Come On Baby Light My Fire

One of the reasons I hesitated to purchase the new digs was that it is all electric, no gas. How would I ever be able to create the gourmet cuisine I am so famous for without my 60 inch ultra premium 6 open burner, 24 inch griddle, double oven gas Viking range? What about my remote control gas fireplace? Good lord I was in the market for a home, not a campsite!

Actually, I am quite capable of incinerating perfectly good frozen pizzas no matter the fuel source and I live in Texas, the reality is no one in Texas NEEDS a fireplace, gas or otherwise. I only raised this issue to terrorize my realtor (Because I have a burning hatred of all real estate professionals—ironic, I know, considering my occupation.) Also, because I am a cheapskate and there was no way I was making a reasonable offer on this house or any other. I felt vindicated when my insulting bid was accepted.

When you have a fireplace, if you never use it, then it is just a gaping black hole in the wall taking up valuable floor space and demanding attention every holiday season. Stockings, garland, potted poinsettias-- Gah- the damn thing will not shut up!

I know that right now you are thinking, “What is up with her and those awful cell phone pictures? Enough Already! Send in the Green Stamps for a new Kodak Instamatic and put us out of our misery!” I feel your pain and I am sorry. I think I have already established that I am a cheapskate. Additionally, this portion of the post is a thinly veiled hint to Santa in hopes that he reads this blog. Moving along…

What I had was the age-old problem of how to make fire. (You thought I was going to say the age old problem of hearing voices from inanimate objects didn’t you? Shut up! I have medication for that). I think it is understood that I am not the outdoorsy type. I will admit that I do have an unnatural and some what disturbing attraction to chainsaws, however, I do not think that Mr. Rubble (My annoying neighbor) would appreciate my landscaping services under cover of darkness in order to fuel my fire.

The only way I would actually pay for wood is if it were in the form of furniture, not logs. Never logs. Besides, who would carry all of this heavy wood home, build the fire, and then clean up the sooty mess afterwards? Please do not suggest that DDHB (Doo-doo head boyfriend) is the man for the job. The terms of his parole do not allow him to be in possession of incendiary devices (There goes any chance I had of getting a camera this year).

Actually, boys and fire scare me a little. That only leaves two choices. A faux electric fire with fancy cardboard and cellophane flames (Even I have more class than that) or the dreaded Dura-Flame log. I bet those things cause cancer in rats, or something. I am not taking any chances.

Necessity or possibly laziness as they say is the mother of invention. The solution? Good old isopropyl alcohol. Mr. Nuzum my seventh grade science teacher deserves all the credit for introducing me to the Bunsen burner all those many years ago.

One casserole dish from the Ross Dress for Less, a bag of rocks, a empty Sterno can from the last wild fondue party at the new digs (do not even ask) and a bottle of first aid antiseptic later…

Fire! Striking the first match was a little tense, I was not sure if I was going to blow the joint up. Happily, it all turned out fine. Now that the decorating is done I can turn my attention to

enhancing the lives of others with my thoughtful and decorative gift giving ideas.

Oh Yeah baby! I bet you wish you were on my Christmas list.

Out-T.