To hell with the air conditioning martyrs.

Can I just say that I HATE humidity? Right now, it is 9 a.m., and it’s 73 degrees and 94% humidity. Let me repeat that. 94% HUMIDITY.

These are the same conditions commonly found in Native American medicine tents — the little teepees on the outskirts of camp that they would retreat to in order to sweat out poisons and have vision quests. Well, in the 5 minutes I spent outside this morning, I too had a vision. It was one of me with my hair pasted to my cheeks and my neck in a sweaty, gooey, tangled mess. Oh wait. That was REALITY. Christ.

As I was driving to daycare with the little man in tow, I noticed a few cars here and there with their WINDOWS DOWN. Fuckers. Stubborn self-discipline, incited to make me feel like a self-indulgent pansy in the face of a little — OK, a lot — of heat and moisture. It’s like a big fuck you — we can take the summer weather and you can’t. People, you KNOW you want to turn your air on as bad as me. So just do it. I promise I won’t think any less of you. That piece of shit Alero you’re driving, well, that’s another story.

By the way, who are these assholes who keep saying, “The hotter it is, the happier I am.” Who are they fucking kidding? You mean to tell me that when it’s 100 degrees and 90% humidity, you’re happy to be outside trimming your grass with a scissors, sweating dripping down the small of your back in a maddening trick… trick… trickle? Not only are you fucking crazy, you’re a fucking liar. Lying to make me feel like a wuss for staying inside on a day like this, air cranked to 70, lying underneath a blanket and watching re-runs of “The Office” (British version) on my blessed Tivo.

Just know that every minute you spend with saucer-sized circles of sweat in the airpits of your shirt, you are suffering is in vain. For I, frankly, don’t give a shit. Me and all the other A/C lovers are happy in our air-conditioned igloos.

I love my A/C. And I know y’all do too. So quit with the matryr act. If you truly like the heat as much as you claim, do us all a favor and stick your head in the oven. Then you can spend eternity in the hot, humid, fiery pits of hell. Now wouldn’t that be heaven?

Two week honeymoon.

Is there anything finer than the final two weeks of your job? Once you have given your two weeks notice and all the awkward “so I hear you’re leaving” coversations are out of the way, it’s one sweet ride. Bear with me while I pontificate.

I have made numerous trips to the supply room, rooting for goodies that I may or may not need in the next decade or two (“Clear transparency sheets. Hmmm. I could use them to create a protective covering for my home’s windows in case of a nuclear attack. I could even tape them together to make a giant slip-and-slide in my backyard.”)

No more listening for the pitter patter of boss feet traipsing down the hallway (and the resulting paranoid closing of my beloved, carpal-tunnel inducing Mah-Jong). “Maybe if I tape my wrist, I can play one more round…”

No more spastic searches for my computer’s volume, after opening an annoying sound-embedded email. No, I don’t want to hear about the angel who’s watching over me. If she was really there, she would be shielding me from your mind-numbing emails. I don’t care what my porn star name is, or if I am indeed a redneck. And no, I don’t want to give myself good luck for seven years by forwarding this to 50 of my friends. Good luck is pretty much moot when you’re being drawn and quarterd by everyone on your email list. Girlfriend, maybe I’ll start taking your advice when you relegate that Bon Jovi shirt to a burn barrel, and you remove the battallion of ribbon magnets from your precious two-door Explorer Sport. All the petroleum used to fuel that shitbox and create those ridiculous symbols of urban protest could’ve ended the war by now.

No more generic phone conversations with my husband: “Yes, I’m cutting out early today so I can swing by Target and buy more K-Y for tonight. Should I get the econo-tub this time?”

And for once, I can gleefully turn down those invitations to pyramid-scheme “parties” that prey on women’s friendships, careers and pocketbooks. Let’s get one thing straight. It’s not a party if it invovles me coming to your house and giving you money.

Soon, I will be at a new job, and my two-week honeymoon will be over. I will have to resume all paranoid behaviors that mask my rampant disregard of office time and resources. But until then, I’m in slacker heaven. Jeez. Maybe I should quit my job more often.