It's Two Degrees, Or Maybe Seven

     When I woke this morning, it was nine degrees outside, or perhaps three.  It depends on which device you ask.  The television is reading the lowest, so I'll go with that.

     The national map shows a wide swath of single-digit temperatures, from Kansas and the Dakotas though Maine.  Most of the upper South is at least within kissing distance of freezing and a drive from Chattanooga to Jacksonville this morning will net you at least three of the four seasons, from an overcoat to short sleeves. If you're not on a coastline (and south of Virginia or fronting the Pacific), it's pretty cold where you are.

     This may be winter's last big push.  Tomorrow, we're expecting a high in the low forties. I'm looking forward to it.

     Roseholme Cottage is still a balmy 66°F, though the dish cupboard is not nearly as warm and the floors, well, the floors are why we don't walk around barefoot.  Coffee cups can be prewarmed, but toes are better kept warm.  The cats are generally avoiding the floor, though Huck overcame his dislike to pursue efforts towards stealing my breakfast (two attempts this morning, both thwarted) and removing clothespins that hold the litter box liner (one attempt, unsuccessful) and a quick game of "chase and be chased" (two of each -- he escaped both times and caught me both times, and is quite proud of it).

     Hibernation still seems like a good idea, but I have checked the company handbook and there's no provision for it, so off I go.