Haunting....

Faced down some demons last night -some mine, some not - got up unrested, as really, I don’t consider laying in an unfamiliar bed, next to someone else, who’s facing away from me, terribly restfull. Nor, does it count for actual sleeping time. I’d too many ghosts to slay for that. She was standing by the bedside, what I suppose would be her side, and me? The interloper? Well. I got asked this am if I wanted to see a photo of her; I replied, thank you no - totally skipping the why do I need confirmation about who was staring at me all night long??? It was creepy, in the same way I suppose, that anyone entering into my bedroom, aka the Sacred Untouched Shrine, might feel as well. I always sleep on the side of the bed nearest the door - makes it easier to catch small foreign bodies that fling themselves willy-nilly over the duvet, or, to assist in the letting out of the Great Small Bladdered Danes currently residing here again. Either way, by default? That other side of the bed? I suppose it goes by the moniker of his side.

Maybe that would be weird for someone else - but I’m not too sure that guys see it that way. I think they’re slightly more focused, more pragmatic: they don’t care which side of the bed they’re on, so long as they’re in bed, with a possibly (or soon to be possibly) naked woman, they skip all inuendos regarding bedside ownership.

I envy that.

Then again, she hasn’t been gone all that long; her presence still lingered, bitterly in the hall, clung to the cornice, slipped from the bathroom mirror when I went to brush my teeth, with his toothbrush. He may have picked me up some contact stuff, but, well, my oral hygiene got left to my own devices. I’m not squeamish: if I can happily slurp down water sporting the backwash remnants from being shared, surely, a little toothbrush action isn’t beneath me. But she was still there. The funny part? He gets it that the house doesn’t feel like home anymore, but he cannot place why - and my guess? Again, a girl thing. He wants warmth, and light, airy coziness that screams Sink Into This Couch! Cook A Meal At This Counter! Spend Time With Me!! - but he’s yet to get that he’s got to get rid of the 12 years of relationship detritus that goes along with her removing what furniture she wanted: which, should you be curious? Is damn near all.

I like him. Really. I do. But I’m not sure I’m cut out for this part - being the stronger of the two - will he realize that I’m just as fragile as he? That I need the kid gloves too? Oh, he gets it, I’m not a morning person, and my bedhead is indeed legendary. He’s accepting of the fact that I may indeed lay claim to all of my favorites of his button down shirts. I adore the way he dresses, and mostly, how he treats me like a queen - I just sometimes wish? He told me how great I looked a little more. But then, really, shouldn’t I be handling that myself? He’s attentive, he’s sweet. He’s NOT DF. Or J. Thank God, there was nary a tightie-whitie in view - I dug around in the closet when he wasn’t looking. I don’t consider it spying. More like……necessary checking. I know he’s holding back, just like me, and that’s okay too.

I suppose, I just wish I’d had the chance to spend the night with him without The Haunting.

Commence Swearing

I’ve fucking had it up to my eyeballs. I’m so close to the breaking point, I might actually have already passed it, but be currently unaware of that fact - not even walking two miles with the dogs, while carrying the long-handled frog net calmed me tonight, and that was after my stint at kickboxing this am, where we beat the shit out of “people” like kickbags with escreame sticks. Think: large heavy golf club hits ocibital bone. Instant blindness. Or, as I was hitting it, death.

Naturally, B would be at the heart of much of this - he’s totally fallen off the fucking wagon, and taken the wheels with him. He won’t file his divorce paperwork? Fine. I’ll go in, and change the grounds, thereby cirmventing this whole He’s Got Five Years To Dick Me Around Nonsense. Does it mean I have to give a deposition on all the shit he pulled while we were married? Yes. Wanna bet how I feel about that? You got it. Pissed to all hell and beyond. I filed a motion for child support; in the middle of all of this, I discover that he had ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS TO GET HIS GUNS BACK - something I was promised wouldn’t happen - he should be in jail for the suspended license to carry, for a RESTRAINING ORDER, but well. He convinced someone he was okay, and I was a nutjob, and well, now he’s armed to the fucking teeth.

Did I mention, he’s not taking his meds?

