I Hate Summer

Now Let Me Count the Ways

originally published June 13, 2007

I loathe summer. I just hate it. The stultifying heat, the hovering clouds of voraciously hungry mosquitoes, the fact that all my trashy reality shows vanish until autumn, with its cleansing breezes and crispy days: all these factors conspire to jack up my electric bill, sap my will to live and ratchet up my Diet Coke consumption to near-record levels. Add to that the fact that both of my children have decided that any iteration of summer camp is akin to being boiled in oil - well, suffice it to say that summer is a trial to be endured, the itchiest hair shirt yet slapped on a martyr’s back.

I don’t understand my sons’ aversion to camp. When my sister Paige and I were children, we spent most of our summers at two lovely camps. One was the day camp, where we canoed, shot rifles, made those braided-plastic lariats, and smuggled cartons of magenta-colored faux-fruit punch out of the cafeteria for later consumption on the sweltering bus ride home. The other was a sleep-away camp, ostensibly to teach us to sail (although I suspect it was just to keep us out of our mother’s hair for a month.) Despite seven blissful summers at Camp Gulf Park, I cannot sail to save my life. I can, however, hurl a jellyfish with deadly accuracy and also whip up a batch of sogs, a carefully calibrated mixture of dormitory-issue toilet paper and water which, when properly mixed, thrown and baked in the Gulf Coast sun, achieves the approximate hardness of titanium. Sailing, at least where we live, is not so useful. Sogs are useful everywhere - they transcend geography, and are mad fun to throw. They adhere to almost any surface - stucco, dorm room wallboard, cars, people - with thrilling and inspiring tenacity. My brilliant sister conceived the idea of adding sour milk (stolen from the cafeteria - see how camp-learned skills transcend geographic boundaries?) to the sog mix for a piquant bouquet.

I digress. Summer is upon us, and I am grouchier than ever.

Bad Things

Summer brings myriad bad things - and not just heat and humidity. I think that perhaps my pasty family should relocate, maybe to some frosty and windswept clime, with plenty of trees or at least dense cloud cover so that sunscreen would no longer be necessary. When we were younger, blissfully ignorant, Paige and I would attempt to deny our pallor, lying out on our roof slathered in baby oil. Now, of course, twice-yearly visits to my pale and superior dermatologist offer a painful and pricey object lesson as to why this is a bad idea.

My lovely children, just like their parents, turn welty and red in the heat and seem to be grouchy from sweltering morning to blistering nightfall. Trips to the pool are fraught with peril, as various skin sensitivities tend to cause one or all of us to retreat to the showers to frantically remove whatever offending chemical is rendering our fair hides mottled and painful. As a group, my little crew is allergic to the following summertime regulars: some sunscreens, some insect repellents, all salt water, various and unspecified chlorine and other pool treatments, perspiration and tears. And also rice, although that is not a seasonal hazard.

My heavenly dog Colonel suffers in the heat as well. He develops the inevitable skin infection, requiring yet another visit to my friends at the vet, which inevitably entails round after round of antibiotics as well as the swabbing (yeesh) of various and sundry hot spots with various and sundry unguents and powders. The Lovely Maude, our abysmally stupid Clumber Spaniel, suffers from a seasonal recurrence of the foully-named moist dermatitis, which of course requires yet more of the above. One cat, Tinky, writhes in our driveway dust until she resembles a chocolate truffle, then wends her way into the house to clean herself on whichever piece of furniture sports the newest and nicest upholstery. Billy, my husband Winston’s cat, now approaching 150 years in cat-time, is allergic to something in the spring- and summertime air, and spends the warmer months sustained by cortisone injections and fishily reeking wet cat food (the only thing he can smell and therefore eat) and sneezing round the clock.

I can’t think of a thing to recommend summer, other than tomatoes.

Camp?

As I’ve said, I cannot fathom my children’s aversion to camp. I would go, right now, but with certain updates. I am all for a scheduled day, and a camp for grown-ups would need a schedule. (I won’t call it Adult Camp, as that sounds unsavory and unwholesome and frankly unhygienic.) Activities in the morning, perhaps Cooking or Pedicure Hour, interspersed with snack breaks. A refreshing light lunch, followed by a substantial rest time. A few more activities, such as Manicure Hour, A Pause for A Massage, and Advanced Hors d’Oeuvres, followed by the Grooming Lull (when we bathe and put on breezy summer garb that makes us look thin and tan), Cocktail Hour, and Great Big Dinner. Bedtime, preceded by the ritual singing of Taps, might be a tad late, but since sleeping late is considered a grown-up camp skill to be mastered, I don’t foresee a problem.

Grim Reality/ Tomato Sandwiches

As I don’t foresee anyone creating such a camp, or my being sent there, I shall have to muddle through. I don’t anticipate much success convincing my sons that camp is a good thing, although if I told them about the sogs they might prick up their ears and sign up. I also don’t think I can convince them that making bread-and-butter pickles is a fantastic way to spend a summer afternoon, or that a worthy time-filler for an August morning is drinking sweet tea and watching Pretty in Pink while painting one’s toenails.

With some luck, our early-morning dog park visits may scare up a snake or turtle to observe, and almost certainly some blackberries. My sweet boys, William and Ted, may brew up a couple of batches of Glippity Glop, a medley of dried-out spices, moldy unidentifiables from the deep dark recesses of my refrigerator, and baking soda and vinegar (because it foams up like a volcano), which provides us all with some welcome diversion. The boys, because they can cackle over a festering pot of frothy goo. Myself, because I get to clean out my kitchen cabinets. We’ll attempt to dodge the heat with homemade popsicles, ice cream runs, lurking in the basement playroom dodging manic and (I believe) blood-thirsty camel crickets and concocting new ways for the Playmobil men to meet their maker. It’s the Playmobil men or me, and as I over-purchased tomato plants (I think I now have 12), I will hopefully have numerous, very pressing appointments with some white bread, Duke’s mayonnaise, and a couple of vine-warm Brandywines to sustain me until fall.

Elise White