-written and tooned by Crack

Part Two: Everything Takes Ten Minutes The third (you didn't forget there were more examples, did you? All good stories come in threes, you know...) was when the aforementioned heat did go off. 'Twas the night before our big house party where we'd happily invited friends, co-workers, relatives and neighbors to join us at our new home and have a blast. I spent the morning washing and sweeping, vacuuming and dusting, cooking and baking until the house fairly reeked of being "home-y", and then settled down to have a well-earned rest before the hordes began knock-knock-knocking at my door. Snuggled in the couch, I thought how nice and warm it was. (I am not used to oil heat and was fearing that it would be like electric, which basically is both expensive and finicky.) It occurred to me that while it was nice and warm for me, I tend to like things 80 degrees and higher, which means it might be a bit toasty for some sixty-odd people together in close quarters. So I went to the thermostat and down-shifted the temperature to 65 degrees, then went back to the couch and watched a movie. Just as Bambi's mother was about to be shot, I realized the chill down my spine wasn't some half-remembered nightmare from age six, but a cold-air chill. I untangled myself from the couch quilt and went to the thermostat: it read 62. Strange, but maybe the dial was offset? I turned it back up to 67 to see if it would make up the 3 degrees of difference. In five minutes I returned and it read 61. My first thought (guilty conscience that I've got) was: "My G-d! I broke it!" Unhappy, I dialed a friend (yes, by now we had a phone. Don't go there). He said to check the oil tank. Down in the basement it was even colder, and I scurried to the indicator. It was a piston that bobbed on the surface of the oil inside, and its top rested reassuringly on "full." I went back upstairs and turned on a faucet: cold water growing slightly warm but not hot. Odd. I waited another five minutes and checked again: 59 degrees. Rats! Now what? Well, not much to do but try to figure out what was going on... something I utterly failed to do until Jon came home and gamely tried all the same things I had been doing, under the lilting melody of my chorus: "I already checked that." Finally admitting that we two were stumped, at 55 degrees and falling, Jon called one of his trusty sidekicks from work, Buck, who sped right over and had a look (or, more precisely, a knock) -- he rapped the oil drum which boomed dully... all the way down. Looking accusingly at the indicator, he gave it a flick with his finger and the bobbin wobbled and sank straight down to "empty."

We called the oil distributors. $50 for an emergency delivery of ten gallons and then add the cost of the oil itself. Peachy, we'll sleep through it. Just ring in the morning; oh yeah, first thing. Thanks, Buck! Off to bed under more blankets than could smother a flock of woolly sheep. Morning! Specifically, 7:30 in the morning (did I mention Jon is not a morning person?) and a way-too-awake voice proclaiming they'd be over by 10 am. "Great." *mumble* *thud*. Jon went off to work and I elected to stay home rather than miss the auspicious event of the oil truck missing me by a minute or so. I vowed to do all the shopping later. Well, by 11 am I was unsurprised to find they had not appeared yet. I went downstairs and called the number from the oil tank. I asked where my oil was and they countered with "Who are you?" I went through the identification routine and asked again. They countered pretty much the same way but added, "Are you sure you're calling the right oil company?" Before I snidely replied, I realized the answer was probably "no," so I said I'd call back. A quick call to Jon proved I did call the wrong oil company (though why we're using someone other than the one on the drum, I didn't know...) and tried again. A quick call to the appropriate oil company revealed either a karmic coincidence or an original excuse: the oil truck had broken down and was stuck. They'd call back later. Uh-huh. I called Jon and we had a good laugh and reached the consensus that if we didn't hear by noon, we'd call another oil company. By noon, they did call and he'd be 10 minutes. Great, see you then.

At 12:30, the oil man showed up. He filled the tank and I debated how fast I could drive to pick everything up before cooking times were exceeded by reality. It didn't matter actually, because probability waves run faster. "Uh..." the oil man emerged from the basement. "What?" I was afraid to ask. "Do you have an Allen wrench?" As if I knew. We looked through our toolbox (shouldn't this guy have one?!?) and the answer became obvious, "No." "Ah, well then, I guess I better be going." "Wait, can't you start the burner?" "Not without an Allen wrench," he shrugged; I wondered how he'd serve up as deli meat. "I need heat." "Don't worry, I'll call our specialist. He should be by in 10 minutes..." You see where this is going, don't you? At 1:20 pm, the specialist showed up and looked at the boiler and remarked how old it was. Nice chit-chat, but make with the Allen wrench, huh? Actually, he never took out one wrench or pliers or anything, just asked where the restart button was. I showed him. He pushed it. It started. "We didn't need an Allen wrench?" I said weakly. "Nope, these old things just need to start up and they'll pump air out themselves." "Really." "Yeah, but it'll take a couple of hours to heat up. A new one would take only 10 minutes." "Somehow I doubt that," I muttered to myself. "You know, a new one would run you about $2,900." "That's great." "A new one would..." "You know," I interrupted snappily, "this doesn't happen to be a new one. It happens to be an old one and it works and we don't happen to be swimming in cash since we bought a new house so is there anything more we have to do here?" He looked chagrinned. "No." "Great. Thanks. Fine. Good-bye." And it only took 10 minutes to buy all the stuff I needed for the party.