We don't use our air conditioner much in the summer, which might explain why every October we go on a treasure hunt collecting all the toys and stray socks that have taken up permanent residence under the sofa. I'm just too meltingly hot to go belly down on the floor, reaching for that toy that nobody has really missed, anyway, not to mention all those annoying magazine subscription cards that come fluttering out of The New Yorker 3 at a time with every issue.
But as everyone is fond of saying around here, "It's not the heat. It's the humidity." About this time every summer, the house begins to take on a distinctly sponge-like atmosphere.
This morning found me drinking my morning iced coffee (because I cannot take my caffeine hot at this point) and trying to finish up Life of Pi
for book club when I heard Annika grunting. Looking up I saw her pounding her fist on the puzzle she'd been working on. It didn't take long for her to dissolve into a weeping fit of frustration, "It's not working! It just isn't working out right now
Here is what I saw when I came to her rescue:
Yes, our house is so humid that her puzzles have gone funky.
So I sent her downstairs to the basement to gather up a new game, which led to more cries of frustration when she couldn't get the door to the playroom open. I had to go downstairs myself and kick the wetly swollen door open, a la Charlie's Angels.
Time to turn on the AC? Or should we wait until our house absorbs enough moisture to expand our square footage by another 9 feet or so?