If I've told the other folks living here once, I've told them a thousand times: turn everything off before using the microwave!
Do they listen? Of course! ... not.
To be fair, it had been behaving lately. And the big-screen TV had been off for most of the week, its status light blinking desultorily at us in warning that
something inside it was wrong. I knew what it was (stupid convergence chips!); I also knew that I couldn't afford to fix it just yet, so when it
misbehaved like that we just power-cycled it and let it come back online. Except I hadn't done that until today. Why? I dunno. I'm lazy, I guess.
And with my son away and wife at work, who was around to watch TV? For me it was usually background noise at best, I got my media fix the way nature intended:
through the internet.
So, really, Dom (that's my roommate) might just have forgotten that the TV was actually on for a change. I certainly had. I wasn't out there, after
all, I was in my little nook trying to decide if Rhea's costume needed tweaking. And resigning myself to another night of being the odd man out, having
pulled a Spud and logged on after everyone else had started an ITF.
Dom finished stirring his chili and popped it back in the cooker, licking off the spoon as he pressed buttons. He closed the door, punched the start button,
turned to me, opened his mouth to speak--
Thunk.
"Dammit, Dom!" I snarled as the lights went out. From upstairs I heard a faint outcry as Ben was plunged into darkness as well. Fortunately for
him, his computer was on a UPS; he had a few minutes. Fortunately for me, my computer was on a different circuit -- as were the DSL router and my file server,
so we didn't vanish off the face of the 'net or anything drastic like that.
My monitor, however, was on the same circuit as the rest of the house. With a clunk and a buzz, it shut down.
"Sorry!" my roommate protested, a vaguely human-shaped blob of darkness in the shadowy reaches of the kitchen. "I'll go hit the
breaker."
"Yeah," I muttered, leaning back in my chair. "Turn off the TV and the lights first, remember?"
"I forgot!" he protested as he found the basement door and started down the steps -- I could hear the creaks and groans of the old house tracing his
every movement.
I grumbled under my breath as he stumbled down the steps to the breaker box, and waited for the lights to come back on. My headphones dinged as a tell
arrived; I sighed.
"Third one down on the right?" Dom's voice floated up the stairs and echoed through the kitchen to reach me by the back door.
"Fourth," I called back. "Third one is the garage."
"It's not working," he said.
"The fourth one," I yelled again, my irritation coming through in my tone. I glanced through the window to
the front yard, where the dusk shadows were edging into true twilight, and waited for Dom to stop flicking the power to the garage off and on again and find
the right breaker. I wondered briefly if my neighbors enjoyed the impromptu Morse lightshow as the security lamp over the garage door came on... went off...
came on... went off... came on...
Click.
The lights in the rest of the house came back on. I reached up to the switch next to me, an old-fashioned metal-plate type, and turned on the single covered
bulb over my head as the monitor flickered into life again.
I had a glimpse of Rhea's face on the screen and marveled anew at the clarity and sharpness of the sweet Nvidia graphics card before my fingers tingled and
Rhea's face took on a startled expression.
The last thing I remember was Dom's voice drifting through the kitchen again. "It's still not working!"
Thunk.
I consider myself a reasonable man. Which is why, upon awakening with a tingly arm and face, and seeing traces of soot around the light switch, I thought
about killing my roommate.
Thought about, but did not act on. I said I'm a reasonable man.
I flexed my fingers carefully and scowled. I've been working on electronics and appliances since I was old enough to hold a screwdriver; electricity and I
were old friends. I knew what mains voltage felt like and could tell that nothing was seriously wrong with me. Or so I hoped, at any rate. Let's face
it, I'm not in the best of shape and that tingly feeling was spreading, not going away.
"Remind me to kick your ass," I growled at Dom as he came around the corner. I glanced at the clock and rolled my eyes at the blinking 12:00; my
computer was off, so no help there.
I didn't remember turning it off, so that second jolt must have been enough to knock it out. I hoped the beast was undamaged; I had only had it back for
my use for a couple days at this point (Ben having been the one using it for the past THREE MONTHS), and would REALLY have to kill Dom if his bungling had
fried my gaming rig before I got any serious use out of it.
"You okay?" he asked as he removed his chili. "You don't look so good."
"What do you expect?" I grumbled, feeling gingerly at my chin. "How would you feel after 110 volts across the nipples?"
"Whoa," Dom said, staring at the bowl in his hand and completely missing my snide remark. "What the hell?"
I followed his glance and frowned.
The microwave had been off -- hell, the whole house had been off! -- and the chili had still been cold when he put it back in. So it was surprising to both of
us to see a burned, congealed mass of dehydrated brown matter in the bowl. It had been chili, before; now it was what you got when you forgot the chili was in
the oven and left it there all day.
"Dude," I said, forgetting momentarily my odd physical sensations. "Overcook it much?"
