Our heater is out. Our furnace, that is. Last night when I was trying to get to sleep I got up and checked the thermostat. 65 Degrees. Yikes.
This morning hubby went to the basement and checked things out. He came upstairs shaking his head. [Have I mentioned he doesn’t talk much?] I said, “So, what’s the verdict?” He shrugged. “Cold.”
A little later when I was shivering and getting dressed into church clothes he said,”You probably better try to conserve as much heat as you can until we figure out what’s wrong.”
Ok, that was a pretty long sentence.
When I got home from Church there were two space heaters in the kitchen and front room. He was gone in search of snow for snowmobile riding. I checked the thermostat. 62 degrees. Hey, it’s 12 degrees outside, so I feel lucky.
Fortunately, last summer I bought two pair of polypropylene extreme cold-weather long johns [for camping] and some zero-degrees socks. I’ve got all that on under my trusty double-seamed pants and an old sweatshirt from lost and found.
Good to go.