This is not a post about boob sweat.
It was going to be. Oh yeah. It was. Because, I don't know if you've heard, but it's hot this summer. I do have this miserable story about driving down to my Aunt's house last week with Wendy in my car that has no air conditioning in the middle of the afternoon in 97 degree heat. With no air conditioning. And then the 45 minute trip turned into a two hour trip because of highway construction that was apparently NOT EVEN GOING ON because it was SO EFFING HOT.
The construction workers? They were probably sitting somewhere else, in the air conditioning. Me? I was getting pregnant heat stroke and spraying my three year-old down with a spray bottle full of water (aka, Ghetto AC) so she didn't get the heat stroke.
Miserable. You will be glad to know that there was an in-ground backyard pool at the end of that hell-rainbow. After soaking our over-cooked brains for a while, Wendy paddled her kiddie tube over to me and asked why I have been calling our plastic baby puddle in our back yard a "pool;" and did I think that she was never going to find out about this blissful Eden in which the rest of the world apparently basked? Also, when could she move into Aunt Stacey's house?
Anyway, I have a story with far less boob sweat, featuring Wendy and our favorite hippie crasher, who was here for a few days.
Let me fill in the dialog here.
Marc: What's this one?
Wendy: Hippopotamus. Are hippopotamuses deliiicious?
Marc: Probably pretty good, if you could get a big enough fire going. How about this?
Wendy: Crocodile. Are crocodiles deliiicious?
Marc: Most certainly. What about this one?
Wendy: Armadildos. Are armadildos delicious?
Marc: ...... armadildos?
Wendy: Yeah. Are they deliiicious?
(I'm not sure he actually ever answered that one; there was too much laughing.)