R.I.P. Little Seventies Pot

Yesterday was exciting at our home. I was thinking about the enormous list of things I had planned to do (cleaning, lots of planning and grading and seating-chart-making, finishing a Relief Society lesson for today, doing assignments for the classes I’m taking, etc.), and I was feeling pretty overwhelmed. Isaac was gone at work all day, and my parents were gone helping at Youth Conference all day. I knew I had to buckle down and get everything done on my own, so I made a plan. I read my assignment, wrote a test, put some plastic things on the stove to sterilize by boiling for a few minutes, changed Aiden’s diapers, did some research for my RS lesson, and then…

I smelled hot plastic.

I had forgotten about the sterilizing plastic pieces for half an hour! I ran to the kitchen to find the front of our condo filling with smoke, and it smelled awful. I took the pot off the stove and shut it off, discovering that I had totally melted all four parts. UGH. I turned on fans and opened all the windows and the sliding door, and then I thought I remembered hearing that fumes from melting plastic were toxic, so I packed up Aiden and the dog and left. I ran a few errands (picking up a book on hold at the library, replacing the plastic pieces I melted, etc.) and then I hung out at my parents’ house for a few hours by myself just to keep us out of our place while the fumes dissipated.

I am such a moron.

Poor pot. I inherited this one from my mom when I moved into my first apartment. I’m pretty sure it’s dead now. I feel so blessed that things weren’t any worse, that nothing caught fire, and no one seems to be suffering as a result of my stupidity. Our condo smells mostly normal now, and besides the pot there seems to be no harm done,

but I’m still mad at myself.