Sometimes, when confronted with something terrible, you can only laugh.
When my blender exploded, my first reaction was to scream.
My second was to burst into tears.
My third - about twenty minutes after the fact - was to burst into laughter.
This, you see, was at the convenience store I had gone to.
The clerk, greeted by a woman with pieces of tomato and onion in her hair and a bloody chest asking for matches, had stared at me blankly.
I needed matches to relight my pilot light.
The pilot light had gone out because I'd disassembled the burners to clean them.
The burners needed cleaning because they - along with the rest of the stove, the counters, the cupboards, the floor, the walls, and - indeed - the ceiling were coated in soup.
As was I, for that matter.
I must have looked a pitiable sight. I certainly felt one. High as a kite (which is why I poured boiling liquid into a blender to its absolute fullness and started it on "high"), swollen, nauseous, and with an undetectable T3/T4 blood level, I was beginning to suspect that I had made a terrible mistake.
So I went to the convenience store dressed in a bra, booty shorts, and flip flops (in September, in upstate New York), bloody and covered in soup, to buy matches.
And the clerk, confronted with this, stared.
And I, confronted with how absurd, pathetic, and batty I looked, began to laugh.
The clerk stared some more. She handed me a box of matches. I handed her $2.99.
She stared at me as I walked out. As I walked the block and a half home, I glanced back.
She was staring at me through the window, an expression of utter bafflement on her face.
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This has been an entry for therealljidol. This week's topic was "jayus." Constructive criticism is welcomed.
My second was to burst into tears.
My third - about twenty minutes after the fact - was to burst into laughter.
This, you see, was at the convenience store I had gone to.
The clerk, greeted by a woman with pieces of tomato and onion in her hair and a bloody chest asking for matches, had stared at me blankly.
I needed matches to relight my pilot light.
The pilot light had gone out because I'd disassembled the burners to clean them.
The burners needed cleaning because they - along with the rest of the stove, the counters, the cupboards, the floor, the walls, and - indeed - the ceiling were coated in soup.
As was I, for that matter.
I must have looked a pitiable sight. I certainly felt one. High as a kite (which is why I poured boiling liquid into a blender to its absolute fullness and started it on "high"), swollen, nauseous, and with an undetectable T3/T4 blood level, I was beginning to suspect that I had made a terrible mistake.
So I went to the convenience store dressed in a bra, booty shorts, and flip flops (in September, in upstate New York), bloody and covered in soup, to buy matches.
And the clerk, confronted with this, stared.
And I, confronted with how absurd, pathetic, and batty I looked, began to laugh.
The clerk stared some more. She handed me a box of matches. I handed her $2.99.
She stared at me as I walked out. As I walked the block and a half home, I glanced back.
She was staring at me through the window, an expression of utter bafflement on her face.
--
This has been an entry for therealljidol. This week's topic was "jayus." Constructive criticism is welcomed.