Wednesday, February 22, 2012

My Oven Has PTSD

We just moved.  It was delightful.  Actually, it was hell, but made marginally tolerable by a large group of awesome people that helped, schlepped, built, shuffled, and relocated all day, for only crappy pizza.  We are very fortunate to have so many awesome friends.

As we settled in, we did the whole, "shit that don't work" list.

Then it got longer.

And longer.

Finally, I sent an email with my demands.  Our new oven will be here tomorrow, along with a new dishwasher and a new water heater.  The hot tub will be fixed soon, and filled with hot watery wonderfulness.  The blinds will be able to twist, the door bell will do its doorbell-y thing, and the side gate will no longer be electrified.  Yes, electrified. (Keeps the stray cats away!)

But in the meantime, I have bananas that need a new home, fast.  I gathered up my handy dandy Pinterest, and smacked the shit out of the oven until it turned on. It took 7 good hits, and I started the pre-heat. While I mixed ingredients, it got to 350.  At some point, it shut off.

This is where I lost my shit.

I cussed the oven out, and explained that the ingredients were waiting.  I tried verbal assault, I tried reasoning.  Then I proceeded to knock it around some more.  When my hand was throbbing, it turned back on. I noted the "sweet spot" with a Sharpie, and threw my concoction in.

I had a few more talks with it.  At one point, I said, "when you act like a lazy bitch, I replace you".

I'm hoping Sky King doesn't follow that same philosophy.  If he does, I may need some more help moving.  Soon.

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