My bad, y’all. Last week was a series of work-related cluster fucks combined with a very long to-do list. Once I finally got the boss out of town Friday morning, it was all I could do to not put my head down on my desk and wave a white flag of surrender.
But on to my weekend. I am fairly certain no one will ever ask me to house sit again, as I quite literally almost burnt my house down. Saturday evening in a fit of domesticity, I decided to cook a pot of lentil soup to freeze. I had cleaned the kitchen and was waiting for the soup to finish up when I got a text requesting I meet a friend for a drink around the corner.
Deciding that the soup would be fine sitting covered on the stove for an hour while it cooled and confident in my abiliity to get the soup into tupperware upon my return home and thank god, someone to entertain me because I’m so bored– I traded my flannel shirt for a sweater, put on some mascara and biked myself out into the world. Did you notice what I forgot there? TURNING OFF THE BURNER.
Completely sober and not in a hurry, I managed to do the one thing I have feared for the majority of my life. I can’t even count the amount of times I’ve returned home to check the stove or make sure the door was actually locked and not once was that the case, but I guess there is a first time for everything.
When I got home a couple hours later, it took me a full beat to realize what I’d done. Because I don’t do shit like this! I rushed to turn the stove off, put the offending pot on the front porch (now with a solid couple inches of lentils burnt to the bottom) and opened the windows. There was nothing I could do that night, so I just went to bed before sending extremely apologetic text messages to the one roommate that was in town.
The next day I attacked the smell from all angles– I bought a shit ton of scented candles (lavender and clean laundry smell compliment each other nicely, for the record), vacuumed, dusted, mopped, cooked a meatloaf, fried a half pound of bacon and every hour on the hour Frebrezed the shit out of that bitch. I’ve literally gone through a half a bottle of that stuff.
When I picked Roommate A and B up from the airport last night, I tried to mentally prepare them for entering the house along the lines of– hey dudes, I almost burnt the house down this weekend. Literally. But I made meatloaf! Luckily the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach and I have been forgiven for the near-miss.
So that is what I did this weekend. There was also some baby puke, the Hunger Games and another meal that I successfully cooked without setting anything on fire, but all of that is less exciting than a pot full of burnt legumes and my shame. Moral of the story:
put my shoes on and get out of the kitchen. Order take-out.