On Wetting Oneself Part Deux

Summer is my favorite time of year.

But I also like when summer has just about worn you out and then that light little breeze comes along and you're like, "damn, fall is pretty rad, too." Sadly, in Texas, it only lasts like a day or two, but the point is that God made seasons for a reason. You get plum burnt out on one season too much. Especially summer. Geeeeeeeez. Enough already.

And then there's deer season!

Every hunter starts to get that itch around September and October. The "I need to kill something other than these blasted fire ants" itch. The need to be enveloped in camouflage and sit for hours in a deer stand, watching nothing but branches and weeds move and thinking to yourself, "Holy crap! Was that a deer? No... Shit."

That hunter...is not me.

While I know several men and women who participate in the ridiculousness of getting up at four AM and spreading around doe urine and rattling antlers and snorting buck snorts... it is my personal conviction that going outside with a gun, some corn and a jacket tends to do the trick.

Oh, and my Dad.

Dad pretty much tells me what to do and I do it. He does that really annoying hunting voice like on the hunting shows where you would rather strangle yourself than hear what the hunter has to say (like that hissing whisper voice you did when you were a kid and were supposed to be in bed and you didn't want your parents to hear down the hall but you wanted it to be loud enough for your sister to hear in the next bed): "Well... we decided to cut around through the back pasture... cause we know the bucks wonder up into the north part of the field...and we did a few snorts and rattles... and BY GOD if that sonofabitch didn't come a runnin'..."

One of the first hunts I can remember with my Dad was at my Hey-Hey's place. I was pretty small, young enough to only remember the traumatic parts of the trip...

Dad was hunting on the bank of a tank and had set me up in a mesquite tree ("Stay there. Be quiet") while he laid out on the bank and looked out over the prairie at the deer, waiting for el guapo to show his big ugly face, I guess. I remember it being pretty cold and me being a tiny little thing, I had to pee pretty quick.

"Dadddd!" (in the hiss whisper) "Daddy! I hafta go to the bathroom!"

Dad, compliant, mildly annoyed, rises from belly position and takes his tiny girl below the bank to take care of her business and returns her to tree perch with a "Stay there. Be quiet."

Now I don't know much about time and the world around me at this point, but I'm going to say about twenty minutes later, the same situation unfolds. Only this time, Big Boss Man is much more agitated and much less compliant to little girl's requests. Little girl senses her father's anger and becomes worrisome, frightened, and wants more than anything in the world to not disappoint her Dear Old Pa.

The wind continues to blow on the tip-top of the bank, while Your Humble Narrator is in precarious mesquite tree, and Pee Urge Number Three comes along.

Now, I'm a smart little gal. I know that if I tell my pa I have to pee AGAIN, he is going to get all huffy puffy at me, yank me out of the tree, set me behind the bank, and probably miss the shot of his life due to his whining little bratty kid who can't hold her pee in. So, I did what any good child would do and I pissed myself. I mean I really let myself have it. The flood gates opened and there was no stopping the warm, youthful flow of relief. I surely can't remember if I did it out of fear or spite. My tiny little jeans soaked and me, a tad pleased, a tad ashamed.

Father of course, after hefting his child out of the tree and discovering that she had pissed herself, felt terrible (only after, of course, scolding me for pissing myself) and probably had a considerable time explaining himself to my dear old mother, who must've not allowed such goings on any longer because I don't remember going out with Dad again 'til I was ten or eleven when I got to kill my first deer. Also about the same time I stabbed Dear Old Dad while gutting said deer...

Now that's a whole other blog...

Your Guide to Surviving Summer with No A/C.

It is my personal conviction that flaming heat is better than ice cold. I would rather be pouring sweat than in a sweater. Cold sucks. A lot. It makes me shiver and say weird things out loud. Things like "hebushineeene" and "sheeshimoag." Cold weather Tourette's, if you will.

But whatever. I live in Texas, so rarely anyone has to hear these inaudible utterances. Plus, I pretty much stay huddled at Donn's Depot when it's freezing outside because they have a really rad and what I guess is really old heater.

Moving on...

