July is one of my favorite months. Almost everyone I know was born in July. Well, not quite "almost everyone," but a lot of people, both friends and family. Happy birthday (today!) to Bravadita, friend from Portland. Happy birthday to Phoenix friend C.S., which depending on the day could stand for Crystalline Seeker, Cranium Savant, or Cranberry Sauce. And don't let me forget my big brother R., who no matter how old I get will always be older than me. May you all find peace on your special day, maybe with a little cake or pho or ice cream. My mother's birthday was in July, too. I'm hopeful she is enjoying her favorite dessert, key lime pie, in a heaven somewhere where calories don't set you up for an apple-shaped heart attack.
Three years ago, I experienced what happens to a mobile home when the air conditioning goes out. I survived through the miracle of soggy underwear draped over my head and shoulders. So, when the AC went out again last week, I was ready. But you can only take so many days of breathing hot air into your lungs while the wet tanktop on your head drips water all over your keyboard. Evaporative cooling loses all novelty after the first long searing sleepless night.
When my housemate found out the AC was well and truly broken, we made plans to vacate while we waited for the back-ordered part. In a way, it was a relief to discover that it wasn't a structural problem with the trailer. I'd feared the windows or poorly insulated walls were to blame, but no, it was just the stupid coil leaking coolant. Very expensive to fix, but fixable, eventually, after all the other suffering folks ahead of us receive their replacement coils and get back to the business of living in the desert.
I can understand why people come to the desert. It's pretty nice at certain times of the year. But how many hot summers does it take to make you realize it is stupid to stay here? For me, it's three. But where do you go to escape the summer heat, I ask you? If a heat dome can bring 116°F to the Pacific Northwest, traditional snowbird summer destination, then a heat dome can pop up anywhere. Greenland? The Arctic? No place is safe. We didn't evolve to live underground, but that might be our only hope someday, if you can call that a hope (see the Silo series). Lucky for me, I'm nearing the end of my life, so the amount of time I have left to suffer will be relatively brief. If I were in my twenties, I would definitely be marching on Washington.
After a week of doing the frog in the gradually boiling pot of water thing, I traded the hot trailer in Tucson for a room in my Phoenix friend's big house. I feel like a critter in a burrow. The walls are thick in this mansion, the windows are double-paned. As long as the power holds out, I'll be cool as a cucumber, spouting my palaver for my anonymous blog and plotting my next novel. It's easy to assume I'm safe here. Do you ever think about the power grid going down? Do you worry that when you turn on the tap, it will be dry? That when you press the thing on the fancy fridge, the motor will grind but give you no ice, neither crushed nor cubed? Woe is me when that day comes. Choosing to live in the desert is like waving a red cape at a bull who is standing three feet away. Like, why would you do that unless you had something to prove?
Or no place else to go.
Maybe someday humans will evolve off planet and find paradise worlds with year-round tropical breezes, where the native fauna poops malted milk balls and the rivers run with aspartame-free Grape Nehi and Orange Crush. I hear there are billions of worlds in the Universe that could support life. Maybe we could each have our own, terraformed to our own personal preferences. I know what kind of world I would wish for, and it wouldn't be pink.
Anyway. What was I saying? Right. Happy birthday.