That’s right. The state of MA demanded through DSS that he remain medicated, for the rest of his natural life (which if you ask me, ended a long time ago, and now, he’s just on borrowed time til I figure out how to kill him and get away with it) so now I’ve also had to face down any mother’s worst nightmare, and go ask them to get involved. You know, because he doesn’t feed the kids, or he feeds them candy, and then when they crash, which inevitably will occur, he yells at them. They locked themselves in a bathroom, got naked, and stamped each other, along with a whole host of other questionable (to say the very least) activities, all with B’s gf’s daughter, who, and this is from BOTH kids, was the instigator. Where was B or C? might you ask. Good question. I suspect? Getting it on. On the kitchen counter. They didn’t even notice til nearly a half hour had gone by. They don’t bathe or brush teeth when theyr’e there, and, if M and I don’t bring over food? There isn’t any for the kids. DSS loved that.

To add insult to injury, I get a call yesterday, at about four or so, telling me the dogs, for whom he is supposed to be caring, have not eaten since Friday, and they’re starting to get pissy. Could I either fix his upsidedown bank account (to the tune of EIGHT HUNDRED DOLLARS) so he can go buy dog food, or, just come get them?

Enroute, I find out (thank goodness H fell asleep; he would’ve learned a whole new vocabulary) the truck will be repo’d, the house is going into foreclosure (again) and his electricity is seconds away from being turned off. Which will really piss him off, because he’s paid the cable bill. Are you serious??? Oh, right, he throws in, and his grandmother passed away. Yesterday, at 3pm. So. He’ll be coming north with me, and staying with me for the furneral etc, which isn’t til Thursday night.

Uh………NO. You’re not.

He looks dreadful; sounds worse, and his precious guns? Laying around the house, no trigger locks on, just laying there. Staring at him. Evidently, in some cases? Loaded. He’s not eaten. Not slept. No meds. Probably broke up with C; so really, we should reconcile. I called Claire. Honestly? And yes, I know this sounds bad: I don’t think that either his first ex-wife M or I should be the ones to find him, when he offs himself. That’s her job now. She said she wanted to take him on. She lectured me on what a horrific parent I am, how all this shit with B was MY fault; and now, the shit hit the fan? She’s history.

I’m fucking pissed. And, I feel guilty. He’s sooo damn good at emotional manipulation and blackmail, it’s unbelieveable! I know better than to get sucked in by him, but it’s soooo hard not to.

Funny. I left last night, feeling like the lowest of the low, leaving him to kill himself, which he all but told me he was going to do, twirling around a loaded gun, that I took out of his hands; I kept looking at H, thinking I’ve got to do something. Anything.

I’ve nothing to feel guilty for. I don’t know why I keep getting suckered in by his array of shit; I swear, all teh time, that that’s the last straw; but it’s so tough to outrun him.

But I’m trying. God knows, I’m giving it the best I’ve got. So far tonight? I’ve run two miles further from him. It’s at least a start.

Now, if I can quit calling him a m-fing cocksucker, in public, I might be making some REAL progress.

Porn Peddler?

I have decided what I’m going to do with all that pent up sexual frustation - no, I’m not going to unearth the vibrator from it’s hiding place under the tub, supply it with fresh batteries, and drive myself up to the top,but not over the edge; nor am I going to continue down a torturous and equally unsatisfying path with someone we know, nor, lastly, am I hopping upon any available male specimen that wanders through my field of vision.

I think instead, I’ll supply the erotic writing industry with it’s next lastest best-seller.

If the cries of delight and crisis I got over the phone not too long ago are any indication? I’m rather creative. Kind of good at the whole What Would I Do To You Thing…and, well. Let’s be totally honest: now that I’ve composed an eloquent (his word, not mine) Grown-Up We’re Friends, Let’s Respect That Of Each Other email, it’s not like I can fall back into being the one to break it with an X (or triple x) rated late night text. Plus? Joe doens’t answer if I text him, in any sense, so why waste perfectly good erotic novel ideas of a man with no imagination, or, answering abilities. I could wax poetic on why it is that he doesn’t repond - I think he’s too invested in me, if you know what I mean - but in the end run, it certainly fails to matter, at least on my radar.

Also, I got to thinking, I’ve read some of what’s out there, and it lacks a good deal of…real world availability. Sure, it’s fun the first time around, to get the flutter reading about what someone else could/would/might/want to do, in an erotic romance novel kind of way - but it’s not something that’s exciting more than once, mostly, I think, because I don’t buy the characters. Silly, I realize - it’s why porn has no plot; guys don’t care about plot, subtext, feelings - at least any that extend beyond the end of a perfectly good erection.

