Thermostat reading this afternoon:
Thermostat reading this evening:
Somebody needs killin'...
Thursday, June 12, 2008
A/C Update
Something's terrbly wrong when the region's record temperatures are actually occuring inside your house.
Thermostat reading this afternoon:
Thermostat reading this evening:
Somebody needs killin'...
Thermostat reading this afternoon:
Thermostat reading this evening:
Somebody needs killin'...
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Terror at the Dog Park
"I've been shit on!"
Thinking I was hearing things, I turned to see Husband standing thirty yards away, under a patch of trees. The tree limbs sagged as a flood of grackles lit upon them. It was feasible that I heard correctly, however, something seemed off..
Husband remained rooted in place, staring at me plaintively. Then he took the hem of his shirt and began wiping his face with it. Hoping that it was just sweat from the 90+ temperature, I ran to him anyway.
"I've been shit on." Husband repeated calmly. "It hit my forehead, then down my nose, then on my chin." He continued angrily wiping his face and head, then glanced down at his soiled t-shirt. "I look like I've been working on cars all day," he grumbled.
Once per day I find another reason to admire my husband. This was today's incident. Had I been shit upon the face by a bird, I would have freaked the holy hell out, cut off my head, dropped it in a vat of boiling bleach and screamed for a portable shower.
"Let's walk over to the park," Husband said. Then he looked around. "Where are the dogs?"
In the excitement of the bird plop incident, all three of our dogs had disappeared. We weren't too worried because we were almost at the dog park but still...our dogs have a way of horrifying us and it usually happens when our guard is down.
Heading in the direction of the park, we began calling our dogs. One by one they materialized out of nowhere and joined our grand parade.
Running merrily ahead, Helicopter Butt spotted some potential dog friends and ran off to join them. Husband, Le Pooch Grande and Little Rabblerouser raced ahead to the field for a game of fetch. I moseyed along behind them, content to enjoy the breeze coming off the lake.
Twenty yards later I spotted Helicopter Butt. He had planted himself firmly between a couple who was sitting on a blanket, enjoying a picnic. Helicopter Butt started rooting around the picnic spread, obviously looking to steal food. Embarrassed by my dog's rudeness, I considered running over to intervene. Right then three other dogs joined the mix. "Serves them right for having a picnic in dog park." I thought to myself. "Who does that anyway?" Still, I picked up my speed as I headed towards Helicopter Butt.
Just as I got within ten feet of the blanket, Helicopter Butt lifted his leg and peed on their picnic. Horrified, the couple reared back, then swiveled their heads like periscopes as they looked for his owner.
And I? I kept walking, right on by.
Thinking I was hearing things, I turned to see Husband standing thirty yards away, under a patch of trees. The tree limbs sagged as a flood of grackles lit upon them. It was feasible that I heard correctly, however, something seemed off..
Husband remained rooted in place, staring at me plaintively. Then he took the hem of his shirt and began wiping his face with it. Hoping that it was just sweat from the 90+ temperature, I ran to him anyway.
"I've been shit on." Husband repeated calmly. "It hit my forehead, then down my nose, then on my chin." He continued angrily wiping his face and head, then glanced down at his soiled t-shirt. "I look like I've been working on cars all day," he grumbled.
Once per day I find another reason to admire my husband. This was today's incident. Had I been shit upon the face by a bird, I would have freaked the holy hell out, cut off my head, dropped it in a vat of boiling bleach and screamed for a portable shower.
"Let's walk over to the park," Husband said. Then he looked around. "Where are the dogs?"
In the excitement of the bird plop incident, all three of our dogs had disappeared. We weren't too worried because we were almost at the dog park but still...our dogs have a way of horrifying us and it usually happens when our guard is down.
Heading in the direction of the park, we began calling our dogs. One by one they materialized out of nowhere and joined our grand parade.
Running merrily ahead, Helicopter Butt spotted some potential dog friends and ran off to join them. Husband, Le Pooch Grande and Little Rabblerouser raced ahead to the field for a game of fetch. I moseyed along behind them, content to enjoy the breeze coming off the lake.
