It’s 95 degrees outside with crazy high humidity. We don’t have AC. The ginormous industrial size ceiling fan in my bedroom manages to circulate not a single molecule of air unless I’m standing on a chair beneath it.
June is… sticky. She actually perspires in her arm pits, a function that for some reason I thought didn’t kick in until puberty. The dog crashes from exhaustion after being outside in the heat all day while Jake builds farm fence. Don’t ask me how Jake manages.
Solha has been so wiped out from the humidity that Jake and I have been amusing ourselves in the evenings by imagining what she’d write in letters back home to pals in Kandahar.
“I’m tellin’ ya, it’s not the heat, it’s the humidity! At least in Kandahar, it was a dwy heat. The Taliban is nothing compared to Vuhginia. I’d wather be pelted with stones.”
(This is what people without cable do for fun).