Nobody call 911.

As a new homeowner, it's a sinking feeling to realize that whatever may be going wrong in my new home is solely my responsibility. In order to cope, I've developed a checklist, helping me identify what the problem is and the action(s) required to fix it. The checklist is as follows:

Painting required:
Call Dad.

Taps making funny noises at night:
Obvious paranormal activity. Do nothing to aggravate the spirits.

Fridge is loud:
Open fridge door for investigative purposes. Eat something. Repeat as necessary.

Laminate flooring strip lifting:
Catch with toe. Curse. Repeat. Cover with rug. Tap in place with foot.

Light fixture needs changing:
Call Dad.

Nearly everything that can go wrong in my home is covered by similarly well-developed contingency plans, but when I walked into my bedroom late one night and smelled gas, I was at a loss.

My first instinct was to ignore the gas smell, but no matter where I stood or what angle I held my nose I could smell it. I sniffed the window, hoping that a tanker had overturned outside on the front lawn, absolving me of all responsibility. The smell wasn't coming from outside.

I sniffed my laundry pile, as perhaps my steady diet of fattening food and white wine when combined with a painfully slow metabolism and daily use of allergy meds, somehow led to my sweat glands producing gasoline. No such luck.

Next I sniffed my bedroom closet, where I was afraid the smell had been coming from all along. My hot water tank and all manner of wiring and plumbing for my washer and dryer fight for space there with my clothes and shoes. And now the whole mess smelled like I should be able to hook it up to my car and stand there contemplating whether I should run inside for a bottle of water and bag of chips, and why the goddamned price always jumps when I'm running nearly empty.

Needless to say, this was some serious shit that was not on my checklist.

I left the room, and then walked back in to determine whether the smell was simply my imagination, or even better, a sign of a stroke. At least I would know what to do if I was having a stroke. The smell was still there, and consciously so was I. Dammit.

It was 1:30 a.m., I was exhausted and in need of some serious help. I needed an instruction manual. Luckily, the previous owners left me more than just clogged drains and some really questionable carpet stains. Stashed in one of the kitchen cupboards was a stack of manuals I had been using to store my spices on.


At the very top of the pile, a manual for my washer and dryer. On the front cover in bold letters: What To Do If You Smell Gas. It was like the manufacturer was right there with me.

I wouldn't even have to turn to the table of contents - everything I needed to know was in bolded block letters in a fancy shadow box, with graphic arrows pointing to the text should the gas fumes presumably overwhelm me and my vision start to blur.


For your safety the information in this manual must be followed to minimize the risk of fire or explosion or to prevent property damage, personal injury or loss of life.

Loss of life? Explosion? Aren't they laying this on a little thick? Did I have to choose this night to stay up late watching the Colbert Report? I'm just too tired to have an explosion right now.


Do not store or use gasoline or other flammable vapors and liquid in the vicinity of this or any other appliance.

Oh. Crap. Does Febreze count as a flammable vapor? What about Spray and Wash?? Dear God, I'm going to die, all because of Spray and Wash.


Do not try to light any appliance

What does that even mean? How do I light an appliance?? I turn them on or off -- I don't light them. I don't even know what this means. I am totally screwed.

Do not touch any electrical switch; do not use any phone in your building

Any phone at all? What if the dude upstairs decides to call for a pizza? Sweet Christ on a cracker, please nobody call for a pizza.

Clear the room, building or area of all occupants

The entire building? Seriously?? I live in a condo building, and it's 1:30 a.m. I am not knocking on these people's doors. At least if they get blowed up, they won't know what hit them, and the really hot strata council president will never have to see me on his doorstep in my Winnie the Pooh boxing shorts. A happy afterlife ensues for everybody.

Immediately call your gas supplier from a neighbor's phone. Follow the gas supplier's instructions.

Well which is it, people? I can't call from my neighbor's phone because I'm supposed to be evacuating them. My building is sandwiched between an apartment complex whose residents all seem to prefer giant pirate flags covering their windows as opposed to curtains, and a house where I'm pretty sure I can purchase meth. I'm also pretty sure the residents of that house have all seen me naked, because I went for quite some time without curtains. Or a pirate flag. Also, who in the hell is my gas supplier? I suppose I could look that up, but that may mean lighting my laptop.

If you cannot reach your gas supplier, call the fire department.

Oh HELL no. For all four of my long-time readers and the legal team I should really have on stand-by...just no. Really, no. Although it pains me, because I do love a man in uniform...no.

