There is a psychological disorder called SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) which is described as a pattern of
depressive or manic episodes that occurs with the onset of the winter
months. As the days become shorter, and the weather colder, there is
an increase in vegetative depressive symptoms. In pronounced cases, they say significant social withdrawal occurs as
well. Some have described the pattern as a hibernation during the
winter months.
That's all well and good, but what about summer?
Here are the SADS (Seasonal Affective Disorder, Summer) symptoms according to Kerry: As the days become longer, and the temperature unbearably hot, there is an increase in vegetative depressive/rage symptoms. In pronounced cases, significant social withdrawal occurs as well. Some describe the pattern as a "it's hot as hell outside, I'm staying in the air conditioning and yes, my hat is a bag of frozen peas!"
Did I mention I live in Louisiana, which has been featured on the Weather Channel's special "Louisiana: Forget the Cayenne, It's a Seasonless State." We have summer and a few months that aren't summer. These months cannot be referred to as autumn, winter, and spring, as they are not marked by typical temperatures, precipitation, or foliage changing colors. No, not here. Not Louisiana. I remember moving to Atlanta, Georgia in 1997 and something the natives there called "fall." First the leaves turned glorious colors, then the temperature started to drop. Before I knew I it, I was buying a coat. Not a jacket, an actual coat.
I became jaded when it came to summer as a young girl. I was probably seven when I realized it was because I had a summer birthday that more kids didn't come to my birthday parties. Besides having a summer birthday, it's also the same week as the 4th of July when many people go on vacation. So yeah, summer sucked.
What most people love most about summer was the thing I knew nothing about: vacations. A vacation in my family was traveling to a relatives' house or going to Six Flags in Dallas. I heard stories of friends going to a mythical place called Disneyland. Usually after summer break, I'd return to school only to have the thing I dreaded most come up: the what I did on my summer vacation essay.
Somehow I didn't think my experiences were essay material:
One year we went to Tennessee to my aunt's house and had to return early because my 80something year-old great-grandmother accidentally overdosed on her eleventy-seven medications.
The next year we returned early from another aunt's house when my dad fell off of a scaffold and injured himself. At least I got to tour Graceland, thankyouthankyouverymuch.
One summer during the wonderfully horrid time known as puberty, I had a swimming birthday party. After the party, when I was changing out of my swimsuit, a family friend's son my age walked in on me naked and looked just as disturbed as I was.
The summer before I started high school, I was trying to be sporty -- bike riding with a boy I'd liked for a year, went to a dance with, you get the picture. We'd had a nice afternoon, it was June 18th (I remember this because I have some sort of idiot savant memory that hasn't been documented yet), very hot and very humid. Because I'm nothing that remotely resembles sporty, I got overheated and threw up in front of him. Yeah, the boy never called me again.
The following summer, my parents took a vacation together and I stayed with my grandparents for a couple of weeks. I was changing the water in my fishbowl and my fish, Ringwald (it was a Black Molly, get it?), jumped out and down the garbage disposal, committing suicide. Sure, it was a fish, but I was a girl with major allergies and my parents wouldn't let me have a cat and I was going to have a pet, deadgummit. And despite what Nemo said, all drains do not lead to the ocean.
The summer that I turned 16 was just a prelude of crap to come. Guess what I got for my birthday. Go ahead, guess. A Caboodles. Girls of the late 80's/early 90's -- do you remember the Caboodles? The make-up case that was made of more plastic than Joan Rivers. The Caboodles contained a t-shirt with the columns of ancient Roman architecture and a faux Russian watch. Sweet sixteen? Not so much.
I dated a guy named Fred (yes, that was his real name, it's so generic I don't have to change it for the blog) who was much too old for me and dumped me for not being experienced enough for him -- well, hello, I was 16 and he was in the air force. What was I doing dating a guy in the air force? He had a mustache for cryin' out loud. I'd seen Top Gun once too many times. Picture this, it's my birthday, late in evening in Bossier (where we hung out for some reason) and a few of my friends, dudes, and Fred are in the Airline High School parking lot. My good friend has her car's stereo playing Bryan Adams "Everything I Do (I Do it For You)" from Robin Hood: Prince of Theives over and over 'cause it's one of those cassette singles and damn, if that song wasn't everywhere that summer -- even on my birthday make-out night with Flyboy Fred. Here's the rub, he broke up with me the next day. I KNOW. Oh, and I had to go to summer school that year because I'd failed math and my teacher was the same teacher I'd had all year because that's how my life is. And I went to driver's ed, but my mom wouldn't let me get my driver's license just because. Ah, memories. What a great summer 1991 was.
