On the Barbie:

That spouse o' mine, like many spouses we all know and love, is a pyromaniac. Loves a fire, loves to watch things burn. He's not idiot dangerous or anything, but he does love a good blaze.

It was a beautiful spring day, years ago when we lived in the Great North (Michigan), that he gathered up all the fallen limbs, leaves, any naturally-combustible material he could find in our yard. And lit it up - high! He was having a heyday. One of our backyard neighbors, a "difficult" one, was not enjoying the inferno, or the smoke. And probably not enjoying any of the delightful goings-on that day in our yard: preschool kids running amok, happy voices and commotion in our backyard (Paul's sister was visiting), and who-knows-what else.

I was in the kitchen, preparing a preschooler's birthday cake for her small party, and I looked up just in time to see the East Lansing Fire Department fire truck pull into our drive. I ran to the back door, saw the bonfire, saw Paul, saw everything was under control (albeit burning quite healthily). I ran back to the kitchen. Oh no! I didn't want to receive some sort of civil unrest ticket for what in my life with that spouse o' mine is a regular occurrence. I thought fast. I grabbed the plate of ribs sitting on the countertop and handed them to someone (I don't remember WHO, at this point), and said, "QUICK! Take these out to Dad!"

And then I calmly walked to the side gate to meet the firemen. How embarrassing. They asked if we had a fire. I said yes, we have a fire, we're cooking ribs; come on back. And I let them into the backyard, to a pastoral scene of little preschool kids frolicking in the yard, and Paul and his sister standing and chatting around this BLAZE, calmly holding the plate of ribs, as if this was how we always spent our afternoons, cooking gigantic amounts of meat over head-high thundering flames.

We did not receive a citation from the firemen.

I love my life.