It's late, the house is dark, and I came into the living room because I think it rather romantic to write by the glow of the fire and the Christmas lights. I am by no means a pyromaniac, but I LOVE fires; so long as they are in places where fires are supposed to be ie: fireplaces, wood burning stoves, etc. There's just something about the smell and the sound of wood crackling and popping, or in the case of my mom's house, the constant woosh of gas. It is rather convenient to turn a fire off and on as easily as turning on the light. PRESS. Instant ambience. However, my plans have been somewhat thwarted as the timer on the Christmas tree just went off, and if I'm not careful and hurry this up, the reindeer standing eerily at attention beside me and the mantel lights are going to wink into darkness as well. Then it will just be me and the fire which I sometimes want to crawl into for warmth.
I have to point out here that my mother keeps the temperature of her house hovering somewhere between 60 and 65 degrees during the winter. Which, to those of you who aren't accustomed to this, is freakin' cold. I sleep with a heating blanket left on all night, and I'm not a cold sleeper. My body often heats up like a little thermostat and I'm good to go, if not sweating bullets and having to kick off sheets. In this house, however, I find myself burrowing into my self-made little bear cave, trying to drown out the sounds of the infernal bonging desk clock on the other side of my wall. It chimes every fifteen minutes in varying degrees of length. Thankfully I'm usually asleep by the time midnight rolls around, otherwise I'd be launching my stuffed Rudolph through the sheetrock at it. Not exactly the job position he signed up for. And for the record, I sleep late here, not because I'm tired and lazy, but because I'm putting off the dreaded meeting with the chilly air as long as possible. The bathroom is really far away, and I don't have my ski coat nearby...
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