It’s been hot here lately. Not just normal summer-level hot (even though it’s not even summer yet AND I live in the sub-arctic tundra that is Vermont so we practically don’t even GET summer. We get like six months of winter, a month of mud season, two weeks of black fly season, six weeks of mosquito-and-thunderstorm season, and two months of fall. Also, I stopped doing the math on that a while back so don’t send me hate mail if it doesn’t add up. LALALA CAN’T HEAR YOU).
I’m talking, it’s been a lot hotter than it should be. Hot as balls. Scorching hot.
Hot. In. Herre.
I’m that asshole that doesn’t even really like summer, by the way. I mean, summer is ok in principle. Things are green and pretty, stuff smells good (once rotten lilac season has passed, anyway), and it stays light until like 9pm. Also, campfires and s’mores. I think of all these things and I’m like, “YAY, SUMMERRRR!”.
But then summer actually gets here and it’s like a fucking greenhouse built INSIDE a jungle that’s living INSIDE a terrarium (are terrariums hot? I know they’re damp, at least. APPLICABLE. I’m keeping it.), and I just…can’t. I used to think it was because I’m a life-long fatty but the older I get the more I realize that I just have cold blood (which is different than being cold-blooded. I don’t bask and I can’t lick my eyeballs). I’m clearly at least part wildling. My optimum operational range is like 25 to 75 degrees. I can walk around outside in yoga pants and a sweatshirt at 25 degrees with no problem, but above 75 degrees I’m usually red-faced, sweating and pining for a pool to jump into.
So, this weekend when it was 95 degrees and fuck-this-noise percent humidity, I just refused to leave the apartment. We watched TV, we played video games, we puttered around the kitchen. One of these trips through the kitchen was when something outside caught my eye:
Have you ever seen a more unimpressed looking squirrel in your life? Look at the dangle-y paws. She’s the embodiment of rodent ennui. “L‘écrou? Non. Le siiiiiigh…” she murmurs as she takes a puff off her tiny squirrel cigarette wand. We’re pretty close to the Quebec border, after all. Francophone squirrels could totally be a thing here. Probably not cigarette-smoking ones, though.
Also, sidenote: I think this squirrel is pregnant, which may be the source of at least some of her hot-weather ennui. She had a litter back in March, but it’s not uncommon for squirrels to have a second litter when there’s plenty of food around. And seeing as how these little bastards have been sucking down birdseed (provided by me) since about November, I’d say food conditions are pretty friggin’ ideal for them. She’s been stuffing her face even more than usual lately and is looking overly rotund again. Not that I’m one to judge.
Anyway, point being, it was too hot to even squirrel here over the weekend. Here’s hoping for some more rodent- and me-friendly weather, at least until summer TECHNICALLY gets here.
As a pregnant human, I concur that it’s been too hot to squirrel, and I sympathize. Although this week it’s back in the 70s near me and THAT’S GLORIOUS.
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I also dislike summer. A lot. Early spring before bugs – please. Post first frost autumn – yes. Snow to play in, blue skies and cocoa winter, also yes. Sweaty drippy MOIST summer. Nope nope nope.
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Pre-bug spring and post-frost autumn are my favorites as well.