Twenty yards later I spotted Helicopter Butt. He had planted himself firmly between a couple who was sitting on a blanket, enjoying a picnic. Helicopter Butt started rooting around the picnic spread, obviously looking to steal food. Embarrassed by my dog's rudeness, I considered running over to intervene. Right then three other dogs joined the mix. "Serves them right for having a picnic in dog park." I thought to myself. "Who does that anyway?" Still, I picked up my speed as I headed towards Helicopter Butt.
Just as I got within ten feet of the blanket, Helicopter Butt lifted his leg and peed on their picnic. Horrified, the couple reared back, then swiveled their heads like periscopes as they looked for his owner.
And I? I kept walking, right on by.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
The Seven Day Forecast? 100 Degrees Every. Single. Day!
"...and the temperature went from 101 to 92 degrees after the rain showers so that's good news for those who needed a break from the heat."
"Break from the heat?" I asked the TV newscaster from my new permanent post in our sunroom. "Who are you kidding?"
I am bitter, of course. Ninety-two degrees is a break after the triple-digit temperatures we've been experiencing lately but I have a hard time seeing it that way due to the oven-like temperatures emanating from the second floor of our home.
Sunday night I started up the stairs to get ready for bed and was met with a wall of heat as I turned the corner on our landing. "What the...?" I asked myself as I hurried over to the upstairs thermostat. It read 78 degrees. "That's odd," I thought to myself, "I have it set to hold at 70 degrees (I can't sleep if it's over 70)--how can it be all the way up to 78?"
Then I remembered last Summer...
It was the day before our wedding, to be exact. We woke up to blue skies and birds singing and...a really hot first floor. Fortunately, we have two A/C units (one for each floor) so at least the sleeping floor was cool. There was no way I was going to sweat the night away on the eve of my wedding (not to mention that we had house guests). I set Husband-to-be on the arduous task of scheduling a repairman and thought nothing more about it. The next day the guy came and informed us that we had a broken compressor. "Yeah--I see this all the time with this model A/C unit," he told us. "Have you replaced the compressor on your other unit? If you haven't, you will soon!"
"Soon" came almost exactly one year later as I discovered this past Sunday. "Husband, come here!" I called. Husband walked over to the thermostat where I was standing. "See this?" I asked, indicating the temperature displayed on the thermostat. "This is a broken compressor problem. This is exactly what that technician warned us about last summer."
"No...it's definitely not the compressor." Husband replied, ever the all-knowing macho man. "I can hear air blowing and that wouldn't be happening if the compressor were broken."
Of course I argued with him for a while. As a field technician, I learned to quickly troubleshoot problems by identifying patterns. There was definitely a problem and it mirrored last year's broken compressor scenario. Husband grudgingly agreed to call the repairman the next day and we slept that night on top of the blankets and sheets.
The next day I was sick and slept most of the day away. I was feeling so bad that I called Husband at work and asked him to come home at 4 and wait for the repair guy because I couldn't get out of bed. He gallantly obliged.
Two repairmen came and spent over an hour looking at our A/C unit and compressor. I can't put my finger on why I felt this way, but at some point I got a vibe that they weren't very competent. At 6:15 pm they informed us that we had a faulty compressor and that they would need to order a new part. This was no problem since the upstairs was cooling partially--at least enough for us to sleep. We went about our night and thought nothing of it.
At midnight, I ascended the stairs, turned the corner on the landing and was met with a wave-like wall of heat that was stifling. I rushed over to the thermostat. It read 91 degrees.
"Holy crap!" I exclaimed. "Those bastards broke our A/C unit completely! No wonder they were in such a rush to get out of here!"
And so began our night of torment. We tried sleeping on top of the covers again, but it wasn't happening. Instead, we had one of those long, soul-searching conversations like the ones you have when you're first dating (it was fun!). At 2 am we relocated to the downstairs couch (Husband) and the sunroom couch (me). I tossed and turned but couldn't sleep for more than 20 minutes at a stretch (Husband slept just fine, thankfully). I needed my bed.
