Crafts for Christmas - or Stuff I Shouldn't Do

Below is a piece that ran a few years back in the Philadelphia Inquirer.  However, due to my editor's snip happy fingers, the piece that made it to the paper was much abridged (thanks, Janet!  Just kidding).  This is the article, in its entirety.

 I promise, I'll get back to "normal" writing soon!  And, to my Aussie fans, send more comics!!!

I often tease about being crafty; I’m being facetious. Martha Stewart would have a heart attack at my house.  The only thing we have in common is cooking.  Crafting is for people with patience.

 I was watching her show the other day, and she was showing off all these homemade Christmas presents.  I’m sure if one of my kids had made one of them for me, I’d be THRILLED!  However, these were produced to be gifted upon your children.  All I could think of, though was what 16 year old wants a set of coasters made out of gift wrap?  As an adult, I’d think they were adorable.  But I’ve got kids who would think their mother had finally flipped her lid.

Besides, I don’t even own coasters – a magazine or newspaper works just fine, if we use anything.  Plus, we have “kid friendly” furniture (translation: really cheap, easily replaceable, & with no sentimental value whatsoever.).  A hole in a sock can easily be fixed with a safety pin, super glue, or just thrown away.  At my house, a sewing machine would be purely decorative.  But, we would get a good laugh if someone remarked that they didn’t know I sewed. 

All that being said, I have to admit I actually did do something really, really crafty one year.  I’d been out shopping at a mall, and just loved those huge, bushy garlands, dripping with ornaments.  I went everywhere to find one to buy.  Sadly, I had no luck.  Well, I’ll just make one myself, I thought.  That should have been my first clue – that I was thinking about crafting anything - ever.

But, once Lucy gets an idea, it’s pretty much a done deal.  I bought yards and yards of garland, and wired 4 strands together to make one big bushy one.  The week after my fingers healed, I set about stringing the lights.  Have you ever had an electric shock?  Ask me about it some time.

Two weeks, several trips to the craft store, countless bloody finger pricks & a few glue gun burns later, I stood back & congratulated myself on a massively bushy garland fit for any mall.  It was time to light her up & gloat.

I probably should have considered making it closer to the banister, though – all 15 feet of it.  I had to call the girls, a bunch of times.  They had pretty much avoided me during this project.  It was probably better that way.  Even though I used made up curse words, I used them quite a bit while making my mall worthy creation.

We all began to lug what was now being called, “The Beast”, to its’ resting place.  Two hours, several broken ornaments, and two irritated daughters later, we finally had “The Beast” up.

Now, I should point out that it wasn’t half bad.  And, after we’d vacuumed up the mess all over my living room floor, the hall, and down the stairs, it actually looked pretty.  We were ready to light it up.  (You have just GOT to know what’s coming!)

I had checked the strings of light to be sure that they were working before I began.  What I didn’t think about was connecting them together.  Turns out, there’re “male” and “female” plugs.  I’m trying to think of a way to put this delicately, so let’s just say my poor garland was celibate.  

I’m fairly sure my scream could be heard two towns over.  That, and the torrent of made up curse worse that seemed to flow from my mouth as if a damn had been burst & words I didn’t even know I knew spewed forth like molten lava, rolling gleefully & with utter abandon from my mouth.

Aubrie and Elyse were laughing, not knowing that I was about to turn my wrath on them.  As soon as they saw my face, they ran faster than a Mormon missionary from a bar at happy hour.  Yep, I’d proven again that I was no Martha Stewart.

I stood there glaring at The Beast.  Then, I fumed, fussed, plotted, planned & even cajoled.  There was NO WAY I was taking all those ornaments off that stupid garland to start over.  Finally, a decision was made.  I squared my shoulders, lifted my chin, grabbed my purse & went to the store for more lights.  I planned to drape them over, under, & around the decorations, making a chain to plug all the lights into together.

By the time I was done, I lit that bad boy up – and, boy did it ever LIGHT UP!   If I’d known Morse code, I could have signaled a space invasion from opposite sides of the planet.  Fortunately – for the family – no one said a word about the brief interruption in power, or the fact that their eyes were burning as surely as if they had been staring at the sun.

