Pumpkins on the surface of the sun...

If you live anywhere on the Eastern seaboard, you are probably constantly covered in the thinnest layer of dust and sweat at all times except when standing under the spray of your locally mandated 5-minutes-or-less shower and for the first 10 minutes following said shower. I know we are. That's because it hasn't rained here, not even a few teensy drops, in the neighborhood of a month. I saw on the news this afternoon that one local town only has 11 days worth of water left in its reservoir. The 10-day forecast doesn't call for any measurable rain, so I'm pretty sure they're screwed.

In addition to the clear, blue sky and the dusty, cracking soil, the mercury finds its way up to 90 degrees Fahrenheit daily. It's almost mid-October. It's not supposed to be 90 in October. Seriously, people. Never mind arctic shelves melting, and sea levels rising and all that Al Gore-y stuff. When it's 90 degrees in October, it totally kills the apple picking, pumpkin patch-ing mood. Big time.

See, I'm from New England. The land of legendary foliage (or "foilage" if you're Marge Simpson) and crisp fall air. I don't *do* "Africa-hot" in the middle of autumn. My memories of apple picking revolve around 55 degree mornings, bulky sweaters and steaming apple cider. That's what apple picking, or any fall activity is supposed to be like. It's lovely. Really. And, check with Husband, I start blathering on about apple picking, and start planning when and where we're going, sometimes around mid-July.

So you can get a tiny sense of my disappointment this year when I tried to take Ethan to the pumpkin patch at 9am last Tuesday, clad in an adorable fall-colored sweater, and the poor thing was sweating so much inside of 5 minutes that I had to strip him down to the t-shirt underneath. A child should NOT be wearing a t-shirt while romping among pumpkins. There is something seriously wrong with that and it pisses me off.

Ma, what is with that blazing ball of fire beating down on me? Oh, that's the sun? Sweet.

I have one word for you, mother. Sunglasses. It's damn bright out here.

I am the Sun King, surveying my kingdom of little orange, thick-stemmed mini-suns. Or, I am delirious because my mother dressed me way too warmly for the 85 degree temperature.

Pretty fall sweater = someone is gonna need some baby gatorade.

I'm going to go curl up in some hay, Mama. Or, you could admit this sweater isn't really appropriate for the weather, take it off of me, and we can all enjoy this morning a bit more.

This is more like it!

All aboard the choo-choo! Maybe if we drive far enough north, I might need to wear that sweater by the time we hit the North Pole.

Mama's crazy; I dig the warm weather...