June 25, 2014
So I’m getting ready for this trip to New Orleans. The trip of a lifetime. Between staying functional at the day job, taking care of my hip-replacement-recovering Ma, sending out agent queries, rewriting the second book, and trying to find enough sundresses to take on this trip so I don’t melt, I am losing my flippin’ mind.
What happened this morning proved it.
Let me back up. A few weeks ago, during a brain spasm whim of trying to use all-natural products, I bought some jojoba oil/cocoa butter on sale for my summer moisturizing needs. Only problem is, at room temperature, it’s kind of solid. As in not easily applied to skin solid. So I’ve taken to gently melting it in the double boiler in the morning to render it a silky, smoothing-onto-skin consistency. This works great.
Except when you walk away and forget about it. Which is what I did this morning.
After making my bed and putting on my makeup, I wandered back into the kitchen and sniffed. It smelled like burning metal in there. Yep. I left the stove on again. I turned it off. Huh. Flames licked up the side of the pan. Actual flames. I tossed water toward the pan. Hm. That made the flames worse. Oh. Because it was an oil fire. Because I had been attempting to heat up oil. I set the pan with the lid on it in the kitchen sink to let the lack of oxygen do its work.
Then I panicked. Shit! Please don’t let the smoke alarm go off.
Yeah. That was my main concern. Not that I almost set my kitchen on fire. But that the smoke alarm might actually work and expose me and my snafu to the neighbors and the hot firemen. While I was still in my underwear.
That got my ass moving. I ran around the house, flinging open windows and turning on fans. My two cats looked supremely irritated as they got the heck out of my way.
Obviously, I just need to chill the f— out.