IT'S TIME . . .

To learn how to use the heater in my place. It didn't occur to me until last night, when I woke up in the middle of the night freezing, that merely closing the windows wasn't enough to save me from hypothermia. Unfortunately, though my heating and cooling system is not complex ... I still don't know how to use it. I turned "heat" on, but I was afraid to turn up the temperature. First, I'm too much of a cheapskate to want to pay for heat. It's kind of like parking -- that should be free, and so should warmth. Second, I'm too afraid of turning the temperature up to, say, 80 degrees, and having some fuse somewhere blow up from the shock of being used for the first time in months. Third, I hate to imagine what the vents are blowing out into my face. Ick.

I know, I know. I'm paranoid. I read too much, books and newspapers and magazines. My imagination is unreal, as are my heat-induced allergies. One of these days, when I'm bundled head to toe with just my frostbitten nose visible, I'll realize that (1) I receive a paycheck; I can afford to pay for heat; and (2) I look like an ass strolling around my place dressed in three layers and wrapped in a fleece blanket. Until then, I live in abject fear of my own heating system ...

***

It's also time to do the warm-weather/cold-weather clothing switcharoo. I waited ALL SUMMER LONG to do this, for I simply adore cold-weather clothing. People -- I -- look better in cold-weather clothing. Clothing companies make more flattering cold-weather clothing. Fluffy fleece, warm and cozy wools, soft corduroys, heavy and comfortable jeans, big socks, sexy boots, snuggly coats, luxurious scarves, penguin-y mittens, and the wonder of layering. All this without the garish glare of neon, Miami Vice colors! What is there not to love?

I'll tell you what there is not to love: the lack of closet space. Now, I have no standing to complain. I have two enormous French door closets to myself. I have PLENTY of closet space. It's just that the damn cold-weather clothes are so THICK. Sigh for wool pile. Where once ten cotton or silk short-sleeve shirts lay, three wool turtleneck sweaters fight for space. Where once eight pairs of assorted types of shorts smooshed together, four pairs of corduroy pants lay like unhappy sardines. Every article of clothing has a home as of tonight ... getting them in and out of place, however, is going to be a big fat chore.

(On the other hand, I've emerged from my room with a big ol' bag of clothes to give away to charity. I have to say that I'm proud of myself: if I didn't wear it, it's leaving the premises, and that's a rule I have no problem sticking to. Which leaves me with two basic lessons: (1) don't go shopping for clothes anymore; OR (2) WEAR EVERYTHING SO YOU DON'T HAVE TO GIVE IT AWAY.)

***

ICK ICK ICK . . .

With the change in the weather, and a once-again busy schedule, at least until the end of October, I am caught once again in that purgatorious limbo known as On The Verge Of Catching A Big Cold. Is my throat sore? Maybe ... but maybe not. Do I have a fever? Maybe ... but maybe not. Can I digest food and keep it in? Maybe ... but maybe not. Am I experiencing body aches and chills? Maybe ... but maybe not. Am I nauseous? Maybe ... but maybe not. Is this allergies and not a head cold? Maybe ... but maybe not.

Zinc tablets make me taste foul things upon my tongue. Taking Nighttime Comtrex as a preventative measure seems vaguely drug-addict-y to me. (Is it 'preventative' or 'preventive'? Sigh, I'll never know.) Bundling up when it's still 68 degrees outside makes me feel utterly foolish and grandma-y. So I fight it and fight it and fight it, and eventually, when I get to Banana's wedding, I'll just kill it with alcohol. Ain't nothing in this world a Black Russian with Grey Goose can't cure ...