I recently got into making crafts out of polymer clay. One day, I made a bunch of things and set them on a tray, ready to be baked. My girlfriend, wanting to be helpful, offered to put them in the oven for me while I was off doing something else.
Girlfriend: “Three-seventy-five degrees, right?”
Me: “Hm? Oh, right, yeah.”
Not long after, she came over to me.
Girlfriend: “Um, there’s smoke coming out of the oven.”
Me: “That’s weird, because— Oh, s***! Two-seventy-five! Two-seventy-five!“
We both raced to get the smoking plastic out of the oven and open every single window to air out the place before we managed to either suffocate ourselves or set off the entire building’s smoke alarm. Luckily, we got to it soon enough that our emergency was entirely localized to our apartment, and on some of the pieces, the singeing actually made them look kind of cool, just not how I had intended them to look.
Eventually, my girlfriend spoke up.
Girlfriend: “Thanks for not getting mad at me.”
Me: “Why would I get mad at you? You literally asked me, and I told you it was okay. I’m the one who should know, so I’m the one who f***ed up! Thank you for not getting mad at me!“