Flat cats...

"Blergh."

"You okay love?" asks David solicitously.

"Heat.  Blergh. Sticky. Thighs... chafing..."

"But you're not even moving - your thighs can't be chafing if you're not moving."

"You'd think that would be the case, wouldn't you?  It's because I'm just thinking of moving.  My thighs, they know that I'm thinking of moving, and they've already begun to chafe."  I turn my head to the side and murmur despondently, "Je déteste l'été..."

I am one of very few Canadians who do not relish the dog-days of summer. I will choose winter over summer.  My seasonal picks run thus: spring and autumn in an equal tie for first place, then winter, then near-spring, the-day-before-autumn, near-winter and finally, after every other possible combination... summer. Give me a day of 23 degrees Celsius with zero humidity and I'm ecstatic. 30 with a Humidex of 39 and I'm threatening to murder inanimate objects.

"You fucking viscous oak dining chair!  Let go of the back of my thighs!  I will chop you into pieces and decimate you with the molten heat from beneath my breasts!!"

David purchases floor fans to move conserved cooler air from the window air conditioners around.  I hog the revolving tower fan in the living room as we watch episodes of IZombie.  It is a delightful show of skirt-raising as I  hunker down to air out my hot-enough-to-double-as-a-panini-press nether regions.

The poor cats.  I've never seen them so flat.  They ooze into the floor.  

Flat Minuit

Flat Steve

The cats are so uncomfortable that they aren't even asking for food.  And this is from beasts who routinely beg for their meals at least an hour in advance of feeding  time.  It appears that they, like me, become nauseated by the extreme heat.  Pro-side?  This heat-induced nausea has put us all on a meal apathy diet.  How do you feel about dinner?  Meh...

As a gal who freely admits to getting truly nasty during a heatwave, I'm also the first to say that  ingenuity is a heat-hater's best friend.  I have it down to a science.  The window air conditioner runs at full blast for the 15 minutes before bed, then the floor fan, at level 3, oscillates.  A cool shower, an ice pack wrapped around my neck and accompanying Gravol for the nausea, et voilà!  Not only can sleep be attained, it can be enjoyed.  And tomorrow night, if I can fight against the urge to slip into a heat-exhaustion, near-coma-post-work nap - I'll actually be able to sleep when I hit the sheets.  Bright side?  I managed to pen this post at 2:00 a.m.