Yesterday was...eventful. My mom left on Friday afternoon and my friend, Amanda, spent the night on Friday night. I don't often have slumber parties on account of the whole marriage thing but my husband has been out of the country for eleven days. I haven't mentioned it because I didn't want to invite all the axe murders who read this blog over to slaughter us. You know, without my sword wielding husband around to protect us, anything could happen. What? You don't think axe murderers read my blog? Come on. I can think of at least one.
So...around noon we walked outside to say goodbye to Amanda and when I walked back in I smelled a strange odor. It smelled kind of like we owned a dirty hamster. To be honest, I didn't think too much about it. A few minutes later I walked downstairs and, as soon as I entered the basement I smelled an overwhelming natural gas stink. So I did what any sensible 28-year-old would do if her husband was halfway around the world. I called my daddy.
He suggested that I turn off anything and everything that might decide to ignite. The knob for the hot water heater broke off in my hand. I turned off the heater, the gas fireplace, the water heater--at a different place--and went to call my landlord. Of course (OF COURSE!) I couldn't find her number anywhere. I always email when we have a problem because usually it isn't a matter of life and death and things combusting all over the place. I called information and they couldn't find a listing. So...I did what any sensible 28-year-old would do if she couldn't find the landlord's number. I jogged up and down my street looking for someone who might have their number. I had not a lick of make up on. Matthew was missing a sock. Garrett didn't have on any shoes and he was wildly screaming, "Emergency!" Which is weird because when I'd explained the situation to him I had calmly asked him to stop talking so that I could think because we had a little emergency on our hands. Apparently he's one of those people who exaggerates the situation. Soon, all the neighbor kids were following him around shouting, "Emergency!" and then asking him what, exactly, the emergency was.
Thankfully the neighbors across the street were able to find the number for me. Then, they were nice enough to take the kids for me while I dashed back across the street to make the call. To make a long story slightly shorter, hours later the gas guy (whom Garrett affectionately referred to as "The Gas Piper") diagnosed the situation as a broken ignitor in the furnace. Apparently, raw gas was dumping into the furnace but nothing was lighting, hence the smell. Thankfully, however, there wasn't an actual leak. He also found a missing flue cap and said we couldn't turn the water heater back on until it was replaced. Something about hazardous toxins and exhaust pouring into our house which is terribly awesome given the fact that we didn't remove it so it's been like that for a year and a half. We were without hot water for about 18 hours when the repairman showed up this morning before we went to church to put the cap on. So that was really no big deal. We are still without the furnace, until tomorrow night. We're doing alright though because we have a gas fireplace and a space heater.
So why do things like this always seem to happen when husbands are out of town? Or, in this case, out of the country?
He'll be back tomorrow and I can't wait.