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.

When Husbands LIE

As many of you know, moving to New York from the beautiful north coast of California was NOT my idea.  It wasn't on my agenda, on my radar, on my bucket list, or even something I occasionally flirted with while very, very drunk.  My ass was firmly planted in California.  I was born there and I'd be damned if I wasn't going to die there, too.


(I know I've said this before but California, Texas, and Alabama have state pride in SPADES.  Have you ever noticed that?  Ponder, ponder... I mean, I GET California and TEXAS being all, "California loooove and don't mess with Texas!"  But ALABAMA?  Yes, I GET that Skynard wrote a really cool song and all, but ya need more than that, yo.)  


Anyway, after all (some) of the drama passed after Dan made his announcement about quitting his job and "moving back home" (at which point I may or may not have pointed out that it was his home, not mine) he made a few statements that I stupidly took as gospel.  (Because really, why would I expect my husband, who was born and raised in northern New York, to know what he was talking about?  DUMB, Dani... DUMB.)


One of these statements was, "You'll love the weather!  Summers are warm but not hot..."


I'm going to stop right there.


I grew up in California's Central Valley, which isn't just hot in the summer, it's Africa Hot.  I know heat, y'all.  I've burned my hands on the steering wheel and my ass on the seat every time I climbed into a car between May and September.  I've swum in pool water that was warmer than the air because it had been so flaming hot for weeks and the water shortage forbade us from adding water to the pool.  I've had blisters on the bottoms of my feet because I was too stupid to wear shoes when running across the smoldering pavement to check the mail, and slept outside on a hammock in the backyard because the house was over 120 degrees and my mother, the AC Nazi, refused to turn on the air conditioner and sleeping outside was a matter of life or death.  (I firmly believe that statement to be true.  I think my mother was trying to kill us.)  


In other words, "hot" is not a foreign concept to me.


What is a foreign concept to me is "hot" that comes with a steam bath.  


The heat here is like being slapped in the face with a hot, wet towel.  I've never been much of a sweater (person who sweats, not garment with long sleeves that one wears to keep warm) but I'm so damp and moist (which is just as gross as it sounds) all the time that it takes me 20 minutes every morning just to put on my bra and panties because I have to spend so much time unsticking them from my legs and back just to pull them up, around, and hook.  


(Guess what Dan and I haven't been doing much of lately?  Dan:  "Mmmmmm baby... *snuggle snuggle*"  Me:  "If you can do this without touching me, fine.  But you need to be at least 12 inches away from me because the steam and heat from your body is making me sweat.  Actually, I'd prefer it if you were in another room entirely.  You're too hot.  Get away from me.")


I've been questioning Dan about how this "isn't too hot."  His response?  


Dan:   *apparently suffering from amnesia*  "It was never like this before."


Me:  *not buying it*


Dan: *protesting too much*  "I'm serious!  It's never been this hot and humid before!"


Me: *squinty eyed and pissed that he dragged me from California to the armpit of hell*


Dan:  *back-pedaling and changing his story* "At the most, we had this weather for maybe a week or two in August and the rest of the time it's 75-80 with no humidity."


Me:  *not convinced or pretending to be*


Dan:  "I'm serious!"


Me:  *mentally creating little Dan-shaped effigies that I may or may not burn during the waning moon*


Dan:  *thinking that if he says it often and sincerely enough I'll believe him* "Dani, I swear to GOD it wasn't like this when I moved to California."


Me:  *charting the moon phases and buying matches*


Keep talkin', dude... because according to the 10 day forecast, this heat isn't going anywhere.  And Dan accidentally let it slip that it's gonna stay this way through August.  When questioned as to how he would know that, since it's never been like this before, he seemed to be at a loss for words.


Sizzle.