Gas leak. (Excuse me.)

I'd like to think Steve Martin would play me in a movie of my life.

Yesterday was COLD. Texas cold. Cars were swerving off roads by the scores. Many workplaces and schools shut down. We had a quarter inch of ice. The psychological damage is as great as the fender bending.

We declared it time to light the gas logs.

After years of real wood, my namesake, after all, years of being ripped off by the traveling log salesmen - "got this load of oak in the truck... $80 a cord." (That's a face cord, half the size of a cord. A reduction like that would blow a drug deal up in gunfire!) Well, the oak would turn into pine just below where you could see it. Or it'd be pungent toxic chemical-smell tree, direct from Love Canal or any other EPA skull and crossbone forrest. I also bought cords of won'tburn logs.

So when we moved to these here parts, we opted for a gas fireplace. No wood salesmen, no termites in the woodpile, no spiders to torch, no snakes a-hiding.

Yessiree, got us a two sided wide baby. Got the upgraded ceramic logs with texture and even the ember glow pieces (sold by the GRAM). All went well upon install, last winter. Thursday, I fired it up again. Make that, turned the handle. Lit the lighter. Probed for the pilot. It would light, then go out. I actually read the instructions.

Our knob is upside down. That's confusing.

Finally, I called the guy who sold it. He came by today - nice guy - and lit it right up. See, I was lighting the GAS LEAK, not the pilot.

Long story short, he replaced the explosion-in-your-face part and got it going.

The living room and kitchen are about 95 degrees now. I don't want to turn it off till Terri sees flame (and warms her work-weary butt cheeks on our hearth.)