On how I damn near killed my fool self

I haven't blogged in a while, because May was a hell of a month. There was the Kentucky signing, the 175th anniversary of my church, a health issue that turned out okay, Jim's 50th birthday, Ian's graduation, the big barbecue celebration, Relay for Life, Ian's orchestra trip to Florida and now off to be a camp staffer for the Boy Scouts this summer. Frankly, I was too damn busy to blog.

So I planned to come back to blogging with some profound statements about the big milestones we achieved in the last month. Emotions surrounding the graduation of my son, something profound about Jim's birthday, my elation at actually meeting our Relay goal despite my minimal effort this year, pictures from the family gatherings.

Instead, I damn near killed my fool self today, so you get that instead.

Our refrigerator door rail pops free all the time, and when it does, it spills condiments and bottles all over the floor. I did a grocery run after work, and I was putting away the food when the rail popped off again.

This time, a jar of apple butter shattered. It hit a small can of pineapple juice on the way, spewing an unholy mixture of apple butter and pineapple juice all over the inside of the fridge.

Grumbling, I pulled out the large Pyrex casserole holding last night's mozzarella pesto chicken and put it on the stove top beside the fridge. I grabbed the paper towels and knelt beside the fridge to clean up the mess, removing bottles and putting them in the sink for later cleaning while mopping up the apple butter and glass pieces.

Because apparently I'm so damn tired I shouldn't be trusted around major appliances, I failed to notice that my arm brushed the burner knob. While I cleaned up the mess, it heated up fast.

And that's how the Pyrex casserole exploded about six inches from my head, with glass shrapnel as far away as the dining room (which is a nifty trick, since I think the glass shards had to do a 45-degree turn in midair). They pretty much had to fly in figure eights around my head to avoid hitting me.

So much for my dinner.


I have to say, it was a pretty impressive explosion. Somehow I managed to only get a couple of minor scratches, though I spent another hour cleaning up the mess.  I was pretty sure that my guardian angel quit in disgust in the Great Wheel Disaster of 1995, but she may have come back in time to manage this one.

The moral of the story: Don't put cold Pyrex on a hot stove, and pay attention to your dumbass self in the kitchen.

In the meantime, I am eating Oreos and trying not to handle anything breakable. Profound musings will have to wait until another day.

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