I wish you could give yourself two Father's Day presents, because if I could I would not blog again today. But you can't, so here I am. Sucks. Who made up that rule anyway?

A jerk, that's who.

It's terribly hot here. Yeah, I'm blogging about the weather. Who gives? You're lucky I'm blogging about anything. It's summertime. Wait, is it? I mean, officially? Thanks, but don't go and look it up for me, nerds. I can handle it myself.

Whether it's summer or not, it's hot. I typically don't mind it being hot, but this go round I do. You see, Brazilians are painting our house and we have to have our windows closed or the fumes will kill us. Actually, I don't know for sure whether the fumes will kill us or not, but I just assume not find out. I don't understand most of what the Brazilians say, so for all I know they could be telling us to run for our lives.

Aside from the communications issue, dealings with the Brazilians have been good. I tend to get self-conscious when people work around the house, especially if they are of color. Makes me feel so white. But thank god for the World Cup and Shakira, because without them we'd have nothing to small talk about. White, black, brown, or Brazilian: everybody loves soccer and Shakira.

Best of all, our house looks good. It's red. We chose the color because it reminds us of all those we've vanquished during our rise to the top. When it's finally finished our house will be the nicest house on the street. Hands down. And if one of us dies from the fumes in the process it will still be worth it, because our house will be better than all the others, and being best is very important to us. I just hope it's not me. It wouldn't be worth it then. I wouldn't be able to go up to my neighbors with my finger in their face and go "Ha! Your house looks like a Skanky McTrashy compared to mine!"

So keep your fingers crossed for me. Thanks.

This post is dedicated to mailing it in.