They oohed & ahhed, & told me what a lovely job I’d done (after they’d pilfered through their rooms to find sunglasses).  They didn’t think I’d noticed that they occasionally glanced nervously at the sky in the event an errant plane thought it had found its runway.

  But it was done, it was up, & I was finished!  I’d had my fill of crafts for Christmas for, well, ever.  My new motto is if I can’t buy it, we don’t need it.  And if I want it badly enough, I can usually whine & annoy someone else to do it for me.  To me, Martha, THAT’S a good thing.

It’s been a few years now, and I’ve learned a thing or two. Dogs and the beast don’t get along well.  As they bound up the stairs, their tails inevitably break a few ornaments or take out a string of lights.  By the time we take it down, the beast looks like a Charlie Brown Christmas tree.  The next year, we tie it to the banister and THEN replace broken or tattered ornaments.  We don’t even bother re-doing the lights.  We just drape new strings on top of the old ones.  Once it’s lit, though, you can barely notice (that’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it). 

So, if you come to my house at Christmas time, feel free to admire the Beast.  Word of advice, however; don’t look too closely or allow a body part to come into contact with it.  Remember that shock thing??

The Cell Phone Wars

When it comes to technology, I’m like pitting Gomer Pyle against Steven Hawking.  My kids keep trying to drag me into this century, but I always manage to find something to hold onto.

However, I have had a cell phone for a few years.  But, only as a matter of convenience.  You know, the car broke down, I’m at the grocery store, do we need anything?  Having one and knowing what it can do are two very different things.

So, when my husband, Matt, looked at my cell bills and realized that we were paying $45.00 a month for over 600 minutes, but I only used around 30, he decided it was time for a change.  Of course, I whined like a toddler being weaned from the pacifier.  After 2 years, I pretty much figured out how to use the phone I had.  But, logic won.  We switched to one of those “pay as you go” phones.  He asked what I wanted in a phone.  And here was my simple list:

1.       Must be a flip phone.  I know this is old school, but I’ve always felt that a phone should be large enough that you actually know that it’s there.  I did have one of those small ones for a while, but I always felt like Andre the Giant using a paper cup and string.  When people would call, I’d hold it to my ear to hear, then move it to my mouth to speak.  Ear, mouth, ear, mouth – honestly, I must have looked like a chipmunk on crack.  That phone didn’t last long.

2.      Must have a large address book.  For years, I lugged around a large organizer, solely to keep people’s phone numbers and email addresses.  It took a while to understand how handy the “contacts” portion of my cell was.  The only problem I have is that I can’t figure out how to put spaces between each word.  Fortunately, we homeschool, so I can decipher pretty much anything.

3.      Must ring LOUD and vibrate.  It had to be loud, because I can never hear those things.  The vibrating feature was a must as the stupid thing was usually at the bottom of my purse.  The vibrating allowed me to reach in and find it; or at least give me a shot at it.  Bonus, I usually find loose change.

Matt bought the phone that had all my criteria.  When we got it home, my daughter, Elyse, had a chance to look it over.  She exclaimed, “Mom, this is a camera phone!  Now you don’t have to try to fish your camera out of that suitcase you call a purse!”   I, of course, am thinking, oh, great, something with a lens.  I wonder how fast it’ll take me to break this bad boy.

She played with it a while, then asked if I’d like to try to take a picture.  She pointed to a button on the side and explained that all I have to do is point and shoot.  I held the lens thingy to my eye, and told her I couldn’t see anything.  “Is this thing on?  Elyse, I can’t see anything!”  I kept squinting through the little hole, but nothing.

Of course, my family is in stitches on the floor.  I couldn’t understand what was so darned funny.  We just got this thing, and it’s broken.  Finally, they turned the phone around and explained that I was trying to see through the part that was taking the actual pictures.  The “view finder” was the big screen on the other side.

