I looked up the definition of “dog days.” We are in them right now. This term describes the end of summer, when humidity is high and the temperature is scorching.

My husband and I are apparently of different species. He must not have sweat glands. He has never worn deodorant in his life, and he smells just fine. I, on the other hand, can work up a healthy sweat on a moderately hot day by just walking outside to take out the trash. And that eco-friendly deodorant from the bee people? It is great for the planet, but ineffectual under my arms. So I must, simply must, have the AC on!

This causes a few issues for my husband, who wears sweatshirts, long pants and socks inside our air conditioned house all summer, simply because I keep the thermostat set at what I think is a perfectly reasonable 72 degrees.

Another thing. Salads. I was raised to eat salads for dinner in the summer. Cooling. Light. Topped with a little protein—cottage cheese, chicken, or tuna. A hard boiled egg cut up on the side. Yum. My husband eats the salad, but then looks around and says, “Where is the entrée?” When told over and over that the salad IS the entrée, he looks dejected.

Sleeping in the summer is also a problem for us. I need air blowing on me at all times. Luckily, we have a ceiling fan over our bed. Once again, as I lie spread out, enjoying the breeze on my bare limbs (shorty pjs, people), my husband puts on his flannel pj pants, a long sleeved t shirt, and gets into bed, pulling the covers up around his shoulders so that only his face is showing.

Outside. I don’t go there. I am puzzled by all the people on the househunting shows that want “outdoor living space.” Why? It is either too hot out there, too buggy out there, too cold out there, or it is raining. As far as I am concerned, the great outdoors is best experienced via a window.

Is it hot in here, or is it just me?

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