I mounted the stairs and braced myself for the heat. The thermostat read 85 degrees. I don't think I fell asleep, rather, I believe that I simply fainted for six hours. A least it was enough to get me through today.
I spent two hours this morning searching for a company that rents out portable A/C units but found none. Someone is missing out on a HUGE business opportunity. This is Texas, after all, and A/C units break all the time here. I called our A/C repair company and harassed them for a while. I even played the pregnancy card with the sweet, 20 year-old customer service rep which got me *nowhere* (she can't empathize--she's never been pregnant). Finally I resorted to making myself feel better by 1) leaving the house, and 2) complaining to anyone who would listen.
Tonight Husband is going to gallantly carry a mattress down the stairs (the thermostat now reads 92) and place it in the sunroom for me. Who knows how long it will be before the A/C unit gets fixed?
Of course, first thing tomorrow I will be busy harassing our repair company. I might even have to shed a pregnant tear or two.
Addendum:
Husband duly hauling The World's Thickest Mattress out to the sunroom.
My new sleeping quarters ala Princess and the Pea. I practically need a step ladder to mount the damn thing.
"Break from the heat?" I asked the TV newscaster from my new permanent post in our sunroom. "Who are you kidding?"
I am bitter, of course. Ninety-two degrees is a break after the triple-digit temperatures we've been experiencing lately but I have a hard time seeing it that way due to the oven-like temperatures emanating from the second floor of our home.
Sunday night I started up the stairs to get ready for bed and was met with a wall of heat as I turned the corner on our landing. "What the...?" I asked myself as I hurried over to the upstairs thermostat. It read 78 degrees. "That's odd," I thought to myself, "I have it set to hold at 70 degrees (I can't sleep if it's over 70)--how can it be all the way up to 78?"
Then I remembered last Summer...
It was the day before our wedding, to be exact. We woke up to blue skies and birds singing and...a really hot first floor. Fortunately, we have two A/C units (one for each floor) so at least the sleeping floor was cool. There was no way I was going to sweat the night away on the eve of my wedding (not to mention that we had house guests). I set Husband-to-be on the arduous task of scheduling a repairman and thought nothing more about it. The next day the guy came and informed us that we had a broken compressor. "Yeah--I see this all the time with this model A/C unit," he told us. "Have you replaced the compressor on your other unit? If you haven't, you will soon!"
"Soon" came almost exactly one year later as I discovered this past Sunday. "Husband, come here!" I called. Husband walked over to the thermostat where I was standing. "See this?" I asked, indicating the temperature displayed on the thermostat. "This is a broken compressor problem. This is exactly what that technician warned us about last summer."
"No...it's definitely not the compressor." Husband replied, ever the all-knowing macho man. "I can hear air blowing and that wouldn't be happening if the compressor were broken."
Of course I argued with him for a while. As a field technician, I learned to quickly troubleshoot problems by identifying patterns. There was definitely a problem and it mirrored last year's broken compressor scenario. Husband grudgingly agreed to call the repairman the next day and we slept that night on top of the blankets and sheets.
The next day I was sick and slept most of the day away. I was feeling so bad that I called Husband at work and asked him to come home at 4 and wait for the repair guy because I couldn't get out of bed. He gallantly obliged.
Two repairmen came and spent over an hour looking at our A/C unit and compressor. I can't put my finger on why I felt this way, but at some point I got a vibe that they weren't very competent. At 6:15 pm they informed us that we had a faulty compressor and that they would need to order a new part. This was no problem since the upstairs was cooling partially--at least enough for us to sleep. We went about our night and thought nothing of it.
At midnight, I ascended the stairs, turned the corner on the landing and was met with a wave-like wall of heat that was stifling. I rushed over to the thermostat. It read 91 degrees.
"Holy crap!" I exclaimed. "Those bastards broke our A/C unit completely! No wonder they were in such a rush to get out of here!"
