I have a love/hate relationship with our gas fireplace.

During the winter, as Hubs keeps lowering the thermostat, I curl up on the loveseat, next to the fireplace, toasting my toes in cozy bliss.

During the summer, however, I always become convinced that the fireplace is trying to poison me with carbon monoxide.

Right now, having caught a whiff of gas while passing said fireplace, I am sleepless, certain that my headache is the first sign of the carbon monoxide that is surely filling our home. I already prodded Hubs awake to ask if he’d noticed the odor.

“Oh, yeah,” he mumbled. “I smelled it earlier.”

Dude.

WRONG THING TO SAY TO A WOMAN WHO BECOMES EASILY FIXATED.

Of course, this is the man who walked into our bedroom one evening, abruptly dropped to the floor and pressed his nose against a vent.

“Do you … oh, I probably shouldn’t ask this … but, well … do you smell smoke?”

Do you think I caught a wink of sleep that night? Do you think he did?

Things is, when there have been emergencies, Hubs has been the one to spring from the bed, ready to douse flames.

Me? I was sleeping.

“I smell fire!” he yelled one night, jarring me from a deep slumber. Within seconds, he was in the E-man’s smoke-filled room, yanking our baby from his crib. Turned out some air conditioning thingy had burned up. The unit sits just outside the E-man’s window, hence the smoke.

The night before Christmas Eve 2007, the power flickered, prompting a raised eyebrow from me and yelps from stespon Ty, who was watching a movie. Within seconds, Hubs emerged from our room, ordering me and all four kids out of the house.

Two seconds later, I smelled it — the aroma of burning wiring and oh my God what do we have stored in the attic?

“Call 911,” he said, before racing back inside.

Oh, goody! I get to order a batch of firefighters! Merry Christmas to me!

And then I remembered the state of our room — suitcases with clothes spilling from them, wrapping paper rolls spread out across the floor. Ever so briefly, I wondered if I had enough time to dash back in and do some cleaning before the firemen arrived.

I didn’t. And the first thing they saw upon entering our room was an ancient stretched-out nursing bra dangling from my closet doorknob.

I know. I know. But it’s my comfiest bra.

It’s probably clear from this post that we live in an older home. I used to think old houses were charming. Now, however, I eagerly await the day we move into a bigger, NEWER house. No gas. No old wiring.

Oh, and no crawlspace. I want a slab. Why anyone ever thought a big, damp hole under a house was a good idea is beyond me. Yeah, yeah, we have a liner.

But I still spend an inordinate amount of time worrying about mold.

Which I’m quite sure is black and toxic.