When we rented the apartment, our landlord told us that the furnace which provides us with both heat and hot water was an oil furnace. And that there was about an eighth of a tank of oil left. And so we knew we’d have to get an oil contract and refill the tank before winter. Yet in these hot summer months, it’s been the furthest thing from our minds as we’ve been busy settling into a new house, new job, new routines, new pregnancy.
And then tonight as I was washing dishes before dinner I noticed there wasn’t any hot water. Dom remarked that the water had been pretty tepid for his shower this morning too. So he went down to the basement to investigate and found the furnace was off. After doing the few things he knew how to do, he called the landlord who gave him the name of the repair guy. And then in the ensuing discussion, while poking around the basement, the cause dawned on Dom: we were simply out of oil. Oops.
Our landlord gave us the name of his oil service and we called. I suppose I was lucky to even get a human being after 5 on a Friday evening. She told me they don’t deliver on weekends and when pressed couldn’t think of anyone who does. At least not during the slow summer months. We tried a few other places from the phone book and didn’t even get another person.
So it looks like we’ll be roughing it this weekend. I boiled a big stockpot of water, glad at least the gas for the stove still works, and added it to a tub of cold water for Bella’s bath. That worked fine for a lukewarm baby bath two inches deep. But I don’t do baths really; I’m too tall for the tub. And it would take several stockpots, anyway to get to an even halfway decent bath. I guess I’ll have to do with a cold shower. (And anyone in my family can tell you I used to use up all the hot water in the boiler with my long, hot showers.)
Like I said, mortification is good for the soul. I’ll just offer it up.
