Sometimes I just want to smack him.

My son is an amateur magician (and no, it's not him I want to smack.) One trick he does involves playing cards that have been prepared beforehand by burning. I have him do this particular chore on the front porch because it is cement, has no bushes, and is protected from the wind.

Hubby asked him to do it where he could supervise today. In the living room. All that lovely toxic, smelly smoke is stinking up my living room. I told him I thought it might be a good idea to do in the kitchen with the exhaust fan on. But NOOOO, he wants it done where he can "supervise." Supervision, in this case, apparently means being in the same room while hubby is glued to a football game and paying NO attention whatsoever.

So, there he sits, on upholstered furniture, flicking red ashes off playing cards into a wicker trashcan which sits on the carpeted floor under the wooden end table.

When he dropped the lighter down the cushions of the loveseat (after using it for 20 minutes and getting it good and hot) I left the room. They're on their own.

I'll bet you've figured out who I want to smack now, haven't you?