If It’s Got A Wire, I Can Start It On Fire

(NOT A How-to Guide)

My Jiminy Cricket may have saved my life tonight. Yes, that “Lord High Keeper of the knowledge of right and wrong, counselor in moments of temptation, and guide along the straight and narrow path” of Disney fame that we all have whispering in our ears. In my case that little voice of wisdom, or at least less-stupid decisions, sounds like what I hope is my most mature, rational self. And she prefers to be called Angie. I don’t know why.

It had been a long day. A very long day. The kind where you can’t help but sigh with appreciation at the fluff of your pillow, the cool of your sheets, the cozy of your comforter, but more than anything you appreciate being horizontal and just being DONE.

The hubby had gone to bed hours before so I “put the house to bed” which meant I made sure the dog had one last bathroom break, turned off all the lights, and moved the little space heater to aim into our bedroom before I brushed my teeth.

My limbs had just gotten that heavy, floaty feeling where you know you have them but you’re not sure where they are and it’s okay. The little gerbil in my head, my day-to-day thinking self, had gotten off her wheel and was just settling down when she sleepily muttered, “Mmm, smells like cinnamon buns…I like cinnamon buns…”.

Angie piped up. “You don’t have any cinnamon buns.”

True, but who wants to argue with the lovely smell of cinnamon buns?

Angie is tenacious. Often annoying and inconvenient, but always tenacious. “Why does it smell like cinnamon buns? What has changed? Does it still smell like cinnamon buns?”

My sleepy gerbil, in recognition of the pain that often follows from not listening to Angie, roused enough to sniff. “Nope. Smells more like melting plastic or metal.” And rolled over.

After much harassment from Angie, I took another sniff and this time the smell was not good. Not good at all. When I went to check, the space heater was streaming smoke and getting close to it made my eyes water. That’s when I remembered the smoke detector had been removed. I unplugged the smoking heater, made sure it wasn’t around anything flammable, and went back to bed.

So much for sleep, now I had to keep checking on the stupid thing. Since I was up anyway, I tried to remember all the wired things I’ve had that have started on fire. I’ve had a few.

Two of those whipper-snipper lawn trimmers, one mower, my car’s engine, one computer (I’ve melted many but only one had fire), one computer monitor, a microwave, my oven, umpteen (that’s the official number) hand-held mixers, several blenders, a kettle, and a blow dryer, or two,…

Just lucky, I guess.

Angie may be annoying and inconvenient, but I’m sure glad I have her and I’m so glad I learned to listen!