Am I rubbing off?

I've always been the clutzy one, from awkward injuries to gravity issues, I'm pretty much the epitome of accident prone. I've been pretty good about accepting it--even embracing it. But I have a new struggle: I think it's rubbing off on my husband!
Tuesday I got out of class to a phone call from Spencer, saying, "Hun, I lit the apartment on fire." Turns out he had wanted to make a sheet cake. He thought a "sheet cake" must be baked in a cookie sheet. So he mixed up not one, but TWO boxes of cake batter, dumped them into a cookie sheet and put it in the oven. Of course, as the batter baked, it rose and dripped all over the bottom of the oven, eventually catching fire! With smoke pouring out of the apartment and the alarms going off like crazy, neighbors gathered around to see what the big deal was. I came home to Spencer scraping the bottom of the oven (he offered me the pieces of what he scraped off, sweet thing) and a masses of black strewn through the kitchen (frosted). It was too cute...A for effort/for not burning down the whole apartment/for cleaning it up/and for letting me be the onlooker, rather than victim, for once!