December in Las Vegas presages the annual gladiatorial contest between me and my heater. I have just spent six months in 100+ heat so I am not ready for 50, 40 and 30 degree weather particularly while I am trying to go to sleep without worrying about falling asleep forever because it’s so goddamn cold IN my house.
I don’t know where the thermostat is getting it’s information. The cat who lives upstairs is enjoying a toasty 78.
Downstairs (YES I CLOSED THE VENTS) the dogs and I are huddled together like the crew of the Endurance.
My heater hates me. From morning to noon I sit in front of my computer dressed like I’m manning an Arctic outpost. At noon I leave the house to run and walk the dogs. I return home to find the heater running full blast, (like it knew I was gone). I exploit the opportunity to take a shower before the fingers of cold death reclaim the house.
The heater cuts out just before dinner as darkness rolls in reminding me of The Mist because I know last year’s scorpion population is creeping around the seams of my abode looking for a way in. Outside they cross the sidewalk in front of you like you’re in the way. I got stung three times last winter because the little buggers can climb up any surface. Nothing shocks you to consciousness like being stabbed.
I try to drink plenty of warm fluids but that just means I have to go to bathroom more and that just means undressing a little bit and sitting on a toilet seat that has the mean temperature of an ice cube tray.
I am getting bitter. It’s getting dark.
Santa – I have another complaint.
Comments