FOD (Fan of Death)

A wonderful thing happened last night. After a scorching day and night, we came home from a work outing at Fenway to an unbearably warm apartment and a panting Oscar. Even though it was approaching midnight, Mike bravely ventured down into the depths of our basement to bring out the trusty AC window unit. After some light wrangling, we were set to enjoy a summer of artificial coolant and lower sleeping temps. 

The wonderful thing? This annual event signals the end of FOD (Fan of Death). 

As Mike noted in a previous post, we are a couple that has exceedingly different opinions about comfortable room temperature. I like to be at 72 degrees. All the time. No matter the season. I’ll begrudgingly accept a few degrees higher or lower, but I won’t be happy about it. Mike, on the other hand, enjoys pushing his personal limits of temperature endurance. 

Like the winter when he was still living in Salem but spending quite a bit of time in Cambridge with Oscar and me. It turns out he never turned on the heat in his apartment. EVER. The one time he turned it on all season was when I stayed over and complained about seeing my breath. It was like a meat locker in there. Mike was happy as a clam. 

If I had my way I’d always have the heat at 72, but Mike starts to break out into hives if the thermostat is set about 65. So we compromise. And I wear a lot of unflattering sweatsuits and furry slippers with thick socks. But in the shoulder season, between heat and AC, comes the most contentious time of the year. It’s when Mike installs the big box fan, known affectionately as FOD, in the window right next to our bed. 

FOD is so aggressive it makes me feel like I’m in a wind tunnel. I wake up with chapped lips and a sore throat from sucking in air from what is essentially an industrial wind turbine. And it doesn’t matter how cold it is out. As long as FOD is installed, FOD is running. So it could be an arctic blast and Mike will turn to me, beaming, and say something like, “Oh, Honey, don’t you just love feeling the fresh night air while curled up snug in bed? Isn’t it delightful?”

No, Mike. I don’t like it. It makes me irrationally angry to be cold in my own bed. Trying in vain to read my Kindle without exposing any skin to the ruthless FOD. Wearing multiple sets of pajamas and a ski mask to brave the unyielding gusts of cold air from that damn fan. 

Plus, having FOD installed means that the window is without shades and it starts to get light in our bedroom at sunrise...which is approximately 4AM. Or at least it feels like it is. And then Oscar thinks that it is time for his breakfast and starts his mournful wailing, which eventually progresses to clawing insistently at me with his paws, and then licking my nose until I rouse myself from my breezy slumber to shuffle off to his food dish. 

But these dark times are behind us now. Thank the lord for freon and more reasonable sleeping conditions. Until the Fall, FOD.