The stupid phone also came equipped with “blue tooth” technology.  This is where you get this small device to stick in your ear, to both hear & SPEAK!  I looked at it & thought, “Beam me up, Scotty”.  Then I laughed really hard & gave it to the Boy.   

Another feature on my new little gadget is the speaker phone.  I had no clue until I hit the button by mistake, and suddenly everyone at the grocery store knew we were out of toilet paper.  Of course, I didn’t know how to turn it off, so I just hung up (and got the toilet paper).

So, yes, I’m far behind when it comes to this new age of technology.  But, so what?  Most of my friends are in the same boat.  And, if you’d like a laugh, give me a call on my cell.  I can pretty much guarantee that you’ll hear something like, “Why can’t I hear anything?  What did I just do?  Is this thing on?”

Whatever happened to 70's sticom characters?

A friend of mine asked an innocent question, whatever happened to the first Mrs. Brady?  Being a writer, & sometimes a very evil writer, I responded with this a very scary story.  I probably shouldn't post it here, though.  It might give you nightmares; I can be extremely evil (especially when you take into consideration that I was working on my crime thriller).  Next, I was asked whatever happened to Carol Brady’s first husband.  This is what I conjured up for him:

Carol's 1st hubby was a door to door candy salesman. Turns out, he was peddling more than candy. It also turns out, he liked men. One day, he was caught by his lover's partner, who flew into a jealous rage & promptly beat him to death. At the funeral, Carol looked into the coffin & said, "I guess life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're going to get".

Another friend then asked, what about the original Mr. Partridge?  Here we go!

Mr. Partridge owned a successful greenhouse. Unbeknownst to Shirley, he was also a secret agent who'd stumbled upon a plot to kill the President. Through a series of recorded wire taps, he captured the evidence. He was going to give the tapes to his superiors, when he was attacked by his adversary in his nursery. His boss managed to get to him, as he was breathing his last, laboured breaths. "Where did you hide the evidence?" Gasping for air, he whispered, "in . . . . the . . . . pear tree."

And, the last of the 70’s sitcom history.  Whatever happened to Mel from Alice?

It took some digging, but I FINALLY found out what happened to Mel. After selling the diner, he moved to Las Vegas to do some gambling. Being a hard worker, he quickly grew tired & took a job as a chef in a high end restaurant. The problem was, he couldn't get used to the new lingo. Java for coffee, pasta for noodles, etc., & was constantly messing up. After weeks of being yelled at, he'd finally had enough. He picked up a steaming pot of polenta & dumped it over the boss' head. As he was being led to jail (where he had a heart attack & sadly, died), a waitress asked, "Mel, why'd you do it??" Over his shoulder, he hollered back, "Miss my grits"

You know, I have to walk around with all this stuff going through my mind!  Aren’t you glad you’re you??

My Glamorous Birthday

I woke up at the crack of 8:00 (ish).  It takes a good half hour between waking up to physically getting out of bed due to whining about how much I hate mornings, hitting the snooze button a few hundred times, complaining about my aching back, & checking to see if there’s an errant dog or two to step over.

Then, it’s on to makeup.  Now, folks, when you’re as old as I am, makeup is no longer optional!  This procedure takes about 45 minutes, as I have to use industrial strength spackle to fill in my lines & wrinkles.  And even though it’s strong, I have to wait a few minutes for it to dry so I can apply the second coat & then sand it down.  Next comes all the concealing, de-puffing, & artificial colour additions to my pasty, white face.  Why didn’t my Grandmother’s Native American genes get passed to me?

Next, comes the clothing ritual.  Men, cover your ears for this part.  I gather my boobs up from around my waist & spend about 10 minutes stuffing them into my bra.  It takes a while, because gravity keeps insisting that they remain right where they are.  After this, I slip into something a little less comfortable – Spanx.

After I’d struggled & done some Olympic worthy gymnastic moves, I finally managed to bring the Spanx up to where it’s supposed to be.  Only to end up with a muffin top.  This you have to stuff back down into the, well, let’s just call it what it is, girdle.  Where is gravity when you need it?  When this fun little exercise in futility is over, you notice that your rear is peeking out at odd angles.  It, too, must be stuffed; this time, UP into the girdle.

