Oh, and Also?

It's like 65 degrees out there today.


Soooo glad I caved and turned on the freakin' heat.

Oh, Man!

I forgot all about Hank. Or Henry. I forget which one was which. I also forgot all about both of their hammers.

But man, they sure didn't.

Bang bang bang bang...

I dreamt of pile-drivers on the Mississippi River last night.
 
Good thing I'm stocked up on the old Cafe DuMonde.

The Cave

Every year, I try to wait until November 1st to turn the heat on. Every year on October 1st, I think "This is going to be easy!" -- because every year on October 1st it's 75 degrees and there's only four weeks left -- and then every year, sometime before November 1st, I cave.

I'm prouder of myself this year, even though I lasted shorter ("lasted shorter" = the official House and I opposite of "lasted longer") than I have other years, because this year we were swinging without a net.

God, it's been so long since I've written anything about the AssVac, you don't even know that we're fireplaceless this year! Yeah, we are. Boo, hiss. But we've promised ourselves to trudge out in the snow and warm ourselves by the chimenea once or twice. And we're risking it on Christmas Day, come hell- or chimney-fire.

What happened there was this: nobody will sweep our chimney anymore. Because #1. it isn't lined (which has always been true), and #2. it is apparently just a bunch of dust held together by creosote on the inside (which has not). We found this out last year, when it was swept for the final time, and we talked about solutions. I wanted to get a clay liner put in and continue using it as a fireplace; Johnny wanted to put a woodstove in and use it to actually heat the house. So we discussed it. For which read: we did nothing. All year long. And then I caved.

I don't even remember what my logic was. I think it went something along the lines of: what the hell. The woodstove is important to him, everybody else seems to think it's a good idea, I might as well let him win this one. The exact same argument worked out so swimmingly when we bought the AssVac -- what could possibly go awry here?

But I did put my foot down and insist that, if we were going to do this, we were going to do it right. No drunkies from the pubby who know a guy whose father used to be a chimney sweep. This was our house we were fucking with. This was fire. We would get a pro.

(Actually, first I insisted that we get the fire inspector down here to tell us exactly what we had to do, but the fire inspector said the chimney was not his gig. He said the it fell under the jurisdiction of the building inspector, which I thought was odd, considering that -- according to every other person at town(ville) hall that I talk to -- it's not true. But never mind.)

I was supposed to line up a bunch of guys and get a bunch of quotes, but yeah right. I never freakin' do that. Instead I procrastinated and then brought Johnny with me to the fireplace store down the street. That dude tried to sell us a gas insert, wanted to "make double-sure we were completely, absolutely comfortable with the idea of burning (dum dum dummmmm) solid fuels inside our home." I said "You mean wood? Yeah, I'm okay with that. I wouldn't want to torch, like, plutonium or anything, but I'm cool with a chopped-up oak."

Anyway, we convinced him we were okay with specific tree-based fuels and he informed us that it was going to cost upwards of $6000 to put a woodstove in our fireplace -- oh, and by the way, we couldn't get one until February because there is currently a worldwide shortage of cast iron.

Ah. Now I see why you're pushy with the gas. Well, I still don't want that, dude, so phooey on youey.

The backup plan was supposed to be the old clay liner (which is what I wanted originally, if you recall). But by the time we totted up what that would cost, plus two cords of wood at fuel-shortage, late-season prices, all for what really amounts to little more than living-room light-show entertainment (and which actually makes my bedroom colder, because the thermostat is out by the fireplace thinking it's toasty warm and knocking off the heat) we just couldn't justify the (still more than two-months' salary) expense. But, like I said, we'll be tossing a twelve-pack in the snow and whooping it up a few times this coming winter. If you see us out there, stop on by!

Anyway, all this is to (very long-windedly) say that we haven't even had fires so far this October to keep our tootsies warm and skirt the letter of the no-heat-till-November law. And it's been cold. Only very recently, but still. I woke up the other morning and it was twenty-nine degrees! Outside, that is, but -- again -- still!

I didn't actually know what the inside temperature was until yesterday, because the battery died in the thermostat last April and I never got around to changing the old one out. This was not just procrastination on my part. It was meant to be my secret weapon against Johnny in the annual No-Heat-Till-November Wars. If he decided to go behind my back and turn it on -- like he always does -- he would be foiled! And I knew he wouldn't take it upon himself to change the battery. He never changes the roll of toilet paper or the kitchen sponge -- and it took him four and a half years to change the blown-out light in the refrigerator -- so come on. I was going to win this years November War for sure!

(And yes, I could have changed the light bulb sooner, but no, I didn't care that it was dark. Meant I didn't have to clean the fridge. And when he did eventually change the bulb, he cleaned the fridge. So I won that one, too. From what I hear, it was disgusting.)

