She's Hot!

It's true. My friend and I made a wedding cake last week. No big'ee.

It was four layers of white heaven, --a Martha Stewart Weddings knock-off. And yeah, sure, --it looked pretty good. What'cha expect? I mean, come-on!


What went wrong, you ask?
Nothing.
Why do you have to go and assume something went wrong?
It was nothing. Nothing at all. . . Alright, yes. ----
---It was a little . . . .

. . . just a little,

---FIRE!

Yeah, yeah, --you heard me. A fire. Oh and not just any fire. Me. It was me on fire.


And before I go on let me just say, --this is exactly the kind of thing that would happen to me. It's no mystery. If I were to have seen a psychic last week - it'a'been a cinch for her to inform me of impending personal disasters to come. I'm a no-brainer for disasters and foul-ups. It'd be like, go ahead lady, take your pick -- which 'day-gone-wrong-in-the-future' would you like to relate to me? Like it's some mystery! Pleeeease!
Will I be tripping off a curb? Wetting my pants? Shooting coke out my nose?

And if she had told me, "I see in your future, --your body on fire at a wedding reception," I'd be like, "duh! . . and you want a twenty for that??!"


However, --since I was not psychic'ly prepared (and really, when am I ever?), --the whole 'body-on-fire' thing was fairly unexpected.

And it's not like I didn't assume something would happen to me -- it's just I was thinking more on the line of "you've got something in your teeth," or "gee, you have on the same dress as the flower girls."
You know, --the classics.


The whole evening started out harmless enough. My friend and I had successfully baked and decorated, and transported the layers without flaw. Heck, we even assembled them with not so much as a quiver. ( . . . well. maybe a quiver.)
But Trusty Husband was there, --supplying dowels, measurements, screwdrivers, matches, saws, flashlights, and you know, --just overall construction superiority.

Best yet, -the corner we were assigned for set-up at this outdoor reception, was dark and mysterious. Just the environment we needed to make our cake look even better. In fact, it was so dark we decided to add little votive candles around the small table for atmosphere and romance.

I had on a real cute billowy blouse that always served to cover my pregnant looking non-pregnant belly.
Plus it was good for the kind of maneuvering I was needing to do. I mean I could have done acrobats over the cake table and nary a bellyblubber or grannyundie would be shown.


Now here's where the story gets interesting, (or amusing - depending on your take) (p.s. it's times like this I find out who my real friends are).

As I leaned over the table to lift off the top tier cake for the bride and groom to keep, --my billowy blouse lit itself ever so flammable'ly, --and in no time I was upright with both precious cake in my hand, --and inferno on my bod.


The thing is, (and I never really knew it would be like this until the experience happened), ---when I catch on fire - I am more embarrassed than I am worried.
Strange, uh?

People complimented me on my 'thinking so clearly', and 'saving the cake', and how 'cool I was underfire' (so to speak).

But really, I was just too embarrassed to draw any more attention to myself yelling and carrying on. I had a look on my face like, "Yeah, I know I'm on fire . . so what? I mean to be on fire while I hold cake." Like, if I looked nonchalant enough -- maybe the others wouldn't notice the flames shooting from my belly.

And well, the truth is, --people tend to notice when you are on fire. There's just no way around it. It's a crowd getter.


Oh and you're sitting there thinking drop-and-roll, right? Well, you're not so smart 'til you've walked a mile in my shoes, (while on fire).

You can't just 'drop' and 'roll' when you're holding cake! And even if the pool was nearby (and it was), if you think I wanted to make a 'Splash' to go with my Fire -- you're crazy!


Luckily, and so luckily indeed, ---Trusty Husband was nearby and with amazing vigor he slapped at my blaze bare-handed until black smoke alone billowed above.
Now, I'm not quite sure if his amazing zeal rose from want of saving my life? or the blouse ( i.e. $$ )?

But no matter --- the deed he did, and a hero he was.


Whoo! Today I sure as heck count my lucky stars. In one evening I made cake, ate cake, and saved cake, ----all before any dastardly photographer or heyday wedding-go'er could snap a shot of me for the record (or the album).

Listen, --I'm memorable enough. Even without a pic.

Trash Lords

Good News!
We are officially throwing away less trash then we used to.


And here's how I know.

On trash night, I used to have to send my little ones out into the dark with a pail of stinky diapers or Hefty bag of dinner trash, --to find a neighbors half empty bin, because ours was always filled to capacity and beyond.

But no more! And I don't know if it's because the diaper years are long over, or the one boy gone on a mission was a bigger trash maker, than I knew -- but it doesn't matter why. All I know is there's no more of me standing at the door (too ashamed of our gigantor trash deposits, and of the twelve year old robe I am wearing -- to venture out myself) and gently ushering my children through the threshold.

"It's okay honey - they're all asleep, they won't mind," as I shamelessly send a six year old to dump in his neighbor's bin.

Or

"Oooooo, --your muscles look so big when you carry that kitchen trash like that," to husband.

