For the past six weeks we have been in the throes of the Great Merrimack Valley Gas Explosion Extravaganza. It started out as frightening, went to eerie, became a bit fascinating, started to get irritating, slowly eased into uncomfortable, and now ... well, now we all are just damn punchy.
So, when the gas company sends Bruce the Foreman my way, I can tell from the bags under his eyes and his later-than-five-o-clock shadow that the poor guy is probably operating on zero to negative amounts of sleep. Standing in the kitchen with my landlord, Bruce is trying to inventory my gas-damaged appliances. He has already been to the basement and has catalogued the hot water heater and furnace, both of which have been condemned.
Bruce stares at his clipboard. glances at the stove, then looks again at his paperwork. My stove looks perfectly fine, all tidy with a hand towel hanging over the front of it. Bruce finally cocks his head sideways and says to the landlord, "Isn't there supposed to be a sticker on that stove?" He examines his paperwork again, clearly confused. "Yeah, there's supposed to be a red sticker on it."
I'm not sure Bruce is amused. He tells us that he has been working pretty near to ninety-six hours over the last week, and doesn't even crack a smile. He checks off the box on his paperwork and moves on.
Hmmmmm. Like a lead balloon. He must think I am the meanest person alive.
Oh, well. I thought it was funny.