Now, crap. Where was I? Oh! So when I saw the Weather Channel say it was 29 degrees outside -- and mind you this was after sunrise, so it must have been a few degrees colder overnight -- decided I'd better put some batteries in the thermostat so it would at least kick itself on if the inside temp dropped below 55. That wasn't cheating. That's just good homeowner-sense. With which I unquestionably burst.

But then of course we had no batteries, and naturally I forgot to buy them, and finally yesterday I found and robbed one out of this little itty-bitty flashlight that we've had for years and never used. So you just know Johnny will be looking for that flashlight tomorrow (don't tell him why it doesn't work; we'll see if he is capable of changing a battery or if this defect is congenital).

When I finally put the battery in the thermostat, it said the AssVac's internal temperature was 59 degrees.

And it stuck there.

And it stuck.

It was also stuck on a 24-hour clock. That was annoying until eventually I figured out how to change it, but this 59-degree thing was neither a setting or malfunction. It was a temperature. In my house. And it was cold.

Now, I know 59 degrees is not so cold on the outside. It's all a question of perspective. Let it be 59 in the sunshine and I'll run out there in my shirtsleeves. But slap it up there on the wall and it is bleak.

For two days I paraded up and down in front of the thermostat, willing it to say 60, or 61. Sometimes it worked, if I got up close and breathed real heavily I could sometimes tick it up to 62! But I can't say that had a noticeable effect on the overall climate of the house.

Finally, this afternoon, I was sitting at my desk wearing a t-shirt, two sweatshirts (one with a hood) and a cotton sweater, jeans (alas, no long johns) and a blanket on my lap -- drinking tea! -- and I was still cold enough not to be able to concentrate on my work. Johnny was moving heavy things around, so he was okay in a long-sleeved tee and flannel shirt (oh, by the way: I have no more drywall pieces in my back hallway! Someday soon I'll show you pictures!). The dumb boy cat had pulled the blankets back on the day bed in my office and made himself a little nest. And Sister was stalking around looking for somebody to kill, kill, kill! I tried to explain to her that maybe, if she slept somewhere other than next to the biggest window in the house (which is really supposed to be a sliding door, but never mind), she might actually be a whole degree or two warmer -- and anyway,  aren't cats supposed to be famous for finding the warmest spots? But she just snorted and sized up my carotid artery.

And so I caved.

I turned the thermostat to 62. I took off the cotton sweater. Sister is now sleeping in the guest bedroom on the brand-clean, folded sheets (to ensure they'll have to be washed again before I can put them back on the bed; and to teach me a little lesson in prompt housekeepery). Dodo was sitting on my lap until a minute ago, when he fell asleep and toppled off. And Johnny's at the pub.

But he swears he's on his way home any second.

I Guess the Answer Is No

I awoke this morning at 5:45 and I don’t even have to be at work till noon. I don’t work out anymore since I hurt my ankle, and I’ve given myself a vacation from the writing till the end of the year (not everybody knew that; now they do: Hi, Everybody!). I don’t have anything to do.

The only reason I was up so early is that the stupid radiator in the bedroom – now that it actually, finally gets hot – has a water hammer that it never had before. And I thought steam radiators did not get water hammers.

(Water Hammer, for the uninitiated, is that loud BANG that happens deep inside the pipes. The noise is made by water – hence the name; clever, eh? – and apparently it can cause damage over the long term. Yay.)

This one is not that loud, not yet. But, like I said, I thought steam systems didn’t get them.

In our last apartment we got water-hammer super-loud – loud enough to (seriously) wake the neighbors. And I didn’t care, because that’s the beauty of paying rent: not having to give a hoo about anything that’s not a direct threat to your life. That place had hot-water heat, and I was under the impression that the hammering was caused by air bubbles trapped in it.

I gather I was right as far as that went. Yay, me. But now I learn that hammers are also caused by water-bubbles caught in steam. I didn’t know that. Now I do. Yay, me.

I’m still confused about a lot of other things, however, steam-system-wise.

For example: I’ve been told by actual, honest-to-god plumbers (who had been called here, and were inches from getting paid for, this express purpose) that steam systems don’t need to be bled. That was years ago, when we were trying anything we could think of to get ourselves some freakin’ heat. But now that we’re warm I wonder: if one does not bleed the system, how does one get rid of water hammer?

Also, all those years when I was wearing hats and scarves and ski parkas to bed each night for six months of the year, lots of people told me I could regulate the system by dialing certain rooms down to lower levels and other rooms all the way up – thereby “forcing” the steam out to the desired radiator. It never worked, but once I set it that way I just left it, because at least it didn’t make things any worse.

