First the cell phone went. Then it was the toilet. Then the crown jewel, the oil heater. The heater went on the coldest, most blustery day of the year we’d had so far. And on a Sunday. Need I say more?
I took the death march down the basement stairs to check things out, knowing what I’d find there amongst the old IRS files, half empty paint cans and cobwebs. Sure enough, the steel box was cold and silent. I took off the front panel and hit the red restart button. Though I felt compelled to try, I was sure of the outcome, knowing from years of experience that a furnace does not turn off for the hell of it. There is always a reason.
The furnace starts up again, immediately. But almost as fast, the reassuring hum is accompanied by clouds of black smoke billowing from that welded corners. As it wraps around the room, I run to turn off the emergency switch. Luckily, its whereabouts have been marked with an arrow and the words, “on the rafter,” the thoughtful work of the last repairman. And that’s that. No heat tonight.
There is nothing like a very cold house to make me miserable. Though it greatly rekindles my admiration for my Russian ancestors, the simple acts of getting dressed, cooking dinner or working at the computer become chillingly painful. Wearing four layers, gloves, a scarf and ear muffs indoors makes everyday life cumbersome to say the least. I get grumpy. I can’t help it. Even the dog won’t budge beyond the small radius of warmth emanating from the space heater I’ve retrieved from the basement.
It is just one of those times when things go wrong. In this case, it’s those handy-dandy devices – electronic, electrical, and mechanical, which have become so vital to daily survival. They go on the fritz one by one, one after another. And just when you’re congratulating yourself for having fixed the first – boom, there goes another. The emotional cost is always the same – frustration mixed with varying degrees of frenzy, accompanied always by the hard, cold, terrifying reality of “this is really going to set me back.”
My friend Lisa Tracy, a former editor for the Philadelphia Inquirer and author of several books including the iconic The Gradual Vegetarian is the person I call at times like this. In an instant, she will cut to the chase. “Oh yes,” she assures me, “Mercury is in retrograde.” For the un-initiated, Mercury in retrograde is the astrological equivalent of Murphy’s Law (if something can go wrong, it will). About three or four times a year, this particular planetary configuration is believed to be responsible for computers crashing, traffic jams, telephone service snarl ups and machinery breakdowns. Oh, I think, thank God. That explains it.
I am relieved to know that it is not just me. That it is nothing I’ve done or not done. I am relieved to know that it is not the result of a random, haphazard world in which “shit happens.” For me, the chaos theory leaves a lot to be desired. I want to believe. Give me the notion of a perfect universe every time – a place of order, of cause and effect, known or unknown. It helps me to let go, relinquish control, relax. Call me delusional, but it is reassuring. It’s good to believe things happen for a reason. Any reason. Even if the reason is that Mercury… now what did she say – is in Uranus?
Sixties Chick 