The one big downside to my parents coming home (although I am sure there will be others in the time they're here) is that they want the heat on. Up to 70 degrees. 70? I sometimes thought 65 was too hot, but they want it at 70.
That means that I have woken up the past two mornings almost sweating. It'll be a relief, in fact, to step out into the single-digit weather we have outside right now.
I've said this before and I'll say it again: I think Grandmother, when she was in this very room to sleep, was driven crazy by the decision to jack up the heat in here when it wasn't necessary. She couldn't complain, though, because she was old and she stayed in the house for free. But to think she couldn't do anything but endure this god-awful heat, for years? I'm not saying that she wasn't demented, or that that situation somehow contributed to her dementia. They were probably two different things. But to feel so alone under such oppressive conditions? This is fucking bullshit, tbh, and that Father just turned off the heat doesn't change that.
Nvm. The heat's back on. I'm outta here.
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