Summer is well on its way, in case you had somehow missed the awesome heat penetrating every pore of your body while the humidity begins to suffocate you each time you walk out the door.

Keep your hairspray handy ladies.

I love summer.

Summers up in Yankee-land are gorgeous. 90 degrees, no humidity, a nice breeze. There are block parties every weekend, and the whole world seems to be in a perpetual state of grilling.

I don't eat meat, but dang, bar-b-que is one of the most delicious smells God ever created through means of mankind.

Dead skunk is probably the best.

Just kidding.

Anywho, as much as I adore summertime, summertime despises me.

For the unfortunate few who have run into me around the parish and were able to recognize me as the girl who writes all "them weird articles", you know how pale I am.

If God still loves you, and you have yet to meet me, refer to the above picture, make my face about 16 shades whiter, and you have a pretty good idea of how pale I am.

Black and white does me justice. It's sad.

The sun and I have been enemies more or less since the beginning of time. It kind of works like this: Sunshine is the bad boyfriend in my life that all my friends keep telling me to stay away from, but I can't resist.

"You just don't understand girls, he loves me. And he looks soooooo hot on that Harley."
I love sunshine. Sunshine burns me.

My skin only operates in two colors: white and red. I am a candy cane. Scoliosis.

I am also six feet tall, remember this? And I weigh about 145 pounds.

Go on, start hating. But keep reading.

Ladies, profanities are probably oozing out of your mouth with such ease that a sailor would be offended.

You men have no idea what that means. Keep it that way. All you need to know is that your wife or girlfriend has much better measurements than that, no matter what they are.

They don't make bathing suits for human-sized bananas. I am practically forced to wear a bathing suit that shows at least some part of my stomach. My gams, being the 4 feet long that they are, are incapable of being hidden.

Why is that a problem?

Because I respect other people's desire to keep their vision in tact.

My face is 16 shades whiter than that picture. My face, which is never covered by anything.

When I grace beach fronts and pool sides, I more closely resemble a lighthouse than a human being. Children scream, mothers rush their children to safety, grown men break down in fear.

I have no doubt that alien sightings have been reported on days that coincide with my little water trips.

I've tried to solve this problem by wearing men's board shorts (for length) and t-shirts when I decide to dive in, but all that really does for me is make me look like a sopping wet alien with really odd burn lines around my knees and the middle of my bicep.

And then of course, people start to assume that I'm too poor to afford a bathing suit, and start throwing bikinis at me on the street with that look on their face that says "Man, I really hope she doesn't just use this to buy booze."

Clearly not working.

The only option I've come up with, thus far, is to ask Dr. Stryker to turn me into a living solar panel. Imagine the possibilities.

Son: "Mommy, the power went out!"
Dad (in a Mighty Mouse voice): "Don't worry son, Dad will fix it!"
Loud noises, explosions, smoke.
Dad (in a Roger Rabbit voice): "I think the breaker is... broken..."
Me: "Oh, no worries, I charged myself during last week's heat wave. We have enough energy to light Rhode Island for the next week!"
Son: "Gee whiz, ma! You're the greatest!"
I think the heat may be getting to me.