So everyone knows by now that the house we’re living in has tried to kill me multiple times in the past 3 years. Usually by electrocution (how I earned the nickname Sparky), once by stairwell (because, of course), and once by shower (I never blogged about it because it was too traumatizing). Well, the house has decided to make the final push to whack me out once and for all instead of waiting for me to move out next month.
I turned on the oven this morning, I had a fat kid craving for those tiny Hebrew National pigs in a blanket. They are so cute and when I eat them I pretend I am a giant wandering around a little world. About five minutes into the oven preheating process, I hear a loud pop and then an amazing amount of hissing.
I run to the oven and see fireworks shooting all around the interior.
Lola is freaking out at this point and violently lunging at the oven while I scream and try to pull her back. I realize that no amount of tugging is going to get the Lolabeast to move so I do the next best thing and stop the fire. And for once, I remember to go to the breaker box instead of reaching for the power switch.
See, I learn from my mistakes.
One hour later, I’ve got a maintenance guy whistling over the impressive amount of damage my heating coil caused. It didn’t fail in just one spot. No, my heating coil had to fail in three separate spots causing an amazing light show as it did so. Then the maintenance guy realized that I was the same person who had two oven lights blow and spray glass shards all over. And I was the same renter who had a light fixture on the ceiling spray sparks as the cover flew off.
He asked me to move out early or stop using electricity because he’s pretty sure he doesn’t get paid enough to clean up my dead body.
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