Cat on a Hot Tin Sidewalk... and other precocious recollections

As the old proverb says, "life is best contemplated while sitting next to a large hairy Turkish man in a towel in the heat of the mid-day sun."

I have often lived by this nugget of wisdom and choose to exercise this little gem on the most auspicious of days - the beginning of summer. What felicity and good fortuna could be contained in this newest season on the earth's top forty countdown with Ryan Seacrest?

Will I finally perfect my triple axle off the high dive at the local pool, much to the dismay of the ten year old critics who object to my use of my superior age and stature, in order to gain unlimited admittance to the diving board? Cretans!
Perhaps I will finally acheive recognition in the annual county pie-eating extravaganza; a highly sophisticated culinary discipline that so far has eluded my tired mandibular muscles, despite my motivated molars?

And occationally three piece suits?

Or dare I mention, "summer love"; not just my traditional go-to karaoke crowd pleaser, but an emotional indigestion that melts your little pitter-patter like a half-used cherry chap stick left in the pocket of your jeans during a high-heat dryer setting. Yet, while I have exchanged the occational flirtatious glance with the passing geriatric mall-walker, I still must contemplate; what could be more appropriate then a Joani loves Chachi moment with a member of the gender in pants (occasionally neckties)? Need I cite the famous romances that have occurred during the risen mercury; the Hatfields and the McCoys, a tender group of sentimental fools bound by the eternal bond of moonshine and hilbillyness? Wil E. Cyote and the Roadrunner; two crazy kids just seeking happiness with the aid of the Acme corporation? The cowboys and Indians; their eyes met across the steamy prairie and cupids arrows flew (although perhaps a few casualties suffered as cupids arrow/bullet more tragically and pointedly hit it mark). While these examples of domestic bliss may be too idyllic to be imagined, even by my well-oiled cerebral cortex; I'm sure that the coming months will contain life lessons in human attachment, even if the counterpart happens to be multiples of the feline persuasion.

While I would toss these ideas at Constance, like the cosmic pizza crust of fate in the hands of an Italian Dolly Parton, I can not. For alas, she is completing the final task in her Herculean prenatal class; snorkeling the English channel, in order to have the honor of meeting baby Norah in person. So I must go on into this tempestous, tenatious and sometimes just plain lazy inevitablity of the future alone...