Oh, sure, I could pontificate about the Middle East, or about the rights of women, or about Ted Kennedy and his rant about minimum wage that I just found courtesy of Blanton's and Ashton's, but no, I'd rather talk about the fire in my kitchen yesterday.
My dad set a Hot Pocket on fire in the microwave. I didn't know you could do that. He smothered the flames, put it in a garbage bag, and then put the bag on the back deck, where it proceeded to ignite a deck chair cushion. Alas, the deck chair is lost, but we still have a deck, and a house, and all.
Unfortunately, we also have a holy hell of a lot of smoke. I didn't even think about how the smell of smoke gets into everything. My room is across the hall from the kitchen. My clothes smell faintly of charred pepperoni and plastic. Every once in a while I catch a little whiff of this, and it's driving me insane. Argh.
Yes, we bought a new microwave already. I cannot imagine living a day in my house without one. Not for me, mind you, but my dad refuses to admit that he can turn on a stove burner.