By Lauri Notaro, The Arizona Republic
PHOENIX - I saw that something was wrong when my cousin Anthony
and his wife, Linda, arrived at my sister's house just as we were
turning on the grill for our 4th of July barbecue. I gasped when I
saw him. Even though he and Linda had moved from New York earlier
this year to open a chiropractic office, his ``new resident''
status could not excuse what I saw. He had a tan. Not just any tan
but a deep, bronze, tan like he was the sun child of George
Hamilton and Jackie Stallone.
``Are you crazy?'' I yelled to him. ``I told you not to go
outside! You don't live in Moscow, you know! You moved to Cancer
Land!''
``So I played a little golf,'' he said with a wry smile. ``Oh
yes, laugh now,'' I said pointing at him. ``You keep playing Sunny
Bunny, and in three months' time your head will be nothing but a
talking football.''
He still didn't believe me, and I know he's one of thousands of
new Phoenix residents lined like corpses around pools, basting
themselves with enough Bain de Soleil to turn themselves into honey
baked hams.
I'm serious. I really do believe that summertime in Phoenix
needs to be declared as a State of Emergency, I really do. When you
can't drink out of the hose in your front yard without boiling your
innards, something is very wrong. That's called a hostile
environment in my book. Nature is not your friend if it's equipped
with the potential to transform your brain into eight pounds of
walnut fudge within two hours if you're not wearing a hat.
My family moved here in 1972, when what is now the Squaw Peak
Parkway was nothing but two, unlit mountain roads -- one going in,
and one going out; Metrocenter was being built, and everyone bought
their clothes at JCPenney or Woolco because that's all there was. I
know I'm scaring some of you, but my point is that this will be my
27th summer here, and every time I survive another, I swear it will
be my last.
This April, faced with the prospect of living through the
equivalent of Hell with a couple of spigots for the next 180 days,
I was hoping that I could eat enough sugar in one sitting to slip
into a self-induced coma until the weather was fit for human
beings. When I woke up six hours later with a migraine headache and
an extra butt cheek, I knew all too well I was about to face
another summer driving around with mitts on my hands.
Now, in the full swing of summer, I've realized that I cannot
wage war against that which I cannot see. I can only try to protect
myself and my family. You see, I consider the heat to be an entity
like something in a Stephen King novel; it is OUT THERE, it WILL
CONSUME THE WHOLE TOWN, and not even Sean McLaughlin -- wearing a
yellow rain slicker, carrying an ax and wielding telekinetic
weather powers -- can save us.
Look outside. My block is full of families with kids, but in the
daylight, there's more activity in a catacomb than there is on my
street. Last week, I forgot to water my yard for one day, and
within 24 hours, it looked like the official landscape of Phoenix --
a dirt lot. I'm playing with a Ouija board every day in hopes that
I can summon a spirit just so I can walk through a cold spot. At
night, I put on my pajamas, jump in the shower and climb, dripping
like a sore, into bed. I have transformed the cups of my bra into
twin ice buckets. I bought an oscillating fan capable of tropical
storm-strength winds, though we have the problem of waking up 4
feet from where we went to sleep.
Do you know what an $800 electric bill looks like? I do. It
comes equipped with special tools so that you can remove your
kidney or lung and remit that as payment if you're a little short
on cash. After I opened that bill, I understood all too well why
the words ``SHUT THAT DAMN DOOR!'' were the most commonly spoken
words when I was a child and why we ate nothing but Carl Buddig
meats and Top Ramen during summer vacation.
Is it really better than being cold? Don't fool yourself into
thinking that just because our houses aren't buried in snow during
the winter that we don't get snowbound. I have friends who refuse
to leave their homes in the daylight until the beginning of
October. We may not be able to shovel our misery, but we can sure
soak it up with an absorbent paper towel as it leaks from our
bodies.
Now to address those inquiring minds who are, at this very
moment, scrambling to their AOL accounts to ask why I just don't
move, the answer is NO WAY, JOSE. If I moved to someplace that I
liked, my life would be complete, and if you flaunt that kind of
happiness in front of God, he/she will find cause to simply strike
you dead.
If it's slightly inconvenient to become a creature of the night,
I do have several tips for the newer members of the Phoenix sauna.
A parking space with shade is worth more than your car. NEVER fall
asleep in the sun, since you will not fully understand the meaning
of ``mercy killing'' until you've experienced a full-body Phoenix
sunburn. If you forget or misplace your driving mitts, socks or a
pair of maxi pads will act as nice substitutes. Be kind to others;
if you have the slightest inkling that spandex is not the best
fabric for you, refrain, keeping in mind that spandex is a
privilege, never a right. Never, ever touch the handle of a
shopping cart unless you have proof it's been in the store for at
least an hour and has completely returned to its former state as a
solid. Look before you sit. Remember that a coin exposed to
sunlight on a car seat for more that 40 seconds ceases being pocket
change and becomes a branding iron once it makes contact with skin.
And, finally, if you decide to take a fun day trip or hike into
the desert with a group of friends, just expect someone to wander
off and die.
Some day, this will all be over. And then it will start again.
Anthony, are you listening?
Laurie Notaro is a freelance writer. Send comments about her column
to the Rep, P.O. Box 2245 NF-19, Phoenix, AZ 85002; or by e-mail to
laurienotaro(at)usa.net.
