AC for ME

Before you read one more word of this blog ... stop and kiss your air conditioner - that precious trooper of an appliance. For it is that little hunk of metal quietly purring away that is the only thing saving you from your own personal hell on earth. I know this from just having lived 36 hours without one, in Texas, in 100 degree heat, with two dogs, one cat, one boyfriend, a roommate and a consistent poop-eating frown on my face.

Oh how cocky I was in the days leading up to the meltdown flipping the thermostat dial down and down, never thanking my frigid friend for defending me from the elements. I would take and take and take and bask in its coolness, but I never gave. But those days are over. I've converted to the church of the AC. Each morning I will bow down to my chilly god and thank it for giving me another day of life without sweat drenched brow and pits.

For those of you who have never experienced AC-less life in Texas, in Summer, let me give you little a play by play:
7 a.m. AC dies with a faint click,click,click FZZZZZ. Call air conditioner repairman even though
it's Sunday morning.
8 a.m. Temperature begins to climb to 78 then 79 degrees. Claustrophobia and panic set in.
9 a.m. I long to open the blinds and the drapes but fear the cool will leave me like a one night stand, so I wait in the dark absorbing the fading precious chill (think Gollum from Lord of the Rings)
11 a.m. We're up to 83 degrees, and I've taken to fanning myself with a homemade fan like some vixen from Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.
2 p.m. It's 86 degrees, the cat has gone under the ottoman to her secret dying place, she can take no more and who can blame her? I contemplate following her.
4 p.m. The dogs collapse onto the floor like a tiny doggy Jonestown (mmm Kool aid), someone comes to the door but they are too weak to bark and barely lift their heads.
7 p.m. Jackpot, 90 degrees. In various states of undress I stagger outside to bask in the "cool"
weather. I contemplate taking the TV outside and watching it on the porch, then recoil in horror at the white trashinesss of the idea. Has the heat cooked my sense of cooth?
9 p.m. Borrow a fan from a neighbor that resembles a Hollywood windmachine. Despite the deafening roar, eathquake like vibrations and the fact that my curtains are now hanging horizontally ... it's a welcome change.
11 p.m. What the fuck! It's 92 degrees. Science be damned, it actually gets hotter at night or my house is built over the mouth to hell.
12 a.m. Take a freezing cold shower that nearly stops my heart in an attempt to trick my body that I'm secretly in Antartica. My efforts are futile.
1 a.m. Prepare for sleep. Valiantly defend the cat from perching on my chest and stealing my breath, while forbidding Jerrett from letting any part of his searing hot limbs come in contact with me.
2 a.m. Pretend to sleep while having recurring dream that I am that Arian-lad Hansel and have indeed met my untimely end in the witch's wood-brick oven. For the love of god, cook me already, eat me and crap me into the sweet relief of a soothingly cool toilet bowl.

The dreams continue through the night until I have time to wake up, avoid a hot cup of coffee, take yet another cold shower and eagerly head to work where I will be greeted by loving AC.

Love, love

Love as hot as a nanny goat in a pepper patch

Love, Jef