Now I read that steam radiators are supposed to be either all the way on or all the way off. I read that terrible things will happen if I leave them in between. I’ve gone around now and turned them all up in the meantime, but which is it?

Except I haven’t technically turned all of them all the way up, because plus also? The other radiator in my bedroom? (There are two, the big one hammers and then there’s this little one.) If I turn the knob all the way to “open”? The entire knob-piece comes off in my hand.

See?

And then – it wasn’t on when I took this picture, but when it is on – hot steam shoots up through the hole and you have to push the piece back in like the Little Dutch Boy. The Little Dutch Boy, that is, with his hand-skin coming off in sheets.

Finally, there’s these air-vents, or air-valves, or steam-either thingmabobs.

I don’t know what to do with them. If I turn them to “open,” steam hisses out – which I’ve read should not be happening. But I’ve also read they should not be turned to “closed.”

What I need is a tutorial on this entire thing, but I am not calling the Kid back here (or his mysterious, supposed-father) and I don’t want to wind up paying somebody else to do nothing but walk in the house and fiddle with some knobs.

Johnny says I should call the gas company and see if they’ll send somebody out, but the last time they sent somebody out he showed up in a suit, with dollar signs where his eyes were supposed to be. Plus I’m flat-out tired of dealing with the farty old gas company.

I think what I’ll do is stop off at the plumbing-supply place on my way home this afternoon, see if I can’t get those air-valve screws I was looking for a month ago. I’ll ask those guys up there if they’ve got any pointers regarding this whole mess. And if they don’t, then I guess I’ll have to try my luck with national “lower case’ gridspan.

Of course, any pointers anybody wants to leave here for me would be appreciated. In fact, let’s turn it into a GAME – and let’s make up some rules. I can’t police it, but we’ll go on the honor system:

You’re not allowed to read anybody else’s comments before you post your own. Just tell me what you think, or what you heard, or what you found out when you googled, and then you can go back and see what other people had to offer.

Let’s see whether we come up with a list of corresponding advice I can trust – in which case I’m the stupid one, again – or if we get a list of contradictory ideas like I’ve come up with so far. In which case, I guess, that proves that I can read. And if we don’t get anything, then that proves nobody loves me after all.

(Oh come on, how can you not play after such a naked grab for the heartstrings?)

However it shakes down, I’ll turn the results somehow into a (hopefully) funny post.

So be warned.



Oh, and bonus points for anyone who wants to explain the title. This one should be easy…

Don't Jinx It

The Kid didn't come today.

And we didn't finally get an electrician, who didn't say he'd be here in the morning.

The chimney liner is not lying in the side yard as I type this, and the Kid didn't say he'd bring a friend with him tomorrow to put it in.

The inspector isn't scheduled to show up Tuesday afternoon, and Keyspan won't be here the next day to turn it on.

We won't have heat this winter, after all, it looks like.

T'ank god.

BOY Does The Kid Stay In The Picture!

First, Johnny and I fought about whether we ought to start lining up another plumber just in case.

Then the Kid called (this was at 2:30). Said he was okay, and could he come over now?

So then Johnny and I fought about whether or not it was a good idea to give him his 50% deposit on a Friday afternoon when he'd called in sick that morning and wouldn't be here in time to start the job. And why was he coming over right now anyway?

"To show us the proposal, talk to us about it, and get us to sign off on it," says Johnny. "It's what any good contractor does."

Sorry. Maybe I'd've know that if I'd ever hired one.

Still, I reserved judgment. But the Kid showed up. With a written proposal. He'll start tomorrow. Saturday. For about a thousand dollars less than we discussed.

Well, actually, it's the same price as we discussed, but it turns out to include the cost of the chimney liner and other materials -- pipes and things -- which we thought we were paying for ourselves. The $3500 price I posted the other day was my own estimate, adding on the costs of those things to the price he gave us, which we thought was just for labor.

I'm actually too embarassed to tell you the actual price -- if you know me, you know I'll probably get over that eventually -- but for now I will say this: Johnny and I just had a brief discussion about whether or not we were taking advantage of the Kid. We were gearing up to fight about it, but decided to let it go.

In the meantime, I've begun digging a spider-hole in the basement to throw the Kid in when he's done.

It puts the pipe wrench in the basket...

The Kid Goes To The Hospital

You didn't think this ordeal could possibly be over, did you?

I just got home from work. Johnny's here, because the new job doesn't kick in until next week. I'd left him at 8:30 with the first-half, up-front payment for the Kid, credit card instructions for Home Depot.

When I pulled up in front and saw no plumber-car here, I thought perhaps the two of them were shopping. But when Johnny met me at the door, my heart just sank.

