My house has a set point, it seems.
When we are at home, our body heat (and the hot air coming from all of our collective mouths) brings the temp to a balmy 56 degrees.
You'd be blurry, too, if you were here.
I keep asking the kids if they are too cold, and they keep saying no. The Big Guy keeps saying yes. I am toasty warm in my scarf and t-shirt and sweatshirt. (And sometimes fingerless mittens.)
Apparently, the kids run
amok around so much, they keep themselves warm.
But this is their new favorite thing. (They learned this from the cat.)
No, really, it's perfectly fine for you to rearrange the furniture so you can sit right on top of the heat vent. We wouldn't want your stuffed animal to be cold.
We've got some winter-y weather going on (translation: it's blowing a gale out there, and The Big Guy will be grounded for a good week or so. The upshot to this is that hopefully the lobster price will go back up to $2.25. woo-hoo.). So we've compromised: the thermostat is now set to 60.