Firestarter

Picking up where I left off, let me clarify that I consider myself no teacher of life. My delusions are limited to presumptuous musings about the mundane. And life, in the grand scheme of things, is anything but.

In fact, I think my experiences to date would more aptly serve as one big lesson to be learned. In CliffNotes, for easier digestion.

Yesterday was interesting. I think I almost burned down the office. By accident, of course. But it wasn't my lucky day (hehe). I almost choked on yellowish opaque smoke that the microwave belched. We had to open the windows to let the sinister smell out. I had to herd my office mates in the conference room to avoid having any one of them pass out in the event that the smoke proved to be too much. Thank goodness, the biggest casualty in this episode was the microwave. Even after Ate Lyn, the office help, scrubbed its insides clean, the poor thing is still stained and stinks of the burnt garlic toast that I tried to make a little more edible by sticking it in the machine for a wee bit longer than I should have. It's a nasty stench, not the mood-inducing aphrodisiacal sort. I had to channel my inner Martha Stewart to appease the natives at the office, else I'll have some serious explaining to do when the head honcho comes back to our shores sometime next week.

All in all, it was funny. I am so glad.

But my arsonist tendencies run much deeper than this. My brother and I, back when we were thick as thieves in Medina, set fire to our living room couch, which naturally spread to the rest of the living room and eventually enveloped the whole apartment in flames within seconds. Of course, it was an accident-but-not-really because we did touch that lit match to the couch. Anyway, rescue was just a few feet away. We weren't alone in the apartment. Good thing Dad was having his lunch in the kitchen, but he was oblivious at first to the commotion in the living room. It was only after the combined effort of my bro and I to contain the blaze proved futile that we resorted to calling Dad in. And boy, was he in for a big surprise.

I still remember Dad heaving the water-filled pail (or was it palanggana? Were there even palangganas in Saudi?) to the living room from the nearby toilet several times in a vain attempt to douse the flames. Neighbors were coming in to help, but we were obviously licked. And what were my brother and I doing? Beats me, probably bawling our eyes out. But get this, I was able to muster a coherent thought in the midst of all the brouhaha. I remember telling my dad, "telephone", like this autistic kid that just learned how to speak. And then he was off to find a working phone to call the fire station. In typical soap opera fashion, the firefighters arrived a little late, but--take note--not too late, to save the day. *Sigh* My dad, the hero.

When my mom found out, I think she went ballistic with worry. Which suited us kids fine since we felt a good spanking could have been the automatic and proper ending to the story. Nothing tragic, thank goodness. At the end of the day, we still had each other. Sure, the apartment was a lot less pretty than when we first moved into it. And we had to keep an eye out for scorpions that would suddenly materialize from thin air at the corners of the apartment, something that rarely happened previously. But hey, it was all good.

Okay, so enough reminiscing. Later.