"No plumber?" I asked him trepidatiously.

"He went to the emergency room."

I. Uh. You're kidding. I just. I feel like I've been botoxed: I can't move my face.

Okay, Erin, let's try to work up a modicum of concern for the Kid:

"Is he okay?"

"Yeah. His back. Did something. He called. At least he had the courtesy to call."

"He called from the emergency room?"

"Yes. No. I don't know where he was. He sounded rough, though, like he was really hurting."

"Well, I guess we have to start again, then. Look for plumber #12."

"Why?"

"Well, honey, if it's his back..."

"He said he really wants to do the job..."

I'm sure he does. And I really want to sneeze without crying. But sometimes a wonky back just gets the final word.

We'll see. We'll give him the weekend to let us know what's going on, and if we don't hear by Monday we'll go back to the board.

In the meantime, don't I owe somebody a verse or two...?

Positraction

Gary wrote:
What exactly is wrong with your sink? At this rate you could have bought a basic plumbing book for $19.99 and some supplies and been half done for less than $300.00. I'm no skilled plumber (trust me) but I know the going rate for a master plumber is around $30 an hour and I don't know of many jobs that take 20 hours unless it involves a re-plumbing of the entire house. A sewer line replacement will cost you $3000 but much of that is sucked up in equipment rental. Cost of materials is generally one third the cost of labor. What is so wrong that a plumber doesn't want to do the job? You might find that it is too small and they don't want to be bothered.

Hey Gary, love your "This Old Crack House" blog. You must be new to mine, though. Maybe I should nutshell this, for others of you who might be new to the saga of the AssVac...

We're not just fixing a leaky faucet, here. And -- although we're plenty stupid -- we're not so stupid as to entertain estimates of six thousand dollars for a job that's too small to be bothered. This has been going on since April, and I'd like to think that if it were that simple we'd be much more than half done by now. Like, almost three-quarters!

We're converting from oil to gas heat. We were thinking about it anyway, because oil is yucky, and when our furnace blew up last spring we decided that was a good indication it was time.

Here in Massachusetts, anyway, this job requires a licensed plumber (and even if it didn't, I'm not the girl you want playing with gas on the say-so of an instruction booklet). The cost of the job includes a furnace, hot water heater, and a chimney liner (any one of which will by itself cost well over $300), plus sundry other materiel. All together at least twice the cost of labor -- which will be at least two days for at least two guys.

And if you can get a licensed plumber in Massachusetts for thirty bucks an hour, I say put him on retainer or keep him tied up in your basement.

Anyway, I'm happy to report the Kid's staying in the picture.

$3500.

We have ourselves a plumber!


CONTEST ALERT:
Anybody want to explain the title of this post -- why I chose it, I mean? (For newbies: that means if you get it right I'll write a poem with your name in it and post it on the blog. You can even name the format. Come on, play!)

The Kid's Back In The Picture

He just called -- we were in the yard, so we didn't answer -- but he apologized for calling so late and left a number and said he had a price for us.

So let's call him back and see what it is...

The Kid's Out Of The Picture.

Well, maybe not, but he hasn't called yet. He promised he'd call today with a price, so he's running out of time.

In the meantime, we're on to Plumber #11. This guy says he'll do it for $300/day, plus $150/day for his helper (which will be Andy, who we know and trust and everything), plus material. Says it will be done in two days.

Taking materials into account, I'm guessing that sounds like around $3000. Even if you add an extra day for just-in-case, it's still better than Mr. $6000 -- who also said two days.

But #11 hasn't even looked at the job yet, and there's got to be some reason why everybody who looks at the job never comes back or calls again...

Oh yeah and PS -- Plumber # -- um, 7, I think -- is telling us again that he'll be out here tomorrow. Anybody wanna place a bet?

Have You Rehabilitated Yourself?

So I was thinking (I've been doing a lot of lying awake at night, lately), and I thought of two things:

1. Plumber #10 (I think from now on I'll call him Kid) did not drive himself here. I didn't realize it until he was leaving, but there was a big scary guy in the drivers seat waiting for him the whole time.

2. He said he hadn't done this kind of job "in a while" but he didn't say why not.

And then of course there is the spiderweb...

I wonder if he's fresh out of prison. I wonder what kind of crime a person could commit that they'd take away his driver's license but let him keep his plumbing one.

Maybe... littering?

I Think I Love You!

So what am I so afraid of?

Well, he has a spider web tattoo on his right elbow for one thing...

But otherwise I liked him. Johnny liked him. He was nice and he needs the work, and he thinks Sparky is dirty and creepy, just like we do.

What the hell: we all have embarassing tattoos we still sport proudly, don't we? Just some of us were smart enough to put them in places the general public will never see.

