Burn Baby Burn...

When the wonderful, albeit slightly hairy, Mrs. Chicky asked me to blogsit for her, I knew I had to jump at the opportunity. After all, it's kinda like being left alone in some one else's house, with no one watching you. You can look in the medicine cabinet, raid the liquor, and peek in the underwear drawer and they'd never be the wiser. Who could resist an offer like that?

I've got to tell you folks, I haven't found anything too shocking. Sure she irons her underwear, has more hair removal products under her sink than the local drugstore and could start a small recycling business with the amount of empty wine bottles in her basement, but other than that, she is shockingly normal. Dammit.

Where's the fun in that? Looks like I really am going to have to get this girl plastered while in Chicago and take drunken photos of her to post on my blog. After all, what are hotel roommates for, if not a little bloggy blackmail every once in a while?

Kidding. Kinda. Sorta. I'm open to requests.

One thing the wonderful and talented Mrs. Chicky and I have in common, other than blonde beautiful children, a caustic sense of humour and a pair of dough-headed husbands, is our love of the warm weather. We're both summer girls. We like the heat and the freedom the sunshine brings with it. Sure, Mrs. Chicky plays it a tad more conservative than I do, what with her one piece swimsuit and cover up, but not everyone lives in the sticks and can feel to roam her yard in the buff, letting it all hang out and scarring her children for life.

Ahem.

I mean, we both love a good barbeque. Hanging out with family and friends and enjoying a little vino, some children's laughter and the sweet smell of the flowers dancing in the breeze.

Yesterday my husband and I had a small barbeque for our friends and neighbours . Partly a part going away party for my husband (he's off to chase the almighty dollar again) and partly a thank you to our loved ones for putting up with our whining and bitching through the long, cold, Canadian winter months.

It was a fine time. One of those hazy, warm summer nights that will keep this body warm when the wind is howling and the snow is flying in the middle of the winter. Everything was picture perfect. That is, until I went to start the barbeque. Not realizing my husband had already turned on the gas and kept the lid closed while he walked away to look for a match, I wandered over and decided to light the fa*&$ng thing up.

KABOOM!

Not only did I light the barbeque, but I managed to scorch my hair and burn off my eyebrows. In front of my friends, neighbours and family.

When everyone had stopped laughing, and caught their breath, they wandered over to make sure I wasn't seriously harmed. Luckily for me, I have lightening quick reflexes to counterbalance my blonde moments. I managed to avoid melting my eyeballs while providing the evening's entertainment.

How's that for multitalented?

To make matters worse for my scorched ego, while I was in the bathroom trying to draw on some eyebrows and convince myself that they will grow back before BlogHer, I burnt the damn steaks. Charred them to a crisp.

My lovely and supportive husband, half in the tank, busy playing horseshoes while our supper sizzled to blackened pieces of tar, had this advice to offer.



"Just feed them more wine, T. They'll be so busy looking at your eyebrowless face, they won't even notice you are feeding them char." Then he patted me on my rump and popped another beer open.

The bugger, er, I mean my loving and supportive husband was right. I was the main attraction, and not even blackened beef could take away from the freakshow I have now morphed into.

Learn from me people, and when you go to celebrate your Independence Day tonight, make your husband light the barbeque.

It will be much less embarrassing and way more entertaining to have him with no eyebrows than you.

**Thanks Chicky, for giving me the keys to the castle. I had fun smearing my graffiti all over your walls. And I promise not to tell anyone that you wear grannie panties with orange polkadots.**