Um, hell-looooo? Hell-oh!? 109 degrees in Hollywood this past weekend? No air-conditioning. Sick baby and now sick mommy. Good times. Good times. Truly. And to quote the local news, "Well, folks. You probably noticed it feels like hell here in the city of angels."
We have since escaped the heat and are currently hiding out at my parental's house like refugees. It was so hot I was literally hallucinating when packing my bag and ended up with a bag full of wife-beaters (6) a swimsuit and three bottles of perfume. I suppose subconsciously, smelling good was more important than wearing pants this week, not that it matters. I'm sick and tired and fear that our house has caught fire up in the Ellay and/or my shoes have melted to create leather soup in my closet.
I hate the heat. Hate. I've never been able to handle it when it gets above 80 and feel like punching someone in the face right now I'm so irritable and bleh.
I'll let you in on a little secret that isn't quite a secret in our house because I'm constantly whining about it: I'm ready to move. I've been ready for about five years now. When I met my baby's papa I had just registered with the peace corps to volunteer as a sex-educator in Morocco. (And here I am complaining about the heat, right? I wouldn't have lasted a week there. I would have gone berserk.)
Now that I am married with a child, the peace corps is out and now that I am married to a man who works in television, moving out of hot-as-balls-lately-LA isn't in our near future either, although this week I have been pushing- hard.
"There's TV in Portland (and Cookies, glorious Cookies.) You could work on the news, maybe?"
"Bec!"
"What? Or Seattle. Don't you know people in Seattle?"
"Not the right people."
"What about Vancouver? Everyone is shooting in Vancouver these days. Canada is so hot right now or New Zealand? You can catch up with Peter Jackson and we can enjoy a moderate climate and people who don't drive Hummers to the grocery store."
"We'll see."
Am I making progress? Perhaps. But as we kick around my parents house, me in my wife-beaters and perfume, Archer in his diaper and snot-nose, living off the land (aka my parent's refrigerator) I'm kinda wondering if we should just make our home here. There's a pool, free food and a roof over our heads that isn't on fire.
Refugees represent in the 760. At least until it pipes the f down up there in hell.
GGC