He's going to call us with a price tomorrow. He's going to let us buy what material we can for ourselves, so we won't be paying markup.

Something tells me he'll come in under six thousand dollars.

... I HAVE Come To Fix The Sink!

He's here. Johnny asked what took him so long and he muttered something that I didn't understand, but he's here.

He says this "Mark D---" who recommended him, lives down in the Plymouth/Carver area... which happens to be where Andy (remember Andy?) just bought his house.

I think I might know who Mark D--- is. I think he might be this little guy we know as "Sparky."

I'll find that out soon enough, but in the meantime -- if this kid lives in Plymouth, too -- then he's really not so very tardy after all...

... I've NOT Come To Fix The Sink!

Don't know where he was coming from, but according to caller ID Plumber #10 is in our area code -- which, here in Eastern Massachusetts, is not that big.

An hour and forty minutes later, he ain't here yet...

... I've Come To Fix The Sink!

The phone just rang. Caler ID showed some woman's name I didn't recognize, Johnny was up the pub. I was going to let the machine pick up, but then I heard the back door open, which meant Johnny was home, so I answered it.

"Hello?"

"Hello," a man said. "Could I speak to Erin, please?"

"This is."

"Oh. My name is -----. Mark D--- gave me your number. He said you need some plumbing done?"

Well I'll be dipped in shit and call me choc-o-pop, who the seven sisters is Mark D--?

"We do," I said, "but I don't know who Mark D-- is..."

"I don't know him very well myself." Okay well, that's a good sign I guess, that we were recommended to each other by somebody neither of us knows.

"Here," I went on, "why don't I let you speak to [here comes that magic word again] my husband."

Johnny doesn't know who Mark D-- is, either. But it turns out Plumber #9 doesn't want anything to do with us after all (Johnny saw #2 talking to him in the pub, so we suspect that either #2 told #9 that we were assholes, or else he said that this was his job and back off), so it can't hurt to talk to this guy, whoever the hell Mark D-- turns out to be.

So he's on his way over. Supposedly. Any minute now.

We'll see...

Where We Stand On The Heat Project

Plumber #1, um, died.

Plumber #2 kept making appointments to price the job, not showing up for them, and then calling at random hours when nobody was home and leaving messages saying he'd be here in half an hour and maybe we should just leave the back door open for him.

Plumber #3 never showed up (hey, let's give him the benefit of the doubt: maybe he died, too?).

Plumber #4 wanted $800 just to install an electric water heater, so he didn't get to price the big job.

Plumber #5 wore a suit and quoted $6000, which he would not break down.

Plumber #6 came to price the job, but never sent an estimate (again?).

Plumber #7 never showed up (jeez, another one?).

Now we're on plumber#8. We called him yesterday and he hasn't called back yet.

Can't say as I blame him much, considering how they seem to drop around here...

The "Plumber" Came

Well, let’s start by saying it’s a good thing we bought three cords of wood last fall, because it was 57 degrees in the house when we woke up this morning…

The “plumber” is in quotes because he wasn’t a plumber at all but a sales representative from a company affiliated with Keyspan. He had a briefcase and brochures and everything. I told him straight off that our furnace had expired so we definitely had to do this – or do something, anyway – but that we’d need some time to put the cash together. He said they offered financing but he couldn’t remember the percentages exactly. I said that was good to know, but we’d like a written estimate and time to think about it anyway. He said he didn’t have any paper with him on which to print a written estimate. I said had paper. He said no, this was special paper – with their letterhead on it and everything. Oh, well, letterhead. Yes, obviously I can see how my plain white sheets would be ass use to you.

He said he could just give me a price and mail the details later. Fine, I said, whatever. I don’t like you already but you’re here so let’s just do this.

I showed him the furnace. He gasped and said “What happened?” I started to explain about how the old lady never had it serviced, and how the company we’ve been paying had never really bothered either, but his eyes glazed over and started wandering around the basement, so I just let myself trail off.

Next he pointed to the pipes around the furnace and said “this” would have to go before he could let his guys do anything. Shit! I hadn’t even thought about asbestos! He more or less implied without actually saying that I could just go ahead and pull a few feet of it off myself, because he must have sensed somehow that I want to die just like my Grampy did of asbestosis.

He asked if we had gas in the house yet and I said yes, we cook with it – which I’d already told him on the phone. He found the gas line and followed it and said the meter must be outside here, by the kitchen.

No, I said, the meter’s right next to the chimney stack.

No, he said, here is where the pipe goes to the wall so the meter has to be right here.

I said no, I know for a fact the meter is right next to the chimney – that right there is where it goes up to the kitchen.

Well, he said.

