A grumpy Papa day

The problem with various people—family members, babysitters, friends, neighbors, well meaning church folk and handy fix-it people of all sorts—coming and going in your house is that they have very little regard for the sanctity of your thermostat.

When I came home Friday afternoon, the thermostat, which usually sits on 74 degrees during warm months, was on a frigid temperature—a numerical value I could not read.  We have one of those new fangled digital display jobs at Maison Bean, and I surmised that it needed to be replaced because the numbers had become increasingly hard to read.

So I clicked the red up arrow to make the air go off.  Fifteen minutes later, it was still running frigid.  I clicked the arrow up again.  And again a few minutes later.  Finally, I stabbed the arrow manically with my index finger until it went off.

And it didn’t come back on again despite the fact that I stabbed the blue down arrow with my index finger with much greater force than I had stabbed the red arrow.

At 11:30 that night I lay in a perimenopausal sweat sandwiched between Bean 1 and Bean 2.  Both little Beans radiated heat and were slumbering soundly.  Also slumbering soundly, although not softly, was Hyacinth, who was at the foot of the bed sawing sequoia logs.

I was in an inferno.

Finally, I got up, walked into the hallway and jabbed the blue arrow. 

Nothing.

So I did what any rational hot Bean would have done under the circumstances—I kicked the thermostat, which wasn’t very easy because it’s mounted high on the wall.  But it was late, and I was mad and wide awake, and I had nothing better to do.  And I wanted to see if I could kick that high.  When I kicked it, the cover sailed off across the hallway.

And there nestled among all of the little wires and copper bits were three double A batteries.  They were eight years old if they were a day.

Bingo!

This is why I was rummaging around in Papa’s desk at 11:45 p.m. looking for batteries.  Papa, who is a light sleeper, immediately yelled, “What the hell are you doing?!”

As soon as the batteries were replaced, the thermostat popped back on, reading 82 degrees.  I set it on 72 and fell sound asleep amid the slumbering little Beans and the bitch and got a good night’s sleep after all.

Unfortunately, Papa did not fare so well.  His insomnia kicked in and he tossed and turned all night long.  The next day he was unusually cantankerous, walking around like an old bear with indigestion and a bad bunion, mad at the world. 

Poor Rooster was so on edge that he had to take a nerve pill and go to bed.  I declared cocktail time an hour early.  Papa made himself a sangria and 10 minutes later, his humor was restored to normal.

It’s a good thing those batteries only need to be replaced every eight years.  I don’t know if I can handle another grumpy Papa day like that again anytime soon.