Monday, October 28, 2013

Toaster Oven 2, Me 0

For those of you who have been reading for a while, you know that me and my toaster oven have a relationship that, if my toaster oven were on Facebook, would put our relationship at "It's Complicated."

I love my toaster oven for the fact that it is awesomely convenient to prepare pretty much any tasty food. I hate it because occasionally it lashes out for my blood.

Yesterday, I had gone to the store and picked up a frozen pizza. This was in anticipation of watching what was surely going to be a battle for the ages, otherwise known as the lowly Pittsburgh Steelers playing against the lowly Oakland Raiders. Both teams have been pretty terrible this year, so I wasn't expecting much.

And I was right, because in the fifteen minutes or so by the time my pizza was done the score was something like 127 Oakland -12 Steelers (I think), so I decided that I should just watch Breaking Bad in my robe with the dogs instead. (As it turns out, I watched the episode of Gus Fring at the old folks home and he ended up in better shape than the Steeler's defense.)

Anyway, my friend the toaster oven says "ding!" and I go to take out my pizza. I take every known precaution and use an oven mitt; I slowly slide my tasty spicy pepperoni pizza from the circular pizza sheet onto a regular plate. Because the pizza has been successfully transferred from Baking Hardware to Eating Depository, in my mind that means that the metal pizza baking sheet is no longer hot and I casually go to throw it in the sink. And when I say "casually" I mean "press it up against my stomach which, if you were paying attention above, is exposed due to me wearing a robe."

Needless to say, I mentioned something like "Heavens to Betsy, I appear to have burned myself" out loud to no one in particular. I'll spare the reader a picture of my wound; it's actually not that impressive (also, it's on my stomach, so...) Thankfully, unlike before, it's in a place where no one can readily see it, so I don't need to answer any embarrassing stories. Unless I publicly write about it, of course.

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