Or

"Of course honey, --it's not 'illegal'. We just do it in the dark because it's good for your Cub Scout Trash Nightowl badge. ---Now run!" to a middle child.


Yes, sometimes the neighborhood dogs would bark, or people would peek out their blinds to see what all the hubbub was around their cans . . . .
"It's just the Moriset boys again Gloria, --one of them is standing in the recycle can trying to make room for a buttload of empty cereal boxes. Go back to sleep . . ."


Bless their hearts -- none of our neighbors ever did complain -- so you'd think I would've gotten brave enough to start doing our surplus dumping in daylight? I don't know. I just always felt like sneaking was better.

What?
I'm the only mom who's ever taught 'sneaky'?????


The root problem--truth be told--was I refused to order extra bins from the city. We have more stuff piled on the side of our house than a homeless camp has recycle'able cans, and I could not accept adding extra trash bins to the maze.

There were times, yes, a little bit of guilt would rise up in my throat ---like when I'd wake a toddler just to have him bring my bath trash out. But you know what? Ultimately it's taught us how to stick together in times of hardship, or mass waste product.

Listen - Every family's different. And besides, --these days any one of my kids could slip a used Taco Bell wrapper into your purse faster than you could say hot tamale. It's just one of those practice-makes-perfect things, I suppose.

Plus (and I don't like to brag about my kids, but), --a talent is a talent.

Knit'n'Pick

I'm knitting socks for my cutie son who is away on a LDS mission. Isn't that darling of me?

Yes -- and if only I were a knitter.

Oh sure, -- I've knitted practice squares and long plank scarves, --but I have learned socks are a whole different animal. And every dang time I go to read instructions it just makes me feel all the more lame. Even to "cast on 40" I need to crack open my Easy Knitter for Girls book and look at the pictures -which than makes me crazy 'cause it appears every ponytailed strawberry-shortcake eleven-year old can knit like there's no tomorrow -- meanwhile I'm doubled up in arthritic pain just trying to hold my needles the right way. Really I don't need these kind of comparisons (I have enough issues).

So I put away the picture book and decide to check out YouTube.

I figure there's a video there for just about everything - there must be a few about knitting? I'm looking for the perfectly nice granny-type, who will both show me what to do, and talk me through it in a soothing lullaby voice.
'See? There you go sweetie. I'm so proud of you, you know! Aren't you just the little knitter? Would you like a cookie?'

Come to find out -- it looks like nobody on a YouTube knitting video will even show their face! And I bet I know why -- it's because they know to knit, is not a natural state, --so they hide their pompous faces to keep from laughing while they imagine us mediocres desperately trying to keep up.
I can tie a bow, for pete's-sake, why can't I knit a darn purl stitch??

One Brit had such a delightful accent though, that while she knitted away I was lulled into a definite state of knitting talent - except when I looked down at my work I saw it wasn't knitting I had done -- but yarn origami . . producing something that looked rather more like an exotic twenty-four inch rainbow snake, than a sock.


In gentler times folk would sit around the fireplace at dusk, and gently prod their female youngins' into knitting slavery. They were eventually to knit every item the household needed --skirts, bedspreads, and rifle cozies. And this would start at a very young age because the older women were sick and tired of doing all the household knitting, and wanted to move on to something more liberating -- like soap making and varmint fetching.

Ahh for a simpler day.



You know, there is a hierarchy in the modern knitting world. Last time I went to get yarn, I picked up a lime acrylic skein while a lady next to me gasped. Had she not swallowed her gum in the act, I might not have even noticed -- but between the gagging and coughing, I couldn't help.

"Is there a problem?" I asked her.

"Oh, I . . I just was so surprised to see you pick that up," her eyes still wet from the choking spasm. (Or where they eco-tears?)

"Surprised?" I ask.

"Yes. I mean, you weren't going to knit with it, ---were you?" she replies.

"Oh No, I thought I might do some baking . . ." (What the heck, lady?)

"It's just, well. We only knit with natural fiber, non-toxic dyed." I took her use of the word 'we' to mean the rest of civilization, --bar me.

(Prop. 8 having been hard enough, --I wasn't ready to take on the rest of the world over yarn.)

"Oh no, you see. --Actually, I was just looking for the manufacturers address. I want to send those goons a real nasty letter about their mother-earth-hate'n products," I explained.

Whereupon, she glanced into my shopping basket and easily spied four other skeins of varying loud toxic colors, made of manmade material -- one even bragged 'Knit Him a Vest That Will Last His Lifetime, and Yours!' right on the label.
"I see," was all she could muster, but her beady judging eyes shot me a look of utter disdain -- and I knew right then and there I would never be able to run with her crowd.

Well no loss. So I'll never be a part of the Elite Knitting Superior.

Man. With my whole mood spoiled now, I might just skip the socks, and knit the boy a bookmark -- or even? Yes, --that's it!
If I hirer a knitter instead, will it still be the thought that counts?

. . . I'm going to mull that over, and get back to you.