Fruit of sweating golden inca

8 08 2012

Yes, it’s August. Yes, it’s muggy. Yes, I got my hair cut.

Yes, I hate everything.

HOWEVER: my heart is not in the hate. I’m working this summer (unlike last. . .) and am thus ensconced in an environment in which someone else is paying to (over)cool the air, and, given that I am working, I can afford to put on the a/c if the weather is still filthy when I get home.

It’s no-drama time. Good for me, certainly, but it does take the oomph out of the hate.





Oh, the weather outside is frightful

1 07 2012

I don’t like air conditioning.

Silly, I know, given my antipathy to summer, and it must be admitted that this dislike does not get in the way of my using my own a.c. (purchased for me by T. and P. some summers ago) or my gratitude for it on the train or at work.

Yes, I’m a hypocrite—sue me.

My friend J., who grew up in Arizona and went to school in Minnesota, didn’t like central heat, something which I, the as-yet-had-never-lived-anywhere-outside-of-the-midwest, found unfathomable. Don’t like indoor heat? Why it’s the greatest: You come in from a snowy day and peel off your jacket and mittens and hat and scarf, kick off your boots, and you feel the warmth seep into you.

That made sense: You bundled up for outside, and when the bundle was no longer enough, you escaped back into cozy warmth.  How could that not be good?

But J., I think, looked at winter much as I look at summer: That was a season when you were supposed to be able to roam free, and not be trapped indoors. Arizona in July was like Minnesota in January—brutal—so when the opposite (winter for her, summer for me) doesn’t bring relief, you go after the proxy, that which makes the brutal bearable.

Hm, that wasn’t clear. J. doesn’t hate summer and I don’t hate winter. Neither of us likes our respective brutalities, but we’ve each found a way to deal with them; what we have not found a way to deal with are the seasons which are supposed to be “better”. (Yes, I still think winter is easier to deal with than summer, what with the possibilities of bundling-up versus the limits to stripping down, but that’s another argument.)  Summer for me and winter for her is supposed to be a time of weather-liberation, and when it is not, well, we hate the things that keep us penned up, trapped indoors by the sun or the snow. Thus: I hate a/c, she hates central heat.

J. is long back in Arizona, so I hope she’s got her winter mojo back; regardless, she’s likely as calm facing summer as I am facing winter.

I just wish Brooklyn summers were as mild as those Arizona winters.





Because she cut off all my clothes

20 06 2012

Ninety-something degrees today, near a hundred tomorrow.

I hate hot weather.

I hate summer.

Summer of love? Fuck that. By July I’ll be cutting off my hair in despair, and by August, I’ll hate. . . everything.

That’s how it is.





Summer in the city

21 07 2011

Hot, broke, and unemployed.

Yes, once again, I hate everything.

(Tho’ it must be said that we New Yorkers don’t have it as bad as those in the middle of the country. . . .)





Hot town, summer in the city

6 07 2010

Sucks.





Breathe deep fill up with relief

6 06 2010

It’s 88 and sticky in New York. Good thing I have an air conditioner (Thanks T & P!), right?

Yeah, hm, so why isn’t it on?

I used it yesterday, when it was also 88 and sticky, tho’ I turned it off when I left for a night out, and kept it off overnight, using a fan in the window instead. This morning, I didn’t even consider turning it on.

So why a/c on Saturday and not on Sunday?

Because it’s supposed to rain, you see, and not just rain, but thunder and lightning and wind and general mayhem. Whoo hoo!

All those years without a/c have conditioned me to wait for the thunderstorm, the crack that signals the break in the weather, the wind that blows the swamp air away. Wisconsin, Minnesota, Quebec, Massachusetts, and now, New York, and it’s all the same: the air fills with heat and dew, heavier and heavier and heavier as the days drag on, until, finally, it rips itself apart.

With the a/c on, it’s just a show outside my window; after it’s over, I can open the windows and it’s all the same.

But if I open those windows before and let that heat seep in, when the sundering comes, I get the release and the relief.

I get to feel it all.





Ten-minute hate

12 08 2009

I hate everything.

I warned a friend who’s visiting next week to remind our other friend that New York is a dump. I then recited my usual list about smells, cockroaches, smells, rats, smells, overheated train platforms, and did I mention smells?

My life sucks, I grouse to the cats, slouching around my apartment and glaring out the window at the sun.

Fuck Bank of America. I pay my goddamned bills—I pay more than the minimum—and now they’re jacking me around?

And what the hell is that man doing beating the hell out of the fire escape? Removing rust, apparently, but not with what one would think would be the sensible tool of a chisel, but with a hammer. A hammer! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam!

He goes up the escape, he goes down the escape. Up, down. Up, down. The first time he made it down, I thought, Finally, he’s done. Nope: Up, down. Up, down.

Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam!

God, I fucking hate everything.

My apartment is a soup, filled with Bam! Bam!, rust chips (from the Bam! Bam!), and air so moist I need gills to breathe.

I have words in my head I can’t get on to paper (or, in this case, the computer screen).

I have words on paper—books I want to read—that I can’t keep in my head.

Girlfriend? Boyfriend? HAH!

I gotta get out of here, I confided to C. Everything sucks. It’s got to be better somewhere else, right? Right?

She sipped her beer and raised her eyebrows.

Yeah, yeah, I know, I sighed. I get unhappy, I want to move. But where am I going to go? Where the hell else can I go?

She sipped her beer and raised her eyebrows and shrugged her shoulders.

She let me rant.

I hate everything, I growled into my beer. Fucking August.

Yeah, fucking August, she repeated.

I perked up. Yeah, yeah! August! August sucks!

Blame August: that’s the ticket!