I am hoping so hard that the furnace is just fine and, if it is not, that it is something trivial. This is because of my oven.
As I feared a month or so ago--and shared with you then--my oven has Retired. Yesterday, in a fit of Domestic Fervor, I decided to bake Rick a small cake. The bake time was to be 23 minutes. Which came and went, and my cake--an 8"x 8" square--took on an alarming likeness to the Capitol Building in Washington, D.C. The top cracked, but my cake tester remained wet and sticky. Back in it went for 3, 4, 5, 7 more minutes. Finally, I took it out and set it to cool. The result was a boggy, sunken mess with a cupcake-sized cake in the middle and hard, dry edges all around. Obviously, my oven is cycling on and off, up and down, never maintaining or even, perhaps, reaching optimum heat. (I cut out some decent chunks, drizzled caramel topping over them and crowned it all with a dollop of whipped cream. Rick was fine with it, but honestly, it was horrid.) Because this appliance is a Frigidaire (aka The Great Satan), it will have to be junked (ashes to ashes, junk to junk). They stopped making parts for it. For years and years, just to set the oven temperature, I have had to press the keypad AND COUNT THE BEEPS, EACH ONE REPRESENTING FIVE DEGREES HOW SAD IS THAT!? Here, look. This is my oven display when it is on and set to 350 degrees:
|It actually looks way clearer in a photo.|
And holy crap, my dishwasher is a Frigidaire. I. KNOW. Am I an idiot?
The furnace technicians arrive. They each look to be about twelve years old. One reassures me in much the same voice that I use to speak to my mother, who is 84. It is down to 68 in my living room as they cycle my furnace. I hear them laughing and chatting while the skin under my fingernails has gone blue and the tip of my nose is numb and icy. Half an hour later, my furnace continues to stubbornly purr along, quietly and efficiently making a liar of me. I briefly consider asking these adolescents to take a look at the oven.
As soon as I thaw out, I am going to make a new entry in My Journal Of Wrongs, Volume IV. In it I will write down the fact that The Furnace Tweens told me the water supply to the humidifier was shut off, vindicating my months of urgent pleas to Rick to check it because of my constantly dry eyes, painfully tight and flaking skin, and parched lips. No, it wasn't the cause of the mysterious and now absent noise, but it's likely going to be the cause of some new rumblings at the Dept.