Either I'm crazy or my thermostat's been playing tricks on me. And I think we all know I'm not crazy.
I woke up yesterday evening from a power nap convinced we must have turned the heat off by accident because I couldn't feel my toes (although looking back, that may have been because the black and white tub of lard masquerading as our younger dog was curled up on my legs, cutting off the flow of blood to my extremities.)
I wrapped myself in a blanket, shuffled across the living room and squinted at the thermostat. It read 69 degrees.
"Hmm. It must just seem colder because I haven't been moving around," I thought to myself.
I rubbed my hands together, jogged in place for a few seconds, and then started to do some jumping jacks but had to stop abruptly when I accidentally kicked Bravo in the face. After about twenty minutes of kneeling next to him and assuring him in the sweetest, most non-abusive voice I could manage that he did not deserve to be kicked in the face, no matter how many times he peed on my carpet, he seemed to feel better, but I was back at square one. (For those of you who've never been there, it's really, really cold at square one.)
I could have sworn I heard the faintest chuckle coming from the corner where the thermostat is mounted, but the thought was driven from my mind when I remembered that we have a fireplace! I set about starting a fire, but no matter how many times I said out loud, "Honey, I'm cold," nothing happened. Then I remembered that Gary was out getting pizza because I didn't feel like making dinner or driving in the snow.
Defeated, I trudged into my room to construct a blanket fort under which I could change into warmer clothes. (This was to ensure the least possible exposure of my skin to the biting cold. Wouldn't want any unsightly teeth marks.) I put on sweatpants, a sweatshirt with the hood pulled up over my head, gloves, and those ridiculous slippers with the faux fur around the top and pom poms hanging off the front...and still! FREEZING. It was as if I could feel the frost starting to form on the surface of my brain - specifically localized in the region that regulates self control.
That was when I heard the laughing again, this time much more pronounced.
I stomped over to the thermostat and glared at its obnoxious little digital face, still obstinately stamped with 69° and the hint of a smile...and that was when I blacked out.
The next thing I remember is Gary shaking me awake.
"Sweetie...? Why are...all these wires pulled out of the wall? And where's the thermostat?"
I still don't know the answer to his questions. All I know is that there's a good deal of drywall caked under my fingernails, I have a strange plastic-y taste in my mouth, and I had no appetite by the time Gary made it home with the pizza.
On second thought...maybe I am crazy.