Another Thursday in which I throwback. This time though, it isn’t because I’m in lazy mode and haven’t the oomph or the care to write, no, this time it’s because I am writing. Lots of words. A lot of them. Like enough to maybe become something like a book . . . that many.
So, back to the throwback, this is about me and fire and melted things.
I am proud to say I have not had any mishaps nor have I created or participated in any mayhem involving fire since this post was first written.
Lie. There was a little, BUT, I was an observer. My son was the mischief maker. Did you know coffee creamer is awesome when it meets flame?
AND just so you know, I am not letting a child play with fire, he’s 20, so . . .
And now I’m not allowed
to burn candles without supervision.
I’ve always had a thing for fire. It’s beautiful, mesmerizing, terrifying, and . . . it gets me into trouble. Some people in my family may have accused me of being a bit of a pyromaniac, but I’m not. I never was. I could have been, but I wasn’t. Don’t listen to them, they just don’t understand.
Fire has always been one of my greatest fears and yet, I am drawn to it like the poor clichéd moth is drawn to a flame. It’s fascinating to watch, it moves, it breathes . . . it lives. It also burns and destroys and melts stuff.
The melting of stuff is why I am currently banned from enjoying the aromatic and softly glowing comfort of candles.
It’s not as though I set out to incinerate things. I’m not inattentive or irresponsible, stuff happens, you know? I’m sure I’m not the only one who’s ever accidentally set fire to a book – or a hand towel, or a wispy curtain, a television, or a treehouse . . . right?
Okay, the treehouse was bad, but it’s not like I meant it to go up in flames. Sometime in the early eighties, I accidentally discovered the incendiary joy produced by aerosol hairspray and a Bic. By the way, I blame Aquanet for many bad decisions in the eighties.
The treehouse happened to have been built a little too close to where I was testing out the awesomeness capacity of my newly found flamethrower. Hindsight – I should have stood further back, and by further back, what I obviously mean, is I should have never been using a full bottle of aerosol hairspray as a flamethrower. Fire bad. I know. I learned a valuable lesson that day. And I swear, I don’t recall doing it again. Wait, I did spray a smiley face on a neighbor’s garage door and lit that up. Again, lesson learned. But seriously, after that I only used hairspray on my hair.
The other stuff just sort of happened over the years, none of the flaming, scorching, or melting was done with the intent to flame, scorch or melt. Like I said, stuff just . . . happens. Aside from the treehouse, melting our new TV was probably the worst, in terms of actual damage. I really did think the shelf the candle was sitting on was far enough below the TV. The new TV. It wasn’t. But that was a long time ago, we have a new new TV now, no candles anywhere near it.
I don’t think an outright candle ban is necessary, I am a grown woman and shouldn’t have rules and regulations in regard to my use of, what I deem essential to my well-being, candles. It’s not like I burned the place down. I have become quite good at removing candle wax from furniture and floors and carpets and clothing. I realize the prowess I’ve gained from having to remove wax from all those things does little to help my case, but I thought it necessary to point out.
I have no idea how long it will be before I am trusted again, but I’m still going to light my candles. I’ll do it with the utmost care and keep a watchful eye one them. I’ll just have to extinguish their flickering flame before the man gets home.