I realize it's now in the sixties out there. However, earlier this morning, it most definitely was NOT. Since the theft of my electric blanket (by Buddy) I have been using my six blankets and a heating pad to keep me warm during the night. My thermostat isn't an instrument that I would call "calibrated." Not by any stretch of the imagination.
Uncalibrated things bother me. Deeply. Especially these new electronic thingamajiggers that are supposed to be better and more accurate. So when I tested it against my thermometer (that I verified as being accurate because with a thermometer and various phases of water you can do that) my thermometer did, in fact, tell me that the thermostat was reading several degrees high. Sixty-eight was not sixty-eight. It was a chilly sixty-five.
And I chortled with joy. Mainly because I had been telling the other constituents of Green Acres that something had to be wrong with the thermostat because we were huddling together in the Mud Hut like ten bears in the bed just for warmth. It was redonkulous. I was going to smother a child to death if this kept up.
The general response was, "Well, I'll be!" (read nonsensical countrified phraseology that serves no purpose whatsoever).
Has anything changed? No. And to top it off, the heating pad has an automatic shut off after an undetermined (give me time) period of time. So I fall asleep and then the heating pad shuts off and then I wake up and turn it back on. Wash. Rinse. Repeat. Do we fix these things out here? No, we do not, because there's already a solution, namely me getting up to turn it back on. There ya go. It's an entirely different mentality.
Sometimes I feel like I need a day (and night) in the city.