I Don't Bake: Part Three

My name is Sarah, and at the tender age of 27,  I have been banned...

From using the microwave.

I was approached by those nearest and dearest to me and have been told the abuse has gone on long enough. Really, I don't even see the problem.

I mean, I've always been a very responsible microwave owner. I reset it to zero almost every time, rarely make it beep more than once, and I wipe it down with a wet rag every so often. I guess there was that ONE time in college...but we all make mistakes, no?

Oh, you didn't know about that incident? Well, it was Mark's fault, really. I asked him to make me hot chocolate, like any good, loving boyfriend should be dying to do. But no.

"Make your own!" he said.

Fine. But my cup was dirty. My special little santa mug, specifically designed for MY use at HIS apartment had been used. Who are these people? Show some respect.

"My cup is dirttyyyyyy," I said, no whining in my voice at all. None.

Always the thinker, he responded, "Well, then use the one I used earlier."

And there it was. Shiny and silver in all of its stainless steel glory, waiting to hold my hot chocolate. So I filled it up with my cocoa mix and water and walked towards the microwave.

Hmmm....this is insulated, so I will probably need more than the usual amount of time.

I opened the door, punched in 5:00, placed my cup inside, and walked away...like a boss. Who's getting it done? Who's handling the business? This chick right here.

BOOM!

"What the hell was that?" Mark asked.

I told him I don't know, now shut up and pay attention to me. God....greedy.

BOOM!

At this point, he runs out of the room.

"OH MY GOD! WHAT THE F@*%!?"

So there was a small fire in kitchen. What a drama queen. That poor little microwave though...she didn't pull through.

But it's fine. I got him and his roommate a brand new, shinier microwave. And it was ten times better than that old hunk of junk.

And we all learned a valuable lesson: never microwave metal. Check.

Then there's today. Again, mostly Mark's fault. He undercooked my bacon, shoved it into a plastic container, and told me to finish cooking it at work.

Fine.

I put my little bacon basket of love and goodness into the microwave, cranked it to 3:00 (yeah, we're old school), and walked away. I got work to do, man.

When I returned, it smelled like burnt bacon. Crap. Mistimed that one. Whatever. Fat girl eats what fat girl gets.

I pulled it out of the microwave and my hand felt like it was dipped in paraffin wax.

I had no choice but to abandon the bacon and run. No one can know that it was me. I sat back down, nonchalant. One of my co-workers gets up and walks around. He comes back and ask if that's my bacon permeating throughout the building. No, Nosy Nellie.

I told Mark about my accident at lunch, and he has since child proofed the microwave, which means he better be ready to make me LOTS OF HOT CHOCOLATE from here on out.