10 Things To Do When the Heater Is Not Working in Your House

  1. Cuss out everybody on the planet.

  This accomplishes nothing, of course, but it feels good, and all that hot air spewing out of your mouth might temporarily raise the temperature a degree or two. You can also slap people, because this also generates the illusion of a heat increase. Sadly, once you’re done bellowing and backhanding, it’s still cold, and no one wants to be your friend.

  2. Call a technician to see when he can come out and determine what the hell is wrong.

  Listen to him laugh for a while when you mention that you’d really like for him to come out today. Roll your eyes when he explains that there are 750 people on his waiting list, some of them having been there for a month. Pretend that you don’t know what he’s talking about when he reminds you that he strongly suggested you have the heating checked out back in August. (It was hot then, and if some fool had turned on the heater the entire family would have exploded.) Hang up in disgust when he announces that the soonest he can be out is next weekend.

  3. Start a fire in the fireplace.

  Oh, wait. You haven’t used this fireplace since 2003, and all you did then was light up a nice candle arrangement that was on sale at Pier 1. You don’t really need this fireplace, because it’s Texas, and Winter only lasts 3 days, making it pointless to buy firewood. Do you even remember how to use it?

  Squat before the fireplace. Move aside the fancy screen that protects you from the fires that never burn. Shove your head in the pit and then try to look up, checking to see if there’s some type of blockage, like birds’ nests or relatives that no one has spoken to in a while. It’s completely dark, so you learn nothing. Instinct tells you that this is probably not a good idea, because even if your home burns to the ground because you don’t know what you’re doing, that damn heating technician will still charge you for a house call when he finally shows up in 2015.

  4. Make a fun game out of your situation, like “Twister on Ice” or “Hide and Seek a Polar Bear”.

  This will last roughly three seconds  before somebody wants a divorce. There are certain times when you really shouldn’t try to be all Pollyanna about things.

  5. Put on extra layers of clothing.

  Put on anything that looks like it might be warm and cozy, even if it smells like moth balls and has been out of style since the Mayflower first ran into that rock. Yes, it can kind of restrict your movement a bit, but really, it’s not like you’re going to be doing a whole lot when you can see your own breath inside the house. But be careful. You don’t want to get so carried away that you look like a bison tromping down the hallway. This is dangerous, because we’re in the middle of hunting season, and some dumb-ass won’t hesitate to take you down when you step outside to check the mail.

  6. Take hot showers.

  Stay in there as long as possible. Find things to do to pass the time, like singing or counting how many tiles there are. Try out all the different face scrubs and body washes that have slowly accumulated after people tried them one time and then abandoned them. Throw the ones you don’t like out of the shower, peeking to see if they freeze in mid-air, because that would be kind of cool. If necessary, move the TV so that you can see it from the shower. Make sure it’s the TV that has the most crap on the DVR, so you can catch up on things.

  7. Go out for dinner.

  It’s a proven fact that eating can make any situation more enjoyable. Pick a restaurant with notoriously-slow service, so you can further delay going back to the Ice Cave. Tell everyone who will listen about your heating woes. They won’t care, but it will make you feel a little better, and that’s all that really matters. Order really spicy things from the menu to help raise your body temperature. Oh, and drink a lot of alcohol. This will make things more bearable when you develop frostbite in the middle of the night.

  8. Go shopping.

  Head toward one of those stores that always has a really good sale going on. This will ensure a large amount of people running about, because frenzied idiots in groups always generate a lot of heat. Kill time by fully exploring the housewares department, picking up every single item at least twice, and never putting anything back where you found it. If they have space-heaters, take all of them out of the box and turn every one of them on. If you end up getting arrested for your actions, it’s actually a good thing, because now you have somewhere toasty to spend the night, even if the room service isn’t very good.

  9. Go to bed.

    Pile at least 37 blankets on top of your shivering body. This might feel a little bit confining, but just pretend that you’re back in the womb, way before you had to worry about things like heater maintenance, taking responsibility for your life, and soggy croutons. Lay a pillow over your face, because we all know that body heat escapes through the top of your head. If you happen to have a partner and they get the wrong signal about your position in the Love Chamber, explain to them that this is not an invitation for Frisky Time. Things just don’t look right when it’s cold. Besides, you want to be warm the rest of the night, not just ten minutes.

