Burning The H-E-DOUBLEHOCKEYSTICKS Out Of My Hand.

I believe in the power of the jinx.

And the power of the jinx whooped my tush yesterday.

Yesterday, I wrote about how I now actually make and eat dinner.  I’ve been doing it for a  month with no problems.  No one has been inured or sickened by my cooking.

I consider this a massive success.

But yesterday night, my streak came to an end.

With yours truly being the victim.

I was making pasta with alfredo sauce.  This is an easy dinner to make because I totally cheat and don’t make anything from scratch.  It requires me to boil the pasta on the store and heat the sauce in the microwave.

No sweat.

So when Kevin got home from work, I began my cooking/heating of dinner.

And the pasta was boiling and the sauce was microwaving.

And then Kevin said he was going to downstairs to change clothes.

So then Tom came and hung out in the kitchen with me.

So I carefully took the bread out of the oven while instructing Tom to “sit over there.”

And then the pasta was done, so I drained it while instructing Tom to again “sit over there.”

And then the sauce was done so I carefully lifted it out…

Except some of the sauce had overflowed without me realizing, so I stuck my finger in boiling hot alfredo sauce.

But by then, I already had it in my hands, and Tom was directly under my feet and pulling on my leg to be picked up — thereby taking away my power to fling said boiling hot alfredo sauce onto the floor — so it instead tipped all over my other hand causing me to scream.

And cry.

(I’m such a wimp.)

I immediately ran my hand and finger under water.  All the while, Tom is crying.  And I’m trying to say soothing things to him while thinking things that are unacceptable for me to type out.

But what was I mainly thinking?

That it was all Kevin’s fault.

Where the HELL was he?

My thinking went something like this:  If he had been upstairs, then he could’ve been playing with Tom in the living room, which would have granted me the power to drop the boiling hot alfredo sauce as soon as it touched my finger, which would mean that instead of having two burnt hands I’d only have one burnt finger.

I think we can all agree that would be better.

So when Kevin innocently entered the kitchen 10 minutes after he left to change into sweat pants and asked, “Are you okay?”  I calmly answered that I wasn’t.

Do you believe me?

I meant: I wasn’t calm at all.  If looks could kill, Kev would be dead.

Twice.

He correctly scooped Tom up and took him to play in the nursery so I could run my hand under the cold water and curse as much as I wanted.  And also to get away from me.  Again, correctly.

It took me about an hour before I became rational once again and told Kevin I knew it wasn’t his fault.

But even when I said it, I still thought, “How long does it take to change into sweat pants?”

So…maybe I’m not totally convinced it’s not his fault.

It’s a little bit his fault.

(Or totally.)

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