My husband (he qualifies as a roommate) loves Karaoke. I have acquired a passion for it since our sixth date introduced me to the “bring your own booze” style rooms in back alley office buildings of New York City’s Korea town. Sometimes, I hear him singing as he walks around our apartment. He repeats the most popular lyrics of the song, most of the time it’s the chorus, and ultimately it gets stuck in my head.
One Saturday morning, he lovingly offered to cook me breakfast. He rarely cooks. In fact, I am not sure if he even knows how to boil water without following directions. He is one of those chefs who follows the exact recipe, utilizing every bowl to perfectly measure ingredients. I hesitated when he initially offered, mostly because I knew a mess would result. But, I let him surprise me anyways. The pancakes he whipped up were delicious. Somehow, he convinced me to stay out of the kitchen with the rationale of letting the dishes soak all day. We would clean up in the afternoon, he reassured me.
Off we went on our adventure for the day. When we returned home, I walked into the kitchen. It felt like a sauna as a gust of hot air collided against my body. Suddenly, I had the urge to not only sing, but, belt out Nelly’s “It’s Gettin’ Hot in Here.” The air conditioner had been on all day, why was it so hot? Then, I spotted the source: the flickering on the stove. My husband, the man who graduated from a prestigious Ivy League University had forgotten to turn off the burner. The flame hissed menacingly at me from across the room. The stove had been on the entire day.
I was furious, but as gently as I could, I informed my roommate of his significant error. As I surveyed the pile of dishes in the sick, I also let him know from now on, I would be the only chef cooking in our apartment, and he could stick to singing.