Guess what? It's hot out.
I live in the Pacific Northwest. It's not supposed to get this hot. The thermometer in the shade of our back porch says 101. My little window a/c has been running since Sunday night without stop, and is currently keeping the house at a reasonable 82 degrees inside. Emma has a fever of 101.4. Drew has roseola. Ben has decided that naps are for babies, and he doesn't want to anymore. So he wakes up Grant because he wants to play.
I'm tired, I'm hot, and I haven't done laundry in three days since I don't want to run the dryer and make it even hotter in here. So the laundry is piling up and I just dread doing it. Just a few more days, and I will catch up. It's supposed to be cooler this weekend, right?
I'm hot. And not in the Paris Hilton way. I have been wearing my bikini around the yard. Because it's hot. But me in a bikini is not hot. But I don't care. Because I'm hot.
Have I mentioned that it's hot?