Hot Dogs, Hair and Hell’s Front Porch

Last night, the heavens finally opened and spewed forth the deliciousness of its bounty. Yes, it finally rained. I don’t even remember the last time it rained around here. Maybe a few sprinkles here and there but that also could have just been sweat drops from the taller person walking beside me. Who’s to know for sure?

All I know is that the grass, once lush and green, has been rendered a baby poop brown with a crusty edge. It hasn’t been pretty. The birds, bunnies and squirrels roaming my backyard stand and stare at me in desperation until I turn on the garden hose and spray them down. They pretend not to like it, but I know they do. How can they not? Seriously, where does a bunny or squirrel go to get a cool drink? It’s not like they can just hop down to the local bar and ask for a shot or two.

It has been smoking hot here in Ontario, Canada. A friend of mine posted a picture on Facebook of Ontario’s Twelve Seasons with “Hell’s Front Porch” circled in red (see photo). This is the most accurate portrayal of the past week or so here. Now I know you’re all saying, quit your whining, it’s way hotter where I live. Which is true and also why I don’t live there. I don’t know how you folks in the tropics do it, I really don’t. I would be a miserable, grumpy sack of bitchiness all the time.

“Would you rather it be 40 below?”

Yes. Yes I would. I can always put on more clothes or snuggle under more blankets to get warm but there are only so many clothes I can remove before my middle aged ass is naked and trust me, that is not a sight you want to see walking down the street anytime soon. I think as a general observation of society, less clothes aren’t always a good thing, and that goes for all sexes, genders and everything else in between. I give props to all those people who are confident enough to join a nudist colony. Hell to the yeah for you!

So fine, you’ve stripped to the core to cool off but you’re still hot. What happens now? Well your body starts to sweat in a drastic effort to cool itself down. It works for ten seconds. Seriously ten seconds and then the sweat is evaporated by Satan who is standing there, invisibly of course, shooting waves of hot Hell Fire all over you, hoping you’ll drop dead and he can take you home with him. This is the truth, the Gospel Truth. I know it. I had sun stroke as a kid and as I lay on the ground in a dark haze, I swear in those shadows I saw Satan laughing. Then my Mom punched him in the gut, picked my saggy self up and ran to the car, shoving my head as close to the air conditioning as she could. My angel saved me that day for sure.

And let’s be honest. Sweat stinks. You might think your sweat is sweet smelling like a newborn baby but it’s not. You’ve been deceiving yourself. And when you put a bunch of people together, and it’s hot and everyone is sticky, sweaty, and naked, well I’d just rather be trudging through the snow in my parka. Just my thoughts.

I want to talk about my hair in the heat but I’m not sure I can. The subject is quite traumatic and I’m not afraid to admit that I suffer from HHS or “Humid Hair Syndrome”. There, I said it out loud. My name is Trish and I suffer from HHS. I feel like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders just saying (or writing) those words out loud.

HHS is common amongst the population but so horrific and disturbing that no one ever really wants to admit that they suffer. Those who suffer from HHS are often shunned by those who don’t. Whispers of “look away honey, look away” can often be heard as mothers cradle the heads of their first born in the nape of their arms to shield them. Compared to some, my HHS is more on the mild side, but that definitely does not negate the horror I feel inside every time I happen to catch my reflection in a shop window.

Do I go in the shore and face the smirks and sneers of those who have been privy to spending the day in a controlled temperature environment? No, I don’t. Screw them. I have too much respect for myself to face such ridicule and wagging fingers. They just don’t understand. I’m hot. I’ve ripped off all my layers and now I’m naked. And I’m sweaty. And I smell. And my HHS is raging out of control. Screw them all. They can all go to hell. I need to cause some sort of commotion outside, so they have to come out into the heat where Satan is waiting for them too. He doesn’t miss a chance that Satan guy. It is the season of Hell’s Front Porch.

The only thing that can remotely save me from a catastrophic meltdown is finding myself a good barbequed hot dog. Whether it’s from a vendor or just throwing a wiener on the searing black pavement and letting it cook there, a good hot dog always makes me happy. Makes my HHS seem a little more bearable. I realize I’m not alone in this mess – there are many others walking around naked holding a wiener too. It’s very comforting for some.

“Look away honey, look away.”

I don’t wish Hell’s Front Porch on anyone, I really don’t. It’s a bitch. I hope I make it through. The rain has given a little reprieve, but the temperatures are set to steadily rise again into the next week. Lord help me. Lord help those around me. I’m tired of being hot and sweaty and stinky. I’m tired of strangers gasping at my hair and yelling at me.

“Put some damn clothes on you middle aged freak! You’re frightening my dog!”

They just don’t understand.

They. Just. Don’t. Understand.

Sigh. If I don’t make it through and Satan pulls me off the front porch and into his house, it’s okay, I’ve lived a good life. I really have. Just do me a favour. Next time you fire up the grill, throw on a wiener and think of me.