not again!

How I managed to lose the fingernail of the finger next to the one I lost the fingernail of before, which just now finally grew back to its original condition.
by Jenni Ripley

I came home this afternoon and got out my new drill and giant box of drill bits, intent on putting up my coat rack. Walking into the kitchen, I thought maybe I smelled something funny. A little while later, I walked through the kitchen again and was sure I smelled something funny. It smelled not exactly like gas, more like that smell that old crappy apartment stoves have, but it was pretty strong. I decided that paranoid and alive was better than dismissive and dead, so I called the gas company.

They told me to do all that stuff like not turn on lights (they were already on), not use the phone (I was calling them), open windows, and to leave the apartment. I knew I wasn’t really in immediate danger, but I figured I’d do what they said to avoid a stern talking-to. I told her I’d be out front in my car.

It took them a lot longer than I wanted it to. Because I’m at least semi-smart, I brought my knitting and sat there feeling like a dumbass while all my neighbors came home and went inside. Fifteen minutes later, I heard sirens. They were coming closer and closer. Then I saw lights. Then I saw two firetrucks turning the corner onto my street. Then the firetrucks were parking next to my car. Then the firemen were hopping out and pulling down ladders and hoses.

Then I was nearly having a heart attack.

However! The firemen went into the building next door. I watched nervously to make sure they didn’t just have the wrong address. After a while, they came back out, put away the ladders and hoses, and headed back to the firehouse for microwave popcorn and foosball, or whatever it is firemen do when they’re not responding to false alarms. I was just happy my apartment had not actually blown up.

Centerpoint-Minnegasco-dude showed up shortly afterwards, and laughed really hard when I told him of my freakout. He came in and used his gas-detecting geiger-counteresque machine to determine that there was no gas leak. He said that there was a reaction when the fumes from the recent apartment-painting hit the pilot lights that made that almost-gas-smelling odor, and that they had already gotten a few calls about it.

While he was working, I went to close the windows, which had been a feat to open because they’re old and heavy and won’t stay propped. I managed to drop a storm window on my middle finger. I stood there watching blood well around the fingernail, telling myself that it was so not cool to cry in front of Centerpoint-Minnegasco-dude. So I thanked him, showed him the door, and then I called my mom.

Who promptly yelled at me for injuring myself so damn much. Sigh.

The end.