First let me say that everyone is fine. That being said, there was a fire at our house yesterday. Oh, where to begin, where to begin? I guess at the beginning. . .

So yesterday afternoon, I was getting dinner ready. The menu called for ribs, salad, rolls, cabbage. It was promising to be a good dinner for us and our guests. DH calls and says, he’s been looking online about the best way to prepare barbecued ribs and found a site that calls for slow roasting the ribs on medium to low heat for two hours. That gave me exactly enough time to cook the ribs per these instructions. The directions also called for having a bowl of water on the grill over high heat to help with the moisture. I asked DH, “Can I use a metal bowl?” cause I know that plastic is not going to get it done. He says, “Sure,” and away we go.

Ribs on low to medium heat? Check. Metal bowl of water on medium to high heat? Grill cover closed? Check. The girls and I mosey on down the block to chit chat with the neighbors who are out in the yard yukking it up over wine and Cheez-Its. While the girls play and I shoot the breeze, the smell of the grill wafts over to us. Now, I don’t wear a watch, but in my head, I’m thinking, “I need to get back over there and check those ribs,” but I can’t seem to extricate myself tactfully from the conversation. Thankfully, one neighbor says, “Man, I can really smell those ribs. Smell like fire.” I take that cue, ask if I can leave the girls, and head on up to the house. I’m at the gate and see great red and orange tongues of fire shooting up from the grill and licking the WOODEN fence around the back yard. Two words people:

HOLY SHIT

I run into the yard (in wedge heels no less — yes, I was trying to look cute yesterday) and asses where the hoses are, how fast I can unravel it, how fast I can get into the house if I need to get some flour to throw on it (and I don’t know why I thought of that). The hose closest to the grill comes up about 3 feet short. My neighbors next door were outside and their son, H, is thrilled to the max about the backdraft going on right next door.

I have to digress here for a second. See, H is four years old and an amateur fireman. He has visited our local Engine 7 several times, has a siren impression so authentic, his own mother has pulled to the shoulder to let the engine pass when it’s been him the whole time. H even wears Ladder 343 boots — every day. After everything had settled down, H’s mom told me that H had come into the house trying to get her attention, absolutely tongue-tied about the fire, he was so excited.

Anyway, H’s dad, C, came to the rescue, throwing me their hose and pumping the water, effectively putting the fire out. Honestly, I can’t even remember if I turned the gas off before or after the fire was out — I’m thinking after because I still have my eyebrows. C came over the fence and helped me move the grill away from the back portion of the fence and then H came on over make sure the fire was really, really out by hosing down the wet wood.

Talk about a scare. I don’t know if it was the bowl, if it was the proximity to the fence or what, but had I dilly-ed around any longer, I shudder to think what would have happened. Sweet H was in his element, holding the hose and going over the wet spots, spouting off fireman lingo the whole time. I went back down the block to get the girls and gave a very clipped and edited version of the events to the neighbors. They didn’t know if I was kidding or not, seeing as my twin set was still pretty clean and I was really calm. Word spreads pretty quickly on our street and within minutes, the neighborhood kids were congregated in the back yard assessing the situation while H stood off to the sidelines giving the blow by blow of the whole thing. One little sweetheart asked me, “Did H really put out the fire?”. “He really did,” I replied. “Coooooool,” came the response.

By the time DH came home, there were about 12 or 15 kids in the yard. He was barely out of the car when they flew at him, talking about “You had a fire!! You had a fire!!”. Thanks kids.

Anyway, we had a fire, there’s a gaping hole in the back fence, but everyone is okay and that’s the most important thing. I’ve always known not to leave a grill unattended, but I really need to take my own advice. As for dinner, a run to the local pizzeria solved that problem. Funny enough, when DH reheated it for lunch today, he left it unattended.

Blackened pizza anyone?

I know, I know, I’ve dropped the ball on keeping folks informed with the goings-on here, but let me tell you, school for all of us is keeping us busy, busy, busy.