  10. Move.

  You never liked this house anyway.

The Bubble Bath, Part 21

  Editor’s Note: We’re still sitting at IHOP, waiting for our food to arrive, which apparently might not happen in our lifetime. I have just overheard what I think is a drug deal taking place at the table behind me. Terry thinks I’m just operating in my usual drama queen mode and has little interest in validating my delusions…

  Me: “I’m serious. Something is going down.”

  Terry: “That’s nice. Do you think we should paint the bedroom mocha or latte?”

  Me: “You never believe me about anything.”

  Terry: “What would be the point? You’re just going to change your mind in the next five minutes.”

  Just then, the good server comes racing into the room with steaming plates of food for all her customers. Customers that came into the restaurant after we did. And where might our server be? Who the hell knows. Maybe she ran to fetch the drugs that her boss is selling alongside the Rooty, Tooty, Fresh and Fruity.

  I sigh. “I’m going outside for a cigarette. I’m sure I have plenty of time.” Terry nods absently, his mind working on painful ways to torture Gertrude should she decide to ever come back.

  I pass through the little lobby area, and notice that Mayflower, the decaying hostess wretch, is propped up against the wall, probably waiting for someone to apply electrified paddles to her chest. She briefly glances at me, and I can tell by her eyes that she hates everyone in this building and wants all of them to die. I hear ya, sister.

  Once I’m out the front doors, I wander around to the side of the building to do my business. (I’m one of those people who try to be considerate with my dirty habits, not one of those losers who will stand right there in a high-traffic area, belching exhaust on innocent families and then wondering why people spit on them. It’s no surprise that NYC has basically banned smoking in any place where anyone might possibly want to breathe.)

  So I’m doing my thing, waiting for the nicotine to flood my body and trick my brain into thinking I actually enjoy my life. I glance to the left, where I spy two men sharing a wrinkled, brown bag that obviously contains a bottle of hooch. I consider joining them. Seriously. I don’t care that we might transmit germs to one another. (The alcohol would kill most of that mess anyway.) But what actually stops me from sauntering over is the prospect of having to talk to another human being, which is the last thing in the world I want to do right now.

  I turn my head in the other direction and, lo and behold, there’s Bubbles traipsing toward me, her happily-tended toes putting a spring in her step. As she comes even with me on the sidewalk, her perceptive analytical skills kick into gear, and she immediately senses something amiss. “Spill.”

  “Well, we’re still waiting on our food.”

  Her mouth drops open. “You’re kidding me!” She reflects briefly, then advises: “I’m gonna run into this shoe store over here for a sec, then I’ll meet you inside.” Translation: If we still don’t have our food when Bubbles completes her footwear transaction, she is going to march into IHOP and burn the mother down.

  I stab out my cigarette, check to make sure it’s really dead, chunk it in a nearby trashcan, and then race into the restaurant to tell Terry the news. Bubbles is gonna whup some ass and we’ll be in the front row! Woo hoo!

  But before I can share all the juicy details, a parade of servers comes marching into our neglected room, all of them carrying bulging bags full of to-go boxes. They pile these on a spare, empty table near the loudmouth in the corner, then they all turn and march back into their holding pen while the restaurant manager slips into the room as well and approaches Don Bigmouth. “Your order is ready.”

  Dang. So it wasn’t a drug deal after all. Just some really hungry people. Not that I’m a fan of illicit recreational merchandising, but it had been a little exciting to think I was this close to activities that could send somebody to the Big House. Terry just looked at me. See? Food. Not drugs. You really need to quit watching “X-Files” reruns.

  Amazingly, Gertrude, our server that we had assumed had fled the country for political reasons, actually made another appearance. She explained that the kitchen was really backed up because someone (she glanced at her manager with obvious distaste) had allowed someone else (she glanced at Don Bigmouth with even more dissatisfaction) to order 20 meals for takeout.

