And This is Where I Apologize to Ms. King

I’ve never been a big fan of science and science related activities. Honestly, I’m just not smart enough to understand most of it and I really haven’t any desire to devote my time to remembering things that mean nothing to me.

I’m talking about physical science here. I’m a wee bit more interested in biology,chemistry and anatomy, but anything involving matter, mass or velocity just flies over my head.
Baking is a science. And as you know, I like to bake. Since I just follow the recipes and don’t write them, I don’t pay much attention to the confusing, science related details. Acids, alkaline, baking powder, baking soda. I do know that when you include buttermilk in a recipe, you must add baking soda. Why? I’m not entirely sure; it has something to do with acid.

I follow the rules; I don’t make them.

Some people have scientific minds; some have literary minds.
I’m just lucky to have even a quasi-functioning mind.

I wonder what it’s like to be exceptional? Being mediocre is easy and effortless, and not to mention, terminally pathetic. But still, I’m not sure I do anything with true exceptionalism.
Oh, wait…I worry exceptionally well. And my laundry skills are above par. Practice makes perfect, you know.

Caroline has a math minded brain. I think she’s exceptional, but I’m biased. I’d like for her to NOT put her pajamas on inside out AND backwards, but for now I’ll just focus on the fact that her penchant for numbers is pretty awesome. Hopefully she’ll always be an effortlessly smart kid. I’d like for her to be exceptional. She’s our only shot at success.
Only children carry a heavy burden. If you have more than one, it’s okay if one of them turns out to be a dud. You always have a spare.

We don’t have a spare. Caroline is it.
Poor kid. Not only do I refuse to supply her with a baby sister, she’s also denied a pet (per our landlord’s wishes) and she’s faced with the burden of being the sole supplier of pride-filled, praise-worthy, brag-able moments to her parents.

Anyway…. here I go with the long, rambling lead in… I should take this opportunity to publicly apologize to Ms. King, my 9th grade physical science teacher (she also taught physics, but well….there’s no way I’d make it through that class) for not paying attention. If I had paid attention, focusing my easily distracted teenage mind on her lessons on energy, heat and combustion, instead of my angst du jour, there is a pretty good chance that I would have remembered that HOT glass shatters when cold water touches it.

Let’s just say, it’s a good thing my pan of roasted butternut squash was over the sink when it shattered in my hands. Apparently, if you add a smidge of cold water to a screaming hot pan, the pan shatters. Shatters! In eight million pieces.

Cleaning up hot broken glass ain’t no picnic, but the worst part is that you can’t eat your butternut squash anymore. I like a little cinnamon and brown sugar on my butternut squash. Not glass shards.

It was a science lesson I wish I didn’t have to learn. But I learned. And I’ll never repeat that fiasco again.

Probably.

Sometimes I need to learn the hard way.

I was sort of in shock after my dinner exploded in my hands and as I cleaned up the remains of my roasting pan, I kept thinking how glad I was that none of the glass pieces got in my eye. I have an intense fear of getting pokey things in my eye.

I guess that explains my irrational fear of the staple gun.

No, I don’t walk around with safety goggles permanently guarding my eyeballs, but for some reason, I am plagued with irrational thoughts of having my eyes poked. Maybe I’ve watched A Christmas Story too much (hello it’s on for 24 hours each Christmas), but I have honestly been known to worry about having a screw driver fall out of my hands, bounce on the ground and land in my eye.

Is that odd?

Wait….don’t answer that.

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