when I was perched on the bleachers at Will's little league game, I would have had my doubts. Now it's 8:30, and the AC is purring at my feet. I suppose I'll live to see another day.
But the day after that? Honey, it remains to be seen.