Great Pink Tissue Pom-Poms of Fire

Continuing my life theme of having zero original ideas, my friend, Amy, and I stole several from the Hostess for a whimsical garden baby shower.

We can't wait to meet baby Harper in a month and since she has an older brother, we decided it had better be pretty girly.

Actually, I'm not even sure what a whimsical garden is, but it sounded good.

Whenever I see pictures of cute pregnant people, like Harper's mom, Kari, I want to superimpose my head over theirs and create a photo album featuring myself as a cute pregnant girl instead of the Impossibly Gigantic Neanderthal Theme my body chose to embrace.

Oh, and by the way, since I hate uploading pictures (may have mentioned it a time or two) these are in no particular order...just be glad they're all here.

This was my favorite...the outdoor concession stand on the deck:

Have you seen those adorable found wooden Coca-Cola crates? One might be tempted think they're a bargain at $24, but I got mine for FREE right out of my mom's garage.

GO MOM! THREE CHEERS FOR SAVING JUNK FOR ME!!!!

We drank (I don't hang out with "sippers") out of these adorable mini-canning jars, wrapped up with ribbon.

Probably the best part of the decor were the tissue pom-poms. They are a great Martha Stewart invention, found at Michael's, shamelessly copied from every other blog out there.

Note how beautifully and non-fiery they seem. (I'll get to that in a minute.)

The hummingbird cupcakes (and most importantly, the cream cheese frosting) were fab.

And the brownies weren't too bad, either.

Amy made these amazing skewers covered in Oreo dirt. YUM.

And lastly, here is the scene looking into the kitchen before the tissue poms caught ablaze.

Amy already blogged the wild sequence of events so beautifully, but here's my two cents anyway.

After the shower, as I leaned with my back to the island, the largest, light pink tissue pom apparently dropped from the sky and landed on a votive candle.

Turning around, we couldn't help but notice it was en fuego in a big way.

Not like a cute little smoldering s'more.

More like a gigantic pink tissue puff with huge orange flames in my very kitchen.

Here is my thought sequence for the following 30 seconds, that actually seemed like 30 minutes:

I'm going to stomp out the flaming pink puff.

No!

Brad will be upset about the hardwood floors.

And I'm wearing amazing gold flip flops and white pants--they'll singe!

Outside.

I'll take the puff with ever-growing flames outside.

No!

I'm pretty sure a wood deck is highly flammable.

That would be bad.

To the sink!

I don't think stainless steel burns.

We'll find out and see.

(At this point, with all of the waving around of the tissue puff like a Chinese dragon, and lack of coherent and immediate decision-making, the air had fueled the fire and flames were huge. A literal fireball.)

(Also, the smoke alarms were going off throughout the house and I was screaming for Brad, who was upstairs in the playroom).

I got out the sprayer and, with ashes flying, sprayed that puff right out.

Amy had bravely dashed outside to grab the cute green pitcher and was going to dump approximately eight remaining ounces of water on the puff to douse the flames.

Luckily, I had extinguished it with the ferocious vegetable sprayer and things were calming down.

(Other than the smoke and alarms, which were still sounding loudly.)

At this point, Amy and I were laughing so hard that we couldn't talk. 

Couldn't breathe. 

Couldn't even stand up straight.

So, of course, this is the time Brad arrived on the scene.

Alarms were piercing, smoke filled the kitchen, and Amy and I couldn't even explain ourselves or much less speak to him.

For at least five minutes.

Then, when Amy noticed the black ash on my face and clothes, things started all over again.

Brad just jumped right in and laughed with us, thinking, "My sweet, lovable, and occasionally careless wife is at it again."

Um, no.

He was running around waving towels, trying to get the smoke outside, attempting to make the alarms stop, and continually asking us what on earth happened.

Unfortunately, we still couldn't speak...due to the laughter and all.

The kicker was the next day at the gym, when I was retelling the story to a friend who had been at the shower, but luckily, left before her life was jeopardized.

At which point, she noticed a significant lack of arm hair on my right arm.

I am a hairy wildebeast, so I actually considered this a blessing in disguise.

Unfortunately, it's a little bit patchy and my other arm could be made into a wig.

But still.

After a few natural home disasters...flood, avalanche, hail, and fire...I'm just wondering what's next.

And Brad is considering buying a trailer for himself and the kids to live in out front.