I went to the grocery store this morning. I always go on Sunday because the commissary is closed on Monday, and the period from seven o'clock on Sunday night to ten a.m on Tuesday lasts approximately as long as Operation Iraqi Freedom when you have no coffee, chocolate or baby wipes. While I was paying for my goods, the fire alarm went off. Smoke started pouring out of the customer service area at the front of the store, and the sprinklers went off. Fortunately, I had already checked out so I got to take my groceries with me, but most people had to abandon theirs. On the way home, I started thinking.
The commissary blaze is the third fire in less than two weeks. First was the New Year's Eve fire, then came the kitchen fire the other day. I didn't mention it earlier because it is slightly embarrassing: I put some oil on to heat up so I could brown some beef cubes for stew and forgot about it. It was pretty impressive as far as kitchen fires go- the flames were at least two feet high and they left scorch marks on the hood and screen over the stovetop.
Pretty weird, huh? But then I figured it out. The fires are my hummingbirds! I'm not sure why Jennifer gets the actual beautiful birds while I get hot, smelly, dangerous smoke and flames but I guess mine is not to wonder why, mine is to... wait, I don't want to finish that in light of the whole fire thing.
So, I get it, Wilma! Enough with the fires already!
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