Check

Even though I was elsewhere for about three quarters of the winter, I still managed my annual feat of  running completely out of heating oil and gumming up the works in the furnace.

I did what I knew how to do - shut it down, bleed the line, restart it. This failed to have the desired effect three times. It likely means the sludge at the bottom of the tank was sucked into and clogged the filters. So I have to call for service on the eve of a polar vortex.

"Stupid should hurt."

I read that on the back of a tee shirt in a West Texas bar a few months back. I would have to agree, generally speaking. But in my defense, this was not a matter of oblivion. I knew full well for a month that it was getting low, but I procrastinated. Okay?

Procrastination is a form of sloth, a demonstrated lack of rigor. Avoidance, because it makes me tired just thinking about it.

There's a little ice in my brand new bird bath this morning. The gold finches are not bathing. I'm holding off too.