It is still very hot to be typing. Moving my fingers is increasing my core body temperature to TOO HOT.

My boyfriend and I had planned to go bike riding Saturday. We may postpone that in favor of not moving. UNLESS my new bike arrives. In which case I will be bike riding all day for the rest of the summer.

It’s too hot to type.

I went to the Big Sister Summer Picnic the other day. It was at a beautiful camp on the beach. There was a pool, a huge grassy field and a beach overlooking the Boston skyline. It would be a nice place to relax, but there was no time for that. Sandcastles do NOT build themselves.

I’m amazed at the size of the sand toys. They look like my old sand toys on steroids. There’s a bucket so huge that when filled with water I can’t lift it. A bunch of little sisters decide to fill it with rocks AND water. I try to help carry it. They frown with dismay when I mention pouring some of the water out. This sandcastle building business is serious.

I stick to making castles. I’m confident I can do this. Then I help with the moat. One of the girls orders,

“Deeper. You need to dig deeper.”

I’m digging and hauling and building. It’s 10am on a Saturday morning and I’m covered in sweat. I sit down. The little sisters continue to work hard. The girl who was monitoring my moat digging saunters up to me,

“Are you going to help or what?”

The other day it was hot and I hadn’t washed my hair. I piled it on top of my head and went off to work. A regular remarks,

“Your hair is up.”

“Yeah.”

“Is something wrong?”

“No. I didn’t wash it.”

“You look very Victorian.”

“Thank you?”

“It’s a compliment.”

“Thank you.”

Several glasses of wine later it is clear that the regular is a little tipsy. When she’s tipsy she gets a little feisty. She stands up to leave. She points her finger at me and shouts,

“JESSICA!”

“Yes?!”

“Take CHARGE of your hair.”

My boyfriend and I head out for my birthday dinner. I glance over at a table a few feet away from us. The older couple really looks a lot like some regulars from my bar. I stare. No. They ARE the regulars from my bar. They catch my stare and exclaim,

“Jess! What are you doing here?”

“It’s my birthday! What are you doing here?”

Seeing your bartender free in the wild is kinda like running into your kindergarten teacher at the grocery store. The world feels upside down and inside out.

I introduce my boyfriend. My regular asks me,

“Is he good enough for you?” She turns to him, “You’re on probation.”

Back home I recount the story to my mom. She swells up,

“No! That lady is on probation.”

I’m back. I meant to blog today, but I ate blueberry pie instead. I’m sorry. Now I have to go to work. I’ll talk to you tomorrow if anyone is still reading this besides my mom.

It’s my birthday week! Last year I had a birthday month, so really I’m scaling back.

A woman at the bar is halfway through her third drink and finishing up her dinner. A man walks in and approaches her,

“Hi. Are you Sarah?”

“No.”

He wanders off and sits further down at the bar. I hand him a menu. He tells me,

“Thanks, I’m waiting for someone.”

Yeah, Sarah, I heard. I joke with him,

“That would be weird if your date started eating without you.”

“Stranger things have happened.”

Are you my date?

A regular comes back from the bathroom. She’s shaking her head. She looks upset. I ask,

“Are you ok?”

“No and I’m feeling feisty. I’m tempted to go find that woman.”

“What woman?”

“I usually check the toilet seat, but this time I didn’t and I sat in that woman’s pee.”

“Do you even know who did it?”

“Oh I saw her come out of the stall and she needs to know that she is not allowed to pee on my butt.”

My roommate and I may have gotten a portable washing machine. It sounded like a great idea when we first thought of it.

It arrives. There is a 75 pound washing machine in the entry way. Somehow it needs to get up to my third floor apartment. My roommate mentions my boyfriend. Yes. That is why I have a big strapping man in my life. BUT he is working and this washing machine is blocking the entire doorway. Somehow, in the 90 degree heat, I manage to get the thing upstairs. Don’t mess with me.

We unpack it. All seems to be going well except that it looks like we need an adapter of some sort to connect it to the sink faucet. I take the washing machine hose and the end of the faucet and walk a mile to the hardware store. The guy at the store is very helpful and seems to know exactly what I need. He starts searching through parts and trying different things on. He keeps trying. Twenty minutes later, he turns to me,

“I’m sorry, we don’t have the parts you need. A plumbing supply store will have it for sure.”

