"It's so damn hot."

In between wiping sweat from my brow and fanning myself with a phone book, let me be the first (or maybe 9th or 10th) to say that the camping weekend (however hot) was fabulous. And also hot. And a little mosquito-ridden. OK, a lot mosquito-ridden. And hot.

It was. SO HOT. But a good time.

Quite frankly, I'm not sure where to begin. Except maybe with the 32 mosquito bites within a 4-inch radius on my left foot. And the other 13 below the knee. The seven on my right thigh. My chin. Forehead. Ring finger. Pinky toe. Neck. Did I mention my left foot? I mean, I don't know, maybe I missed the bulletin, but I'm pretty sure no one mentioned that my left foot is the Golden Corral, all-you-can-eat buffet, of Mosquito Land:

"Hey, guys, over here! Check out this foot, man. It's, like, FULL of blood."

Oh, yeah? Is that right, mosquitoes? Well, you can go choke on my Off! With extra Deet. You know, if I had sprayed any ON ME this weekend.

So now that I'm a Walking West Nile Virus, I'll also mention the dehydration, the sunburn and the heat. Ahem, where to begin... Oh, I know, how about the fact that it's HOTTER THAN THE EQUATOR in Wisconsin right now. Yes. The equator. Hotter than that. Or maybe it just feels that way when you're lodged at a campsite with exactly one foot of shade, and the sun is literally five feet from your head. Five feet. And then you're drinking. And you're trying to tube down a river, but the protruding boulders get in the way, and your tube is tied to 1,700 pounds of people and the water is one-foot deep. These are the battles we faced, friends. And the sun? It's still five feet above our sort-of submerged bodies, and we're burning. And now successfully drunk. And also HOT.

Does not sound like fun? It was, I swear. I mean, aside from the mosquito infestation, sunburn, drunken heat stroke, no shade thing - a blast. I'm proud of myself.

OK and then I came home. CRAP. I guess I don't know if somewhere in my lease it says "Apartment temperature will increase to general temperature of at-home pizza oven when left alone for 48 hours, and subsequently cats will begin to pant and write own wills due to impending doom," but I'm pretty sure I wasn't expecting this. But sure enough, I could likely cook a pizza on the surface of my computer monitor. Or floor, if it wasn't so full of cat dander that I could genetically manufacture a new cat from the debris.

I think an air conditioner would cure AIDS. World famine. Krista's debilitating state of life. You know, one or the other. Regardless, an air conditioner is a must.

From what I recall, My Place of Employment is generally a pretty cold place. Central air, and all. As I drooled all the way to work, with visions of cool breezes dancing in my head, I was met at the door with a malfunctioning air conditioner. Oh yes, friends, I also have to sweat at work. The shadows of Hell have swept over me. And you'd think, Hey, shade! But no, Hell is hot. Even its shadows.

So now I count the minutes until 5 p.m. so I can go home, take off my clothes, sprawl out on the apartment floor with my tongue out, and lay in front of the fan. Like the cats do. And together we'll manufacture a new pet from the crud on the floor.