I love my husband. But there are days when I love him decidedly less than the day before. Yesterday was one of those days.

It started like any other Sunday morning before: The kids running around going batshit crazy while forgetting to let the damn dog out, the birds squawking, and me sporting a giant pillow over my head wondering why, God, why can’t my children be like regular preteens and want to sleep in until past noon?

When I finally dragged my still-very sleepy arse out of bed I noticed it was a tad chilly in our home. No big deal, I just turned the thermostat up and went to grind my morning coffee beans. We have a wood stove that I had lit the night before so I tossed in a log while I waited for our furnace to fire up and warm the entire house.

Then I noticed the dog left me a nice brown present at the front door. The front door where he must have sat and whined for someone to let him out until his poor little sphincter could now longer hold the dam shut. I got busy cleaning up the mess, yelled at the kids, let the dog out and felt a modicum of guilt for trying to sleep in instead of getting up and being the responsible adult I was supposed to be. He is my dog after all. (As Fric and Frac pointed out when I tried to get them to pick up the poop.)

Life continued and suddenly it was lunch time and my house was still rather chilly. Not freezing, just in need of the damn furnace to blow on. Had it kicked on and I hadn’t noticed? No, I don’t think it ever did.

So I started fussing with the thermostat and still the furnace wouldn’t start. Trying to be a big, independent girl who could solve a problem without a man’s help, I scratched my head and wondered what the problem could be.

Aha! We must have run out of fuel! I thought. Except the only way to know for sure is to run out of fuel because the damn gauge is broken and I keep forgetting to nag my husband to fix it it hasn’t been replaced.

Screw it, I thought as I dialed my husband. Enough with the female pride, we’re getting cold.

“We’re out of heating fuel and you promised we would have enough to get through to the new year,” I accused the moment he answered his phone.

“Wh-, uh, gar,” he breathed, not quite fully conscious.

“We are freezing to death, there’s not enough wood to heat the house properly and you obviously didn’t order heating fuel like I asked you to before you left,” I enunciated in slow, deathly quiet syllables. I suppose I could take care of phoning the delivery service between feeding and caring for our two children, maintaining a house, being an accountant, acting as a gate keeper for our families and running a taxi service amongst all the other things I do. But if I did everything myself, what do I need him for?

“There’s enough fuel, I checked,” he yawned.

“I don’t think so. The furnace won’t kick on and it’s cold out. I realize you might not be all that concerned as you are snug as a bug in a rug in your toasty warm rental, but your children are slowly turning blue.”

“Well there is no way we ran out of fuel,” he insisted. “There must be a problem with the furnace,” he asked while stifling a yawn.

“Our three year old, brand new and highly expensive furnace?” I asked rather skeptically.

“Yep.”

“I don’t think so. I’m thinking we ran out of fuel and the broken gauge you never fixed isn’t reading accurately.”

“Nope. It’s the furnace. I know it. It’s what I do. Besides, I checked the fuel level,” he emphasized.

“Fine. I think you’re wrong but whatever. I’m just a girl. Who lives here. And actually knows how much fuel we use daily. But what do I know? So what do I do to fix the furnace? Is there a switch I can flip or do I just kick the furnace in a certain spot to get it to work?”

“Um, no. That would be bad. And don’t touch any switches because with your luck you’ll fry yourself. I’ll call a heating specialist.”

“It’s Sunday. That’s gonna be expensive,” I argued.

“It’s either that or I get fired from work to come home, fix it myself and then sit on the couch eating Christmas cookies while you worry about money and nag at me to get a damn job,” he reasoned.

“Fine. Call someone. Call the fuel dude because I’m positive we ran out.”

“You’re a woman, what do you know? This is my thing. If the computer or the phone break, that’s your thing.” I do believe he is trying to imply something. Jackass.

Three hours later there was a knock at my door. A plumbing and heating specialist from the city sporting dollar signs in his eyes and rubbing his hands together with glee when I led him to the furnace.

“Baby’s gonna get that pony for Christmas now,” he muttered. Great. Might as well just hand over my debit card and call it even.

He fiddled and tinkered and banged around. He asked a million questions and then disregarded my answers because what do I know, I’m a woman. After about an hour he stood up, put the cover back on the furnace and announced he was done.

“Is it fixed?” I asked as I tossed another log into the wood stove.

“Yep. Good as new,” he said as he started writing out the bill.

“What was wrong with it?” I politely inquired while worrying if I was going to have enough money to make the mortgage after he fleeced me.

“Not a damn thing. Turns out you just ran out of fuel.” No shit. “Did you check the gauge?” No. I never thought of that.

As I handed over a check for an outrageous sum of money, I pictured all the ways I could torture my husband for this. Then I called the fuel delivery company. Like I should have done in the first place.

The joy of being right while sporting a uterus was overshadowed by my money loving tendencies. There was no happy jig and no ‘Booyahs! In your face pretty boy!’ shouted when I learned I am right more often than I’m wrong. My joy was deafened by the sound of the heating dude singing about ‘suckas’ as he skipped down my driveway.

Still, I was right. And I am a woman. Boo’s gonna hear me roar.