My beautiful wife has many skills and talents. Cooking, however, has never been one of them. Don't get me wrong -- she makes a mean buffalo chicken dip and some tasty, tasty chocolate covered peanut butter balls. But dinner? Still a work in progress. And I tease her relentlessly about it. And she beats me for it. Lather, rinse, repeat. I never really know when to keep my mouth shut.
So...it's a Wednesday night and I'm going to be home at a reasonable hour (by "reasonable" I mean before the little hand makes it to the double digits). Traci offers to cook dinner for us, which I happily accept and deem to be part of my birthday present. She decides to make rigatoni with chicken in a tomato based sauce. Sounds good. I settle in at the computer to generate some profits for the QE partnership until dinner is ready.
The next thing I know, Traci comes into the office and she starts explaining that Ivy has proved herself dumber than Lucas. (As you may read in later posts, Lucas has traditionally been known as the 'dumb' cat in the family.) Something's wrong though....Traci is clearly in "spin mode" here. According to the wife's version of events, Ivy (of her own volition) stood on the gas stove near the pot of boiling water and singed her fur on the burner. The apartment has the strong odor of burned hair, so there's no question that there was cat-to-fire contact. But how?
Now ask yourself which of the following two scenarios is more likely to have occurred: 1) that an animal with highly developed senses and survival instincts would get so close to an open flame that it would burn itself? Or 2) that my wife (who once managed to burn chocolate in the microwave -- I mean smoking-hissing-and-need-to-run-water-over-it-to-avoid-setting-off-the-smoke-detectors-burning) somehow managed to burn the cat in the course of cooking dinner?
Be careful, my mind locked up on that one, too. Lather, rinse, repeat.
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