All That and a Bag of Chips

Hello World, And so here we find ourselves, perhaps unaccountably, perched atop the very last weekend in July (believe that or don't) and literally staring down both barrels of August, and with the hammer cocked, I dare say. I realize in this day and age, it's difficult to tell with a gambol through the stores - because the "back-to-school" merchandise has long since been on the shelves from the beginning of June, heaven knows - but the beach towels, suntan lotion, patio furniture, and pool toys have been quietly but inexorably shuffled off into the corners from their previously prime locations, and I said to Bill, I'm sure that you couldn't buy a swimsuit now if your life depended on it. In fact, we were in the supermarket on Thursday and bumped into a large display of seasonal candies, comprised of candy corn and fun-size Halloween candy bars, and once again, believe that or don't. Out in the real world, summer continues throughout August, regardless of what the eager retailers would have you believe, so you can relax and enjoy more lazy days of lemonade, hammocks, and watermelon without the impending sense of "holiday creep" sneaking up on you unawares. Just for a lark, why don't you plow through the racks and cartons full of turtlenecks, wool coats, ice scrapers, and snow shovels at the stores, and buy yourself a beach chair and some swim shoes? I'm sure that would be good for a laugh, if nothing else, by golly. Speaking of the fabled "dog days" of summer, we had all that and more recently (and early, at that) with about a week full of the most unbearable weather, with sweltering temperatures close to 100, and wilting humidity that made it feel even hotter on top of it all. Of course, the weather reports always exaggerate bad weather, in an effort to make people buy more newspapers and watch more TV, and toss around terms like "blizzard" and "heat wave" willy-nilly, usually in a haphazard manner where they don't really apply. But even actual meteorologists will agree that three days in a row where the thermometer hits at least 90 degrees does indeed constitute a bona fide heat wave, and not just media hyperbole for the sake of ratings or other self-serving purposes. Even the occasional pop-up thunderstorm or torrential downpour failed to turn the tide, and gardens bore the scars of the extreme conditions, their botanical victims alternately frying in the blazing sun or collapsing under the pelting rain. The TV forecasters, cosseted in their air-conditioned studios, kept assuring us that the outrageous weather was just about to break, clear out of the area, and make way for more seasonable conditions right behind it, but still it persisted, day after day, until even the most summer-loving beach babies were ready to throw in the proverbial towel and head for the ski slopes, and I ought to know. It finally cooled off by the end of this week, and not a moment too soon, I don't mind saying, and I'm sure whoever kicked over that display of ice scrapers and snow shovels probably felt bad about it in retrospect, but you didn't hear that from me. In other seasonal news, it may surprise alert readers in the general public (and our old friends the dinosaurs even more so, I shouldn't wonder) that I did actually slog through all of my camping laundry already, and would have packed it all away in the attic where it belongs - that is, except for the fact that if it was 150 degrees in the house during the recent heat wave, it must have been about 150 million degrees in the attic at the time, and blast furnace workers in asbestos suits would have been no match for it, much less me in my ratty T-shirt and clam diggers, as it were. Discretion being the better part of valor, as they say, I left it all on the attic stairs for a cooler day, and didn't chance the solar flares that were sure to come my way in the upper reaches. Also on the subject of camping, it was long after we left the campground and came home that I realized I had no idea where my camping watch had gotten to, since I hadn't seen it in with my camping gear that we had unpacked from the cars in the driveway. This was an upsetting revelation, since I really need that watch when I travel because it lights up, which doesn't matter that much during the day, but at night is an absolute necessity. I went around and poked into all the places it should have been, or any other ridiculous place I might have stashed it in error, but there was still no sign of it anywhere. I even called the park and asked them if anyone turned it in to the Lost & Found, but no luck. I finally gave it up as a lost cause (and in fact, Bill had already ordered a replacement) when it rather miraculously turned up in a shopping bag full of souvenirs on Thursday, five days after we came back, and long after I had surrendered all hope of ever seeing it again. So that was a very special post-vacation bonus that I wasn't expecting, and even more so now that I not only have my camping watch back, but a brand new back-up watch to boot. Obviously the Camping Gods were asleep at the switch that time, or perhaps they really had thrown in the towel and headed for the ski slopes after all. That reminds me of a day on my vacation when I hurried back from the beach so I could scoot into town and grab one of their most excellent egg salad sandwiches from The Deli, which is a special treat that I look forward to every year when I go out there. Not so fast! Even though it was just barely 6:00 PM, and the rest of the shopping center was bustling with activity, The Deli was shut up tight, and my quest for egg salad was doomed to failure, alas. I had already been to the pizzeria the night before, and a second night in a row was not an idea that appealed to me, so I decided to cross the street to the King Kullen, and prevail upon the young lads in the deli department to make me a Swiss cheese sandwich instead, and eat it in my car if necessary. They actually have a shady spot with benches outside of the supermarket, so all I needed was a drink and some chips to go with it, and I would be all set. I found myself drawn to a package of Snyder's Pretzel Pieces in Zesty Ranch, which they described (apparently without irony) as "Naturally Flavored Sourdough Hard Pretzel." I said to Bill later, this is all well and good, but let's face it, Zesty Ranch not a natural flavor, no matter how you look at it. Lemon is a natural flavor. Onion, garlic, chives, and dill are natural flavors. But you simply can't walk up to a farm anywhere in the world and say, "Please sell me a basket, I want to go out in the field and pick my own zesty ranch." I will say in fairness to Snyder's, their Zesty Ranch Pretzel Pieces were pretty darned good, and I have no quarrel with them as a snack, but I would still stop short of calling them a natural flavor. On the other hand, I apparently have a camping watch that mysteriously catapulted itself from my wrist into a shopping bag of souvenirs in the trunk of my car, entirely on its own initiative, so from that I can only surmise that anything is possible. I suppose as long as the Age of Miracles has not passed, I should go out and try to buy a swimsuit in July, especially since the Camping Gods are obviously off skiing instead. Elle