The Heat IS On

It finally turned cool here in Southern AZ just before Thanksgiving, cool being in the upper 60's/lower 70's and sunny. It's the perfect weather, in my humble opinion, but it was short lived. The past two days have been cold, cloudy, and downright gloomy. They've been the kind of days where all you want to do is lay in bed and pull the covers over your head, which is pretty much all I did yesterday, minus the bed and the covers. I napped in the chair. This morning reminds me of an Illinois fall day: crisp, cloudy, and windy. The thermometer on the patio shows me that it's a brisk 49°. In Tucson. That just ain't right.

Given the change in weather, we finally turned the heat on last week, especially with overnight temps flirting with the freezing point. Since we moved here, Diane's blood has thinned and she has gone all Southern AZ on me. When temperatures dive below 75°, she dons sweaters, turtlenecks, ponchos, anything to keep her warm. Now that the temps are in the 50's and 40's, there's an ongoing debate about climate levels inside our humble abode. You'd think that because of the way I was raised, I'd have no problem with maintaining a tropical climate within the house during the winter. But I do, and I have absolutely no idea why.

Growing up, my brother and I would engage my Mom in a constant epic battle over the thermostat. The most heated battles took place during the summertime when my Mom insisted that the air conditioning be set at 88°. "What's the point! We're dying in here!" we'd plead. The point was that I had a single mom trying to raise two boys on a teacher's salary, and we could either eat and have enough money left over to do the things we wanted to do, or we could pay the electric bill. But not both. At 88°, much of the humidity, which is brutal in the Midwest during the summertime, was removed from the house and made things a little more bearable. Barely. My brother and I made frequent trips outside just to remind our bodies of the difference in heat and humidity, then go back inside to convince ourselves that even though it was 88°, it was still cooler than the muggy heat outside.

In the wintertime, the thermostat was set around 69°. I don't remember us complaining so much about that. All of us would just bundle up. We'd throw on extra sweatshirts and wear slippers around the house and shock the hell out of ourselves and each other every time we'd touch something or someone. And each of us had these plaid blanket-thingies with snaps that you could snap up into a sort of floor-length gown with arm holes and everything. They kept us warm, but I'm sure we looked like a misfit, plaid-frock clad order of monks. All we needed was a chant: Do-mi-ne, Lord we pray, keep us toa-sty.

Now I'm all growed up and the master of my climatic domain. While I've totally chucked the notion of sweating my ass off in the summer, for some reason I've embraced freezing it off during the winter. And I still have my snappy blanket tucked away somewhere in the closet, though I haven't used it for nearly 20 years. Perhaps it's nostalgia. Perhaps I'm a lunatic. Perhaps it's a combination of both, but I like keeping it cool inside during the winter. I have compromised a little though. Last night as I was getting the girls' pajamas out, a shivering Diane peeked in the doorway and asked, "Honey, is the heat on?"

"Yes, the heat IS on," I confirmed. "It's a balmy 72° in here."

And if you don't like it, there's a red and black plaid snappy blanket in the hall closet with your name on it.

Caught in the Crossfire

Yesterday was gymnastics day. The only thing I like about gymnastics day is that it gives me an hour in the afternoon to read nearly uninterrupted, save the frequent glances to see what brilliant maneuvers the girls are performing at that particular moment. Somersaults...great. So much for Beijing. I'm usually one of the few dads occupying the chatty, mommy and kiddie-dominated observation area. I don't mean to offend here because I know what it feels like to be alone at home with the kids all day long, but I can tell that these moms are craving social activity. It's sometimes hard to hear myself think over the din of moms fighting to get in their daily allotment of words while their kids fight to get the attention of their moms.

I've finally gotten around to starting the last of the Harry Potter books, and it's been so good that I've had great difficulty in putting it down. So to say that I was REALLY looking forward to my reading time is an understatement. After the girls scurried off to their respective classes, I found a chair in a relatively uninhabited area of the waiting room and sat down. There was a pregnant mom two chairs to my left, a mom in front of me diagonally to my left, and a mom with a cute little baby three chairs to my right. I smiled at the baby and Baby-Mom as I took my seat, then dove into my book. Not a minute later, a laptop-carrying mom and her daughter greeted Baby-Mom and slid into the two seats separating us.

Diagonal-Mom turned around and let out a loud gasp. Computer-Mom did the same. "HOW ARE YOU!!" they shrieked almost in unison, as though running into long-lost childhood friend.

"Your hair looks great! You finally found a stylist?"

"I did...it took awhile but I really like her..."

"She did a great job. I love it!"

"Awww, thank you!"

They went on like this for a few minutes, and I couldn't help but feel like I was in their way. I thought about asking Diagonal-Mom if she would like to trade seats, you know, so they could talk more easily, but thought that might come across as rude and self-serving. So I stayed put. And as I really had nothing to contribute to this conversation, I kept my nose stuck in my book. Until they started harping on their husbands. This topic of discussion attracted both Baby-Mom and Pregnant Mom as well. It was like a shark feeding frenzy. I was completely surrounded.

"My husband's out of town until Saturday."

"This is going to sound really bad, but I kind of like it when my husband goes out of town."

"I know!"

"Oh, me too."

"I can get so much more done at home when he's not around."

"Seriously!"

"I can get the laundry done and completely put away..."

"I stay up as late as I want and do whatever I want...I get the house so clean..."

"...and you don't have to worry about feeding the kids Kraft macaroni..."

CHORUS: "Yes!"

On and on they went until it started to sound like a June Cleaver secret society gone horribly, horribly wrong. At some point in the discussion, I looked up from my book with an amused grin. Part of me wanted in on this conversation, and part of me wanted them to shut up so I could fully enjoy my book. I decided to give the former a shot. The plan was to allow them to notice me listening in on their conversation (how could I not!), and then have them invite me to contribute the masculine point of view, which was basically this: you can do anything you want and you choose to do laundry? You ladies need to get a life!

The master plan was a flop. I looked around and followed their conversation for a few moments, looking for an in, but they completely ignored me. They had no interested in the masculine perspective. Oh, well. I guess you can't help everybody. They eventually turned their conversation to Crate & Barrel, Overstock.com and really soft bedsheets before redirecting their attention to their children flopping around in the next room. I shrugged it off and peacefully returned to my book, which is all I wanted in the first place.