"Liar, liar, house on fire!"

So, last Saturday we had a bit of a scare. Okay, more than a bit. A lot of a scare.

Marty and I were just hanging out, watching a show on the food network ("Ace of Cakes", baby!), when Marty looked out our sliding glass door and saw huge amounts of smoke coming from somewhere freakishly close to our backyard. He called 911, but they said the fire department was already on their way. So we walked outside, and saw flames billowing up from the running trail right behind our neighbor Rana's back fence.

The firefighters showed up a couple minutes later and started hosing everything down, including our own back fence. As they tried to contain the flames, a bunch of us neighbors, my husband included, were using our measly little garden hoses to wet down the very flammable weeds and growth in Rana's back yard.

I felt helpless for one of the first times in my life. I had my sister take the baby over to Bobby and Candace's house so he would be safe and out of the way, since I was worried about him inhaling too much smoke for his tiny lungs. I called my mom and my mother-in-law to ask that they start praying.

But even after I got those things checked off my "what to do in an emergency" list, I still had no clue what to do to help the situation. I just wandered aimlessly through my precious home muttering, "God, build a wall of protection around my house. God, build a wall of protection around my house." What more could I do?

Funny how in a situation like that, when you begin to realize that you could quite possibly lose everything, every single item that catches your eye becomes unbearably sentimental. As I paced, I began to cry over the things I would miss should the fire spread. And I'm not a materialistic person--you can tell by the fact that almost all of our home furnishings are hand-me-downs. But I attach my emotions to "things" more than I should. That dirty white couch in our living room has been with us since we first got married, and I can remember all three times we've moved it to a new place, grunting and cursing it as we tried to shove it through three very small doors. And the two bamboo tables in our living room were the first couple things I bought for our home, in my pathetic attempt to decorate by scouring the local Ross for a great deal. Every little thing has a story behind it, and if I were to lose everything, I'd lose the stories along with them.

My mom had mentioned that it might be a good idea to start packing a couple precious items into our car, like photo albums, favorite toys or blankets of Marty's, and anything I just couldn't live without. My mother-in-law mentioned that it might be a good idea to start packing a couple important items into our car, like birth certificates and an outfit for each of us should we get evacuated. All great advice, but what do you grab first?

Here's where my lameness came into play. And why I managed to laugh despite the threat of everything we own reducing to ashes. I was frantic as I started gathering things to put in the car because I couldn't find my new wide-led pants. And I just wouldn't let myself leave the house without them. I mean, they look great on me, and they're super comfortable, and you just can't find that every day. What if Macy's no longer carried them? Or what if they were out of my size? I was not willing to risk that, so with smoke filling my lungs, and the sound of fire truck sirens echoing in my ear, I ripped through all the piles of clothes on our bedroom floor until I found them.

So with my favorite pants in tow, I went outside and found out what had happened. The fire was started by a couple troubled teens who dared each other to light one, then got caught when they called the cops on themselves. Let's just say I wanted to walk over to that cop car sitting at the end of the street with the guilty girls in it and give them what-for. Righteous anger, in my opinion, when someone deliberately, and for no good reason, puts your whole life--your home and family--at risk. Anyone seen "What Happens in Vegas"? I had half a mind to knock on the squad car window, punch them in the face, and yell, "You KNOW what you did!"

Now though, looking back, the fire wasn't as serious as we made it out to be. I think Billy said it best, "At least the air smells like hickory." Dee-lish, if I do say so myself.