Photo Credit.

My husband and I share a very tiny bed (I’ve included a picture for you)

A few nights ago, at 3 a.m., I woke up with my head on the nightstand.

For a moment I froze wondering why there was a book in my nose (that was an accidental rhyme but I like it) then I  tried to slip slowly, calmly back onto my pillow.

See, the problem with doing anything slowly or calmly is that it requires a certain level of muscle coordination.

It’s a level of coordination I might have around 2:00 p.m but definitely NOT at 3 in the morning.

I fell out of bed.

And that, that right where, is why my REM cycles get interrupted.

Normally, I sleep pretty well but 1-2 nights a week I wake up pathetically early (due to falling out of bed…or other problems) and then I spend the next two hours doing this:

Source

I’ve calculated the amount of time left to sleep in class periods, Friends episodes lunch breaks and church services.  It’s a good thing I HAVE all that free time in the middle of the night to determine that it will be 5 1/2 Friends episodes before the alarm goes off.

Maybe the problem is my bed? At the very least I’m sure it’s my pillow and also the positioning of my fake peony’s.

I think everything would be well if I owned this bed.

I should be able to get everything for around $50.00, right?

My sweet,dreams bed.

I can’t wait to tell Tom I’ve found the solution.

Also, I can’t wait to sleep this weekend .

Last Friday I spent my lunch break in the eye doctors office.

AKA – I visited my second home. My old stomping grounds. My alma mater.

My eyes are a -8 and a -8.25 (or something roughly like that).

I HAD BI-FOCALS WHEN I WAS 8.

That’s not  a joke. Thankfully it was only for a week because I kept falling off imaginary cliffs and my eye doctor took pity on me and allowed normal lenses again.

(I think this is why I read so much as a child – it was the only thing that didn’t feel…perilous.)

Glasses have literally been a part of my face for as long as I can remember.

CHECK OUT THOSE RIMS. Also, check my little, tiny bangs.

Considering the amount of time I’ve spent in the eye doctor’s office you’d think I’d be reeaaallly comfortable there. Confession: not so much.

Last week I finally figured out WHY. Going to the eye doctor when you have terrible eyes is much worse than going to the eye doctor for a check-up of your 20/20 vision (which is my husband’s experience. pleaseGodletourchildrenhavehiseyes).

At the start of an exam they always take away my glasses. Like they’re cosmetic. A novelty. For fun. That means the rest of the exam passes in a giant BLUR.

On Friday, they first shot a tiny burst of air into my eye, next there was an anxiety-inducing staring contest with a bright, white light and finally the technician vanished out of the door way with instructions to “follow her”.

“I’m sorry ma’am but…where are you?

I’m blinded by the light, recovering from the tiny hurricane you sent into my eye and…you were only a blurry outline with four noses to begin with. If you want me to move you’ll have to hold my hand”.

I stumbled into the next office and was tested on several key things: letters, numbers and directions.

“Cover your right eye with your left hand and look at the highest number on the chart you can see than tell me the square root of pi times 10,000 divided by 73 as well as any applicable laws of thermodynamics”.

This is where I died. I panic and DIED.

I stammered out my answers, forget what 2+3 is and generally just wished for heaven and perfect eyesight.

The doctor finally arrived. Apparently my score on the entry-level exams was high enough to make it to the real thing.

He asked more difficult questions:

“what brand of contacts do you wear?”

“…clear ones?”

“Hmm. What kind of contact solution do you use?”

“….it’s from Wal*Mart. I think it has ‘renew’ in the name?”

“Hmmmmm, that kind is a little outdated”

(WHAT? Yes, I meant to say that I got my contact solution from the antique mall. I store it in a saucepan and only change my contacts by candlelight.)

I wanted to giggle. I did not. I’m extremely professional like that.

One good thing about being semi-blind is that having someone six inches from your face isn’t awkward. All my eye doctors have looked exactly the same; white, fuzzy little men. What is a little shocking is when they put the gigantic glasses on my eyes and everything comes into focus. I can’t help it, I always jerk backwards from the shock of seeing a head appear where there was a blob mere moments before.

My new eye doctor is very nice though. He’s also an excellent enunciater. Most of his sentences went like this:

“Please tell ME the letter on the LEFT that you can see MOST CLEARLY”.

