Today, the National Weather Service's thermometer in downtown L.A. hit 113F...and then died.
We got to 107F here. I've been in hotter weather: 114F in Arizona. After about 100F, you really can't tell the difference.
(No baking today. I barely made it through the exercise bike and grocery shopping before subsiding into a melty mass on the sofa with my lunch salad).
Fortunately, I had the good sense to serve a big salad for dinner, too, because no sooner had I dished up ice cream for dessert, than the power went out. At 8pm, it was still 90F outdoors.
The daughter duly studied her geometry by flashlight while the son studied his biology by candlelight. I washed the dishes by the light from the small emergency lantern that is always plugged into one of the kitchen outlets and the cat wandered worriedly from person to person, unhappy with the strange darkness and the change of routine that came with it. We were none of us sorry when the power came back about half an hour later. All I could think about was losing a refrigerator full of fresh food. That's only happened to me once, back when I was pregnant with the daughter, and we endured an epic windstorm and a four-day power outage.
It's ironic; I paid the electricity bill today, and it was probably the lowest power usage we've ever had for that period of August and September. I guess we're making up for it now.
Go listen to some music: "Some Like It Hot" from the album The Power Station by The Power Station. Usually I don't mind this dry, baking heat, but today, it was just enervating...