It always ends the same way.

I know. Ten days without checking in again and the internet moves along at such a frenetic clip my cycle of news for you barely exists for a moment before dropping you into the next tidbit that you seek out online.

What's happening? My grapes aren't quite ready, the red ones anyway. I eat the green ones by the handful, barely avoiding certain death by the giant bald-faced hornets that seem hellbent on making another summer memory for me. Lochlan says I am hilarious and he lives for this. I go into every summer marvelling at the long light, the warmth, the sting of salt on sweat, the gardening possibilities, and then I run screaming from it just as quickly, resenting the oppressive heat, traffic, tourists and the sheer work of gardening involved. The bugs. The endless mowing. The endless cleaning of the pool. The endless ruination of all of my bathing suits so quickly as the chlorine rips them apart and I tend to sleep in the pool. PJ called me a human sous-vide once and I cracked back an insult about fetishes of sealing people in plastic and eating them later and all he did was laugh until he started to wheeze. 

(PJ doesn't like the heat either.)

By the end of summer I am spilling blueberries out of a mug in a race to get them all, the bottoms of my feet are black from the dust, from the sand and the pavement and the dirt and my skin is faint golden, buried under a million freckles that appear seemingly out of nowhere. I am wild-eyed and now offended by the early end to the evenings and the tourists leaving the town high and dry far too early and the Back to School adverts and the Christmas displays in stores. 

He said it's like the five stages of grief but I go into it mourning summer and then finally find acceptance and even enthusiasm. 

Even as he yells at me to go back outside and scrub my toes before I leave little sooty footprints all over the white carpet, something I categorically denied until he pointed out my feet are size six and the next closest is him at eleven so it's pretty obvious it was me. 

I just shake my head and keep eating blackberries. No wasps in these ones. Only spiders. Yum.

I have four suggestions that might make the world a better place. (Vancouver and LA I'm looking at you!)

1. Lower your goddamn expectations. Expect to wait. Expect life to sometimes not be perfect. Expect other people to have problems too. Expect some things to go wrong sometimes. Be patient and prepared and you'll have an easier time. Do it for your own mental health, which, like physical health, should be looked after.

2. Let's eliminate Air BnB's! If you stay in a hotel they have better standards. And if they have cameras you can get a nice payout. Air BnB was supposed to be for when you were away you would rent out your own home and make a few bucks. Now it's stealing from the available housing supply as people buy up stock for short term rentals. Fuck off with that. Shut it all down. Forever. 

3. Cap rent amounts (and maybe sales too) by square footage. The joke of a video about a 200 sq foot room in an SRO here going for $2000 a month wasn't funny, it was devastating. There should be a maximum rental price you can charge if a unit falls under a certain size, or have a graduated scale in increments. Why the hell not? Nothing else is working and prices are through the roof.

4. Let's get Sam Asghari and Meghan Markle together!! Come on, it will be fun.  They can write books on their experiences and fade away together. Even better, someone introduce Britney to Harry and she can have her life and eat it too. What bullshit. I am somewhat heartened though. Up until a couple of days ago I was beginning to think she was dead.

  (Also whoever said to fill a small water bottle with water and freeze it and roll your feet on it is a fucking genius. It's my new favourite thing. I can't get cool. I am cranky.)

Safe Haven and halfway points.

Devilled eggs and sweat. Bad documentaries and worse romance movies. Nicholas Sparks who never fails to sweep my feet out from under me, even though I am so jaded at this point my skin has a green cast and is cool to the touch. 

I love Julianne Hough. I freaking love her. Even if Footloose didn't need to be remade, though her background means she shouldn't have fallen off the bike at all. Safe Haven was a weird one, though I got chills when Josh Duhamel told her she was safe, and gave her all of that white-knight bullshit romance-novel reassurance women fall for so damn easily, without prejudice. Every single fucking time. 

And it's hopeful, optimistic reassurance at best. Because in the end Julianne (Katie/Erin, whatever she wanted to go by) saved herself. As one should. Or something. Not sure if that works for or against Mr. Sparks but it was a twist I didn't see coming. 

Kind of like Cobie as a ghost. No idea. Completely shocked by that one.