However. Women do. And we’re the ones, according to my research, that reach for this stuff, carefully hidden under the bed, or in the drawer, when hubby is either MIA on a business trip, or, losing the battle in the final frontier of Divorce Court.

What’s a girl to do, I ask you?

Now, if I have any luck in this endeavor at all, she’ll buy what I turn out, be turned on, and have the best nights of her life - even if the only company she has is her own.

All I need is a pen name - my mother (not to mention some other’s I know) would SHIT BRICKS if she had any clue what I was up to - although, I must admit, I may have to tell her if I find one of these little gems tucked under her bed - and I suppose, should this be profitable, printed in several different languages, spanning the globe (sort of like counting the orgasms before they arrive, though, hmmm?) I may have to admit that her daughter is a prolific erotic novelist.

Before that happens however, I should at least sit down to pen and paper, or more aptly, keyboard and moniter, and bang a few out. Ahem. Pardon the pun.

Surf's Up

It’s quite funny, isn’t it? The impetus to change, wherein it lies, or how it hits. Also, how many ripples in the lake it makes, on it’s way to finally hitting the shore -

In this case, it’s followed by the always hot, always steamy, always troublesome DF sighting, texting, and coming. As usual, the Moral Hangover followed, emails commenced, and he hit a nerve. A REALLY big one. He insinuated that I’d slurred his wife, whom I never refer to by name, mind you, and was derogatory in manner….

Let’s just skip ahead, shall we, past the moral issues, and the personal flogging, the breaking of all the promises I made myself …. and jump right to: he wanted to do it over email, as he knew how I get when I’m embarrassed, and he didn’t want to do that to me. He allows me to hide behind my moniter, my cell phone, my sense of pride and propriety. (sorely lacking, yes, I realize in several moments) And now? I’m pissed.

I think I’ve finally found Mel. In all her inimitable wisdom, her firey spirit, her Kiss Ass and Take Names attitude, the fact that I never was going to allow myself to become someone I didn’t respect.

I’m not hiding. I made an appointment to go see D, and tell him, once and for all, several things. First and foremost, like him, I do not want to lose a friendship with someone I like and respect, however, there are some new ground rules. This, for the record, is where the stone dropped in the lake, and the ripples just went on for miles. I’m not a pushover; I never was. I learned to hide from confrontation with B, and now that he too has pushed me again, to the wall and nearly over it, I’m starting small, and working my way up. I am GOING to tell D exactly how I feel (well, mostly, not the whole When Harry Met Sally kind of thing, or even the Best Friends Wedding part) just that the stupid chemistry needs to find a new outlet - whether it’s chatting about mundane things and working on being a grownup, to finally giving myself the chance to see him as a human, and not as the God I’ve put on the pedestal.

Next, I’m going after B, once and for all. Oh, I’ve said it before, but this time? I’m meeting with the lawyer, and redoing the divorce. I may even go and change the grounds under which I filed, but really, I suppose the whole finalized point is this:

Mel is back in town. And she’s not fucking around anymore.

Since when did I let pasivity and the Easy Button become my M.O.? Quite frankly, I’ve been standing under this avalanche, shivering, breathing shallowly because I know, I know that once I take a deep breath, or shift my weight, it’s all going to come crashing down. It has. The snow and ice, the detritus from so many things balanced precaiously on the edge smashed me in the head, and maybe, that’s all I needed. I should no longer be afraid of B, he should be afraid of me - isn’t that what I’ve worked so damn hard to acheive? Kickboxing for taking him on physically, finding ways to outwit him mentally, being a good parent, and good friend, only to find that in the end, I still feel like a caged animal without an escape hatch.

Someone important to me, who’s enabled me to be less than I can be, and should be, pointing out that he’s handed me the easy way out.

The Easy Button? It works for Staples. Not for Real Life.

If I’m really the grown-up I say I am, then it’s time: I’ve unearthed her. I don’t know where she’s been hiding, and yes, I too think it’s odd, rediculous, yet strangely inspiring, that the one man whose hold over me has never waned, is the one setting this - unknowingly! on his part - in motion.

