Eye-rone-eee

Get it? Irony!

(Leave me alone. I have to go to the dentist in a few minutes, and I'm trying to take my mind off the fussing he'll do because, ok, I'll admit it - I'm not the world's greatest flosser. So sue me!)

I was asked if I'd blogged this story yet, and really, until I was asked that question, I didn't find it was all that blog-able. But apparently this other person (who can spin quite a yarn herself, you see,) thought it was blog-worthy. So here goes.

Last Monday, I came home from work and started dinner.

Stir-fry, to be exact.

That method of cooking, if you don't know, required me to put a bit of canola oil in a pan, and heat that pan, and place some pieces of meat, in this case pork, into that heated oil.

You know how sometimes you put something into hot oil, and the oil splatters? Well, that's exactly what happened to me on last Monday night. It splattered all over my clothes - my good, work clothes.

(Remember that part - the part about the work clothes. It will become important later.)

So it splatters. And I panic. PANIC! Because I don't have all that many clothes to begin with, and I can't afford to lose a single article!

And I grab the Shout from off the laundry cart (which, since our laundry machines are in the kitchen, is in easy reach) and proceed to pre-treat my clothes.

My clothes (work clothes, remember) which are still on my person.

I then decided that this was not a comfortable development, the wearing of clothes saturated with stain remover. It was cold, and it was sticking to my skin, and the scent was not conducive to eating dinner.

So I told myself, "Self, you just need to get into your PJs."

Except - it was around this same time that I also realized that the trash needed to be rolled to the curb. And Jason was already in his PJs, so, being the good wife, I rolled the trash can out.

While the food was cooking.

(Can you see where this is going?)

As I got closer to the house, I heard the unmistakable beeping of a smoke detector.

As I entered the house, I realized it was our smoke detector.

And in that kitchen, I found my husband, accusing me of trying to burn the house down by leaving the stove unattended and not buying my logic (that I had to go ahead and take out the trash so that I could get out of my Shout-saturated shirt and into my PJs) at ALL.

I had to open the back door to help filter the smoke outside, and the smoke detector continued to go off intermittently throughout the meal. Nice.

Are you waiting on the ironic part of my story?

Guess what Amanda got me for Christmas.

A really nice, for-real apron. From Williams-Sonoma even. The wearing of which could have saved me from the whole ordeal.

Ah yes. Irony.

Unlike revenge, it's a dish best served hot.