Lay Off

I honestly don't know how anyone gets laid in this weather. I write this from my living room, sprawled out in front of a fan, hoping it'll fashion the minuscule tendrils of tepid air from my ancient air conditioner into a breeze. My legs and arms are covered in itchy red bites from the West Nile?infected mosquitoes that infest my block, courtesy of the fetid pools of water covering the roof of the cabbage factory next door. If Hell has a perfume, rancid cabbage is it.

Getting back to moi, my neck, back and boobs are sprinkled with still smaller red dots-prickly heat. This also itches. My pharmacist helpfully informed me that it's just like diaper rash, and so I should smear my body with Desitin ointment. FYI, for any other non-breeders out there, Desitin is thick and white and gets (and stays) all over everything it touches. Very attractive, indeed. Plus, you get the added bonus of smelling like a baby's ass. Despite my vigilance with the sunscreen (SPF 40+!), my nose is bright red and my cheeks are now peppered with freckles. I am ugly. I am sweaty. I am cranky. And yet inexplicably, my boyfriend still wants to fuck me.

Fat chance.

Everywhere I walk, the sidewalks are crowded with what appear to be models. Is there some kind of convention? Why aren't any of them sweating, and how is it that nobody else smells like a baby's bottom? And just look what they're wearing-tiny tops and pants so low-slung that I'd certainly be seeing pubes were it not for the inexplicably popular Brazilian wax.

The other population that emerges as soon as the temperature cracks 90 is the pervs. The soaring temperatures serve only to inflame the libidos of these inevitably looks- and hygiene-challenged fellas. These guys don't care if you're covered in sweat, scratching yourself like a crazy person and smeared with ointment; if you pee through hair, you're fair game. The ubiquitous kissy noise, rude comments about my vaginal lips-I've heard 'em all. I fondly recall the time I was followed slowly down the street by a garbage truck manned by hooting trash collectors. Nothing like being tailed by a pile of putrid trash to make a gal feel extra pretty.

Thinking that waking up not submerged in a pool of sweat might mean I could put on makeup instead of cornstarch and diaper gunk, I make the executive decision to purchase an air conditioner that actually works. Thanks to a helpful neighbor in an identical apartment, I determine that I need 10,000 BTUs. So I march into a well-known electronics chain, where I'm greeted by a pear-shaped gentleman named Jerry who seems eager to help. I tell him exactly what I need, and he gives me a dubious glance. Perhaps it's the heat, but Jerry is starting to get on my nerves.

"How many square feet, hon?"

Hon? I'm not your fucking "hon," the voices in my sun-scorched brain snarl. Bristling, I inform him that it's 700 square feet.

Shaking his head and chuckling to himself (silly girl!), Jerry whips out his calculator, jabs at it with his chubby fingers and triumphantly shoves it in my face. Twenty-five thousand, it reads. Never mind that a unit that huge costs three times what I planned on spending and would blow out every fuse on the block; Jerry was pulling the "she's just a dumb girl and will buy anything I tell her to" trick that every jackass who sells cars or appliances has tried on me.

I raise an eyebrow in reply and inform him that my downstairs neighbor who lives in an exact duplicate of my apartment only needs 10,000 BTUs. Shrugging sheepishly-but admitting no wrongdoing-he now agrees that 10,000 would probably work.

But by now I'm too furious to care. Jerry isn't making a cent in commission offa this bitch, so I turn and stomp out of there and into the Duane Reade next door. At least at Duane Reade, I know the salespeople won't try to talk me into expensive purchases I don't need. In fact, it's usually fairly difficult to get them to quit gossiping with each other long enough to ring up my sale. I careen up the housewares aisle and find myself in front of the Tupperware. I spy a spray bottle. Fill that with ice water, and who needs a working air conditioner? Not I! Inspired, I head over to cosmetics and pick up a package of those soothing fake cucumber slices that I enjoy so much. Pop them in the fridge for a couple hours and they'll cool me right down. Between squirting myself with cold water and slathering my face with refrigerated cosmetics pads, I just saved myself approximately $247.00.

Plunking down my purchases, I'm pleased when the utterly disinterested cashier doesn't so much as speak to me-it's far too hot for pleasantries. When she's done ringing up my stuff, she merely shrugs in the general direction of the cash register's screen and then scoops up my damp bills. Not a word spoken: the perfect transaction.

If only the rest of summer would go so smoothly.