So far, I’ve had two quizzes and a test, AND I’ve got a lab practical on Monday. I’ve been studying like it’s my job. Actually, it is my job these days, who am I kidding? As for the girls, Mo has been, “manipulating geometric solids” (her words, seriously) and Co has been taking advantage of all the offerings her pre-school has to offer. I was told however, the poor dear fell asleep face first in the sandbox on Wednesday. The little dickens is having a time and half with three teeth trying to come in all at once. She’s got two on the bottom that have come on through and then an incisor making its way out. Fang, as I’ve dubbed her lately, is dealing with it best she can, gnawing on anything she gets her hands on, including Mo’s toes, my shirt or pantlegs, and the rails of her crib.

Anyway, this is all I can spare at the moment. I’m glad that I got this down at all. This afternoon, I was thinking about blogging and was like that chick in Seinfeld — “no I don’t have a square to spare, I can’t spare a square.” Ahh, if only time were like toilet paper; when you run out, you can just pick up another roll and keep on going.

Since being back in school, I can’t seem to turn off my brain when it comes to Anatomy and Physiology. When I sleep, it just won’t shut off. I dream A&P, I see it everywhere. I saw a sign in Food Lion talking about saturated fats and all I could think was, “Those are lipids who have a single bond”. I overhear people talking trying on clothes, referring to parts of their body and I immediately convert it to anatomical position. It’s no longer “Head, shoulders, knees and toes (knees and toes),” it’s more like “Cephalic, acromial, patellar, and digital (patellar and digital) – and we can’t forget orbital, otical, oral and nasal, now can we? And did I mention, I can also sing that song using the appropriate posterior terms for the same parts? I need help.

Any free minute, I’m studying. In the car, I’ve got flash cards. At home, the books are on the table and various A&P websites are up on the ‘net. The girls are asleep, I’m studying. Today, however, it caught up with me. I had some time and I decided that I deserved a break. Should I watch Prison Break? Should I watch Sarah Connor Chronicles? Should I watch I Want to Work for Diddy? My DVR is full and begging to be purged. Plus I had three heaping baskets of clean laundry to fold. Looked like two birds with one stone, right?

But then, as if light was dawning on Marblehead, it hit me. Should I nap? Ohhhhhh, the sweet siren song of a long overdue nap, especially with Mo and Co down for the count. In less than two minutes, I hit the bathroom, set the kitchen timer to wake me in a painfully short 50 minutes, grabbed a blanket and was on the couch. I kid you not, I had just closed my eyes only to see DNA and RNA triplets marching across my eyelids when the kitchen timer went off. Had it not been for the fact that it was approaching 4pm and the girls were still asleep, I’d have reset that janx and gone back down. But, I need for them to sleep through the night and a marathon nap into the dinner hour ain’t gonna make that happen.

I will say this, though. Everyone woke up feeling fresh, pressed, like a million bucks. And when Mommy is happy, everyone is happy. Can I get witness?

The power of a nap. Nothing else like it.

Lil’Sass, who I’m guessing was being funny when she called me Hillary, tagged me to bring you up to speed on random factoids of information regarding yours truly. Oh and they truly are little factoids, or nuggets o’ info because as you’ll see in #5 and #6, well. . .you’ll see.

Evidently, there are some rules I have to follow, too. Here we go:
1. Link the person who tagged you.
2. Mention the rules on your blog.
3. Tell about 6 unspectacular quirks of yours.
4. Tag 6 following bloggers by linking them.
5. Leave a comment on each of the tagged blogger’s blogs letting them know they’ve been tagged.

1. I never say “I love you” to my brother unless we are being sarcastic. I know it’s weird, but it’s something we just don’t do. I think it’s understood that we love each other, that we’d take a bullet for one another. I mean, when I call him a douchebag and he calls me a dumbass, it’s all good, it’s all love.

2. I have to sleep with one foot hanging out from under the covers. That foot can’t have a sock on it, though the covered foot can, but it’s not mandatory. Even in the dead of winter, under layers and comforters, the one foot exposed to the air provides me with the perfect body temp. Additionally, I’m a stomach sleeper and I think if I were to be photgraphed from above, I’d look like the number four. I’ve got my left arm tucked under me so my left hand rests on my hipbone, my right arm is slack to the side, as is my right leg. My left leg is kind of tucked under the right leg, until it’s time to stick that foot to start the cooling process. It’s so bizarre to actually put this in writing, so I can only imagine what reading it must be like.

