My apartment is cold. Very cold. This is probably because the window in my apartment are plastic, not glass, and the plastic has various holes in it. Through the many holes in the many windows of my apartment there blows a rather brisk gale that combats any form of air warming device I can find. I did put up that heat saving, crinkly, somewhat annoying plastic stuff made by the duck tape people, but it had to come down. Not only had it been successful with keeping in the heat, it kept in the carbon monoxide too.

Yes, that's right, my CO alarm went off a few days ago! I was sitting here, writing emails, when a loud, ear-piercing beeping erupted behind me. The things that go through you head when you are suddenly confronted by foreign beeps can be bizarre. At first I thought my computer was going to explode. Then I looked outside. (Odd, I know, but the piercing tone of the beep made it sound like it was coming from everywhere at once.) Then I remembered that we had these things called alarms. I knew the smoke alarm didn't work because I tested it. I fill the house from floor to ceiling with smoke while trying to make focaccia bread. The smoke wasn't on purpose, but the extreme lack of beeps made it pretty clear to me that the smoke alarm doesn't work. Anyway, my mind was working well enough to remember this information, which left only one alarm left, the CO detector.

You grow up learning in school what to do in case of a fire, but no one ever instructs you on what to do if your apartment is filling with CO. I like to think of myself as a pretty smart girl. I'm alright. That being said, I still stood in my apartment for about five minutes holding the alarm in my hands and staring at it. Then, I did the one thing I could think of doing. I called my mom. When she didn't answer I called my Carbondale mom, Paula. Paula told me to leave the apartment and call my landlord.

Mr. Landlord. What can I tell you that will capture the epitome of Mr. Landlord? Well, I think you will get a metaphorical taste of Mr. L. as I continue with this narrative. If you took a real taste of Mr. L. he would probably taste like whiskey.

Mr. L. wasn't answering his phone. This, my friends and neighbors, was not a shocking development. I messaged my boyfriend, Jason, to let him know that our cozy little home was a poisonous death trap, but that I was trying to take care it. Jason, knowing me full well, was not at first alarmed. I guess those that know me know that the Becca panic button well labeled and low for easy access to problems of all sizes. Still, this was kind of a major problem.

I hung out at Paula's for awhile until she asked me a rather unusual question.

"So, what did the fire department have to say?"

The fire department? I don't usually speak to the fire department on a daily basis. I suppose they are doing well. Should I be in communication with my local fire department? Does that make a difference some how? Will they respond quicker should there be a fire at my apartment?

How was I suppose to know that the fire department also deals with CO problems? There wasn't a fun little CO dance in kindergartner to explain these things to me. I still know the stop, drop, and roll song, I would have remembered the carbon monoxide song had there been one.

So I called the fire department. (And the Carbondale fire department operator is a very woman. I actually did have a pleasant chat with her and with the non-emergency number lady as well.)

I went back to my apartment to await the arrival of what I figured would be one of those fire department SUVs. What I got was a full firetruck with flashing lights and sound. "This," I thought to myself, "is overkill." Before I could blink I followed eight, yes eight, firemen up the stairs and into my apartment.

Now, I have a little apartment. It feels very big when it's just me and Jason, but you put even one more body in the living room and the whole place shrinks. Picture, if you would, eight firemen in full gear wielding huge CO counters in front of them like tricorders. The apartment shrunk to the size of a playhouse.

I wasn't really sure what to do at that point. All eight guys were nodding their heads and saying things like, "Yep, yep, CO in here alright." "Yep, I got thirty, you got thirty?" "No, mine still says twenty-eight. I'm gonna try the kitchen." "Yep, CO in here too, yep, alright, there is CO."

Meanwhile my head is snapping back and forth among while I listen and ask questions. "Thirty? Is thirty bad? Is the CO coming from the kitchen? Does twenty-eight mean it's going away? Do you think the CO will give up and go home?"

The firemen walked through my house, and then checked out the garage underneath my house where the furnace and the hot water heater live. The CO down there was even less. Eventually most of the guys got back into the firetruck and left. One of the firemen had arrived in the SUV I had been expecting; he stayed and gave me his guess as to what was going on. According to him the CO in the apartment was probably coming from the oven because it isn't vented so there is no other place for it to go. The levels were too high yet, so his suggestion was for me to take all of the plastic off the windows, open them, and get a breeze going to air out the house. After that advice he left.

I did what he said, and by the time Jason got home from work I was able to turn the alarm on without it beeping. We ate out anyway. We're paranoid.

While eating twice-cooked beef at New Kahala Jason got a phone call from Mr. Landlord. (I did leave him a rather panic-sounding voice mail.) Jason told him everything, but Mr. Landlord wanted to check the apartment out himself. Jason told him we were eating but that we'd be home in about thirty minutes. Mr. L. said he would still stop by now and just wait for us there. I made a joke about Mr. L. bringing a fan into our apartment and waving it around as his solution, but Jason pointed out that the joke was a little too close to possible reality with this guy.

When we did get to the apartment we found Mr. L. eyeing the CO alarm with suspicion. He asked us several times if we had checked the batteries. We had, in fact, changed them the week before. He didn't believe us. I told him the fire department guys were out here and their sniffers picked up CO. "They lie. It's a scam," said Mr. L.

I blinked at this for a moment.

"The fire department is lying about carbon monoxide?" I asked.

"Yeah, they just want to make money off you. It's all a lie. Carbon monoxide only comes off your car," said Mr. L.

"The fire department is involved in a carbon monoxide conspiracy?" I asked. (I told you Mr. L. was something else.)

"Yeah, they just want your moneys," he said.

I blinked again, trying to compute all of this.

"But, they wouldn't make money off of CO. It's not like they are selling the detectors," I said.

"No, no they will charge you for showing up here to test it. They want to scare you. Make you call them more so they can charge me for coming out here. CO comes from cars. Did you have these windows open like this? With these windows open and my car runnin outside all sorts of CO is coming in here. If you just keep these windows closed you'll be fine."

I didn't even try here. I just nodded. Mr. L. did bring over a new CO detector which he plugged in by the stove. (Which, by the way, he won't vent and won't replace with an electric, because the fire department lies.) He was hinting at taking away my old CO detector, but that wasn't going to happen with me here. That little guy is working, he stays.

So that, my friends, is why I am typing this blog from underneath the thickest fleece blanket you have ever seen. I suppose I could try to find myself another apartment. But I've already gone and painted this one purple, and orange, and well, enough colors to loose the security deposit. That, and there is no way I'll find another place this cheap. Besides, the fire department would have told me to move if this place was that dangerous, right?