This morning when the elevator doors opened to our department’s floor, a wash of hot, sticky, lifeless air smacked me in the face, and I immediately broke into a full body sweat.

It’s only May.

Clearly, Houston, we have a problem.

There is no way in hell five women, one of them in the throes of menopause, will ever be able to hack the spring and summer months in this kind of heat.

Someone needs to fix this STAT!

A desperate phone call was made to the heating and cooling repair people.  I’m sure it apprised the appropriate men folk of five hot, miserable, bitchy women in trapped in distress.

(Enter the chivalrous HVAC repair technician clad, not in a cape, but in a short sleeve uniform with his name stitched on a patch over his heart.  I can’t say that I’ve ever owned such a costume of my own.  Never worked in a field which required a name patch.  I think that a name patch is a certificate which also grants you permission to wield power tools.  Kind of like a license to carry a weapon.)

I’ll admit that maintenance of any kind is well beyond my purview or area of expertise.  If I can’t fix something with one of three “tools”:  a butterknife, a roll of duct tape, or the heel of my shoe; then I’m admittedly outmatched. 

For example, I spent much of one morning with a co-worker trying to “fix” a wobbly table with: business cards, paperclips (used in lieu of rebar), and duct tape.  The business cards and paperclips were out of my tool comfort zone, thus our efforts failed.  Two men and a tool belt fixed our woes in about 18 seconds and a lifetime of shame.

Rather than try and climb into the duct work and give the air-blower-thing a once over, a man with proper tools and training did the job. Of course when his mission was accomplished, and the grunting and scratching had ceased; this nice, little fellow with the patch wanted a little “atta boy” from the ladies.  He opened his mouth and proudly detailed his work.  I think he made mention of “dropping a tranny” or trying to “use a 3-ton compressor for a 5-ton job.”  But he’s just a technician and it’s not his call.

I think that we were supposed to commend him for his work at this time, but “the ladies” just looked at each other like he was speaking in tongues.  You remember how Charlie Brown’s teacher spoke?  It was similar to that.

We mustered up a cute, sing songy, “Thaaaaaaank yooooooooou” through our dumbfounded expressions, just hoping it would be enough to get him to stop talking.  He wasn’t but a step outside of earshot we all said in unison, “What the —- did he just say?”

Silly men.  They never have anything important to say.  Now, where were we?

“Where did you get those shoes?  I LOVE them.  I could EAT them.”