I’d send him some white chocolate covered strawberries as a thankyou, but seriously. He’d think I meant more than I do, and it’s way to complex to explain it - plus, I think it shatter several of his pre-conceived, and possibly at some time correct notions about me - which I’m not ready to do.

Either way, in summation, the lake has the giant wake of the stone that got dropped - I’m grabbing my surfboard, and my suit - the cutie one - and I’m riding it out. For better or worse? I’m getting divorced. I’m taking my child, and my dogs, my pride and my self-respect, and we’re headed for shore.

My Blueberry Heaven

What exactly, does one do with 21 pounds of blueberries?

I suppose, I could freeze them for the winter, but, honestly, I’ve got this bee in my bonnet about making jam. I’ve heard it’s difficult, and pissy; not to mention, a bitch to jar, seal, and store…and all that after boiling it to the point of no return. However, the soothing qualities of being amassed in steam, wafting up from open pans boiling and burbling in continuem, renders me nealy comatose with longing to take on this project. Plus, I’ve pied my way to eternity and beyond, with six to deliver to various and sundry neighbors, friends, strangers….add in the lemon scented pound cake studded with ripe, juicy blueberries - so many it took an extra 20 minutes to bake - and I’m really starting to warm to the jam idea.

First, according to the ‘erections, as H calls them, I need about ten pounds of sugar, jam jars with the vacuum seal lids, and roughly 10 pounds of blueberries. I’ve more than that, but sure, we’ll start small. No need to go nuts, yes? Lemons, fresh are a must - supposedly you may use concentrate, by why bother, when the fresh are so much better? And time. I don’t want to rush the measuring, the boiling, hearing the gentle swell of fruit coming to a boil - perhaps, while it’s boiling, I’ll pop some muffins in the oven…

Amid all the snarky ex-husband issues that have dominated my week, and the drunken excess to which I fully participated, the show, job hunting and selling the house, I find myself embracing even this one afternoon of solitude and peace, occassionally punctuated by the rising aroma of blueberry something baking away, jam on the stove, as a break from the hassle and bustle of Real Life in this age.

How lovely would it be, to slip back in time?

Scratch that. I’d be stuck with outhouses, jarring everything I could find for winter, and turning my leftover potato sacks into clothing and mittens to gaurd against the harsh winter ahead.

Perhaps, then, all the better to brew some hot, fresh, strong tea,don an apron, and focus on carfully hulling berries. If only for one afternoon, to slip into My Blueberry Heaven, where the only thing of demanding importance lies in adding pectin and sugar, lemon juice and love to a bubbling cauldron, then seived and divded among very clean glass jars.

Phantom Pain

Ever notice how getting over loving someone, especially from afar, is akin to losing a limb? There is the initial horrendous shock, the subsequent pain, the terror or becoming disfigured, and finally, the lingering phantom pain that continues whenever you pass a particular cologne, resturaunt, airport or empty bedside. I must say, I was quite proud of myself - I’d finally stopped looking for him everywhere I went, hoping to run into him, and fingering the text option on my cellphone like an addict - especially when intoxicated, which honestly? I’ve been WAY to much recently.

So imagine my shock, when I finally (finally!) meet someone who is classy, sharp, funny, sweet - who is a little intense and it scare me - only to find that the one I’ve wanted for soooooooooo damn long was not only at the same place, with his beloved, but, I didn’t even notice him.

Evidently, my presence didn’t go unnoticed. Nor did my inability to see him, across the bar, with Her. Masses of hair, incidentally, and an aura of don’t fucking touch me that emanated around the room. Funny thing though, that I was so focused on Mr. Maybe, that I totally missed my Mr. Perfect.

Sadly, however, as all good things do indeed come to an end, I got a late night text, while I was sipping water (two very late nights, including dragging a gf off both the bar where we were dancing, in four inch heels, to carrying up the steps of my house to bed is a lot for me!) sitting with Mr. Maybe, aka M. And he comments on my Boys At Via. I’m blown away, and went suddenly cold and clammy, and then hot and furious. So amusing that one can detect scorn across a text portal! I respond, jealous much?

And, naturally, he is. And, as usual, my Won’t Power deserted me, leaving me at the mercy of my Will Power. Never a good idea. It’s just as it always it - hot text, that scorched nearly everything it touches, including me, that goes for hours, with photo accompiament, (holy cow) and now, I’m left with the Left Hung Hangover, along with the Moral Hangover - which I shouldn’t have, since I didn’t start it. HE did.

