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Smile, Hon, You're in Baltimore!
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THE ONE (AND I DON'T MEAN BUFFY)
by Sommer Marsden

Most girls would opt for a nice book of sports facts for Father's Day. Or maybe she'd spring for a bushel of crabs, some Natty Boh and a box of Berger's cookies. Some girls would shop long and hard for something fierce, like driving moccasins or a hand-tooled pipe from the Netherlands.

Me – I went with a distressed Orioles tee, a few sparks and a scorch mark.

It was Father's Day and not a creature was stirring, not even a…wait, wrong holiday. Anyway, here's how it happened: I was in the bathroom, and I was wearing this long pendant and had my hair twisted up in a knot – what my husband calls "one of those torture devices." The fine silver chain had tangled in the hair at the nape of my neck. So, like any self-respecting, primping girl, I put my head down and yanked the shit out of that necklace to fix it.

Oops.

In doing so, it got looped on the nightlight plugged in over the sink, levitated (hell, it seemed like it) up over my head and slid down onto the light. Lucky me, the chain was delicate enough to slip behind the nightlight and...come in contact with the prongs. Tada!

Not good, son. Not good.

The outlet starts spitting sparks and I – god, I love me in my stupidity – almost grabbed the necklace. Which is, mind you, touching two live electrical prongs. I must have had a horseshoe up my ass, or I must have actually paid attention when Officer Safety came to my class, because at the last minute my brain says: Um, hey, not to butt in, but you're not supposed to touch that. Instead, I grabbed the plastic face of the nightlight and tugged.

Hmm, didn't tug hard enough. All I did was allow the necklace to slip down farther – more sparks and the outlet turns black. Right before my eyes. Like Satan's magic trick! Try again.

Finally, mid-cardiac infarction (it felt like), I yanked it out and managed not to fry myself in the process. Someone's banging on the door (I have this woop! woop! woop! thing I do when frightened or startled) and I'm assuring everyone that everything is just FINE. Barring the minor case of a ruined outlet, melted necklace chain and, well, the whole scared-the-shit-out-of-me aspect. Good thing I was in the bathroom.

You may think, oh my, that poor girl. That is terrible. But you'd be wrong. You see, I've become a bit of "the one." The one who burns the house down on Father's Day. The one who crashes a go-cart in Ocean City and has to be pried out of the fence, literally, link by link. The one who loses all brakes in her '66 Mustang and rolls backwards going about 40 and takes out a brick wall. The one who kicks off Christmas morning by sliding down a flight of steps on her ass because she slipped on her elephant slippers. Even, the one who forgets to turn left or right on that road up in Kingsville because she's been in Pennsylvania Dutch Country all day and is butt-ugly tired so she drives straight into someone's yard, missing a utility power box by a hair. That one.

See, I say "the one" and you think all cool shit like Jet Li or Buffy the Vampire Slayer. But you'd be wrong. I'm the one who left a huge scorch mark on her dad's wall for the holiday.

So then we did presents and cake. I gave him an Orioles tee (one of the few he didn't already own) and I promised him a new outlet cover. Next year, his gift might be me just staying home. Where it's safe.

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