Then he just let it go, in the manner of a person who knows he’s right but thinks the fight is not worth having. I went back upstairs to let him finish dorking around the basement on his own.

He did. Then he came up, measured all the radiators, and went out to his car to do the math, saying he’d be back in ten or fifteen minutes with a number. Just as he got back out of his car, though, Johnny came strolling in the yard.

This is odd. I drive Johnny to work in the morning and pick him up at night. It’s a half an hour from our house by car. How in hell was Johnny walking home?

Turns out he’d decided to be here to meet the plumber and had asked his boss to let him out early and to drop him home. But when they were nearly here, the bridge went up (I’d barely made it over myself – that freaking drawbridge is a whole other story on its own), so Johnny got out of the car to let his boss turn back, waited on the sidewalk and then walked the final mile. He effectively lost a half-day’s wages just to be here, and if he’d been two minutes later he’d’ve missed the guy.

He didn’t, though. Miss the guy. He met him coming out of his car – a car Johnny describes as “a brand-new shiny truck” – to present me with the price. First thing Johnny said to him was: “You’re dressed very clean for a contractor!”

The sales rep looked at him and said “You look like you’ve been working. I saw some tools in the basement – are you a plumber?”

“No,” Johnny explained, “we just have friends who are.”

Remember how I was saying the other day about how boys say things to each other that the rest of us can’t hear? Well, I suspect this whole exchange was Johnny’s way of saying he knew what was what and not to fuck him over. And it was the sales rep’s feeble attempt to convey a too-late measure of respect to a husband he had not expected to encounter.

After that, the rep spoke just to me.

Since we were outside anyway I pointed out the meter, exactly where I’d said it was, and the guy said yes indeed I surely did know that of which I spoke. So anyway, the number.

$4900. Not including actual equipment. So about six thousand bucks in all.

Two questions, I said: #1. How long from the time we call until you show up to do the work? And #2: How long will it take? A week, he said, and two days.

“Jaysus!” Johnny said. “Five grand for two days’ work? I’m in the wrong bleeding business!”

Much huffing then ensued, about permits and electricians and inspectors and materials, and Johnny saying he was only kidding, he was a working man himself and he understood these things.

The guy said – to me – that he would call on Monday and we could finance it and he’d order the parts and they’d get the ball good ahead and rolling.

You know what? I never thought I’d be annoyed when a contractor would choose to talk to me instead of to my husband.

So the guy left, and Johnny and I talked. The truth is that $6000 was not so terribly far off from what we had imagined, but maybe about half again what Johnny had (unbeknownst to me) already figured we could get it done for if we hired plumbers and electricians on our own. That’s a hassle I really hate to get into again, but I suppose we need to keep our $2000 more than I need to keep my peace of mined (that was a typo, but I’ve left it in because I like the implication).

But then, I was working out this morning (and let me tell you, there isn’t much greater motivation than a temperature of 59 and no hope of turning heat on) when suddenly I had a thought:

Why, exactly, are we doing this? Is gas heat really that much cheaper? We don’t plan on living here that long – certainly not past the time the fixed-rate runs out on our mortgage – can we actually expect to save that many thousand dollars in those few gambled years? Wouldn’t a new oil burner be more efficient than the old gunked-up one, anyway? What if we just didn’t bother with the whole changeover thing at all?

I don't know. But in the meantime, it is awfully cold in here, even with the fire going. Didn’t I once hear something about how drinking warms the blood…?

Bad News, Good News

I just got home and there is more bad news. I'm obviously not getting any work done this afternoon (sorry, Ms. M-C!), so I figure I might as well back up a bit and see if I can't find the funny. It's gotta be here somewhere, I just had it Saturday...

Last night Johnny and I stayed up way too late drinking way too many beers and watching Jesus Christ Superstar on some obscure cable network. We didn't watch much of the actual movie because we kept getting off on random and intense theological debates. We love to do this: he believes in the whole Apostolic kit and kaboodle, and me, well, I'm just morbidly fascinated with the entire business. He loves to try to stump me but I always pull it out, and he's constantly shocked at how much I know about it when it all means nothing to me. But that's what he doesn't understand: it doesn't mean nothing to me; I love it. I just don't Believe.

Anyway, so it was after twelve beers, eight nature-of-faith dilemmas, four hours of sleep and two packs of cigarettes worth of smoke in my hair that I had to go off to work without a shower. In what turned out to be 86 summery degrees. I sweated hops and nicotine all afternoon and came home to Andy (remember Andy?) passed out in the living room and Johnny with that manic grin he gets when he's trying hard to laugh away the pain.

"Do you want the good news or the bad news first?" he asked me. Bad. Always bad. Get it over with, like ripping off a band-aid.