3. I don’t perspire like a lady, I sweat like a man. Rivulets down my back and beads along my hairline. When I sweat and then start to smell myself, I think everyone who is in a 10 mile radius of me can smell it. No, it doesn’t smell like roses, either. It’s like garlic and onion and hotness (heat, not my ridiculously good looks) and just essence o’ me. You would think one wouldn’t mind one’s own scent, but I mind, I mind a lot. I walk around at home in a tank top and don’t put on my real clothes until I’m almost out the door because I don’t want to funk them up before I leave the house. I mean, really, I sweat standing in front of the microwave. I tried that clinical strength Secret and my body shrugged it off like, “No big whoop. What else you got?”.

4. I don’t like cheese. I mean, I’ll eat a pizza, lasagna, baked ziti, mozzarella sticks (I’ll eat anything fried), but I won’t eat grilled cheese, cheeseburgers, cheese and crackers, ham and cheese on rye — you get the idea. I don’t know when it started or why. It’s not like I had a bad experience with cheese. I just don’t get the allure that turophiles seem to find in vast abundance whilst inhaling slices (or is it chunks) of Gruyere — which, by the way, I can’t even pronounce.

5. I have a short attention span which. . . oh, pretty bird on the window sill. . .

6. I rush through things and then have to repeat them because I didn’t pay attention the first time. I think that’s a function of the fact that I never have enough time to do all of the things that I want to do, have to do and should do. So, as a result, I do it all really fast so that I can get it all in, but end up not really enjoying it, not remembering it, or having to do it (be it read, listen, whatever) all over again. I kind of eat that way, too. Yikes, what a disgusting picture I just painted there.

Who to put on blast. . . .Let’s see, let’s see. . . Heads up LibbY, PK, Kendall, Mary, Tiffany and Kris! Have fun!

Back to school for Mo-dizzle and already she’s coming out of her mouth with stuff that is just off the chain. At lunch yesterday afternoon, I pulled out a piece of paper to catalog all of these nuggets which Co-dizz smeared blackberries in every orifice on her head except her mouth.

The conversation had turned to princesses (what else is new) and I wanted to see if her Disney-fied world included the likes of Mulan and Pocahontas.

Mo: And I like Ariel, and I like Sleeping Beauty, and I like Belle, and I like Snow White, and I like Cinderella. . .

Me: But what about Jasmine and Pocahontas?

Mo: Coco-hontas?

Me: Poca! Pocahontas.

Mo: Coco-hontas is alright.

We then started talking about the things she’s spied in the Chasing Fireflies catalog, namely this Queen on Hearts Costume. DH, in a master coup or an act of stupidity, told Mo that if she listened to us, was nice to her sister and did assorted other things that added up to 3 year old goodness, he’d tell Santa Claus to bring her the costume. So now, it’s all things Santa all the time. . .in September. Just to be sure she really knew about this Santa Cat, I asked, “Where does Santa live?

Mo: In the North Cold.

I have a number of little endearments for Mo and Co like Mo-dizz, Morgas, Co-bell, and Covey. Morgan had taken to calling herself baby bird for a while and wouldn’t answer to anything else. When she did answer, it was with a resounding, “Tweet, tweet”. So, as our conversation continued yesterday, I referred to her as my baby bird. I was quickly corrected.

Mo: I’m not a baby bird.

Me: Oh really? What are you?

Mo: I’m just (thinking, thinking, thinking). . .I’m just a woman.

Yeah, me, too.

So the end of the summer has officially come and gone. While I would like nothing more than to swing on the porch swing with that good ol’ Country Time Lemonade, thumb through a junk mag like US Weekly or InTouch and swat away mosquitos, that time has passed.

Still, I’m not going to be crying into my back-to-school circular for too long, though. Two words for you — Prison Break. Translation? Wentworth Miller. Woo! Woo! Woo!