catching fire

Let's start with saying: Yes, I'm a wimp. But now can I commence complainfest? I covered my bases.

Let your visual aid for my physical state be this

but I also feel that my thighs are accurately portrayed here

so I could really just be all of the villains in Disney's Hercules including that dragon that, once you chop of it's head, three more grow in its place - if we let one head be equal to one complaint quelled, followed by three new complaints cropping up out of nowhere.

Alright, so my neck of the woods is no Death Valley, and I'm certainly no crazy local running in a Darth Vader costume in 129 degree heat in order to break the Guinness Book of World Records. But hot damn, if this heat wave we've been experiencing isn't just about to break me. Sean, of Sacramento/might-as-well-be-hottest-place-in-America origin, claims it's "not that bad." (For my reaction, please refer to picture #1.) We do, after all, have an AC unit in our living room. Which is helpful, you know, if you're willing to staunchly hold your post by the front door, which is the extent of the air flow trajectory. Circulation, thy name is not cheap apartment AC unit.

Pool time is usually Sean and Jordan's jam, and I just go about my business of cleaning the kitchen, concocting the tallest glasses of chocolate milk, trying to straighten that one kink out of my hair, and occasionally lurking on my precious' from my balcony perch

but the unbearability of it all has set me and the bump poolworthy. This found me, yesterday, deep in a conversation with a five-year-old from which it was hard to extricate myself . After taking stock of our impending arrival (via starestareandstaresomemore at the belly, then finally come out with "are you gonna have a baby?!") and inquiring after the sex, he insisted that we should name the boy Jordan, when he's born, and change the girl's name (with a nod in current Jordan's direction) to Kendra. I then asked him if he didn't think it would be confusing to [current] Jordan if we all of the sudden changed her name, and he insisted no: she looks like a Kendra because of her hair color. We're taking it under advisement.

Bedtime has been the real clincher though, because the fan that we haven't turned off since mid-May (really) is not cutting through the true heat of summer (read 92 degrees). I repurposed the freezable gel breastfeeding pads - that were included in that congrats!-you-had-a-baby! hospital bag of free samples and crap from a couple years ago - as frozen slippers, and have been sleeping with them atop my ember-toes. The problem is, they melt within a couple of hours, and my body has been making the unfortunate decision to wake up to pee circa 1:30 or so. It is then that I realize how sweaty I am; how Sean's idea of beating the heat is to be completely spread-eagle across the bed so that each limb pretty much reaches each corner and I'm kinda like under an armpit; how much this in utero lovebug adores a good sesh of early morning kickboxing; how I'm never never never going to get back to sleep. Hence: posting in the wee hours of 4 a.m. 'neath the protection of living room AC.

And here's where I implore your assistance. There's zero percent chance of my survival even one more week under such conditions. (What do you mean, melodramatic?) I welcome any and all recommendations for an affordable yet EFFECTIVE! box fax/window AC unit/rentable igloo/I-don't-care-just-please-help-me-to-stop-sweating. And thank you from the bottom of my sweltering soles. 

We're coming for you, Amazon Prime, and your 2-day shipping. Until then, I'm holing up at my parents' well-ventilated place while they're out of town on vacation. Like a grown-up.