Sorry for the Imagery

It's been HOT these past couple of weeks. I think even by most of your standards. Okay, by none of your standards unless you live in northern Canada, but I'm telling you the temp hit over 70 every day last week, and into the 80s once or twice! It was so hot that I wore shorts to the grocery store. THAT'S HOT, and I don't mean in a Paris Hilton kind of way.

Speaking of hot and shorts-wearing, if you ever need a boost in your flagging self-esteem, come visit Alaska in the summer. You think you're a little overweight? Maybe a tad on the pale side? I can guarantee you, we've a state full of portly, fish belly-white humanoids that'll make you feel better about yourself.

We're a people who don't own cute summer outfits, so when we get HOT, the men pull on their one pair of swimming trunks and the women go out publicly in boxers and tank tops that they normally wear only to bed as pajamas. We're talking cleavage spilling out of tiny shirts—and not the sort you see on Carls Jr ads. They're the look away, quick! kind of Grandma-saggy bosoms. With old tattoos of little flowers that have long since lost their brilliant color and now just look like Bic pen drawings.

Whatever. It's too hot to begrudge my red-faced, sweating neighbors their inappropriate attire. In fact, I appreciate their lack of modesty if it makes my own jiggly paleness—or is it pale jiggliness?—less offensive. Now where'd I put my tankini? It's time to run to the market.

Dinner last night: pasta alfredo with grilled chicken strips