There are warnings printed on a good number of the items we buy.
A few examples: ‘Skin irritant’, ‘Choking hazard’, ‘Do not operate heavy machinery while on this medication’.
I’ve always liked that last one. I mean, of course a car would qualify as ‘heavy machinery’, but it still conjures visions of every suburban household with a Caterpillar bulldozer or hydraulic mining shovel in the driveway whenever I read that label.
‘Yes, dear, you can have your pills, but first hand me the keys to our combine harvester.”
One of the most popular advisories on something sharp, chemical or hazardous-in-any-way is ‘Keep out of reach of children’. Kids tend to be curious, the world is a dangerous place, and so on. However, in recent weeks, I’ve begun to feel that perhaps that particular warning should be updated to include ‘and idiots’.
Why? Read on.
I have a fire pit table on my back deck. I bought it ages ago and barely use it, but when I do bother, it looks great. It brings a calming effect to the atmosphere – makes us all feel like we’re at a ski lodge in Aspen, even when it’s pushing 85 degrees F outside.
The burner runs along the top of the table, seated in a shallow metal trough, with empty space on either side.
I was fine with it the way it looked, but one day, my brother Dominic stopped by and said, “You know, there really should be rocks around that burner.”
Oh? Maybe I had only been appreciating it at half its potential glory.
Well, the next time friends came by for a spot of swimming as the sun was setting, I thought I’d get the table going for fun, as it sat near the deep end of the pool.
What was it that Dominic had suggested? I was positive I had some smooth stones that would look perfect in the burner gully.
Sure enough, on the ground in one part of the garden was a collection of landscaping pebbles ranging in colour from ivory to onyx. These would definitely do the trick! I gathered them up and placed them in the table. He was right – they really did add to its magnificence.
On went the gas, the pilot sprung to life, and there was the flame, running down the centre, its light dancing off the polished surface of its new accessories. The whole effect was magical! Could a call from HGTV be far behind?
My friend Carol was the first to arrive, and so we got in the pool early, getting used to the temperature of the water, which was still on the cool side.
I began to proudly tell her of my personal upgrade to the fire table, and just as we joked about the whole thing exploding, a very distinctive “PING!” emanated from its general direction.
“What was that?” Carol asked.
“Not sure… ,” I answered, not exactly truthfully. I had a pretty good idea of what it might be.
Seconds after the first alien sound, there was a definite “PYONG!” and “PYANG!” followed by further “PING! PING! PING!”s in rapid succession.
Seemed the rocks were not taking kindly to the nearby heat, and pieces were flying off in protest at great speed. Not only were there many glass doors in the area, but we were two sluggish targets (sorry Carol, but ‘tis true) easily within range.
Now – did I want to get a burning pebble shard in the eye? Not my first choice. But to see Carol splashing away from the situation like an octopus in distress, you would have thought it was Pompeii all over again.
Tut, tut – so dramatic.
I calmly made my way to the steps of the pool, climbed up, and equally calmly grabbed the nearest large patio seat cushion to hold in front of me like a shield.
I advanced slowly towards the beast – like the Romans going into battle – lime green cushion at full elevation in front of my snakeskin print swimsuit, as Carol helpfully videoed my progress, giggling the whole time.
Just when I thought things were settling down, there was another “POP!” I had to switch the flame off.
Once within reach, I held the cushion aloft with one hand – taking care not to set it on fire in the process – and grabbed for the switch with my other hand.
A final rock made a break for it, hitting the deck as I extinguished the flames.
The crisis was over.
When I thanked Dominic the next day for his suggestion, tone dripping with sarcasm, he replied with, “You didn’t know that they had to be heat-resistant rocks?”
As I went to end the call (with gusto), I could hear his hoots of laughter on the other end.
You’d like to think that was my only misstep this year, but alas, no.
I had been asked to host the National Gallery annual tea party, which happened last week. This meant digging through the closet to find a hat I could wear. I’ve said this before, but for those in the cheap seats… I have a melon for a head. Very few hats fit me, and then I have lots of hair, it all gets terribly hot, etc.
I therefore thought I’d go the fascinator route this time around. Best friend Lynne had a few, and it looked like one of them would do nicely. Unfortunately, I left it out on the counter where the cats could – and did – grab it.
The next day, I arrived home to the equivalent of a dead bird on the floor. Feathers were everywhere.
Okay. I could fix this. I just needed crazy glue.
I don’t know why I haven’t learned from prior experience that the only thing that type of glue really affixes well is human skin, but obliviously on I went.
Just by opening the applicator, I managed to get a glob of clear bonding liquid on a finger knuckle, which instantly went hard and shiny.
I reached down to pick up the first feather, and that happily held fast to the aforementioned knuckle, despite my attempts to keep it away.
As I tried to wrestle that off, while putting some glue on the fascinator band, a bit of adhesive got on the fingertip of my other hand, which stuck onto the same feather.
Five minutes later, I had removed the feather from both digits, but it was looking worse for wear, glossy and sticky. I cast it aside.
Basically the next hour was spent fusing my fingers together, and discarding half the feathers after ruining them, one-by-one. My good temper had long deserted me, and it was clear why they had named it ‘crazy’ glue. I was about to lose my mind.
The final result actually didn’t turn out too badly. I wore it to the tea, and no ladies recoiled in horror from the sight of my fascinator.
In fairness, it was my fingers that looked the worse for wear. The dried glue made them look like old gas station hot dogs.
So, yes, dear readers, there are many items that we should keep out of the reach of children, but I think we can all agree that perhaps manufacturers should cast a wider net when there are people like me in the world.
Or perhaps I should be the one sporting the warning: ‘Approach with extreme caution’.
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