A rare occurrence happened at my house today.
I shut off the air conditioner and opened all the windows!
I’m ecstatic to report that the air outside is actually MOVING AROUND and when it hits your skin it feels pleasantly cool and soft, like someone is fanning you with a huge palmetto leaf (or whatever kind of leaf is used for fanning.) And feeding you grapes. Or better yet, serving you a latte.
Okay. Maybe I’m being a little over-dramatic because it’s really only been a few weeks since I’ve had the AC off and the windows open. New York hasn’t been exceptionally hot this summer. In fact, it really wasn’t until August that it started to feel like a smelting factory outside.
And, actually, my issue isn’t really with the weather. It’s with that big steel box outside my basement door. The one that drones incessantly while pushing cold air into my veins 24/7. Because, except for those days when the “real feel” temperature is 120 degrees, I HATE air conditioning.
I’m one of those people who is always cold. I’ve been known to get goose-bumps when the temperature dips past 80. When it goes below 70, that’s when I start wearing socks to bed. And from the end of fall to mid-spring, long johns are my undergarment of choice. You’d think I lived in Alaska rather than a mid-Atlantic state.
My cold-bloodedness, however, drives the three, hot-blooded males who live with me insane. Here’s a typical, heat-of-summer exchange:
Big Man (from his bedroom): “Mom. Can’t we just turn on the AC? I’m DYING in here!”
Me: “You’ll be okay. Just turn on your fan.”
Big Man: “But, Mom. It’s so hot my sheets are sweating.”
That’s PB’s cue to take matters into his own hands and crank on the arctic chill blaster. And my cue to drag out the down comforter so I don’t die of frost-bite in my sleep.
You see, even though deep in their souls, PB, Big Man and Little Man know that I’m the boss of them, when it comes to summertime household climate-control, I’m not the queen of my castle.
And, I accept that. After all, sometimes even the queen has to compromise. I do the best I can to ward off the indoor chill by wearing lots of polar fleece. And when my lips turn blue, I sit out in the backyard to warm up.
However. Usually about this time of year, when August turns into September, and the days start to get shorter, and the nights cooler, that’s when I make my move.
This morning I waited until everyone was out of the house. Then, I powered down the air conditioner. And opened the windows. Air of the most mild and pleasant temperature wafted in. I was completely giddy!
Except for when my family piled back home. Then I was all, oh shit, they’re gonna notice! But, not a word. For an entire day the breeze carried perfect summer air into our home and no one said a word!
Until tonight. As I was getting ready to leave for a get-together with some girlfriends, PB took me aside and delivered the bad news, “Just so you know, I’ll be turning on the air conditioning.”
I am soooooo BUSTED!
Commentary & Observations
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Friday, August 21, 2009
How A Surprise Encounter At A Rest Stop Almost Extinguished My Vacation Glow
So we're driving home to New York from our annual Maine vacation after two magical weeks there. PB, Big Man, Little Man and I (accompanied by our dog, Daisy) said our sad goodbyes and were now trying not to let the looming eight hours of road time take the shine off an especially wonderful time.
For me, there's nothing like a rest stop to kill that vacation glow. The very act of entering one causes me to suck in my breath and make myself as small as possible so there's less of me to come in contact with what's inside. By the time we made it home, I'd probably have the lung capacity of an Olympic swimmer.
Actually, the first few stops weren't so bad. One, near the Maine state line, was decked out with a huge William Wegman mural of his Weimaraners perched atop a Maine mountain.
And that's not all. Its gift shop sold beautiful hand-crafted items and art. No Cadillac Mountain shot glasses to be found. Personally, I find puppies and a little high-end retail therapy sure distractions from end-of-vacation depression.
By the next stop we were in New Hampshire. This one had compostable toilets. OKAY. Even though the whole idea of a compostable toilet is something you really don't want to think too hard about, at least you can leave with your head held high because you feel like you're doing your part for the environment.
Then we hit Massachusetts and one of those huge, hard-core, interstate rest areas. It even had a name. And deep down I knew. This was a rest stop to be reckoned with. I’d have to work very hard to protect my glow.
We peeled our thighs off the car seats and PB, Big Man and Little Man went to find the facilities while I took Daisy to the "dog walk" area. A fenced in patch of weeds with a fire hydrant in the middle. Somebody’s idea of rest stop humor but I wasn’t laughing. It was a mine field of dog doo so I decided I'd just walk Daisy around the parking lot and clean up after her.
As I scurried to safety, something ahead on the asphalt caught my eye. I couldn't quite make it out. Could there possibly be a long, tubular jellyfish-like creature the color of amber baking in the middle of the parking lot? Or, I blinked, was it a mutant, unfrozen ice pop? It was definitely too long to be the inner workings of a box of wine.
As I got closer to the mystery object, I realized why I was having such a hard time placing it. Printed on this fluid-filled thing was "urine collection bag." Never in all my sheltered existence had I come across a urine collection bag before!
I'm not talking a sandwich baggie full of pee. This was about a yard of pee (as in 36 inches). More pee than I had ever seen in my entire life!
So (while the vacation glow proceeded to drain from my body), I asked myself,
WHAT IN GOD'S NAME WAS SOMEBODY’S GARGANTUAN BAG OF PEE DOING HERE???!!!!
Desperately, I tried to come up with a good answer. I needed to come up with a good answer. My glow depended on it!
Maybe it fell off a truck hauling medical waste. I scanned the area for syringes and vials of blood. Nothing.
