Don't ask about the air conditioning

Our extremely modern and sophisticated apartment has, as you would expect, an incredibly modern and sophisticated heating system: fire.

Granted, it's in a fancy-looking fireplace dressed up with expensive stone. But still, it's pretty much just a fire. Not that distant a cousin from the roaring blaze over which Eric and I roasted many a marshmallow over Thanksgiving weekend in the desert (and of which our coats still reek as they hang in the back hallway).

Here's how it works: there's a switch on the wall that determines whether or not the heat is on or off. If the switch is set to on, then when the temperature of the room gets below the temp on the thermostat, the fake logs in the fireplace burst into flame and start heating the place up. Hello toasty fire! Likewise, when the room is at the target temperature, the fire turns itself off. (Bye bye fire.)

I'm not totally used to this system yet, and so every now and then when the fire suddenly goes on I immediately assume that it's Zuul and that there will be eggs frying on the counter within moments.

I'm also not accustomed to it enough to think to warn houseguests sleeping in the living room that if they suddenly wake up in the middle of the night to a blazing fire that it's really nothing to be concerned about. Which makes me think perhaps plastic sheets for the couch wouldn't be a bad idea when someone is staying over.