My dog is doing this devastatingly adorable thing right now where, while sitting on my lap, he tucks his little nose just under the side of my arm and snoozes.  I’d like to think it’s because he adores the shit out of me, but in reality it’s probably because the poor little bastard is freezing, given I haven’t broken down and turned on the heat yet.

“I wasn’t a white dog to begin with.  This is accumulated frost on my fur.”

It’s not that we can’t afford to run the heating.  It’s more that I’m just needlessly stubborn.  And also kind of a cheapskate asshole sometimes.  But mostly it’s that I’m a little bit of a sicko and I kind of enjoy the game of mental endurance involved.  It feels like an accomplishment to get through a slightly uncomfortably chilly day without turning up the heat.  My husband doesn’t share the same strange brand of masochism.  He would in fact prefer it if we kept the house at a tropical 78 degrees so that he could lollygag around, comfortably watching football in his undies.

I, however, find the cold motivating.

As in, I need to keep moving in order to stay warm.

Speaking of which, my toes are turning blue. I think it’s time to vacuum!