Otherwise you may find yourself standing in your living room in your underwear, holding the "Important Reminder!" postcard from the service company, asking if they can come as soon as possible, because your air conditioning has just died in the middle of the worst heat wave you can remember.
And then you have to spend the day at your in-laws so the baby doesn't melt, and when you get home there are five industrial fans in your 900 square foot apartment because your husband went a little insane at Home Depot, and you don't fall asleep until midnight, and the baby is up at 5 a.m. because she's thirsty, and you're sweating again by 6 a.m.
The real bitch of it is that we move in eleven days. A week and a half! The weather or the AC couldn't have waited until July 20?
All right, a little more advice before I go back to trying not to pass out from heat exhaustion: Don't wear white shorts and a hot pink thong. Not for your sake; for mine. I never need to know that much about someone's ass. I think I'll make that my slogan, in fact. Your ass: I don't need to know about it.
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