Enjoying the wonders of another Michigan winter—not

If there are t-t-t-typos in this column, it’s only because I’m writing this in my home office and the t-t-t-temperature is hovering somewhere around absolute zero.

Outside my window, the thermometer reads minus-five. From the way the fine-grained snow is pelting the frosted-over pane, I’d put the wind-chill factor at about two degrees colder than a gas company executive’s heart.

I feel like Bob Crachit, scratching away in the frigid offices of Scrooge & Marley. The only difference here is—I’m married to my Ebenezer Scrooge!

The Lovely Mrs. Taylor watches the thermostat like a teenage boy watches late-night commercials for 900 numbers. If the indoor temp reaches a point where I begin to regain feeling my fingers and toes, she turns it down.

In theory, she and I think alike on this topic. We’re both paying the heating bill, after all, and heaven knows there are things I would rather spend my money on than the extravagant depletion of fossil fuels. Keeping that boiler in the basement fed is no different—in my mind—from just burning cash!

But like I said, we only agree on this in theory. In real life, on a day like this, I would merrily toss one-hundred-dollar bills into the fireplace one after the other if that were the only way I had to keep warm.

Mrs. Taylor on the other hand, is stalwart and steadfast. When she makes a vow to keep the thermostat turned down, she follows through. She is WWII England—she will never surrender. I am WWII France—run up the white flag and give me a bottle of Chateau Lafite, already! Preferably in a warm café with a just-baked baguette and some fresh-churned butter.

A big part of the problem is that the indoor temperature of our lovely, 100-year-old home differs only slightly from the outdoor temperature. It was built when heat meant coal, and coal was cheap. The house’s original furnace also burned wood, available everywhere to anyone willing to wield a saw.

Likewise, storm windows were not a priority to the home’s builder. Nor insulation.

Don’t get me wrong, I love this house. But it has more holes in it than Blackburn, Lancashire (according to John Lennon, 4,000). I don’t know if there are enough holes in this place to fill the Albert Hall, but it’s got to be close.

And cold air is, at this moment, blowing in through every single one of them.

When Mrs. T left for the office this morning, I promised her I wouldn’t turn up the heat. I know our last utility bill had more digits than Bobo the Three-Armed Piano Player, but I can see my breath, man!

Call me a quitter, I don’t care. I’m heading downstairs to that thermostat. Vive la F-F-France!

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or offers for ten-day vacation packages to Tahiti, e-mail mtaylor325@gmail.com or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429. Miss a week? More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com/advancenewspapers.