Last week, I selfishly used this column as therapy. I just wanted to whine about my terrible, horrible, no good, very bad weekend. What started as an earnest attempt to organize my kitchen turned into an all-nighter of clutter and chaos. Then I was awakened the next morning after three hours sleep by a malfunctioning smoke detector.
Little did I know, the fun was just getting started.
After convincing myself that the house was not, in fact, on fire, I spent Saturday organizing music files on my computer, because I am nothing if not a party animal.
But at 8 p.m., I got the chills. Remember the health problems I had earlier this winter? It all started with a kidney infection and me getting the chills. "Swell," I thought while grabbing a sweater and some cranberry juice. That's when my eye happened to catch the living room thermostat. It read 64 degrees. I had the chills, alright -- my heat was out.
I have no idea why, but I headed to the basement like I knew what I was doing. "Yep, that's a furnace," I said to myself, which is pretty much the extent of my HVAC knowledge. It wasn't on fire, so yay for that. I executed the only troubleshooting maneuver I was qualified to do: I turned it off and back on. No dice.
I called a couple 24-hour HVAC places, who were happy to come diagnose the problem for roughly 18% of my annual salary. I knew after-hours prices were steep, but man. If those poor Texans on the news could tough it out, I could, too. I bundled up and went to bed.
Sunday morning, I woke up to a 52 degree interior. Even the cats were looking at me like, "Ummm...?" Ergo, I did what you're NOT supposed to do -- I made a beeline for the kitchen, opened the (electric) oven, and set it to broil. In fact, as long as I was standing there monitoring it, I figured it'd be safe to turn on the stove burners, too.
I had made the beeline for the kitchen before making the morning pilgrimage to the bathroom, so I was standing in the kitchen doing a little jig that was half for warmth and half because I had to pee, so I hustled to the bathroom for a quick second.
The morning prior, I had indulged in a bowl of cereal. What I didn't know is that somewhere in the cereal-pouring process, a rogue Frosted Flake had absconded from my bowl and landed in the well of one of those stove burners. By the time I returned from the bathroom, the aforementioned Frosted Flake was on frosted fire. It was not "grrrrrreat."
It burned out in seconds, but not before setting off EVERY smoke detector in the house, including the dreaded one in my bedroom. Whoever installed that smoke detector is a sadist. I have vaulted ceilings, and it's on the weeee tippy top. Shutting it off involves an aerial escapade on a telescoping ladder that requires teamwork and a degree in physics just to open, let alone climb.
I only have one friend who I knew would be awake, and it's the same friend who helped with my kitchen not 24 hours earlier. If you know Dianna Saelens, give her a socially distant high-five and tell her how awesome she is. She arrived with space heaters, batteries, and the willingness to scale a two-story ladder without vomiting. I contributed the best way I knew how: bacon. I handled breakfast duty.
At one point, I noticed one of my poor cats scared out of her mind, heading behind the couch in a space she shouldn't be in. That's when the morning went from bad to worse to... indescribable.
I have three cats. Two are the geriatric sisters I've had for years. The third is the young feral I took in last year. It is NOT one big happy family. Bez, my grandma kitty with bad hips and bad kidneys, has long been the alpha of the house. She is NOT a fan of our young new tenant. But lately, things had been better. The new cat keeps to the basement, Bez patrols the main floor, and there's been less conflict.
When I pulled out the couch, I discovered why. I spend most of my time, especially this past year, camped out on the couch. Whether it's watching TV, working from home, or writing this column, it all happens here on this couch. Yet somehow, I've been sitting here completely oblivious that Granny Bez has been going behind the couch and using it as her own personal litterbox. For what appeared to be weeks.
I get paid to write, and I have no words. How it didn't make an unholy smell is beyond me. How my house wasn't declared a HAZMAT violation is beyond me. The noise I made upon discovering the hidden cache is beyond me. Why I'm even telling you all this is beyond me.
Two days later, it's all hopefully ancient history. The smoke detector got reset. Space heaters got fired up. My carpet got cleaned. On Monday, I paid a man $260 to walk downstairs, open my furnace, and push a button. My house has heat again. Thankfully, he showed me how to push said button next time it happens, so I'm counting that as PERSONAL GROWTH, people. There is no longer a path to get behind the couch and there are ample litterboxes on every floor.
Who knows, maybe there's a moral in here somewhere. Cats are terrible, except when they're not? Smoke detectors are terrible, except when they're not? Never barbecue breakfast cereal? Or the REAL moral, which is "everyone needs a Dianna." Were it not for her, I might be writing this column from a hotel room.
If there's a better moral hiding in all this, I'll let you find it. I'm going to bed.
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