The TARDIS and the Tomato Sauce

I'd decided on a day of relaxation. Not the one where you're supposed to be doing stuff but you screw off instead and feel guilty about it later, but the one where you give permission to self to not do anything except eat and watch "Scrubs" reruns with your good-lookin' boyfriend and watch some Adobe tutorials on the internet.
In your TARDIS pajamas.

(Day One: Our protagonist is wearing TARDIS pajamas. No related blog post, though.)

Day Two:
Our heroine returns, boosted by the self-confidence that only several Facebook-likes of a footie pajamas selfie can give,
ready to tackle the world of relaxation, Netflix, and homemade chili.

The ingredients are all there, the hamburger browned the night before.
The cookware is clean.
The comfy TARDIS pajamas are on.

She gathers the onion, the black beans, the tomato juice, the various and assorted spices.
She pulls the recipe card out. She slices, she dices, she chops.
She goes to put the tomato juice in...

Now, our girl is not one to have extra kitchen devices. She won't buy an electric can opener. No, she has the hand crank model.
One in a long line, as she has broken many of them.
The hand crank model, staple of camping and bomb-shelter kits.
The stuff of our forefathers, who valued hard work and scorned convenience for scorning convenience's sake.
She scorns the them because they hog counter space and waste electricity.


... and the hand crank model, as so many before it, latches and slips with the first turn.
And the second, and the third, and the fourth. Eventually, though, the can opener is coaxed into perforating enough metal that the can should yield its contents with one simple push on the top of the can...

Yeah, you see it coming, now.

... and the contents explode.
Not literally, as they are not volatile compounds, mostly just tomato and water, but they exit the can with such force that they coat the counter and the wall, they run onto the floor, they splatter our heroine's feet (because she unzipped and removed the feet of her footie pajamas when traction became an issue)
and her TARDIS pajamas.

There is lots of swearing as she hurriedly exits the kitchen, while the good-lookin' boyfriend (GLB) says something about skunks which our heroine does not fully hear because all she can see is red
-probably from the tomato product in her eyes-
and she is busy stripping off pajamas on the way to the washing machine...
where she finds that the load she put in before is still spinning.
DAMN AND BLAST!
A new plan is formulated and the TARDIS is hastily thrown under the spigot in the bathtub where
(oh thank GOD) the tomato sauce rinses out of the bright white of the police public call box windows.

After a quick pj and foot rinse the washing machine is ready to tackle its next challenge,
and so she starts the new load (cold water and a little extra soap) and heads upstairs for the very fuzzy, very comfortable,
very purple pajamas of a Christmas long past.

Upon her return to the kitchen, GLB is hard at work wiping the counter, the candy dish, the side of the refrigerator, the floor, and who knows what else,
because he is awesome.
A thousand times better than footie TARDIS pajamas.
And that is a lot.