With all of the epic buffoonery that went on two Mondays ago, you would assume that I had squared up or at least paid down most of my karmic debt. In reality, though, it seems as if my solo comedy routine has done little but to whet the appetite of whatever gods are up there chuckling at my misfortune.

When I found out that The Wife™ was going out with friends after work this past Monday, I did what any married man who was left alone for the evening would do: I made ice cream. In a halfhearted attempt to use up some milk and other perishables before leaving town this week, I decided upon a simple peanut butter recipe and set to preparing the mixture. That’s all it took for things to quickly slip into the realm of the absurd. Again.

Loading up all the ingredients into the food processor (because I didn’t feel like cleaning the blender), it quickly came to my attention that the Cuisinart bowl was cracked. I know this because milk started pouring all over the countertop and floor. I am perceptive if nothing else. So in a rather calm state, I removed the plastic bowl and transfered it to the other countertop to put it begrudgingly into the blender. And of course picking it up made even more milk and cream spill out, and which point Jonas’ salivary glands Spidey Sense was activated and he got all pushy and tried to get up in my business looking for some handouts.

So, just to recap, we’ve got milk flowing everywhere, into cabinets, onto the clean floor, etc. We’ve got the dog body checking me like an NHL Allstar to get some of that free food action. And we’ve got me pissed off because yet another kitchen appliance is borked and because I didn’t even really want to be bothered making this stupid ice cream anyway. And then all I did was try to pick up the food processor base.

Cue the second explosion in two weeks.

Apparently, as the Cuisinart base slipped out of my hands (remember? Gratuitous amounts of milk?) it oh-so-conveniently landed on the cutting board next to the sink. The one made of glass. The one that looks like this ONLY LARGER. “Break resistant” my white, Irish ass.

So as you can imagine, dropping a 10 pound item onto a glass pane sent milk-covered glass flying, oh, EVERYWHERE, including all the way to the adjacent dining room a solid 20 feet away. This scared Porky the Truffling Dog so much that he almost crapped on the tile. And I spent the next hour or more on my hands and knees picking up microscopic pieces of glass from every nook and cranny of the first floor.

So if you visit my house, which I hope you all may do some day, I offer one simple caveat. Don’t come on a Monday. And don’t eat the Peanut Butter Ice Cream. Either could land you in the hospital.