We recently went on a mission to find a pellet stove. Paul's an ancient 46 years old and therefore has declared himself too old to cut wood anymore. We have a two strapping pre-teens who are probably two years away from helping their dear ol' dad out in that department and really, I like hauling wood, but nooooooo he says, he's too old. Whatever.
Below is the "runway" Abby thought he'd set up just for her to model on. I told her to hang and rattle. She instead just went back to the Batcave and read a book. Chicken. We'll call it stage fright.
One might see the next picture and think, "Wow, Diva, focus next time!" but one would be thinking incorrectly there because that is not a product of poor focusing, but instead of a product of the aforementioned 33 years' worth of creosote and soot. Yes. Floating. In the air. Of my house. Where my asthmatic child lives. FUN.
And here's the new stove on the handy dandy lift. Fortunately the dust didn't take long to settle. All over my furniture, carpet and US, thus allowing the next pictures to be clear again.
And here's our brand spankin' new pellet stove! The bricks in the center above it are still soot-stained and Paul's got some muriatic acid to clean it, but remember he's soooo geriatric he's either forgotten or his bursitis and gout have him down and he can't. Either way, hopefully he'll get around to that soon.
Paul had to run up to a neighbor's house to borrow some pellets because we haven't bought ours yet and the stove guy didn't bring any, but they poured 'er full and cranked her up and yeah, that was one of the days it was 104 outside, so just imagine how fun that was.