And so began our night of torment. We tried sleeping on top of the covers again, but it wasn't happening. Instead, we had one of those long, soul-searching conversations like the ones you have when you're first dating (it was fun!). At 2 am we relocated to the downstairs couch (Husband) and the sunroom couch (me). I tossed and turned but couldn't sleep for more than 20 minutes at a stretch (Husband slept just fine, thankfully). I needed my bed.
I mounted the stairs and braced myself for the heat. The thermostat read 85 degrees. I don't think I fell asleep, rather, I believe that I simply fainted for six hours. A least it was enough to get me through today.
I spent two hours this morning searching for a company that rents out portable A/C units but found none. Someone is missing out on a HUGE business opportunity. This is Texas, after all, and A/C units break all the time here. I called our A/C repair company and harassed them for a while. I even played the pregnancy card with the sweet, 20 year-old customer service rep which got me *nowhere* (she can't empathize--she's never been pregnant). Finally I resorted to making myself feel better by 1) leaving the house, and 2) complaining to anyone who would listen.
Tonight Husband is going to gallantly carry a mattress down the stairs (the thermostat now reads 92) and place it in the sunroom for me. Who knows how long it will be before the A/C unit gets fixed?
Of course, first thing tomorrow I will be busy harassing our repair company. I might even have to shed a pregnant tear or two.
Addendum:
Husband duly hauling The World's Thickest Mattress out to the sunroom.
My new sleeping quarters ala Princess and the Pea. I practically need a step ladder to mount the damn thing.
Monday, June 9, 2008
Alas, I get to keep my head!
Why can't I be Anne Boleyn right now? If I were Anne Boleyn, I would have the most prestigious title in the land not to mention the affections of a gluttonous King Henry. Most importantly, I would be producing an heir.
That's right, Little Husband is indeed a Little Husband--we're having a BOY!!!!
I do believe that Husband stood four inches taller as we left the doctor's office this morning. Once in the car Husband turned to me and said, "I don't know if I want to give our son my name after all. I want him to feel like he is his own person, like he's got his own identity."
I must admit, this took the wind out of my sails a little. I really, really like Husband's name. Either way, I immediately decided to resort to trickery in order to get my way (much like Anne Boleyn).
"No problem," I told him, "How about 'River'? I always wanted a son named River!"
"Er...I was thinking something more along the lines of David or Steven." Husband replied, ever the diplomatic one.
"No--too boring (apparently I'm not diplomatic at all). We need something cool, something interesting. How about Colt? Durham? Ireland?" I could tell Husband was horrified as he shook his head "no" at my suggestions.
I intend to keep this tactic up until I get my way...
That's right, Little Husband is indeed a Little Husband--we're having a BOY!!!!
I do believe that Husband stood four inches taller as we left the doctor's office this morning. Once in the car Husband turned to me and said, "I don't know if I want to give our son my name after all. I want him to feel like he is his own person, like he's got his own identity."
I must admit, this took the wind out of my sails a little. I really, really like Husband's name. Either way, I immediately decided to resort to trickery in order to get my way (much like Anne Boleyn).
"No problem," I told him, "How about 'River'? I always wanted a son named River!"
"Er...I was thinking something more along the lines of David or Steven." Husband replied, ever the diplomatic one.
"No--too boring (apparently I'm not diplomatic at all). We need something cool, something interesting. How about Colt? Durham? Ireland?" I could tell Husband was horrified as he shook his head "no" at my suggestions.
I intend to keep this tactic up until I get my way...
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Little Husband/Little Acrobat
We had our 12 week sonogram on Wednesday and it turns out that Little Husband is quite the acrobat. He kept flipping his butt up in the air while the ultrasound tech was moving the wand around on my stomach. Here are some pictures. I think he's got Husband's jawline (I sure hope he doesn't have mine).
Here's one where he's getting ready to flip his little bottom up in the air. You can see his little flipper arms bracing for the push against the wall of my uterus. Perhaps that's why I feel so weird at times.
