It’s my second bloggaversary, so I wanted to write a particularly eloquent post with a title whose complexity complimented the wit of its content. I think I’ve succeeded. See also, Why Time Change is Stupid and other groundbreaking discoveries, like, Dogs Don’t Need Porn.
When we were shopping for our house, we had plenty of specifications. Affordable, in our preferred school districts, three bedrooms, not too big, (basically not as big as our last house) safe for run amok kids, single-story living, fencing for the dog. I wanted adequate cabinet and counter space, gas range or hook-up, and good flow. The Mister wanted a newer roof and very few things he’d need to repair or replace. Then we had a bit of a wish list, like fireplace, hard floors, built before 1960, bigger lot, good closet space, garage. We were both hoping for brick and a basement. (Indiana is no stranger to tornadoes.) I was partial to houses with southern exposure, and basketball hoops. (Did I mention we live in Indiana?)
Then there were things we just could not accept, even if all of the above desires were met. Like a heat pump. Heat pumps are stupid.
Because, like I said, we live in Indiana. Despite the apparent shock of our fellow Hoosiers, it does get cold and snow every single winter. When we lived in Georgia, a heat pump was just fine. We didn’t even run the furnace most of the winter. We most often ran only the downstairs heat in the morning, so our children didn’t shiver.
When The Mister was stationed in North Carolina, his house there had a heat pump. Coldest house ever. Everybody walkin around in fleece, never turnin off the coffee pot because hadda have hot beverages all the time. We slept in a shared blanket, huddled, shivering, entwined. Hadda have sex just to generate heat. Brick house may as well been made of twigs, so freakin cold. Stupid heat pump.
The last of my at-home living was done with a heat pump. Now, as you should well know by now, I hate being hot. In the winter, I closed the vent in my bedroom, and often slept with the window cracked. (At least until my dad screwed the window sash shut, because he didn’t care about fire safety, he only cared about burglaries, but whatever.)
Still, preferring to be cold doesn’t mean I want to freeze to death while I eat dinner. And that’s exactly what it was like when we lived there.
I’m fairly certain vaulted ceilings are intended for warm climates. Vaulted ceilings in the north should all be outfitted with lofts and ladders, so members of the household can climb up to get warm.
Maybe I worked so much and
slept around stayed with other people so much when when I lived at home because I didn’t want to freeze to death in the living space and then roast in my bed every night…
Yes, I’m sure that was it!
I complained to my parents, because that’s what parents are for, “It blows cold air! I don’t care if it’s on 72! When you’re in Florida, I sometimes put it on 78 and it’s still never warm!” (Of course, my room was a blazing inferno.)
For some reason my parents didn’t appreciate my complaints or my hijacking the thermostat. now you wish i’d just drunk up all your liquor instead, huh?
But one night, when my dad had already gone to bed, I watched my mother get up, throw her blanket on the couch, pick up a pillow and hurl it at the register. My mother is not prone to fits. My mother is calm. She has the patience of a nun. She’s a Virgo, okay?
I sat in awe (under my down comforter) and upon seeing my face, she hissed, “I am just sick of that cold air blowin in my face!” I could only smile.
“Uh huh. Told ya.”
“I mean, Jesus!”
“Mmhm. I know.”
I bet it’s that heat pump that drove them to sell their house and move to Florida full-time.
Stupid heat pump. And Florida. Florida is stupid, too. is hot, is far, took my parents…
This post is part of Just Jot It January — Did you even jot yet?