“I'm a vampire, James, not a self cleaning oven.”

“Anything else?” “Yes, a shower.” “I beg your pardon?” Pushing him back out the door, I rolled my eyes toward the ceiling. “I’m a vampire, James, not a self-cleaning oven,”

“Twas the night before Thanksgiving. All the food's in the oven. And I'm in the bedroom performin' self lovin'.”

“Ritual he liked, but compulsory routine he hated. Thus, he resented every minute that he now had to surrender to showering, shampooing, shaving, and flossing and brushing his teeth. If mere men could devise self-defrosting refrigerators and self-cleaning ovens, why couldn't nature, in all its complex, inventive magnificence, have managed to come up with self-cleaning teeth? "There's birth," he grumbled, "there's death, and in between there's maintenance.”

“Got to be the worst place in the world, inside a oven. You in here, you either cleaning or you getting cooked.”

“I didn't know about the rest of the class, but when Bastille Day eventually rolled around, I planned to stay home and clean my oven.”