Ding dong, the beanbag's dead

I think I melted the Wicked Witch of the West in my microwave. Last week, Sage asked me to warm her up an old beanbag she found. I put it in the microwave on the green plastic plate I use to warm up my own bigger beanbag. [Bringing a warm beanbag to bed is a trick I’ve recently discovered for curing my eternally cold toes in bed at night.] Since my beanbag heats in about 6 minutes, I put Sage’s little pink beanbag in for 2, and went to use the bathroom.

Well under 2 minutes later, Sage barged into the bathroom (not an uncommon occurrence), and said somewhat vaguely, “Mommy, come see.” I hadn’t washed my hands, so I told her I’d be there in a minute. She disappeared, then reappeared in about 5 seconds, and admonished, more urgently, “Please come see the kitchen, Mommy.” Something in her voice set off a bell, and I hurried to see what was going on. I’m not sure if it was the smell or the big yellowish green clouds billowing out of the microwave that hit me first.

Honestly, I had to think to remember what I had even put in the microwave. Luckily, my lightning-like reflexes kicked in, and I scooped up the girls, ran quickly out the front door, and started looking for a new place to live. Well, that’s not what happened, but maybe that would have been a good idea. Another good idea would have been to unplug the microwave and rush the entire thing out to the trash can.

Instead, I rushed towards the crime scene, past Sage, who was torn between her dislike for the stinky odors emanating from the microwave, and her interest in the smoke bomb that was still heating up. Wait a minute, I thought…the two minutes aren’t even up yet, and the microwave is still going! I stopped the microwave and yanked the pasta off the stove, desperately hoping it was done. I knew better than to think I would get it in two minutes, when its cooking time was up.

The smoky smell was overpowering. Or was it those now-puce-colored clouds that were fogging up my brain and crippling my ability to act quickly? I grabbed two hotpads, took a deep breath (figuratively speaking…in reality, we were all trying to not breathe), and plunged my hands into the microwave, which was filled with mysterious opaque gases. I couldn’t see anything, and I wondered in what condition I would find the plastic plate. I grabbed the entire microwave glass plate, and rushed the smoking mass outside. When the smoke finally cleared, I saw the ghoulish face of the offending beanbag. I swear to you, I was staring at an angry face--perhaps the face of the Wicked Witch of the West, reincarnated in the form of a (now very burnt) beanbag. Had her last words been “I’m burning” this time, instead of “I’m melting”?

I returned back inside, glad the fiasco was over. But this time I was hit with another wave—less yellowish green, but equally foul smelling. The Wicked Beanbag’s gases had spread to fill the living room.

Now began the LONG process of de-odorizing my microwave and my house. I propped open all the windows, wondering why our smoke detector had never gone off. The stiff breeze coming in the windows was refreshing, but very chilly. A quick glance at the computer showed me that it was 28 degrees outside, and I heard our furnace crank on, in response to the sudden drop in our apartment’s temperature. I dug out sweaters for Eliza and Sage, as I was unwilling to trap in the still foul smell just yet…I’d prefer hypothermia to going to bed in this gas chamber. I found Eliza trying to close the front door, something she tried to do 10 more times in the next half hour. Sage was harder to find. I finally located her, trying to seek refuge from the smell, in the bathroom. She had spread out her game pieces on the bathroom floor. When I opened the door, she turned to me and asked, “Is the beanbag done yet?” I laughed and said it was long past done. Then she told me, “I’m in here so I don’t smell it.” Then she decided, “I’m ready to get out of here.”

With five minutes between us and the fateful microwave job, and the air only slightly less offensive, I realized it was time to move into Phase Two: Detoxify the microwave. What this means is, my sister, Danielle (bless her soul) came and enacted phase two. Equipped with my new white dish gloves (which will never look white again), she brought out a slew of cleansing agents. If only they had science fairs for mommies. This would have made a wild science project: What kinds of foul odors can we make by mixing burnt beanbag smell with various cleaning agents?

Test #1: Microwaved lemon juice and water. Result: Lemon juice absorbed color and smell of smoke after 2 minutes.

Test #2: Microwaved vinegar and water. Result: cigarette smoke smell changed to vomit smell.

Test #3: Microwaved pinesol and water. Result: Vomit smell changed to paint thinner smell. Concentrated paint thinner smell. And we blew the breaker. Nice.

We abandoned phase two, and opted for Phase three: aromatherapy by aerosol products. Amongst the short-lived options were Febreze (it smelled like a chain smoker on a date), Williams-Sonoma vanilla peppermint spray, and Glade airfreshner. These all brought a 30 second wave of relief before sensory absorption kicked in, and I resumed residence in my chain-smoker apartment. Danielle donated a “clean clothes” candle, and I found that as long as that was burning all day, the mailman resumed regular postal deliveries.

Perhaps at this point in time, I let out my first (uh…fiftieth) sigh of disgust. Sage told me with concern, “Mom, it’s okay. I have another beanbag.” I laughed, and she continued. “Can you warm this beanbag up? But don’t let it smoke. This time, please don’t leave the kitchen.” Right.

It was at this point in time, when I thought it could not POSSIBLY get any stinkier in my kitchen, that Eliza decided to let loose in her diaper. That showed me. It was stinkier.

I don’t know what we ate for dinner that night. I don’t know if anyone has been to my house since the incident two weeks ago without grimacing at that first whiff of smoke. I don’t know if the inside of my microwave will ever lose its mustard yellow color. I don’t know if I’ll ever know how a green plastic plate, a pink beanbag and 30-year-old beans make yellow-green fumes that stain a microwave and contaminate a house in under 2 minutes? And most of all, I don’t know how the Wicked Witch got reincarnated in the form of a beanbag.

But now I DO know that my smoke detectors don’t work. So I guess I should be grateful I learned that important lesson the “easy” way. Now I can replace the batteries, and when our house doesn’t burn down in a fire next month, then I’ll be able to be totally grateful for the cigarette smoke smell. I think.