I think that man who comes to fix the machine on Monday will be wearing wings and have a halo over his head

I'm outside. My hair's wet. I just ate a grossly unhealthy creme-filled donut because I thought I'd die if Dave turned the stove on, as it's so hot.

It's officially broken. We though that maybe -- just maayyybe -- it was just the power company turning the air off because we signed that thing where they can do that and we get money off our bill. But, well. We were wrong, because now, not even the fan works. The air conditioner is broken. And Dave thinks, to add a punch in the face to injury, our ductwork isn't all that functional either.

But it's OK. Someone's coming Monday. Monday.

Fantastic.

It's not 100 and humid, granted, but still. I'm so sure this had to happen on a couple days when I don't work. I'm so sure. So sure.

Monday. (Also the day the man's coming out to check out why our oven doesn't work. Coincidentally.)

The sun beat in on my face through the rarely opened windows in our house. I winced. Dave tried to give me a hug, as he was all "Aw, it'll be OK," but come on -- it's hot. And 98.6 degrees and 98.6 degrees is obviously 197.2 degrees when two people touch. That's how that works, I'm sure of it.