I got home from work/school yesterday around 7 p.m., tired and hungry. All I wanted to do was collapse on the couch with a nice bowl of pasta and watch some Seinfeld re-runs. So I shuffled into the kitchen and got the water boiling, pulled out my pasta, a bowl, some spices, and some pasta sauce.
We get our pasta sauce from CostCo, so it comes in these shrink-wrapped sets of three glass jars together. Usually it's a piece of cake to open, only last night I kept jabbing and ripping at the plastic and it wouldn't give. Finally I stabbed it with a pencil stub and it conceded my victory, yielding its three jars. Ha! I grabbed one, and went to open it...and then noticed it's pressure button was already popped, and there was mold along the side. Ick. Into the trash.
So I went back for another one--roasted garlic. Mm, my fave. My stomach grumbled. I twisted the lid. Nothing. Okay, no big deal, just whack it along the side of the lid a few times, that always does the trick.
Nope, nothing again. So I banged it on the floor, albeit gently. Still nothing. So I grabbed my heaviest kitchen tool, and tattooed every millimeter of the lid's rim. (I don't usually do this because it makes it hard to reclose it tightly, but my pasta had already cooked by this time and was cooling in its colander, so I decided to break my own rules. (I know, what a rebel. you can just imagine me in big reflective sunglasses now right?)
Not that it did any good. By this time, my hand was cramping up, and I was cursing. The cats took one look at my face, and all immediately found places to hide--far, far away. So, feeling embarrassed, I put on my jacket. The next door neighbor is super nice, and I knew he could help me.
Except he'd apparently just left. Sigh.
Back inside, I considered giving up. My stomach growled in protest. My tongue anticipated that yummy roasted garlicky goodness. I was determined--gender stereotypes be damned, I WOULD open this %$@#!& jar. I decided to give the floor tapping another try--and it worked! Hurray!
Only then I discovered that it had exploded a fine mist of tomato spray on my favorite dove-grey pants in the process. Knowing how tomato stains set, I put the jar aside for a moment to strip off my pants and rinse the stain, then hit it with some stain remover.
At this point, my stomach was about to stage a mutiny. I could hear it whispering to my liver and kidneys. I knew all hell would break loose if I didn't return to my food a.s.a.p. So, looking like a pants-less idiot (though fortunately not even the cats were around to see me, since they were still in hiding), I got back to the kitchen, dumped a fourth of the jar into a pot with some olive oil, added my favorite fake cheese (I'm allergic to dairy), and then poured it over my pasta as soon as it was faintly hot-ish.
I walked into the living room, set down my bowl, and turned on the T.V. At last. Seinfeld was on, my dinner was ready, I could finally relax. I sat down.
And my bowl flipped over, dumping half my lovely, warm, perfect-sauce-coated pasta onto my cat-fur covered backpack, favorite fuzzy blanket, couch, and floor.
Next time I think I'll go for a pb&j.
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