Heat Signal

It is no secret that I quite like fire.  Ever since grade school, when I discovered that setting CuSO₄ -ridden cheesecloth on fire made it glow a pretty blue-green, I've highly enjoyed lighting various materials on fire.

I also hated Miley Cyrus before it was cool.

Once upon a time, I was a self-professed pyromaniac, possibly stemming back to 6th grade, but who knows.  I blame my sister a little bit in this regard.  She was also really keen on burning the edges of paper, and she kept a lighter hidden in her bedroom (one that I stumbled upon more than once in my early youth.) But maybe in my case, that's like blaming your parents for the color of your eyes.  It's not really something that can be explained.  I just like fire.

Controlled fire, mind you, if such a thing truly exists.  Back when I was in preschool or kindergarten, I had an irrational fear that the house was going to burn down, and with it, all my worldly possessions (or as many as one can have at age 4).  That one, I can solidly blame on school, which did an entire unit on fire safety.  To that end, I forced my parents to come up with an emergency check point, made them help me practice calling 911, etc., etc.  Since I had been taught to leave straight off and not go back for any items in the house if it ever burned, I prepared for this event by tying my favorite doll to my wrist, 24/7.

As I got older, I grew out of most of these things (the paranoia and the pyromania, respectively).  I like to think it's because I got more mature.  Really, though, I think it's just because every apartment I've lived in since college has had the most obnoxious fire detector models ever built.

Dear Smoke Detector,

My oven is in the kitchen.  You are in the bedroom hallway.  Those are on the exact opposite sides of my apartment.  Yet somehow, every time the temperature in my apartment exceeds anything close to 80 degF, you for some reason treat it as if this were happening:

I appreciate that you are just trying to do your job, but relax a bit.  Baking can be tough enough as is, timing everything, running back and forth from the counter to the prep area, without me having to run all the way to the bedroom to fan you down, you overactive diva.  Last year, I baked at least 5 sets of cookies between November and January, and I had to keep the window open the entire time so that you wouldn't wake the neighbors.

If this is punishment for all the times I lit candles against lease policy, then sorry, but sometimes a girl likes a little ambience.  Keep up the good work, and all, but really - tone it down just a little before you wear out your batteries.

Hearts and Kisses.

Until the next.