droop

It is suddenly–and by “suddenly,” I mean “as of today”–really freaking hot. Washington-in-the-summer hot. (Although I am properly grateful and appreciative of the fact that, unlike last year, I am not pregnant and huge to enjoy it.) Today it was 96 degrees and high humidity. That, my friends, is hot. (Conor said, “It’s like the great big dog of God is breathing on me.”)

Anyway, that aside, we’re moving along toward being ready to go on our Michigan trip. Before then, I must do the following:
* Work on my dissertation
* Clean my house (since there may be a baptism party for Riley here the day after we return)
* Index two books
* Pick up Conor’s laptop from repair (please, God, let it be finished before we have to leave; otherwise we will be traveling with–and indexing on–his old laptop, the screen of which only works when tipped forward or backward to absurd and inconvenient angles)
* Pack (no small thing for two adults and one baby for a week)
* Hold our mail, arrange for plant watering, recycle our recyclables (which I always forget to do on Thursdays…it’s been months since I’ve done it), and clean out my (filthy) car
* Convince the Post that we are no longer daily subscribers, but Sunday-only

This last item is a source of constant irritation to me. I imagine that I should find it funny and sometimes I do, but not always. On April 4 (yes, that’s right–April 4!), I called the Post and changed our subscription to Sunday-only. I don’t have the time to read the daily paper right now; it was cutting into my dissertation-writing time, and I can’t afford that, with all of the other drains on my time (you know, like blogging…ahem). I have, since then, called them every week and pointed out that we are still getting a daily paper. Occasionally, they call us, very early in the morning (always before we’re even awake, much less out and about) and ask if we still got our paper. But they keep bringing it! That’s two months of unsolicited daily papers. I’m not sure what else to do, other than post a huge sign at the end of the driveway saying, “DO NOT DELIVER PAPERS HERE UNLESS IT IS SUNDAY.” How hard can it be to get a newspaper delivery person to cut out one house? As it is, we start our day by driving out to take Conor to the Metro, and he says, invariably, “Good news, sweetie! They remembered to bring your newspaper!” Which, again, should probably be considered funny, but instead it usually provokes me to curse mightily.

Speaking of cursing mightily…has anyone else noticed that it’s really hot?

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