  Oh. I see. But that’s not really our problem, now is it? Where’s our food? She went to check, as if something miraculous might have taken place during the fifteen seconds since the last time she had been in the kitchen.

  Then we descended into madness.

  The jerk in the corner, Don Bigmouth, was chowing down on his meal along with his silent but devoted groupies. Suddenly, Bigmouth discovered something on his plate that was completely unacceptable, leading to the following dialogue. (Keep in mind that Bigmouth is also Trashmouth, and there has been a bit of tidying up with the language.)

  Bigmouth, bellowing: “There’s gosh-durn bacon on my truckin’ plate!”

  His homies wail and clutch at their faces, horrified at this utter outrage.

  Bigmouth, yelling across the room at a server that is NOT his: “Get the truckin’ manager right NOW.” (Said server looks at Bigmouth dully, sighs, then slowly ambles out of the room. Apparently this type of discourse was common for this restaurant, so she did not have any urgency concerning her rudely-given directive.)

  Bigmouth, bellowing: “There’s truckin’ bacon on my gosh-durn plate!”

  Thank you for the clarification. I don’t think Brazil heard you the first time.

  The manager appears, his face slightly pale and sweaty. He gulps and approaches Bigmouth’s table. And Bigmouth explodes with a fury. Big is beyond upset about the porcine surprise, compelling him to cuss out the food, the server, the manager, the restaurant, the city, the state, and anyone who has ever spoken approvingly of pork in their entire lives. This goes on for quite some time.

  During all this mess, I surreptitiously fake-stretch and glance over my shoulder to get a visual, fully expecting to see half a pig lying across the table behind me, an apple in its mouth. Instead, Big is jabbing at something with his fork, a little speck of meat that even ants wouldn’t bother to tote back home. “Don’t tell me that’s not bacon!” challenges Bigmouth, his homies nodding their heads and pointing.

  Bigmouth really likes repetition: “I said, don’t tell me that’s not bacon.” (Look, no one is disputing the bacon status. Geez.) “I don’t eat bacon. I know what it tastes like. THAT’S bacon!” (But if you don’t eat bacon, how would you…) “It’s bacon!” he practically screamed. “Bacon!”

  Well, yes, it’s probably bacon, but if that tiny thing is going to bother you, you might as well never leave the house. Because there are much bigger disappointments out there. Of course, I don’t vocalize any of these thoughts. After all, Big is waving a pronged weapon and has enough adrenaline and/or drugs coursing through his veins that he could chew rocks. Besides, it’s really not my place.

  It’s the manager’s place. Yes, you should placate the customers. But you should not allow them to disrupt civilization as we know it. However, the manager did not understand this, letting Big scream for a good 10 minutes before finally wandering away. Which was exactly enough time for the big hand on the clock to reach the same number it had been on when we walked into this place.

  We had been sitting here for an hour. And still no food.

  Terry and I looked at each other. “We’re done,” we said at the same time, and started gathering up our things.

  Right on cue, Bubbles walked in the front door. She didn’t even bother to head in our direction. She took one glance at our table, quickly noted the absence of any plates, and immediately cornered Mayflower at her little hostess desk, demanding to speak to the manager. Mayflower just kind of shrugged, nodded her head at the pale, sweaty guy just leaving our room, and then went back to giving herself CPR. Bubbles walked up to the manager and launched. Terry leapt out of our booth to go express his thoughts on the matter as well. I scampered to keep up with him, not wanting to miss any of this.

  So there we were in the entryway of the IHOP. Bubbles and Terry were ripping this guy a new one, arms flailing. I was just standing there, trying not to grin as I pretended to be emotionally distraught. The manager was a total wimp, proffering weak, feeble excuses about the slow service, the lack of food, and how he had gotten to this pathetic point in his life.

  Then he stupidly said this to Mayflower: “Don’t charge them for their drinks.”

  What! Of course you’re not going to charge us for the drinks. That even got ME riled up, and I usually don’t say anything, ever. Now Bubbles, Terry and I were tag-teaming with the invectives.

  And wouldn’t you know it, right then Gertrude came wandering up with our plates of food, confused because we weren’t where she left us yesterday.