“What do I need?” And he says something about a 15 and 3/4 adapter for the 1/2 inch adapter or some such numerical nonsense. I nod as if I know exactly what he is talking about and leave.

I walk another mile to a plumbing supply store. I hand over the hose and end of the faucet to the guy. He looks at them for a second and hands them back to me. He says,

“You don’t need anything. It should fit just like that.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Did you try screwing it in the other way?”

I will now.

I head home feeling silly, but not as silly as that guy at the first hardware store should feel.

I try to screw the hose to my faucet. I turn it the other way than I tried before. It works. Now to get down to washing. Do I leave the sink on the whole time? The instruction booklet doesn’t say. Google and youtube don’t know. I must use the last resort and call the customer service hotline. A foreign guy answers the phone. I ask him,

“Do I leave the sink turned on the whole time the washing machine is running?”

“May I put you on hold while I look into this?”

Five minutes later he returns,

“Hello. Thanks for holding.”

“No problem.”

“What do you mean by ‘sink?'”

We get disconnected. I call back and get ‘Bob.’ At least I feel confident Bob will know what a sink is. Bob asks for the model and serial number of my machine and puts me on hold. Five minutes later he returns,

“You shouldn’t have to worry about turning the water on or off.”

“But then how does the machine get water from the sink?”

“Oh, is this a portable machine?”

Two loads of washing later, I’d say besides the guy at the second plumbing store, I’m the most qualified washing machine consultant around.

If only I had whatever musical instrument this is.

My birthday is coming up, just so you know. I mention to my boyfriend that I’m getting a new bike. He asks,

“Is it because the one you have keeps crashing?”

The fashion show was a success in so much as I looked nothing like a chair. I’d say I complemented the chair. I looked like a person who could sit in a chair without anyone saying,

Never mind that the actual chair that inspired my un-chair-like outfit wasn’t even there. I posed next to a love seat I’d never met before.

Who are you and what did you do with my tall slender chair?

Don’t tell me I don’t look like a chair.

Big Sister fashion show tonight!

Yesterday I went to Ann Taylor for a fitting. The store manager pulls out her ipad and shows me photos of eight chairs. She asks,

“Do any of them speak to you?”

Considering I’m going to be dressed like one of these chairs, the prettiest one better speak to me. It does.

A stylist appears out of nowhere.

“What chair are you?”

I show her and she flits about grabbing all sorts of outfits. I try on a beautiful pink dress that makes me feel nothing like a chair. The stylist declares,

“I think that’s perfect, what do you think?”

“It’s perfect.”

“Would you like a belt?”

Yes. A chair needs a belt and probably a shiny gold necklace.

Like me: tall and lightly padded

Yesterday was a sad day. You will understand after you read this post.

We were at my boyfriend’s parents’ house. He was working from home and with John Adams in hand I commandeer the porch swing overlooking the ocean.

For hours I’m immersed. I finish the book. Still sobbing and wiping snot away with the back of my hand I head inside. My boyfriend thinks I have a cold. He asks,

“You have the sniffles?”

“No. John Adams died!”

“You’re crying because John Adams died?”

I walk one block from my apartment to the dry cleaners. As I’m coming out of the dry cleaners I walk into a regular from the bar. He exclaims,

“What are you doing here?!”

“I live here. What are you doing here?”

“Stalking you. … I probably shouldn’t say that.”

Being a Big Sister mentor has it’s perks: it’s fun, rewarding and I get to be in a fashion show next week.

I got an email from Big Sister saying that Boston Magazine is doing a fashion show and would like a few big sisters in it to raise awareness. Would I be interested? So you’re saying people are going to do my hair and makeup and there’s free food backstage? I’m in.

I tell my bar manager at work I’ll need the night off. He wants more information: like what sort of fashion. I read him the email:

“Statement jewelry and decor-inspired looks.”

“Decor? You’re going to be dressed like furniture?”

“Huh. Yeah, I’m not sure what that means. Maybe I’ll get to be a couch.”

“Or maybe outdoor furniture.”

“It is summer.”

After living in a hostel for a year and traveling around the world for two years there’s not much that grosses me out. I gave up on shower shoes a long time ago, except in places where the shower is also the toilet.

The regular whose passport renewal took priority over his Viagra refill tells me,

“The good thing about dating a doctor is that she supplies the Viagra.”

“That is convenient.”

“And cheaper.”

“Perfect.”

“The only problem is I don’t think she finds me interesting.”