Sincerely Sire Newsletter-February 2002


  Okay, so, after 28 years of marriage (to each other) Roe and I are doing well. For sure, we’ve encountered our challenges along the way, foremost of which was raising two daughters, but, miraculously, we are still together and more in love today than ever before. In other words, everything is cool—so if everything is so cool, why is Roe so hot?

At first I thought maybe it was due to global warming, there’s been so much in the papers about it lately, but it’s not that hot is it? No, I don’t think it’s global warming that is the cause here, as a matter of fact, if anything, she is the cause of global warming. If there were a headline about Roe’s ignition it would read: ROE IS WARMING. It’s like living with a spent fuel rod.

We live a block from the beach in downtown Huntington and it can get pretty cold and damp, especially in the winter. But Roe is never cold. All she ever seems to say these days is: “Is it hot in here?” She has to ask because her own body is generating so much heat, she can’t tell what the actual room temperature is. She’d be perfectly at home in a meat locker—and she’d still be asking “Is it hot in here?”

Recently she has resorted to going upstairs to our bedroom, hours before we go to bed, and opening all the windows, which isn’t bad, but then she opens the balcony doors as well. This makes an additional portal into our bedroom about eight feet high by seven feet wide, with no screens to keep the bugs out. And it doesn’t matter how cold it is either. It can be 40 degrees outside with gale force winds blowing in off the Pacific and she’ll still open everything up so that it will be “cool” in our room when we go to bed; it’s kind of like sleeping in the tree out front. I tried to work with her on this, but I soon realized the reason I wasn’t sleeping at night was because I was FREEZING—she’s throwing the covers off her, mumbling about how hot it is, and I can’t feel my feet. I’ve gotten smart now though; I get extra blankets for my side of the bed and wear thick insulated socks as well.

There are benefits of course. Like a really low gas bill.

“Can I turn on the heat honey? I’m cold.”


And if I defy her, as I did the other night, it really gets scary. She had opened the balcony doors up as usual, but ignored the fact that I was in the shower. So when I was finished and stepped out into the bedroom, not only was it colder than a well-diggers shovel, I also found myself diving for cover dressed only in my birthday suit. This aggravated me, so I decided to strike back by shutting the balcony doors and setting the thermostat up on the central heating to 64 degrees.

Later that night, after freezing my nose off while watching TV with her downstairs, we went up to bed. As we entered our bedroom I was thinking everything was going to be okay because she didn’t complain about the balcony doors being shut. This was a good sign. But then, just as I was getting all cozy under my half a dozen blankets, the forced air heating unit cycled on. I cringed under the covers as I heard the gas burners fire up and then the rush of warm air through the heat register. Would she hear it? Please don’t let her . . . But, before I could complete the thought she had bolted up in bed—did you see The Exorcist?—and ripped off her one thin blanket and screeched, “What is that? What is that sound? IS THAT THE HEAT?! Did you turn on the heat!?  Did you turn on the heat?! Did you?! Did you?!”

“Yes, I did,” I replied defiantly. “So what? I live here too you know.”

I was trying to be tough; to be a man, but as I looked into those glowing pulsating eyes, I knew I was no match for whatever it was next to me. So I got out of bed, make that, I leaped out of bed, and ran down the stairs and turned off the heat yelling “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” all the way down.

Now, to be fair, she is hot. She is really going through it, or maybe I should say, it is really going through her. I actually feel kind of sorry for her (and me too). She describes it as a kind of a heat that begins deep in the center of her being and then it just emanates and explodes from the inside out. I sometimes hold her hand when she is going through one of these “episodes” and it is burning up. It’s kind of weird, and yet, from what I’ve heard, very normal too.

So, what am I going to do about my hot mama? I’ll tell you what I’m going to do—I’m going to buy a ski parka, shut up and stay out of her way until this thunder storm blows over, because, it’s not nice (or safe) to fool with mother nature.


Editors Note: And yes, unbelievably, I did get Roe’s permission to print this - - - but you would have enjoyed my original draft much more.

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