Welcome to the Weekly Guest Spotlight. This week's guest is author Christina Edson.

It would seem Christina feels the same way I do about summer.

My alarm clock blasts me with loud, over-exhuberant deejays gossiping over last night’s reality TV drama. Before they could get into who clawed whose eyes out with fake nails, I swiftly whip my arm across and smack the snooze button with practiced precision. It’s the quickest I move in the morning. Hell, it’s often the fastest I move all day. I make a mental note to find another radio station to wake up to and then roll over and sink back into the cool comfort of my mattress.

I take a deep breath, shaking off the remnants of a weird dream involving an ex-boyfriend, a row boat, and sacrificing said ex to the volcano gods. Serves me right to eat Hagen-Daaz right before bed.

The sound of waves crashing into the shore of nearby Lake Huron lull me into a happy morning haze. Then it dawns on me. This is the sound of the end of summer. Rolling white-capped walls of water crash into the shore, stealing warm water away into the dark blue horizon. I roll out of bed with a renewed sense of purpose: enjoy the last few moments of summer to the fullest.

My love affair with this summer has been tepid with few steamy moments, but those annoying deejays assault my ears again and report that it’s ninety-seven percent humidity outside bringing the early morning temperature to over 100 degrees Fahrenheit.

Summer took its Viagara and it’s going to seduce me into a hot sweat.

I can’t wait.

My mojo reinvigorated, I put on my favorite summer dress and wriggle into my strapless bra. The air conditioning blasts cool air into my room. Seriously, who invented strapless bras? I’m assuming it was some clueless man.

I pour homemade iced tea into a travel mug, slide into my favorite pair of flip-flops, and sashay into summer’s warm embrace.

What the hell was I thinking?

Summer isn’t sexy. Summer isn’t seductive. Summer makes you hot, heavy and breathless, but not because of its prowess.

Instantly I break out into a sweat. And not some dainty girl glisten. When I sweat, all my pores are involved. Sweat drips everywhere, including places I didn’t know could sweat. My inner thighs slap, slap, slap together as I walk down the road.

And to make matters worse, my strapless bra seems to have joined an orchestra since I last put it on, happily squeaking and creaking every time I move my arms.

Slap, slap, slap, slap.

Squeak, squeak, creak.

Flip, flop, flip, flop.

Drip, drop.

Pant, pant.

So attractive.

Maybe that seems like the sounds of unbridled passion. But no. That’s just me walking to my car in humidity so thick and so dank it’s like being trapped in someone’s belly button.

Summer is not sexy.

Summer is the cute guy in the nightclub you’re eyeing through the bottom of your gin and tonic tumbler. You stumble home with him and wake up to realize that the hot guy is actually hairy and belches and farts at the same time.

Yup. Summer is Homer Simpson in Henry Cavill’s clothing.

So I’m breaking up with summer. I’ve had it with the chaffed thighs, the squeaky bras and the constant film of greasy smog smothering my skin.

Summer may look good from underneath my down duvet and ten blankets in the middle of February, but I will remember this moment. Oh yes, I’ll remember this.

And if I don’t, smack me upside the head, will ya?

In the meantime, if you need me, I’ll be in the cold pool waiting for fall to arrive.

Me too, Christina...Me too.

Until the next time...I'll be sweltering in the late August heat.

We've just passed the halfway mark in July, which also marks the halfway point for summer, meaning not just July, but all of summer is half gone. But worse than that, I've missed another pumpkin planting deadline.

For the countless year in a row, I've forgotten to plant the pumpkin seeds. Just like the Christmas cards I buy each November--then write out and address but never mail--I've stocked up on pumpkin seeds, yet again, that will never find their way into the dirt. Which means I will be buying my pumpkins from the farmers market again, instead of watching my very own seeds grow into mighty pumpkins before my eyes.

I have just one thing to say about that...crap.

I've lost track of how many years I've wanted to plant my own pumpkins. Ever since the year a rotting jack-o-lantern ended up in the compost heap and we discovered an entire pumpkin patch growing in the back yard. Totally in the wrong season, I might add.

I was sure I would have a proper pumpkin patch once we moved to the farm. I had my rows of seeds lined up on the counter, just waiting for someone to dig me a hole. Oh, I know what you're thinking, "go dig your own hole," right? But it doesn't take a genius to realize I'm not cut out for digging holes or preparing planting beds. I'm more of a director . I'm the one who says, "no, a little more to the left, honey. That's it! Now back to the right...just a little more." Then I drop the seeds in the hole and push the dirt back over them. I'm really good at pouring stuff on the ground. Just ask the chickens. I'm their favorite feeder. Even the little pullets (young hens for you non-farm people out there) follow me around outside. They know I'm good at dumping the grain on the ground, but when it comes to serious farm stuff, it's time to call for the hus...I mean, the IDP.

Of course, even the virile IDP needs help from time to time. Just this weekend, I assisted in building the TCU (transport containment unit) to take the first two pigs to the giant freezer in the sky. I did an excellent job holding the wood panels while he screwed them together then secured them to the flatbed trailer. I even made design suggestions. Just between us, I had way better ideas, but you know men, you have to make them think it was their idea...shhhh.

But when it comes to planting, I'm going to defer totally to him. That way, when it all goes to shit, it wasn't my idea. Speaking of shit...I may just dump the damn seeds in the pig pen. There's plenty of fertilizer in there. In fact, I'll bet pumpkins would grow like weeds in there. And the worst thing that could happen is nothing happens. Who knows, I might even end up with super-pumpkins. I could win a ribbon at the fair or something.

Or I could be stuck with the stinkiest pumpkins in Georgia. But at least I'd have pumpkins!

Until the next time...I'll be lining up my seeds for planting day.