Here's one where he's either sucking his thumb (likely), waving at us (unlikely) or none of the above (very likely):
I can already tell that he's a very good boy and is going to be quite a little squirt. I can't wait to meet him!
Here's one where he's getting ready to flip his little bottom up in the air. You can see his little flipper arms bracing for the push against the wall of my uterus. Perhaps that's why I feel so weird at times.
Here's one where he's either sucking his thumb (likely), waving at us (unlikely) or none of the above (very likely):
I can already tell that he's a very good boy and is going to be quite a little squirt. I can't wait to meet him!
Monday, May 12, 2008
Of Dead Rats and Dirty Diapers
This past weekend Husband and I were delighted to have M2K2 and her wonderful family visit us for a few days. I think I'm in love. Not with M2K2 nor her husband, but with her two adorable children. I mean, these kids are flawlessly sweet. In fact, after spending time with this awesome family, the terror that Husband and I felt in regards to starting a family has dissipated greatly. Why are we so terrified? Gosh, I don't know. Perhaps it's a result of all those people who seem to take a perverse delight in telling us (in so many words) that our life is going to suck after the baby is born. Yes, people really say this sort of thing and yes, they really are this unoriginal. At this point, Husband and I just laugh when people say this stuff to us. What else can we possibly do?
The second night that the M2K2 family was in town, we took a drive down to SOCO to get some food. Both children needed a diaper change which, impressively, the husband half of this duo did with ease. At one point I saw him holding the soiled diapers in one hand while looking around (presumably) for a trash can. In the confusion of getting the kids strapped into the stroller, I lost track of what happened to the wet diapers.
The next day, M2K2 came over while her husband worked. We had to hang out for a few hours because The Bug Guy was scheduled to come over and remove any dead rats from the attic rat traps. Of course, I did not tell M2K2 why The Bug Guy was coming over, and, as I hoped, she never asked.
I escorted The Bug Guy upstairs and showed him attic #1. He opened the door and the dead rat smell hit us both at the same time. I dry heaved, then told him in a low voice, "Look, I'm pregnant and I don't think I can deal with dead rats or their smells. In addition, I definitely don't want my guests to get wind of the fact that you're hauling out a dead rat. So, would you mind just walking straight out the front door once you've got it in the trash bag?"
The Bug Guy smiled compassionately. "You've got it," he said, "I'll be completely discrete."
I made my way back downstairs where M2K2 was on the floor on front of the sofa playing with her kids. From her vantage point she could not readily see The Bug Guy hauling rats out of my house. My master plan was working.
I made small talk with M2K2 while I kept tabs on The Bug Guy's departure. Soon enough, I heard him coming down the stairs. Just then, much like a Wack-a-Mole, M2K2's head popped up over the side of the couch as she craned to see what he was carrying. Now, I don't think that M2K2 has ever been called stupid in her life and from the pained expression in her eyes, I knew that she knew exactly what was in that bag. She quickly shifted her gaze to me and I just shrugged. What else could I possibly do?
Since The Bug Guy had left, we were free to take the kids on a walk around my neighborhood. I went outside to setup the stroller and encountered The Bug Guy. He was standing next to his truck, not ten feet away from me, with the rat-bag on the ground next to him. I opened up the trunk of the car as the dead rat smell hit me again. Feeling a wave of nausea, I hurriedly pulled out the stroller.
And then I spotted the wet diapers from the evening prior.
Yep, lacking the convenience of an outdoor garbage receptacle, M2K2's husband was left with no choice but to stash the soiled diapers in the trunk of their rental car. It turns out that after several hours festering in the Texas heat, dirty diapers smell surprisingly similar to dead rats. I pulled the diapers out and threw them in our garage garbage cans.
Poor Husband has no idea what "that awful smell" is.
The second night that the M2K2 family was in town, we took a drive down to SOCO to get some food. Both children needed a diaper change which, impressively, the husband half of this duo did with ease. At one point I saw him holding the soiled diapers in one hand while looking around (presumably) for a trash can. In the confusion of getting the kids strapped into the stroller, I lost track of what happened to the wet diapers.
