When I got home last night I decided to do some more work in the back bathroom. To begin with I ripped out the carpet that was in the back hallway. On top of spilling paint on it, when I pulled out the tub the tub had scrunched up and tore the carpet to the point where I decided it would be better just to rip that sucker up. So I spent about an hour last night sweeping and ripping up nails and what not. It's all bare floorboards back there now. Looks like an abandoned house.
When I was done I was sweating. Sweating all over. It's that sneaky humidity. It does not feel overly hot, but once you start moving around the sweat turns on. I got bored with what I was doing and went in the house. But I would not stop sweating! I changed the shirt I was wearing and in a short time the second shirt I had put on was soaked through as well. It was fairly warm in my house. My window units work ok at keeping it cool, but they really take a good five hours or so to thoroughly cool off that part of the house. I leave them off all day to save electricity. On the weekends I leave them on all the time.
Finally, annoyed, I drew myself a cold bath. A real nut-shrinker. I soaked in there for about forty five minutes until I started to shiver, and then I got out and threw on some sweat pants. The house felt chilly now and my sweating had stopped. Problem solved.
http://www.happycow.net/health/walnuts.JPG
I hate sweating. However, I am a sweater, and that's not just because I am a big fat guy. I also hate people who do not sweat. They amaze me. I will be walking around downtown Orlando going from one bar to another in high humidity, my shirt starting to sag from the sweat. In front of me will be some folks with clearly a higher income than my own decked out in name brand clothes and bonsai-perfect hair styles and they won't be sweating. They look as crisp as a mannequin that had just been brought to life. Why? Why don't they sweat? I hate them.
Anyways, I made a chicken pot pie last night. It is going to be my lunch for the rest of the week. It came out excellent, as always. Here is my recipe.
Chicken
Family sized cream of chicken soup
Potatoes
Bag of frozen mixed veggies
Pie crust
Boil the chicken in water until it's cooked. Pull it out and chop into cubes. Boil or microwave the potatoes until they are cooked. Open the can of cream of chicken and dump it in a mixing bowl. Add the sliced chicken, sliced potatoes and frozen veggies. Add some seasoning like basil or parsley. Stir it all up in a big bowl. Get the read-made pie crust and spread it in a pie pan. Pour in the filling. Put the piecrust on top. Put a little butter or spray butter flavored pam on the top. Stick in the oven at 375 until crust is brown and potpie filling starts to boil out. Ta-da. Potpie. Mmm.
2026 Update
Dialing the machine back to July 2006, where Ed battles humidity, carpet staples, and a cold bath of his own making.
Ah, 2006. A simpler kingdom. Ed's whole cooling strategy is a window unit that needs five hours and a bathtub of water the temperature of a crypt. Now? I look around and everyone has a phone that tells their house to pre-cool, subscription air that hums from every vent, and dehumidifiers that whisper 'you're welcome' over the laminate. We don't rip carpet out of a hallway because of paint and a scrunched tub; we pay someone to install gray vinyl plank and then complain about the subfloor. The pot pie also dates you: a can of cream of chicken, a bag of frozen mixed vegetables, ready-made crust, a prayer. That was the entire internet age's idea of home cooking. These days the discourse is all about air fryers, sous-vide sticks, and absurdly priced artisanal pot pies delivered by an app. And the sweating? Ed, you demonized people who don't sweat, but they were never mannequins—they were just wearing 2006's expensive 'performance' fabrics. Now everyone glows, drips, and documents it.
“2006 Ed, why did you sit in a cold bath for forty-five minutes, shivering, instead of just leaving the window units on for five hours and paying the electric bill like a man? And be honest—did that pot pie actually last until Friday, or did you eat it all by Wednesday?” — Beelzebubba the Third
2006 Ed: Well, Beelzebubba, first off, you clearly ain't never experienced Florida humidity after pulling up wet carpet in a back hallway. Five hours of window units running means five hours of listening to that dang compressor rattle while my electric bill does its own impression of a rocket launch. I ain't made of money, and I got a mead brewing fund to protect. A cold bath is free, fast, and turns me into a human Popsicle for a solid hour. That’s victory. Also, “like a man”? Last I checked, sitting in a tub with my knees tucked up and shivering like a chihuahua is exactly what a man does when he’s too stubborn to pay for comfort. Now, the pot pie. Wednesday. I’m ashamed to admit it, but yes, Wednesday night. I told myself I’d ration it, then I got to thinking about how good the crust gets when you reheat it, and suddenly the whole pan was gone. Take that, self-control.
