You might as well jump (JUMP!)

My little man turned 11 last week, and celebrated with a party this weekend.

When can we jump?!?

The party was at a warehouse filled with trampolines. There was a football-field-sized block of trampolines on one side, and a huge foam pit on the other. Next to the foam pit was a dodge-ball court, where the boys could add a new dimension to an old game.

There was even a set of trampolines for the smaller kids, though the one small kid (my nephew Johnny) ignored it, choosing instead to jump with the big boys.

Like father, like son

The whole thing was hilarious. I watched as Mark and his friends spilled on to the giant block of trampoline squares. They bounced like kangaroos from square to square, occasionally flinging themselves at the walls, which were also covered with trampolines. They bounced off everything they possibly could, including each other, or any unfortunate passersby who happened to get in the way.

My friends kinda dug it, too.

Vic and Monica make like Tigger.

After bouncing their way across the entire floor like a herd of wild kangaroos, the boys hopped back past me, running toward the dodge ball court. This is where I learned the only thing more fun than chucking a dodge ball at someone is chucking it while you're jumping up and down. I watched as Mark and his friends simultaneously jumped and pelted each other with dodge balls, laughing hysterically the entire time.



The last area to conquer was the giant foam pit. The boys lined up and took turns hurling themselves into the pit. They were remarkably agile, ricocheting off the side trampolines, or turning somersaults mid-air. I couldn't believe they ways they could twist and turn their bodies, and I laughed as they sunk into the foam, and then immediately bounded up out of it.

Mark flipped a pretty good somersault.

Jonah got airborne, too!

Halfway through the party, the announcer called the boys in for lunch. They straggled into the party room, red-faced and sweaty, begging for water. They chowed down on pizza and did their best to consume the frozen ice-cream cake, which I forgot to bring out earlier to defrost. When they heard they had only 20 minutes of jump time left, the boys deserted their rock-hard cake and ran back to the trampolines.

The repeat cake. Mark loved the Oreo cake so much on his 6th birthday,
he got it again for his 11th birthday!

When the party ended after two hours, the boys looked exhausted. Mark slept like a log that night.

"That was SOOOO much fun," he said, yawning. "It was my best birthday yet!" He closed his eyes, still smiling, as happy memories of endless jumping filled his sleepy head.

I smiled, too, because what better birthday gift can you give your kid than that?

Eleventy

Every night I put my exhausted son to sleep with strict instructions not to grow. Then I realize how bad that sounds, and I amend it to the teeniest tiniest space between my pinched fingers, and say he can grow "This much." And not 100th of an inch more.

Of course, each night he ignores me and sprouts up a little taller. But last night, he really outdid himself. I put him to bed as a tired 10-year-old, and he emerged this morning as an energetic 11-year-old.

He bounded out of bed, excited to celebrate. "It's my birthday!" he yelled. "Give me a hug!" Then I realized he was talking to his cat, not to me.

He was in no hurry to waste his birthday; he wanted to savor every minute of it. Of course, savoring and getting ready for school are contradictory, so I had to snap him to attention to get dressed. (I literally had to snap--lost my voice, which I realized when I croaked, "H...py bir...day!" like a pre-pubescent Peter Brady.)

Mark thought me losing my voice was his birthday gift, and he set about pressing all my buttons, since he knew I couldn't physically yell at him. He laughed and danced around the house, ignoring me, until I finally squeaked, "No...donuts!" and that caught his attention. He's learned the hard way that I don't issue empty threats. (And man, does that kid love donuts. Seriously, they are his favorite thing on Earth.)

The birthday boy jumped in the car, and we drove to the local grocery store. He's a generous boy, especially when it comes to my money, and wanted to pick up cookies to share with his classmates.

"Or donuts..." he said, slyly. "Some kids bring donuts for their birthdays. Or ice cream cakes, or..."

"Do you want cookies or not?" I croaked. I'm all for celebrating his birthday, but only if it involved something easy like cookies.

"Yes, cookies," he said. "I need 36." He picked out three boxes of bakery cookies, and happily skipped toward the cash register. He stopped suddenly, turned, and asked me, "Do I get a cookie too?"

"Yes!" I told him. "Of course, you're the birthday boy!" He resumed skipping toward the cashier.

Five minutes later, I found myself sitting inside the local Yum-Yum donut shop, as I do every February 24th. I realized I may not be sending my diabetic child the right messages about food, as his birthday is a virtual sugar-fest every year, but hey, that's what birthdays are for, right?

