SUCK: Summertime without central air. Look, I don’t know how you people in the deep south get by even with central air (and by deep south, I mean pretty much everything south of Providence), but among the many reasons I choose to live in New England is the fact that I’m a cold weather guy. I hate heat, and I hate humidity, and I know that in a temperate climate like North America the two generally go together like peas and carrots unless you live in the desert or the coastal parts of California.
Living in New England gives me the relative freedom of knowing that I’ll only have to deal with that pleasant “I live in a sauna” sensation maybe 3+ months out of the year, after which the temperature will drop like a rock and I’ll once again be back in my comfort zone. However… central air is not as ubiquitous in New England as it is through many other civilized parts of the country (at least, that’s what I’ve been told) — meaning that for a great many of us, it’s window units or nothing. And, unfortunately for me, I live in a 1920s colonial with antiquated wiring. Which means that 80% of my house in on the same circuit. Which means I can’t run more than 2 window units at once. Which means that in order to, say, enjoy a night’s sleep on a humid July night in a room with a temperature under 80 degrees and less than 70% humidity, I’d have to install a unit in one of our bedroom windows and shut the door. Which means that I wouldn’t be able to hear Butterfly waking up screaming 2-6 times a night, every night. (Actually, this isn’t sounding too bad.) Which means I wouldn’t be able to run in there and put her back to sleep before her howling awakened her roommate Rabbit, which would then create a scenario in which two 2-year old girls would be screaming bloody murder for – conceivably – several hours at a time. Which would probably result in TheHurricane, who sleeps in a neighboring room, being roused from his sleep of the dead. Which would motivate him to kick in our bedroom door, allowing the wet, hot air to come flooding into our sweet lovely cool dry cocoon of sleep and envelop us instead in a blanket of sweaty, screaming children. Which would virtually redefine the word “suck.”
Hence: we sleep without air conditioning. And while this has been a relatively mild summer thus far, I’ve got to say that sleeping all sweaty on top of my sheets is getting real old, real fast.
NO SUCK: Flight of the Conchords. Please tell me we’re not alone in loving this show, which presents the adventures of a two-man, digi-folk band from New Zealand as they pursue love and glory on the mean streets of New York City. This is such an absurd, low-key pleasure that I don’t really know how to express my affection for it — but I am beyond grateful to HBO for bringing it to the air.
SUCK: The scourge of ketchup. On Saturday, we were invited over to the home of one of TheHurricane’s school pals for a playdate/BBQ dinner. Which was lovely insofar as that a) it offered me the chance to eat dinner without actually cooking it myself; and b) it offered us the chance to get a look at one of the giant new colonials that have gone up in our neighborhood over the past few years, and take a peak at how people clearly far more successful than us live. (The answer to part b) they live with granite countertops, stainless steel appliances, blindingly gleaming hardwood floors and… this part hurts… central air.)
In any case, we came, we saw, we chilled, we drank a few beers, we shared a few laughs, we yelled at our kids a few times, and then… they brought out the meat. It was an awe-inspiring spread, honestly, especially considering that there were only 4 of us (kids don’t count). It was tough to know where to begin, but after surveying the meatscape we plunged in and shared the bounty. After polishing off some steak tips, I decided that it was time to enjoy my first hot dog of the summer. I grabbed a dog, threw it in a bun, squeezed a little ketchup on top, and took a bite. It was delicious. My God, it was delicious. Oh, sweet hot dog. How could I ever have foresaken you? I missed you so. What kind of fool have I been? How have I lived this much time apart from your smokey, flavorful, processed meat goodness? After my eyes stopped rolling back in my head, I took another energetic bite… at which point several hundred cc’s of rich, red, flavorful ketchup burst from the far end of my bun, arced gracefully through the air- catching the light, if only for a second – and then landed with a wet, heavy spooge on my shirt.
There was a moment of stunned silence, as I looked up and saw three sets of eyes – with expressions ranging from sympathy to outright dismay – fixed on the blob on my abdomen. (Heavy sigh.) I dropped my head to my chest, raised my hand, and accepted my status. “Party geek,” I sadly acknowledged. And it occurred to me that this was a kind of karmic justice, insofar as that about 3 weeks ago we had another of TheHurricane’s playmates/parents over to our home for dinner, and while serving steaks to the parents I managed to drop one of the ribeyes onto the father’s plate… sending a cascade of rich and colorful meat juices all over him. I was extremely horrified, and he was very gracious about the entire thing, but I knew that somehow I was going to pay for that trespass… and pay I did.
The lesson: I shouldn’t be allowed around people.
NO SUCK: Next weekend, when I will descend upon DC like a plague of locusts in celebration my semi-annual (in theory; annual in reality) “flee my family” weekend. TheWife and I decided last year that, in order to salvage my sanity, it might be a good idea for me to get away once in a while. Insofar as that her much more frequent and exotic business travel offers her the opportunity to visit places like Portugal, San Francisco, Atlanta, Toronto, etc. – which she sometimes extends into visits with friends and family in the area, and which sometimes involves her being gone over parts or wholes of weekends – while my business travel generally involves daytrips to the garden spots of the northeast, the appropriate way to strike some kind of balance would be to allow me to head off for a weekend or two each year to visit friends in faraway places, eat dinner in restaurants with cloth napkins, and sleep entire nights without interruption.
In this spirit, I will be in DC next weekend, visiting some of my many friends in the area, goofing around with their children, making fun of one of the many pregnant women in my life (no, not this one), and generally reminding myself of what it feels like to be human. If you’re going to the Nats/Rockies game on Saturday, be sure to look for me. I’ll be the happy-looking guy not wrestling with three small children.
SUCK/NO SUCK: I’m not quite sure where to place this one, but this morning I was in Dunkin Donuts with TheHurricane when an Asperger’s kid in his late teens came over and asked if I was Tedy Bruschi. After I stopped choking on my Diet Pepsi (mmm… breakfast), I replied in the negative. Undeterred, he continued with the line of questioning, asking if I was sure (I was), if I was 6’2″, 240 (I was not), if I was related to Tedy Bruschi (I am not) or if I could help him get in contact with Mr. Bruschi (I could not). The conversation went on for about 10 minutes, and while on many levels I was flattered to be confused with Tedy – who is a big, good-looking dude, above and beyond being a phenomenal NFL player and the heart and soul of your New England Patriots – I was also kind of saddened by the realization that I look nothing like him, and that TheWife would probably just laugh at me when I told her this story. (She did. “Bruschi? You? Hahahahahaha!!!” “Thanks. Gotta go now.” Click.)
(TheHurricane expressed no opinion on the topic, btw.)
