I put the sewing machine on the dining-room table. The chair was right in front of the vent where the coldest air blew the hardest and froze my legs, which made me happy. In that spot, I sewed 676 three-and-a-half-inch-square patches together, one by one by one by one. The majority of the patches were a pale, icy gray-pink, exactly the color of vanilla ice cream with a few of these special berries thrown in.
I have no idea what possessed me to stop doing virtually everything else and start making an enormous patchwork quilt in four days. I'm almost finished sewing the binding on. Must have been all that sewing talk. I've now done nothing — and I mean nothing — but sew for four straight days, since I refuse to leave my vent. Even though it only got up to 106 yesterday, and not 107, after all. Record-setting. My friend Shelly called in the afternoon and said, "You must have air conditioning. You're the only person I know who hasn't called me." She has a beautiful in-ground pool. She said she'd had twenty-three people over at her house in the past four days. A constant pool party. She said the place looked like a frat house, with more beer in the fridge than food. I told her I would love to come over except that there was just no possible way I could, because I cannot leave my vent. I can only get up to go into the second-coldest room in the house (the bathroom). I ran to my next-door neighbor's at some point to bring the iced tea, dropped it off, and immediately hot-footed it (paws on fire! Paws on fire!) back across the frizzed-out, burnt-up front lawn, back to my vent. We're going to Pickathon tomorrow, and I'm already having severe separation-anxiety about leaving my vent.
I love you, vent.