How sweet, he knows I struggle with directions and…identifying objects of speech.

The exam always closes with what I call the “Final Three Questions”.

1) do you have any dizziness or headaches? (only after I stand on my head).

2) do you  ever see  flashes of light in your peripheral vision? (like…angels?)

3) do you ever see floating dots or lines in your vision? This could mean you have a retinal tear.

I got nervous on that last one, I had to be honest. So I confessed:

“Yes, I DO see floating dots!! Especially after I look at a computer screen for a long time. I must have a retinal tear?”

There was a long pause. The he said very slowly and clearly.

“Well, ma’am – we JUST examined all parts of your eyes and I think it’s unlikely your retina JUST tore but we’ll be sure to look at that possibility again next time you come.

Oh, oh ok then. That’s all I meant check for it….next year. I’m a planner. Type A like that.

Long story short: I survived another year at the eye doctor’s.

Also, I’m still very vision-challenged.

P.S. Free plug for a great site – www.zennioptical.com has excellent prices on overstocked frames (the prices include the lenses!). I’ve gotten my glasses here for the last five years, they’re great.

Today, I want to tell you a story.

It’s a horror story with a happy ending (sortof).

Last January I jetted off to Honduras and spent a week with my roommate and her family on the island of Roatan.

This was the view from the porch – amazing, right?

"The sky broke like an egg into full sunset and the water caught fire" -Pamela Hansford Johnson

We explored the beaches and shops, went to a local church and enjoyed days in a tropical paradise.

These are the original, not edited colors. Stunning.

"The Sea, once it casts its spell, holds one in its net of wonder forever" - Jacques Cousteau

In the middle of the week my roommate persuaded me to go kayaking.

Now, the idea of kayaking thrilled me.

Soaring effortless and free across the crystal blue sea. The tropical sun gently caressing my shoulders. Cheeping frogs, brilliantly colored fish…

I agreed with myself that this was not an opportunity to be missed.

We boarded the kayaks.

(mine was the red one)

Here is where fear seized my soul.

My kayak wobbled.

It teetered. Shook. Wiggled.

As a counselor in training I would have encouraged therapy for its instability.

My heart beat in rhythm to the kayak’s movement which meant I was rapidly as unstable as it.

Yet, I persevered (ok, my roommate refused to help me  out of the kayak). It was a tiny, little, wobbly floating prison.

We headed towards the mangrove canals – legend told that these canals were used by pirates and, though I had turned blue as the sea with fear, I wanted to (needed to) see where pirates had sailed.

I sortof have a life-long obsession with the old west and swashbuckling pirates (in that order).

From this side of things - the canals weren't too intimidating.

We drew closer and the water turned from happy blue to creepy brown.

The tree limbs dropped and crawled towards my kayak like bony fingers. The leaves clustered together, a spring green canopy, reflected in the darkening water. Who knew what secrets were hidden in it?

I was about to find out.

The Mangrove Canals.

We pressed forward through the mile long canal.

It grew increasingly narrower and…I grew increasingly more shaky.

See, when I’m out over the water I like to see the bottom.

I’m not afraid of deep water just murky water. This water was five steps past murky. It was black and I? I was blue with fear. Together we were a giant bruise which, in hindsight, would prove  ironic.

Midway through the canal (maybe, by the point I was counting breaths not paddle strokes) I got stuck on a root.

Shudder.

Now, lessons on how to free your kayak from mangrove roots covered in tiny crabs (who could have EATEN me) were not included in my “training”.

My roommate patiently instructed me to “gently, push off  the roots with my paddle”

I did.

Although my definition of “gentle” was perhaps a little too…firm. I wanted away from these as fast as possible.

UGH.

My kayak flipped over.

Not to the side. Not slightly into the air.

Over.

I hit the bottom of the slime-filled, murky brown mangrove canal.

Barefoot.

Wearing only a bathing suit.

At that moment, I only knew one thing.

I would die if I didn’t get out of the canal NOW.

Since my kayak was upside down (no clear lessons on what to do in the event of that situation either) I lept up through the water and clung for my life to the bottom of Jenni’s (my roommates) kayak.

Jenni sat, laughing hysterically, as I clung like an octopus, arms and legs wrapped around her kayak.