As Mark munched happily on his cookie-crumb-topped donut, a man in an electric wheelchair zipped by. This prompted a heated discussion between a couple of old codgers sitting in the back of the store.

"That guy wanted me to give him some money, and I told him he makes more than me!" grumbled the first guy. "I mean, look at him. That wheelchair alone cost him 3000 bucks!"

Mark and I raised our eyebrows at each other. The grumpy guy went off a little more, and I shook my head at Mark.

"What an old grouch," I told Mark, as we left the donut shop.

"I know!" he answered back. "It's my birthday, and I'm glad I'm still young!" he sang into the empty parking lot. "I'm glad I'm not 80 and grumpy, I'm only eleventy!"

"I'm glad, too," I said, hugging him. I kissed his head and wished him happy birthday again. It was my moment to savor his birthday, but it didn't last long. All the sugar coursing through his veins made it impossible for him to stand still.

But that's okay. I watched him head off to school, juggling his backpack and three boxes of birthday cookies. I smiled as I watched him go, happy, healthy and growing like a weed. He had a huge smile on his face, and it made me smile, too.

It may be his birthday, but every year on this day, I reflect and give thanks, realizing I'm the one who got the gift.

The toof

Mark's obsessed with his teeth, and how firmly planted they are in his gums. The second he discovers one is even the slightest bit loose, he obsesses over it like a hound on a fox hunt.

I've spent the last week repeating the phrase "Get your hands out of your mouth" ad nauseum. When I tired of that, I simply swatted his hand out and gave him the look, and his response was always the same.

"What?" he'd ask, raising up his hands. "What am I doing?"

"Stop wiggling your tooth," I'd reply, absent-mindedly. Then we'd both sigh and walk away.

I finally figured out why he's so obsessed about it--the reasons are purely financial. He's thinking about the cold, hard cash he's gonna get when it finally does fall out.

"How muss do you tink da toof fairy is gonna weave me?" he asked, hand firmly planted in his mouth.

I know he doesn't still believe in the tooth fairy, but he knows better than to admit it out loud. In our house, doubting the traditional gift-bearing oddities (cash-carrying/tooth-stealing fairies, giant invisible chocolate-laden rabbits, jolly old elves) pretty much ensures he will miss out on the bountiful gifts they deliver.

"I dunno," I answered. "Probably the same as she always does." Meaning: Don't get your hopes up. The tooth fairy, while dependable, has never been ridiculously overgenerous at our house. Mark's regaled me with dreamy tales of $20 bills ($20 PER TOOTH!) but I think the going rate at our house is a more acceptable buck a tooth.

But he wiggled and wiggled and wiggled, and that tooth was near to coming out. He was tugging at it before bed so much that I implored him to stop, lest he swallow it in his sleep.

That stopped him cold. "Can that really happen?" he asked.

I reminded him that he'd lost a tooth in a pool before--when he wasn't even swimming! So yes, with this kid and his teeth, anything's possible.

He went to bed, but didn't stay in for long. He must've been working at that tooth furiously, because an hour later, he emerged from his room with a small white tooth and a big bloodstain on his shirt.

He feigned sleepiness and remarked casually, "Oh, my tooth fell out." I wouldn't say "fell" was an accurate description, but I congratulated him and lavished all the the motherly praise and excitement a lost tooth merits. He beamed, and went back to bed, a small hole in his smile, and the tooth in a plastic baggie, destined for a spot under his pillow.

When I woke up later to check his blood sugar, I rooted around under the pillow. And suddenly, the boy who sleeps through everything lifted his sleepy head, checking to see if I was the tooth fairy. Caught!

Luckily, he was asleep enough that he accepted my answer. "Just making sure you put your tooth here," I told him. "It's over on the bookcase," he said, then drifted back to sleep.

Good to know...I did the ol' switcheroo, and went back to bed.

Come morning, I was the one who bounded out of bed. "Did she come?" I asked, excitedly. "How much did she leave you?"

"I dunno," Mark said, heading off to his breakfast. "She probably only left me a quarter."

Offended for her, and a little perturbed for myself, I said, "Well, why don't you check?" He was awfully blasé for someone who'd been spending the money in his head last night.

But he didn't check. And now, two days later, he still hasn't. I can't believe that kid! He actually went to sleep last night with a buck under his pillow, and a shrug, telling me he was too lazy to lift his head from the pillow long enough to retrieve the cash underneath.