Could it be some kind of secret strategy that truckers use to stay on schedule? Kind of like the diaper that astronaut wore as she drove 900 miles to do away with her love rival.
But it was no use. My glow was pretty much gone as I imagined one last scenario:
"Pull up to the curb, Earl. I gotta toss my colostomy bag. Oops. Missed the trash can."
By the time PB made it back from the bathroom I could barely speak. "Look," I pointed weakly. PB looked at the bag and drew in his breath.
Little Man came over to see what all the fuss was about and made a move to nudge it with the tip of his flip-flop.
"Nooooooooooo!" PB screamed. "That's a colostomy bag!"
I didn't stick around to hear PB's explanation of what, exactly, a colostomy bag is. Handing Daisy over, I made a beeline toward the food court leaving the two of them to hover over it like it was some sort of fascinating science project.
Okay. Maybe a sturdier soul wouldn't be so shaken by the sight of a colostomy bag lying on a rest stop roadway. But for me, it was too harsh a transition back to reality. I knew I'd be hard-pressed to hold on to my glow once I re-entered the land of responsibility. But, damn! I wasn’t ready to see it go yet!
Inside the rest area, I headed to the Ben and Jerry’s counter. This bag of urine wasn’t going to get the better of me! It was nothing a little black raspberry frozen yogurt couldn't cure.
Back in the car with my cone, I felt a flicker of glow return. I breathed deeply and imagined myself on our Maine dock listening to the loons. And for added measure, I hit the automatic lock button. You bet your colostomy bag we wouldn't be stopping again for the duration of the trip!
For me, there's nothing like a rest stop to kill that vacation glow. The very act of entering one causes me to suck in my breath and make myself as small as possible so there's less of me to come in contact with what's inside. By the time we made it home, I'd probably have the lung capacity of an Olympic swimmer.
Actually, the first few stops weren't so bad. One, near the Maine state line, was decked out with a huge William Wegman mural of his Weimaraners perched atop a Maine mountain.
And that's not all. Its gift shop sold beautiful hand-crafted items and art. No Cadillac Mountain shot glasses to be found. Personally, I find puppies and a little high-end retail therapy sure distractions from end-of-vacation depression.
By the next stop we were in New Hampshire. This one had compostable toilets. OKAY. Even though the whole idea of a compostable toilet is something you really don't want to think too hard about, at least you can leave with your head held high because you feel like you're doing your part for the environment.
Then we hit Massachusetts and one of those huge, hard-core, interstate rest areas. It even had a name. And deep down I knew. This was a rest stop to be reckoned with. I’d have to work very hard to protect my glow.
We peeled our thighs off the car seats and PB, Big Man and Little Man went to find the facilities while I took Daisy to the "dog walk" area. A fenced in patch of weeds with a fire hydrant in the middle. Somebody’s idea of rest stop humor but I wasn’t laughing. It was a mine field of dog doo so I decided I'd just walk Daisy around the parking lot and clean up after her.
As I scurried to safety, something ahead on the asphalt caught my eye. I couldn't quite make it out. Could there possibly be a long, tubular jellyfish-like creature the color of amber baking in the middle of the parking lot? Or, I blinked, was it a mutant, unfrozen ice pop? It was definitely too long to be the inner workings of a box of wine.
As I got closer to the mystery object, I realized why I was having such a hard time placing it. Printed on this fluid-filled thing was "urine collection bag." Never in all my sheltered existence had I come across a urine collection bag before!
I'm not talking a sandwich baggie full of pee. This was about a yard of pee (as in 36 inches). More pee than I had ever seen in my entire life!
So (while the vacation glow proceeded to drain from my body), I asked myself,
WHAT IN GOD'S NAME WAS SOMEBODY’S GARGANTUAN BAG OF PEE DOING HERE???!!!!
Desperately, I tried to come up with a good answer. I needed to come up with a good answer. My glow depended on it!
Maybe it fell off a truck hauling medical waste. I scanned the area for syringes and vials of blood. Nothing.
Could it be some kind of secret strategy that truckers use to stay on schedule? Kind of like the diaper that astronaut wore as she drove 900 miles to do away with her love rival.
But it was no use. My glow was pretty much gone as I imagined one last scenario:
"Pull up to the curb, Earl. I gotta toss my colostomy bag. Oops. Missed the trash can."
By the time PB made it back from the bathroom I could barely speak. "Look," I pointed weakly. PB looked at the bag and drew in his breath.
Little Man came over to see what all the fuss was about and made a move to nudge it with the tip of his flip-flop.
"Nooooooooooo!" PB screamed. "That's a colostomy bag!"
I didn't stick around to hear PB's explanation of what, exactly, a colostomy bag is. Handing Daisy over, I made a beeline toward the food court leaving the two of them to hover over it like it was some sort of fascinating science project.
Okay. Maybe a sturdier soul wouldn't be so shaken by the sight of a colostomy bag lying on a rest stop roadway. But for me, it was too harsh a transition back to reality. I knew I'd be hard-pressed to hold on to my glow once I re-entered the land of responsibility. But, damn! I wasn’t ready to see it go yet!
Inside the rest area, I headed to the Ben and Jerry’s counter. This bag of urine wasn’t going to get the better of me! It was nothing a little black raspberry frozen yogurt couldn't cure.
Back in the car with my cone, I felt a flicker of glow return. I breathed deeply and imagined myself on our Maine dock listening to the loons. And for added measure, I hit the automatic lock button. You bet your colostomy bag we wouldn't be stopping again for the duration of the trip!
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