The next day, M2K2 came over while her husband worked. We had to hang out for a few hours because The Bug Guy was scheduled to come over and remove any dead rats from the attic rat traps. Of course, I did not tell M2K2 why The Bug Guy was coming over, and, as I hoped, she never asked.
I escorted The Bug Guy upstairs and showed him attic #1. He opened the door and the dead rat smell hit us both at the same time. I dry heaved, then told him in a low voice, "Look, I'm pregnant and I don't think I can deal with dead rats or their smells. In addition, I definitely don't want my guests to get wind of the fact that you're hauling out a dead rat. So, would you mind just walking straight out the front door once you've got it in the trash bag?"
The Bug Guy smiled compassionately. "You've got it," he said, "I'll be completely discrete."
I made my way back downstairs where M2K2 was on the floor on front of the sofa playing with her kids. From her vantage point she could not readily see The Bug Guy hauling rats out of my house. My master plan was working.
I made small talk with M2K2 while I kept tabs on The Bug Guy's departure. Soon enough, I heard him coming down the stairs. Just then, much like a Wack-a-Mole, M2K2's head popped up over the side of the couch as she craned to see what he was carrying. Now, I don't think that M2K2 has ever been called stupid in her life and from the pained expression in her eyes, I knew that she knew exactly what was in that bag. She quickly shifted her gaze to me and I just shrugged. What else could I possibly do?
Since The Bug Guy had left, we were free to take the kids on a walk around my neighborhood. I went outside to setup the stroller and encountered The Bug Guy. He was standing next to his truck, not ten feet away from me, with the rat-bag on the ground next to him. I opened up the trunk of the car as the dead rat smell hit me again. Feeling a wave of nausea, I hurriedly pulled out the stroller.
And then I spotted the wet diapers from the evening prior.
Yep, lacking the convenience of an outdoor garbage receptacle, M2K2's husband was left with no choice but to stash the soiled diapers in the trunk of their rental car. It turns out that after several hours festering in the Texas heat, dirty diapers smell surprisingly similar to dead rats. I pulled the diapers out and threw them in our garage garbage cans.
Poor Husband has no idea what "that awful smell" is.
More Proof That It's a Boy
Husband and I went to see my baby doctor today and the nurse told us that the Little Husband's heart is beating at 153 beats per minute. "What do you think you're having", she asked me.
"A boy." I responded without any hesitation.
"Yeah...me too." She said. "Don't tell the doctor I told you this, but girl babies' hearts usually beat in the 160 range. I think you're having a boy."
And there you have it.
Speaking of having things, I have an ultrasound scheduled for Wednesday morning. I'll post the pic when I get it.
Oh, I almost forgot to mention the most compelling piece of evidence that I am having a boy: the Bug Guy. He came last Friday to check the rat traps (more on that later) so I hung out at the bottom of the attic stairs, chatting him up while he worked. When I told him I am pregnant he told me that he is 100% accurate in predicting the sex of babies. He came down the stairs, took one look at me and declared, "Yep. You're having a boy."
No further proof needed. In fact, I probably don't even need that 20 week ultrasound. I'm going to go paint the nursery blue now.
"A boy." I responded without any hesitation.
"Yeah...me too." She said. "Don't tell the doctor I told you this, but girl babies' hearts usually beat in the 160 range. I think you're having a boy."
And there you have it.
Speaking of having things, I have an ultrasound scheduled for Wednesday morning. I'll post the pic when I get it.
Oh, I almost forgot to mention the most compelling piece of evidence that I am having a boy: the Bug Guy. He came last Friday to check the rat traps (more on that later) so I hung out at the bottom of the attic stairs, chatting him up while he worked. When I told him I am pregnant he told me that he is 100% accurate in predicting the sex of babies. He came down the stairs, took one look at me and declared, "Yep. You're having a boy."
No further proof needed. In fact, I probably don't even need that 20 week ultrasound. I'm going to go paint the nursery blue now.
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