There are those people in your life who are always are getting hurt, or the ones who are super good at everything, or the ones who make a mean grilled cheese sandwich. I, however, am none of those people. I'm instead finding my own way: the kid who breaks things in unconventional ways.
It all started a few years ago when I was making something on the stove. I don't remember what, but whatever it was it boiled over and got the inside of the gas burner wet. It proceeded to make this obnoxious ticking noise for the rest of the day, so my very wise parents advised me to leave the burner on low until the moisture dried out.
Not ten minutes later, I smelled something odd and looked over to see much larger flames than that gas stove is capable of. After a split second of panic followed by another split second of confusion, I ran over to see what was going on. An odd shaped plastic thing was sitting directly on top of the burner in flames. I, being the brilliant young woman that I am, turned off the burner and somehow got the plastic thing to stop being on fire. Upon further inspection, I discovered the now pretty well melted plastic piece was the button you press to open the microwave. Evidently the heat from the burner being left on had melted the button on the microwave, which was mounted over the stove, enough for it to fall out and catch on fire.
Essentially, I melted the microwave.
To this day we've never fixed that button. We just use those thermometer covers to shove into the hole the button used to attach onto in order to open the microwave. It's still amusing when people come over and try to use our microwave but don't know about the cup full of thermometer covers on our counter. And it's embarrassing when I'm using someone else's microwave and I catch myself searching their countertops for thermometers.
The melting the microwave incident was a few years ago. The saga of Becca Breaking Things In Unconventional ways continued a few nights ago.
I was unloading the dishwasher, like my mother had told me, with a friend of mine. I was turning to put something in a cabinet and accidentally knocked over the jar of olive oil sitting next to stove. We were already making a ton of noise (but trying really hard not to), so when I didn't break I thought it was nothing. I stood the jar back up and continued putting things away. However, we both noticed a weird crackling noise coming from the stove. I looked closer at the stove and noticed a long crack in the glass. It was spreading. It was growing. It was cracking. And there was absolutely nothing we could do.
Well, I did say, "JONATHAN LOOK AT THAT!" followed by a quick and slightly panicked, "WHAT DO WE DO?!" and confused looks and astonishment and that sick feeling in your stomach after you break something expensive of your mothers.
 |
| Looks like the olive oil won this time. |
We took everything off the stove because it was already beginning to sag and would probably cave in soon. Then came the heroic moment I'm most proud of: I remembered to unplug the stove! After the house fire incident of 2011 in which I alone saved the day by calling 911 (well, firemen also helped save the day), I knew that something bad might happen if the stove broke and there was electricity still running through that thing. Then I woke up my parents and they slightly freaked out. Being awakened by the panicked voice of your daughter saying, "Mom! Dad! You're needed downstairs! I knocked over the olive oil and it hit the stove and it broke! The olive oil is fine, the stove broke!" I'm sure is pretty stressful. They came down and my dad remembered to unplug the gas too (come on, I did my best) and they looked at how cool the cracks were then they went to bed. Then Jonathan and I finished the dishes and he left and I went to bed.
Then after sleeping for a little while I heard it start raining really hard, so I got out of bed to close my window. In the half asleep trek across my floor I stepped on a needle and it bent and I couldn't get it out of my foot so I had to wake my mom up again in a pain-stricken panic. It was traumatic. I was curled up in the fetal position on my bed whimpering and holding my bloody foot while my mom was standing in my door holding the needle she just pulled from my foot looking confused, because, after all, she had just woken up from a deep sleep for the second time in an hour. After a few seconds of this, I yelled, "Just throw it away!" She did, then walked back down the hall. Halfway there she decided she needed to mother me, so she came back and patted me on the head and mumbled something along the lines of, "it'll be okay" and left me to care for my wounds alone.
I never did close my window.
This habit can get pricey really fast, so I hope I stop breaking things. Or at least I hope my parents will still love me and continue to tell themselves, "at least it's funny."
