It was really hot last night.

Not by my old, high-desert standards, but certainly by the yardstick I use when I'm pregnant in the summer. Usually my hands and feet get cold easily. But that hasn't happened since, like, April. I am now at the belly-as-portable-shelf stage, and I'm only in the second trimester. So I will be big. Beeeeeeeeeeeg. As my dad used to say cheerfully, "Don't worry. It'll get worse."
So The Husband thinks ahead and picks up some ice cream. I come home from work and put on his old undershirt, which is long enough to be worn as a (flimsy, obscenely short) shirtdress at home. We keep the lights off and the fan on. It would be nice to have central air conditioning, but even summer heat here is kind of intermittent. So every summer, people run to the hardware store for ginormous fans that they'll use for two weeks, max.

I once read a novel set in pre-revolutionary China that depicted a family who could afford marble or slate floors... the family would cool down on summer nights by sleeping on the floors, with just a thin bedding layer between them and the cold stone.

Ooh... Coldstone Ice Cream. There's a thought.