Wednesday, June 21, 2017

In Hot Water



They’re calling us sissies in the Sahara. Whiners in Wyoming. And in Florida, they’re throwing our words back in our faces. “But it’s a dry heat, you said!” 

I never said it’s better to stick your face in a four hundred degree oven rather than dangle it over a boiling pot of pasta water. I said they’re both miserable ways to spend the summer and you have to choose which kind of miserable you prefer.

Personally, I’d prefer the misery of having cabin fever in the Swiss Alps right about now.

I live in the Valley of the Sun, Arizona, sometimes called Phoenix, but other times simply called . . . well, I’m not actually allowed to use words like that. I’m not sure how we managed to corner the market on UV rays but I’m guessing it was some kind of political power play where the desert lost and Portland won. Sigh, Portland. I’d prefer the misery of a week of cold, Oregon rain right now, too.

Of course, I’d prefer that in December, as well, so that’s probably not a very good example.

So, here it is. Today is the longest day of the year—Summer Solstice. And in celebration, Mother Nature sent us a gift in the form of a high pressure air mass that confined the daytime heat here the way you trap a lobster in a soup pot. We hit 119 degrees yesterday at the official thermometer perch near our airport, but plenty of people in outlying areas watched the mercury top out at 123 just before their whole gauge exploded.

Every June I forget why I live here.

And here’s something I don’t remember dealing with while growing up in Phoenix. Don’t get me wrong. There were plenty of days with the temps running in the high teens. And I got my share of blistering sunburns trying to stay cool in the swimming pool. But I don’t remember ever needing to warn people about how hot our cold water was coming out of the faucet.

Maybe you’re a building contractor and this makes sense to you, and if it does would you please explain it to me—why do all the water lines in new construction homes here run through the attic? I used to wonder why they put evaporative coolers and A/C units on the roofs here in Arizona—arguably the hottest place for a repairman to have to charge you time and a half. No one builds a house that way anymore, so maybe unions are good for something after all.

Now it’s our water lines that are routed through the attic where they can turn cold water from a tepid seventy-eight degrees to a shocking one hundred five in less than three seconds. I know this personally because I tested every faucet in our house today and that’s what the thermometer showed.

I think that’s taking solar energy way too far.

I don’t even need to use the hot water line in our house. In the kitchen, I just put the pasta in the pot, turn on the handle for the cold, and by the time it fills up we have spaghetti al dente. Our water heaters last twice as long in Arizona as the national average because we just turn them off for the season the same time the snowbirds head home. And still, when my husband showers first, there’s a pretty good chance he’s gonna hear this loving wife yell from the master bath, “Hey! You used up all the cold water again!”

The main problem with this identity crisis with our tapwater is that we have grandchildren over sometimes. I have to keep reminding them to turn on the faucet the second they head in to the bathroom so the water will cool down enough for them to wash their tender, little hands a couple of minutes later without requiring a visit to the E.R.

Honest to Pete, I have no idea who is responsible for this temperature catastrophe or who to sue if any of us ever gets scalded by the cold water in this house. But the next time somebody in the Sahara thinks we’re not as tough as they are, I might have to throw some cold water in their face just to get their attention.

So, you there, up in Portland, if you ever get fed up with your wet, gloomy days and want to trade homes, you know where to find me—I’ll be standing here right next to the medicine cabinet where we keep the burn ointment and gauze. I'm telling you, it’s a good thing I married a firefighter.
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If only he knew where to find some cold water.

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