Our house was a little cool today.

Let me repeat: cool, not cold.

Why?

Well, since you ask, we had to leave the front door open because of the workmen we had working on our bathroom.

My Dad, when he wasn't busy standing at the bathroom door telling the workers how to do their job, complained about the temperature all day long. I mean, aallll day long. Myself, I like a cool house, but that means nothing to my Dad.

"It's cold in here," he said.

"Dang, it's cold in here," he said, only he didn't use the word "dang."

"Are you cold? I sure am," he said, taking a stab at passive aggressiveness.

Yeah, I know, Dad. It's so cold Congress is keeping their hands in their own pockets.

And then he bellowed, "Hey! Where's my ice cream?"

Despite the chilly temperature, he wanted his servants to know he still expected to be catered to hand and foot.

My Dad. First, he complains about how cold it is, and then, in the next breath, he's demanding ice cream. Go figure.

Before you report me to the authorities, let me just tell you that my father has four or five sets of new sweats (myself, I have two, neither of which are new), several nice windbreakers (myself, I have none, but that's a fashion preference), new long pants (myself, I prefer jeans), on and on, but, no, when it's cold he chooses to wear shorts and a t-shirt. He could be wearing only his boxer shorts and a wife-beater, I guess. Thank God for small favors.

Finally, tired of no one acknowledging his complaints, my father went into his room to put on some appropriate clothing and a hunter's cap. He likes to wear them with the ear-flaps down. My Dad's never been hunting a day in his life, so I don't know where he got that Elmer Fudd hat.

"Where did pop get the hat?" enquiring minds wanted to know.

"I bought it for him," my wife answered.

"Were you being nice, or were you trying to get even with him for some reason?"

Let me tell you, for a woman she sure can hit pretty hard.

As I was rubbing my shoulder, I couldn't help but notice that my father was wearing a single glove. Single, as in one. Only one. Glove, that is. If gloves could go to a party, this one would have gone stag.

Against my better judgment, I had to know.

"Why are you wearing only one glove, Dad?" I asked him.

"Well, son," he explained, "I was watching the weather report on TV, and the weatherman said it was going to be sunny, but on the other hand it could get quite cold."

That didn't really happen, but it could have. Sometimes I worry that when he comes out wearing only his boxer shorts, we'll find him counting to eleven.

You know, my father can watch TV in his room, on his big-screen TV, sitting in his very comfortable soft leather recliner, turn on the very nice portable heater my wife bought him, and adjust it to whatever heat setting he wants, just as long as he doesn't burn down the house. But he would rather sit in the cold, cold great room and annoy everybody, the workers included.

My wife, saint that she is, bought him another portable heater.

"Did he reimburse you for it?" I asked her, knowing the answer. My father hasn't opened his wallet since he had it welded shut.

She just gave me The Look, lifting one eyebrow for good measure. A look and a gesture so devastating, I pray ISIS never gets ahold of it.

"That's what I thought," I said.

This portable heater she places near his feet. She even turned on the house heater for good measure.

Now I'm hot.

By the way, when the workers were finally done and handed me the bill, I could swear they doubled their rates to compensate themselves for having to put up with my Dad.

Hey, they only had to put up with him for one day.

I have to put up with him every day.