When I came home from an extended shopping excursion, the temperature in the house was 62 and falling, and no air was being pumped through the vents at all. (Cpt: I recommend that you stay away from the store during peak hours between now and Thanksgiving, because we don't have bail money for when you are arrested for shoving a frozen turkey into the large, suburban butt of the thirtieth clueless shopper who blocks the aisle with her cart while contemplating her salad dressing purchase.)
It turns out that our brand new heat pump has pooped out (which caused several fuses to blow in the heating system) and the suspiciously cheerful repair dude says we need a whole new compressor to fix it. He says this almost never happens. (yay?) Then he says that this being a short holiday week, we probably shouldn't expect a replacement to come in until next week.
So the auxiliary furnace is on "emergency power," which means we're no doubt using lots of extra emergency electricity.
No, really. He was a repair dude, and he looked and acted like the Simpsons' Ned on Red Bull (Red Bull gives you angel wings). A little difficult to compute while shivering from the cold.
Note to the captain: told you.