Death By Sweet Potato

18 Sep

Two nights ago, I almost poisoned myself, as well as my dear, innocent, generous friend, Bonnie Hong. And by “almost,” I mean “most likely did but will ignore any and all symptoms until they decide to re-locate the BU Student Health building to my side of campus.” Poisoned people really shouldn’t have to walk so far…

The events that transpired were unfortunate, but not at all out-of-the-ordinary.

It all started with a sweet potato… actually, “sweet” potato my ass. More like a BITCH potato!

Sorry for that outburst. I think I’m still high from all the poison and what not. But I don’t take back what I said – it really was a bitch potato.

So let’s continue. I was really full from the latte and the amazingly delicious cookie/brownie/granola bar thingy I’d eaten because I was “treating myself for being accepted into the Geneva study abroad program”… aka I passed a café, decided that being an overweight cat lady has its perks, and opted to indulge. My cats and I are very happy together, thankyouverymuch.

After my snack, I was much too full to eat the FREE and DELICIOUS LOOKING pizza that was up for grabs at my BU Dean’s Host meeting. This was a mistake of epic proportions.

When I got home from the meeting, I was hungry. Hmmm. What to do, what to do? I thought back to a Discovery Channel episode I’d once watched about this species of people called “healthy eaters.” Apparently – if I’m remembering correctly – “healthy eaters” tend to eat these things called “vegetables.” And these “vegetables” are apparently really beneficial for one’s body – especially when one has eaten the opposite of vegetables for several days in a row, due to one’s limited culinary skills and general lack of discipline. (Wow, this “one” person sounds like a real loser!)

In a rare moment of responsibility and clarity, I decided I would cook the bitch potato that had been rolling around in my fridge for a couple of weeks.

How virtuous, I thought. 

(Now that I think of it, I’m not even sure sweet potatoes are considered a vegetable. They might be a starch. COULD SOMETHING JUST BE WHAT IT SEEMS FOR ONCE??)

Seeing how I don’t have a microwave in my apartment because my kitchen is the size of the kitchen in Barbie’s Dream House (but with a lot less pink), I usually use my friend Bonnie’s microwave. She lives in the building next door to me, so it’s super convenient – I use her microwave and then I ask her a bunch of questions so she doesn’t feel like I came over with the sole purpose of freeloading off of her appliances. (HA, just kidding, Bonnie. You know I also come over to steal your baked goods!)

This microwave outing began like any other. I walked over braless, wearing slippers, and wielding a knife and a giant sweet potato. So yeah, just a regular Monday night.

When I got to Bonnie’s, she was all about the smiles and the generous microwave lending – “sure, Sophie, you can use my microwave! You’re a responsible, intelligent, competent person! Why WOULDN’T I let you use my microwave??”

Oh, Bonnie. Ohhhhh, Bonnie, Bonnie, Bonnie.

We started talking. And, for a while, everything seemed fine.

Then, we heard a crackle.

“Wow, Ron is getting angry up in hurrrrr!” I said.

“Who is Ron?” asked Bonnie. 

“My sweet potato,” I responded.

Bonnie smirked, but didn’t really respond to the fact that I’d named my sweet potato. She lived with me last year, so she knows better than to ask questions.

Then, we heard another crackle. And then another. And another.

So, in a rare moment of responsibility and clarity, I decided to go over to the microwave, open the door, and diagnose the problem.

And that’s when they hit me. No, not a bunch of PITA activists or an angry clan of bagpipe-playing Scottish people. But CHEMICALS. SO MANY CHEMICALS.

I couldn’t breathe! I couldn’t speak! And then, as the chemicals entered my eye sockets, I couldn’t even see!

This time, Bonnie did have a few questions. As I paced around the room yelling, “I WON’T BE ABLE TO HAVE CHILDREN! I’M TOO YOUNG TO DIE! I NEVER EVEN STARRED ALONGSIDE LEONARDO DICAPRIO IN TITANIC II: THE MUSICAL!” Bonnie was asking, “What the heck is wrong with you? What happened?? WHAT DID YOU DO TO RON??”

Ron was fine. It was just my sinuses and my eyeballs and my lungs and (I imagine) my ovaries that were suffering. But APPARENTLY Bonnie didn’t want to know about these things! She was more concerned with Ron, the a-sexual bitch potato that can’t even have kids!

After I stopped, dropped, and rolled, I approached the microwave with a towel over my face. And that’s when I saw it.

The plate. 

The plate – which had been a beautiful canary yellow when I’d purchased it for 89 cents at Target – had turned a brown, over-cooked s’mores color and had cracks all over it:


Nothing like a cracked, chemically laced, flaming plate to liven up a night!

When Bonnie asked me if I’d checked to see if the plate was “microwave safe,” I said, “Yes, I swear I did! It said ‘microwave safe’!”

I lied. I blatantly lied to a friend. I lied because, while Bonnie may be accepting of my potato naming and other *quirky* habits, she also knows I am a menace. So, as a gift from me to her, in return for her appliance lending, I wanted to prove her wrong. I wanted to make her proud.

It turns out, you can’t always get what you want. (I should probably copyright that phrase before some British rock group decides to turn it into a hit song.) When Bonnie went to open the door in the name of air circulation, I quickly grabbed the killer plate and glanced at the bottom, where I read THIS:




I started laughing. And kind of crying. But that might have been the chemicals talking.

Through my tears, I managed to tell Bonnie the truth – that I hadn’t even THOUGHT to look at the plate’s microwaveability; that I’d lied to her because I was ashamed; and, that I’d gotten some snot on her dish towel while I was shielding my face from the burning scent of death.

After she (I’m pretty positive) imagined throwing me out a window and then choking me with the same dishtowel into which I’d snotted, Bonnie helped me to wash the microwave and to place the plate into a plastic bag:


Because this is what I do. I use my friends, I destroy their appliances, and I nearly kill them in the process.

(Please notice Ron, who is smirking in the lower right hand portion of the photo. You’re a total BITCH, Ron, and you know it!)

Actually, I guess it’s not Ron who’s the bitch. I guess the real bitch would be Target, for selling me a cheap, non-microwaveable plate.

Or maybe I’m the bitch for microwaving a nonmicrowaveable plate, exposing Ron to a multitude of chemicals, and then eating him for dinner, anyway…  

As I walked back to my apartment braless, wearing slippers and wielding a knife, a giant sweet potato, and a reeking plate of doom, I had a rare moment of responsibility and clarity.

Did you know that Target sells microwaves for just $49??

Looks like Barbie’s Dream Kitchen is about to be renovated. 


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