She was raised in the south. I was raised in the south. We live in the south. Our children were born in desserts. Yes it’s hot in the summer. You don’t have to say it every day between June and September. I can’t do a damn thing about it. We have a house. The house has air conditioning and has fans. Please stop complaining about it to me. My wife tends to move immediately to hyperbole when it comes to the weather. “It’s a million degrees and my face is going to melt off.” I just bite my tongue. I feel like responding with the “back in my day” routine, but that’s only going to get me in more trouble. The biggest thing is that I like the town where we live, and I have a job here. If she wanted to get me a job somewhere else more appealing, I won’t fight it, but for now we’re staying here. We just have to get used to the temperature being close to 100 F much of the summer and pray for rain and a cold front. I wish I drank more at times. At moments like this I would pour something over ice, sit on the back porch, get eaten by mosquitoes and just let her go on while I drift into oblivion. Until then, it’s humid, and yes, it’s hot out there.