It's not the heat, you know. It's the humi- ... Never mind. Sorry.

We have central air conditioning, but we refuse to turn it on.

Actually, that's not true. We do have air conditioning. But Dave refuses to turn it on, and I guess, wow, yes, it is making me a better person. I realize that it won't be June until Friday, and that for some reason, 94 in June is much more legitimate than 94 on May 29.

Our neighbors, on the other hand, have had the AC on for days. Days. And like a taunting, cruel joke, I can hear it run when I'm sweating in the kitchen, eating cereal because eating anything warm makes me want to die. I can hear it kick on as I climb the stairs, literally feeling the 45-degree temperature difference by the time I get to the landing. (That means, my upstairs must be somewhere around 145 degrees. It's pretty stuffy.)

Dave even complains: "UGH, why is it so HOT in here?" he'll say as he turns on both fans in our bedroom.

Living in a 100-year-old house, I think that may be a reason for the stuffiness. That, and we have spiders the size of serving platters that hang out on our siding and sills, so I don't want to open windows. Sigh.

When we win the lottery, thousands will be put into a "cool fund" at the bank, and its sole purpose will be to cool the house from May to October. And to hire an exterminator. Who will come live with us. Year-round.

Remember last year, when I was wearing a sweatshirt inside just to spite my landlord, who footed the whole bill? Well. That sure worked out for me in the end.

If you guys don't hear from me by Tuesday night, send someone in. You'll find our skeletons engulfed in sand, reaching for a water glass or something like we're in those mummy or Indiana Jones-like movies.