I've blocked the year after that from my memory. Okay, I wish I'd blocked it from my memory. I honestly had such a bad year that I do not remember much of what happened after Thanksgiving '91 and I couldn't tell you what the next summer was like. I'm guessing hot. I'm pretty sure I rode with some friends to Mississippi for no reason overnight that summer without telling parents where we were, but I'm only guessing it was that year.
The summer after 11th grade was a mixture of a great deal of hurt and a good bit of happy. I finally got a cat for my b-day from a great friend and I didn't care about my allergies or that my mom said no cats. So what if I had to have allergy shots twice a week?
After graduating from high school I had the worst summer of my life.
The summer after my freshman year at Louisiana Tech brought back the crazy. I was dating the man who later became the hubs and I babysat three boys two days a week for the whole summer. Their parents were going through a divorce and the mom was having a terrible time, which she would tell me about while driving me home. Lovely. I started taking Accutane for my stupid acne and felt as attractive as a dried up raisin when the future hubs asked me to go to the August wedding of his aunt in New Orleans. That was my first flight, I was a nervous wreck. After arriving back in S'port, I found that no one remembered to pick me up. Awesome. I knew my life was the makings of a wacky sitcom. 
The next summer I worked at Kirkland's in the mall by my parent's house and hated every minute of it. There is something unsettling about a place that smells of that much eucalyptus. And I had to look at this Andrew Wyeth giant framed print called "Master Bedroom" everyday, which I referred to as "Dog on a Bed." Oh, and since I didn't know the real name of the print, I Googled "dog on a bed print" and it came up -- how good am I? Do you know how much this print annoys me? Every time I sold this print to some art lover I'd say "oh, it's Dog on a Bed, good choice!" in my loveliest tone. The highlight of that summer was going taking a bus to Baton Rouge to visit the future hubs and having to come back early because of a hurricane in the Gulf. Stupid hurricanes. Guess what? When I returned on a Greyhound bus at 10 pm there was no one to pick me up. In downtown Shreveport. At night. Yep, two years in a row stranded.
I've written about my college summer school experience on the blog before, also known as Stalker Summer. Ah, good times. It was Lifetime Movie material, not that I've ever seen a Lifetime Movie, because I have not. I've got the perfect Lifetime Movie title for it too, because those movies have names like "She Woke Up Pregnant," "Someone to Love Me: a Moment of Truth Movie," and "Mother, May I Sleep With Danger" (no, I'm not making those up). Because my movie would definitely be Moment of Truth material, I'd title it "S'talking Too Much: Kerry's Story: A Moment of Truth Movie." I would've been played by Tracey Gold or Kellie Martin back in the day because I only want the best. This would be the stuff Emmys are made of.
Come to think of it, all of my summer stories should be made into a movie, but it may be too big for Lifetime. I believe this could be a big budget Hollywood screenplay. Maybe directed by Woody Allen in little vignettes. Or it would be a Michael Bay summer blockbuster with robots and explosions. What? I didn't tell you about the summer my friend's car turned into a robot and the feds showed up and there were explosions that lit up the town like the 4th of July? Man, that was a summer.
So, we're halfway through Summer '09: Forced Vacation. It's too hot to live, the kids are arguing, there is a thunderstorm every other day, and the boy is finally potty trained. I've donned my bag of frozen peas hat, played lots of wii, ran through the sprinkler, and sat by the pool. There's only so much a whiter-than-pale girl can do. And we're in a recession, I can't be at the nail salong getting my toes done as often as it takes to maintain a Kerry level of glam. It's only a matter of time before SADS gets the best of me and I fill the tub with ice, declare it winter in my bathroom and invite Sarah Palin to come ice fishing with me. It's not like she's got anything to do the rest of the summer.
d writing on the walls: "I had run out of beer," he says, "and I thought writing might relax me in a way."
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