Halloween isn't officially here yet, but we Chicagoans have already busted out our gloves, scarves and in some cases hats.
Now, given my whole addiction to coats (and my belief that my fall wardrobe is by far my best) I'm usually down with this lovely season change. Even if you can't help but avoid that horrible feeling in the pit of your stomach that's a reminder that the total, unadulterated shittness that is Chicago winter is just around the corner.
But my autumnal funfest ground to an unhappy and unexpected halt on Tuesday when I broke my never-enforced rule of not turning heat on before November.
I came home from work after a particularly long and arduous day wanting nothing more than to pile on jammies, blast the heat, down a Benadryl, curl up under the covers and sleep away the previous 24 hours. My plan worked splendidly until I tried to turn on the furnace that heats my bedroom. (My octogenarian condo unit has two gas furnaces.) There was all kinds of air blowing. The issue was that none of it was hot. Or warm. Or tepid. In fact, it was down right cold. I let it run for an hour before I figured out I was just making myself colder and colder and threw in the towel (blanket?) and went to bed.
The lovely (and painfully expensive) HVAC man is coming tomorrow morning. Good thing I got paid today.