I knew at some point it’d come back to me.

When sugar-mama told me back in the spring that she was thinking of applying for a new job, she said she had two that interested her, both within the same company. One was based in Atlanta and the other was located in Houston. We had talked about, maybe peripherally and only slightly seriously, the possibility of looking for our next move to be in Texas.  But really, either was fine to me.

I did tell her that Texas isn’t as close to her family in North Carolina and Virginia like Atlanta would be. And I pointed out that her BFF was near Atlanta and that’d be a reason worth looking into moving there.

Over the course of the next few weeks as she eased her way through the interview process (which I’m still extremely proud of; she rocks), I started thinking about what it’d be like moving down here.

While I have been an Atlanta Falcons fan since 1992 after the Bears canned Ditka, my only personal interaction with the city of Atlanta came in 1996 when I volunteered to work at the Olympics. That was one of the best months of my life, but it was no way to base my opinion on the area, people and quality of life.

So I did some of my own research. I looked at the sports scene, both pro and college. And I checked out city, restaurant, nightlife, housing, traffic, any review you can think of, just to see what it would be like. I missed living in a big city and this seemed like the perfect place.

And it pretty much is.

Sure, I’ve had to get my car fixed because the garbage in the highway that I ran over at 75 mph caused nearly $2,500 worth of damage, including needing to replace the radiator. And a car was stolen from our complex, actually from the guy in the townhouse next to us. Oh, and the cable issues with Charter suck and actually make me really, really, really wish I still had Time Warner. (Yes, Nebraskans, I am serious that this is how bad it is).

But the one thing I forgot to do–probably subconsciously on purpose, and yes, I wrote it that way purposely–was to check the weather report.

Fail.

Last night I had on the dinner list something that we haven’t had for a while and one of our favorite dishes. Chili. I got some good meat, beans, onions, tomatoes, a few ripe jalapenos (I love the way the guy on Food Network’s “Cookin with the Neelys” pronounces it like “jal-uh-pee-nose”… awesome).

Like usual, I wrote out the food list and did the shopping last week. I didn’t realize, or more correctly I didn’t remember I had to check the weather forecast in late October. It was a typical late fall 84 degrees yesterday. Humidity was 1,309 percent, give or take.

Perfect for winter food, right?

Shit.

Today it’s just as bad, and maybe a bit worse. I’ve had the doors open on the porch all day and it’s still humid as hell. I am truly glad I’m not as fat as I once was, because the last time I lived in the south, when I was in North Carolina for almost four years, I learned something: humidity is not fat’s friend.

I’ve been sweating buckets today and because our electric bill last month was one-quarter what it was the previous month when we actually ran the air conditioner, I refuse to turn it back on. I might be a pain to sugar-mama because I’m like that, being defiant against things like the weather. But I have to stand for something.

I just wish I would have remembered sooner what it feels like to be the jalapeno in the oven.