I am wearing a ski hat, uggs, wool socks, a chenille robe, pajama pants and gloves. No, I'm not dressed as a hobo or a crazed housewife for Halloween. I'm dressed as a woman with no heat. The heat is not turning on in our house and as I type, my fingers feel rigamortized with cold. Mike and I had to turn on the oven in the kitchen and while we ate our breakfast in matching Lakers beanie caps, we stood over the oven as if it were our lifeline.
Why don't we have heat? Well, because my sister in law is moving in downstairs with her fiance. We live in a duplex that's been in Mike's family for over 70 years. We spend last year working on our place (which we converted from a frathouse--a rotating crew of five different guys have lived here for the past eight years--to a place that has more than just a TV and a beat up couch in the living room) and now it's Jenna's turn downstairs. And aside from the fact that our lives are going to become one never ending episode of "Three's Company," there's also a huge construction zone downstairs to rework plumbing, redo the kitchen, the electrical, etc. None of this would bother me except for the fact that somehow, our heat was turned off and no one seems to know what to do about it. Not only that, but all of the construction guys seem defensive--"I didn't do it, maybe so and so did it."
What I love about household hiccups is that I always seem to expect that Mike will know how to fix things. He's a husband, right? Aren't they supposed to know how to do stuff like this?
When a girl gets married, she assumes that her husband will not only be there to love and cherish her, but also to kill cockroaches, drano sinks and the obvious--take out the trash. Needless to say, even though Mike's a pretty mean cockroach and fly killer, he has no idea how to fix the heat, but he certainly acts like he knows what the problem is. "The pilot light's off," he keeps saying. "They must have turned it off when they were working downstairs." "What are we going to do about it?" I ask. "The pilot light's off," he repeats. "OK...how do we get it to go back on?" I say again.
"We call someone," he says.
"OK..." I reply. Hoping that he'll say...
"I'll call someone," he chimes in.
"Good!" I say. Although I'm perfectly capable of "calling someone" (i'm not sure who--the gas co probably), it seems that Mike's just better at these things. He's the guy, right? No, he's not fixing carboraters or stripping the floors on a regular basis, but he's the husband and can certainly have someone fix that pilot light he's so familiar with...right?
PS--the gas co can't come until dec 7
PPS--I'm putting on another layer of socks...
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