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So, ’round about 5 p.m., I get a call from The Lovely.

“Di, do you know anything about pilot lights?” she asks.

Normally, I would try to find some kind of amorous overtone in her voice, but I can tell by the slightly worried edge to it that she’s talking furnace — not, “C’mon, baby, light my fire.” So I grab my handy-dandy BBQ lighter and off I go.

Naturally, though, it ain’t the pilot light, and six phone calls later — one to the heating & air-conditioning place from which the furnace was purchased (well before closing time, mind you; nevertheless, the call went unanswered), one to the landlord’s sister (virtually no help whatsoever), the aforementioned call to yours truly, a call to my landlord requesting the name/number of the utility guy who handles such repairs at houses he rents, followed shortly by a call to that guy (who doesn’t pick up, so she leaves a message on voicemail) and a call to a guy who’s previously done some repair work on her washer and dryer.

Fortunately, my landlord’s Mr. Fix-It calls her back, pronto, and within 20 minutes he’s there, tinkering with the furnace and getting it in (somewhat) working order … but only for who knows how long, and he tells her he’ll be back to finish the job tomorrow.

In the meantime, I’m back here, digging my portable electric heater out of the depths of the closet in the back bedroom, just in case she needs it. And, of course, there’s always room in my little nest.

I mean, what the hell: It’s 15 degrees outside!

August 2020

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