Either way - the phantom pain is back.

The only upside? When my phone died and I lost my Ego Building Hard-on proof that I erected without ever even touching him, now I’ve a replacement.

Taking a page from a Pilates instructor I once had, I closed my eyes, shifted my weight, hanging percariously by my meager, weak, abs, legs partially aloft, and, as she says, deep, dreamy voilet tinged voice echoing through the cavernous room at the Y where I took: imagine. serenity. peace. details. those are the things that sustain you.

The carpet digging into my back fell away, and for once, I’m transported someplace friendly, warm, inviting; The Inside of A Cookbook. The words, accompanying photos looming large; myself small, unobtrusive, absorbed wholly in the careful listing of ingredients, their precise measurements comforting, whole, ordered. How life is so like the recipies: the sharp tang of lemon zest against the smooth, silky background of a buttery pound cake, hinting of vanilla, topped with thick, clotted cream. Friendship blossoms between orange rind and rum, coating dry cakes, infusing the dull ordinary with drama, flavor, a bit of piratic exoticism.

I swear, if I could spend a day even in the bowels of a cookbook, immersed in both the instruction and the doing of soaking beans for chili, how to properly season, marinate and prepare tofu, I’d gladly don the apron and hot, grab up a whisk, bowl, spoon, leaping in without looking either at the author, or what exactly I prepared. There is order among choas in cookbooks, stocked with knowledge the privelaged few extrapolate from between pages gummed with greasy fingerprints, jotted notes, the ever present spilled egg white.

If only my hours, days, years - my entire life - was as well organized, thoughtfully laid out, carefully seasoned and tended as a cookbook. I’d be able to enjoy the salty rim of the margarita, abated by the eversweet triple sec snuggled inbetween layers of lime, ice, tequila, and froth. All sourness would find it’s matching sweet counterpart, arrayed with precise measurements, keeping life from being either too sweet, too bland, too ordinary, too weird, too artificial.

Measuring my success in terms of fluted, high, gorgeous souffle’s, the descendant, lingering drop of the egg yolk in to the bowl, sans sticky white, eggshell-less, perfect in circular symetry, a pie crust, flakey, hot, fresh from the oven, emitting apple aroma’s into neighboring kitchens. Good parenting equated with firm, full-flavored cupcakes, swirled with frosting brimming with butter, vanilla, sugar; well balanced meals harmonious with mini-palates, but pleasing in color, texture, completely satisfactory on their own. Being a doting wife presented on a plate with mutten of lamb, fresh mint jelly, crispy roasted potatoes, plump, green asparagus.

Some people fade into the sunset, or an island retreat; their grandmother’s living room, sparsely furnished, but rich in lived life…me? I climb into Betty Crocker, turn the page, take out four pounds of butter, and settle into a life where questions have answers, where the only things that burn are the ones left unattended.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, my abs are burning, and the butter is ready for creaming.

Today, may be a good day afterall.

5K, or sex?

I finished my first ever 5K race today.

No. I didn’t win. I didn’t place. I’m lucky I managed to saunter across the finish line.

And really, by saunter? I mean, heaving myself, panting, sweaty, red-faced and bitchy over the white line in the sand, while the other fully-cooled off participants (yes, I was last) swapped oxygenating formulas, and hamstring stretches. It was a tad demoralizing, until I realized, a lot of really lazy folks stood around and watched the rest of us run, when they could easily have joined in the…..er……fun.

I certainly am not an Avid Runner - I’m slowly getting into it. I like the end part. The feel really good I finished part. I’m not so big on the sweaty middle you need endurance part.

I’m better at sex. That is my exercise of choice - my endurance is fabulous, the ending is awsome, and I’m so good he’d need a helmut. Not, mind you, that I’ve a Him in mind; just, in general. I can burn a lot of calories in my bed, or, on the countertop, floor, kitchen chairs - and while I’d get all hot and sweaty, at least I’m not a forty minute drive away from a shower! Plus also? I’d not have to wash my own back.

However, as I don’t really see that as a viable Keep In Shape Option, I’ve taken up running. Which I can do with J. We’re pals. Running partners. Even if his ass is to die for in his running shorts. And no, we’re not going to extend our mutually sweaty exercise regimens to include…getting sweaty together. Much as I’d like to.

