The Joys of Summer

You know what I hate? Tug of War. I'm not talking about the rope-over-mud-puddle kind. I'm talking about the game my husband and I play with the air conditioning thermostat. As if marriage wasn't difficult enough, this juvenile and passive-aggressive competition serves as an added annoyance and a reminder that men are from venus and women are perfect (I think that's how the saying goes).

I prefer cooler temperatures while my husband prefers it moderate -- err...I mean, blistering and hell-like. Throughout the day, we take turns nudging the thermostat dial. At the beginning of the day, we're within a few degrees of one another. But by the time the sun sets, we're so annoyed with each other that we're workin' on a 30-degree differential.

We do love each other. But our bodies are, well, different. He is lean, bald and sane. I, on the other hand, have a full head of heat-locking hair. And large amounts of estrogen pumping through my veins. And a brain that doesn't properly deliver seratonin to my neurons. And a body-fat composition that is the genetic equivalent to a Jimmy Dean sausage.

Have you ever cooked a Jimmy Dean sausage? Did you notice how long it took to cool down before you could eat it? I rest my case.

I'm generally a pretty low-maintenance wife. But summers in Phoenix turn me into swelter-bitch with bloated bratwurst fingers. Why does the heat make my fingers swell to Twinkie-size? Does anyone else suffer this problem? And about those panties... will they ever dry?

Ahhh, the joys of summer.