Do We Have to Go Outside When It's Hot?
This happened last week...
Word got out. The weather report called for a fabulous weekend. (“Fabulous” means above 75 degrees in Seattle.) After a cold, snowy winter, the future looked bright, literally, the sun would make an appearance. This was an anomaly in April.
Grocery stores were selling out of BBQ coals and lighter fluid and Home Depot was running low on Brush Hog rentals. (A scary contraption hubby Jeff longed to use to wrangle a huge set of overgrown blackberry bush monsters. BTW, I had no idea until moving here that Blackberry bushes grow like weeds. One can take any exit off the I5 and pick enough for a blackberry pie.) Everyone was in a great mood and scrambling to make plans. My chiropractor played chirpy classic rock like Sir Elton John’s Honky Cat as he crunched my neck as opposed to the dreary Comfortably Numb, he played last week.
INT. CHIRO OFFICE - LAST WEEK
Carissa is supine on a bench while bearded Dr. J holds her head. Pink Floyd is heard in the BG.
PINK FLOYD
“…Is there anybody in there? Just nod if you can hear me…”
Carissa’s thoughts run along the screen like a ticker tape.
I’m here. I can’t nod because your hands are on my head and I’m praying you won’t break my neck.
CRACK.
CARISSA
Ouch.
FADE OUT.
(Substack does not have an indent feature. Screenplay format was improvised.)
Back to Elton John
“What are you doing this weekend?” Dr. J. said.
“Don’t know yet. You?”
“It’s my kid’s birthday. We’ll go to the park and BBQ with family. You better get your plans in order.”
CRACK.
He was right. Sunny weather in the Seattle area is like finding a ripe, juicy cantaloupe in Boston in any season or seeing the Northern Lights in Las Vegas… in any season. Forget April, the summers here are packed and no one knows if these humanoids are tourists or locals. RV’s are more common on the road than a Tesla in Los Angeles. (There are even Tesla Ubers in LA.) For two months in Western Washington there is constant traffic: cars, bikes, Big Wheels. (I remember my first like it was yesterday. First introduced by Louis Marx and Co. in 1969.)
Don’t be surprised if your favorite hiking trail has a line that resembles one at, well, a hiking trail any day in a Seattle summer. So much for exercise. You’ll shuffle up the footpath and play Trust Fall if someone in front of you loses their footing.
Want to visit Mt. Rainier? Bring your sneakers, not just for the volcano, but you may be walking a couple of miles from the parking lot to the front entrance.
Once home I grabbed Hubby and frantically said, “Jeffrey— (I only use his full name when we’re in dire straits)— we have to plan this weekend. It’s going to be sunny, hot and fabulous.”
“No. Really?”
“Where have you been? It’s a frenzy out there. A thousand more cars on the road. Everyone’s swerving with glee.”
“Well, shit.”
“It’s going to be a crazy two days. We’ll be lucky if we can find corn and watermelon to eat.”
“They’re not in season yet.”
“Yams and previously frozen fish.”
He pulled out his laptop. I hovered.
“The Tulips are in season,” he said.
“I hear it’s bumper to bumper traffic and no parking.”
“Oh, here’s a link to buy tickets.”
“Tickets? To see a tulip farm?”
Hubby clicked. There were pictures of a winding muddy walking path alongside the flowers.
“I don’t want to tip toe through the tulips.” And then I had an aha moment, “So that’s what Tiny Tim was singing about. He must have visited Mount Vernon.”
“Nope. The festival didn’t start until 1984. Tiny Tim sang that song in the 60s.”
“You just surfed for that info? Really?”
“I’m fast.”
“Thanks computer Bob. How about a drive-by viewing. You can hang your head out the window with Apollo (our Springer Spaniel) and take pictures.”
“But if it’s sunny, hot and fabulous there will be even more traffic than usual.”
We groaned simultaneously and looked at each other with contorted faces. Well, mine contorted. I think I have extra muscles and elastic in my face. People automatically know what I’m thinking. Everyone wants to play Poker with me. Hubby always has the same expression. Rarely does he laugh out loud. And if he does, everyone wants to know what made him vocalize a guffaw. It’s a rarity.
“What else?” I said.
“Mt. Rainier?”
“They don’t allow dogs.”
“National Park,” we chimed in chorus.
“I’d have to find a doggy Day Care,” I said. “What else?”
I’m practically on hubby’s lap, squinting at the computer screen since I don’t have my glasses.
“Oooo, Whale Watching,” I said.
“Now’s the season.”
“Whales have a season? Aren’t they always swimming around somewhere?”
“It has to do with their migration.”
