A Funny Thing Happened on the Plane...

We're finally leaving Europe. Part of me is sad to go since it means going back to my otherwise normal existence, while the rest of me is just really excited to get out of the damn cold and back home where I'll be able to wear flip flops any given day because there isn't a shitload of snow falling every damn day.

Our bags are checked, we managed to score an entire row on the plane courtesy of the nice man at check-in and we've got about 3 more hours left on the flight when I decide I need to use the lavatory. I put the Bourne Identity on pause, walk the few rows down to the toilet, lock my door, pop a squat and let nature go.

...and then suddenly I realize something is very very horribly wrong. Why?? 

Because the lid to the toilet is still down. 

Which means my pee isn't going where it needs to go. 

Instead, it's going on my tights, my underwear, and yes, the floor.

The next three minutes essentially consisted of me standing in a puddle of my own urine with my skivvies to my knees whispering, "whatthefuckwhatthefuckohmygodwhatdoidowhatdoido?!?!"

When I finally calmed down long enough to realize that no, this wasn't just a bad dream, that I really did just urinate all over the damn place and myself, I knew what I had to do: get rid of the pee. Once the floor was as clean as standard-issue paper towels could make them, I turned my attention to the most pressing (and uncomfortably soaked) issue: my dirty laundry. There was, however, a few tiny issues with this problem, namely that my tights were tucked into my socks...and my socks were tucked in my knee-high boots. 

So yeah, I'll say it: I got butt-nekkid in an airplane lavatory... to dispose of my pee-soaked tights and undies.

Of course, this was a problem because those pee-soaked tights? There were the only things I had on and there was no way in five levels of hell or obesity that I was going to walk down back to my seat butt-nekkid either. Mercifully, that morning was freezing and I had pulled on TWO sets of tights before leaving our hotel. So while the red tights I had on were done for, the inner, black ones were thankfully spared  from getting drenched in (my) piss. I then pulled a Cirque du Soleil-worthy performance in about ten square feet of lavatory space over the Atlantic ocean to pull off the offending clothing and stuff my ruined underwear in the trash. Unfortunately, I'm a little in love with my red tights and thus, figured they could be saved. After washing them in the sink however, I had another issue: it'd be painfully obvious for me to walk back to my seat with my drenched tights in hand since I clearly didn't plan on soiling the bathroom floor and didn't bother bringing a purse with me.

After stuffing the tights underneath the plane's sink, I walked back to my seat, uncomfortably and embarrassingly in commando, found one(!!!!!!) spare ziplog bag and an extra set of underwear and doubled-back to the lavatory. There, retrieved the evidence of my bathroom-crime and did yet another circus act so I wasn't pulling a Britney Spears in the plane. Once I got back to my seat, I turned to my friend, told her what had happened and she laughed her ass off till we finally landed.

What a way to end a trip.

R.I.P. Mappy

While it's tattered and in literal pieces (many of which I can't find or have been lost on the Paris streets) this map managed to guide two non-French speaking, directionally-challenged Americans in the snow/rain through strange roads and unpronounceable streets.

I'd like to tell you exactly when the damage was done...but this happened on our second day in Paris when we explored everything under the falling snow...and when I dropped this map into far too many puddles of slush.

Thank you Mappy. You served us well. Godspeed.

Made for Walking

Despite the fact that it's freezing outside, we walk almost everywhere. We take pictures of everything from the beautiful and historical to the mundane and strange (think: topless running man in London) and, on some occasions when we happen to pass by a field of untouched snow, I do what every mature 24 year old does and go running/frolicking into it. Why? Because it's fun, especially when that snow feels like fresh powder instead of slush or thin ice that you could slide on and die from.

We've been doing this since we got to Europe so it's easy for me to tell that something is wrong on this particular day as we walk around. For one, my toes feel wet and cold. I shrug this off since I figure I dunno, I have feet sweat or something. But then, I get the feeling that something is wedged to my heel. When I pull up my boot to look at it, I see that there's nothing on my heel...just a crack on the sole right across where snow and slush has been seeping in. Of course, I check the other side and lo and behold: I've got twin cracked boots.

Boo. Sadface.

I had to leave the poor things in Paris...along with some of the cheese that I couldn't bring myself to put in my bag for fear of everlasting stench.

Twisted

I've had this ring for less than a year, finding it in a marketplace in Seattle when we drove down from Canada, and buying it on the spot because I've always loved Claddagh rings and because it's rare for me to find a ring that fits my tiny, child-like fingers.

