Well folks, it’s not even July and the heat has already come in like a sweaty wrecking ball. That’s right Miley!

The kind of heat that seeps into your bones and short-circuits your brainwaves. You know it’s bad when the street pigeons are panting and the corner bodega cat has given up entirely, sprawled under the pickle jar shelf in existential defeat.

This summer heat wave is giving me Hitch face (yes, that kind of puffy), my arms have declared mutiny via heat rash, and my eyes are practically closing shop by 2 p.m. Actually, it was more like 11 a.m. So sad.  The AC has been running like it’s training for the NYC Marathon, and yet somehow, it still feels like a sauna with Wi-Fi. But slightly on the fritz.

And, don’t get me started on the drivers. Heat-fueled road rage is its own special brand of chaos. Everyone’s horn is now a personality trait. Apparently we’re all starring in Fast & the Furious: Meltdown Edition. Or maybe the new Brad Pitt Formula One movie I’m unlikely to watch and likely to reference incorrectly.

What I wouldn’t give for an old-school Bronx fire hydrant party. You remember those? When someone (no one you’d ever identify in court) would crack open a hydrant, and suddenly the whole block became a waterpark for the community. Laughter, cold water blasting your face, icees that turned your tongue blue, and not a single care in the world.

Nowadays, you’d probably need a permit, a certified hydrant-whisperer, and three city council approvals. But hey, a girl can dream for some low-tech joy and neighborhood magic.

Until then, I’ll be over here applying aloe, trying not to fall asleep mid-Zoom, and searching for the adult version of the hydrant party. (Does it come with chilled wine and shade? Please say yes.)

Stay cool, y’all. And hydrate like your mood depends on it. Because it does.