BANISHMENT 3: Believing I Won't be an Accidental Arsonist

Yesterday afternoon I made a very important addition to my front room decor. It’s bold and simple and would certainly be the centerpiece of my feng shui should I ever be the kind of person who had such a thing. It was even cheap, which sort of makes me feel like a million dollars. And if not quite a million, at least 73.

Now I know what you’re thinking. You want to know what it is. More importantly, you want to know where to get one. But before you continue down your jealous spiral of having a covetous, sinful breakdown, I should probably tell you that it isn’t anything terribly exciting. Like a La-Z-Boy with cup holders. Or dimly romantic, like recessed lighting. Or even terribly Marry Poppins, like a coat rack. Rather, it’s a highly important and slightly condescending piece of paper, compliments of HP Photosmart Premium #1. It’s my 95 Theses. Only I’m not Martin Luther, it only contains 22 words, and I have considerable doubts that contents of said paper will do anything to spur on a protestant reformation.  But you can judge for yourself:

Dear Megan,

Please remember to turn the oven off when you leave the house.

Sincerely,
Your objects that will surely burn and perish

Now I know what you’re thinking even more: what the bloody hell is wrong with this person. Why would she need a forged note from kitchen appliances unless she has an almost unhealthy obsession with The Brave Little Toaster? – which I do.

But the truth is. I have a terrible problem. Which I will blame entirely on my mother. And that problem is that I believe I can remember everything when I can in fact remember nothing. My car keys have legs. My remotes can teleport. And my oven has the tendency to turn onto a “broil” setting whenever it gets temperamental, which is too terribly often.

Case in point: I came home yesterday afternoon – which is a pretty typical thing that I do – and I put the key in the lock, manhandled the groceries, and butt-shoved open the door (which is a fantastic move by the way) only to find, upon crossing the threshold, that my house felt sort of like New Orleans had just eaten a box of Hot Tamales. Right before jumping into a vat of hot coals and profanity. This was troubling as it was the fourth time this week my house has felt as such.

What does this say about me? Other than that I cook a lot. And that chances are, if I forget to turn the oven off, I probably forget to include crucial ingredients in my recipes. Like baking powder. And vanilla. And cocaine.

I think it mostly says what I have been trying to deny all along: it’s not that I have appliances that come to life (too bad), it’s that my remembering skills are shoddier than the man’s down the street in the nursing home. My memory was held at gunpoint and instead of fighting back, it wet its pants. As such, for lent I can only give up the facade of having an acrobatic mind at the age of 24 and must start posting warnings around the home to save all from destruction. Coming next: Pee here.