Better Living Through Technology

It's such a small thing. One wouldn't even think it would have that much of an impact. But it does.

It's probably the thing that has led to the most strife in the domestic bliss that is my marriage.

It's the thermostat.

They say that opposites attract, and that was certainly the case when she and I got together. Apparently, my wife's normal core temperature is equivalent to one of your smaller nuclear explosions, while I am basically a sleastack (a humanoid reptile for you non-Kroft fans). So a comfortable room temperature is the subject of much lively debate.

We've accepted the fact that neither one of us is going to convince the other by reasoned argument, so we've taken to waging a very passive-aggressive war. We conduct circumspect raids on the lever that regulates our environment, and just wait for the other to notice. At some point during the day, usually while she's crouching naked in the chest freezer, it will occur to her to check the thermostat. I, on the other hand, am usually oblivious until I can no longer blog because I have to scrape the frost off of the monitor, and my mittens make it impossible to type.

It makes for a fun day. She's hanging meat in the closet, and I'm raising orchids in the bathroom.

As you can imagine, it gets even better on long car trips. Hell, it's even fun on short drives. If we argue over the correct temperature for the palatial Cat estate (Bad Manors), it gets exponentially more strident when we're sharing 18 square feet. The running joke is that if she's driving when we leave the grocery store, we don't have to rush to get the frozen foods home, whereas if I'm at the wheel, our dinner will be cooked by the time we get back.

Our children are somewhat schizophrenic when it comes to getting dressed in the mornings. We'll usually find them wearing shorts over their thermal underwear, or a bathing suit and earmuffs. It's kind of cute, actually.

At night, you'll find me buried under two blankets and a quilt, while Mrs. Cat is lagbolting a surplus wind-tunnel turbine over the hole she's chopped in the wall. Invariably, she'll snuggle up to me for a few seconds, then push away in disgust with a "Yuck! You're sweating on me!" At least, I think that's what she says. It's hard to hear over the turbine.

We were looking at new cars the other day, and while most people would ask about gas mileage, horsepower, or expected maintenance, our sole consideration was whether it had split temperature controls. One did, so I think we're going to go with the van.

We may have to sleep in it.