Hot hot heat
It’s really hot out. Hot and Humid. Humid and hot. Heat and humidity that's making me linger at work. Screw my (un-airconditioned) car. I want my home to drive to me.

We’re supposed to go eat Mexican food with some friends tonight – and last week, I would have been so all about this prospect. Last week was the first week of real summer warmth. Last week I felt like getting away from it all. I was re-re-reading this road novel that takes place in New Mexico about this woman and her hitchhiking passenger, a dwarf. And every single plot twist seems to take them to a roadside stand or a small cozy restaurant to eat homemade empenadas and huevos revueltos and steamy tamales. And so last week, I made these plans with these friends to go to Nuevo Laredo this week.

This week, I’m reading The Crying of Lot 49. I had a 24-hour queasy-fever-headache-thing two days ago that seems to get slightly revived every time I step out into the fricking tropical rainforest that is our fair city in June.

And a moment ago, I couldn’t remember the name of this one dish they’re always eating in the road novel, so I did a quick web search on “Mexican Food,” but found only sad little websites that do nothing to perk up anyone's appetite, and only dampen my overall zest for life; i.e., the exact opposite effect of really good Mexican food. Because...Pinto bean-feta quesadillas? It's wrong, people.

Another night, I would've liked to sit out on a patio in my pretty white cotton dress I bought in Mexico, drinking margaritas in the moonlight with my friends. But tonight I want only darkness and the hum of our window-unit air-conditioner.