This is Not Little House on the Prairie

I am from a long lineage of hearty pioneer sorts. My mother’s side of the family came over in the Mayflower days and helped settled rugged New England. My parents are both do-it-yourselfers who built their house by hand when I was a baby. We all lived in a tent in the yard, through the New England winter, until the cement truck came and poured the foundation.

My mom—who was basically a single parent—has always been the type of person who doesn’t just garden; she composts. She doesn’t just know how to unclog the toilet; she knows how to troubleshoot a septic tank issue. She can sew, cook, plumb, carpent, mend, patch, fix, and basically do anything one would ever need to do living in a rustic woodsy house in mountainous New England. She’s also the type of kickass woman who can change her own flat tire and drive her own snowplow.

I did not get those genes.

Here’s what I cannot do: re-light my suburban hot water heater pilot when a windstorm blows it out.

Here’s what I can do, though: Stomp around for a little while having a minor tantrum about it, call my stand-in boyfriend Leslie crying, beg her to come help me, stand by helplessly as she figures out how to re-light the damn thing, and then document the entire epic tragedy in pictures and write a story about it.

Yes, I am well aware that I could figure out how to re-light my own hot water heater “if I really wanted to.” I don’t. I’m just not that girl. However, I am the girl who makes friends with that girl. That counts for something, right?

D.I.Y. — Re-Lighting the Pilot on Your Water Heater

Starring Leslie Munday

Step 1: Muck around in crawl space behind house on hands and knees,
being careful to avoid decomposing vole.

Step 2: Tell nosy cat to mind its own business (and please stop killing voles).

Step 3: Be sure to wear cute headlamp. Hawt.

Step 4: After successfully lighting pilot like a total badass, be sure to complain for a while about rock that was digging into your knee.

Step 5: No seriously, complain some more. P.S. nice Fryes.

And that’s how it’s done, bitches! Who needs a man? Fist bump.