Moments later, I really smelled smoke.

What happened next was over and done in mere seconds, but the series of events is indelibly etched in my brain. It happened like this:

• I turned around to seek the source of the acrid odor, and at that instant, the mountain (it seemed) of packing paper which had been sitting on the stove ignited into flames. I wondered, bewildered, how the paper was on fire.
• Then I noticed that the knob for one of the stove burners was boldly set on Hi. For what seemed like eternity, but could have only been a split second, I puzzled over how that could possibly have happened when I was alone in the kitchen and hadn’t touched the stove.
• It felt like impossibly slow, muddled thinking as I finally understood that a flap on the box I had slid out of the way a few minutes earlier must have caught on the burner control. It was a simple act of inattentive carelessness. It was my fault.
• As panic battled with the unfolding confusion for attention in my brain, I picked up a stack of the burning paper and tried to blow out the flames, which was a little like trying to blow out a Duraflame log. It wasn’t happening. Even if it had worked, there was still more paper incinerating itself below.
• Adrenaline pumping, I yelled in full panic mode, “Fire! Fire!” as I dashed back and forth to the sink three or four times to throw every shred of the flaming paper under water.
• Just when I thought I was done, I noticed that a lone sheet had dropped to the floor, still ablaze, and threatened to engulf the dish rag hanging on the front of the stove. I dove to capture the stray offender and save the imperiled dish rag, along with anything else flammable in the vicinity.
• At some point Kent and our friends arrived on the scene, but I already had things under control. Kent patted me on the back saying “good job, ‘Niquey, good thinking.” He told me later that he didn’t think I even knew he was there, so focused was I on dousing the burning paper. But my senses were hyper-aware. I took in everything in more detail than seems possible, just like in the movies when things happen in slow motion. Slow motion is exactly what it felt like.
• Finally, realizing I was shaking, I sank to the step stool I had been standing on when it all began, burying my face in my hands out of sheer relief that I had not actually set my friends’ home on fire, while they consoled, “It’s okay, Mo. It’s okay.”
• As I surveyed the charred paper that littered the floor, I felt simultaneously thankful that no damage had been done (except to my psyche), grateful for incredibly understanding friends, and guilty that the extra time I would now have to spend cleaning up the mess meant that much less I’d get done in the rest of the house. So much for “helping.”

I always knew I was a menace in the kitchen. I just always thought it only pertained to actually cooking. So if I ever offer to help anyone move, you might want to insist that I bring along my own personal fire extinguisher. Just in case.

I’ll be honest—some of those deleted communiqués were still unread when I performed the routine master purge today. I’m only human. I can’t keep up. It’s information overload of the most intense proportions, and I want off the merry-go-round. My poor little brain just can’t process that much data. And in my attempt to too quickly dispatch replies, I have been brief to the point of curt, which has led to at least one misunderstanding within the past week.

I love email, when it comes from friends and family. So to those near and dear, please don’t see this as a request to discontinue the practice. Your messages are often the only bright spot in my inbox, bringing a welcome break from my otherwise hectic days. Honestly, I like knowing that you’ve thought of me. It’s the other 3,873 emails I’m complaining about here. They are just like my old foe, laundry. Before you’ve even had time to properly fold and put away the current loads, the hampers are already full again. It’s the same with my inbox. The onslaught is relentless and never-ending. Make it stop?

All these carefully planned details become immediately irrelevant at precisely 4:31 p.m. and 30 seconds when, in the tardy hustle and bustle of herding three kids out of the car while checking the weather to determine the need for an umbrella and simultaneously collecting reading material and a can of Diet Coke to settle in for an interminable stay in the dentist’s waiting room, anonymous subject drops the (open) can of Diet Coke directly in her lap.

Anonymous subject’s instantaneous reflexes prove no match for the fizzing Diet Coke, which soaks her shorts in exactly the spots one would expect had the accident been of a rather more humiliating “call of nature” nature.

Being already late for the dentist’s appointment, anonymous subject has no choice but to enter and pray no one will notice. Because surely the more she protests her innocence, the less likely people will believe the slightly yellowish wet spots in all the wrong places are really only Diet Coke.

Imagine, if you will, a full flight aboard a commercial aircraft, where you are contentedly settled in your choice aisle seat hoping, as the remaining passengers board, that the middle seat next to you will remain unoccupied. Further imagine that near the end of the boarding process, said middle seat companion not only arrives, but asks if you would be willing to trade seats with her husband, so they can sit together. The only catch is, you would be trading your cushy aisle seat for a cramped middle seat.

Readers, I was in just this situation this morning. Shamefully, I said no. I wanted my carefully selected aisle seat, which offered a bit more room to stretch out. So the passenger turned to the person on her other side with the same request, who responded pretty much as I had. And in that exchange I heard exactly what I must have sounded like with my lame excuses.

