I haven’t been cold since 1999. Until now.
Okay, you have to understand that I am totally illiterate when it comes to running things in our home. I don’t know, but I think when they passed out the technology gene, I was at the coffee shop. Anyway, somehow I missed it. Now, my husband, on the other hand, has the Midas touch when it comes to technology. If he so much as sneezes, the surround sound comes on. Shoot, if he claps his hands, he could light up the neighborhood. He’s just that kind of guy. I can’t run the stereo, the TV, the DVD player or the VCR. Forget the telephone, the cell phone, the lights. And the furnace? No clue.
He installed a new thermostat. One that he programs. Uh-huh. He set it to 62 at night, which is fine, we have lots of warm blankets. But yesterday, he leaves for work and about an hour into my morning, I realize I’m cold. Now you have to understand something here. These days, I’m NEVER cold. I stand in a snow bank and it melts. So when I’m cold, there’s something severely wrong. As in, call 911.
So, I wrap my blanket around me, grab my coffee mug and slug my way over to the thermostat to investigate. You got it. It’s still programmed at 62.
My husband teaches in the mornings, and I can’t reach him by phone. I figure I could be an ice sculpture by lunch.
It’s in these moments, I grope for a bit of creativity. Unfortunately, that part of my brain is frozen. Nothing is coming to me. In fact, I’m still standing in front of the thermostat and my feet won’t move. Doggone it, I wish I’d brought some chocolate.
While I ponder my predicament, he calls me about another matter, and I’m able to find out how to turn up the temperature and all is well. He tries to tell me it’s because our furnace repair guy wiped out the programming. But you know what I think? I think he’s getting back at me for freezing him out during my hot flashes. You suspense writers out there, if you hear that I’ve frozen to death, look into it, will you?
As for the rest of you, I hope you're staying warm.