Burning Down the House

I have a GREAT one for you today. So many other cute little episodes are in the running for publishing, but this one…well, this one takes Humiliation and Error to new heights in the sister household.

Sunday afternoon started a bit lazy; dinner with Dad and some Viking football in the background. A small turkey taco dinner, followed by a whirlwind cleaning spree and yard mowing frenzy. Very Sunday-esque. Very calm. Almost boring, but exactly what the doctor ordered.

[Insert the increasingly predictable twist].

But as I was contemplating the daring idea of a facial mask, a strange thing happened: my nose started twitching. My knees got a little bit weak, and for some reason an alarm started sounding in my head. If I were the Oracle of Delphi, and you were the pilgrim on a mission, then we would both be feeling the stirrings of some horrible news on the horizon (imagine Oedipus and his family’s misfortunes…). Yes, that serious ladies and gents.

I have not been around fire very often. In fact, my only incident outside of a way word tea light candle was a rather explosive gasoline fueled bonfire—which ended very badly. SOn this particular occasion I smelled something like “electrical fire.” Honestly, I am not even sure how I know what that smells like, but I do. Sisterita and I descended the stairs with growing alarm. Wrapped in a towel, with wet hair, and my companion still covered in grass clippings, things were a little chaotic. We ran from outlet to outlet. Checked the air conditioning unit. Looked for smoke. Unplugged every wire we could find. Turned off the lights and flipped the breakers. Even checked the lawn mower quietly resting outside from his backbreaking work of cutting down an inch of greenery.

No smoke. No fire. No explanations.

But the smell wafted through the hallway like a 90 year old’s over-used Red Door. 

It. Just. Would. Not. Leave.

So, we convinced ourselves it was a fluke. Something wafting through the vents but coming from the neighboring duplex. Life returned to normal. For 20 minutes.

After 20 minutes, I headed to ask the neighbors if something was up. Maybe they were burning microphone cords? I would have settled for the most bizarre of explanations—anything to convince me that our house was not, in fact, burning from inside of the walls. Nothing. Very obvious confusion. So, I did what anyone would do… I begged for advice on Facebook?

Yes, I admit it: not my brightest idea. Especially when the ensuing advice put us more on edge. Finally, through a series of very logical suggestions, we decided to call 911.The municipality that I am currently living in has EXCELLENT response time. Sisterita and I were prepared for a landscape of serious civil servants and no nonsense. But, oh Gentle Reader! We could not have known. One minute we were standing outside talking to a police officer and the next we were surrounded.

Seven emergency vehicles responded.

Sirens BLARED, lights whirled, as we struggled to decide whether the humiliation or the prospect of a serious electrical fire was worse. The EMTs were at the ready with a gurney…because I apparently gave the dispatcher the impression that there were charred limbs to be treated?!

Heavily protected men stomped into the house. Rubberneckers looked on—and we ALL know they were hoping the house went up in flames, as then something would have actually happened in our quaint, sleepy little town.

Five minutes pass. Radio static.

Ten minutes pass. We get a few more questions, i.e. “Basement? Um, no.”

Fifteen minutes pass by. At this point, I have had time to take stock of our appearance. Still with wet hair, Sisterita was channeling some Eddie Vetter jeans-and-comfy-flannel style, and I ended up in gold, sparkle ballet flats looking like a drowned rat. We could not have appeared more clueless if we had tried. When the trio of seasoned firefighters finally emerged, there was a sense of relief (both because soon we might finally solve the riddle and hide behind closed doors).

Wait…he was carrying something! Something was found! We were not crazy! Yes! Justified call to the noble 911 line! ::fist pump::

And then he showed us this:

Ladle.

Apparently, the plastic fell onto the heating coils in the dishwasher. So, we have melting and flame repeatedly put OUT by the water of the dishwasher. We also learned that our stove is a danger to all mankind and we should look into that. Um, ok…Sisterita actually contemplated killing me for calling. I know it.

The kind firemen were incredibly tolerant and understanding: they maintained that residents should always err on the side of caution in situations like these. In fact, entire HOUSES have gone up in flame over a dishwasher! But, the full weight of our folly came raining down with one final, kindly meant inquiry:

"So, are you girls students at the college?"

 Um, no sir. We are grown women. We just cannot operate dishwashers. Thanks. Please take the sirens and go.