  But we were done. We stomped out the front doors, triumphant that we had stood up to The Man and given him an earful. We were noble warriors, fighting for justice.

  Then we paused on the sidewalk. We may be the Norma Rae’s of our generation, but we were also still truckin’ hungry.

  Gosh-durn it.


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The Bubble Bath, Part 20

  Editor’s Note: After a crazed morning of running about Bubble’s Pleasure Palace, we finally get our act together and head out the door to begin our adventures…

  We head to some part of Philly (no idea) where Bubbles’ fave pedicure place could be found. (Apparently they do something exquisite there involving hot rocks. I did not seek any further detail.) We toss her out in front of the building, then drive just a block or so away to the illustrious IHOP serving this particular neighborhood.

  Upon entering this fine establishment, we should have known right away that something was amiss. The serving hostess looked like she may have arrived in this country on the Mayflower, poor thing. But she still had some energy left, grabbing two menus and creaking her way into one of the dining rooms.

  A room which I immediately hated, because a small child, strapped in a highchair that clearly wasn’t restraining him enough, was banging on his table while his mother (or guardian or kidnapper) was completely ignoring him. And, of course, the Mayflower Madam seated us right next to the miniature Ringo Starr. Once the little urchin realized he had an audience, he kicked it up a notch. Mom continued to pretend that she had never given birth and was not responsible for his actions.

  The pounding continued for some time, with the expression on Terry’s face changing from mild irritation to “we are three seconds away from you having to bail me out of jail”. During the lengthy drum solo, the server supposedly assigned to our table chose to remain hidden from view. Perhaps she didn’t want to upstage the budding young drummer, but most likely she just didn’t care about things like timeliness and good tips.

  The drummer finally took a break and went to hang out with his groupies and try to score some dope. Decades later, the server finally came wandering in, looking as if the weight of her world made it unbearable for her to smile or brush her hair. She indifferently took our drink orders and wandered off again. If we had been thinking clearly, we would have equipped her with a GPS tracker before she left.

  Then Mayflower came back in, leading another innocent couple into the bowels of Hell. She promptly seated them on the other side of the diminutive drummer (who appeared to be gearing up for another session), despite other available tables, proving that Mayflower was, in fact, Satan’s bitch. Once the new sacrificial family was seated, May then marched to some other room, presumably to drink the blood of virgins.

  I watched the new couple briefly, as they excitedly perused their menus in anticipation of a glorious and refreshing meal. I thought about warning them that if they planned on eating today, they might not be in the best place, because the wait staff was totally lackadaisical and mostly AWOL. Just then, another server appeared, perfectly coiffed and smiling. She rushed to the new couple, welcomed them like long-lost family members (there might have even been hugs, I couldn’t see all that clearly because Tiny Drummer was flailing away again, his arms a blur), took their drink order, raced to retrieve the beverages, returning with them in 2.5 seconds, and then began taking the actual food order with sparkling and witty professionalism.

  This wasn’t fair. Why did we always get stuck with the servers who have no idea what their job description might be?

  Meanwhile, Mayflower, still making her way out of the room because she was ancient and being outpaced by dust bunnies rolling across the floor, was stopped in her tracks by loud bellowing from the drummer’s indifferent mother. May turned to see who was making all the racket, realized that the idiot woman with the unruly child was demanding her attention, sighed, and began hobbling back in our direction.

  Eventually Mayflower made it to the adjacent table (I’m surprised she remembered where she was going when she finally got there), leaned on the table to catch her breath, glanced with dismay at the still-pounding child, then turned her weary eyes to the shrieking harridan. “Yes?”

  Medusa: “I want you to move us to another table.”

  Mayflower, somewhat perplexed (did little Damien not find the acoustics of the room satisfactory for his wretched drumming?): “Is there something wrong?”

  Medusa: “I don’t want to sit here. Move me.”

  Mayflower, knowing full well that everybody in this room already wanted Medusa to die a painful death, didn’t really see the point in pissing off a whole other room of patrons and did not relish performing the relocation: “Has your service not been satisfactory?”

  Medusa: “It’s been fine. I just want to move. I have my own reasons.”

