I could leave it at "ick," but that's not my style. I must explain why it's "ick." If you aren't in the mood to read whining, this is the time to click the little red X.
Summer is hot. Africa hot. Sticky, sweaty and buggy.
The sun reflecting off any shiny surface gives me an instant headache.
I am forced to see a whole lot more of the body parts of people I don't even know. Jeff Foxworthy said it best: "If your skin in the color of Cool Whip and you have a mole that looks like an oatmeal pie, let that be your little secret!"
My snow dog looks so unhappy. I want to pack a bag and go in search of an igloo for us both.
And that's why summer is a big, fat "ick," to me. The days leading up to the 4th are particularly stressful for Miss Jessie. She is terrified of fireworks. This year we plan to try something called Rescue Remedy. The medicine the Vet prescribes does little good. For the next week I will have a German Shepherd glued to my side.
My father passed away on July 3, 1997. Cancer took him and they didn't call in time for me to say goodbye. The week prior to his death, and the weeks immediately after, I was separating from my husband - who did his best to make sure that process was as difficult for me as possible.
Home ownership was extremely important to my dad. It is because of him I was able to purchase my house and give my then three year old son stability and security. I reflect on this often, especially this time of year.