Superbachelor rides again. A certain someone called me up to heckle me this week. He was leading into a story, but he prefaced it by saying, “Now remember, you’re the one who keeps his phone in the fridge.”
Please allow me to clarify. A couple of years ago I lost my cordless phone. I checked my desk, my coffee table, my breakfast bar, my bed, my nightstand, the phone cradle… I even checked the bathroom. Nothing.
I hit the Find button on the cradle, but heard nothing. I figured I’d probably left it on and the battery had died. So I tore my apartment apart and still couldn’t find it. I had a dream about it that night. I dreamt that I went to work, talked about it, and for whatever reason a female coworker came over to help me find it. So we’re tearing my apartment apart, when suddenly I hear her calling me from the kitchen. I walked in, and she was holding the phone in her hand, shaking it mockingly. “You always keep your phone in the fridge?” she asked.
Now, keep in mind this was just a dream. But I woke up immediately afterward, and of course I went and checked, just in case. I had my hopes up. No phone. But I did realize there was plenty of extra room in there.
No, I’m not going to tell you how well O’Reilly books fit in the refrigerator, because I don’t know. But I did know a guy once who kept books in his fridge and in his cabinets. I guess I could ask him.
I found the phone a couple of days later, in a laundry basket, buried under a big pile of socks. So, bachelors, take note. Don’t bother with laundry baskets. Just pile your clothes on the floor or something. When a member of the gentler gender asks about it, tell her you don’t use laundry baskets because you’re afraid you’ll lose your phone in them. That’ll get you a dirty look for sure.
But this would be another really good Superbachelor story, except the guy who did this is married. But it does have the advantage of being true, and not just a dream. He got ambitious and decided to make roasted vegetable soup. So he cut up his carrots and celery and whatever garlic and onions he could scrounge up (obviously his wife wasn’t home), then he grabbed a bowl, tossed that in with a little olive oil, set the oven to 500 degrees, and threw it in. He baked it, then pulled it out and set it on a burner on the stove, because he figured, what better place for a 500-degree bowl, right? Well, first he regretted not using a bowl with a non-stick surface. But then he poured in some cold tap water, and he found out that glass and cold tap water don’t get along very well. (Obviously his wife wasn’t home. They seem to be born knowing this stuff. Or maybe that’s what they talk about when they go to the bathroom in pairs, if they run out of stories about guys like us, which is unlikely. But I digress.)
So then he got to do something manlier than cooking. He disassembled the oven and removed all the veggies, both new and old, that were living in there, along with all the shards of glass. Then he called to share his finding with me, which I appreciated, because I didn’t know that myself. But he forgot to tell me what power tools work best for disassembling an oven. He also didn’t tell me if it worked after he reassembled it, or how many pieces he had left over afterward.
Needless to say, he didn’t have roasted vegetable soup for dinner that night. He did what any self-respecting male would do when faced with such a dilemma: He ordered pizza, with all the meats and all the peppers. No extra charge for the heart attack.
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