We’re waiting for the World Series to start and I”m suffocating my wowIcouldn’tgiveashitness with a brownie and a tall glass of ironically fat free milk.

We’re snuggled on the couch in the media room with Grayson passed out on The Mc’s lap and Amber in the hall plotting to destroy us with regurgitated food piles when I smell wax. Wait. Not wax. Plastic – which triggers the memory of trying to burn down the house when I was making breakfast for my seester and I forgot about the candle I lit in my bedroom and…well..that’s not important here. What’s important is that after having melted plastic splash on my face at fifteen, it’s an odor permanently ingrained in my snout history.

I run down the hall and the stairs and swoosh into the kitchen with my plate still in hand and stand in front of the dishwasher with my nostrils flaring. I’d started it twenty minutes prior and it wasn’t making any noise (oh PS please don’t tell the drought police?) and I stood in front of it waiting for goo to spill onto the floor or a gremlin to pop out and ask what I’d like to drink or something other than the big fat nothing that was happening.

Maybe the heater is on? I open it and find that yeah it is, and there’s water in the bottom…and after two more tests and two more passes I go back up stairs and tell The Mc to listen for the dishwasher.

We bicker for a minute over my tendency to prematurely unload and he says “you know I’ve been worried about that”. I ask why and he says “because I got a recall notice, it was on my list of things to do last week”.

Like you, I was curious as to what – specifically – it was for. You know, because it might be pertinent.

“The heating coil.”

Of course it is.