The Legend of Danook of the North

When Dan and I got together 10 years ago, my boys quickly gave him the nickname "Danook of the North." He was never cold and had a tendency to loudly proclaim his lack of body chill. If he went anywhere, no matter what the weather, he was in shorts, a sweatshirt, and some sandals. It was like cruising Walmart with Arctic Jesus... he walked on water and never seemed to get cold or wet. (Maybe he was more like Arctic Loud-mouth Jesus.)

Meanwhile, on the same given day, I would be ice cold, numb, and unable to feel my feet. The argument usually began when I would crank up the heater to 70 (I know... who does that, right? Who wants their house to be 70 degrees?) and Dan would immediately turn it down to 62.

I would huddle on the couch covered in seven layers of blankets, shivering and chattering and he would throw the windows open and inhale the hurricane force winds blowing into our house, swirling the 34 degree wind chill factor around our heads while he used words like, "BRACING!" and "INVIGORATING!" At the same time he would be calling the boys and I, who would all be clinging together for warmth like refugees abandoned on an ice flow, "A buncha PUSSIES."

Oh yeah, he was tough, our Danook. Tough and 100 lbs heavier than any given one of us but that was entirely beside the point. My scrawny kids and I were one giant goosebump while Dan worked up a sweat telling us stories about shoveling snow in his bare feet whilst growing up in the Snow Belt.

I would turn the heater up to 67, he would turn it down to 60. If (when) I complained about it, he would say, incredulously, "Dani! It's hot in here! You can't possibly be that cold!"

Even after placing my numb, white, icicles on his warm, fuzzy, belly to prove that I was, indeed, that cold (which he proved by screaming like a girl the second I touched him... yes, Dan, it is possible for me to be that cold) he would offer some lame suggestion like "Put on some gloves." (Because everyone wants to relax in their livingroom wearing gloves, a scarf, and a parka, right?)

Inevitably, smugly, and patronizingly (and annoyingly... did I mention annoyingly?), Dan would ask me: "What would you do if it was REALLY cold outside? You wouldn't be able to handle it in New York! Imagine 40 below and having to stand outside and scrape ice off your windshield..."

To which I would reply, " I don't have to worry about that, now, do I? If it was 40 below I would send YOUR ass out to scrape ice off my windshield. After all, YOU ARE DANOOK OF THE NORTH!! Or else I just wouldn't go anywhere. Seriously, dude. Duh."

And he would say, "What if you had to get to work and I wasn't there? Then what would you do, hmmmmm? What would you do if you had to work in 40 below weather?"

Me: "Ummmm... Not go? Where am I working in this mythical place where I'm scraping ice off of my windshield? Am I suddenly a manual laborer? I'll work indoors and have a garage and a personal assistant who'll scrape my ice for me, since we're making shit up that isn't going to happen..."

As it turns out, he got the last laugh because now apparently it IS going to potentially happen, since he dragged my native California ass to the frozen tundra of the Great White East.

Bastardo.

Anyway, it's been hot as BALLS (to quote my son, Brennan... when he was in Afghanistan, every time I sent him an email asking him how he was doing he responded by saying, "It's hot as BALLS here..." So I'm guessing that means it's really, really, really freaking hot) here this summer, which I assume is the Universe's little way of mocking me. ("Soooo... the little California girl was cooooold when it was 65 degrees? And she wanted it to be warrrrrrmmmmm? How about 95 with 1,237,948,564 percent humidity, hmmm? Warm enough for you? Bwaaahahahahaaaa!") and basically, I've been whining relentlessly since May. I don't think any part of my body has been dry for the past 5 months and quite frankly, it's sucked. Hard. Dan,on the other hand, has spent 5 months saying, "It's not THAT hot..."

Liar.

So something amazing happened yesterday... FALL CAME. It went from 80 degrees to 45 degrees, seemingly overnight. (Okay, it wasn't "seemingly overnight"... it actually was overnight. True story.) I have been so stinking happy about it that I've had all the windows wide open and have been inhaling cold, fresh air for the past 48 hours. My nose may be icy cold, I'm wearing 7 layers of clothes and am swaddled in blankets and my teeth chatter when I try to talk, but dammit... I'M NOT SWEATING. And I love it.

Meanwhile, Dan has suddenly turned into a little old Southern lady with the vapors fighting off a head cold.

Honestly. I'm like, "What the fuck? Where the hell is Danook of the North?"

He has been following me around closing windows, cranking up the heat, complaining that he's cold, and lying in bed with the covers pulled up to his neck shivering like a chihuahua in an ice storm. (Trust me when I say it's very difficult for a 260 lb man with a huge shaved head and a goatee to look pathetic while clutching a blanket up to his neck and trying to look like he's freezing. Rather than feeling sympathy, I have to fight the urge to dump ice water on him.)

Me: "Dan, the house is steaming up! It's at least 80 degrees in here! Crack a damn window!"

Dan: *through chattering teeth* "I'mmmm ffffffffreeeeezzzzzzziiiinnnnnggggg!"

Really? Really??

So after 10 years of freezing me to death in California, he's brought me to New York so he can cook me?

I smell a very large rat with a New York accent.