So last month, there was a fire at Boyfriend’s apartment complex.  The occupant who lived above Boyfriend’s next-door neighbor left something cooking on his stove as he walked to the corner store.  It was on a Sunday evening, and Boyfriend and I had been relaxing when we wondered why we were smelling smoke.  Moments later, Apollo started barking frantically and we saw the living room fill with smoke.  We grabbed the essentials – I grabbed the puppy and my purse, while Boyfriend grabbed his laptop that held all his research data.  Then we ran outside, where a fire department was already battling the fire.  We stayed outside for an hour.  Apollo shook the whole time.  Boyfriend got interviewed on the news, with Apollo panting frantically in his arms.  Luckily no one was injured and all units (save for the source of the fire) were relatively unharmed.

Even though the fire happened about a month ago, Boyfriend’s apartment still smells like someone had an indoor barbecue in it.

This evening, I had just finished taking Apollo for a walk.  I was doing chores when I smelled something…familiar.  I looked at the dog.  “Apollo,” I said seriously.  “Is there a fire?” I inspected the apartment and to my alarm, I could smell smoke. I grabbed my purse and cajoled Apollo into my arms with a doggy treat (he’s going to puppy classes next week, incidentally).

I walked around the apartment building and didn’t see any fire.  Hesitant to call the fire department unless I could visually spot the fire, but not wanting to lose any of my belongings, I went back upstairs.  I knocked on my neighbor’s door.  We met this year; he has two beagles that Apollo is very fond of.

“Um, do you smell smoke in your apartment?” I asked. “Oh yeah, that was me,” he laughed.  Guess what happened?  He left his pan on the stove and walked to the leasing office.


I really want to make a public service announcement on billboards everywhere – “DON’T LEAVE YOUR FUCKING STOVE ON IF YOU’RE GOING TO STEP OUT OF YOUR APARTMENT OR HOME.  GOD.”

And now this place smells like smoke. But not the barbecue smell that Boyfriend’s apartment has, just smoke. Lovely.


I was at work today listening to a Dateline episode.  It was a Chris Hansen segment about finding hit men and drug dealers on the web, so you KNOW it was going to be good.

I received a phone call in the middle of it.  As I put down my headphones, I realized, to my horror, that, AGAIN, the program was bypassing my headphones and playing straight out of my speakers.

Which means that the rest of my coworkers must have been listening to the “Wild Wild Web” story, too.


Excuse me while I go hide in shame.

An Aborted Attempt At Breaking My Limbs Part REALLY?

I am tired.  It is late, and I am cleaning a bit before bed.  I had a coughing fit earlier and am crossing my fingers that it is not a sign of something more serious on the horizon.

My kitchen has pretty much been taken over my puppy.  He is currently sleeping in his little kennel, which is right next to the oven.  His puppy bed (which I had to sew tonight since he chewed a hole in it and started eating the stuffing enthusiastically) is sitting on the other side of the kitchen.  Various toys litter the floor.  Puppy gates are set up on either side of the kitchen.


Guess what.

The past two attempts I had at breaking my limbs involved running while tired.  This time, I was simply tired.  I attempted to step over the puppy gate but did not clear it properly.  Cue Jenny falling on the carpet.

You can bet that this internal dialogue was happening:

Me: NOOOOOOOOOO. NOT AGAIN. My shoulder just started feeling better!  I can’t hurt it again! I have field work tomorrow!  NOOO. NOOO. NOOOOOOOOOOO.

I landed on my right side, with the impact mostly at my wrist.  I am lucky – nothing feels weird or out of place. My right arm feels slightly, slightly stiff, but I could just be overthinking it. I think that falling on the carpet is really what saved this aborted attempt from turning into a success.

I need to go to sleep.