Thursday, May 31, 2012

When A Husband is in Trouble, saying "I'm Trying To Make It Rain" is a bad answer!

Sometimes my wife thinks I'm nuts. Sometimes me wife is right to think I'm nuts. Sometimes I like it that way.
   When the three Sometimes above collide in the same moment, I have a 50% chance of getting a you're-so-cute smooch, or a what-the-hell-were-you-thinking whap upside the head. Sometimes (there's that word again!) I get a sneak whap upside the head while I'm getting kissed. Kinky? Nah. Dizzying.

Bad Answer: "I'm Trying To Make It Rain"
We live in an old house, and the ceilings are higher than modern houses. I've joked in the past that the ceilings are high enough to have different weather at knee height than there is at ceiling height. I've joked that under the proper conditions, it could rain in any room.
   This old house of ours is in Michigan, a state in the upper Midwest where spring brings interesting weather. This morning when I got up, it was 64 degrees in the house, following a day when temperatures were in the eighties. So, I did what most people do when they wake up in a cold house. I turned the heat on. The house warmed up to a habitable 68 degrees while I sipped my coffee with my teeth chattering against the ceramic mug.
   I kissed her goodbye when she went off to work. The sun came up, and warmed my upstairs writing office. My writing office gets warm quickly when the sun streams in the windows, but not to worry! We have a portable air conditioner! So, completely forgetting that the heat was on, I cranked up the AC.
   Life was good. No, it wasn't an intentional attempt at rain-making in my writing office (though I like to think such a thing is possible). It was a case of me forgetting completely that the furnace was on.
   She and I were sitting here in my writing office watching television and ignoring storm clouds at the ceiling level as the cold air from the air conditioner mingled with the warm air from the furnace. For whatever reason, she couldn't see the gray misty haze above her head.
   At a commercial break, she said, "David..."
   I knew I was in trouble. She calls me Dave--which is what I prefer to be called--unless I'm in da poo. When I hear her call me David, I have three choices: 1) Run, 2) Query, 3) Smartass cute reply.
   At any rate...
   "David," she said in a sharp tone that to a wise man would have been a warning, "is the heat on?"
   I froze. My fingers were held above the keyboard. The characters in the chapter of the book I'm writing froze in place. I think one of them tried to run off the page and out of the chapter.
   "Did you hear me?" she asked. She knew damn well I heard her. My brow was furrowed as I tried to figure out not why I was in trouble, but which thing I was in trouble for doing or not doing. (Married men everywhere are nodding in silent understanding.)
   "Is the heat on?" I asked. Repeating the question often buys one time to toss a distracting object and flee the room. "Why do you ask?"
   "Because I'm freezing on top because the air conditioner is aimed at me, and my left side is hot!"
    I came up with a brilliant stalling tactic while my mind whirled. I said, "Uhhhhhhhh."
    "David, the heat is on!"
    "It's an experiment."
    "What kind of experiment?"
    "Weather? The air conditioner is on and the heat is on."
    "I'm trying to make it..." I ran down the stairs. "Rain!"

I couldn't get it to rain. But I did start a storm!

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