Some days I just don't get that kid...but it's okay. Because he doesn't realize that today is housecleaning day. And the housekeeper that makes his bed today will earn herself a little bonus. A one-dollar bill all to herself!

And she didn't even have to lose a tooth to get it.

A weekend in the wild, wild west

This past weekend we headed east for a long weekend in Tucson. We visited our friends the Gludts, who always find super cool ways to entertain us.

And this weekend was no exception. Upon arrival, we were greeted with this adorable face, who I will pretend was really happy to see us both (OK, fine, Mark’s really his favorite).

We enjoyed a wonderful Shabbat meal, and then when the dog and boys proved too squirrely and the weather too nice to stay indoors, we drove to the local dog park. Penny the dog ran wild with a massive Great Dane, and the boys soared endlessly on the swings. It looked like so much fun, Kelley and I even gave it a go. There’s nothing better than swinging as high as you can on a fabulous sunny day.

We went home briefly for dinner, and then on to our next adventure—buying new baby chicks! Kelley and Rob already have three full-grown hens, but they aren’t laying enough eggs, and truthfully, Kelley’s turned into a bit of a crazy chicken lady. She just wanted more chickens, and who am I to deny her?

I was amazed to learn you can buy a live chicken for the price of a couple dozen eggs. Nine bucks later, we left the store cradling two soft, fuzzy chicks that are seriously the cutest things God has ever put on this earth. (Kelley said her son was actually the cutest thing on earth, but as I pet the little fuzzy peeping chicks, I disagreed.)

The boys were thrilled to play with the baby chicks. Mark taught us all the chicken facts he learned at the farm, like how to hold the chicks, and how their peeping, which I thought was so sweet, was actually a sign they were stressed out. (He’s a smart kid!) He would’ve played with them all night long if I hadn’t convinced him to go to the best gelateria this side of Italy.

That’s right, what’s a trip to Tucson without going to Frost? My fellow Frost-aficionados, the Bermans, will agree not much. Mark and I got our favorite from our last trip, sea-salted caramel. Mark also tried the amaretto, while I paired mine with roasted almond. My mouth is watering again just thinking about it!

Sunday morning, Rob made us a fantastic breakfast with fresh eggs while Kelley was at work. Then he passed us to Kelley, who took us to the world-famous gem show. Apparently, it’s the largest gem show in the WORLD, and it officially starts off the gem-show season. (Rob’s mom enlightened me—she proved a fount of knowledge about the gem show.)

We strolled through the rows and rows of gems and stones, stopping to touch the smoothest and shiniest ones. We found some super cool cup sets made of stone, and some beautiful bowls that weighed about 15 pounds each. There were also lots of fossils, including a 25-million-year-old shark’s tooth selling for only ten bucks. I doubted its age, since ten bucks seemed pretty cheap for something that old, but maybe I’m just cynical.

Sunday night was a bit more challenging. Kelley and Rob had to go to work dinner and I’d volunteered to watch Romi. He likes us (and by us, I mean Mark) and we’d spent the whole weekend playing. I played up the fact that he, Mark and I were gonna play and have fun, and he'd laugh and go right along with me.

Until…his parents actually left. And then, he melted down. And became upset. And anyone who knows Romi knows exactly what that entails—barf-o-rama. That’s right, this adorable little toddler can actually make himself barf on command when he's upset, and he did just that. So instead of playing babysitter, I played maid, cleaning up after the human vomiting machine. After the fourth time, he was kind enough to bypass the floor and barf directly into the trashcan, which was actually kind of funny.

I figured if I could get him out of the house, he might calm down. So I strapped him in the car seat, covered him with an apron in case he upchucked again, and headed to the ice cream store. That’s right, a second trip to Frost, and let me tell you, this picture says it all.


If you can’t be happy at Frost, you are hopeless. The ice cream did the trick, and Romi returned to his happy, funny, non-projectile vomiting little self again.

On Monday, Kelley took us on another adventure. This one was a secret, and she steadfastly refused to tell us what we were doing. At one point, I swiped an email out of her hands, but it was so encoded, I still had no idea what we were doing, even after I read it.

Kelley drove us to a funny, retro little toy store, and proclaimed we were there to go “letterboxing.” It’s kind of like a scavenger hunt, where you use clues in the email to look for a little box. The box in this store actually had three boxes, each pointing to the next.

Anyone who knows me knows I love a good game, and I love a competitive challenge even more. I read over the first clue, which pointed us south in the store, toward the cozy, cuddly creatures—the cute ones, not the ugly ones.

