Amy, the smell thing is making me worried for you. Is your husband home. Can he investigate if the smell is coming from your b-i-l's room?

Oh yeah, Stephen's here. BiL has the door to his room blocked -- you can see something under the crack. I think it's just an ottoman, though. He generally sleeps until 10:30 or 11, of course, because, you know, NO JOB for twenty-five years (which is a whole other rant).

I told Stephen, either wake him up or call the gas company, because the smell is really making me nauseous now, even with the window cracked (in the 6 degree weather).

Amy, if you're nauseated--call the gas company immediately! Even if it turns out to be nothing, don't take any chances.

Amy, what Cashmere said. Whether it's from your bil's heater or the household furnace, if there's a real problem, (I'm not saying there is -- but if there is) you'll start to lose your judgment. Don't mess around with this, honey.

I'm glad Stephen is there. He can hold BiL while you smack him around. Let us know when (very soon) this is resolved.

Well, it's not a kerosene heater. BiL just got up. Of course, FiL is rolling his eyes at me because I'm upset, and I came *thisclose* to screaming, "So you would rather be known as the crazy old man whose house blew up and killed his family than the crazy old man who called the gas company for what turned out to be nothing?"

It's pathological, the way he wants to avoid any kind of "trouble" or anything that upsets the balance of his day. Or, you know, spend a penny to make sure his house is properly heated for his grandchildren and the rest of his family, not to mention SAFE.

"So you would rather be known as the crazy old man whose house blew up and killed his family than the crazy old man who called the gas company for what turned out to be nothing?"

Want me to call him and say it?

Be. My. Guest.

The thing is, he doesn't smell anything, or so he says. Of course, he can't see or hear anything, either, so I take that with a grain pound of salt.

The snowflakes are getting bigger and fluffier.

While I was gone with the kids this weekend, Christopher continued some work on the house--he painted and installed a new door for the downstairs half bath and finished the trimwork and installed the new, brushed nickle hardware. Not a bad job for an actuary.

{{{AmyLiz}}} Ugh. You'd have been justified in pitching a screaming fit.

{{Cindy and Julia}} Get well, soon. This winter so needs to be over.

{{AmyLiz}} Have a tree fall on the garage. It was the only way we could get my father to renovate the kitchen. He used the insurance money for it rather than fixing the garage. (According to him, the only thing damaged was the add-on shed that held the lawn mower, which is no longer used because they have a lawn service. Uhm, the insurance wouldn't have paid out $7000 if that's all that was damaged.) Now, if I could just get him to update the electricity in the house, which is a fire hazard, but, noooo, that won't get done because dad thinks my brother should do it and is (you guessed it) too cheap to pay someone to do it. What is it with old, cranky fathers? My father is not a stupid man, but he's dumb in ways I just don't understand. Anyway, you have all my sympathy dealing with your FiL, at least I don't have to live with my father and just get to shake my head from a distance.

Cashmere, that new door is whoot worthy. I love the brushed nickel.