Stiflying summer heat and other delights

How do you hold up against the heat? Do you manage it fairly well, or like me do you sweat and whine, whine and sweat?
Regular visitors to my assigned space at the top of this page on the weekend know all too well how I feel about endless winter, freezing weather, snow removal and such. Oh my, the way I do bellyache in January and February. This is fully justified in my view because, after Christmas, what’s left to like about the next seven months in which we live like musk oxen?
Here’s the thing: I’m every bit as annoyed by formations of biting bugs drifting along in summer on what is said to be wind, but in actuality more closely resembles moving steam. My goodness, a mere half-hour of mowing our corner on Thompson Avenue has me soaking wet and panting for the balance of the evening. I try mightily to fight off skyrocketing temps with internal applications of well-chilled, long-necked adult beverages, but it’s still the pits.
What’s a slacker to do? Permit me to share with you the fruits of many years as a card-carrying malingerer.
First and foremost, no matter how much peer pressure the neighbors attempt to inflict, do not apply fertilizer in any form. Not ever. Fertilizer, I’ve discovered to my dismay, encourages the spurge and crabgrass and sand burrs to grow. Any growth equals mowing. Mowing is bad. Therefore fertilizer is bad.
Second, do not be talked into applying water. They’ll say you should because you have the only brown, curled up, crunchy yard in the neighborhood. They’ll suggest this is a bad thing, but we know better, don’t we? Dead stuff doesn’t grow. Dead stuff doesn’t need mowing. Therefore dead stuff is good.
I’m sure you have air-conditioning in everything you drive? Who doesn’t in this day and age? Me, that’s who.
The 1993 Suburban with 229,000 miles? Air quit a year or two back. The 1991 MR2 twin-turbo? Its air has been dead longer than the Burb. Spent more than $1,000 on it when we lived in Wyoming. Two different mechanics made a total of three $300-plus attempts to get it fixed. No dice.
After going 0-3 it dawned on me to maybe, like, open the windows and stuff. It’s warm, especially when you lean back against that mid-engine where the back seat belongs, but bearable.
The ‘91 Jeep with 224,000 on odometer has air ... sort of. I’m sure it’s about out of freon. I know this because it cools after a fashion, though typically not until you get where you were going.
Is it any wonder 90-plus temps get me all riled up? Obviously, I am entirely blameless for this acute discomfort, not to mention the water-your-eyes odor you’ve no doubt noticed by now.
What’s that? You say maybe if I was a little less thick I’d be more comfortable? And that if I’d get off my girthy tush and get into even moderately decent shape I’d be a far site better off, too?
Hey buddy, we don’t appreciate that kind of talk around here.
Contact — stephen.moseley@yorknewstimes.com