“Stuffed animals!” I shouted.

“South is toward the back of the store,” Kelley said, so we ran back there.

We found a mob of cutesy stuffed animals, and searched all around. But since we were newbies, we weren’t quite sure exactly what we were looking for. Until I gave it another shot, and saw something sticking out behind the creatures. It turned out to be this:

We whooped and yelled, and the clerk finally realized what we were up to. “Ahhh, letterboxers!” she said affectionately.

The box held a rubber stamp. We smushed it into the ink pad Kelley’d brought, and stamped our tiny book. You’re supposed to stamp the book in the box as well, but we didn’t have our own stamp.

The box also held a clue to the next box: “It’s where a pirate eats his TV dinner.” Mark and I took off, stopping when we came to a display of pirates on a TV tray. We searched everywhere, but found nothing. Until Kelley popped on the ground, and pulled a magnetic box from the bottom of the metal tray. We whooped it up again.

The clue in that box said to look for the bacon in the Kelvinator.

“A Kelvinator is a fridge,” I said, though I have no idea how I knew that. Sure enough, when Mark opened the fridge in the middle of the store, there was a pseudo can of bacon with the last stamp inside.

It was so much fun. Kelley explained that her sister-in-law had taught her about letterboxing, and said her family does it around their town, or whenever they go on vacation. She said they’d been to some really great places they never would’ve seen otherwise.

After a short lunch, we took our second clue, and headed to a small but colorful plaza over by the zoo. It was a cancer survivor park, filled with inspirational messages about beating cancer. It was awesome.

We followed the clues past the statues, but not until Kelley and Mark stopped to hold hands and pretend they were running along with them.

Mark found the rubber stamp in another magnetic box stuck beneath a park bench.

We spent a few reflective moments in the park. It was time for us to head back to the airport, but we didn’t want to leave our fun mini-vacation or the Gludts yet. We could’ve sat in the sunshine forever, but our plane called, and we had to answer. We hugged and said goodbye, sad to end another wonderful weekend.

Until next time…I can’t wait to see the Gludts again soon, but more importantly, I can’t wait to see how our little chicks have grown. :-)

Look out Farmer John, here comes Farmer Mark

Yesterday, Mark's class went on a field trip to a farm. When I think of a farm, I picture a peaceful countryside, with fields of crops decorating the landscape. I think of fields filled with cattle, pens of pigs, or barns full of goats. What I didn't picture was a big red barn plunked down in a corner of the local fairgrounds.

But that is exactly where this farm is. I dropped Mark off after a doctor's appointment, pulling into a massive parking lot filled with a fast-food restaurant and several school buses.

Mark loved the trip. He learned tons about farm animals and crops, and shared those fascinating tidbits with me last night. Here's a little of what I learned about the farm--before you rush off to post it to Wikipedia, remember the source.

• Chickens grow in an egg for 21 days before hatching.

• A baby chicken pooped on Mark's hand and it was gross.

• A pig chewed on his shoe and it was not gross. It did not hurt.

• The pig chewed on Mark's shoe repeatedly.

• Mark was, in fact, shoving his foot under the fence so said pig could chomp on it. (Sigh.)

• Cows can produce 15 gallons of milk a day while pregnant, and 10 gallons a day after the calf is born. (I thought they'd need more milk to feed the calf, but what do I know?)

• This farm had chickens, goats and a cow that mooed every time the farmer talked.

• It also had a super fat squirrel who lived there and ate all the crops.

• You can plant the top of a pineapple and it will grow into a new plant. (This fact I can confirm from experience; however, that plant will also die after the first frost of the season. Sadly, I can confirm that fact as well.)

Mark spent the whole evening talking about the farm. He really dug the trip and learning how to farm. He brought home his own newly-planted crops--radishes, peas, corn and lettuce. Unfortunately, he planted them all together in a tiny 6 x 6 inch plastic container, so his little farm might be a bit crowded.

Mark was even inspired to do a little genetic food modification. He told me that next October, he is planting a plumpkin.

"What's a plumpkin?" I asked.

"It's part plum, and part pumpkin," he explained. "You take the roots of a plum and the roots of a pumpkin, and you fuse them together. Then you plant it and a plumpkin grows!"

"Sounds cool," I said. I pointed out that we have a plum tree out back, but unfortunately, it does not bear fruit. (It did produce a tiny plum once, which my friend Michelle immediately popped into her mouth.)