Strong, decisive action was needed. This was my time to do the right thing in a life and death decision. I could save lives. I could be a hero, featured on the front page of the newspaper, credited with saving an entire neighborhood from certain blazing death.

Or I could open all the windows in my bedroom and go to bed, which is what I did. I may be brain damaged or dead in the morning, but I had an important work meeting to go to and death or brain damage would certainly make it more bearable. I struggled with setting my alarm clock. Would this constitute lighting the appliance? Would the alarm going off lead to me being enveloped in a fireball? I would find out at 6:25 a.m.

The alarm went off and I was alive. If there was brain damage, I really couldn't tell the difference. Even better, I couldn't smell any gas. I did hesitate before switching on my hair straightener, as this seemed an indirect violation of touching an electrical switch, but my bangs were looking really ridiculous.

I really couldn't concentrate at work, feeling that perhaps there was something more I should do about the gas leak situation. Something very important that hadn't occurred to me the night before in my exhaustion, and I left work early to take care of it in a hurry.

The insurance agent was very helpful, and it took no time at all to double the value of my possessions and increase my coverage. Finally, some piece of mind.

And yet, something still nagged at me. When I got home, it was still standing, and I took this as a positive sign. Just to be on the safe side, I had figured out which gas company to call, and was pleased when a real live person answered the special phone line to report gas leaks. I'm not sure why this task had seemed so difficult the night before, but better late than never.

I explained the situation to the woman on the other line, who wanted to know when I detected this smell. I told her I smelled it the night before, but it was gone now. But if they weren't doing anything, maybe they could still stop by. She seemed rather taken aback.

According to the woman, I should have called immediately. I really shouldn't have waited a day. I told her I understood her position, but I had some things I had to do. Silence on the other line, and then she told me to get out of the house, and go wait in the lobby. And so I did.

There's a couch in our lobby, and so I took a book and waited. The gas guy showed up very quickly, and I'm relieved to report that I don't find all men in uniform attractive.

I apologized profusely for not actually having a smell to direct him toward anymore, but it seemed prudent to call anyway. He agreed, but was dubious. It was very frustrating - like when trying to describe to a mechanic the clicking noise you keep hearing, but when he starts the car it sounds like a happy kitten.

He waved a wand at my closet - no readings. He waved a wand at the only appliance in my condo that requires gas, which is my fireplace -- in my living room, and nowhere near my bedroom. Apparently my washer and dryer can be wired for gas, but are not. Regardless, no gas. There was absolutely nothing emitting gas in my apartment. I couldn't have even passed gas if I tried at the time.

It was a relief. The crisis had been averted. I had saved the day, by doing nothing at all, which is what was required, as it turns out. Perhaps this home ownership thing will work out after all.

Muppetism.

On any given day I'll have several health issues going on that I'm unable to bring up in polite conversation, should polite conversation ever arise. I'm not a hypochondriac, even though a bad headache will lead me to think brain tumour. I don't believe that constitutes hypochondria so much as it demonstrates my extremely pessimistic nature.

(As an aside, I had a room-mate in university who was a hypochondriac. She also couldn't leave the house without making sure the fringe on her bedroom rug was uniformly straight and not touching. Her food couldn't touch on the plate either, and if it did she threw it out and went hungry. That's actually an aside to the aside.)

(The point is, bitch was crazy. One afternoon she shared with me she was having a bad day because her birth control pills were causing her to go blind, she had some kind of thread stuck up her nose and hanging down the back of her throat that she'd been trying to reach for days, and she had a rare form of arthritis in one hip that was eventually going to cause her to be able to walk only in circles.

This was all hilarious until one day I mixed some cold medication with a pint of neocitran and a dash of anti-depressants in an attempt to plow through some final papers with the flu. I collapsed in the shower, lay there for two hours with the water running, got myself up and out, crawled into the hallway wrapped in the bath mat and told my crazy bitch room-mate with a car that I had to go to the hospital.

She sighed, and said she'd think about taking me after Matlock. Yes, Matlock. I could have died because the crazy bitch had a thing for reruns starring Andy Griffith. I lay there in the hallway, covered by a bathmat, until she was suddenly shaking me awake and panicking.

She would take me now, right now, let's go, come on sweetie, please get up... While I lay there, my lips had turned blue and my face so white all the veins were glowing. I looked clinically dead.

