Fireball Furnace and the House O’Flood

Fwoom.  Boom!  Boom!  Boom!  The walls rattled.  My furnace sounded like it was shooting fireballs.

I assumed I was hearing things, similar to the times my mother told me to clean my room.   I didn’t hear her tell me to clean my room and I certainly didn’t hear loud booms echo through my walls.

The power of denial.

After several days I became concerned that either my house was going to explode or I had become schizophrenic, although no one in my family has been “officially” diagnosed with that disorder.

I was also concerned that my house did explode, it wouldn’t be close enough to remove the neighbors across the street.  I like the neighbors to the left and right of me, but the white-trash rental my house faces is a revolving door of families with polluted gene pools, drug dealers and cat ladies.  I actually prefer the drug dealers.  They’re usually quiet because they don’t want to draw attention to themselves.

I went down the hallway and lowered the thermostat one degree to turn off, what sounded like, my home’s internal blowtorch.  I opened the door to the furnace.  I turned the thermostat up two degrees.

Fwoom.  Boom!  Boom!  Boom!

Three fireballs shot toward my head.

“Oh shit!”

I ran to the bathroom for a hairline check.  I once singed two inches off my hair from lighting a grill.  My hair was intact.

I wasn’t hearing things.  That sound of fireballs shooting out of my furnace happened to be fireballs shooting out of my furnace.

The next action was to call an expert, but instead I checked my budget.  Money is usually tight in January because of Christmas shopping, but I catch up by March.

I convinced myself the repairs will cost $1,000.  I always do.

New light switch?

$1,000.

Fix faucet?

$1,000.

Ten-dollar bill?

Somehow, it will cost $1,000.

In reality, it’s usually less than $200.  I made the call to the expert.  Next on my list:  take out the trash.

As I pull  the bag out of the trashcan, I thought about my finances and said to myself, “as long as nothing else breaks, I should be fine.”

I opened the door to the garage.  I stepped into two-inches of brown water gurgling out of a floor drain.

That’s going to cost $1,000.