So the fire apparently burned a nice semicircle that covers more than 2000 acres around our house last night. My cats are huddling in my mother's garage and last night's pandemonium seems to have passed, but the fire rages on so we will see where it goes. I noted in the middle of all this that my Husband is not good to have in a crisis. If your car needs fixed? Yes. If your house is about to burn down and you have to decide quickly what items to have your mother and neighbors scoop out in about 15 minutes? Not so much. My irritation with him remained into the morning. Even the normally sweet sight of him sleeping with the dog did nothing to make it go away. I wanted to bash him over the head with my heaviest cast iron skillet, but alas, it was dirty and sitting in the kitchen sink. So I scrubbed it instead.
Another interesting new term that I Googled last night: Homeowner's Insurance. Apparently, we are supposed to have this. Apparently everything is supposed to be insured. Even the kid's toys at Wally World come with an optional warranty that you can purchase at the cash register. I first heard this term late last night when my father called from Arizona and asked if we had any. I could hear him rolling his eyes as he attempted to explain yet another intricacy of being an adult to his reformed (well, partially reformed really) wild-child of a daughter. I just don't get this whole grown-up thing quite yet. Real grown-ups cope by pulling out their insurance forms; I cope by fantasizing about what part of my body I should get pierced. Oh, and which television superhero is going to save me from the grown-up world: Michael Weston from Burn Notice or Damon Salvatore from The Vampire Diaries. Hmmm.