Migration? I just knew there was that outlier whale, a rebel, refusing to swim with his pod. Then it hit me like a whale. Maybe I was a Humpback rebel. I didn’t need to do what everyone else was doing just because it was hot and fabulous outside. But I wasn’t ready to admit it to hubby.
“Where’s the boat launch?”
“Friday Harbor. Where’s that?” hubby said.
“Far.”
You’d think after eight years hubby and I would know where the islands are. Locals looked at me askance after learning I had never been to Orcas Island. I hung my head and said, “Yeah, I know. I’m a bad bad Washingtonian.” But what I really wanted to say was, “Screw you. I lived in NYC for 7 years and no one gave me shit for not visiting the Statue of Liberty.” But I’m sure my facial expression let them know how I really felt.
“Anyway, it’s a 6am boat launch.”
“We’d have to spend the night there.”
“Doggy day care,” hubby said.
We groaned again. I made a disgusted-look face. (Sometimes my I-Love-Lucy lip-raise is so overt hubby comments, “Wo. Okay, guess that’s a no.”)
“Wait, go back. There’s a fishing boat,” I said.
“I get sea sick.”
“Anyway, look at the price. You can buy a fishing tour for $200 today and $1000 next weekend.”
“Why does the sun bring out the price gougers?”
“Seasonal greed?”
“We can rent a sleeper van and go to the Ho.” (Not that Ho, the forest.)
“Or drive down the Oregon coast.”
“What about Eastern Washington? We haven’t explored the Tri-Cities.”
“Here are a bunch of sleeper vans for rent.”
I peered over his shoulder. There were pictures of various interiors. They were simple and compact. A few even had a queen size bed. They all had functional kitchen areas. You can do the dishes with one hand and make the bed with the other all while your tush is on the toilet. (Okay, maybe for Elastigirl, Helen Parr.) The thought of having a tiny-space weekend was appealing.
“Cool website. It’s like an Airbnb for sleeper vans.”
“I’ll create an account and save the ones we like,” he said as he typed vigorously.
I looked up the weather for the Ho and Oregon coast.
I’m fast when it comes to weather. It’s my fashion barometer.
“Dang. It’s going to be 60 degrees in those areas. Forget it.”
“I don’t mind cooler weather,” hubby said.
“But it’s like a law here. If the weather is going to be 80 degrees, you have to take advantage. Be outside, take the dog, explore a trail, rent a Vespa. My chiropractor and one friend will think me insane for not forcefully enjoying the weather.”
“I don’t even like it when it’s 80 degrees in the summer. It’s too hot.”
“Me too,” I admitted. “I get Swoob. (Sweaty boob.) You have no idea how annoying Swoob can be. And it’s not literally a Swoob. It should be called, Da-Cleave. Damp Cleavage.”
“We can do stuff in the morning.”
“Perfect,” I said, “I’ll make paleo pancakes and you can have Challah French toast.”
“And at night we can sit around the fire pit.” (Hubster-Jeff had carved out a circular area on our lawn and spent hours assembling four Adirondack chairs. He found stones on our property and surrounded a pile of sand indicating, Yo, a fire goes here. Good ‘nuf. Yes, if our fire pit could talk it would have a NY accent.)
“We’ll have a stay-cay.”
“Sounds good.”
We fist bumped to our decision.
“I’m so happy I have a fellow rebel humpback.”
“Whatever that means, me too,” said hubby.
“I don’t like being forced to make splashy plans just because the picky sun decides to show it’s glaring face.”
“To cool weather.”
We pantomimed toasting champagne. Hubby even burped on cue.
Speaking of sleeper vans and tiny spaces… please enjoy the observational stylings of the talented Sassy Little Substack
What’s your favorite thing to do when the weather is fabulous?
Why do the outdoorsy folk think you’re a witchy woman if you don’t run outside the second the sun appears?
Are you a rebel whale?
Did we know we both had dogs named Apollo? I mean I have a chihuahua that pretends to be a dog and you have a real actually dog . In Vermont if it is sunny during any month other than June and July we scurry around just like your story. All of the outside things. All of the time. Then we moved to Colorado where the sun is one cocky-ass-extrovert and it was exhausting. It was sunny so we planned picnics and hikes and gardening. It took us a few months to realize that we were exhausted trying to keep up with the sunny days. Think of how restful Seattle is in that way.
Reading of all those beautiful places in WA makes me homesick! That said, my husband and I have perfected the art of Doing Nothing At All when the sun shines. Or worse, we spend it doing mundane (and backbreaking) stuff like cleaning out the garage and a trip to the dump (this was last weekend for us, literally).