By my count there have been at least eighty two days that the temperature in my backyard has hit ninety degrees or higher this year. We're talking over ninety degrees accompanied by humidity of at least sixty percent. I hate Florida summers, and this is the hottest one I can remember in the twenty six years I've lived here. Let me put it this way, by the time I am done walking the dogs in the morning you could probably poach an egg in my underpants. I don't walk them in the afternoon for fear that they might burst into flames.
This is the summer that I didn't want to be here. I fully expected to be in Chicago, enjoying Chicago's variable weather, and acclimating to the climate in preparation for a Chicago winter. I swear that if this recent contract on our house falls through, I am not listing it again until next year. It's bad enough that we'll be moving up to Chicago at the beginning of autumn. I can't see moving in the winter. Besides, I've already had to make too many ridiculous promises to Mark just to get him to go along with things. If we moved in mid winter, he would own me.
I've been looking on the internet at available houses in Chicago. It's kind of fun, looking at homes and wondering what the possibilities could be. Where would I put a garden, where would the dog run be? Yes, it's fun to house hunt. Or so I thought, until I clicked on one cute little bungalow and a photo popped up that made me second guess everything.