The hamburger cooks in the microwave.
The spaghetti noodles boil on the stove.
The can of spaghetti sauce (yes, I buy canned because it's cheap) sits on the counter.
And Melissa is frantically searching for a can opener to OPEN the spaghetti sauce. Through drawers. Cupboards. On tables. Below tables. In the husband's garage. On the picnic table outside.
No can opener. Out of the three can openers in the house, not one turns up.
I try to use a knife on it. The blade bends and I throw it in the sink. I rummage through the drawer and find some sort of Swiss Army knife knock-off and try to open the darn can. I only manage to punch a hole in it. A small hole. Which means I stand over the pan of meat shaking the can again and again, trying to get the sauce out. For an entirely too long five minutes.
I turned the air a little blue last night. I yelled at stepson because he was the last to have the can opener. He yelled at me because he said it wasn't where he'd put it last. Then I called hubby and yelled at him because, guess what? He took the can opener with him to work that morning.
But in the end, I had my spaghetti.
Next time I go to the store, I'm buying twenty can openers.
And hiding them all.
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