Those Jerks at Pinterest Burned My House Down

No, really. They did. Here’s how it went down:

I saw this really cute idea on Pinterest that I thought might help us bond more as a family instead of waving at each other in the hallways of our house. The photo very clearly showed that this item was not going to get hot.

terra-cotta-marshmallow-roaster-pinterest

“But wait, Lorca,” you say, “aren’t you a science teacher? Didn’t you know that putting flaming charcoal briquettes in a terra cotta container would make the whole thing get hot?”

Shut up. You’re not the boss of me. And besides, I think that’s chemistry or something. I majored in biology. If you put flaming charcoal briquettes in a frog, I would totally be able to predict what would happen.

terra-cotta-marshmallow-roaster-fail-after

So there we were, having a family moment. Well, three of us were. My husband is afraid of bugs and he refused to come outside, even while I was roasting marshmallows in this handy dandy container and teaching them the words to “Cat’s in the Cradle.” We had a blast. Until this happened.

The best part of my husband’s stupid bug phobia is he still doesn’t know there’s a charred hole in our house. I paid a lot of money yesterday to have a little bit of wood delivered and I’m going to make this whole outdoor kid’s play thing that will cover up the hole. More family bonding, I get rid of the evidence, and then I’ll have something to post on Pinterest to sucker some other unsuspecting do-it-yourselfer into destroying her home. Win.

It Was Pandelirium!

Many years ago, I made my glorious television debut. It was artfully done and it made me into the star that I am today. I played the part of Redneck Bystander #3 describing the fire.

I stood in front of the charred, smoking remains of a building with a baseball cap covering my unwashed hair and wearing a giant sweatshirt from a catfish restaurant stretched over my pregnant tummy. I was most proud of the fact that my sweatshirt only had one stain on it and it wasn’t from food and that it actually came down far enough to cover that little stretchy panel on maternity pants…it’s really tacky when you can see that weirded out drawstring bag at the top of the preggo jeans. And if the wardrobe department hadn’t completed the look for me, I think I even knocked out one of my front teeth for this appearance, but I could be wrong about that last part.

Now I just really, really wish it had been made up for a movie or a TV show or something, instead of the local news channel.

Yup, I became THAT WOMAN. Every time something in my part of the country either a) burns down, b) gets blown up by a tornado, or c) is a farm animal born with two more legs than it should have, there’s undoubtedly a woman in curlers and a stained wife-beater tank top describing it. Usually, she’s using a few made up words. Like pandelirium. Or screecherous. Or ungodawful.

And I am now afraid it’s genetic. My daughter had to get her first ever vaccination last week. There’s a long story about how she got to be a full nine years old without ever having someone pin her down and poke her in the butt cheek with a sharp needle, but it is what it is. So I sat her down and had a talk with her about what exactly was going to take place at the doctor’s office. And she was oddly at peace with “getting a shot” because she was under the impression that “shot” meant “sling shot” and she was actually going on some kind of bungee-induced carnival ride.

I cleared that up, then explained what “getting a shot” meant. She was nonplussed by my explanation, but she was brave. I asked her to tell me what she thought an appropriate reaction to getting a painful shot might be and she replied, “I will have to yell, ‘CATASTROPHE!’” And so she did: