Hot house

As you already know if you slogged through the Timothy Trilogy, our car has no AC--but neither does our house. By opening our numerous windows each night and closing them first thing in the morning, the house's temperature stays reasonable, especially thanks to its thick (nearly 100-year-old) walls surrounded by several mature shade trees. But that's an average summer. With this summer's stretch of 100°+ days and no-lower-than-75° nights, we may as well have grown our tomatoes inside.

Since I'm always cold (my core temperature ranges between a cool 96° and 97°, giving me official reptile status) and I sit in a ridiculously over–air-conditioned office all day after teaching in a ridiculously over–air-conditioned classroom, I am happy to shed my sweatshirt layer and relax in the heat at home. If I do feel warm, our portable floor fan sufficiently cools me down.

Not so for Josh. He's a heater (I haven't checked his core temperature, but I'm pretty sure he could boil water if he held it in his hands long enough). And when he's not working from home all day, he's on a set where any AC to be had is turned off during every shot because it's too noisy. The other day, Josh made the sad realization that this condition would never change: "I just realized that no matter how well I do, I'll never work somewhere cool." Here's hoping they invent stealth air conditioners, honey.

So the above picture is of poor Josh in our hot house. Oh--and if you've called lately and he's been snippy, try back in the fall. His mood improves considerably.