He shrugged at me. "Hey, it was in there for, like, five minutes, tops!" he said. "I found the right breaker -- it's the fourth one, by
the way -- and went to the bathroom while the chili finished. It doesn't take me THAT long to read Captain America."
"All that on and off action must've fried something in the microwave," I sighed. "Great. Just what I need, another piece of crap to fix
around here."
"Sorry?"
I waved a hand. "Don't worry about it, it's probably just a blown cap or something. I'll figure it out."
He scratched his head. "Guess I'll have to make something else for dinner. What time is it, anyway?"
I glanced at the clock, then at him, raising my eyebrows pointedly. He stared back at me for a moment. I glanced at the watch on his wrist. He followed my
glance.
"... seven forty-five," he said, answering his own question. I nodded.
"Don't you have to be at the show in fifteen minutes?"
"... crap," he replied. "I'll grab McDonalds on the way or something. See ya!"
I sighed wearily as he spritzed himself with Axe bodyspray -- as usual, using three times the legal dose -- and trotted out the door. As the car tires
crunched through the gravel of the driveway, I shook my head and rose. Despite the weird prickling sensation, I felt fine; certainly better than a man my age
had any right to feel after eating a dose of Our Friend The Electron.
I scraped Dom's dehydrated chili du jour into the trash and opened the fridge.
"... what the hell?" I said to myself. Everything in the fridge was ruined. The tub of butter was misshapen and deformed, congealed runny rivulets
leaking down its sides; the milk jug had split and the smell of curdled milk was potent indeed. A package of hamburger looked to be somewhere between medium
and well, with crispy edges. And the ham was bone-dry and stringy, no longer fit for even sandwiches.
It was as though something had cooked everything in the fridge. I reached in and waved my hand around; it was warm, though I could feel cold air coming from
the vents.
I closed the door and went into the living room, a puzzled frown creasing my face. Little Buddy, our very own Long-Haired Social Chihuahua, glanced at me from
where he lay sprawled on the cool tile of the entryway -- then scrambled to his feet, growling and barking.
"Knock it off!" I snapped at him. Something fuggin' weird was going on. I prowled around, looking for
something that would explain it all, and nearly tripped over one of my wife's collection of stuffed pandas.
"Mr. Whiskers!" I cried, scooping up the toy and hugging it to my chest.
I blinked.
"... the hell?"
--sofaspud
--"Listening to your kid is the audio equivalent of a Salvador Dali painting, Spud." --OpMegs
Do they listen? Of course! ... not.
To be fair, it had been behaving lately. And the big-screen TV had been off for most of the week, its status light blinking desultorily at us in warning that
something inside it was wrong. I knew what it was (stupid convergence chips!); I also knew that I couldn't afford to fix it just yet, so when it
misbehaved like that we just power-cycled it and let it come back online. Except I hadn't done that until today. Why? I dunno. I'm lazy, I guess.
And with my son away and wife at work, who was around to watch TV? For me it was usually background noise at best, I got my media fix the way nature intended:
through the internet.
So, really, Dom (that's my roommate) might just have forgotten that the TV was actually on for a change. I certainly had. I wasn't out there, after
all, I was in my little nook trying to decide if Rhea's costume needed tweaking. And resigning myself to another night of being the odd man out, having
pulled a Spud and logged on after everyone else had started an ITF.
Dom finished stirring his chili and popped it back in the cooker, licking off the spoon as he pressed buttons. He closed the door, punched the start button,
turned to me, opened his mouth to speak--
Thunk.
"Dammit, Dom!" I snarled as the lights went out. From upstairs I heard a faint outcry as Ben was plunged into darkness as well. Fortunately for
him, his computer was on a UPS; he had a few minutes. Fortunately for me, my computer was on a different circuit -- as were the DSL router and my file server,
so we didn't vanish off the face of the 'net or anything drastic like that.
My monitor, however, was on the same circuit as the rest of the house. With a clunk and a buzz, it shut down.
"Sorry!" my roommate protested, a vaguely human-shaped blob of darkness in the shadowy reaches of the kitchen. "I'll go hit the
breaker."
"Yeah," I muttered, leaning back in my chair. "Turn off the TV and the lights first, remember?"
"I forgot!" he protested as he found the basement door and started down the steps -- I could hear the creaks and groans of the old house tracing his
every movement.
I grumbled under my breath as he stumbled down the steps to the breaker box, and waited for the lights to come back on. My headphones dinged as a tell
arrived; I sighed.
"Third one down on the right?" Dom's voice floated up the stairs and echoed through the kitchen to reach me by the back door.
"Fourth," I called back. "Third one is the garage."
"It's not working," he said.
