House

I love the show House, which is broadcast Tuesday nights on Fox. For a person that doesn't log much time in front of the television, I try not to miss an episode (though strangely I've missed the last few weeks for one reason or another). I happened to catch it once last year mid-season, and have been hooked ever since. I've also recommended the show to family and friends who've all found themselves instantly hooked as well.

The best way I've found to describe this show is that it's a medical mystery: part CSI and part ER. Each new episode focuses on some odd malady that other doctors, thus far, have been unable to explain. The lead character, Gregory House, is a brilliant doctor with a keen ability to suss out the root cause of the illness over the course of an episode. He uses mostly unconventional, and sometimes borderline unethical, methods, making him simultaneously well-respected and loathed among his patients and peers. On his team are three fairly young doctors who bring their own specialties, personalities and opinions of House. The characters on the show are interesting and well-developed, and the actors do an excellent job, especially Hugh Laurie who plays House.

So, this is all great information if I were doing a pitch commercial for the show, but where I am going with this, you may be asking yourself. Here's the thing: invariably whilst or shortly after watching House, the self-diagnosing wheels in my brain start turning and suddenly I begin wondering if I too may have the mystery malady featured on the latest episode. This is crazy, I know, and I'm not a hypochondriac, really, but the illnesses on the show and their various symptoms are just vague enough to make you want to connect some imaginary dots. An odd ache or pain, a weird headache, a moment of dizziness or fatigue or nausea or upset stomach all suddenly become possible symptoms and cause for concern. And actually, I have no idea if the conditions on the show are even based in fact--maybe my MD friend can help with this? Oh, who am I kidding; she's too busy saving real lives to be watching this silly show or reading this silly blog!

Since I've never lost (much) sleep or plan on discontinuing watching the show, I've just come to accept this ridiculous temporary hypochondria as the side-effect of a great TV show. Unfortunately (or fortunately?) tonight the baseball finals disrupted the scheduled episode of House, so I narrowly escaped crossing #317 off my list: diagnose myself with disseminated intravascular coagulopathy (I found this on the House site! hehe), or some equally bizarre illness.

Cleaning the Oven, or How to Burn Down the House

Today I had one of the scarier experiences of my life. It began innocently enough when I noticed that the oven in my apartment has a self-cleaning mode. I hadn't taken notice of this before, and it suddenly seemed like an excellent idea to clean my oven. I hadn't cleaned it in the time I'd been living in my apartment, and I figured it could use it. Not that I use my oven very much, or that it was even very dirty, but I had noticed a few charred bits on the bottom of the oven that I could do without.

The first red flag went up when I looked for the latch to lock my oven before switching it to Clean mode. There was no latch. I hadn't missed the latch, but it now seemed rather odd that I didn't have it. No worries, I thought, I don't have a kid running around that might open the oven door while it's cleaning (what other purpose could there be for the locking latch?). So, I flipped the dial to Clean. The digital read out began a countdown of 3 hours and 30 minutes. That seemed like a long time to clean the oven, but I had nothing planned for the afternoon except work. And maybe working out and a shower. No big deal.

After fifteen or twenty minutes, the apartment began to smell a little. Not too bad though, and this is to be expected when you're cleaning the oven. I decided to take a little break from working and stretch my legs. I got up and walked around the apartment. Then I noticed I could really smell the oven smell. I wondered how I'd be able to work amidst that smell for three more hours. I walked back near the kitchen when some little orange flames caught my eye- MY OVEN WAS ON FIRE! I did my best not to panic. I flipped the oven from Clean to Off. I grabbed a mug from the sink and filled in with water. By this point the flames were growing- they reached the top rack of the oven. I could feel my adrenaline flowing, but I was trying not to panic. I'll just douse the flames with water and have a little mess to clean up, I thought. I had the mug in hand and grabbed the oven door. I pulled, but it didn't budge. I pulled again and again. I set the mug down and started pulling with both hands. Nothing. It was locked. I looked at the digital read out, and it read "Cool Down". What the hell?!? I grabbed my phone and debated between calling 911 or my apartment office. I called the apartment office. No one answered. I noticed that the flames were beginning to die down. I continued to pull on the oven door, in vain, until the last flame extinguished.

I sat down and realized I was shaking. Badly. I started to go over the events of the previous few minutes in my head and realized the gravity of the situation. My oven was on fire, and I had no way of putting out the flames. What if I had gone to work out or taken a shower or walked to get the mail? Would my apartment have burned down? Needless to say, those little charred black bits at the bottom of the oven didn't seem so bad anymore. And with that I crossed off #372 on my list of things to do: clean my oven (or don't.).