This story reminded me of something that happened when I was a young teen. My mom’s house has a big yard, as well as a deck that has a pool and a grill set up. One day, we were getting ready to host some friends, she turned the grill on and went back inside to get the food and fixings. 

I’m helping set up the patio table and other assorted things for our get-together. Our grill included an attachment on the side that had a hotplate/warmer type feature that’s wired into the side. 

While setting the table, I notice flames coming out of the SIDE, against the hotplate. I run inside.

Me: “Mom, the grill’s on fire.”

Mom: “I know, I turned it on while I finished getting the meat ready.”

Me: “No, Mom, the grill is actually on fire.”

Mom: “It’s fine, I’ll be right up. Just close the lid so it won’t catch.”

Me: “MOM! The OUTSIDE of the grill. Is… On… Fire!”

This seems to do the trick, as she drops the food and runs outside. She gets it put out, the hotplate piece is absolutely ruined, apparently the wires had come loose and ignited, but luckily the main grill is fine. Even more luckily, neither the propane tank, the wooden deck, nor the giant tree nearby caught fire.

Mom: “…okay, maybe I’ll stay with the grill, and you can go get the food.”

Me: “That sounds like a great idea.”

We had our friends over for the first time after we got married and decided to make smash patties for them on the Blackstone. My husband was fully convinced he would do the main course all by himself.

Situation #1: I double-check everything with him just before the company arrives and realize he is missing a critical part of a burger. The bun. The poor guy runs to town, and in his brain fog, miscounts and buys thirty-two buns instead of sixteen.

Situation #2: He thinks burgers are incomplete without fried bacon and onions, so he makes them on the grill before the burgers and stores them in the microwave to stay warm. While munching on the last bite of the last burger, his buddy says, “Wouldn’t grilled bacon and onions have been just the perfect addition to this?”

Cue head smacks all around.

We ate the bacon and onions straight; they were still delicious.

Related:
With Great Bacon, Comes Great Responsibility, Part 25
With Great Bacon, Comes Great Responsibility, Part 24
With Great Bacon, Comes Great Responsibility, Part 23
With Great Bacon, Comes Great Responsibility, Part 22 
With Great Bacon, Comes Great Responsibility, Part 21

When I was a little kid, my parents signed me up to play soccer once a week with a neighborhood team. I played it for a few years, until one day in mid-elementary school when I came home from the final game of the season looking like someone had stolen my favorite stuffed animal. I went to my room without saying much.

Dad: “Did something happen at the game?”

Mom: “She’s sad because they stopped offering pizza at the end of the season. She said that if she knew there wasn’t going to be any pizza, she wouldn’t have signed up at all this year.”

Dad: “You’re kidding.”

Mom: “Nope.”

Dad: “I’d have paid for a d*** pizza every week if it meant I didn’t have to sit on a cold bleacher every Saturday morning.”

Up until this point, I had thought of pizza as a special treat that had to be earned by doing something hard (like playing soccer). It genuinely had not occurred to me that Mom and Dad had money, that money could be exchanged for pizza, and that pizza was a lot cheaper than organized soccer.

I rent a townhouse right in the middle of a row owned by one landlord. Every Thursday morning, trash and recycling go out to the curb. Though trash pickup doesn’t have many rules beyond “nothing unsafe and don’t overfill your bin,” recycling has a lot of rules. Everything must be rinsed out and the labels removed, no pizza boxes or takeout containers, no glass, and nothing can be in bags.

I put my bins out one week and, upon return that evening, saw that my recycling was not emptied. I opened the lid to see that someone had dropped a bag of glass bottles in my bin. I pulled it out, but since it was just a bunch of beer bottles, I had no way to know who did it. So I put it in my trash can and moved on.

Two days later, my landlord came by.

Landlord: “This is for you.”

He hands me a previously opened envelope from the township.

Me: “This is addressed to you.”

Landlord: “It’s for you.”

Me: *Opening the envelope.* “A citation? For what?”

Landlord: “For the glass bottles in your recycling bin. You know they’re not allowed.”

Me: “Someone put it in there after I put it all out for pickup. I don’t even drink.”

Landlord: “Who?”

Me: “I don’t know. I was at work all day.”

Landlord: *Clearly not believing me.* “Okay, well, if you see who did it, tell them not to do it again. Make sure you pay that citation on time.”

I paid the citation just to avoid conflict. The next week I put my bins out again and once again when I got home, my recycling bin was full, and another bag of glass bottles was inside. I called my landlord.

Landlord: “Yes?”

Me: “Someone put another bag of bottles in my recycling bin. Something has to be done.”

Landlord: “Unless you can prove it wasn’t you, you’re responsible for what is in that bin. I assume this will be another citation. I’ll see you soon.”

Yup, I paid the next citation too.

The week after, I put the bins out and took the day off. Just before the trucks would have been there, two boys (maybe seventeen years old) emerged from one of the townhouses to my left. I saw them carrying a bag just like the two that had been dumped in my bin, so I started recording.

They walked up to my recycling bin and lifted the lid. [Boy #1] stopped and pointed to my car, saying something I couldn’t catch. [Boy #2] shrugged and put the bag in before they both walked away. Once they were back in their house, I removed the bag and put it in their recycling bin.

Then I watched the truck come down the road. One of the collectors jumped off the truck, saw the bag of glass in their recycling bin, and moved on, including picking up my recycling at last.

I sent the video to my landlord and asked him to address it with the residents.

A few days later, there was a check taped on my front door for the value of both citations and an apology note. I never heard from the other people or my landlord directly, but I never had a bag of glass or anything else dumped in my recycling bin either!

I had recently moved into a new neighborhood; I am female and live alone, though I had several friends and movers for a while, helping me get everything inside. I had been in my new home for about a week, and was still sorting through boxes and putting stuff away. On a trip out to my garbage with collapsed boxes, a neighbor leaned on the fence between properties and called out a greeting.

We had a small chat, mostly new neighbor stuff. Then out of the blue, he asks me:

Neighbor: “Hey, I was wondering… why do you lock your door when you’re inside the house?”

Pause.

Me: “How would you know my door is locked?”

Neighbor: *With a completely straight face.* “Oh, I tried to open your door on a couple of nights so that I could greet you.”

Me: “You tried to enter my home without being invited, or even knocking?”

Neighbor: *Blinking like this was a strange question.* “Well, yeah.”

Me: “Well, in case you are still wondering, THAT’S why I lock my door.”

I went back inside, making absolutely sure to lock my door behind me, and tried to wrangle my emotions down to a single emotion at a time. Who would even think that was okay?!

I’m not sure about other countries, but in the USA, just walking into someone’s home without permission is a good way to catch bullets with your face and other vital spots.

I contacted the police to make a report because I wanted a paper trail. Then I decided it was a lovely season for my home to suddenly sprout security cameras. I also got a doorbell camera, since they are very difficult to hide from.