We kicked off the weekend tonight with a sultry evening in the National Gallery of Art’s Sculpture Garden, where we went to picnic and listen to the weekly summer jazz concert. Okay, listen might be a strong word. Passively enjoy a jazz pianist playing in the background while we and our neighbors chat and eat, perhaps would be more accurate.

John, Rudi, Sweetpea, and I had a nice evening. We drank wine and Orangina and ate oodles of food — chips, hummus, pita, dolmas, baguette, crackers, cheese, dates, membrillo (Spanish quince paste), olives, cornichons (is this just a fancy name for gherkins or is there an actual difference?), and CakeLove cupcakes in a variety of flavors.

The only thing that could have made it a nicer evening would have been a lower humidity level. Seriously, it felt like you had just entered the overheated indoor pool at the Y. The ground was soaked and by the time we headed home we were all remarkably damp. I was wet enough that I tried to use the hand dryers in the ladies’ room to dry my butt off with. I was not successful and walked home three miles in sopping wet capris.

Tomorrow is supposed to remain humid, but to add in the joy of soaring temperatures. The heat index is rumored to approach 110 degrees mid-afternoon. Hooray. I may never leave air-conditioning again.

No, wait, that’s not true. I have plans tomorrow night. Our friend Phillip turns 30 this weekend and we are going over to party with him and to assure him that, indeed, a cane, ear trumpet, and cataracts are not far off in his future.

Sunday, Rudi is heading off for an early-morning century and Sweetpea and I are talking about going to catch the Indigo Girls out at WolfTrap that evening. It may happen or it may not; it probably depends on a number of factors including how tired we are of being outside in a sauna.

But I’ll tell you one thing: If we go, I’m going to wear waterproof pants.