Although this is a little off point, I feel that it begs to be said.  Men, unlike women, would NEVER EVER EVER do any of the things we do.  I’ve seen 350 pound men on the beach wearing nothing but a Speedo.  At least, I HOPE he’s wearing a Speedo.  You can’t tell because his gut is covering most of his mid-section & his back hair looks like a sweater.  Then, he’ll strut down the beach like he should be on the cover of Playgirl.  A woman, however, will stress over gaining a single pound, buy the most restrictive bathing suit with a built in girdle to mask as many (what we see as) “flaws” as is humanly possible.

Furthermore, a woman will dry herself off in the shower & have her robe on before she gets out to avoid seeing herself naked in the mirror.  A man will get out of the shower soaking wet, stand there admiring himself, & turn to you saying, “Hey baby, like what you see?”  As he’s patting his protruding belly.  I am firmly convinced that God is a man.

Then, we go on to clothes & hair.  Clothes usually take a while because I still keep a couple of dresses whose size I’ve surpassed.  But, ever the optimist, I’ve just got to try one or two on, in case of a miracle.  My hair is another ½ hour.  Those of you who’ve seen me, know that it’s pretty long, so I wear it up (age appropriate).  This entails a barrage of bobby pins & enough hair spray to put a boulder sized hole in the ozone layer directly above my house.

After the torturous morning rituals, I was off on an equally glamorous trip – Walmart.  The dogs need bones & food – again.  Even though we buy dog food in 50 pound bags, I have to purchase it once, sometimes twice, a week.  The kids need cereal & cereal accoutrements, as they went through 2 gallons of milk in one morning.  It’s also time to gather more laundry supplies.  And, of course, I need more hair spray.

Now, on to the pharmacy to collect the medicines that are now necessary for my existence.  Water pills, thyroid pills, blood pressure pills, ulcer pills, etc.  Man, I long for the days when I only had to take ONE little pill.

Next stop on my exciting birthday adventure was the liquor store.  I’m hoping against hope that there will be something, anything that has the ability to make one happy on the one hand, yet forget your age on the other.  I know, good luck with that one.  However, as some of you know, I found a decent bottle of wine.  I mean the liquid kind, not my normal “whine”.  Then it was back home to tackle the laundry.  I’d finally cleaned the mountain of clothes from vacation, when several foot hills sprung up in its place.   

Thankfully, I didn’t have to cook dinner.  Friday nights at our house is hot wings & pizza night.  Since Matt used to make them in the restaurant, Friday night’s meal preparation falls to him.  Of course, he wanted to make the day special, so he purchased ready made dough balls.  He even bought a “gourmet” sauce.  Now, I know Michele is going to think I have lost my sense of taste, but honestly, one pizza sauce tastes pretty much the same as any other.  Of course, I didn’t tell Matt that.  It was so sweet that he went that extra mile.

And before any of you think that my Matt is a slouch in the romance department (Krista, get your mind out of the gutter), he was adorable.  He came home with a dozen long stemmed red roses, a beautiful card & a bottle of expensive perfume.  What he didn’t know, however, is that the perfume he so lovingly picked out makes me sneeze.  I already have a full bottle on my dressing table.  That little nugget of information will never reach his ears, however.  He’ll think it’s the best perfume I’ve ever smelled, even as he’s wondering if I have hay fever due to all the sneezing. 

But, all in all, it was a terrific day.  After dinner, I grabbed my cheap bottle of wine & Matt & I went out to the Jacuzzi (where I promptly fell asleep).   But, being old, I’ll remember this birthday completely different than it actually was.  I’ll look back with fond thoughts (aka delusions) of breakfast in bed, being lavished with sparkly baubles, riding in a convertible for the parade thrown in my honour, & the 7 course gourmet meal & champagne that was brought on golden dishes & fed to me by young, handsome waiters who vied for my attention.  It could happen - sigh.  But,

7 course gourmet meal, $500.00
Sparkly baubles, convertible for the parade, $100,000.00

Having good friends, terrific children, & a husband who adores me – Priceless.