I was under the impression that it was made of silver, because it doesn't bend when I drop/smush/play with it and my finger hasn't turned green with the silver plating rubbing off of it. So you can imagine my immense surprise when I pull it off in a moment of boredom and suddenly realize: the damn thing is bent. Like, literally bent.

Considering that I've barely taken this ring off because we've been so damn busy every day and because it's fucking freezing that I'd be an idiot to pull off my gloves for an extended period of time (unless, of course, I'm taking photos), I'm baffled. Nope, not confused, baffled. Because I honestly can't imagine how/why/when this all happened.

So I'm a little sad now.

...Until I realize it's a great excuse to find another ring in Paris :D

Edit: I'm hooooome!!

Delayed

Did you know that when the weather gets cold enough, snow will actually accumulate on airplanes and just.not.let.go?? When this happens, a team of people are brought in to actually de-ice those planes.

And this, ladies and gentlemen, is why our flight left over an hour later than scheduled. And while it totally damaged our plans to get into the country, I gotta say we got really lucky. If you've got an eye on the news, aside from everything going in Algeria, the European news keeps covering the hundreds of flights that have been canceled/delayed for days especially in London Heathrow. Considering that we managed to get out of the country when the airport shut down 260+ flights (including two which were flying into Paris), we got really freaking lucky.

(By the way, we have managed to make it to Paris and are happily in our room, having eaten a fabulous breakfast and ready to take on this freezing wonderland. See you soon!)

Flurries

We know ahead of time that it's going to snow. She's excited about it, while all I hear is "cold, ice, and frostbite." We plan to do all our outside activities in the morning since it's supposed to snow in the afternoon. So, of course, the first thing we see the moment we walk outside our hotel is, what? Yeah, that's right: SNOW.

And I don't know what it is, but in that instant when thousand flurries fall all around me, I forget how much I hate the snow. Because snow is awful and freezing and I'm somewhat aware that my face is being frozen and it's getting on my hair, ruining the effort I had put into ironing it, but oh my GOD it's so pretty that I just honestly can NOT care. We spend the whole day walking through snow and I even manage to dance in a good set of it while we attempt to build the saddest, smallest, most lopsided snowman everrr outside a museum.

It's a freezing ass day, but I can't complain because the closest I've come to snow was the slush that we found on the streets of Atlanta when I was a child. It snows for most of the day and as we're riding the Underground to get back home, she points to my points and goes, "What's that??"

Considering that these boots just came in, I should be utterly scandalized. Instead, i shrug it off. I'm still not sure what this stain is, but I can't really care. If these temporary streaks are the price I have to pay to enjoy a day of snow, it's well worth it.

Pop!

The last time we went to Europe, the fuses on our converters blew out on the tail end of our vacation. We were largely okay with this but my sister, who largely refused to ever step 10 feet out of our house without her hair done and make up on, made the executive decision to either not come out sightseeing with us...or otherwise manage to not be photographed. Like a ghost.

So when I announced that I was going to Europe and taking my new Chi (courtesy of the same little sister), she warned me against it, bringing back up her summer of nappiness. And me, being wonderfully, idiotically vain, ignored her warnings. I figured, hey, that summer of naps happened because we had the wrong converters or we left the irons on too long that they short-circuited. I essentially made excuses because there was no way in hell, heaven or earth that I was going to be walking around Europe looking a hot damn mess just because there was a small (extreme) likelihood of my iron, you know, potentially lighting on fire.

And so, when I rolled out of bed an hour ago and plugged in my converter and my iron, I took every precaution: used a converter, used an adaptor, and ran my hair through it quickly before it had a chance to get too hot before unplugging the entire set and doing it all over again. I figured I was doing okay.

...and then I heard the dreaded pop of doom and turned in the split second that it took to see an actual spark come off my converter.

Yup, my only converter is dead. On the bright side, my iron is just fine...and my hair looks fab. So yay?

F.M.L.

Apparently, I attempted to buy $6000 worth of goods/services through Groupon before 5 am today... even though I'd been asleep since 11 pm the night before.
Considering that I'm leaving the country in 3 days and that my major credit card suddenly got jacked by some jackass with a death wish, there was no way to get out of my bed on the right side this morning. The only thing I could do was talk to the Filipino woman who pretended to be in the USA, cancel by Baby Blue (as I called him) and shred my beautiful Freedom card to little, tiny pieces... Ironically in the shedder that I got through Groupon.