My back was still in the water but, I figured if anything tried to eat me, at least my feet would be safe…which, in that moment, felt like a significant step (hehe – no pun intended) in the right direction.

Jenni finally righted my kayak (it was magical – she flipped it over with a swift motion of her paddle without capsizing her kayak).

Eventually I got back in (I think I flew – there was a gigantic plop which turned out to be me hitting the kayak but I don’t have a clear memory of how I got there).

We finally arrived home from our expedition.

I took a long shower. Regained my composure and…looked at my leg.

Apparently, I was a little too eager to get out of the water.

"battle" scars

I’m a stronger woman for it.

Yet, I’ve come to know I’m better on dry ground (as this story would later verify).

I’m proud to acknowledge that, by the end of the week in Honduras, I had overcome enough my fear to try kayaking one. more. time.

Jenni & I paddled around the bay and I saw 6 huge, bright orange starfish…I think that was God’s way to honor my bravery .

Beautiful.

What’s life without a few bruises, bumps and battle scars along the way?

Unlived.

That’s what it is.

The End.

Life finds me blogging at very odd times these days.

Some weeks are CaRazEy like that.

Tom & I got home a little while ago from a cheap dinner out (date) and grocery shopping (productivity) – I love errand nights with him.

We spent 20 minutes in the shampoo aisle discussing the pro’s and con’s of each brand. We learned that we’re shampoo incompatible. I choose based on scent – he actually considers how effective the shampoo is. 

Don’t worry though, we’re working through it. It’s tough but we’ll prevail.

He carried all our groceries out of the store and into our house.

I like that. I like him.

Maybe I’ll make those pork chops now

Its been a loooooong week. Lot’s of work, lot’s of home maintenance projects but, lots of things checked off the to-do list. Sweet accomplishment.

I love the feel of hard work, sore muscles and knowing the day has been lived well.

Today I activated my new bank card.

Or, rather tried too.

I apparently dialed half of the activation number (which was a label on the card) and half of my card number. The combination wasn’t good.

My bank teller answered the phone with “hey, sexy man”. ‘

Either my bank has significantly changed their customer service policies or…I am not in Kansas anymore, Toto.

I tried again – this time saying the number out-loud, one digit at a time.

Success.

All day this little poem by Emily Dickinson has been running through my head

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chilliest land
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

Hope is a gift.

I’ve realized lately how much I depend on the quality of my circumstances to ensure my hope – the beauty of knowing Christ is that hope is possible wherever and whenever.

It takes daily prayer and time with the Lord to be sustained in hope.

To keep perspective.

I love Emily’s comparison of hope and birds. Hope is beautiful, musical, light and up-lifting; yet, hope built on the unshakable foundation of Christ is powerful, strong through storms and made of iron.

Hope is a sparrow singing through a thunderstorm.

We have such hope. Such reason for joy thought refined by fire.

Have a wonderful weekend, friends.

May you be sustained and embraced by Hope.

For now, the sleepytime – she comes (can you name that movie? ).

So, Thomas & I are watching a show called “Love it or List it”.

Yes, we’re that cool.

The concept of the show is apparently this: find disgruntled home-owners who dislike everything about the home they purchased (avoid addressing the elephant living in their un-satisfactory master bedroom: why did they buy their current home in the first place?) and assist them in either brainstorming a remodeling plan OR locating a “better” home.

I’m amazed how entitled American’s are. Choice quotes from this show include;

“No, 2,000 square feet just isn’t enough for our family of THREE”.

“This just isn’t our dream home…we’ve been waiting so looooooong for our dream home”.

“Here is the first of three bathrooms – all on the first floor!”

and, my personal favorite

“we NEED our house to have high-end finishings”.

What does that even mean?

I was convicted watching this.

It’s so easy to play the comparison game with, well, everything. Homes, clothes, cars, relationships, possessions. To buy into the mindset that we deserve the BEST, not just what we need but far over and above it.

If the things we own define us then our value is always changing. Our worth is always threatened because it’s based on external things that can be destroyed. No wonder so many are endlessly re-finishing their homes, upgrading their cars, marrying and divorcing – their search for peace, for joy, is a race towards a dead-end. When our things provide our joy, our emotions are endlessly sabotaged.

