“In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer.”
– Albert Camus

Will someone please tell me which of the jealous domestic appliance gods we’ve angered recently so that we can sacrifice the appropriate item (sock to washing machine, milk to back of fridge, etc.) and get on with it?

Wednesday when I got home, I noticed it was a bit chilly but I had to quick turnabout to go pick up J. so I just adjusted the temperature and figured all would be well by the time we got back.

Foolish, foolish C..  You know the domestic gods hate you.  When we got home it was colder – our furnace had thrown up its hands in defeat and was slumped uselessly in its closet, clicking and wheezing occasionally but for all of our pleading, threatening, and dancing around cabalistic signs and fires…nothing.  The handyman was duly summoned.

I had to take off work as J. had class so I went home…and waited.  He was an hour late and then only stayed about 10 minutes, the ultimate underlying problem being that our furnace is from the Neolithic Age.  Our pilot light, clogged with the grime of ages, mastodon hairs, ash from Vesuvius, and soot from the Industrial Revolution, can’t stay lit very long.  The quick fix is a thorough cleaning – which the handyman advocated but was, of course, too busy to do that evening.  I smiled tightly, pulled out my diary, and briskly inquired when he would be available next.  He stuttered, “Saturday,” and I wrote it down firmly in dark, indelible strokes.

The real solution is, of course, and entirely new unit.  And since apparently we’re not the only people in our building to have our furnaces give out recently, I’m hoping the landlord will fork over the funds.  In the meantime we’re guarding our small, flickering light like Vestal Virgins and wearing sweatshirts to bed.