The temperature stayed in the 50s last night. As we were getting ready for bed, my husband says to me:
I hope spring is on the way now. I can't take much more winter.
me: You mean you can't take more than last week?
Dave: Yeah. It was brutal.
It was 80 degrees on Christmas, and then we had about three nights last week where the temperature got down into the 30s. Granted, our poor little heat pump is not really equipped for battling those numbers, and we've been running space heaters in the bedrooms for the past two weeks. But part of that decision is our extreme cheapness: Why heat the whole house to 75 degrees for the eight hours when we don't leave our bedrooms?
Dave can't stand the cold. Which is always amusing to me, since he grew up in Dearborn, Michigan. For anyone unfamiliar with that area, Dearborn is like Detroit's little brother, who's embarrassed because Detroit keeps getting arrested and borrowing money from his friends, so he pretends they're not related. It's kinda tough to convince his friends, though, since Detroit is still living in their parents' basement.
I don't really know where I'm going with this analogy.
But, since I lost my favorite hat on the Northwest line while we were in Chicago last month, I'm also in favor of no more freezing-type temperatures. Incidentally, if anyone sees a purple felt cloche hat with felt rosettes while you're on the Metra train, give me a call, will ya? That thing fit my little pin-head perfectly, so normal people probably couldn't get it on, anyway.