Tamara & Michele's Excellent Adventure

Well, we’re back.  And, thank God Michele went with me.  Apparently, the Garmin was programmed incorrectly (who could have seen that one coming).  Had we followed the directions that the computer kept screaming at us, we’d have unintentionally been Thelma & Louise.  I say that because I’m quite certain that it would have launched us off a bridge & into the Schuylkill River.


We wandered around the Sports complex section of Philadelphia.  Michele saved the day, because she spotted the NovaCare Center.  We finally made it there. 


We were going up the stairs to the building, when Michele suggested I take a picture.  Well, as she said, “After that guy gets out of the way”.  The guy was taking way too much time to get down the stairs, & Michele was getting a little annoyed - & who could blame her.
That’s when it hit me, & I reached out my hand & said, “Mr. McNabb?  My name is Tamara Kells.”  Yup, it was quarterback Donovan McNabb.  I was happy just to have met him, when Michele said “go take a picture with him!!”  So I did, after I stopped shaking.  He was very nice, asked some questions & was more than patient with me.  It was hard for me not to pinch his cute little cheeks.


We made it into the building, when I began to notice some of the Eagles were, in fact, in said building.  Now, had I known that, I would have studied the roster so I could call them by their names.  Instead, we just watched them all go by & smiled & said hello.  Now THAT was surprising – the fact that they were there & I didn’t stop them even if I didn’t know their names.  And, no, I didn’t see Michael Vick. That I know of.  It’s probably a good thing that Big John Runyan wasn’t there.  He’s my favorite Eagle of all time.


Derek came down, & brought out a big ol’ box, filled with Eagles t-shirts.  We pulled the car up, & he loaded it into the trunk.  He was very sweet, told me that what we were doing was really nice, & that if I needed anything else, to let him know (he doesn’t know me very well, does he?).  Bonus, he was really cute.


It was too early to go to the Phillies, so Michele took me to Tony Luke’s.  Apparently, I was supposed to be impressed, but I’d never heard of this place.  This quickly became evident to Michele, who thought I should be admitted to the nearest hospital for crazy people (not that she would have been far from wrong).


Still, good food.  Then, it was on to the Phillies.


We went into the wrong parking lot at first.  A really, really sweet girl helped me by taking me into the building to an office where I was directed to the right place.  At this point, I should note that the gate I went through to go into said office was one way only.  I was on the wrong side of the gate, while Michele & the car were on the other.  Thankfully, she noticed my plight, & opened the door for me.  If not, I’d still be wandering around aimlessly, begging for alms.


We finally get to the right area, but, sadly, the office was a good clip from where we’d parked.  Normally, a light walk wouldn’t have been a problem.  But, noooo.  I’d decided to wear a wedged pair of heels.  My feet were killing me, & I was wobbling all the way there.  I kept glancing at Michele, wondering if she was strong enough to give me a piggy back ride.  I decided against it, since I couldn’t guarantee Alex that I’d get her home safe & sound as it was (due to traffic, the long drive & my driving “skills”).  However, if I delivered her with a sprained or paralyzed spine, I somehow doubt he’d let her accompany me on any future excellent adventures.  I carried on like a trooper (a big, whiney trooper).


We made it into the building & met Scott Palmer.  He took us into the elevator, & the next thing we knew, we were on a behind the scenes tour of the ballpark.  A very, very quick paced tour.  Mr. Palmer, aka Jesse Owens, seemed to think we were prepared for a nice jog.
We went into the clubhouse, & Michele took pictures of all of the guy’s (I don't know what they’re called) locker thingys.  We saw the batting cages, went out onto the ball park, & Michele was able to take a picture with the World Series trophy.  Thankfully, Mr. Palmer took the picture, as I couldn’t take a clear picture of a snail taking a nap.  I think I may have annoyed Mr. Palmer, though, because the first thing that came out of my unedited mouth was, "Gee, this is a lot smaller than a football field".    