FML? Ooooh yeah. FML

To Carry Love on Her Arms

Natalie* had been working overseas for two months, finally boarding a flight home at the end of production. She's been working on the Filipino version of Survivor so it'll take at least a day's worth of travel, a little more since she's literally on the other side of the planet. So she prepares herself for a very long flight. She's ready to come home, not having had any contact with her grandparents, mother or stepfather in these past months.

He's already killed himself, but she won't know that until her plane lands.

She was close to him, "He dated my mom for four years before they finally got married." She pauses for a moment and adds as an afterthought, "This month would've been their tenth anniversary."

He had put a gun to his head. "There was no warning, no reason," Natalie offers when I ask. As far as anyone knew, he hadn't had any problems, let alone depression or suicidal tendencies.

Four weeks later, she writes the word "love" on her wrist, letting it face inwards, "So I keep the love in, instead of sending it away."



She had planned on getting this tattoo beforehand. Now, on the heels of death, it acts as a small memorial to a man long gone. The token heart at the side isn't just a decoration. It's on her pulse and every time she touches it, it reminds her that she's still alive too.

5pm Dinners

I turned five the summer we came into the US.

I don't remember the first place we lived at, but I remember our first home. It was an apartment in the tall building across the street from my mom's hospital where we lived for about two years. It was where I grew up around the beginnings of the Filipino cult that would ultimately rule my life in the years to come. It had a pool on top that my dad taught us to swim in and a laundromat by the elevators where we challenged ourselves to roller blade on because the surface was so smooth we'd eventually slip and fall.

2013 will mark 20 years since I've lived in this country. Not many things have survived the last 2 decades throughout our moves. Most are sentimental or practical objects; photographs and clothes mostly (and an extensive set of stuffed animals). But this is special...

When we first moved into our first real home, I remember it being bare. 

So bare, in fact, that we didn't even have a table to eat off of. I think some people would be a little embarrassed to admit this, but hey, we were fresh-off-the-boat immigrants. The fact that we had legal papers and a source of income that didn't run the risk of being arrested meant we were on the up and up to begin with.

Looking back, our financial situation must've been a little frustrating for my parents, but I don't remember it that way. After all, when you're five, you don't think "Oh, we don't have a table to eat off." You think: "Ooh yay! A picnic in the living room!!" Or at least I did.

This was the first table we brought home. We always ate around 5pm so that we could have "dinner" together before my mother left for her night shift. I wouldn't understand until much later that most American families ate later in the evenings because, well, all I really knew outside that apartment were other Filipino families whose parents worked the nightshift as well. As far as I was concerned, gathering at your table at the late afternoon to have dinner was the social norm.

My parents would make my sister and I pray grace back before we questioned religion and God and the politics we couldn't understand. I still remember that song today,

"God is great and God is good,
Let us thank him for our food.
Aaaaaaaamen."

You see those corny ads about "Families that eat together etc..." but I didn't realize then and even until recently how rare this actually happens...and how lucky I was to have it. Over the years, I'd grown complacent in appreciating those early dinners, thinking that it would always be there every day at 5pm like always. And, as with most of my thinking from my early years, I was wrong.

This table is still with us today, on our back porch, next to the lounge chairs and the stationary bike that my dad has barely touched since I got it for him last Christmas. The chairs of the set are scattered around my house, re-upholstered years ago, but (like this table) are rarely used.

But...on special occasions when the weather is right, my dad fires up the grill, my mom sets the table and we sit together again...

Slackerific

Sooo I had totally planned to work on some of the photos friends have sent me to come up with witty and intelligent entries about the damages in people lives that define them in some capacity. 

...And then I started playing Tetris...and Candy Crush...and then I went on Facebook...and then to the gym...and I took a nap after eating a deeeeelicious chicken pot pie. And what I guess what I'm trying to tell you is, Sorry. But I was lazy today. So I did what every hack-writer does and pulled something from my personal archives. Enjoy this old entry! I'll do my best to make it up to you tomorrow (Or today...whatever, you know what I mean):

Did you know that when they pierce your nose, they shove a really, mother-effin long-ass needle through your nose?? Like, that sucker when through my nostril down to my chin!! And Tiff is there on the side, laughing her ass off, trying to find her cellphone in the black hole that is her bag because,

"I have to take a picture of this!" She comes over to my side and the burly man with the black gloves and huge plugs chuckles and points,

"Make sure you get a good shot of that single tear running down her cheek." 