My conscience took over and I thought to myself, “Self, what is wrong with you? You’re no better than that self-absorbed jerk who thinks he is more entitled to the aisle seat just because he travels frequently. It’s a short flight. You’re skinnier than you used to be, so sandwiching between two strangers will be less tortuous than it might have been in the past. And for goodness sake, where is your Christian heart? This woman wants to sit next to her husband. You would want the same in her shoes. When did you get so selfish?”

So I mustered the courage to eat some humble pie and offered to give up my seat after all.

Want proof that God forgives mistakes and repays kindness? On the very next leg of my flight, I got upgraded to first class—for the first time since earning elite status last year. I’m convinced that was no coincidence, and I learned an important lesson. With kindness, everyone wins.

On to the story. Let me begin by explaining that biking is a pastime we’ve taken up as a family. Our county is home to several bike trails, including one within riding distance of our house, and it’s a resource that we have decided to take advantage of. So in January, during an after-Christmas sale, Kent and I took the plunge and bought bikes, along with a carrier seat for Noah to ride as a passenger. Since then we’ve tricked ourselves out with accessories such as rearview mirrors (so whoever is in the lead can see the others); bike computers that show our speed, distance, and other information we’ll never use; cushiony seat covers; and a bike rack for the car so we can venture beyond the immediate area.

On Saturday we went for a ride, as we often do when schedules and weather cooperate. It was a beautiful day for being outdoors. Slightly cooler than normal temperatures for this time of year, in just that perfect zone where you can be comfortable in long sleeves or short. Sunny, cloudless skies, with just enough breeze to feel the effort of pedaling against it. What the rest of the country calls Spring, which typically lasts about a day in Florida before the oppressive heat and humidity of summer set in.

So there we were, riding along on our return home after a leisurely afternoon jaunt in which Maia had delighted in racing past us on several occasions, chanting “see ya, wouldn’t wanna be ya” as she blew by, her ponytail streaming behind from underneath her helmet. Without warning, in a non-racing moment, she veered to the right and ran off the sidewalk. There was a bit of a drop from the sidewalk to the grass and she could not recover in time. She toppled over, and I saw immediately what would happen next. I was riding behind, too closely, unable to stop or otherwise react. I crashed right into her still spinning rear wheel. I and my bike landed on top of her.

It was my right handlebar, I think, that caught her in the back. It left a temporary red mark, but she’s a trooper and it was forgotten within moments. I’m not sure which piece of cycling paraphernalia attacked my leg, however. Once we had recalled Kent to the scene of the accident for assistance, untangled ourselves from our bikes, and ascertained that Maia was not seriously injured, I discovered that I am now the proud owner of a colorfully bruised and scraped knot on my right shin that still hurts to the touch. (“Well then don’t touch it,” I can hear you all telepathically coaching me.) The knot resides immediately atop a scar in the same location, the result of a previous graceful episode wherein I fell down a set of stairs in light rain, not even a year ago. There’s no hope that I’ll ever have sexy legs.

Moral of the story? You can’t take me anywhere. But if you do, bring a first aid kit.

I had been planning to drop Maia off at the party, but common sense got the better of me since she had never been ice skating before. I stayed, at her request. She was afraid she might get hurt, and so was I. You get one guess as to which of us actually got injured.

Things started out great. I hadn’t been ice skating in 15 years but was getting into a groove, thinking about how it’s just like riding a bike. After 30 minutes, I hadn’t fallen once. But I should have known better than to get complacent, because I am a klutz. Things just happen to me. I have a scar on my leg from a spill down the stairs earlier this year. I have a scar on my wrist from an incident with a binder at work. I’m the one who tripped on a curb and landed underneath a parked car once in college, ending up on crutches with a sprained ankle (no alcohol involved, which made the incident that much harder to explain!). It’s kind of amazing, actually, that I’ve never broken any bones. I’m sure that’s just a matter of time.

So there I was, skating with Maia, minding my own business, when for no good reason my feet started to slide out from under me. My body ignored my brain’s commands to right itself, and my butt connected with the ice. But my head wanted a piece of the action too, and thunked hard. Very hard. And very, VERY loud. People came rushing over and started asking me difficult questions, like what day it was. It was a test, and I was relieved to have the right answers. It scared poor Maia to death. Someone brought me ice (wait, wasn’t it ice that caused the problem in the first place?). A knot swelled large and fast. It still hurts.

Oh, but it gets even better. There was another birthday party going on at the Ice Den this afternoon. It just happened to be for one of our neighbors. So, in addition to Maia’s first grade classmates and their parents, every single middle school aged kid that lives in my immediate neighborhood witnessed my humiliation.

Whose bright idea was it to have an ice skating party for 7-year-olds, anyway? Then again, this 34-year-old mom was the only one who got hurt. If it was going to happen, it was going to happen to me. The good news is that this is one individual who knows how to get back on the horse, so to speak, and after a brief interlude to ice my swollen noggin, monitor for signs of a concussion, and nurse my bruised pride, I did get back out there. Happily, I have no further misadventures to report.

