JamieStar

It�s cold here. The Keys lows dropped to the mid-40s the other night. A CrockPot of hot buttered rum was the only thing that kept Co-Host Kim and me alive during Tuesday night�s talk show. It really, really sucks. (What�s that whooshing noise? Oh, it�s the sound of readers all over the northern US wearing 17 pairs of socks giving my Florida-dwelling ass the finger. Gotcha.)

Neal and I still haven�t gotten a space heater. No, why would we do that? We wouldn�t want to be warm and comfortable, right? We suck.

It�s nice and toasty at work � except in the very much unheated bathrooms. Every time I peel my butt off of one of the frigid seats, it feels like a teething ring.

We�ve been coping at home at night by turning on the gas oven and leaving the door open, because we�re the poster children for fire safety, and by bundling up in a ton of extra blankets. A weird thing has been happening with that.

Miss Budina sleeps at the end of our bed sometimes, and more frequently lately. I assume she�s trying to keep warm, too. (Mini-story: The other night, I was fast asleep on my back with my legs about a foot apart. I didn�t know Miss Budina was curled up between my ankles, and when I went to curl up on my side, I put my feet together and summarily shoved the poor kitty right onto the floor. She slid right off the end of the bed like a fuzzy little bobsled. I felt so bad, but I giggled a little, too.) Since Neal and I usually sleep with just a sheet and maybe a thin blanket, Miss B isn�t used to the heavy stuff. The first night we broke it out, Neal and I were both awakened repeatedly by a strange, squeaky sound. We could tell it was coming from our lovable family pet, but we couldn�t tell what the hell she was doing. After a few times of shoving her and telling her to cut it the fuck out, whatever she was doing, I realized what I was hearing.

Me: �Neal!�

Neal: �What?�

Me: �You know what that noise is?�

Neal: �No, what?�

Me: �Our precious kitty is sharpening her teeth on the blanket.�

The little shit was using our source of warmth and comfort to gear up for alley cat battle. She�s like a little Braveheart, all preparing to take a stand.

By the way, she's on a diet. This, "I'm just a mangy, abandoned cat" act isn't cutting it anymore, since I walked into a room and spotted her lying on our kitchen chair, and her gut and ass pretty much covered the entire seat. I told her that wasn't the most flattering position for her and told Neal to stop feeding her that rich canned crap. He's finally weaning her from it - I swear, it was harder to change HIS habits than hers. She just gobbles up whatever.

Oop, time for work.