Friday, October 07, 2005

The colors of fall

Every year around this time, the trees that line our lazy streets turn the most magnificent shades of Hawkeye gold, Flaming Carrot orange, and a gorgeous red that can be found on the buffed and de-calloused toes of just about any co-ed that goes in for a pedi at La James School of Beauty. It's simply breathtaking to drive to work, the grocery store, the laundromat.

But with these seasonal colors comes something else entirely: COLD. People, it got down in the low 30s last night. And guess who still doesn't have control over her heating and cooling? You got it. Me. As I was whipping up a big ol' pot of cabbage and potato soup last night, the sweatsuit I was wearing didn't quite keep me warm enough. Out came the space heater. Still not enough. So, as I have had to do in the past, I turned the oven on to 500 and let it permeate the air with blessed waves of heat and the smell of something I had forgotten.

By the time I went to bed, it had gotten up to *maybe* 64 degrees in my apartment. I turned off the oven, left the door open so the critters could enjoy the last tendrils of stinky warmth, and crawled into bed. I keep the door to my bedroom shut... otherwise, the cats arm wrestle on my abdomen or chew on my head. And I don't like that. Anyway, I had contemplated on sleeping in my usual attire (t-shirt and undies... socks if it's cold), but when I yawned and could see my breath, I decided that sleeping in a sweatsuit wasn't such a bad idea.

The morning dumptruck under my window at 4:30 this morning roused me enough to realize that it was downright freezing. Had I left a window open? Nope. Was the heat vent open? Yep. Was anything coming out? Yep... cold air. Being the morning person I am, I got all fetal and pulled the covers up over my head. Then I farted. Cabbage soup. Out comes the head. This turtle-esque maneuvering lasted about two hours when I finally couldn't take it anymore.

Like every morning, I got up, put on slippers, stretched, and went to the bathroom. I almost shrieked when my bare bottom hit the toilet seat. We're talking cooooold. I walked down the hallway, turned on the living room light, and checked the wall thermometer. It was FIFTY-EIGHT DEGREES in my apartment! So I did what anyone would do. I turned the oven back on, got the coffee going, then hiked down to the bar in my jammies to turn the heat up.

Yes. To turn the heat. Up. Instead, I had to turn it ON. To my fellow co-worker who worked the closing shift last night: thanks for that. And for leaving the fan turned on so that it blew NOT WARM air on me all night.

Am I going to miss my apartment? Take a guess. Hint: my favorite fall color is not the misty pale of my morning yawn.

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