"Boiler's dead. Kaput. Thhppp."

"No shower?"

"No shower."

Ew. And the good news?

"Andy," who collects junk even worse than Johnny does, "happened to have an electric water heater lying around." He hasn't given it to us, but he's lent it, and it's already in the basement. "He'll be by first thing in the morning to hook it up."

It means we don't have to buy the new furnace right away. We can take a couple months and save the money first, because we'll have hot water in the meantime. (If it gets to be, like, August and I haven't mentioned the new furnace yet, please remind me to get on the stick, okay?)

Johnny wanted me to go down and have a look at the new/used/not-really-ours water heater. I didn't think this was particularly necessary, considering I'm well aware of what a water heater looks like, but Johnny was in something of a fragile state so I went along.

The good news is the basement is still dry. It's a mess, but not a wet one.

The boiler, however, is messy and wet and just generally foul. It had been left at the time-of-death stage: top open, guts spewing out, all nasty and infected-looking in there. It's a Burnham. Pronounced "burn-'em." I'm just saying.

That Budweiser can is Johnny's. At least, I'm assuming that Budweiser can is Johnny's. Jack was here at eight o'clock in the morning for crying out loud. Then again, I smelled like a beer at eight o'clock this morning, so who am I to talk? Still do, in fact, and will again tomorrow. Anybody wanna hug?

(Jack still charged Johnny $80 to service the boiler, by the way, and Johnny paid him because he's the brother of a friend. But I'm having second thoughts about contracting him to do the changeover. If he charges $80 to not-fix it then I shudder to think what two days of actual work will end up costing. I mean, the hateful oil company only charged us $69 to not-service it -- but then again not-fixing is a bigger job. Plus, without him how will I ever get Keyspan to return my calls? )

So anyway while we're down there examining the soul of our old machine and the rust spots on our new one, Johnny suddenly looks up and sees a two-inch, black plastic crucifix, dangling on a bit of twisted coathanger from the pipe that feeds the boiler.

Jeez, what are you doing here?

We have to assume it's been there all along - we have to - and that we just never noticed it. But what we can't decide is whether he's supposed to be a comfort (telling us to hang in there, so to speak), or a warning (shape up or next time it's the -- what? Grass fires? Locusts? Frogs?).

Johnny just went out to pick up a pizza and tonight we're going to hash out this latest test-of-faith over the few beers in the fridge that escaped our clutches last night. Being a non-believer, I'm leaning more towards the Old Testament, wrathful, my-way-or-the-highway interpretation, whereas Johnny -- well, Johnny's still a little delicate, so for now he thinks it's laughing at us, but I'll go easy on him and he'll get his Good News thinking back tomorrow.

In the meantime, I'm not allowed to take the trinket down.

Gee, Thanks, Mean Joe!

Since our fuel bills for the season have now topped $2700 (that's right, we had another delivery since I last added up because it just refuses to be spring around here, ever, anymore), I figured Time magazine's “Global Warming Survival Guide” might be worth a look. I'd heard about it on the radio, it was supposed to be all about how to live more greenly. I’m not a particularly green-type person, generally, but I thought they might have some money- (oops, I mean planet-) saving tips for me.

I didn’t buy the magazine (see? I’m thinking greener and saving cash already) but I checked it out on line. And let me say, if you are ever putting a 51-point list up on the internet, by all means give each and every point a separate page. People like to click-and-wait, and who needs to see the whole thing in one shebang anyway? I guess they figured since they weren’t wasting paper they might's well go ahead and waste my time…

The items on the list break down into some basic categories. Time didn’t break them down – because then you might miss out on clicking through a dozen items that don’t interest you – but I will.

Of the 51 items on the list, six of them have to do with either building a completely new house or moving to an existing one that’s more efficient – even if that means moving to London. Right. London. Sure. Number six says, simply, “Ditch the Mansion.” Done. Got a not-so-mansion I wouldn’t mind unloading, either, if anybody out there’s interested.

Fifteen are so obvious I used to read about some of them in coloring books. Turn the lights off, ride the bus, don’t use the air conditioner (and, if you’re uncomfortable, remove your jacket. Oh, is that how that works?), recycle (duh!), carpool (double duh!). Number 48’s my favorite in this category: When you’re renting, rent a hybrid. Well, fine, except the article itself says that there are only seven cities in the world where you can do that. So I guess you’re supposed to rent your hybrid in New York and then drive it all the way to Sandusky, Ohio?

Five more are about getting governments to change the laws – from municipal to international levels. Number 27 has to do with international flight restrictions, and I can’t help but smart-ass this part: “Until we can travel by fireplace, Harry Potter-style, the only way to get from Los Angeles to London is by carbon-spewing jet airliner.” Well, no, actually. The only way to get there in one day is by carbon-spewing jet airliner. There are still such things as boats and trains, and cars and bikes and feet for that matter. And swimming, lots and lots of swimming...

