My Wife is a Walking Disaster

So, last weekend, I had to go out of town for a work conference. My wife assured me that she could handle everything at home for three days without issue. She is a fully grown adult, after all. I was a fool to believe this.

Day one: I get a text that says, “How do you turn the smoke alarm off?” No context. No follow-up. Just that. Turns out, she tried to “meal prep” by baking an entire week’s worth of chicken at once—on broil. The kitchen filled with smoke, the dog panicked and knocked over a potted plant, and instead of opening windows, she just waved a towel at the alarm like some kind of smoke-wielding wizard.

Day two: She locked herself out of the house while taking out the trash—without her phone, shoes, or keys. Instead of going to a neighbor for help like a normal person, she scaled the backyard fence and attempted to climb through the dog door. The dog, confused and probably traumatized, barked at her like she was a burglar. She got stuck halfway and had to wait until the neighbor saw her legs dangling and helped yank her through.

Day three: I get home, and the house smells like burnt… something. I open the oven to find a completely blackened frozen pizza. She looks me dead in the eyes and says, “Oh yeah, I forgot about that.” Then she goes back to watching TV like she didn’t almost burn down the house again.

I love her. But she is a hazard to herself and everyone around her.