...Assholes. The both of them.

First Lenses

 I've always loved taking pictures. Didn't have a real talent for it, but I loved doing it. I liked catching unguarded moments; friends with food halfway to their open mouths, laughing hysterically, candid images that still mean more to me today than the posed photos I take with friends on nights out. And this is when it started.

It was Christmas 2004. My sister and I are in our PJs in our childhood home and our parents have (as usual) given us the same presents. Instead of the usual clothes or beautiful jewelry that our mom would tuck away once we open them so that we wouldn't lose them, we've got something a little more interesting: A Sony Cybershot.

I remember thinking that it was bulky even by early 2000s standards, but I was so excited to finally have a digital camera of my own that I honestly didn't care. I went nuts with that camera for the following year, taking pictures of whatever and whoever I could for shits and giggles. People, places, objects, nothing was safe from my camera. And I loved every minute of it.

This camera stuck around through the following year, up until the end of my senior year when I tried to turn it on...and it just wouldn't. Granted, I know I dropped it a couple of times, but I was still pretty devastated when it wouldn't turn on. It's been a few years, the rim around the lens fell off at some point and there are far too many scratches on the surfaces from me stuffing it into my backpack without any protective cover from my pens and highlighters in my Jansport pocket. I've had a few more cameras since this baby, but I've kept it around anyway. There's always something about your firsts...

Just...No. Just No.

...Lord, where do I begin with this??

This past weekend, I had the greatest joy to go to the Happiest Place on Earth: DISNEYWORLD. Yes, I'm aware that it's largely for human beings under the age of puberty and that college graduates tend to go further down the block to Islands of Adventures instead. But you know what? Screw that. Because Fantasyland just opened and this needed to happen.

In the past few years, Disney started doing this Bibbidi Bobbidi Boutique, a place that offers packages to turn little girls into princesses. Bottom line: Parents pay through the nose to slap on some make-up, ratty hair-extensions, nail-polish and a sparkly dress on their little girls to create a magical day that they'll always remember.

Apparently...there's an option for boys too. Yup, I shit you not. They turn little boys into Knights, which you think would be accomplished with just the sword and shield, but Disney (being Disney) takes things up a notch. "How?" You ask?? By putting glitter in their hair. Yes, that's right: GLITTER.

Boys are turned into knights with glitter and extremely misplaced spray-paint. (Because that's how the guys from the Round Table walked around too...) Today's post not only displays the damage to this poor child's hair, and the hair of his male peers with well-meaning but clearly misdirected parents, but the pain I'm certain his soul and mirror have to go through.

Omg Sadface

Paddy died. 

I don't know how or why, but I'm uber sad and I'd like to crawl into a ball and cry now. After a weekend of pretty awesomeness, I woke up to find that my favorite birthday present somehow refuses to turn on and nothing I do will make it wake up. Shoot me.

The Roof Story

For the record, I want to say that this is old news. So old that it was literally in the last millenia and it exasperates me that this is still something I have to explain to newcomers so that they don't think I'm certifiably insane.

It was December 1999 and my sister and I had realized that, if we opened our bathroom window and pushed out the screen, we could climb atop the soap dispenser, onto the ledge and out to the roof above our front door. It was at least twenty feet up and definitely not safe but gimme a break: I was in middle school. I remember being utterly fascinated with this discovery, like I'd uncovered some awesome secret that was hidden in my house instead of a painfully-obvious architectural detail. I'd go up there from time to time for no other reason than to just know that I'd done it: I went on the roof. In retrospect, it wasn't exactly an amazing accomplishment, but I distinctly remember feeling proud, feeling brave, feeling dangerous (yeah, I know) every time I climbed back down into my bathroom, washing away my red footprints in the tub.

Somewhere down this road of feeling proud, brave and dangerous, I got stupid. Moreover, I got cocky. And like most stupid, cocky preteens, I started lying. I'd decided to declare to the world that I was so awesome that I jumped off that red roof and walked away without a scratch.

Did I mention that I was stupid?

Of course, after you say something so ridiculous and farfetched, no one believes you and you find yourself forced by a group of your own peers to either admit that you didn't tell the truth...or to prove something that didn't happen in the first place. Since I was more proud than brave, I chose the latter and figured, "It's not that high, I'm sure I can do it."

