How not to cook a frozen dinner.

Several weeks ago, John and I were offered a deal on a rental house that sparked out interest.

I mean, who WOULDN'T want a yard larger than the size of a small patio.

. . .Wait, our yard IS a small patio.

Before he left for work one morning, we made plans to eat dinner that evening at home and then drive by the house to check out the exterior (since, you know, I had my doubts on the current tenant actually wanting an eagle, newlywed couple tromping around the inside of his humble abode).

I like to cook, but sometimes I'm just not in the mood. It's sort of the same with cleaning. . . and other things.

Ahem.

So I didn't feel like slaving over a hot stove and decided to pop one of those Stouffer's frozen dinners in the oven instead.

The lasagna is my favorite; you should go get it for the nights you're not in the mood.

Anyway, so this stuff takes about an hour and a half to cook, so I proceeded to do some laundry, play on the internet, and make our bed (despite the fact it was already 6:00 and there wasn't really a point).

John arrived home around 6:15 only to realize about an hour later later that he accidentally brought home some work keys that HAD to be taken back before they closed at 8:00.

At that time of the year, it was dark by 8:00. If we ate the lasagna, went to the place of John's work, and then drove to look at the house, we wouldn't be able to see much of anything.

"How much longer will that [the lasagna-- John never knows what we have; he just knows it's edible and will eat it. It's very easy to please the man.] have to cook?" John asked.

"Only about fifteen minutes. Why?"

"Well," he started, "what if we leave here, drive really quickly to the house, and then come back to eat?"

Something about leaving a carton of lasagna in a 350 degree oven without supervision for fifteen minutes didn't seem like a good idea.

But I thought, 'Hey, there was that one time I left the oven on 350* for five hours and the house didn't burn down, so I'm sure it'll be o.k. for fifteen minutes.'

I grabbed my purse, locked the door, and followed John to the car.

"Oops, I forgot my car keys; can you let me inside with your house key?" He asked.

"Sure!" I answered, digging through my purse.

My purse that contained everything BUT my set of keys.

I looked at John.

I must have such an expressive face.

"You don't have them, do you?"

". . . No."

"Why not?" He questioned.

"Beeeecause I didn't double check my purse when I saw you shaking those keys [they were unknowingly his work keys].

"I know, I thought these were the car keys and my work keys were in my pocket."

So there we were. Locked out of our condo. Bickering. WITH LASAGNA COOKING IN THE OVEN.

Aftering arguing over who would call Keith, our properties manager to have someone come over and let us in, it was decided that John would have the honor and could place all the blame on me.

Men.

I got a little curious and decided to squeeze between a bush that sits in front of our front window and the window itself.

I sort of just stood there for a moment before hearing a very distinct sound.

A very distinct, alarming sound.

A very distinct ALARM.

"John, the fire alarm is going off!" I cried.

"It's o.k. Keith's got someone coming soon."

I began to pick at the screen on the window. As it turns out, it's installed similar to that of a puzzle, and I was able to pick it right off the frame.

"Anna, the window is going to be locked," John said.

"It may not be; I had it open yesterday and don't remember locking it back," as I struggled to lift it up.

John walked over and began to push up on it as well.

I'm sure we made quite a scene. A young, frantic, newly married couple now trying to break into their own home to save it from being swallowed by a fire that began by a Stouffer's frozen meal.

Finally, it budged up and I was able to crawl through the window, over the loveseat (which sits in front of the window), and shut off the oven and save the lasagna before it caught fire.

I'm not actually sure WHY the alarm even went off.

There was no smoke and the lasagna wasn't burned.

Either way, we ate, dropped the keys off, and were able to see the house all before night fell.

Stupid alarm.