4/12/10

Two and one-half weeks ago, my husband called me at work and jerked me from the annoyance of paperwork with these three words. "I've called 911." He had my attention. "Why?"

"The house is filled with black smoke." These are never words one wants to hear, but particularly on a day when your new home insurance company has just emailed you with a notice that you've failed to complete the necessary paperwork. No. No. No. No. No.

I tried not to kill anyone on the drive home, figuring that would just add to the irritation of what was turning out to be a terrible day. Although I will admit some drivers escaped my fury only because they turned off before I delivered the death blow from my super-sonic ray gun.

Six firetrucks, twenty-four firemen, the gas company, the electric company, the fire inspector and my husband, henceforth known as the "homeowner", stood around the yard. Aside from the smoke pouring from open windows, the house looked entirely the same.

The homeowner hugged me. "What was the problem?"

"Fire in the basement."

"Bad?"

"Yep."

"#@^$%#"

Thus it began.