I’m becoming increasing aware of the fact that I’ve been living alone for too long.  Most of the time I’m fine with it, but every now and then something happens that makes me realize that I’ve strayed a bit from the societal norm.  A realization of this magnitude is even more disturbing when you take into account that I was already a geek to begin with.  Being a geek is one thing.  Being a weird geek is so totally another.

Two nights ago, I had gotten a KFC chicken pot pie.  Now, I know that I recently waxed poetic about the pureness and perfection of the KFC chicken leg.  But that was, like, a week ago.  I’ve grown since then.  I’ve expanded my culinary horizons, if only so subtly.   Never let it be said that I’m not walking on the path of self-improvement.  It had been a few hours since I had gotten the pie, and it needed to be heated.  I’m convinced that the corporate suits at Kentucky Fried Chicken Headquarters must hate single guys.  There’s no other reason for them to package the pot pies in a non-microwavable container.  Now, you might be thinking, Idiot, that’s what they cook them in.  Don’t burden me with logic!  I can’t handle the truth!  So I’m going to stick with my original hypothesis.

Whatever the reason, reheating the KFC pot pie is no simple feat.  Sure, I could spoon the whole thing out into a microwavable dish, but that totally destroys the pie, along with pie eating experience.  A KFC chicken pot pie has to be eaten whole—and in one sitting—to be thoroughly and properly experienced.  So I decided to use the oven.  I never bothered to read most of the instructions that came with the oven because I rarely ever use it.  That’s what mothers are for—did I just type that?  Oh, man.  Anyway, I put the pie on a cookie tray and placed the whole thing in the oven.  Then I set it to “bake.”  I hadn’t checked my email that day, so I decided to pass the time doing just that.  My best bud had sent me a link to a video of some fat guy totally wiping out on the diving board at a public pool.  It was hilarious.  Now, I’m assuming the guy wasn’t seriously injured.  At least I hope not.  That’s how I justified it, anyway.  My conscience satiated, I watched it about ten times and laughed every time.

You can see where this is going.  At some point, I remembered my pot pie.  In a blind panic, I sped to the kitchen, almost wiping out myself in the process.  Alas, I was too late.  I yanked open the oven door to find that a once perfect chicken pot pie had been transformed into a blackened, carcinogenic Frisbee.  I was heartbroken.  As it often is with affairs of the heart, my sadness quickly turned to anger, and I lashed out at the only thing available.  My face crimson with rage, I screamed at the oven, “You.  Are.  A.  Whore!”  Looking back, I realize how strange this obviously was, and I hope my nearest neighbor wasn’t listening from his backyard at the time.

This ridiculous outburst made no sense on so many levels.  For one, I doubt the oven could hear me or appreciate my grief fueled anger since it is, indeed, an inanimate object.  Secondly, the oven burned my pot pie.  It didn’t have sex with someone else’s toaster.  Calling it a whore was not an appropriate response.  Even more importantly, how was I to even know the gender of my oven?  I mean, it’s pretty obvious with some of my appliances.  I’m pretty sure my microwave is female.  The evidence is there for all to see.  It is petite, tidy, and keeps things hot, i.e. it’s a girl.  By the same token, my dishwasher is too loud, takes too long, and never really gets the dishes totally clean.  I’m pretty sure it has a penis.  But the oven?  That’s totally up in the air.

What bothered me most, however, was the thought that this might be how I will act towards a wife, if I should ever be so lucky (?) to get one.  Would my normally docile demeanor do a total one eighty in times of anger or crisis?  Would I turn green, rip through my clothes, and wander the nation on foot in really tacky bell bottoms?  I digress.  The whole thing bothered me for awhile and I pondered over it as I carefully consumed my charred pot pie—come on, you just knew I was going to eat it.  Even a scorched pot pie is better than another delicious meal of Frosted Flakes and Doritos.

After careful deliberation, I came to the conclusion that I most probably will not act this way to another person.  I am kind towards others.  I seem to only have problems with household appliances—and ketchup.  I really, really despise ketchup, and I’ll go my grave with that hate in my heart.  I’m sorry.  I’m not going to budge on that one.  But other people?  I don’t think so.  I know myself better than most people do, seeing as how I’m the only one in my head…the majority of time.  And I’ve become confident over the years that, down deep, I’m a pretty decent guy.

I do have to work on my anger, however.  And I started that night.  I apologized to my oven.  I petted her ever so gently, and I even let her warm up a couple of empty cupcake tins, kind of like a peace offering.  In other words, we made up.  And maybe our relationship will always be volatile.  Some of the great ones are.  But now I think my refrigerator is jealous.  I do admit that I avoid her most of time.  However, she shouldn’t be at all surprised at my lack of affection towards her—she’s always so frigid.