Wednesday, July 14, 2004
becoming smoldering
Last night Bret set the couch on fire.
OK, maybe that's a slight exaggeration, but it got your attention, didn't it? And he did burn a hole in the couch. Worse, he burned a hole in my favorite pink pillow!!!
Those of you who know Bret well are no doubt familiar with his habit of doing virtually everything with a cigarette in his fingers. Eating, gaming, driving, cooking . . . he even keeps an ashtray and lighter in the bathroom. So far, Bret hasn't figured out a way to smoke while he's showering, but if anyone can, he will!
Last night, Jamie called to chat. Bret had just lit up a fresh cigarette. I don't know why he didn't just set his cigarette in the nearby ashtray momentarily, but instead he attempted to juggle cigarette, cell phone and remote control. Naturally, he dropped the cigarette. Because it was lit, he made a mad grab for it, but only succeeded in knocking it flying. After asking Jamie to call him back in a few minutes, Bret started a frantic hunt for the smoking butt. As soon as I figured out what had happened, I joined him.
We couldn't find it. It wasn't on the floor, the end table, under the couch, in the couch, in the stack of magazines under the end table, not even in the box of old 45s sitting at the end of the couch. We were mystified. How could a burning cigarette just disappear? Bret, reasoning that if we couldn't see smoke it must have extinguished itself, gave up the hunt when Jamie called back. I went back to cooking dinner, but with no small amount of trepidation. A smoldering cigarette does not simply vanish.
When Bret got up to go into the computer room, I decided to give the couch another thorough search. Starting at Bret's end, I began systematically removing the cushions and checking the hide-a-bed underneath them. Finally I reached my end of the sofa, and flipped over my pink pillow. There was the errant cigarette, still burning. And there also was a dime-sized hole in the sofa cushion, still smoldering, AND a nickel-sized hole in my pillow, also still smoldering. I squashed the butt in an ashtray and pounded out the glowing edges of both holes. When I called out "I found it!" Bret came in to see where. He was amazed that the burning butt had ricocheted that far, and deeply apologetic for burning a hole in my pillow. I gave him a stern safety lecture, commenting how lucky we were that I had found the cigarette before the couch erupted into flames. Sheepish, Bret promised to be more careful in the future.
All I can say is, he's damn lucky I found that pillow in the dumpster.
OK, maybe that's a slight exaggeration, but it got your attention, didn't it? And he did burn a hole in the couch. Worse, he burned a hole in my favorite pink pillow!!!
Those of you who know Bret well are no doubt familiar with his habit of doing virtually everything with a cigarette in his fingers. Eating, gaming, driving, cooking . . . he even keeps an ashtray and lighter in the bathroom. So far, Bret hasn't figured out a way to smoke while he's showering, but if anyone can, he will!
Last night, Jamie called to chat. Bret had just lit up a fresh cigarette. I don't know why he didn't just set his cigarette in the nearby ashtray momentarily, but instead he attempted to juggle cigarette, cell phone and remote control. Naturally, he dropped the cigarette. Because it was lit, he made a mad grab for it, but only succeeded in knocking it flying. After asking Jamie to call him back in a few minutes, Bret started a frantic hunt for the smoking butt. As soon as I figured out what had happened, I joined him.
We couldn't find it. It wasn't on the floor, the end table, under the couch, in the couch, in the stack of magazines under the end table, not even in the box of old 45s sitting at the end of the couch. We were mystified. How could a burning cigarette just disappear? Bret, reasoning that if we couldn't see smoke it must have extinguished itself, gave up the hunt when Jamie called back. I went back to cooking dinner, but with no small amount of trepidation. A smoldering cigarette does not simply vanish.
When Bret got up to go into the computer room, I decided to give the couch another thorough search. Starting at Bret's end, I began systematically removing the cushions and checking the hide-a-bed underneath them. Finally I reached my end of the sofa, and flipped over my pink pillow. There was the errant cigarette, still burning. And there also was a dime-sized hole in the sofa cushion, still smoldering, AND a nickel-sized hole in my pillow, also still smoldering. I squashed the butt in an ashtray and pounded out the glowing edges of both holes. When I called out "I found it!" Bret came in to see where. He was amazed that the burning butt had ricocheted that far, and deeply apologetic for burning a hole in my pillow. I gave him a stern safety lecture, commenting how lucky we were that I had found the cigarette before the couch erupted into flames. Sheepish, Bret promised to be more careful in the future.
All I can say is, he's damn lucky I found that pillow in the dumpster.
