Fifo the Cat says: Demasiado calor
This won't come as news to anyone who lives in San Miguel, but it's been hot, borderline miserable here for the past two weeks. I don't care if it's hotter in Houston or New Orleans. I live here, not there.
All winter we had to listen to people in Chicago, New York and Boston moaning about the weather. Now, it's our turn to complain, double-loud, perhaps because we've been spoiled by what we have come to call San Miguel's "perfect climate."
But: Yesterday, at 5:33 p.m. it was 91 degrees, the wind a pokey 11 m.p.h. and the humidity down to a Saharan 10 percent. Next week, the temperatures are supposed to be in the nineties, except for Friday when it will be 84 degrees or so. A week from Monday the temperatures are predicted to climb to 96 degrees.
Remember the line about "it's not the heat but the humidity"? Baloney. When it gets hot and the humidity goes below 10 percent, your skin gets wrinklier, which makes you look older and grumpier, no matter how much Oil of Olay you slather on your mug.
The landscape is pretty much fried until further notice, even with Félix running around watering everything in the place like a Chinese fireman. (Is that an ethnic slur?)
The latest forecast promises some rain the week after next, which actually would be a little bit ahead of schedule for the rainy season to begin.
The surest indicator of our dire situation is our cat Fifo. Not a particularly vivacious sort even during sparkling weather, these days he sleeps 22 hours a day, and spends the rest of the time eating or meowing for more food. Mucho calor, he says.
Of course, when the rains arrive, everything will turn green, Fifo will perk up and we'll be giving each other congratulatory high-fives for our wise decision to move to a place with such ideal weather.
It's called the Chicago Syndrome. After all their whining, on Memorial Day the pasty-looking masses there will rush to the lakefront, dusty barbecue gear in tow, to enjoy a memorable day outside.
And if you ask anyone then about winter, they'll look at you and say, "What winter?"
All winter we had to listen to people in Chicago, New York and Boston moaning about the weather. Now, it's our turn to complain, double-loud, perhaps because we've been spoiled by what we have come to call San Miguel's "perfect climate."
But: Yesterday, at 5:33 p.m. it was 91 degrees, the wind a pokey 11 m.p.h. and the humidity down to a Saharan 10 percent. Next week, the temperatures are supposed to be in the nineties, except for Friday when it will be 84 degrees or so. A week from Monday the temperatures are predicted to climb to 96 degrees.
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| Fifo says: I'm not moving until it's time to eat. |
The landscape is pretty much fried until further notice, even with Félix running around watering everything in the place like a Chinese fireman. (Is that an ethnic slur?)
The latest forecast promises some rain the week after next, which actually would be a little bit ahead of schedule for the rainy season to begin.
The surest indicator of our dire situation is our cat Fifo. Not a particularly vivacious sort even during sparkling weather, these days he sleeps 22 hours a day, and spends the rest of the time eating or meowing for more food. Mucho calor, he says.
Of course, when the rains arrive, everything will turn green, Fifo will perk up and we'll be giving each other congratulatory high-fives for our wise decision to move to a place with such ideal weather.
It's called the Chicago Syndrome. After all their whining, on Memorial Day the pasty-looking masses there will rush to the lakefront, dusty barbecue gear in tow, to enjoy a memorable day outside.
And if you ask anyone then about winter, they'll look at you and say, "What winter?"
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