The next time I hear "I just shoveled eight inches of global warming off my driveway" from some ffffidiot who can't comprehend the correlation between rising ocean temperatures and increased snowfall, I am going to smack him with my windshield scraper.
Anyhoo. My company's annual summer picnic happened to take place this weekend, down at FunTown/SplashTown. We were fortunate that it was held Saturday and not Friday, because Friday was even hotter and the entire city of Saco was blacked out, so the busload of kiddies from the local Y's day camp drove for two hours only to find the park closed, and on the way back one of the bus' tires exploded from the heat.
That was Friday. Saturday it was merely 99 degrees.
It stands to reason that in the middle of a heat wave, if you live in a part of the country where no one's house is air conditioned, you go to the water.
Or the water park.
I am of the opinion that had there been water parks in Dante's day and he had visited one on a peak summer weekend during a record-breaking heat wave, his imagination of the sixth circle of hell might have taken a slightly different tack.
Don't get me wrong. It's a great place for kids. In fact, Thing Two and the friend she brought along plunged enthusiastically into the throngs the second we were inside the gates (the inscription over which did indeed read "Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate"). I have no pictures of them because we never saw them until it was time to leave; they tell us they had a perfectly wonderful, marvelous time.
Introverted, fair-skinned grownups who aren't particularly enamored of crowds or rides and whose children are of an age where they filch the last $20 from your wallet and then happily abandon you so that you find yourself sweating in the sun for hours on industrial vinyl chaise lounge chairs where thousands of people have sweated before you... yeah, not so much.
I'm just sayin'.
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