What Bridget Does When Mike Plays Kickball

Summers are generally fairly busy for us. It is the magical time in New England when the weather is bearable, there is daylight until 8pm, and Bostonians pretend to like each other. It makes up for those 15 months of miserable winter. 

Mike likes to spend a lot of this free time engaged in some type of athletic pursuit. Tonight, he is playing kickball (turns out I use the term “athletic” loosely). So on most Thursday nights this summer it is just me and Oscar, kicking back, shooting the breeze. I’m heating up a nice frozen meal. Oscar is playing with his rope. Life is good. And while we both miss Mike immensely, Oscar and I tend to look forward to these nights alone. 

Ok, I can’t speak for Oscar. He’s actually probably miserable right now. But I do know that for me, Thursday nights are a little slice of heaven. Why, you ask? Because it is the one night of the week that I get to watch terrible TV with reckless abandon. 

You see, Mike has no tolerance for reality TV of any sort. He is physically incapable of sitting through an episode of Real Housewives. But not only that, he is also physically incapable of being in the same apartment with me when I watch Real Housewives. 

Because Mike just doesn’t understand why I would waste hours of my precious day losing brain cells. He just can’t help himself from asking things like, “Sweetie, why do you watch this crap?” Or, “Princess, what could you possibly enjoy about these terrible women and their awful lives?” Or he simply looks at me with that look in his eye. The one that says, “I have very seriously misjudged this woman’s intelligence.” He tries to understand. He really does. But it takes a special type of person to really appreciate terrible TV. You could say I am extra special. 

So you can understand why for me to really enjoy bad TV, I have to be alone. It’s like binging. On these precious Thursday nights at home by myself I get to catch up with all my friends. My girl Bethenny, the crazy ladies from RHONY, the even crazier ladies of RHOC, and Kim and Kroy and Kim’s meth-head mom making sure they aren’t Tardy for the Wedding (seriously, worst show title ever). Don’t even get me started on those Kardashians. I could watch them for days. There is something about Kim’s plastic face that just fascinates me.

Basically, if it is on Bravo or E!, I’ll indulge in it. Pregnant in Heels? Check. Interior Therapy with Jeff Lewis? I’m on it. Miss Advised? Don’t mind if I do. Mrs. Eastwood & Company? Well, no. I have to draw the line somewhere. That show is unwatchable. 

Bad TV is my guilty pleasure. And I prefer to indulge in this pleasure in the company of my accepting pooch, Oscar. So this Thursday night I’m looking forward to hitting the couch, turning off my brain, and indulging in a freeze pop or twenty. 

Just don’t tell Mike. He things I’m listening to NPR and reading Book Four of Robert A. Caro’s The Years of Lyndon Johnson while solving a sudoku puzzle and doing pushups.   

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. 

I ... Smell ... Something

It hit me as soon as I walked through the door. My nose was immediately on center stage. My nostrils flared, my neck craned, and I took a deep breath. It was a smell I knew and it was a smell I knew well. But what was it? I couldn't place it. It wasn't necessarily a bad smell or a good smell. But it was unique. It was a heavy and thick, too.

"Hun?" No reply.

Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. Where had I smelled this before? It wasn't too long ago and it was something that seemed very familiar. The kitchen! It must be the kitchen. But the stove was off. And the trash had a fresh bag. Nothing.

The smell grew a bit stronger. And now it was accompanied by a clicking sound. I moved to the bedroom. Hamper? No. Gym bag? Not pleasant, but no. What in the world ...? Then, I saw it out of the corner of my eye:

"You're kidding, right? There's no way the heat is on. Right?"

"But it's cold outside," said sweet, delicate Bridget, looking up from her blanket and her magazine.

"Again, you're joking, aren't you? It's June 5 for the love of God. No reasonable person would ..."

"It's my house, too," she yelled, now starting to chuckle.

Thankfully, mercifully, I won this round. I turned off the heat and it will stay off until October. Maybe November. But as I was turning the dial back to "sanity," I thought for a moment about the issue. And, really, seriously, is there anything more divisive for men and women? Men are hot. Women are cold. All the time. No exceptions.

So I ask you, readers, is there anything else that divides the sexes so consistently? We couldn't come up with anything, but welcome your insight.