  Then this societal hemorrhage actually had the gall to turn and glare at ME.

  What the hell? I hadn’t done anything. Yes, I had given her looks of complete hatred and disgust, but I hadn’t said a word, even when her demon offspring had hurled a spoon against the wall, nearly decapitating another diner. This was unreal.

  Mayflower sighed. “Fine. Follow me.” She turned once more, bones creaking, and began to shuffle out of the room. Medusa snatched up her startled hellion, glared at me once more, then fell in line behind the Little Engine That Shouldn’t. Eons later, they finally made it out the door. Two minutes after that, the incessant drumming started up again in a distant setting. Three people thundered by our room, headed for the exit and wiping white gravy off their chins.

  Our own worthless server eventually made another appearance, lugging our two glasses, which she clunked down on the table. (Getting them wrong, of course. I quietly moved the glasses to the correct consumer.) The ice was already half-melted, indicating the glasses had been sitting somewhere for quite some time. Perhaps our server, partaking in a smoke break, stumbled across them sitting on the sidewalk outside and decided they would work just fine for our table.

  Our server, now christened Gertrude for no other reason than I’m already tired of typing “our server”, lethargically pulled out a pad of paper, clicked a pen into the ready position, and then just stood there, waiting.

  Okay, apparently we needed to place our order now. Thanks for the excellent communication skills, Gertie.

  Terry made his first attempt at a selection. Gertrude batted this down, mumbling something about his choice being on the breakfast menu, and we had rolled into the official lunch menu, having been sitting here since the Gettysburg Address. Terry pointed at something else, and Gertrude nodded slightly to indicate that this would be an acceptable alternative. She scribbled and then looked at me.

  Weak with hunger, I limply fingered something non-breakfasty and received clearance. Gertrude pivoted and marched away, surprising me by moving rather quickly. Perhaps it was time for another smoke break, since it had been a whole 10 minutes since her last one.

  Next we had what looked like a manager type staggering into the room. (Perhaps he was trying to find out what Medusa could possibly have found offensive in here, prompting her to sally forth and terrorize other parts of the building.) He made a beeline to a table in the corner, where some guy had been barking on his phone the entire time we had been here. (Phone Guy really loved using profanity. Not that it bothers me, per se, but dude, how many times can you say “truck dat” in the same conversation?)

  Phone Guy was also one of those people who don’t understand the rudeness of continuing to carry on a conversation with someone who is NOT here, when there are people who ARE here, like the glum-looking buddies at his table or the manager standing at the end of his table and clearing his throat. Phony finally told “dawg” to hold up. He pointed his finger at one of his buddies, who instantly leapt up and allowed the manager to slide into his place on the booth.

  The following conversation took place in very hushed tones. If they hadn’t been so subdued about it, I wouldn’t have cared or tried to listen. But the subterfuge got my attention. Besides, I had already played with every single thing on the table and I was bored out of my skull.

  Phony:  “Sup?”

  Manager: “I think I can do it. But I normally don’t like to do this in the store.”

  Phony: “You want the money or not?”

  Manager, briefly looking around, as if concerned that someone might run in the room at any moment and strike him with an improvised weapon: “Yes. But we’re very busy right now. Might take a minute.”

  Phony, muting “dawg” on his phone, who had chosen that moment to start babbling about “snatch” to somebody we couldn’t see and probably wouldn’t like: “How much?”

  Manager, super quiet now: “200 dollars.”

  Phony, un-muting “dawg” and waving away the manager in a dismissive manner: “Done. Do it.”

  OMG. There was nothing on the menu that could even begin to approach that amount of money. Something else was going on. Clearly, I had just been privy to a negotiation with dubious implications.

  I tried to tell Terry. “Dude, I think I just overheard a drug deal.”

  Terry, abandoning the straw wrapper that he had been fiddling with: “What?” (To be fair, his ears were probably still ringing from that horrid child and his dark need for beating the hell out of diner tables.)

  Me, whispering: “Behind us. I. Think. They. Just. Made. A. Drug. Deal. Word.”

  Terry just stared at me as if I had lost my mind. Again.


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