Michele was able to keep up the brisk pace.  I (however) was lagging behind, concentrating on not falling off my shoes & breaking my ankle.  And if that wasn’t enough to keep me occupied, I began to have heat flashes.  But a good scout is never unprepared, so I fished a fan out of my purse.  I was able to surreptitiously fan myself until we rounded a corner.  I dropped the fan. 


Michele should really consider trying out for the Phillies.  That girl practically dove to pick it up before our guide could see.  But, ever the spry guy, he turned around & noticed.  Good times.


We FINALLY made it to Palmer’s office for, “the interview”.  He left & brought back some woman, who is their veteran’s affairs representative.  We sat & listened to the stories of what they do for soldiers. And honestly, it’s impressive the work they do behind the scenes.  I have to give them that.  They listed all the good things they do; & all without recognition.  So, kudos to them – seriously.


That was when I decided to ask if they would at least send something over to Rick & his unit.  And they said YES!!! 


They even went one step further.  Mr. Palmer would like Rick’s APO address, & they’ll see to it that his unit receives some type of care package.  My paper wouldn’t even have to pay the postage.  I’ll send that to him (Palmer, aka Jesse Owens) tomorrow, with a reminder that a lot of people’s eyes will be on him.  Hopefully, the kids will get some cool stuff.


So, there you have it, folks, Tamara & Michele’s excellent adventure.  And, again, I can’t thank Michele enough for accompanying me on it.  If not for her excellent navigational skills, I’d probably still be wandering around Philadelphia, the shore, the mountains, or Delaware.


Tomorrow, I’m off to interview Kurt Landes, the GM of the Iron Pigs, Phillies’ minor league team.  This time, I’m wearing flat shoes & I’m tossing the Garmin out the window.  It’s only Allentown, after all.  How lost can I get? 

Wait, never mind.

I'm Too Stupid for my Car

I'm posting Kimberly Hedrick's favourite article. This appeared in T&C about 2 years ago.


I’m Too Stupid For My Car:

My husband, Matt, & I finally bought a new car. A brand new sporty Pontiac Grand Prix. To make a long story short, we’ve never in our married life paid more than $2500 for ANY car. I’ve been driving a 20 year old Chrysler for what seems like forever. I quickly became amazed & confused at the technology in these “new fangled contraptions”. Which, of course, meant I would never in a million years be able to figure it all out. No surprise there, I guess. Compared to this, my old car was the Fred Flintstone buggy in a Jetson world. And, trust me folks, I’m much more comfortable in the stone ages. Allow me to tell you about the many features my car has, how I found out about them, & how badly I use them.

The first thing I found out was that the windshield wipers work – really, really well. How did I find that out, you ask? Well, we were bringing it home from the dealership on a beautiful, sunny day. The kids were in the car with me & Matt followed in his van. We were SOOO ready to look all cool in my sporty new car. And that’s when it happened. I accidentally hit the windshield wipers, & couldn’t for the life of me figure out how to turn them off. All 20 miles to my house, they were going at seemingly warp speed. The kids gradually slid down in their seats so as not to be seen with the crazy lady with the wipers on. I look in the rear view mirror & see Matt laughing so hard I thought he was going to get in an accident. This should have been my first clue that this was going to be WAY tougher than I thought.

My car came with Onstar. I’ve heard of it, but didn’t have a clue what it was or what it did. With that feature, my car has its own phone & number – ITS OWN PHONE NUMBER!! Man, it’s like Kit from Knight Rider with a Neanderthal at the wheel. The buttons for this curious new piece of technology are located discreetly in the rear view mirror (that, I know how to work – the mirror, I mean). There’s the phone button, the Onstar button & the emergency button. Thankfully, the emergency button is spaced farther over & has red markings. Unfortunately, the phone & Onstar buttons are right next to each other. (You’ve got to know where this is going). I love the phone feature, because I don’t have to find my cell phone, which is always at the bottom of my purse. So I use this feature, a lot. However, I seem to always push Onstar instead of the phone button. The operator comes on & says, “Hello, Mrs. Kells, what can I do for you today?” They were so sweet. But after getting it wrong for the hundredth time, this is what I get now: “Mrs. Kells (heavy sigh), did you push the wrong button again??” I was very proud, though, when one day I pushed the Onstar button by mistake. I searched my brain frantically for a reason other than the obvious, I’m an idiot. Ah-hah! I came up with, “Bubba! Did you hit that button? Bad dog! Sorry about that!” Happy with my quick thinking, I hung up - & hit the phone button on accident.

