I am accident prone. I don't think that is a shocker for anyone who has been reading this blog for the last six months. I trip on the daily, fall weekly, have near misses almost hourly and set the fire alarms off at least once a month.
My klutziness is so pronounced that in the winter Scott doesn't even ask me if I want help or not. I automatically get escorted out my car on icy days. And by 'escorted', I mean I am all but thrown over his shoulder and placed down beside my car to prevent any accidents or injuries on the steps down to the garage. Apparently when I slip and fall in the driveway, leaving inevitable bruising or scrapes, he doesn't like the looks he gets when he's out in public with me.
And when I question his logic and ask, "So your not doing this to be chivalrous, you're helping me so you don't feel the overwhelming need to explain to the woman in the cereal aisle that I am just clumsy?"
"Ugh..... well ya."
Oh, poor Scotty.
But really - a few stares are the least of his worries when I am left unsupervised for any amount of time.
Like the time I burned the entire top of my foot off when I decided to start a fire on my own.
You see, I was going about my business when I realized the house was cold. So I thought I'd turn the furnace on. But the furnace hadn't been on yet that year. And I thought, well what if I go to turn the furnace on and there is a gas leak? Would I smell it? What if I don't smell it, but I realize the cats have been missing for a few hours? So I go looking for the cats and wind up in the basement where I find their lifeless bodies. Then I realize that there must be a gas leak but I collapse before I can get the gas off. Then Scott comes home.... well he won't stand a chance because the whole house would just be a gassy box of death by then. So he'll die. And no one will find us until at least the next day. We live in the middle of nowhere. And our neighbours don't give a flying fig about us. Then when we are eventually found, it'll take weeks to air the smell out of the house. Not just the gas, but also dead body smell. It would be a whole thing.
So OBVIOUSLY, I couldn't turn the furnace on. So I decided to start a fire instead.
I opened the wood stove to find a lot of ashes from the previous day. And at this time, I thought that to start a fire you should have completely empty fire box with no ash (don't judge me. Judge my parents. They never taught me fire things). So I got my metal bucket, sat cross legged in front of the wood stove and began scooping out the ashes with my tiny metal shovel-looking thing that came with the wood stove tool kit we inherited.
It was all going fine until my one foot started to fall asleep. It's a little blurry, but I shifted my weight and my leg went flying out from under me and sent the top of my foot directly into the side of my metal bucket.... which was faaaacking hot because of the orange coals that were mixed in with the ash I was scooping out.
I realized my foot was stuck to the bucket and I knew I was in trouble. I could either tear my foot off said bucket OR I could walk around with a bucket attached to my foot for the rest of my life. I made a game time decision and when I tore my foot free, my skin remained on the bucket.... looking like some kind of grotesque toasted marshmallow gone wrong.
Yep.
I managed to keep it from Scott for about 45 minutes after he got home from work before the dog stepped on my foot and I shrieked.
However, I would like reiterate that I do not feel like this was entirely my fault. I think my parents have to take some of the blame for not teaching me wood stove skills in my youth. And I would also like to blame Scott for leaving an ashy mess in the wood stove that he should have known my OCD/neurotic ass would want to clean up.
That wasn't quite as bad as the cookie incident of '15 though.
I had just finished rotation of night shifts and went to bed as per normal. I would usually allow myself to sleep from 8am to 1:30pm and then force myself to get up and be productive. That way I would be able to go to sleep that night and get my internal clock all squared away and back to normal.
I woke up at 1200 to the incessant chirping of our smoke alarm. To say I was pissed was an understatement. I got a chair and pressed the reset button.
CHIRP, CHIRP, CHIRP.
I tried the reset again....
CHIRP, CHIRP, FUCKING CHIRP.
I then took a metal spatula and pried the smoke alarm off the ceiling (nope, not exaggerating) and threw that son of a bitch outside.
Ahhhhh, silence.
I decided there was no point in going back to bed, so I putted around the house that afternoon doing laundry and pretending to do some housekeeping. Ya.... pretended. Oh come on! I can't be the only one who does this. Really?
Like if you put a splash of pine-sol on a rag and just wipe some random spots throughout the house, it will smell like you've cleaned when your partner walks in. It confuses and throws them right off. Or you time your cleaning so that you are 'in the middle' of doing dishes when they walk through the door. Wins way more brownie points than when they come home to you sipping wine with your feet up. Just sayin'.
Anyways, I thought I would throw some pillsbury pre-made cookie dough in the oven, so there would be freshly baked chocolate chip cookies when Scott got home from work. Cause I am thoughtful like that.
I put the cookies in the oven and sat down on the couch. I figured I didn't need to set a timer for ten minutes, because I could keep track while I watched some youtube clips on my phone.
I then remember lying down and thinking I would just close my eyes for 30 seconds....a quick reboot if you will.... and then go check on the cookies.
Suddenly I heard cat howling and woke to our kittens, Elli and Dotty, pawing at my face.
I opened my eyes to a grey haze of smoke and the smell of campfire. And for a split second I was confused.... but then it hit me.... COOKIES!
I raced through the plumes of shame to the kitchen and opened the stove - queue the gush of black smoke - and scrambled to get the charcoal pucks and tray out to the porch as soon as possible. I threw them out onto the lawn beside the smoke detector.... gosh I wish I was making this up.
When I turned to go back in the house, the two kittens were sitting in the window of the screen door looking at me like I was an embarrassment. In a way only a cat can. I am pretty sure if they had thumbs they would have locked me out.
So instead of coming home to freshly baked chocolate chip cookies, Scott came home to all the windows open and me, with the two cats in a carrier, sitting on the deck waiting for the smoke to dissipate.
Bless his soul, he didn't even ask questions. Just glanced down at the cookie tray and came over to give me a hug.
Probably for the best.
Well, I hope you all are having a wonderful holiday. And remember.... if your weird uncle or great aunt are driving you nuts and you really, really just want to put a fork through their hand... you do not look good orange. And you don't have any bail money because you have spent it all on gifts.
Happy Holidays!
Love, Kay
