I understand that we have a lot of converted Dallasites here in town—I being among them—and that many of them aren’t used to the Texas summer heat.  Even most Texans complain when the thermometer spikes in the triple-digits.  But was I the only one who got up this morning, stepped outside and cried, “brrrr…?"  This happens every year.  I get used to the sun.  I’m not longer bothered by the suspicion that God is sitting up there laughing his omnipresent ass off while gunning me down with his hairdryer like a child with a magnifying glass.  Then, like today, that cold, dry northern rolls in and drives the mercury down into the seventies, which seems to please just about everybody but me.  Personally, I like to sweat.  And I also like drinking rosé, provancal rosé, which is something that I can only do in good conscious when it’s sweltering outside.  So as autumn descends upon us, and sweaters and coats become de rigeur, I look forward to breaking out some Port and strong, red wine, but at the same time, I know that the days that I can sit on my balcony in my sweaty underwear sipping ice-cold Baux du Provence are numbered.  At least for this year.  And that makes me sad.