And so, in the first week of December 1999, I opened my bathroom window, slid the screen aside and climbed; one foot on the soap dispenser, another on the ledge and I was suddenly 20 feet up on a red, sloping edge. And this, ladies and gentlemen, was when I understood the saying, "Damned if you do, damned if you don't," because LO AND BEHOLD! A certain small, terrifying someone was knock, knock, knocking on the bathroom door, demanding in suspicious, heavily-accented words to know why a gaggle of girls were holed up in one locked bathroom.

My mother, bless her crazy heart, always has a lovely sense of inopportune timing.

To this day, I don't know if one of the girls slammed the window shut in panic or if I ordered them to do so because there wasn't time to climb back into the bathroom (again, have I mentioned I was stupid?? I mean, really! It would've taken me two seconds to run through the window! Two measly seconds!!). What I do know without a shadow of a doubt was that I had two ways off that roof. On one hand, I could go through the same window that I had crawled through just minutes before, thereby revealing myself to my mother, admitting being naughty and incurring the wrath of a 4'10" Filipino dragon.

...or I could jump off the roof, hopefully land on the ground without a scratch instead of dying and not be revealed as a liar to my friends or a deviant to my mother.

Admonishment within my home vs potentially fatal damage. You'd think it'd be such an easy decision. But, you see, when you're young, stupid and in a panic because your mother is about 3 yards and a bathroom window away from catching you red-footed, you don't always make the best choices. As I write this, I'm very aware that someone might be reading (do you have nothing else better to do today??) and think, "Hey! That's not why you told me you jumped!"

Well, yeah. Didn't we cover this? I was a brave and stupid liar who would've rather told an interesting lie than admit that I was just seriously trying to get away from my mother. After 1 month in a cast with 2 broken toes and 13 years worth of embrassing laughter every time someone brings it up, I always hope this story will just die. But since it hasn't happened in the last decade, I figure might as well give you all a narrative to go with. Here, I'll even start it off for you,

"Once upon a time, there was a really short girl in a bathroom..."

Cuddle Buddies

"So... Who's getting the bed?"

We all look up from our respective dishes; Tiff from her Mongolian Beef noodles, Jess from the spicy Bulgogi bowl in which she's shamelessly separated her vegetables aside (-____-), and me from the Chicken Teriyaki box that I've annihilated in the short time we've spent at Bento. There are no Bentos in South Florida so when we decided to take this road trip up north, we all agreed that we needed to make a pit stop (read: pilgrimage) at the one restaurant that pretty much defined most of our dining experiences back in college.

I've just practically skipped out of work like a coked-up bunny in anticipation for this trip, running on two hours of sleep and utter excitement when we all pile into Jessica's car and get ready to run away for the weekend. Once we're safely away from her parents' house, I crawl into my pj's and knock the fuck out on the backseat of Jessie's SUV (read: the Icebox). A little over three hours later, we pull into one of the branches of our college-fav franchise and enjoy the nostalgia.

There were supposed to be four of us on the trip, originally; our wife had to cancel at the last minute so we've got two beds and three chicks. And so, we decide who gets the bed to themselves in the grown-up, mature way that all young adults do in making choices: rock, paper, scissors. But for some reason, we decide to pass on that. We also pass on drawing straws because I keep breaking the straws so Tiff pulls a receipt for a bag of M&Ms (she has a mild addiction) from her bag and breaks it up to three pieces, writing "Share" on two and "Bed!" on one. I fold them, and Jessie shakes them up in the empty candle holder on our table.

Guess who wooooon?

26 Weeks

I know I'm supposed to talk about how today's picture came to be... but you can buy 50 Shades of Grey just about anywhere, and if you still need someone to explain it to you, then clearly your parents need to adjust your internet filter. So instead, I'm going to write...and rant...just a little though.

Write and rant? Wrant? 

Yeah. I'm going to wrant.

I'm not a fan of pregnancy. 

Babies? Oh hell yeah. They're cute, smushy and they're the only creatures whose bodily fluids can be considered "adorable." Pregnancy? That thing where you essentially grow a living parasite that literally feeds off your body while simultaneously wrecking it? One word: Ugh. 

When we're little girls, we learn to take care of babies via our dolls: how to feed them, love them, put them to sleep... hell, there are a few dolls that actually poop. No, really. Look it up. It's happened. Someone actually made that. Even at a young age, we're taught to be nurturers and you know, what? That's cool. We're taught to love another being, inanimate or otherwise and I think that's a lesson a few people/sociopaths could try to learn at a young age. 

