There are moments in time when I am completely convinced that I married a chick. This is not to say that Himself is high maintenance, given to bloating or breast tenderness at certain times of the month or that I have to share my lacy underpants with him. However, he has certain quirks which are typically attributed to those of the uterus-bearing gender such as almost overwhelming cravings for chocolate and, on occasion, a true life or death need for Midol. Of all his quirks, I tend to find his penchant for hot flashes the most amusing.
Himself works outside. No A/C in the summer (and in Texas they are BRUTAL); no heat in the winter. So when he gets home from a day dealing with the public and has sweated like a pig at a luau, he wants the house to be cold. As in corpse cold. As a portly middle-aged female, I tend to like things a bit on the cool side myself, however, if I can hang meat in my living room, well, that’s a bit much. The dog will lay out in full sunshine and 100 degree heat just to warm up. And with the recent excitement of my own medical woes, let’s just say I’m running about in my purple hoodie looking for all the world like Barney the dinosaur.
The first thing Himself does when he gets home is turn the thermostat down, down, down and quickly hop into the shower. Nothing alters this routine…not rain, nor snow, nor dead of night. He won’t even eat dinner first. Who the heck lets something, anything come between them and food?!
Imagine the depth, breadth and height of his upset when one recent evening the power took a brief time out and the house heated up to a whopping 78 degrees (yes, I’m being snarky). And I do mean brief…3 minutes tops. After which, the A/C decided ‘Nope, not gonna do it’ and quit cooling.
When Himself goes all diva, it’s not a pretty sight. Ever seen the Snickers candy bar commercial where Aretha Franklin’s going all diva because she’s hungry and all put out with the world, then eats the candy bar and turns back into a dude? Yep, Himself is like THAT! The amount and quality of whining could only be described as rivaling that of a teenage drama queen. And he’s a 43 year old man.
All efforts to cajole him into being patient and allowing the damn A/C system to reset itself were met with a derisive sneer and huffy breath. Let me be blunt: I am the mother to one, that’s ONE, snarky-assed teenager and one, that’s ONE, nine year old female drama queen. I didn’t birth you, big guy so knock it off already! What I actually said went something like this…give or take a few well-used expletives…
‘Pray tell, what would you like me to do? It’s after 5pm and warranty service calls end at 5pm unless you’d like for me to pay time and a half for someone to schlep their ass out here just to tell you they don’t have the part they need and it’ll be the next day or ten until they can get it and that’ll be $200 bucks thank you very much!!’
He tried to stare me down, completely forgetting that I am a mother to two would-be extortionists and that crap just does. not. work. with. me. Amateur.
It was then that he informed me he was starting to sweat. Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit, Scarlett! Why don’t you take a powder and lie down a spell! What does this man know about hot? His hair’s so closely cropped as be almost bald (not that I’d mind) and he’s not carrying around two 75 pound melons on his chest. Don’t tell me about hot, mister!
If he were funnier, I’d swear he’s Nathan Lane, but he’s not; therefore I’m stuck with Aretha. God grant me mercy.