It's been hot. Like really stinking hot. My town is not supposed to be hot. At least not until September. But it's been stupid hot. One hundred plus. At one point today, the temp gauge in Eleanor read 118 degrees. Granted she was parked on a blacktop in a parking lot for about 45 minutes because even though I was just dashing into Michael's we all know a dash is a bit more than a dash and it costs a bit more as well.
So yeah, it's been hot and I've been busy with work stuff and I love it all but am feeling the itch itch itch to get crafty and bloggy about things other than weather. I also really need to tackle the pink room. It is so much more worse than it ever was. I'm afraid there may be furry crafty monsters living in there. Furry crafty monsters who sleep on vintage sheet scraps, wrapped in garlands, who enjoy a good children's book or two but lack the motivation to reshelve all those stories. It's like a tumbleweed of craft crap and it just keeps on growing. I'm a little bit afraid of what I may find when I dig in but also excited. It will be like Christmas morning what with all the little bags from Micheal's and World Market tucked into nooks and crannies full of things I thought would be perfect for that project or this and then of course completely forgot about any project at all. Ooof!
I've also missed words. Wonderings and observations. Questions and thoughts. I have them...late at night as I gaze upon my favorite channel (ahem...pinterest) clicking this way and that. Sometimes I jot down an idea or a question but then I lose the piece of paper I wrote it down on or I wrote it down in the dark and have no idea what I wrote (note to self, writing with your right hand is not as legible as you might think).
The one thing I do remember is that this heat keeps me up and restless. I can't sleep for the sticky even though my eyeballs are fuzzed and dry. So I plop down on the sofa with the lights dimmed, headphones on, gazing at the computer screen as I listen to the same album over and over again. The familiarity of the heat, posture, and voice crooning in my ears takes me back to highschool to summer nights when I would sleep with my head practically hanging out the window of our third story dwelling and my boom box whirling under my pillow my favorite tapes over and over again never really letting me fall asleep because if I did I would miss the next song or the next or the next. And then when I did doze off the click whirr of the tape either turning off or turning over would startle me awake and I would decide I needed to listen to a different album and everything was a new listening adventure.
I remember the heat, the hot San Fernando Valley heat. I remember the hum of the streetlight outside my window and the orchestra of cars speeding up and down Victory Blvd. I remember the faint scent of salt and sand from the beach, chlorine from the pool, Wet N' Wild lipstick lingering on my mouth, and the Cinnabar lotion I wore.
And now, as I sprawl out on the sofa with a vintage pink sheet cool under my skin I can feel the mysterious hot heat, I can hear the hum of the refrigerator as it struggles to keep up with my ice consumption. Thanks to meds I can smell the mulchy goodness of the garden, the faint scent of Mr. Bubble (my favorite summer soap) on my skin, the sliced apple on the counter, Burt's Bees on my lips, and the still lingering scent of the pikaki I rolled on my wrists this morning on my way out the door to run errand after errand after errand in this hot, hot heat.
My favorite part of it all is when I put the laptop on the coffee table, turn off the lights and settle down for a god listen worrying that I will fall asleep and miss the next song, and the next, and the next.
