This is why we can’t have nice things.
I join this kitchen community with equal measures of excitement and concern. I love the trendy gray quartz countertop and white subway tile backsplash. The sports honors on the refrigerator door tell me you have kids, but the dried, crusty bits of previous meals stuck to every surface speak volumes. Please, I beg you, keep your kids away from me.
In the showroom, I heard you discussing how you saved your money for two years to buy me, your fantasy range. All I can say is maybe there are other appliances better suited to fantasies, like a VitaMix Blender or a De’Longhi Espresso machine, but I don’t judge. Whatever floats your boat.
I yearn to look nice for just one week.
That’s all I ask. Just one week to adore my glistening stainless steel sheen. As I sat in the showroom, I heard things that no range should ever hear, stories that made my burners tremble with fear: “Remember when Johnny dropped the raw egg on the burner?” And “My cooktop never recovered from the leaked grease from the last year’s Thanksgiving turkey.” Barbarians!
When you uttered the words “dream range,” I fell in love the second those words hit my vents. I heard phrases such as “beef bourguignon,” “soufflés,” and “lemon tarts.” I never once heard the words “teenagers.” I might have been more prepared for this day if I had known in advance you share a living space with these uncouth humans-in-training.
How about just three days of glory before those teens set their sloppy hands on me?
I know I serve a purpose here but show some mercy. Let me bask in my shine. Let me smile with the brilliance of an oven untouched by chicken grease. Let me have three days before oozing mozzarella cheese falls off a pizza and lands on my oven floor causing a permanent scar on my previously unblemished surface.
The refrigerator warned me. She stated your two teenagers often stand for hours with the door open gazing at her contents indecisively. But what really gets her icemaker in a tizzy is when they close her by pulling the shelves. They don’t even use the handle!
Oh, I dread the days when people will just kick my oven door closed. I see it coming. I see the footprints on the front of the dishwasher.
Okay, how about just two days?
Could you take some pictures of me? Let’s document my beautiful state and we can look back nostalgically down the road after those teens have used my burners to cook marshmallows. Those sticky, gooey marshmallows will lodge in my crevices forever, a reminder of all that I could be if it weren’t for these messy kids. Once those teens start using me on a regular basis, I will look like a Home Depot appliance on Black Friday full of burned food, scratches, and faded dreams.
And let’s get something straight: my burners are not a prep area. Do not put a mixing bowl on top of me and sprinkle flour wildly, because you know what happens to flour? It wedges into my every crevice and there it stays for eternity marring my youthful glow. And we should ALL be concerned about our youthful glow. Just saying.
I know you want to teach your kids to cook so that down the road they can feed themselves. I laud that goal but hear me out. How about if you just watch cooking shows together and then someday, when they rent an apartment with a cheap and barely functioning range, they can ravage that appliance with their learning? How about if you feel good enough knowing you bought them cookbooks? Some parents don’t even do that, so pat yourself on the back and step away.
All I’m asking for is one day of looking pristine before they use me.
And before they do use me, please teach them how to clean me. Just a microfiber cloth will do. Do not come at me with paper towels. Those things contain wood pulp which will scratch my flawless appearance. Based on the appearance of the other appliances, I have my doubts any of you know the proper cleaning etiquette. Even your toaster looks like it has been the centerpiece of a fencing match. How can someone even scratch it that much?
Here comes one of your monsters now. Where are you? SAVE ME! No, not the eggs. No, just eat them raw. Please. Watch that movie Rocky that does not translate to modern times, but the raw egg scene is probably super for a growing teen.
Oh, god. The fry pan is on top of me. This is the end. Oh, no! How could he drop the raw egg right onto my burner?
Fine. Never mind. At least the backsplash still looks nice. Oh! I spoke too soon. How did that kid fling that much salsa on the backsplash? Goodbye cruel world.
Originally published on Frazzled Humor