An unplanned day

Today starts out like most other Mondays. Joe goes off to work, and I settle down to watch soap operas and consume bonbons.

Ha! Just kidding. That's what I do on Tuesdays.

Just kidding again!

What actually happens is that I dial a number I have never dialed before in my life: 911. It is a weird feeling, dialing 911. I feel vulnerable, which of course I am, given that our carbon monoxide detector has gone off. It isn't because the unit is malfunctioning.

The 911 dispatcher sounds nothing like what I imagined, or what I've seen on TV. TV dispatchers are always very confident, authoritative even, and you trust them as you would trust your mother or your grandmother. The one I talk to sounds more like she could be my kid sister, if I had one, but I think, these people have to have training, right? They know what to tell me to do. She assures me that the fire department will be right over and lectures me, in her little-girl voice, on the dangers of carbon monoxide poisoning, all of which I already know. I can tell she is reading from something in front of her.

After hanging up the phone, my first thought is what any normal individual would think in such a situation: Strangers are going to enter my house, and they are going to see what a mess it is. Only slightly less than my fear of being overcome by carbon monoxide is my fear that someone will see the state of my housekeeping.

Stupid, you say? Of course. But nevertheless, as I wait for the fire brigade to appear, I frantically try to at least clear a path for them to the furnace and other important areas (Why didn't I get all this laundry done this weekend?!). It would be beyond embarrassing to have the fire department call for an ambulance because one of their own was attacked by a c-clamp lying carelessly about. And then, help me, I even do a little vacuuming. Just the worst parts.

I manage to get the place reasonably presentable and am waiting patiently outside on the front steps, as I promised the 911 dispatcher I would. A neighbor passes by, giving a cheerful "Hello" as if it is no unusual thing to see a resident sitting on her front steps in the drizzling rain. Another worry strikes me. Please, God, I pray silently, do not let the fire department bring five trucks and 20 men. It would be so embarrassing.

After all, the most important thing in these situations is to keep your head. The second most important thing is to keep from being embarrassed.

But thankfully just one truck shows up, not even a ladder truck, and only four men. Three come inside. They ask questions, they take readings, they go upstairs, they go downstairs. They ask if I am aware that the furnace has not been serviced since 1992. I am quick to inform them that the furnace has only been in our custody for a year and a half, and therefore we cannot be held responsible for whatever came -- or didn't come -- before that time. (Later, I find that the 1992 date cannot be correct, but by then the firefighters have gone and I have no chance to explain.)

The firefighters are very nice. They do not lecture, although the lieutenant goes on for a long time -- unnecessarily long, I feel -- about service plans for appliances. He mentions, more than once, that he himself has one and that he thinks we should get one. I nod. He tells me that, ideally, we shouldn't stay the night in the house, but that if we have to, we can turn the furnace off and sleep with the windows open. Just use lots of quilts, he says, and you'll be fine. I feel a tinge of pity for his wife.

After the firefighters have left, I immediately call who they told me to, only it turns out to be the wrong place to call. I make another call, and although this is the right place to call, I experience some difficulty in making the woman understand just what it is I want a service technician for. I don't know what he needs to do to fix the problem, I say. I just know that he needs to fix it!

Finally I pull out the last weapon in my arsenal: I have been referred by the fire department, I tell the woman on the phone. And that seems to do the trick. But first, she wants to know if I plan to pay by check or credit card. My life is in jeopardy here, and she wants to make sure the company is going to get its money! But at this point, I would promise to pay in crisp new bank notes if it would get someone here faster to fix the problem.

Joe is always telling me to ask questions. Usually I forget, or I am too embarrassed. But this time, when the technician comes, I am ready with my barrage. I ask him every question I have forgotten to ask before, even questions that have nothing to do with the furnace ("So, you're a woodworker like my husband? Does it drive your wife crazy?"). I learn a lot, only 10% of which I will retain, but he seems happy enough to help.

The technician fixes what he believes to be the problem with a great amount of banging and, in between all the noise, a great number of tales about how his wife has relegated his woodworking to a teeny tiny room in their newly finished basement. He cautions that, although he thinks the problem is solved now -- the problem of our carbon monoxide, not the problem of his teeny tiny woodworking space -- we should also have the chimney inspected.

Later, there are more calls and trips to the store for additional CO detectors -- one can never have too many, is my new motto. The guidelines we read say to place the detector near the ceiling, as CO rises. We search in vain for an outlet that is near the ceiling. There is one in the ceiling, in our bedroom, but it has not worked for quite some time. We discuss the merits of plugging the detector in the outlet just behind where my pillow is located, as it is the highest outlet we can find, but I note that if it were to go off, I would probably sustain some significant, permanent hearing loss. However, we consider this a small price to pay for keeping us safe. Joe offers up fervent thanks for the person who invented the CO detector.

All kidding aside -- we are not being even Slightly Humorous about this part -- please, please, if you do not already have a carbon monoxide detector, get one (having one in the box does not count). Get more than one. Install them. Know what to do if they go off. After all, we want you to be around a long time to keep reading this blog.

P.S. In all the excitement, poor Joe did not get a proper birthday celebration. He did, however, get chocolate cupcakes.