...But you ever notice how no one tells little girls how those babies are made? I feel like every family sitcom I've watched has had one, clueless, adorable kid ask where babies come from and their family members inevitably stutters and comically attempts to explain the birds and the bees using GI Joe or Barbie. 

Babies are beautiful little gifts from above, and like, all presents, we all know better than to discuss the price you paid to get them. Pregnancy isn't pretty, but it's not a total loss. You do get a few things back. 

You get pounds, you get stretch marks, you get mildly insane from the hormones from hell, and you also get up close and personal with the porcelain god more often than you'd ever wanted to in your adult life. You also get more advice than you'd probably want or need in your life to the point that it all starts to feel like more condescending than helpful.

No matter how many times someone spews the phrase "the miracle of birth," my mind flashes to that middle school video in my darkened classroom to that bloody-but-supposedly-education-film and I think, "HOW CAN THIS BE A MIRACLE?!"

...and then I think of this big belly, this peanut-sized thing that's growing day after day after day and of cousins rubbing said-big belly with slightly-inebriated squeals of joy in a parking lot. And I think of a few other peanuts at work; the ones who made it out to the world but never made it home. And I think of a few peanuts that blew up to chubby toddlers waddling around on a tile floor on New Years Eve, slapping boobs while giggling and calling for attention when they feel their mommies aren't showering them with enough affection.

And then I look at this belly and I can't help but smile because I'm not seeing a "miracle" or stretch marks or a living barnacle through a few layers of skin.  

I see someone beautiful that I can't wait to meet.

Home from Home

I had lived in the same house for a dozen years when I blew my family away with the news that I wanted to move 300 miles away from them. Needless to say, some of them were a tad more accepting than others.

Moving away was a big adventure for me. I'd never been away from any member of my family for more than 48 hours so moving to another city and not seeing any of them for weeks at a time was a new experience (read: freeeeeeeeedom!!).

At around the same time, my parents decided to move to a new house in the middle of nowhere. As happy as I was that I was living away from them, I resented them heavily for taking my childhood home away from me. Yes, I wasn't actually living in the house, but it was the one true home I'd had all my life... and neither a new house in BFE or the dorm I shared on the fourth floor could match up in my mind to the solace a small bedroom with a walk-in closet could bring  me.

One weekend, my dad took my key while I was sleeping and had it covered with my university mascot to surprise me. It was a silly but oddly fitting act, putting both of my homes on one surface. Afterwards, whether I was turning the lock on my new house in Florida City or swiping my keycard to get into my dorm, I'd glance at the little piece of orange and blue and sienna in my palm and think, "Oh, I'm home." It was a comforting thought that was right and wrong and consoling all at once to a girl split between two cities who honestly didn't feel at home anywhere.

It's been a while since I walked on campus (a few months in fact, when I decided to run stadiums in the middle of a roadtrip), let alone walked into a dorm. Years have passed and the orange and blue layer fades a little more every time I come to this house. And every so often when I see the scraped surface as I reach for the knob, I think, "I'm home...right?"

Torched Tights for Thunder Thighs

We've celebrated New Year's Eve together since the early 1900s. 

At first, it was in a tall apartment building across the street from a huge hospital in the city. Later, it was in a giant cul-de-sac under a four-story tent of lights strung from mailboxes. Nowadays, it's at one house, specifically one backyard where a horde of people come together to pray to a giant Baby Jesus statue (*cough*cult*cough*), eat from a roasted pig, drink too many different types of alcohol, and countdown the seconds til we set off fireworks where the altar had been standing two hours beforehand.
Usually, we're pretty good at this; we're fun, but not trashy. We're loud, but everyone in Miami is louder. And we're an army of Asian nurses so you'd think we'd adhere to actual safety rules... but we don't. You'd also think that we'd learn our lesson from last year's debacle... where someone lit a flare...knocked it over...and, instead of exploding in the air safely and beautifully, blew up like a mine on the ground resulting in a hole in my dad's shoe, a few burned patches of skin and one very pretty dress with a nice scorch mark.
This year, as one man held up one fuse, another one uttered the igniting words: "Just light it...and run."
...What the words should have been were, "Just light it...drop it in the tube...and then run." As a result, a firework that would've shine pretty, gold and red in the sky had it been dropped in said tube, instead exploded on the surface of the tiled backyard.
As a result, women screamed, men laughed, and poor Thunder Thighs' tights got torched. 
Happy New Year folks!