Baby it's cold outside

I remember Dad on Saturday evenings, fiddling with the dials on the radio trying to catch the Ole Miss football games.  It was a long way from Oxford, Mississippi to Northeast Ohio and he was desperate to hear something.  It was also a long way from then to the 500 ESPN channels we have now.  He would alternately scream SHIT or HOTTY TODDY and looking back, I don't know if it was a commentary on the fragility of the signal or our team.  This was between the golden years  of Charlie Conerly and the second coming embodied in Archie Manning. (It was probably around the time that Charlie was making money as the first Marlboro Man. He was a handsome devil and looked good on a horse.)

I now feel Dad's pain.  One of the unexpected consequences of this ALS rodeo is the daily fight we have in the van.  I have never understood the heating/defrosting systems in automobiles. Its why I moved south for goodness sake so that I wouldn't have to mess with the damn things. For defrosting the windshield, I find my VISA card works just fine and I have always kept gloves handy so I wouldn't have to worry about about anything else. I have no problem with turning on the AC in the summer. You just hit a button and it's on.

Unfortuately, one ALS sympton is an out of whack metabolism. Pat runs hot and cold and it is NEVER conveniently. Rather than cold in the summer and hot in the winter, it's t'other way around.  So whenever we've started driving down the road in the van, he's having to tell me how to operate the heating system.  I end up mad because he's hard to understand now and he's frustrated and it quickly becomes one of those "Can this marriage be saved?" issues. Finally, I understood the problem.  

Somewhere near The Company Shop on a recent trip to church I screamed,

"I can't do analog! I'm a digital sort of person." 

 It made me feel better, even if Pat didn't get any warmer from that thought.