Revenge is a dish best served cold (Shakespeare)

"Revenge is a dish best served cold", so says Shakespeare and a bunch of other folks.

Craig Johnson's first Walt Longmire novel's title reflects the same proverb.

Well.

Many of you will think I got revenge played upon me after last night.

Those of you who know me know I love snow. I have unashamedly taunted those of you who do not when we have been blessed by the white stuff.

Last night, you got your revenge, and it was cold.

Somehow the thermostat upstairs was bumped down to about fifty-eight degrees. Now, we like to sleep with it cool, about sixty-two.

It's amazing what four little degrees can do to your dream state.

I dreamt of snow all night long. Every dream my little mind could think up included snow.

I would wake up (sorta) knowing it was awfully cold in the bedroom, but wake up not enough to actually get up and investigate. At one point I remember thinking, "Lord, I hope the heat pump ain't finally bit the dust." (It's thirty years old.)

It was extremely difficult to get up at 6:30, but my bladder said I absolutely had to. And I forgot to look at the thermostat until I was back under the warm covers, so we froze another 2 hours.

Now, the bedroom that was mine all my growing up probably got a lot colder on occasion, as we did not have central heat. I've waked up to ice on the inside of the thin window panes many a morning. But that's been a while back. I've gotten soft, I reckon.

It was nice to go downstairs to a sixty-four degree atmosphere, which quickly heated up to sixty-seven. Hot coffee, warm flannel and a pair of thick socks did the trick to bringing me back to the reality that there was no snow in sight.

Sigh.