It's really not funny,

but what if Hollywood and Malibu and the OC or wherever the rich and famous people that don't live in New York or on a ranch in Taos or Whistler and drive a Prius except to premiers when they take private jets and ride in Hummer limos totally burned down? What if there were celebrity refugees like displaced Katrina victims? See, I told you, not funny. But sort of. Like what if Lauren Conrad had to come live at my house while she waits for FEMA money to replace her Louboutin shoe and wide headband collection? Obvs, hilarity would ensue. Or what if Jennifer Aniston came to reside in the Benson household. She'd have to eat my mom's hashbrown casserole and she couldn't throw it up because of our faulty plumbing. Ha. But seriously, fire isn't funny. I'll admit something. It was high school before I could light a candle (and shuffle cards, I'm a late bloomer, so sue me). Once, I remember my dad was trying to make his own tortilla chips in our battered toaster oven. As the flames licked the underside of our kitchen cabinets and with the fire alarm blaring, I gathered up my pet mouse in her traveling cage, an assortment of clothes and stack of R.L Stine books and headed out into the yard awaiting the fire trucks. I would not go back inside for hours.