The car has an on board computer, that can tell me how many miles I can drive on the current tank of gas, the weather, if the tire pressure is low, & so on. It actually sends a monthly email to my husband, after giving itself a check up! This feature makes me laugh really hard. If I can't operate two simple buttons on a mirror, what in the world would I do with an entire computer? Besides, if I even tried to touch it, it would probably tell Matt on me.

Another cool little feature is that I can remote start my car up to 500 feet with my key chain. Honestly, at first, I was afraid to use it. I figured that as soon as a car this advanced had the opportunity to get away, I’d be staring at the tail lights. To this day, as I approach, I swear I see the headlights narrow like a child glaring at a spoonful of cough syrup. All the little computers are trying to decide if escape is possible. I wonder if it knows that even if it does manage to flee, Onstar will find it. Take THAT – stupid car!

All in all, all this technology is pretty much wasted on me. Maybe in a few years I’ll have figured out what all the buttons do. Right now, I’m afraid to touch the wrong one for fear I’ll find I have an ejector seat. Imagine my panic when it began to get dark & I couldn’t figure out how to turn the lights on! But, it has a nice, smooth ride, unlike the tank I used to drive. And, the kids & Matt know how things work (even Dakota, the 11 year old boy!). So, until I get used to it, I’ll have to always have one of them in the car with me. Too bad, though, because it has a really cool sound system. Guess it’ll be a while before I can blast Def Leppard. Oh, well. Times are changing, & either you go with it, or get out of the way. I’m looking into turning invisible.

Fire - again (sigh)

Yup, more fire to report. And this time, it wasn’t at the shore; it was in my kitchen.

I put a large pot of water on to boil & left the room for a moment. When I returned, smoke was billowing from the kitchen. I round the corner & was horrified to see a ball of fire on my stove. Turns out, I lit the wrong burner & the stack of pot holders on the stove was a glorious fire ball. I grabbed the small section that wasn’t on fire & threw the bulk of the burning cloths into the sink & doused them with water. However, being new to fire fighting, I didn’t realize that would increase the already choking level of smoke.

Ever the Ethel to my Lucy, Elyse ran in to help (that's her picture up top).

We managed to get the last of the fireball into the sink & decided that we would perish soon if we didn’t open windows & turn off the air conditioner. I should point out at this time that our house is old, & the windows are heavy. We rush over & begin to lift the beast, when I lost my grip. The heavy window came crashing down, & smashed Elyse’s finger. So now I’m tending to Elyse’s finger, the house is rapidly filling with smoke, I knew I had to open the window & I should turn the a/c off. If this isn’t a recipe for disaster, I don’t know what is.

Finally, we determined that Elyse’s finger wasn’t broken, & had some of the windows & doors open, when Matt comes up the stairs & into the mix. Realizing that this was, in fact, an actual emergency, & not just one of my Lucy moments, he began to help open the other windows. While he’s opening other windows, he’s muttering about the “blankety blank” smoke detector not going off & how we could have all been killed & what was I thinking turning on the burner & leaving the room?

Boy’s friends were over at the time, & like moths to a flame, were anxious to get their front row seat to the screaming woman, injured daughter, smoke filled, man cursing carnival that was playing out before their eyes. I half expected one of them to ask if we had popcorn.

We managed to get the smoke out of the house, yet there’s still a tinge of the odor when I turn on the oven. But, thankfully, we’re all safe & the house didn’t burn down around us. Yet.