Holy nipple-cubes, Batman, it is effing COLD in here. It’s so cold it’s hard to type. Or maybe that’s just the carbon monoxide talking.
Jim insisted on turning off the thermostat because the basement is full of the smell of fuel oil and he works down there and something about carbon monoxide poisoning that I can’t really remember because I started thinking about how nice it would be to take a nap. But the upshot is that it’s 63 goddamn degrees in my house. I’ve got on my tall boots that smell like tires and seem to radiate their own heat, my warmest sweater, my panty hat, and am wrapped in a blanket, and I’m still cold. The cat keeps barking at me and looking at me pleadingly to just fix it.
I called the oil company to have them send out someone to take a look at the furnace, but I got the girl I’ve dubbed Paris Hilton, who can only be the owner’s relative (or possibly mistress) and possibly permanently damaged by carbon monoxide herself, because she’s so inept that nobody who came about that job the normal way would still be employed. The last time I called it was also a Friday afternoon, but it was snowing heavily and we had just run completely and unexpectedly out of oil. She told me that she would send someone out the next day & then hung up without taking my name, so I couldn’t really see how she would send anyone out to us at all, ever. So I called back and got the with-it but incredibly-put-upon-sounding (clearly for good reason) phone lady who took my name and sent someone out immediately because she had an actual grasp of the existential gravity of no oil on a Friday evening during a very windy snowstorm.
So anyway, Paris answered again this time & helpfully informed me that she’d send someone out today. She didn’t say approximately when or anything, she just casually doomed me to an afternoon of waiting and freezing to death in the Carbon Monoxide Caves of Doom. Fortunately with-it lady called back a little later to say that the repair guy is on his way, but I’m seriously trying desperately not to fall asleep between now and then, because Jim went off to the gym and I don’t want to be in a cryogenic coma when the furnace repair guy shows up.
So I’m keeping myself alive by writing this post, even though I keep hitting the wrong keys or accidentally typing the wrong words, and it’s taken me like four times too long to type this out than it should have. But that’s probably okay since the repair guy STILL isn’t here and the thermostat has dropped another degree since I started typing, and I’m seriously so fucking tired I could drop. If I fail, there will be a trail as to why that won’t implicate Jim and he can move on and remarry and not rot in prison for a homicide he didn’t commit. Although it’s also entirely possible this post isn’t even in English. Suddenly I think I understand what happened to that spam poster.
Between this, the toilet incident, and the fact that my thermostat fell off the wall and stopped heating the house in the middle of the night twice this week, I’m beginning to think I’m going to need an old priest and a young priest.