I hesitate to mention the chill, knowing there are people who read this in Chicago and Michigan and other places where the caribou howl at the glaciers, or whatever goes on in those godforsaken hell holes, but yesterday I had to stay home and deal with the guys installing insulation in our house and it was freezing. It must have been in the low 40s, for god's sake. Since they were doing all sort of manly things in the garage with the duct work and what not, I couldn't turn on the furnace and instead huddled in the living room trying to read without removing my hands outside of the (tasteful) blanket I was wrapped in. Not easy. I wound up weeding in the yard just to warm up.
Damn, I hate paying for home improvements that are invisible, that don't wind up as something pretty. Don't bother ragging on me, I am perfectly happy being shallow. I know patching up the drafts will make our little homestead more comfortable, but it will do nothing towards reaching my ultimate goal of murmuring "The new Tony Duquette? Little me? Oh, don't be silly."
I was able to slip-cover a matching pair of houseboys, though, while I was stuck here, kicking around the house. It was nothing, really.