Sometimes my paranoias are right

Ever since I can remember, I’ve had an issue with fire. I love playing with fire, and yet, I’m also afraid of being caught in a burning building or my house burning down. One time in college, my dorm actually was on fire, and when I called to tell my mom how we all fled the actually on fire building, she said “Wow, I can’t believe how calm you remained.” and I was like “I KNOW!” It was actually a relief to know that in case of actual fire, I could remain calm and gather up sleepy roommates and get the hell out of said building that was on fire. Granted, we weren’t in any immediate danger as we got the hell out of there, though the firemen said afterwards if it had gone another 5-10 minutes unchecked, things would have been a lot worse.

Anyhoo, I have issues. Issues my husband has grown very close with. So last night, as I sat there going “Wait, what’s that smell, is that your whiskey?” (because he drinks peaty whiskey that smells like a peat fire), he was all “No.”

Great. Now I had to sniff out the source of the burnt smell or else I wasn’t going to sleep that night.

I eyed allllllll the Christmas lights, and played the “rational thought” game in my head. As in, when my anxiety flares, I try to tune out the “We’re all going to DIEEEE!” voice and listen to the one going “Okay, I’m sure there’s a logical explanation.” I should name that voice Spock, but I digress. I eyed the Christmas lights and Spock said “Let’s think about this, they’ve been up for a couple weeks, on all the time, surely if they were faulty, you would have noticed by now.”

I then opened the back door and sniffed the outside air, as one neighbor down the block has a wood burning stove and it can get smokey. However, outside smelled less burnty than inside.

Anxiety voice reminded me that I got a new extension cord for the Christmas tree lights and had plugged it in that very day, which led me to sniff the extension cord. My husband didn’t even bat an eye at that. But it wasn’t the cord. The smell also wasn’t in our bedroom.

Then my eldest went “I think it’s coming from here.” Because yes, this turned into a family game. He pointed to the dishwasher, which was running. Josh opened the dishwasher. We peered in. We saw the bamboo utensil on the bottom of the dishwasher. I lifted it out and there on the back was a lovely blackened burnt spot where it’d been resting against the heating coil.

“Well there’s your problem.” My husband said.

“I knew I smelled something.” I stated, happy that it was just a burnt bamboo spatula and that I didn’t have to stay up for the next four hours waiting to see what would burst into flames.

But just to be safe, I quietly moved the burnt spatula into the sink, and covered it with water.