MotherofFuck, Reader. No, no…not YOU! You’re not the target of my angsty swearing. At least not yet. Things can turn on a dime around here, in case you didn’t know.
I’ve started my Deep Clean of All Things in the Kitchen, because that makes sense at almost eleven o’clock at night two days before Thanksgiving. I just thought it would be nice to wipe down all the cabinets, give the glass-top stove a thorough scrubbing with my special cleaner and magic scrubber pad, and that turned into well, do the microwave, too! And then the refrigerator looks bad and I may as well do all the small appliances and that’s when I discovered this:
Now, to an untrained eye, it may be difficult to decipher what that could possibly be on the top of my third-this-year toaster.
But to my very unfortunately trained eye, Reader, the crusty crackled yellow-tinted “grease” on top of the toaster can only be one thing. Because there’s NO REASON there would be GREASE on top of the toaster, now would there be, Reader.
No. No there would not be a reason for that.
However. ~~deep breath, Me, simmer down naw~~
I’m like Inspector Piss-leau.
And now the toaster resides in the trash container, awaiting pick up tomorrow from the collectors of garage of what used to be usable toasters, before Trixie Bang Bang’s Asshole Cat(s) decided that a toaster is a jolly-good fun thing to back up against and take a piss.
Because that’s where that goes. And Trixie B isn’t allowed to have toast.
Which is really unfortunate because I just bought high-fiber bread at Trader Joe’s after work tonight and was totes looking forward to having a slice in the morning, as part of my I Think I’ll Try Megan Kelly’s Diet because why not have something new to struggle against. I mean, I like toast. This diet sounds perfect.
Except I can’t have toast because asshole cat(s).
I’m beginning to think I can never have a toaster again while this crew resides with me.
Did you catch the point that this is now officially a HABIT and it’s my third toaster this year that has met the same demise?
I mean, other than
killing them drugging them medicating them with vet supervision, they win. I had a $40 scat-mat. They pissed on it and it stopped working. I have all the Jackson Galaxy “stop being an asshole” drops for them. I don’t even know which one it IS, to focus on correcting the a-hole-y-ness in a one-on-one environment (aka, making that cat live in the garage, unless it’s DJ and then he’ll go into therapy).
So there we are. Well, here I am. Toasterless. Again.
It’s like marriages. After a few replacements, it’s time to just give up on the whole damn idea.