But I do have excellent news to report. I looked up “patience” in my Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary, 11th Edition, and here is what it said:

Patience: n. the capacity, habit, or fact of being patient

Okay, so far so good. However, in the interest of full disclosure and cross-referencing, I also looked up “patient”:

Patient: adj. 1. bearing pains or trials calmly or without complaint 2. manifesting forbearance under provocation or strain 3. not hasty or impetuous 4. steadfast despite opposition, difficulty, or adversity 5. able or willing to bear

Boy is it ever my lucky day! First of all, I’m not as bad off as I thought. I can be capable of great patience in situations that demand it. I’m generally not a whiner or a complainer. Yet when it comes to the minor, insignificant details of daily life, I am an instant gratification kind of girl. I want results, and I want them now! I want my daughter to find her backpack so she doesn’t have to walk to school when she misses the bus (yes, I made that threat in a fit of impatience). I want my husband to take less than eternity to check all the doors (from both the inside AND the outside) every time we leave the house to make sure they are locked. I also want it to not require confirmation from at least ten witnesses before he is satisfied that he did in fact put the garage door down. I want the drive-thru line at McDonald’s to move just a little faster when I have two hungry kids in the car who are eager to eat so they can go trick or treating. I want my computer at work to recognize that I am a multi-tasker who runs many applications at once, and quit giving me virtual memory errors that render the accursed machine all but inoperable. And I generally just want people to do what they say they will, when they say they will. (Though for the record, I’ve been known to break my word too).

So in a stroke of good fortune, I’m relieved to discover that while my dictionary did not disprove the notion that patience isn’t exactly my strength, neither did it anywhere define patience as being a virtue. Thank goodness for small favors, because I would hate to think I lack a virtuous quality, even if my family does disagree on occasion.

Still, I’m resolved to work on an attitude adjustment and exercise more patience with the little things I cannot control. Because in the end, I am accountable to a much higher authority than Merriam-Webster.

As we were driving home from church this morning, Kent brought up a story that was on CBS Sunday Morning about privacy, surveillance, and how every move you make online and in person is being tracked somewhere, by someone. My reply was that it doesn’t bother me. I’m not doing anything illegal or immoral and I have nothing to hide. You might even say I’m boringly squeaky clean (well, except for that one speeding ticket…). So I just don’t really care if I’m captured on an ATM or traffic camera or if some database somewhere knows what websites I visit or any of a million other details about my family, finances, spending habits, medical history, or anything else in my life. As long as the information isn’t being hacked into and used to steal my identity, the fact that some anonymous person out there might know these things doesn’t change anything for me. I do take the necessary shredding precautions with my personal data at home, but otherwise I don’t worry about this stuff too much. There’s not much I can do about it anyway and I have bigger fish to fry.

But this morning I was feeling impish so just for sport, I decided to shock my dear husband with the fact that somewhere out there, I might have an FBI record. It’s true. On a family vacation to Spain some number of years ago, we were on a flight that was diverted back to New York in the dead of night due to a “security incident,” which turned out to be a bomb threat from an unknown passenger aboard the aircraft. An army of fire trucks and ambulances lined the runway with their flashing lights in preparation for the worst, but we landed safely and taxied to a remote location very far from the terminal, with those flashing lights fanned out behind us reminiscent of O. J. Simpson’s slow speed chase. The FBI was brought in. Everyone on the plane was required to personally identify their luggage on the tarmac in the presence of bomb-sniffing dogs, then herded to a holding location and asked to complete a written statement about anything suspicious they may have seen. My best educated guess is that the FBI now has a dossier on me with at least that one piece of paper. For a few brief hours I, along with all my fellow passengers, was a suspect. We weren’t even allowed to go to the bathroom without an FBI escort.

The rest of the conversation went something like this.

Kent: When did this trip happen?

Me: I don’t remember. I think maybe sometime in high school?

Kent: (Hysterical laughter)

Me: What? What’s so funny?

Kent (hurt): I was there! It was May 1997. I was with you the whole time and you don’t even remember!!!

Oops.

No wonder I had never thought to tell him this story before. Let me state right now for the record that he is absolutely right. He was with me through the whole traumatic experience. This was an oops of gigantic proportions. It was a family vacation, but one taken after Kent and I were married, so he was of course there too. Much apologizing and soothing his hurt feelings ensued, along with quite a bit of laughter and teasing about my early onset Alzheimer’s. Plus the suggestion from Kent that I start taking vitamins because maybe I have not been eating right on my diet, and it might have addled my brain. I’ll be making up for this one for a very long time.

In my admittedly shaky defense, I’ve been to Spain several times growing up because it is my father’s homeland and part of my heritage, and most of his family is there. After a while the trips all kind of blend together. Obviously I would never forget that Kent and I had been to Spain together with my family; I just forgot it was THAT trip. But I do now remember hitting all the newsstands in Madrid with him, looking in the English language papers for mention of the incident, and finally finding it in USA Today.

And the sad proof that I have become addicted to blogging? The laughter had not yet subsided ringing in our ears when I said the first thing that popped into my head, “I think I just got my blog story for today.”