Getting wood

I know with that title the picture is probably a let down. But first of all, get your mind out of the gutter. Second of all, this is a family blog. We don't deal in innuendo ("That's the way it is - love goes out the door when money comes innuendo!" - Groucho Marx), or bad language.

Unless of course I happen to be talking about the Traitor-In-Chief, and I say things like fuck Trump, Trump is a festering piece of shit and only one more day of that asshole Trump.

Then I make an exception.

So anyway, what with the weather plummeting at night to an inhuman, unbearable 65 degrees, the wife decided it was time to stop using the termite-free, easily available, brightly burning Duraflame logs we had on hand and start going back to what the original settlers used: wood.

That's why you're looking at a quarter cord of citrus and almond wood. Citrus wood is a softer wood that burns faster and hotter. Almond is a harder wood and burns slower and steadier. At least that's what they tell me. Being a city boy who grew up on the mean streets of West L.A., north of Wilshire, it's all the same to me. Wood is wood.

I know it looks like a lot of wood, and it is. Wood is measured in cords, and a full cord occupies a volume of 128 cubic feet when racked and well stowed. Just like my highschool girlfriend.

That much would last us several winters, so instead we wound up with a quarter cord by splitting a half cord with our neighbors. I'd say do the math, but I just did it for you. You're welcome.

Saturday morning a big old truck—not a saying, it was actually big and it was old—from The Woodshed (apparently the same people who name dog grooming places name firewood providers) double parked in front of our house. Two very nice, strong, hard-working and I'm sure underpaid gentlemen took our share of the wood off the truck, rolled it on a palate to our backyard and then hand carried it behind the garage where they neatly stacked it. We offered them cold Topo Chico, thanked them profusely and gave them both a nice tip.

Because if they didn't do it I would've had to, and honest labor just isn't in my wheelhouise.

Anyway, when night falls now we're all warm and cozy, stoking the fire and listening to the crackle of the logs. It's so nice I hardly even mind the fact we paid $275 for our share.

Because apparently while we can run out of wood, we always have money to burn.

Cool it

I love air conditioning. Which may explain why I like colder climates, like San Francisco, Portland and Seattle.

I think it's because I have a very low sweat point. Anything over 60 degrees, and people are trying to throw pennies in me and make a wish.

Anything over 70 degrees and I look like a real-life version of Albert Brooks in Broadcast News.

So of course, being a Los Angeles native and still living in southern California doesn't present me with a lot of opportunities to appreciate the cool weather. Or wear nice wool jackets. Sure there's the occasional plummet to 58 degrees, but you never know when that's coming which makes it hard to plan for.

One dream vacation of mine would be to stay a few nights in the Ice Hotel in Sweden. It's built in winter, melts in the summer and rebuilt the following winter.

The very definition of a seasonal business.

They have cool rooms like the one here, and warm rooms, which are in more permanent structures on the property. But no one goes there for the warm room.

I started this post talking about how I love air conditioning. To me, one of the greatest sensations is walking inside from a hot day into a freezing casino...er...building. I also like sliding under the bedsheets, pulling up the blanket and going to sleep in an ice-cold room.

Admittedly, it's not the most energy efficient way to live. But what I do is run my electricity at about 125% capacity. They when they ask everyone to conserve energy and cut back 20%, I dial it down to 105%. It's what I like to call a win-win.

Anyway, it's 70 degrees outside, 62 inside and a half hour before midnight. So I'm heading off to bed.

Right after I turn it down to 57.

Things I was wrong about: Butt heaters

This time, I think I've stumbled on to a series that, as my wife would be the first to point out (can I get an "Amen" from the husbands), will give me a limitless supply of material to drone on about.

Joining the already wildly popular series on this site like Don't Ask, Guilty Pleasures, Things I Love About Costco and What Took So Long is now Things I Was Wrong About.

First up, car butt heaters.

I used to laugh at people who raved about butt heaters in their car seats. After all, it's not like we live in Minnesota. It just seemed like a useless option no one needed, a waste of money and a car fire just waiting to happen.

That is, it seemed like that until I finally got a car that had them.

Suddenly, magically, I couldn't get enough of those frigid Southern California nights, you know, where the temperature plummets to around 58 degrees. With my driver's seat butt heater set on high, driving on chilly nights became a comfy, cozy ride that I wanted to go on for as long as possible. Especially since on my car, the heat also extends to the mid and lower back. Which, if you've never experienced it, is just a little bit of heaven on wheels.

As the seat warms up, so does my attitude behind the wheel. The asshats who text while they drive, the people not signaling when they turn or change lanes, drivers with the eternal turn signal or just plain slow drivers seem to bother me a little less when my butt is warm.

I'm pretty sure Einstein had a theory about that. Look it up.

So I'll just say it. I was wrong about butt heaters. It's one of those things, like remote controls and GPS navigation systems (by the way, watch for those items in future installments), I didn't know I couldn't live without.

Until I didn't have to.