"Smoked"

Since I've been sick and in the bed for two days, I took up some light reading... I found my old purple backpack filled with my drawings and essays I wrote from school. I realized, sadly, that I haven't changed much since seventh and eighth grade. (And neither have my cooking abilities).

04.17.01
When people say, "It can't get any worse," they do not know what they are talking about. I never say that because even with the glimmer of consideration of this forlorn fib, something much worse occurs.
When the phrase, "I'm a walking accident," is stated, people just would not understand that statement until they have met me. I will describe an accident which occurred leaving me oddly thankful. I suppose there is truth that one can learn from their mistakes. With all the mistakes I make, I will learn to be perfect quite soon.

I needed a job and quick money. My age, being merely fourteen, jobs don’t hurl themselves at me. Instead they shiver, shake, and shy away. For once though, my luck had seemed to change. I was offered a babysitting job, which I accepted in one-half a milli-second. I must say that I was incredibly thrilled. Money to me is as precious as honey to Winnie the Pooh! I knew I’d be receiving a plausible amount considering I would be there three until midnight. This didn’t bother me in the slightest bit, for I was mesmerized by visions of jewelry, clothes, and make-up. This is where the spending money firmly planted itself.

I ignorantly forgot to recall my former acquaintances with stoves. (These were not pleasant occasions). Because I would be there with the three most precious children for an absolute eternity, I was being asked to cook!
I arrived at my client’s house exactly on the dot. I carried myself with grace, portraying a mature babysitter that could even be counted on to…cook! Everything was perfect until the dreaded task was forced upon me. I faced the stove with determination. I withdrew a long, enduring breath. My shaking fingers found the buttons on the face of the stove and gently pressed them. At long last the pan of chicken nuggets was in the oven heating.

Like a buzzard awaiting the death of its prey, I stood near the oven. A beep sounded, and I removed the food, not charcoal, but food! To my surprise it was edible! But like a raincloud descending on the perfect, sunny day, the mashed potatoes glared scornfully up at me.
“You forgot to heat me!” it taunted.

With defiance glaring in my eyes, I took the black pot of potatoes, turned on an oven eye, and plopped that sucker right at home. Confident now in my cooking, I left to search for the children.
Only gone a second, my stomach lurched at the distressful smell blundering from the kitchen. The stench of decapitated potatoes mixed with that of melting plastic filled my nostrils. In a rush, I dashed speedily into the kitchen, where, to my greatest horror, stood a melting glob of goo shooting out smoke in tremendous amounts! Panic overwhelmed me as smoke engulfed me.

My hands trudged along, finding the glob of goo. Without a moment’s hesitation, I lifted the pot. Only the top came up, gravity and heat gluing the “plastic” pot to the oven eye. I jerked up the entire eye and chunked it into the sink.
By now I was not alone. Three excited children danced gleefully around in the smoldering heat and stifling smoke screaming, “Fire! Fire! The house is on fire!”

Of course, there was no fire, just smoke, but if a nuclear bomb had exploded I wouldn’t have moved. The only moving thing was my heart, which was literally trying to escape my chest.
Slowly my rasping breath slowed, and I explained the circumstances to the kids.

“Well, I suppose this’ll be the last time I sit for ya’ll ‘cuz I kind of put that plastic pot on the stove,” I told them sadly.
We cleaned it up, though. Actually guilt driving me on, I cleaned the entire kitchen, vacuumed the entire house, and made up all the beds.
In the end I got my money, and boy was I thrilled! I was desperately relieved that I didn’t have to replace the ‘microwave’ pot. It is an experience I am glad I went through. I learned an awful lot! I discovered the difference between microwave and stove top pots. It improved my character, too. Any pride I ever had was demolished right when I had to admit my stupidity to my charge’s parents. Though a lesson well learned, I still have not been called upon to supervise their precious children again.

My teacher made sure to note that this was supposed to be a “formal piece” but since it kept him laughing he’d forgive my ludicrous language.
And as I recall, I left out a LOT from that story…. Like Christian, the youngest, dressed as the red power ranger opening all the windows and shouting, “We need a fire truck in here!” Or Julia and Jake finding every type of spray and trying to help “spruce” up the sour odor. (Of course Lysol, hairspray, and perfume didn’t mix all that well with melted plastic).

And I certainly didn’t mention how many rough drafts I went through trying to decide EXACTLY how to tell Dean and Rhonda Nickens EXACTLY how I managed to make their entire house smell like putrid burnt plastic. And how I fell asleep around 11:30 or so STILL trying to come up with the perfect apology and my dad showed up at the same time they did and I didn’t want to tell them in front of HIM! So I decided to wait until Sunday to tell them, but by then their children had explained it all to them. (And I would LOVE to hear THEIR take on the story). Needless to say- it was kind of horrific. BUT if FUN was the main goal for me babysitting- I would have Aced it… if SAFETY was the main goal… well… they are COMPLETELY justified in never calling me again! Haha (so Safety MUST be more important than fun).