My car doesn't have a working air conditioner. My freaking car. Old Blue. The old money pit. The old pain in my ass. I only spend more money on rent and Taco Bell. She demands something new every time I turn around! "I need gas!" and "Change my oil!" and "Clean my windshield!"

UGGGGGHHHHH.

She's ridiculous. High Maintenance Bitch, is what I call her. Who has the time!?!?

Her latest shenanigan is her fuel pump. She actually thinks a new fuel pump is in order so that gasoline gets into the engine from the fuel tank... the audacity. So every time I try to crank her, she makes this embarrassing scene where I crank and crank and crank and nothing happens. So I'm just sitting there, at 7-11, clutching a chimichanga, screaming at my ignition, looking like a real dumbass.

And then the a/c. Right smack in the middle of May she chokes on me. And it got pretty hot in May. And I was like, "Okay, I guess I should have someone look at this fuel pump and a/c disaster." And the mechanic was all, "Yep, it's gonna cost you one arm and ohhhh, better throw in one leg." So I tuned out and started playing with all the keys that were beside his desk and pointing at pictures and asking who was this? and was he really a granddad? because he looked so young. Bald, but young. Then he asked me if I wanted to fix my piece of crap car in exchange for monetary transaction and I was like, "no."

So. Here is how you survive summer in Texas with a piece of shit car and no a/c. (And God willing the fuel pump doesn't actually go out when you're driving to San Antonio one day.)

-Always keep an extra change of clothes in the car.

Indubitably, your ass is going to sweat. off. Right off. Your arms are going to sweat in that elbow fold while you're driving, unless you drive with your arms straight out like Cruella deVille. Actually, that might help. Consider adding that to the guide. There will be sweat coming down your neck and into your shirt and Good Lord, the back sweat, it's insane. So upon making your arrival to let's say, Important Job Interview, and your ass looks like you just jumped rope in the attic, your extra change of clothes will come in handy. I would suggest traveling in a tank top but sunburn will become an issue (travel with SPF 97). I think maybe a light flowing top. Which brings us to the next point in where clothing is also key.

-Utilize body position/clothing.

So, you are rolling down the road, windows down, thighs on fire, leaning kind of forward to decrease back heat, and you stick your hand out the window and lo! A cool breeze of air comes through your shirt sleeve and into the blazing underneaths of your wardrobe. If positioned correctly, your hand can actually increase the flow of wind into the parts of your body that need relief. Ie: If you are wearing the suggested clothing for Traveling in Hell, your billowy top will give way to the current, and relieve your armpit, chest and stomach from the insane temperature that has built over the two hours your car was festering in the Target parking lot. Unfortunately, only one side of your body will feel any sort of relief. But on the up side, people won't wonder what the hell you are doing because you'll just look like you're doing that whole "enjoying the day, wind surfing with my hand" routine. Fellow drivers-by will nod and smile to you in passing whilst doing the same, but while they think you are singing lyrics to a song, really you'll be mouthing "HELP ME."

-Hydrate.

No bottle of Dasani will suffice here, people. We're talking sweltering, miserable, your dog will die if you leave him in your car, heat here. That pathetic bottle of water is going to be boiling lava hot within about fifteen minutes. In which time you can't even drive home in traffic in this discombobulated cluster the City of Austin calls roadways. Get a thermos. A good one. And I don't really know how to distinguish a good thermos from a bad thermos but I feel like it's important. Water is going to be key. Especially if you're traveling extended amounts of time. Granted, you will be going (hopefully) 70-75 MPH, which will ultimately make for a more pleasant drive, but on the road for two hours with no cold air and no water, you might as well drive off an embankment and hope for death on impact.

-Avoid contact

With anything. Other humans (holding hands is out, plus who in God's name is going to get in that hot box with you?). Don't put your arm on the console, it will literally burn the hair off your arm. And try to avoid putting on your seatbelt as long as possible. A hot strap belting you into your untimely death by melting? Count me out. If you are in a wreck and you have followed my instructions and are not wearing a safety harness, don't fret; your body will probably have turned to jelly now and the catapult from car to asphalt will feel much less injurious. And now that your car is most definitely totaled, you can finally get a new one.