Three are about carbon credit trading: international, intra-national and individual. Then there’s #42, “Pay for your carbon sins.” Basically you do whatever you want but give money to some institution so you don’t have to feel so bad about it. I think they used to do this all the time. I think they're called indulgences.

Four of them I just don’t understand, including this one: “19. Buy green power, at home or away.” It’s just too confusing to even think about. When I can’t get the local gas company to so much as return a phone call, am I really going to buy my electricity from some corporation out of state just because they swear there’s daisies in it?

Number twenty-five says support your local farmer, but then 46 says trees are actually bad (who knew?), except in the tropics. So do I buy my tomatoes down the street and my pears from Guatemala? How tall does a plant have to be to make it an official big bad tree? And if I’m really greening-up here, should I cut down all those silver maples in the yard?

Twenty-eight suggests you green your wedding. We eloped. Green enough for you? Today’s our anniversary, actually. Well, not really, but we’ve decided to celebrate on every Friday the 13th because we figure that when you accidentally choose such an inauspicious wedding day, you gotta cram in all the celebrations that you can before the luck runs out.

Some are impossible – don’t eat beef (tell it to my Irish husband), plant a bamboo fence (I live in Massachusetts), the whole corn/fuel thing (been there, done that) – and some are just plain stupid (#45. Only make right turns. Yeah I don’t think so. At the very least I’ve got to make that crucial left at Albuquerque…). And #31 just has to be a joke. Lipstick that grows flowers if you plant the empty tube? Gimme a break. How much does that cost? Some are so off-the-charts wack-a-doodle they could be Jerry Bruckheimer productions (mirrors in the atmosphere to reflect the sun’s rays off the earth? Fine, but who'll we send up to install them, Bruce Willis or Ben Affleck?). And the final idea, #51, just slam-dunks the stupid-cake: “Meditate. Consume less. Think more. Get to know your neighbors. Borrow when you need to and lend when asked.” Uh… okay? Or, um, rather…no? What I mean to say is … Huh?.

Only six, as far as I’m concerned, are actually helpful, possible, day-to-day regular suggestions – and most of these boil down to basic common sense. Wear used clothes (check), work closer to home (if you can. I’m workin’ on it. If all goes well, I’ll never have to leave the house), recycle fleece clothing (I didn't know you could. I don’t, in fact, own any fleece clothing because it is flat-out hideola, but if anyone else want me to recycle theirs, I’ll do it happily), use natural fertilizer instead of chemicals (we compost). And one thing I’ve never done but will is #16: Pay your bills online. Save all that paper, easy-peasy. Doesn’t save me any money, but I guess that’s not supposed to be the point here, is it?

Oh, and last but not least…

#30. Shut off your computer.

Okay.

Gimme Swelter

I read a thing in the paper the other day where a person was complaining that his landlord wouldn’t do anything about his $300/month heating bill. I snuffed at that and chalked it up to innocence, but then I was reading a book this morning (a very funny book, by the way, which conforms to my rules, called Julie and Julia) and the writer found a $200/month heating bill shocking – in New York, of all places.

So I totted up my season’s-worth of oil payments. I guess I was feeling a little too secure, what with the fact that the furnace has held through the winter after all, and none of us have perished from the chimney fumes.

But as it turned out, actually, it was much less than I’d feared. When you have to get deliveries two times a week there are an awful lot of bills to total up, and the stack itself was enough to send me through conniption fits. The number I came up with, though, was frankly underwhelming.

Ready?

$2448.30

Underwhelming? I don’t know. I thought so at first. But then I started walking backward in my mind…

I didn’t turn on the heat until November 1st, and it’s not yet April. So that’s 150 days we’re talking about. In other words, five hundred bucks a month.

Still, that doesn’t sound so bad, does it? I mean, I had a one-room studio back in the ’90s where I paid upwards of $300 for electric baseboard heat. And that was back then, before fuel went all '70s on us. Of course, I’ve long-since realized I was getting screwed on that one, too…

Besides, this was a record-setting mild winter. It was 50 degrees here (in Boston) until mid-January, and probably at least a quarter of the time since then. I've kept the heat set at a moderate 66 when it was very cold outside, and turned it down to 64 at other times. I had to chase Johnny around most evenings trying to pull a sweater over his head, but the automatic thermostat came in handy then – when he’d duck me and crank it up it would unobtrusively crank itself back down.

So. Twenty-five hundred dollars? Yuck.

See, this is why I’ve been trying to get Keyspan on the phone…