![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
I've gotten lax in updating this month. In my defense, any blog post written last night would've read, "Zlurg hughn fsnod gruppen hingblott stove fire hungsgizzenblodd," and since this marks post 1400, I wanted it to be mostly literate and legible.
Thursday: Roomie and I had planned to see No Country for Old Men for Valentine's Day, but when I awoke and discovered that the Red Bloat had come in the night, we scuttled those plans in favor of ordering wings and watching Surf's Up. And yes, I felt vaguely guilty about inhaling wings after watching Chicken Joe from Sheboygan.
Shortly after watching Surf's Up, Roomie set the kitchen on fire while making tea. A splodge of grease ignited in the grease trap beneath the burner and set off the smoke detector. I was on the toilet, recycling my evening repast, and so the sudden blare of shrieking sirens and the strobe flash of In Case You Were Deaf, This Is Your Cue to Get the Hell Out came as quite the inconvenient surprise. I was sure that I was about to rush into the frigid night air with my unfinished business trailing behind me for the complex(and the exceedingly hot firemen that would surely just happen to arrive to douse the blaze)to see.
NB: I know why they have the flashing lights on the fire alarm, and I'm glad for anything that helps deaf folks escape a fire, but I was convinced that Gloria Gaynor was going to leap from my shower, microphone in hand, bellowing, "You Won't Survive".
Anyway...
Fortunately for me and Roomie and the eyesight of the firemen, the fire went out as soon as Roomie blew on it and only scorched the drip pan. No firemen necessary. He spent the rest of the night casting wary, sidelong glances at the stove, convinced that tongues of flame were simply waiting until his back was turned to lap greedily from the wells in the stovetop. I didn't get my tea, and he refuses to cook on the stove until he buys new drip pans tomorrow.
( Supernatural 310: Mystery Spot--Major SPOILERS )
Thankfully, next week's two-hour hooraw promises a Night of the Living Dead return to form. From the looks of it, I'd say the producers decided to direct as if it were the season finale in case it wound up being exactly that. We'll see if it can roll into the strike-induced hiatus on a strong note.
Friday: I went to class, where I did nothing of note but did learn that we will be watching graphic footage of female circumcision on Monday. Whee. Then I ate at the diner and came home to veg in front of police chases and stupid human tricks. If I can get my head out of my crampy butt, I'm going to scritch Gordonbun, but if not, I'm going to sulk that Roomie refuses to cook or make tea until he buys a new drip pan.
Thursday: Roomie and I had planned to see No Country for Old Men for Valentine's Day, but when I awoke and discovered that the Red Bloat had come in the night, we scuttled those plans in favor of ordering wings and watching Surf's Up. And yes, I felt vaguely guilty about inhaling wings after watching Chicken Joe from Sheboygan.
Shortly after watching Surf's Up, Roomie set the kitchen on fire while making tea. A splodge of grease ignited in the grease trap beneath the burner and set off the smoke detector. I was on the toilet, recycling my evening repast, and so the sudden blare of shrieking sirens and the strobe flash of In Case You Were Deaf, This Is Your Cue to Get the Hell Out came as quite the inconvenient surprise. I was sure that I was about to rush into the frigid night air with my unfinished business trailing behind me for the complex(and the exceedingly hot firemen that would surely just happen to arrive to douse the blaze)to see.
NB: I know why they have the flashing lights on the fire alarm, and I'm glad for anything that helps deaf folks escape a fire, but I was convinced that Gloria Gaynor was going to leap from my shower, microphone in hand, bellowing, "You Won't Survive".
Anyway...
Fortunately for me and Roomie and the eyesight of the firemen, the fire went out as soon as Roomie blew on it and only scorched the drip pan. No firemen necessary. He spent the rest of the night casting wary, sidelong glances at the stove, convinced that tongues of flame were simply waiting until his back was turned to lap greedily from the wells in the stovetop. I didn't get my tea, and he refuses to cook on the stove until he buys new drip pans tomorrow.
( Supernatural 310: Mystery Spot--Major SPOILERS )
Thankfully, next week's two-hour hooraw promises a Night of the Living Dead return to form. From the looks of it, I'd say the producers decided to direct as if it were the season finale in case it wound up being exactly that. We'll see if it can roll into the strike-induced hiatus on a strong note.
Friday: I went to class, where I did nothing of note but did learn that we will be watching graphic footage of female circumcision on Monday. Whee. Then I ate at the diner and came home to veg in front of police chases and stupid human tricks. If I can get my head out of my crampy butt, I'm going to scritch Gordonbun, but if not, I'm going to sulk that Roomie refuses to cook or make tea until he buys a new drip pan.
Tags:
