Just so we're all clear, this is not what I was supposed to blog about today. When Colton texted me to let me know he was on his way home last night, I was excited. More excited than usual because it was nearing 8pm and roughly around 8pm the sad and lonely Michelle who misses her husband starts to come out. When Colton is gone for too long I'm an excellent representation of a lost puppy in all her glory.
Anyway, it was late and I was happy he was coming home. Because I was feeling extra domestic and because I like to keep it classy, I bought a delicious looking ready to bake margherita pizza from the store - the ready to bake portion being domestic and the margherita portion being classy. Clearly.
I Windexed the coffee table, fluffed the throw pillows, and preheated the oven to 400F. After throwing all of the random items from our living room and dining area into the corner of our bedroom (I'm the fastest cleaner EVER), I started to smell the smoke. I walked to the kitchen where I saw puffs of gray clouds escaping from the top of the oven. Naturally I thought it would be a good idea to wait it out for a few minutes and, you know, let the oven do its thing. When said oven started puffing black clouds of smoke from every orifice of its big square being, I figured the pizza portion of our evening would have to be postponed. I also figured that the clean cycle would be a cure all for the smoke problem.
The clean cycle was a bad idea.
When the bottom of the oven erupted into flames, I realized this wasn't a job I could handle alone. Internet, if I had moved the appliance to the living room we could have sat on the couch and been led to believe the thing was a fireplace. ...maybe that last part bears repeating; MY OVEN WAS ACTUALLY A FIREPLACE. I dialed Colton's number and immediately hung up because the fact of the matter was that while Colton may have been on his way home, he wasn't actually home, and at this point in time not being home was of no use to me. My eyes then began playing hopscotch between the fireplace oven and the phone. Oven. Phone. Oven. Phone. Oven. Phone. I knew what had to be done but I just couldn't bring myself to do it. After a few quick flashes of my camera, business cards, and the new blazer I bought this weekend all submitted to a pile of ash on what used to be our living room floor, I did it. I dialed 911.
Dispatcher: 911, what's your emergency?
Me: Uh...my oven is flaming...
Dispatcher: Okay, what's your address?
Me: Well...it's just flaming, I don't know if you really have to come. I dunno, maybe it's not that bad. How do I put an oven fire out?
Dispatcher: Ma'am what's your address?
Me: Oh, right, address...
Dispatcher: How many people are in the house?
Me: Two (while on the phone I ran to our neighbor's WHO I'D NEVER MET BEFORE and begged him to come look at my flaming oven)
Dispatcher: Alright, Ma'am, help is on the way. What is your name?
Me: Michelle Cross
Dispatcher: And what is your phone number?
Dispatcher: No, Ma'am, what is your telephone number?
Me: C . R . O . S . S .
Dispatcher: Ma'am, I need your phone number.
Me: Oh, right, my phone number...
After assuring the nice Dispatcher that because the flames were all enclosed inside of the oven we probably didn't need any help, the Dispatcher in turn assured me that a flaming oven was really something that needed immediate attention. Meanwhile I directed the newfound neighbor to the circuit breaker located in our bedroom above the aforementioned heaping pile of things I had tried to clean up from the living room seven minutes prior. Note to self: throw things in the closet next time.
At this point Colton walked in the door from work. Before he could even register the completely foreign man in our house I informed him that we weren't having pizza for dinner and that the sirens he heard would quickly be arriving at our home. Because the flaming portion of the oven had subsided to a large solid black cloud of smoke, we were both a little bit embarrassed that the fire department was on their way. The sensible solution, we thought, was for Colton to walk out to the street and kindly inform the firemen that the situation was under control and they could all go back to the nice little station they came from. In the off chance you're having a hard time conjuring up a mental picture, try imagining yourself looking out your front window and seeing TWO firetrucks arriving at your neighbor's house. Out front is Mr. Neighbor in his camouflage Marine work uniform trying to convince ten men in full fireman get-up that they really don't need to be there. Yes, Internet World, my husband was wearing camouflage pants.
We, the Cross's, certainly know the most efficient way to introduce ourselves to the neighborhood.
The firemen came, removed the oven from the wall, used the most enormous fan in existence to pressurize the smoke out of the room, and assured me that I did the right thing by calling 911. Apparently oven fires are a big deal. Who knew?
The firetrucks left, both of them, and Colton and I sat on our couch not knowing what to say. While I once was a lost puppy, I was now a scared puppy who was positive she'd done something wrong. I nuzzled into Colton's neck and slowly began to breath again as he stroked my hair with confirmation. Life was back to normal and aside from my damaged pride, there really was no way to tell that our oven had ever doubled as a fireplace.
After a few minutes of head stroking I removed myself from the crane of Colton's neck, looked my dear husband in the eye, and told him what he already knew; I would never be using the oven again.
The above picture is proof that I'm not lying. The firemen left their super state-of-the-art doorstop as evidence that they were actually here.
P.S. I would really like to make the neighbor cookies for, you know, saving my life, but that whole baking them requirement is really cramping my style. If anyone has an excellent no-bake cookie recipe it would be greatly appreciated.