The Oven Saga, cont.

So as a result of my oven fire last week (see my Superhero post if you are wondering what I’m talking about), I had a repairman scheduled for today.  And it is a good thing that I’m currently jobless, because he was to appear anytime between 9 and 5.  What is with that?  Is time management rocket science?  I digress.  Back to the point. 

Bear was home this morning on his “day off”.  The reason there are “air quotes ” around that phrase on paper, or in my head, or as I talk to friends is because he can’t manage to actually take a day off.  He spent hours on and off the phone, pacing about the house, in the driveway, down the block,  talking to past customers, new customers, would-be passers-by, co-workers, the neighbors, etc.   And because one of those conversations was compelling enough, he announced that he would be, of course, going in to work.  Which, although I am jobless, puts yet another kink in my plans for the repairman’s 8 hour window because I take and pick up my daughter from school.  And because they couldn’t manage to narrow the anticipated repairman’s time of unholy arrival, I had to call and cancel for today.  One more day without the oven and stove shouldn’t be that big of a problem.  Right?  After all, I have eaten every microwave meal ever made over the last 9 days, 18 hours and 14 minutes. 

At some point, Bear had hopped in the shower and set down the phone.  I had put in the mandatory 6 applications via computer for the day, so I settled in on the couch with a fantastic book by Julia Quinn.  I was very involved in the story, so artfully woven with a tapestry of words that pulled me in, that I barely noticed Bear was now pacing around the house somewhere, back on the phone.  And then the doorbell rang. 

I hopped off the couch, thinking it was UPS bringing me of crate of cash just for being me.  But it was the repairman.  Impressive!  Four hours before deadline and he showed up even though I cancelled!  I made a mental note to play the lottery.  He said this first visit would just take a few seconds, so of course, I let him in. 

I walked him into the kitchen while I looked for Bear, to let him know the guy was here.  But Bear was nowhere.  Hmm. Weird.  He was here, talking away and pacing about.  Oh well. 

Back to the kitchen to talk to the repair man.  I stood against the kitchen sink, with the window behind me, bantering with Oven Man.  The at-first-seemingly-normal repair guy suddenly started to look away from me while he was talking.  First down to his feet.  Then over his shoulder back at the pantry.  Then out towards the tv.  What the hell?? I mean, I knew I was looking a little rough, but was I that hideous?  Or maybe he was scoping out the house.  Looking about in an akward manner for valuables, just to come back and rob us blind.  

But then I heard Bear’s voice talkity-talking on the phone.  I guess he was pacing the back porch, which is fully visible through afore-mentioned window .  Not too big of a shock.  And as Oven Man dropped to his knees to stick his head in the oven in a final attempt to avoid my wrinkled, churning brow, I turned around to knock on the window to tell Bear Oven Man had made it.  

I turned around to see my husband standing outside on the porch, having an in-depth, business-like conversation, with hand-gestures and all, in full view of the window, sporting only his fruit of the looms.  Briefs, that is. 

And suddenly I panicked.  The repairman was done in the oven, but he wouldn’t come out.  My poodle, demon-boy, was coming unglued at the guy half-in the oven.  He must have figured people weren’t supposed to do that, so in his infinite dog- wisdom, he started barking like a exorcism bound hound of hell.  And this sprint to the laundry room wasn’t quite as exciting as the sprint to the fire extinguisher, but it did result in shorts for the near naked Bear pacing my back-porch in his bright, just-bleached lulu’s.  As I opened the sliding glass door and whipped the shorts at a stunned Bear, I managed a “Stove guy here!” in full audio radius of said Stove guy.  

“Uh…sorry about that.  I guess we weren’t expecting you.”  I said, trying my best attempt at humor with the 6’5 man who had all but crawled completely into my burnt-out oven.  “And, no, he usually doesn’t pace on the porch like that, well, in that.  Nevermind.  So how’s the oven?”

In mere minutes, Oven Man had left, claiming that he needed to order the parts.   He may have run to his truck.  At least he would fit inside that.