Apparently, when you reside in the hottest effing place on earth, the summer isn't as sweet as were you, oh I don't know, in New England.
The Northeasterner in me cries at the thought of spending the summer inside. You see, my people get three months, TOPS, to enjoy jacket-free weather. We jump into an ocean that's 65 degrees and a pool that's 72 and are simply exuberant we're not wearing long johns.
In Texas, this does not appear to be the case.
Forgetting how hot it is, I've come close to killing the dog at least four times by leaving him outside too long. This may have been a Freudian mistake, but he's still alive so my sub-conscience hasn't yet overtaken my conscious thoughts and actions.
I've also made the mistake of agreeing to go outside with my little boy at 2:00 in the afternoon. He screams "hot" as soon as we step into the sun. Quickly, we retreat so our skin didn't burn off our bodies.
Yesterday, we gave in to the disgusting Texas summer and headed to an indoor playground with some friends. The window cling on their front window screamed, "ICY COLD INSIDE!"
"Good," I thought, "we don't die from exposure here."
Sun exposure risk was replaced by the risk of exposure to other nasty elements, namely future bullies and future professional strippers.
Let's start with the bullies.
Our little boys gasped with excitement at the giant blow-up slide. Trepidation was quickly replaced with screams to join the fun. Together, they started the steep ascent up the inflated stairs.
Cue the kids.
I now know how Simba felt.
Behind my son, a pack of what looked like wild boars, charged up the stairs and did not let him get in the way. My friend and I then shot up the stairs to fend off the wild beasts and help our little ones to the top. We then had to go down the damn slide which is steep, scary, and leaves blisters.
On the next go round, a little boy went out of his way to shove my little boy to the ground. I almost punched him in his little face and almost really enjoyed it. He was 4. We left the slide lest I become the bully.
Sitting at a picnic table, feeding our little boys Cheez-Its and Goldfish, we saw the future stripper.
She was clad in a tight white tank-top, light pink Cheekies that I swear came from Victoria's Secret, and a perfectly mussed bed-head ponytail. She was 8.
Her jam came and she went. to. work. Her little booty shook in ways mine never has nor could and her chest popped out at what would have been revealing angles were she not 8.
It was the eyes, though, that completed her transformation to Misty the Stripper Junior. She did her dance in front of a card table where her dad and her dad's friend sat drinking beers and tried to seduce them with come-hither eyes. The dads, playing perfectly the part of stripper watchers, appeared uninterested and continued sipping their beers and talking about sports.
She shook harder, they looked away further.
With this type of disinterested dad training, this girl is going to OWN her first pole.
As we left, all aware that this had been an unsuccessful experiment, my husband said, "I don't think that was our demographic."
I said, "I sure hope not."
So, here's to a disgusting, hot, bug-filled Texas summer.