So I was doing okay until I almost set the kitchen on fire.
Our stovetop dials turn very easily. Something got pushed against one and it turned on, which normally isn’t a problem because the power to the stovetop is controlled by a wall switch that we leave set to off. But I turned the wall switch on so I could cook something in the oven, and I didn’t notice that beneath the stuff on the stove a burner was on.
(yes, I know, NEVER PUT ANYTHING ON TOP OF THE STOVE. usually we don’t, but post-move housecleaning means stuff I’d piled everywhere. :p)
I went to work on cleaning the dining room and after a few minutes thought, that really doesn’t smell like pizza cooking, which turned out to be because it was a rubber cleaning glove cooking, and the whole kitchen was filled with acrid smoke.
I yanked the burning things off the stove and flung open doors and windows and got it cleaned up, but it was a perfectly awful few minutes and I stink of burned rubber and I was doing okay, for a value of okay that means tired, sore, emotionally and physically drained, nowhere near done with the work at hand, and generally sick of being an adult. Now I’m all of those things *and* feeling somewhat incompetent at adulting, and I wanna go hide under the covers and have somebody take care of me for at least a month.
Which isn’t going to happen, but when Ted got home and heard my tale of woe, he sent me out of the house to decompress, which is something. :)