However. The first one is done. The guys that drive behind the pack to make sure everyone gets back okay just had to follow me; but I made it. Over the hill. Past the big scary dog that tried to attack me, the three tag sales, over the finish line. I considered giving up; but, I had J waiting to make sure I crossed the line. He’d never let me live it down if I didn’t at least finish.

So, I suppose, I can be mediocre at running. So long as I retain the ability to be really fucking awsome in bed.

Love. Drool. Eat peanut butter. Everyday

My guys are smart. Today, they taught me several lessons. Love, really, is all you need.

Lay atop the ac vents, and when it’s this hot, stay out of the sun. At least, if you’re black. Pant, leaving drooling on the floor; wait for ice cubes to appear in the water dish. Follow the biggest, alpha dog around; she knows where all the good stuff is kept.

Chase bugs. Eat moths. Leave bees alone. Don’t eat mommy’s roses; they are delicious, but her approval is more so. Eat off the counter. All the bestest stuff lives up there. Lick the inside of the dishwasher, at least once; you never know what you might find. Carry an item, at all times, that smells of your loved ones. Especially their socks. They lose those anyway. Keep only what you can carry in your mouth, for long distances, alone.

Lick your backside, as you may be the only to do it. Do that wherever and whenever you please; no one else seems to mind. Belch when your tummy is upset, vomit only on the rug. It’s kinder on your feet, than the hardwoods.

Explore on your own, knowing that if you’re out there, doing your thing and you get skunked, the pack will always take you back. Even when you smell to high heaven, and then some. Drool. A lot. Over everyone. Leave paw prints on wet pants, wipe your mouth on the white chairs, drop fur on eveything. Then, you’ve loved them as yours.

Snarl when angry, pant when hot, snuggle regardless of the temperature, the location, or, the lack of room on the couch. Hide your pills in peanut butter: there is no better substance on earth. Eat off the floor. Check out the trash, and drink from the toilet - that’s where the coldest water lives.

Greet everyone who comes through your door enthusiastically, unless they smell threatening, and then, just show them your teeth. Kiss everyone you love, even if you can only reach their ass, and that’s all they’ll let you do. In the end, they know you care.

Gaurd your loved ones, your pack, your friends pack. Kiss when you want, even if your breath smells. Someone will think it’s the best ambrosia, and even if they don’t, they’ll still kiss you back. Forget how long they’ve been gone, how far they may have traveled without you - they’ve come back. They smell wonderful. Sniff away.

Laugh. Love. Drool.

It’s all you need.

Well. And peanut butter.

F-ing hot

Want to know hot?

I can tell you all about hot. It's not the dry heat - not that that's not hot, but really, it just cannot compare with 92 degrees, at 11:13am, with 92% humidity. Sweltering leaps to mind as a descriptor, yet, I'm not sure that even does this justice…I feel as though we're attempting to walk amid clam chowder - it's hot, thick, wet, and smells funny.

We've been up to the driving range, (no shade, lest you think we're standing in palpably cooler conditions whilst he whacks little white balls hither and yon) watched a bunch or really old men tee off, so he'd get some lessons on better form - we so know he won't get them from me. My golf….sucks. However. I dressed him appropriately, myself as well, so we at least looked the part of the Avid Golfers, Braving the Heat and Humidity, For The Sport.

I myself, added interest to the golfing outfit, by carrying the black Kate Spade bag onto the green.

Yes. I know. It's. Just. Not. Done.

I got over it. I assume they will too. When they gave me funny looks, I started name dropping, and was welcomed with open arms, as well as plied with questions about “those thar black dogs” I've got lolligagging around on my lawn. I resisted the urge (just barely) to say something along the lines of those were tame, highly specialized black deer (which, there really are, should you be wondering at my sincerity) but that might just invite curious naysayers, lookseers, and whatnot onto the yard, and I'm not that accomodating.

We're going swimming. In Jack's pool. That is, as soon as the burial that's occuring up in the cememtary is finished. Somehow, I think it's totally disrepectful of us to trollup through the underbrush, into the pool, in tiny little suits while the dead are being laid to their eternal reward.

Or, at least to the living, garbed in strict, straight black, who're roasting no doubt, as the temp reaches a scorching 100+ today.