Fire in da Haus!

Yesterday, I spend about two hours on my fireplace, which refuses to ignite on Saturday, when it is cold enough outside (30s) for the living room to feel chilled inside.

I call Cyprus Air, and talk to the gal in accounting first.  I want to cancel my $40/month "presidential maintenance" contract, which they force you to take for one year.   

She talks me into a lesser contract at $22/month (senatorial?  gubernatorial? mayoral?), which still allows me one annual maintenance visit. Then, I request that someone come to fix the fireplace.  

She quotes me $189, but also offers that someone there can talk me through it, on the phone. Nu, duh.  Of course, I opt for that. 

She places me on a brief hold.  

Eugene, the aural twin of Barry White, introduces himself, says he'll help me, and begins with,  "It's so easy [baby]."

 It is so easy, once I wrest away from the metal clamps in the wall opening, the heavy outer screen, the small metal plate, and the super heavy, sooty, glass screen, which I scrub with Clorox Clean-Up, Windex, and plenty of elbow grease.  

Then, armed only with a damp paper towel and my bare hands, I clear away a funhouse crazy-quilt of spider webs, under the workings of the gas fireplace. It occurs to me-- hmmm...

I ask Eugene, "Are there black widows in this area? I haven’t lived here very long, so I don’t know. The webs look like black widow webs to me."

[Cue the intro chords of Never, Never Gonna Give Ya Up, every time Eugene speaks.] 

He answers-- husky, sexy, “No, but we have tons of brown recluses out here, and they're b-a-a-a-a-d.”  

Why yes, Barry, I know they're bad. 

Luci’s sister nearly died from a brown recluse bite. It so compromised her body, that her doctors feel it led to her untimely death, a few years later.  OK, maybe I am taking liberties with that, but nightmares of brown recluse spiders dance in my head all night, anyway.

But, I digress. As Eugene and I converse, my Dad’s voice breaks into my head--  "Consider the source.".

Sh*t!  The batteries in my remote control are probably dead.  That could be the whole problem.

Which I tell Eugene, and he agrees [yeah, Baby]. I look in the household items basket, but, of course, I only have two AAA batteries, and I need three. Eugene says to call him when I have new batteries.

I trot to CVS, buy the batts, walk back, insert the batts, et voilà! the remote control now works, but the fireplace still does not ignite.

On hold again, I romance the memory of my simple, wood-burning fireplace in my precious and perfect Claremont treehouse, when Barry's basso snaps me back to the present.

[Oh, Baby...] Do I have this?  Do I have that? Do I see a box with a push button on the right?  How thick is the box I do see, since I don’t see a push button anywhere? And on and on and on.  [I'm never, ever gonna give you up, I'm never ever gonna stop...]

Finally, I photograph everything, and send Eugene the photos via email. He prompts me about 99% through the process, it doesn’t “take." He then realizes he forgot to tell me to turn one switch back to “remote.” ("Oh, BABY!" I want to groan in frustration.)

He instructs me to wait 5 minutes, do it all again, plus set the switch to “remote,” and to call him, only if I fail once more.  

I do not fail.  And, by that, I mean that Barry does not fail.  The fireplace works. [I found what the world is searching for.  Here, right here, my dear.  I don't have to look no more..] 

Today and tomorrow, the highs will be in the 50s; the rest of the week, in the 70s and 80s.  Perfect fireplace weather!