Due to the craziness that is my life right now and the many things I simply cannot blog about, I am re-running a few of my favorite posts from before the time I had any readers to speak of. Hopefully this will only last a week or two; things ARE calming down and I DO have some good news about some of my recent issues. Until then, in between “normal” postings, I give you some of my more obscure “greatest hits.” Enjoy.
Despite my fascination with them and their Geico commercials, I’d make a lousy cave man (or woman, as the case may be), if for no other reason than I cannot start a fire. It simply dumbfounds me that someone can set fire to the entire state of Colorado with a carelessly thrown cigarette butt when I can’t light two lousy logs with a blow torch and a half gallon of kerosene.
I remained ignorant of my inability to burn anything – besides dinner – for better than 40 years. When I finally lived somewhere that had a fireplace, I also lived with a man who’d been a boy scout in his youth and could set fire to water if he wanted to. Then, in the winter of 2003, I found myself on my own in a duplex with a lovely, double-sided fireplace separating the living room from the dining area that just begged for a fire. So, I ran down to the corner supermarket and bought 4 logs (for $20!!), along with everything for s’mores.
It soon became painfully obvious that if my kids had to depend on me to keep them warm, they’d freeze to death. Four hours and one Sunday edition of the Dallas Morning News, three issues of Cosmo and an old pizza box later, I sat in front of my cold fireplace with it’s pristine logs, feebly tossing in cigarette butts and pathetically sobbing “Why? Why??”
The point is, I don’t know WHY. At first I thought it was perhaps that I lacked a Y chromosome. Then it occurred to me that my sister-in-law, Tough Yankee Broad, can start a fire without a gas can and a stick of dynamite; of course, Tough Yankee Broad can also operate a wood chipper, correctly gap a spark plug and grout tile, none of which I can do.
Ah, well…I suppose it’s all really a moot point. I’ve got the erstwhile boy scout back in my fire-challenged clutches and a 15-year-old son who has happily been promoted from “fire wood hauler” to “fire starter” so I suppose we won’t freeze to death anytime soon. Besides, in approximately 1,278 days the 15-year-old will be old enough to leave home, and I’m moving to Hawaii to become a professional beach bum.