If Anyone Tells My Mom, They're Dead to Me

I'm the worst daughter ever.  Like, EVER.  We were at my mother's house, watching the Superbowl.  She was not there, but generously offered to let us use her enormous television for the event.  While we were there, we walked her dogs.  Joseph, my adoring husband who knows that I hate being cold AND I hate poop, went outside with a doggie bag to pick up what they left behind.  Then, he decided it would be funny to leave it somewhere for my Mom to find.  Her pillow?  The fridge?  In her toilet? No, no, no.  The microwave?  Yes.  THAT.

This is the point that I wish I could say that I discouraged him.  That I defended the home of the woman who carried me in her womb and nurtured me all those years.  I didn't.  I laughed and giggled right along with him, right along with my evil children.  You think that's bad?  It got worse.  Much worse.  

We walked away from the microwave to return to the game.  Well, all of us but Micah.  He stayed behind and, "set a timer."  Only, the timer wasn't a timer.  He had actually started the microwave.  It ran for something like 30 seconds before we noticed it.  I screamed, everyone panicked, and someone made it over and turned it off.  Not, however, before the poop cooked, lit on fire, and made the house smell like the dog pooped in every single corner of it. I did not know, until this night, that it was possible to laugh uncontrollably and dry-heave at the same time.

If you haven't yet read the title of this post, do it now.  Thaaaaat's right, I didn't tell her.  We sprayed the microwave down with Febreze and ran it for a while, until it smelled something like the wind blowing through a laundry line of clean clothes, under which the dog had just taken a giant crap.  It was an improvement.   My poor mother.  It's not her fault I turned out this way.