That Time I Charbroiled the Bathroom

There was an incident.

Just a few short days after the fried pickle incident, the smoke alarm robot yet again spoke up loud and clear that her overly-sensitive sniffer whiffed some smoke and she was going to make a loud sound.

My prayer group had just finished and the ladies were still here chatting.

As I was grabbing a chair, I heard a lady apologize from the bathroom something about the candle.

I assumed she blew it out 

and the smoke irritated the robot lady.

Again.

I told her it was fine and to just keep the door closed when she was finished.

I turned off the smoke alarm and forgot all about it.

About an hour later I was upstairs when I heard the smoke alarm robot lady say something.

I waited but no beeping followed.

Again, I went about my business.

Shaking my head because this smoke alarm 
was more like a false alarm.

A friend stopped over to drop off some books.

We chatted in the kitchen for awhile.

I complained to her about the ridiculous 

"false alarms" of Smoke Alarm Robot.

All in all, it was about SIX HOURS LATER when I finally went into the small bathroom off our kitchen to see that the candle I had lit that morning was still burning.

Tall and bright.

After that it was just a rapid fire series of discoveries.

The toilet seat was soot covered.

The walls, especially the corners, were black.

The ceiling, Soot City.

No.

No!

NO!

Smoke Alarm Robot tried to tell me.

I ignored her!

To my credit, 

she had cried wolf a few times.

Why?!

 How?!

The candle still had some wax in it.

I did not understand the Armageddon it set off.

Bliss, my foot.

I grabbed a spray bottle and mixed up water and Dawn, grabbed some kitchen gloves and went to town scrubbing the walls.

Some came off, some didn't but overall I was making things SO. MUCH. WORSE by rubbing it all in.

I searched the internet what to do.

It recommended I use rubbing alcohol.

But just like that time it told me to put Frankincense on the mole on my neck before I went to bed, the internet BETRAYED ME.

The rubbing alcohol took the paint off the wall.

Guess where I used to have a picture hanging.
It looks like I chalk outlined its body for a police report.

I furiously sprayed and scrubbed, sprayed and scrubbed.

At one point, I thought if I could just get some sort of pattern going with my soot-smearing, that I might be able to pass the bathroom off as some sort of creative "leathering" or "rag rolling" paint technique.

Then I started in on the ceiling.

Bad.

Bad!

BAD!

It was just ALL BAD!

Somewhere in the middle of my soot smear, Monte got home from work.

He asked what I was doing.

"Something bad happened,"

I said in defeat.

He listened quietly to the whole howler monkey pitch of my story.

I left nothing out.

He walked away and said he was glad it was just smoke damage and not fire damage.

Then he casually passed through the hallway again as I continued my futile efforts and added,

"The smoke alarm robot tried to save your life."

I agreed but I silently vowed to 

NEVER apologize to that smug white squawk box, 

even if Monte asked.

The next morning, I went to the paint store and then spent the ENTIRE DAY painting the walls, ceiling, trim and door.

For such a small room there was lots to work around with the sink, light fixtures, mirror and toilet.

I wasn't about to get Monte involved.

Guess who's judging presence kept an eye on me during the repainting?

As I recounted my bad story to friends, they all asked if I had trimmed the wick of the candle.

Trim the wick?!

I didn't realize this was still a thing

 this side of The Little House on the Prairie.

And boy did I learn the hard way.

**NOTE:  As I was typing this, Monte asked if I was having trouble with the wifi. When I said no, he said The Nest thermostat was having trouble connecting. He looked at me accusingly.

"It knows I'm writing about its Smoke Alarm Robot sister?!"

Monte took this picture.

Failed to connect indeed.