She did take me to the hospital, but didn't speak to me for several days afterward. She was angry because she was so sick, and I was the one who "got" to go and "spend time" in the emergency room. She said this like I had won a radio contest to fly to Cabo and didn't take her. We didn't last much longer after that.)

(Bitch really was crazy.)

(Sorry for the long aside. Obviously I'm still bitter.)

Having had that experience in university, I know myself to be downright reasonable in terms of my medical concerns. For so long now, most of the attention and concern has focused on my nether regions for reasons beyond my control. Therefore, it was actually kind of a relief when my face exploded.

A few weeks ago, I woke up with arms flailing, because I was sure I opened my eyes but I couldn't see anything. After careful scientific analysis (read: freaking out in front of bathroom mirror) I determined that both of my eyes had swollen shut. They went nicely with my lips, which had puffed up to inner-tube proportions. This all may have stood out quite a bit, had the skin on my face and neck not turned red like a nuclear holocaust sunset.

Overnight, I had turned into a muppet.

I couldn't drive anywhere, so I stayed home from work. I left the house only to run to the drugstore and invest in some Benadryl and a chat with the pharmacist, who's greeting was "Holy Dinah." Dinah didn't begin to cover it.

The next day my cheeks had swollen, creating several hard creases in my face that don't normally exist, and squinting my left eye up into my forehead by about two inches. Now I looked like a muppet version of that kid from the movie Mask. I could see out of one eye so I drove myself to work. It's not that I have any kind of work ethic, but I knew the office first aid kit had an epi-pen, and if my head kept on swelling, I was going to need it.

I suppose I should mention that I hadn't eaten anything new, used any new make-up, or new products. Apparently I had taken a sudden and severe allergic reaction to nothing at all. While it's not uncommon for me to overreact to nothing at all in my life, this was ridiculous.

Nothing would bring the swelling down. People stared at me every where I went, and one little kid in the grocery store asked me what was wrong with my face. On the best of days I have no patience for children, so when I told the kid there was nothing wrong with my face, what's wrong with yours?...I'm hoping he's still thinking on it.

I went on steroids for a week just to rearrange my features to a reasonable approximation of where they used to be. The steroids caused me to sleep walk and gain weight. I had hoped the sleep walking could burn some calories and even things out, but if I can't be bothered to work-out in my waking hours then it wasn't looking good for my nocturnal wanderings either.

Several weeks after the initial outbreak, I was learning to live with one very angry looking forehead, and diseased looking cheeks and neck. The hives on my face were resistant to everything I tried - Benadryl cream, Benadryl tablets, incessant scratching, Aloe Vera, funky hats, ice water presses, chocolate, Reactine, and more than one stern talking to.

Since my face wasn't really recovering, I began seeking a referral to an allergist. I actually looked forward to these doctor visits, given the only other times I absolutely have to see a doctor I end up with my legs in stirrups for my twice a year check up to make sure nothing has closed over. This was actually refreshing.

It was also wonderful to not have to attempt to explain what's wrong. What was wrong was plainly visible. I just had to point, and the doctor(s) would haul out a prescription pad and send me somewhere, mostly so they didn't have to look at me anymore. Just seeing my face caused people to claw their own in sympathy.

Even though I had requested to see an allergist, I was sent to a dermatologist. I didn't care if they sent me to a proctologist as long as my face recovered.

I've never been a raving beauty. On a good day I would classify myself as unconventionally pretty, and on an average day I would say that I'm aspiring to average. My face had become so bad that I couldn't go anywhere without people looking at me too long, or too quickly.

For well over a week I was actually deformed, and that deformity settled into the scientific term, godawful. I was really, truly ugly. I thought twice about where I needed to go and when. How many people would be there? Was it well-lit?

Finally, I was seated in front of a dermatologist who was looking at my forehead through a giant magnifying glass. He asked me what medication I was taking to deal with it, and I said I was taking Benadryl, as the pharmacist and more than one doctor suggested.

The dermatologist said, "Stop it." He was not a man of many words.

Apparently, it's quite common to have an explosive allergic reaction, and then build up an allergy to the Benadryl being used to treat it. He prescribed an ointment to put on at bedtime, and when I woke up, my face was back to normal. Completely normal. It was also stuck to the pillow in a pool of hardened ointment, but I did not care. I had eyelids again.

Now I'm loving my new face, which is the same as my old face, only better. It's smooth and soft, with my features shrunk back down to normal. Except for my nose. That's still large, but it was large before.

I'd try snorting that magic ointment, but even then I think I'm stuck with it.