The F Word

I've decided to just go ahead and say it out loud...

I'm ready for Fall.

There! It's out! I can't put it back in the horse! I hate horses!

Whatever.

To celebrate this moment that Bubba has been taunting out of me since July (the man is solidly off his nut) I present to you, the many times aforementioned, Ugly Librarian Sweater:

Like they say to the ugly kids, it's what's on the inside that counts.

Now, notice I'm not modeling it for you and instead it is hanging over this chair here. That is with good reason because this sweater is in no way flattering and I don't need photographic proof to tell me that. I also like to live in a fantasy world where no matter what I'm wearing, I look totally hot.

Funny since I'm fairly certain that 99% of the time I'm at home I look nowhere near hot but whatever, in my head, things look good.

For the record, however, I have not worn the Ugly Librarian Sweater yet THIS FALL (gotta say it loud so I can get used to its sound) because I've had other semi-ugly-yet-warm things to wrap around my shivering bod during those brief moments when NorCal has gone from sweltering to vaguely cool.

Like yesterday morning when I walked the dog at 6:30am and it was, I do believe, a full 53 degrees out. WOWZA. I didn't even unzip my sweatshirt the whole time and, I'll tell you, I was liking it.

I KNOW! Just shoot me now because I'm actually looking forward to FALL and I'm sort of not afraid to admit it.

What I'm not looking forward to is having to fire up the furnace because WHOA that shit is scary. And now I will tell you the embarrassing story that I didn't tell before because I wasn't ready to admit that I almost blew my face off and brought down our wee house all with one match.

Here goes:

Once upon a time I was working from home in the early months of fall. Perhaps it was October or November, I don't really recall exactly.

Anyway, I had on The Ugly Librarian Sweater (tm) and socks and leg warmers (yes, they're hot pink - awesomeness) and jeans and a long sleever top and fingerless gloves and slippers. To put it mildly, I was cold. And when I got sick of shivering despite all my clothes and layers, I decided it was high time to face my fear of the furnace and just turn that bitch on already.

Then I reflected briefly on the times I'd watched over the rim of my G&T while Bubba was doing it. And then I removed the grate (floor furnace people, you have to remove things to start them, it's scary) and used the key (remember: old house) to turn the pilot on.

Then I capped the access for the pilot light and went on a hunt for a long match.

Let me repeat that last part: Then I capped the access for the pilot light and went on a hunt for a long match.

See, this was where things began to go horribly awry in a very death defying way. It would seem that when I was so carefully watching Bubba light the furnace as I finished my cocktail, I neglected to recall that moment when he turned on the pilot and then immediately stuck the match down through the very open access shaft to light the pilot.

For some reason (drunkenness? Who's to say?) I thought that one should cap the pilot access, turn the gas on and then walk around the house and garage for twenty minutes looking for matches so that the gas has plenty of time to build up to Nuclear Holocaust Level in the access shaft.

When I returned triumphantly to the furnace with my handy dandy match and struck it on the top of the grate (it was one of those Strike Anywhere kinds) I should have known something was afoot because I'm sure the precarious Uh-Oh Something Awful is About to Happen music from Bugs Bunny was surely playing nearby.

Loudly.

I then lifted the cap off the pilot access shaft and before I could say OH SHIT (which, believe me, was the least this occasion called for) the lit match combusted with a sound and resonance much like that of a dumptruck falling through the floor of my house.

BAM

And then silence. And then me realizing I've jumped (been blown back?) down the hallway toward the bedroom door and WHOOPSY have no eyelashes, am missing half my eyebrows and have lost all the baby hairs around the crown of my forehead.

Plus it smells like gas, burnt hair and FEAR.

I sat silently for a full 10 minutes, unmoving, while I contemplated the severity of the situation.

I then let out a low, "Oh Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo" and went off to look for Rocket, who was outside sleeping in the dirt. Totally unscathed, but wondering who this eyelashless freak was approaching her with shaky hands.

Yes, people. I tried to blow up our house by collecting gas in the furnace and then lighting it with a match because I'm retarded.

Thankfully Bubba, when arriving home and evacuating us all due to the remnant gas floating around the house, was kind and helpful when presented with the story of how I tried to blow up our house (and my face - that's important, too) instead of rightfully alarmed and angry with my stupidity.

Yes, instead of beating me with the furnace grate or sending me to live in a tent in the backyard, he instead walked me over to the furnace (after all the gas cleared, this is important) and showed me, step by step, how one goes about SAFELY lighting the pilot and managing the heat flow.

Oh. It's really not that hard.

I mean, it's not easy like Sunday morning or anything. Like pressing a button on a wall thermostat, which is all I think I should have to do, but it's not too bad given that this heater is 100+ years old and still works like a fucking champ. Also, we're never going to get the permits to fix it and we aren't putting in central heat, so it's going to have to work. Thankfully, I now know how to make it work without taking our household out in the process.

And so, with that, I welcome fall.

BRING IT.