Mark told me I needed to get the tree fixed before October, so he could start work on his hybrid plumpkin in time for Halloween. I'm not sure if he's planning to eat or carve the plumpkins, but since he's got virtually no experience fusing roots together, I'm not all that worried.

It was certainly fun to watch my little city boy explain how the farm worked. Even if that farm, just like my boy, is also a city dweller.

Rally round the monster trucks

My brothers have designated themselves Mark's official male role models. That designation simultaneously thrills and frightens me (anyone who knows my brothers understands this statement).

Last weekend, they summoned Mark for a Monster Truck Jam, taking place in San Diego. When I said we couldn't make it because we were having friends over for dinner, my brothers clarified themselves.

"You're not invited," they told me. "Just Mark. No girls allowed!"

Well, when you put it like that... suddenly Monster Trucks seemed okay.

I wasn't even sure Mark would want to go--he's never shown much interest in cars and trucks. But you can't mess with nature, and I soon learned some things are genetically implanted at birth.

"Uncle Scott's going to a monster truck race," I said, and Mark's eyes popped out of his head.

"CanIgo, canIgo, canIgo?" he asked, breathlessly. "Pleeeeaaase?"

"Really?" I asked, dubiously.

"Are you kidding me, Mom?" he scoffed. "Yes, REALLY!!"

And so he went.

The event lasted an entire day--they left the house at 2 in the afternoon, and didn't return until 10:30. It was split into two main events: the pits and the actual race.

The "pits" were actually the stadium parking lot, where the drivers parked their giant trucks behind a yellow tape border. The boys got to get up close, kick the tires and gawk at the enormous tires. (OK, they weren't actually supposed to kick anything, but they were little boys held back by wimpy tape borders!)






It would've taken me all of ten minutes to view the trucks, but I'm a girl, so what do I know? OK, what I know is that it wouldn't have taken me hours, like it took all the boys.

But the fun wasn't limited to just big trucks. It was also a veritable vice fest. Pick your poison, that's what these pics say to me. For the over-21 dads, that meant beer. For the under-21 crowd, that meant hot dogs, pizza, ice cream, and cotton candy. I was not worried in the least that Mark's blood sugar would go low.





The stadium was filled with all of the rednecks in San Diego and enough dirt to fill 400 dump trucks (fun facts from my brother Smed). In fact, Smed said, if you'd dropped a nuclear bomb over two certain redneck suburbs of San Diego that night, no one would've been hurt, because the entire population of those suburbs were at the stadium. (He wasn't wrong--check out this pic, it was a sell-out crowd!)



The beginning of the race was a little slow, Mark reported, because it took two hours to introduce all the truck drivers. (Scott reported it was a long time, but not that long.) Then the actual race started, and Mark said it was mostly trucks driving around in circles. Again, not very exciting to a bunch of hyper little boys all sugared up and full of testosterone.

But what happened after that put a gleam in all of their eyes. "It was the freestyle event," my brother Scott said, dreamily. Apparently, this is when the drivers did what they wanted, and what they wanted was to jump ramps and flatten those green, orange and red cars.

I got a jumbled report from Mark and my brothers, which was pared down to mostly verbs. "Got air!" "Crushed cars!" and the group favorite, "Fire!"

The last one, fire, was the highlight of the night. Spike, a dog-shaped car, caught fire, and as Smed loudly and repeatedly said, "It caught on fire, and wouldn't go out!" Mark, Johnny and Smed all shot their hands out like an exploding bomb, mimicking the flames. "It was AWESOME!"

"Was the driver okay?" I asked.

"He was fine," Smed dismissed me. "But Spike just kept burning!" Mark and Johnny clapped their hands excitedly at the memory.



I dunno, it didn't sound all that exciting to me, but the boys (big and little) absolutely loved it. They're already planning a return trip next year, and it's going to involve a tailgate party.

Which is fine by me...If they need to contact me, they can just call the spa, cuz that's where I'll be. Where hopefully, it will be quiet, the only mud will be on my face, and the only fire will be from the relaxing aromatherapy candles.

Because THAT'S my idea of a great weekend!

The Lucky Winner indeed!

This past weekend was the annual Cub Scout event I've unofficially dubbed the Yo Mama Can't Help You race (also known as the Pinewood Derby). Luckily for me, Mark's got an awesome Cub Scout Patrol leader who's not only patient, but also has an impressive amount of power tools. Color me relieved!

Through a series of sessions, Mark's block of pine eventually morphed into a lightning-quick race car. During the first working session, Mark was only required to bring the block of wood and a design idea. This proved more difficult than it sounds.

