Yesterday our furnace went on strike. I kind of understand. If I had to work under similar conditions, I might go on strike, too. But my house is so cold we’ll soon need to use a windshield scraper on the TV screen.
When I was a kid (long before my parents remodeled their drafty old farmhouse) we could see our breath indoors on some winter mornings. Once in awhile there would be frost on my bedroom walls, giving my rose wallpaper that lovely “Touched by Lord Voldemort” look.
My parents’ strategy to keep me from becoming a teensicle was to put a portable kerosene heater in my room. I had to learn to fill it with this weird turkey-baster / hose device. Great! Heat! Not until I replaced my beefcake posters with a montage of Bon Jovi shots later in spring did I discover that my walls were covered with a frighteningly thick layer of soot.
Which partially explains why I sucked at sports in high school. How could I be the next Chris Evert with a raging case of Black Lung?
Another thing that happened yesterday: a good friend of mine (who happens to be a teacher) wrapped up an email to me with, “Well, gotta run. I just picked my nose so hard it’s bleeding.” Which is quite possibly the best email closing I've ever seen from an adult. Later that evening I co-facilitated a grant planning meeting with about 30 well-dressed strangers and thought of her line twice, which made me start laughing all stifled and panicky, like when you get the giggles in church.
Now I’m waiting for the furnace repair guy to show up, and I’ve got about 25 candles burning. (Because tiny flames scattered throughout the house seem like such a great and safe way to keep warm.) I hope he doesn’t think I’m trying to seduce him. I mean, candles AND snowpants? You can’t get much sexier than that.