A Tirade About the Temperature Gradient Dynamics of my Living Space

I love my house. I’ve lived here all my life, and Living with the Livingstons has such a great ring to it that it could almost be the name for a Kardashian-esque reality tv show. (I hate myself for writing that. For the record, my only exposure to the Kardashians consists of my scant cardio time at the gym and the moments that I couldn’t avoid sharing eyespace with my college roommate freshman year).

Anyway, my house is great, apart from the fact that it is nearly uninhabitable FOR THE FOLLOWING REASON: it is always cold as a unicorn’s icy beard hairs. Now, I understand, in the delicate and naive, yet vaguely disinterested way that teenagers have regarding issues that won’t affect them for another three decades, that menopause is a rough time in the life of a woman. I understand that my mother is a glorious, life-giving, saintly specimen who means naught but well. Unfortunately, the woman has reached the age when bodies start to change. The awkward reverse-puberty plunged her into a sort of estrogen dark-age that was interrupted by what I can only assume were magnesium-flare-type volcanic eruptions of the soul and flesh that she tamely referred to as “hot flashes.” There was a time when she would drive with the windows down in December (In Maine, mind you) to keep cool as her body was, I again can only assume, baked in the satanic kiln of Hell itself. During this time, she liked to turn the heat down at night and then, slyly, not turn it back up during the day. Or ever. The temperature in our home slowly decreased until the entire family was creeping about like geriatric Iniuts, wrapped in blankets, shawls, curtains, God knows what. There might have even been a pashmina in the mix somewhere. I don’t know exactly what a pashmina is, but doubtless if I’d found one in those days I would’ve burritoed myself right up in there likety split. Our family huddled together like penguins while my mother gamboled about like a modest middle aged sunbather. And we accepted this. Because we, for all our faults, are kind, accepting people who like to make concessions for others.

The thing is, THAT WAS FOUR YEARS AGO. My mother hasn’t had a hot flash in straight up four years, and yet the house remains a relic from north of The Wall. I could be Ygritte the Wildling, wrapped in the furs of some sort of shaggy thing I assume she found already dead and skinned because I find those sorts of things depressing. But I don’t have a Jon Snow to sleep next to for warmth, and in the mornings when I wake up it feels like I’ve been bedded down next to FroZone for the last eight hours. The toilet seat is a nightmare. Getting out of the shower is like leaping to your death into a pool of invisible liquid nitrogen.

If I don’t blog for a while, it’s because I’m thawing. Or because I’ve forgotten I made a blog. Or because Mindy Kaling has come to adopt me. Fingers crossed for option C.


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