"I'm gonna make a baseball!" he exclaimed, showing me his drawing of a half-baseball car.

"That looks very cool!" I told him. "But...it may be hard to cut that shape. You're starting with a rectangular block of wood, not a square."

"It'll work," Mark insisted, so I just nodded. This was not a battle I was going to wage.

In the end, he brought home a spiffy little number, with wave-like curls cut into it. He was very proud of it.

He still needed to attach the wheels, so I sent the car when he visited my family in San Diego.

"Have Grandpa help you put them on," I said. "Since...you know...I glued them that one time."

Mark nodded. He remembered how the overglued wheels had completely refused to turn. His car had inelegantly slid (not rolled) down the track into last place.

Of course, I forgot to tell Mark to bring the car back from San Diego, and he accidentally left it there. I told my dad to just spray paint it and mail it back, but my parents worried it would break in the mail, so they personally drove it up instead. (Have I mentioned I have the best parents ever?)

The day of the derby was filled with excitement. We visited the first station, registering and photographing the car.

"What's your car's name?" Mark was asked, and he confidently answered, "The Lucky Winner."



During triage (yes, there really is a triage station!), we found Mark's car was severely underweight. We tripled the weight of the car by gluing on weights, and Mark was ready to go.

In a self-fulfilling prophecy, the Lucky Winner lived up to its name! Mark easily won all four of his races, advancing him to the Final 16. He was working in the hot dog booth when I told him, and stopped taking tickets long enough to say, "Yay!" Then he went right back to work.



By the time the finals started, Mark was a bit bored. Like the good pre-teen he is, he'd disappeared with some friends who had scooters, older brothers and even (ack!) girls. I watched him casually ignore me when I called (more than once) to come cheer on his car. He was reluctant to leave his post with the cool big kids.

His car didn't place in the finals, but who cares? We were both thrilled that he'd even made it to the finals--he'd never gotten that far before. He had a car that wasn't square, wasn't glittery, and had moving wheels. And it only took us four years to achieve all that!

So in the end, although it has been the bane of my last four Januarys, Mark bid adieu to his final Pinewood Derby, and left on a high note.

Burning down the house

My New Year's resolution was to cook more and eat out less. This was for numerous reasons, but mostly because when I'd tell Mark it was dinner time, he'd clap and say, "Yummy, where are we going?"

So far the results have been...mixed. Nothing has turned out inedible, but I've had varying degrees of success. I'm on the beginner track, which means mostly using my Crock Pot. (Hoping to graduate to the big oven soon.) I like that I can cook different stuff in there (chicken, beef, pork, lasagna) and that all I have to do is dump in the ingredients, turn it on low, and walk away for eight hours. (Cooking dinner while I'm at work = WICKED COOL!)

I've learned through trial and error that searing the meat before it goes into the pot is key--so far, most of my meals turned into unintentional stews. I've backed out of those disasters by telling Mark we're having our meal au jus, so it sounds like it's supposed to be that way.

But this morning, I was, perhaps, a little too ambitious. I had an early meeting, and a tri-tip roast that needed cooking. I planned to toss the roast into the Crock Pot before running off to work (I'm an awesome multi-tasker).

To minimize the time, I'd prepped everything before the meeting. The carrots, potatoes, celery and onion were all sliced, and the beef broth was ready to pour. All I had to do was sear the roast.

And here is where the process broke down. I finished my meeting and cranked up the fire to get my searing pan nice and hot. I'd added cooking spray, but it needed a little more, so I aimed the can and shot it--right into my eyes! Had the dang thing pointed the wrong way! I missed the pan completely, and gave myself an eyeful of canola oil instead.

By the time I'd finished rinsing out my eyes, the pan was super hot--perhaps a little too hot (smoking pans are bad, right?). In fact, the smoking was not limited to just the pan, I managed to smoke up the whole house, too.

So I rubbed my smarting eyes, and stumbled down the hallway. I turned on the powerful house fan to suck up the smoke--and realized I hadn't opened any windows. Running to the living room confirmed my worst fears--my fireplace had erupted like Mt. Vesuvius, shooting a fine, ashen silt layer all over the room. (I never really believed the previous home owner when he said that could happen. I believe now!)

I sighed. Partially-blind and reeking of smoky beef, I opened the windows, and then swept/dusted my living room before finally leaving for work.

I dunno...I want to enjoy cooking, but so far, it seems pretty dangerous!