Two degrees

Winter or summer, it doesn’t matter. The office is too hot.

The facilities guy was in a few weeks ago and was setting the temperatures and I said, “sounds perfect,” but I knew that my perfect temperature is a good five degrees cooler than my co-workers prefer. They constantly mention how cold they are. One young co-worker wears a jacket or heavy sweater all day, every day and talks about her cold fingers. The manager has a personal heater in her office so she can be toasty warm at all times.

Winter has finally loosened its grip. The office heater warms the building to 72 degrees (22 degrees Celsius). The sun shining through the windows warms it an additional four degrees to 76 degrees at which point, the air conditioning kicks on.

Unless, of course, I walk by with my sweaty brow and and click the thermostat down two degrees. I think 70 degrees is okay. Still too warm but less likely to cause my hair to stick to the back of my neck. My chilly co-workers have caught on, though, so I must increase my stealth.

In general, though, it’s 75 degrees in the office and that’s just not cool.

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I dropped my husband and his friend off at the airport today. They’re flying to Houston to pick up a vehicle my husband is acquiring from the estate of his father. They’ll be home Thursday, I think.

On the way back, I stopped by IKEA and Trader Joe’s mainly because both places are too far to visit without advanced planning. We are in that sweet spot between icy roads and road construction which means we just contend with shockingly deep potholes on the roads and every other vehicle trying to beat you in a race to a lake somewhere.

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Did I mention the basement calamity? We had a blocked pipe and a minor flood from the drain near the washer. The guy who flipped this house and sold it to us had the basement carpeted with the carpet literally touching the edge of the drain so now it’s been ripped up and mitigated and the bare cement requires my attention. I need to pick out new flooring and honestly, I just don’t have time to deal with this. I need an assistant but I AM the assistant.

I accepted that new job on last fall with the idea that I’d have more time to myself but I failed to cut ties with my previous job and now I’m working fifty hours a week. I’ve never thought I was a work-a-holic but I’m starting to wonder.

With that, I’m signing off to go eat the heated-up chicken noodle soup I made yesterday and warmed up an hour ago and let sit in the microwave so long that I’m sure it’ll need reheating again.

Ta-ta for now.