"The fourth one," I yelled again, my irritation coming through in my tone. I glanced through the window to
the front yard, where the dusk shadows were edging into true twilight, and waited for Dom to stop flicking the power to the garage off and on again and find
the right breaker. I wondered briefly if my neighbors enjoyed the impromptu Morse lightshow as the security lamp over the garage door came on... went off...
came on... went off... came on...
Click.
The lights in the rest of the house came back on. I reached up to the switch next to me, an old-fashioned metal-plate type, and turned on the single covered
bulb over my head as the monitor flickered into life again.
I had a glimpse of Rhea's face on the screen and marveled anew at the clarity and sharpness of the sweet Nvidia graphics card before my fingers tingled and
Rhea's face took on a startled expression.
The last thing I remember was Dom's voice drifting through the kitchen again. "It's still not working!"
Thunk.
I consider myself a reasonable man. Which is why, upon awakening with a tingly arm and face, and seeing traces of soot around the light switch, I thought
about killing my roommate.
Thought about, but did not act on. I said I'm a reasonable man.
I flexed my fingers carefully and scowled. I've been working on electronics and appliances since I was old enough to hold a screwdriver; electricity and I
were old friends. I knew what mains voltage felt like and could tell that nothing was seriously wrong with me. Or so I hoped, at any rate. Let's face
it, I'm not in the best of shape and that tingly feeling was spreading, not going away.
"Remind me to kick your ass," I growled at Dom as he came around the corner. I glanced at the clock and rolled my eyes at the blinking 12:00; my
computer was off, so no help there.
I didn't remember turning it off, so that second jolt must have been enough to knock it out. I hoped the beast was undamaged; I had only had it back for
my use for a couple days at this point (Ben having been the one using it for the past THREE MONTHS), and would REALLY have to kill Dom if his bungling had
fried my gaming rig before I got any serious use out of it.
"You okay?" he asked as he removed his chili. "You don't look so good."
"What do you expect?" I grumbled, feeling gingerly at my chin. "How would you feel after 110 volts across the nipples?"
"Whoa," Dom said, staring at the bowl in his hand and completely missing my snide remark. "What the hell?"
I followed his glance and frowned.
The microwave had been off -- hell, the whole house had been off! -- and the chili had still been cold when he put it back in. So it was surprising to both of
us to see a burned, congealed mass of dehydrated brown matter in the bowl. It had been chili, before; now it was what you got when you forgot the chili was in
the oven and left it there all day.
"Dude," I said, forgetting momentarily my odd physical sensations. "Overcook it much?"
He shrugged at me. "Hey, it was in there for, like, five minutes, tops!" he said. "I found the right breaker -- it's the fourth one, by
the way -- and went to the bathroom while the chili finished. It doesn't take me THAT long to read Captain America."
"All that on and off action must've fried something in the microwave," I sighed. "Great. Just what I need, another piece of crap to fix
around here."
"Sorry?"
I waved a hand. "Don't worry about it, it's probably just a blown cap or something. I'll figure it out."
He scratched his head. "Guess I'll have to make something else for dinner. What time is it, anyway?"
I glanced at the clock, then at him, raising my eyebrows pointedly. He stared back at me for a moment. I glanced at the watch on his wrist. He followed my
glance.
"... seven forty-five," he said, answering his own question. I nodded.
"Don't you have to be at the show in fifteen minutes?"
"... crap," he replied. "I'll grab McDonalds on the way or something. See ya!"
I sighed wearily as he spritzed himself with Axe bodyspray -- as usual, using three times the legal dose -- and trotted out the door. As the car tires
crunched through the gravel of the driveway, I shook my head and rose. Despite the weird prickling sensation, I felt fine; certainly better than a man my age
had any right to feel after eating a dose of Our Friend The Electron.
I scraped Dom's dehydrated chili du jour into the trash and opened the fridge.
"... what the hell?" I said to myself. Everything in the fridge was ruined. The tub of butter was misshapen and deformed, congealed runny rivulets
leaking down its sides; the milk jug had split and the smell of curdled milk was potent indeed. A package of hamburger looked to be somewhere between medium
and well, with crispy edges. And the ham was bone-dry and stringy, no longer fit for even sandwiches.
It was as though something had cooked everything in the fridge. I reached in and waved my hand around; it was warm, though I could feel cold air coming from
the vents.
I closed the door and went into the living room, a puzzled frown creasing my face. Little Buddy, our very own Long-Haired Social Chihuahua, glanced at me from
where he lay sprawled on the cool tile of the entryway -- then scrambled to his feet, growling and barking.
"Knock it off!" I snapped at him. Something fuggin' weird was going on. I prowled around, looking for
something that would explain it all, and nearly tripped over one of my wife's collection of stuffed pandas.
"Mr. Whiskers!" I cried, scooping up the toy and hugging it to my chest.
I blinked.
"... the hell?"
--sofaspud
--"Listening to your kid is the audio equivalent of a Salvador Dali painting, Spud." --OpMegs