up in flames...

just last week i had said nothing exciting has been happening in my life.  i'm not sure if my mishap this morning really qualifies as "exciting", but it was definitely something.  for those of you who know me pretty well, you know i have an irrational fear of fires.  well, today marks my first experience with being on fire! exciting or sheer horror?  let's get on with the story and find out, shall we?

my summer schedule allows me to sleep in and enjoy a very leisurely morning prior to work.  with all my extra time i can actually iron my clothes, with my badass rowenta iron, instead of fluffing them in the dryer.  i even have time to get fancy with my hair; curl it or pull it up, only to get pissed off that it isn't working and wear it straight down like i normally do.  this morning i decided to iron my jacket and curl my hair.  however, the universe had a completely different idea for me.

my morning cup of joe tasted perfect.  shower went off without a hitch; no razor nicks or soap in my eye.  i had a plan for my outfit, which generally takes me a long time to figure out.  my make up went on smoothly and i was feeling fab about my morning so far.  got my locks blown out and instead of plugging in my flat iron and rocking the silky smooth mane, i plugged in my 2 1/2 inch barrel curling iron to try my hand at loose playful curls.

before i go on with the curling iron stuff, i should set the scene of my bathroom. you may remember from my previous story, my bathroom also houses my laundering machines, my cat's stuff, a toilet and a sink, oh and that nasty scale is in there too.  i set up my ironing board in front of the washer and dryer.  my jacket is draped over the ironing board and the iron is heating up at the other end of the ironing board.  i'm standing in front of my sink, because that is where the mirror is with my hair sectioned off, ready to start curling.

i grab my first chunk of hair, wind it up in the iron, let it sit for a moment then release.  ah yes, the hair is curling nicely, i think my hair might actually work out today.  i work my way around the back of my head and everything is still going swell.  i come the last chunk of hair and this is where my mishap takes place.

i grab the last chunk, bring the iron up to my hair and hear a pop.  i look to where the noise came from, which is towards the outlet my two irons are plugged in and notice that the sleeve of my robe is on fire!  from my wrist to my elbow i'm up in flames.

remember stop, drop and roll?  well that doesn't even enter my mind.  i throw my curling iron across the room towards the dryer and start flapping my arm up and down like i'm learning how to use wings for the first time.  in addition to frantically flapping my arm around, i am trying like hell to get out of my robe. usually i play this game with my robe on how long it will stay tied so i don't end up flashing myself in the mirror, but at this moment the tie seemed to be cemented closed, i was tugging and pulling, but it wasn't budging.

turns out i didn't need to remove my robe.  the frantic flapping of my arm did the trick and i successfully put out the fire.  i have no idea how my sleeve caught on fire, i didn't see that happen, just heard the pop.  my ugly pink robe now has one  black sleeve and smells terrible.  guess i will need a new one.

if i'm going to be honest, starting my monday with a fire was a little more excitement than i really needed.  to make my monday even better, i never got my jacket ironed which meant plan b for my outfit.  and i ended up with straight hair because i didn't trust my curling iron. happy monday y'all.

140.4...

numbers...they are the devil.  we shouldn't look at numbers on clothing tags, numbers on scales, numbers that represent our age, or numbers that tell us how far we have gone and how fast we got there.  we just shouldn't look at them, but i'm sure you still look.  i still look.  those darn numbers taunt me.

my scale.  i have shared this story many times, but it might be worth sharing it again.  one of my very favorite families and best friends moved out of the country four years ago.  my dear friends divvied out their belongings between their friends, family and a storage unit.  i have been housing a few things: kitchen table and chairs, two dressers, a cabinet-y thing-a-ma-bob, an ironing board, a few pieces of artwork, a "jetski", and the scale.

this is a fancy schmancy scale.  it is programmable, digital, tells you other things besides your weight and is kind of fashionable in a "i'm either going to make you hate yourself or love yourself" kind of way.  the scale was programmed for the man of the household and i've never been able to figure out how to change that, but frank whenever you're ready your scale still knows you.  if i remember, i jump on the scale using the "guest" feature, although i hardly consider myself a guest.  this feature makes you manually enter your age, gender and height.

i store this scale in my bathroom.  that seems like a standard place to keep it.  it lurks under a rolling cart that houses other bathroom appliances such as flat irons, curling irons, clothes irons and other things of that nature, that never talk back or purposely make me cringe.  the scale is typically shoved under the cart as far back as i can push it because even just the edge of it makes me cringe and i'm rarely satisfied with my results when using it.

for some unknown reason i decided to pull the scale out today.  now i'm a fairly clean person but my hair falls out daily, i shed like a great dane, and for some reason my bathroom is pretty dusty.  it might be because it also houses my laundering machines and my cat, oscar, shares this space with me. what i'm getting at, is when i stuck my hand underneath the cart and pulled the scale out it looked like it was wearing a sweater.  a sweater made from my hair, dust and probably some oscar hair.  gross!

after a quick dusting, because i don't need any extra help putting numbers up on the screen, it was time to set up the scale for a "guest".   i enter in all the pertinent information: 38, female, 5'8" and prepare myself for what might be coming.  to get the most accurate reading possible, i step out of my tired pink slippers and shed my oversize uglier than ugly pink robe, and take a deep breath.

ugh! that is my actual reading, this morning, thursday, june 26th. 

my first reaction is "lies! you are a filthy liar!" there is no way that the digital print out is correct.  my clothes still reasonably fit like they always have.  some of my summer clothes don't quite button, but those have always been "end of summer" clothes, i've still got time.  140.4!  i quickly get off the scale before it gives the rest of my reading that i don't even want to see (imminent death if you start exercising soon).

i've mentioned my winter ass a few times and have vowed to do something about it.  are you ready?  i have committed myself to three events that will definitely help in transforming my winter ass.  in october i will, now i said i was going to do this last year and ended up not doing, but this year i am running a 1/2 marathon.  i've also committed to running a full marathon in june.  the biggest motivator of all, i promised my sister i would ride naked in the solstice day parade with her next year.  time to get the jiggly bits a little less jiggly!