One Crazy Summer, Not the John Cusack Movie

Well, we’re really in it, aren’t we? The wackiest, saddest, scariest, most isolating summer ever. I hope you’re staying safe, being smart, and doing what you can to keep this pandemic from getting worse than it already is. Which is PRETTY. DAMN. BAD. If you’re from the USA, I hope you’re registered to vote, and that you are going to be a defender of democracy and NOT vote for Stupid Hitler. Or any Republican enabler. Ok, let’s take a deep breath and shake it out.

byrneshake

 

I wanted to share the cutest thing to help me through this bonkers few months (besides HAMILTON ON DISNEY + DUH), and that is a squirrel named Toast. Not sure if it’s a boy or girl (you’d think it would be easy to determine but they don’t exactly let you lift that tail), but for some reason, this brave thing decided to be my friend. Peanuts have majorly contributed, believe me. We have tons of birds and squirrels in our back yard, but Toast has taken charge of being special. It remains chill, loves to look me right in the eyes, and has no problem posing for the camera. I even attempted to make him TikTok famous:

 

I wish I could express to this chonky rodent how much joy and serenity it brings when it stops by.

 

I Can Has Autumn?

As I type this, the month of May is almost over. Summer is upon us. Sunshine, beaches, barbecues, shorts, tank tops, flip flops, all that stuff. Stuff I hate.

The heat, my god, the heat! Who wants to roast like a pig on a spit? How is heat and humidity a nice feeling? I do not enjoy sweating at all. It’s a shame, since in my older years I’ve become what some people call a “Sweaty Betty”. Any little rise in temperature starts the swirl of dampness around my pits and forehead. Then paranoia sets in. Do I have B.O.? Do I look like I just ran a marathon? And don’t get me started on what the hot air does to my hair. Curls turn into a frizzed out clown wig in seconds. Give me the cool, crisp, fall surroundings. I feel fresh and so clean, clean. Hair’s on point and my armpits are dry and smell like lavender (thanks, Secret!).

Beaches? I don’t need no stinking beaches! Sure, I live in a city that has the word Beach in it, but that doesn’t mean I’m at the oceanfront in a swimsuit (horrors). That sand gets everywhere, even if you take a barefoot stroll fully clothed. Somehow, it will end up in your butt crack, I’m telling you. I love the ocean and all the critters in it, but I’ll view it from the deck of my lovely Cape Cod mansion (imaginary, naturally). At dusk, in mid-October. No grains of sand in my butt in that scenario.

When you don’t eat meat, barbecues are a drag. Unless I’m hanging out with my tons of vegetarian/vegan friends and we’re grilling tofu burgers and veggie shish kebobs, but I don’t have tons of those friends. And I don’t have a grill. So I’ll enjoy some tater tots and a burrito in my heavily air conditioned (imaginary) Cape Cod mansion. Followed by some dairy free ice cream.

Summer attire is the worst. The WORST! I’m 41 years old, not in the greatest shape, and am as pale as a White Walker in Game of Thrones. My legs are always dry. I could soak them in a giant vat of cocoa butter for three hours, and they’d still look like rhinoceros skin. Who wants to gaze at those things? Wearing shorts hurts my soul. And tank tops? I can deal with them slightly better, since it’s an excuse to show off my sweet tattoos, but the ink is attached to pasty, freckly arms. In constant fear of getting burned by the evil yellow orb in the sky. Give me sweaters! All of the hoodies! Jeans! Boots! Converse! Layers upon layers of clothing to keep my fragile white skin safe from society!