Yesterday I got the news about my gas heater out here in the little house. It's died and can't be resuscitated.
It doesn't take much to heat this room, and since the beginning I've had more heater than I needed. First it was an Army camp stove. I got up early, stoked the fire and got back in bed. I didn't have a kitchen then so cooking was done on the flat surface of the camp stove. I could make coffee. I kept milk, butter, eggs in a cooler on the front steps. I had a chopping block and cut kindling, morning and night. I was working at Nordstrom as the manager of the Personal Shoppers. I had to look like I was a walking ad for Nordstrom at all times. If only they could have seen me in my down parka with my jammies tucked into well worn Wellingtons out chopping wood in the dark of early morning before I started the morning transformation from winter camper to fashion maven. I drove to work in a '67 Chevy short bed pickup with an extra heavy transmission with no syncromesh so I had to double clutch in and out of every gear. It was cherry. Teen aged boys always wanted to buy it. They were dismayed by the incongruity of me in it. I loved that truck.
The second incarnation in heat was a bulky oblong brown metal box with a tall silver chimney that vents at the edge of the ceiling. I'll be happy to have the silver pipe gone since it completely ruins the look of the longest wall in the house. It is the only ugly element. Good riddance. And the cheap brown metal box with a grill on top and a grill in the front occupies primo real estate on that one long wall. I'll be glad it's gone. But the getting it out, and the place it stood repaired and repainted, is another thing. I'll have to go shopping for concrete paint. I'll probably have to repaint the wall and that particular triangle of ceiling. This will begin early Monday morning and take all day. And in the end I'll have a smaller quieter wall mounted gas heater. And my bank account will be greatly depleted.
We know where all this cleaning and painting leads, don't we? And now I have no one to help me paint the whole place. Bummer. That's what happens when you offend and alienate all the men in your life. If you're a youngish woman and you're reading this, take heed. Men have their place in your life. Male friends are good to keep. Otherwise learn how to do all this shit and have the proper tools. Last time Tom was asked to paint my ceiling he turned his face on the pillow and said, "Where's your scaffolding?" Tom was the best painter I ever knew. I didn't think he was terribly funny though. I hear his eldest son is a master painter as well. Both men are musicians.
This weekend I will be moving furniture around again. It wasn't more than a month ago I moved it all for the first time in three years. But until the new heater is in, I'll have no idea what to do with the arrangement in the room. For now I need to move things away from the most crowed wall. Paintings stacked in a safe corner. My two favorite bookcases are against that wall. They are heavy and packed. I will have to unload them to muscle them into another position. Everything will have to be draped and protected. I just got my computer back.
It's supposed to start raining tomorrow and turn to snow Monday. We'll have a freezing night and I'll need to make sure the Eastern Boys get their swamp cooler winterized from the inside out. This involves making a trip to Lowes. Bummer. Better get a new hammer and a few filters for the boys furnace while I'm there getting a strip of insulation for the swamp cooler. See how easily costs multiply?
And just to crowd time a bit more, I have to empty and store hoses, turn off outside water and bring all houseplants inside. Today's the day for that because the weather's taking a sharp turn toward winter. Even if I felt full of cheerful energy this would be a lot of work. But I woke up tired. And I can't perk up. Time to quit whining and muscle through it.
I just got the property tax bill. Shorter days, longer nights. Value down, taxes up. Has to be paid by the end of November. Merry Xmas.