I have come to the conclusion that the Summer is my mortal enemy - for many reasons.
1. I have an Irish complexion. Reddish-brown hair and white-as-a-ghost skin don't do too well with the summer sun.
2. I'm fat. Having even a tiny layer of blubber makes the heat unbearable.
3. Grandma. She loves to sit on the porch in the heat, great, right? Sure, if she actually goes out. It's like pulling teeth to get Grandma to eat on the best of days, let alone a hot one where she's never hungry and refuses to drink more than she needs to gulp down her frickin' pills. "I'm not hungry...I'm not hungry." I swear, if I hear this one more time today, I'm going to get violent.
*sigh* And yet, I love growing things. I think growing plants is the only thing Summer is good for. It certainly does nothing for the slight hold I still retain on my sanity.
Oh, one question: Why is the noun "complexion" when the adjective is "complected"?
Oh, joy, she's back inside. I guess I get to go outside and stitch again. Bitch.