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Wednesday, April 19, 2006
The dutch oven smackdown was an ugly incident in our household's history. It was all our roomate's fault-I can tell you that much. You see, he was having a bbq at his girlfriend's house, and needed to borrow it for marinading the meat. I should have known better, but I was feeling mildly guilty for skipping out on the q-it was one of those, "Hey, meet this chick I've been seeing" things (well, I had kinda met her when she was picking up roomate, but that was half asleep on the couch in your jammies not making eye contact because you're all groster and lazy kind of meeting, which totally doesn't count) that I should have been at, but I was PMSing in a bad way and sent my boyfriend instead (who was derelict in his duties and escaped to play video games with a friend shortly after eating, but that's another story).
ANYWAY. The dutch oven. Right. Weeks go by, and I still don't have my dutch oven back. This is bad, because I use it almost every day. Dinner time rolls around and I'm making all a manner of things in this huge 20,000 gallon stock pot I have, getting steam burns on my arms and weird kinks in my back from stirring things around the depths.
And daily I'm bugging roomate about my dutch oven. Hey, E, where's my dutch oven? Oh, I'll get it for you, no problem. And we're joking around about it, because that's what you do in this house, but I'm getting more and more burned because I just want my beloved dutch oven back. Nuclear is the next setting on my dial.
Finally, as I'm despairing of even getting my dutch oven back, J intervenes. Apparently all this time, our roomate thought a dutch oven was some sort of ceremic doodad, and was playing along with what he thought was me joking around. But I didn't know that, because while I was asking in all seriousness for my oven back, he was saying, ha ha, yes, of course I'll get that back to you, snicker. Let me just clean the poop out of it first. And I'm like, ok, just get it back to me, you kidder, you.
What we have here is a failure to communicate.
ANYWAY. The dutch oven. Right. Weeks go by, and I still don't have my dutch oven back. This is bad, because I use it almost every day. Dinner time rolls around and I'm making all a manner of things in this huge 20,000 gallon stock pot I have, getting steam burns on my arms and weird kinks in my back from stirring things around the depths.
And daily I'm bugging roomate about my dutch oven. Hey, E, where's my dutch oven? Oh, I'll get it for you, no problem. And we're joking around about it, because that's what you do in this house, but I'm getting more and more burned because I just want my beloved dutch oven back. Nuclear is the next setting on my dial.
Finally, as I'm despairing of even getting my dutch oven back, J intervenes. Apparently all this time, our roomate thought a dutch oven was some sort of ceremic doodad, and was playing along with what he thought was me joking around. But I didn't know that, because while I was asking in all seriousness for my oven back, he was saying, ha ha, yes, of course I'll get that back to you, snicker. Let me just clean the poop out of it first. And I'm like, ok, just get it back to me, you kidder, you.
What we have here is a failure to communicate.
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