Mamma mia

I have finally admitted to myself that Pierce Brosnan is never going to tell me that I am the love of his life. Is never going to get down on one knee and ask me to marry him: “Come on, say yes. It’s only for the rest of your life.”
Of course Meryl Streep said yes in the movie. She’s brilliant.

The truth of this realization caused me to sob into my hands.
Then I vacuumed.

Not what I usually do on Sunday mornings, but it was 95° and rising – as it has been for many days – and I was maybe a bit touched by the heat. I have been using this heat wave to experience how summer used to feel when I was a kid. AND to give myself a bit of a sauna experience and sweat out the impurities and perhaps shed some weight? We’ll see about that part.

The point is that I haven’t turned on my A/C for weeks. I am in dispute with the power company and want to see what kind of a bill I get now that I haven’t used my A/C at all. I should know the answer to that any day now, when the bill comes. Then the battle will heat up, just as the air has.

I grew up without air conditioning. (Didn’t everyone?) We had an attic fan, though I have no idea if that helped cool things below (wasn’t it just stirring up the hot air in the attic?) I remember lying in bed as I tried to sleep, flipping over my pillow as I looked for a cool, dry spot. But that’s as bad as it ever got.

One of the nicest parts about living in Portland for 18 years is that our historic house, built in 1873, was not air conditioned. And I never remember even thinking that it should be. I prefer to not have air-conditioning, except in cars, of course. Where it is vital. I marvel that we used to cram into my father’s DeSoto black sedan - 8 or 9 of us – and drive down the shore with no air conditioning. It was hot, but being hot was part of going down the shore, so it was all good.

I remember a couple of dreams that I had in the summer months of my youth. One was that everywhere I sat down, there was an explosion. I had that dream the night of July 4, 1956-ish. Obviously, it was the result of having spent the evening on a blanket on the grass in the empty field on South 7th Street in Plainfield watching the local fireworks. Explosions were on my mind that night when I went to sleep. So I dreamed about them.

Although I was dreamless last night, this morning I processed my waking reality when I admitted that Pierce Brosnan was not ever going to show up for any reason whatsoever. And I also admit realizing that neither will Colin Firth. Even though I think that he and I would be very happy together. When I was in Kenya, I waited on the porch of Karen Blixen’s house for Redford to show up - with or without his hand-cranked phonograph player. He didn’t show either. (Three and 0. Ohhhh dear…)

One could finish reading this story, slap one’s forehead (or mine!) and say “Mamma mia!”, “Oye vey” or, as Cher advised Nicholas Cage in “Moonstruck” – “Snap out of it.” I get it: enough already. I will now dust the house then go for a dip in the pool. Maybe later I’ll don my spangly tights and glittery fringed top and stand in front of the mirror belting out “Dancing Queen.” A cappella.

As I’ve already cried my eyes out, mirror dancing will be the best I can do under these particularly grim circumstances.