This is not a heatwave. Oh no. This is God, sending His wrath down from the heavens in order to purge me of my sins. That whole previous post about God being a loving, understanding God? A God who loves me in times of trial and joy? The God who hangs out with me while I frolic among the daisies in a field? I lied. He does not exist. He is out to destroy me, strike me down with a lightning bolt and record-high temperatures to boot.

I’m not sure what I did to deserve it. I mean, I’m sure I can brainstorm and come up with a few applicable reasons (rear-ending some guy with my car when I was in high school, telling my brother he was adopted, etc.) Still. Is it worth the punishment? Maybe it is really The Devil, unleashing his power on the world of heathens. All I know is that when I’m waiting for the subway in 103 degree heat (115 with the heat index! Rah!) and the man next to me hasn’t showered in three weeks, I feel that I am already fairly close to Satan. He cannot be that far off, no he cannot that Satan!

I could go on and on here, but why? Why explain how the sweat no longer trickles but instead GUSHES down my lower back (and chest and temples and the backs of my knees) the second I step outside. Why explain how my sweaty heart breaks in two when I catch sight of a pregnant woman, lumbering through the humidity or the businessmen wearing long-sleeve shirts and often sports jackets. I cannot explain the madness to you. But let me tell you, this is happening because we are not a nation of Islam. Seriously. Convert and we shall all be saved.

Sigh. So. THANKS GUYS FOR THE E-MAILS AND COMMENTS AND PHONECALLS OF LOVE!!!! Special “HI!” to my cousin Deanna who found this website because she GOOGLED ME. (Do you know she was the second person to google in me in a week and openly admit it? Does that make me popular? That I am googled?) People GOOGLE me, bow down lowly mortals! Anyway, Deanna did that and then she also left me a super nice comment and she is now my super nice e-mailing cousin! (HI!!!!) Wow. I’m so into exclamation points today, hmm? Seriously, thank you for all your kind words. I’m so excited about this show, I can’t even TELL YOU. (Wait, I can. For this is my blog!)

There’s one thing in particular about this venture that excites me way beyond the others. It’s more exciting than my costume fitting (frills please! and puffed sleeves!), more exciting than singing and dancing for MONEY (a 5, 6, 7, 8!), more exciting than joining Equity (no more alarm going off at 5 am, bitches!) and that would be: traveling through a foreign country known as “The South”.

The South is an enigma to me. In my mind, it is a place far, far away. A place where people mine for coal and deep-fry oreo cookies and vote for George W. Bush. The South is a place where, along with the cattle and pigs and other livestock, the mullet runs free. It’s a place where people drawl and drink alcohol on their front porches and putter around in flannel shirts. Wait. I’m describing my childhood next-door neighbors.

Hm.

And because I have nothing else to write about, a story! A story about “those neighbors”!

Once upon a time…the man in the house down the street walked around every day in a red flannel button down shirt. His face was tanned and leathery from numerous hours of outdoor labor doing something…outdoorsy. I’m not sure. Let’s say LANDSCAPING since that’s what everyone on Long Island does. So. Our neighbor friend, he was a landscaper in flannel and his face was continually unshaven. Also? He was very drunk. Every day.

On one lovely afternoon, I was riding my bicycle around our cul-de-sac. My mother was having one of her famous dinners of shrimp marinara in honor of clergy in the house. This particular priest was a special visitor because not only was he related somehow to one of Christ’s disciples, he was the priest who had married my parents oh so long ago in the land of Totally 70′s Wedding Photos Where My Dad Has a Mustache.

I was feeling particuarly carefree on this day, this blessed day of a priest at our house and all the shrimp marinara I could ever want. I pedaled around and around the court, envisioning myself to be The Little Mermaid for she was my hero. The thought did not occur to me that The Little Mermaid could not ride a bicycle due to the fact that she did not have legs. But hey, we all know I was not that smart. Let’s just say that my blonde wasps of hair were blowing in the wind and I was humming “Part of Your World”.

“Flippin’ your fins you don’t get too far! Legs are required for jumpin’, dancin’, strollin’ along down a…what’s that word again? STREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEET!”

And lo and behold, as I rode past the neighbors house, the drunken man in flannel had some friends over for beer. They sat there on the porch, watching me and telling dirty jokes. Finally, the Neighbor Who Should Be Southern yelled out,

“WHO’S THAT VISITOR THERE AT YER HOUSE?”

“A PRIEST!” I joyously shouted back. Because hey! Priests are SUPER COOL! Didn’t you know?
“A PRIEST?” the Southern Neighbor questioned drunkenly. His buddies all started laughing. Or I should say, keeping with the theme, guffawing.

“Yes!” I declared, proudly. And then, because I didn’t know how else to describe it, “The priest that married my parents!”

Well. Didn’t those damn fools find that to be the most hilarious and inappropriate thing they had ever heard. I’m sure the alcohol helped.

“MARRIED YOUR PARENTS? A priest is MARRIED TO YOUR PARENTS!?” the neighbor shouted with glee. And then, there began a tirade of sexually explicit jokes about how my parents were somehow involved in a threesome with a priest. I wasn’t sure what to do but I was ANGRY and mortified. How else was I supposed to say it? He OFFICIATED over their marriage? I didn’t know that word yet. Even though I was reading the entire Little House on the Prairie books in 1st grade, Laura Ingalls never once used the word officiate.

I decided I hated drunken neighbor and his stupid friends because they were pointing and laughing and couldn’t they see that I was trying to have a pleasant afternoon? Me and the shrimp marinara and Ariel, Disney Wonder of Wonders? Wow. I’m certainly getting away from myself, aren’t I? I just wanted to show you an example of the good Southern hospitality I learned way back when I was little, in Suffolk County, Long Island. Good example, right?

DAMNIT. Let’s try this again.

SO I’M GOING TO THE SOUTH.

Adam, my roommate who just got off a tour, informs me that the South is full of many wondrous things particularly Wal-Marts and Denny’s. I believe his exact words were, “Steer clear of Denny’s, they run RAMPANT in the South!” As if Denny’s was not a restaurant chain but a particular breed of flesh-eating rats. STEER CLEAR OF THE DENNY’S! THEY RUN RAMPANT! THOSE DENNY’S! Eeeek.

I’m supposed to “steer clear” because apparently at Denny’s, in the South, they saturate everything you order with loads of butter. (Which, not much different than Denny’s in the North, am I right?) He told me at times he could pick up his sandwich or toast and just watch the lard trickle, like sweat, onto his plate forming a greasy pool next to his hashbrowns. I have decided that running rampant or not, I am steering clear of Denny’s for the rest of my life because I value my arteries and would like to prevent diabetes at all costs.

And now, because this post has no point whatsoever and I do not know how to sum it up Dlug-style, I’m going to construct a fountain across from my office building on Park Avenue. The fountain will be a massive structure, teeming with waterfalls and spouts that shoot out water, a happy surprise that makes you shout with glee! It will be made just for me and the temperature will be icy and cool, like a Starbucks beverage. And when I get too hot from walking around on my lunch break, I will jump into the icy cool fountain and laugh and laugh. And possibly, I will invite all the gorgeous single men in business suits to join me in my fountain on Park Avenue, my fountain of icy coolness.

Together, we will conquer the satanic heat. Together, we will frolic and be merry. Together, we will be beautiful and possibly will eat Chipotle afterwards. Possibly.

Peace.