the Red Heart

If sit too long in the sunroom my thighs get all sweaty and try to puddle beneath my mini oranage mini skirt. One can not avoid the Arizona heat unless they relocate to Flagstaff, elevation 6000, or turn on their air conditioner. I forgot to say yes
to a swamp cooler tutorial before Meredith & Charles took off to the Outer Banks, and now I regret the brief act of bravado, wishing I had remembered what it is like to
be too sweaty to think.

I gleefully offered to house sit thier split level, cliff defying house on the Lower Hog Back, a stretch of houses namd after the ridge of a hogs back. I wanted a place to gather my post turning 35 thoughts, a place to have an adventure, a place to which I could pose and figure out what is wrong with me, and how I can get to Africa while also accumulating some chickens and a husband who doesn't mind me secluding myself for unknown peroids of time to write my Nobel Peace Prize winning observation of the hearts last frontier.

Instead I sit around in a puddle on a Sunday afternoon scorching the stove top apricot jam, and wistfully wishing someone I admire would call me on the telephone.