So, this morning, I'm enjoying sleeping-in as the cool, fall air wafts through our bedroom window. I'm all snugged-up beneath two quilts, dreaming the morning away, when my dreams start going all weird.
Soon, I wake up to this awful, burning smell. It smells kind of like a toaster melting, but worse. I notice that Donna's not in bed next to me. So, I head down the stairs to try to figure out why the house smells so utterly vile.
Donna's furiously cleaning up. I ask, "what the hell's that burning smell," only to be informed that she forgot to add water to her oatmeal before putting it in the microwave. Apparently, microwaving dry oatmeal is a good way to cause it to fill the house full of a plasticy, toastey stench.
This was nearly two hours ago, now.
After having determined that, "no, the house isn't burning down," I head back upstairs. Attempts at sleep are futile in the presence of such a smell. So, I hop in the shower. And, through the steam and soap smell, there's the background smell of burnt oatmeal.
As I sit here typing, there's the smell of burnt oatmeal.
When we get back from the hockey game, tonight, I'm sure there'll be the lingering smell of burnt oatmeal.
I'm even, kind of, afraid that, when I get up tomorrow, there'll be the faint stench of burnt oatmeal in the house.
Ugh.
How the hell does that even happen. It's like something out of one of those domestic-disaster episodes of some 60s sitcom.
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