The Furnace Has Hold of My Hand Again

This is the third time and it's getting ridiculous now. Every few months I attempt without results to remove the wire whisk that is stuck in the furnace from when the daughter of a church friend placed it there. Each time, my hand becomes stuck and I end up shouting through the floorboards to the landlord below to call the paramedic to rescue me as a shiny knight of metal armor upon a horse with sticks and other things of which to pry me out would do. This time was of particular worriment, as I had recently became very cold in a latent menopausal tremor and had switched the furnace from vacation mode to home again mode, causing a roaring blaze which is usually something to celebrate by but this time was a nuissance only.

My forearm became lodged slightly off right and below of the flame, so the searing was not too bad. I can say that at least it was not lodged directly center and above the flame. On the positive, most of the hair on that arm no longer grows anyway, following a fishing boat accident from about 30-40 years past. So not too bad. ... But I do need that whisk, as it has now been 8 months since I have had scrambled eggs for breakfast, and I have long since tired of all the other egg varieties.

I have asked the church friend's daughter for proper remuneration for which I am owed allowance upon top, but she is four and just sort of laughs or cries, dependent on whether she is feeling malicious or guilty at the moment I ask. I would never go to the mother on this one. I do not believe that the sins of the father are placed on the head of the son, nor do I believe that the mischieveries of the daughters are placed on the backs of the mothers to replace those lacks of items which have deprived the eggs from me.

The fireman was nice about it and has offered to cheer me up by taking me to the deli for a pickle and fish sandwich, and that's where I will go now.

-- Madge