Gibbons (in the picture) was one of eight firemen who dropped by the house last Saturday. I wish I'd been doing a photo shoot for next year's NYFD calendar, but instead they came by to see if my oven was trying to kill me.
My carbon monoxide alarm went off twice while John was making chicken jello (stock, you know, for sauce and other chef-y things). The second time it went off, I had a little headache--which could have been a touch of hangover--so I called the city's information line, 311.
They didn't even let me get my question out before transferring me to 911 and sending a flock of firemen to my door. They decided we should get the oven checked out before using it again, so they turned off the gas and left.
An hour later, the gas company showed up. Their guy waved a loudly beeping wand around the room and declared the oven to be an "immediate hazzard."
So John and I are eating energy bars and cold salads for dinner these days. And I didn't even manage to get any signatures on my firemen calendar.
Hopefully, my landlord will return my call soon and hire a new-oven fairy that delivers up three flights.
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