There is no end of craving. Hence contentment alone is the best way to happiness. Therefore, acquire contentment – Sivananda

Last January, after I got home from Roatan, Honduras, I got in my car and drove down the highway to church. I vividly remember watching the sunlight sparkle on frosted trees, the taste of my hot thermos of coffee and the feel of the wheel beneath my hands – steering my own, well-running car. I desperately tried to remember every detail of that moment, always wanting to feel the same sense of overwhelming gratitude I did then.

What an un-believable contrast from the previous week in Honduras where I saw men laboring for a few dollars a day, children walking barefoot down the road to school and woman  doing laundry in the dirty water at the edge of the bay.

The things we truly need are so few.

We need Christ. We need love. We need forgiveness. We need community. We need grace. We need purpose.We need shelter. We need salvation.

I’m certainly not criticizing those who have an abundance of things; possessions in and of themselves are not wrong. My little apartment with one closet is a home in the Hollywood hills for so many. I am abundantly blessed.

What I am saying is that possessions cannot be our god. There is no joy or salvation in drywall, leather or a younger wife.

Find joy in Christ, in the simple things, in the small blessings.

God is there and, in Him, is sustainable joy.

You make known to me the path of life; in your presence there is fullness of joy;at your right hand are pleasures forevermore – Psalm 16:11

This is a blog about the things that get my goat.

How’s that for an infrequently used idiom?

(If you are interested in a lengthy explanation of the origin of this phrase please scroll to the bottom of this post. If not, you may continue reading.)

I.e. this is a post about my pet peeves.

Some of them anyway – there’s not truly a whole lot that gets to me but these, these just do.

1) Wet grass & plastic flip-flops: the twain should never meet. The feel of bits of slippery, dew-laden grass on plastic (all under my feet) makes me want to shudder even thinking about. Uggh.

2) Needless brevity in conversation: there is a time to be brief, curt and maybe once in a blue moon – rude (like if a tray of delicate pecan pralines are about to burn. By all means – save the pralines and, while you’re at it the whales, California redwoods and ice-caps). Times not to be rude? To make a point, prove a superiority complex, get revenge etc.

3) Closet doors left open: the monsters will get out. Seriously, protect yourself and those you love: close the door.

4) Distracting coffee-shop music: jazz or its musical equivalent belong in coffee-shops. I was in one this week that was blaring some type of wordless, escalating Europop. Not ideal for either good conversation or productivity. Also, it made me sip my pumpkin latte to fast because I was unconsciously matching my movements to the music. I’m bitter.

5) Mushy bananas: Even if they’re en-route to banana bread they still disgust me. The color, shriveled size, smell and texture. buughh.

Ok, happy thoughts now . We’re 57 days from the wedding! This week we had part two of our engagement pictures shoot! The first one was in 100 degree temperatures in Columbia’s sweltering summer heat. Therefore we only did half of what we wanted (locale wise) and postponed the rest until the blessed arrival of fall.

Our photographer sent me a sneak peek (which was totally taken in my bathroom – thus rendering the outside temperature fully insignificant). The rest of the pictures will be back this weekend, yay!

What about you? Pet peeves?

____________________________________________________________

“The first incidences of the phrase crop up around the early 1900s, and seem to suggest that this idiom is American in origin. The early 1900s were, in fact, a great era for colorful slang terms in America, reflecting the rapid expansion of settlement in the United States and the commingling of people from a wide variety of social, class, and ethnic backgrounds. A number of slang terms from this era are undoubtedly corruptions of slang from other languages, or misunderstandings of English words, and some people have suggested that “gets my goat” may be related to “goad,” as in “to irritate.”

However, this mundane explanation has been eclipsed by a number of other interpretations of the slang term. Others have suggested that the term is a translation from the French prendre la chèvre, “to take the goat,” an idiom from Old French which references taking someone’s form of income. For low-income French peasants, the theft or a goat would be a catastrophe, as the animals provided milk and meat for their owners. However, this explanation may be a backformation to explain “gets my goat,” rather than a true explanation of the origins of the phrase.

One of the most likely explanations behind “gets my goat” is also one of the more interesting, something which rarely happens when exploring the roots of common idioms. As early as the 1700s, goats were used as companion animals to help settle race horses, keeping the notoriously skittish animals relaxed. Taking a horse’s pet goat away would have agitated and upset the animal, potentially influencing the outcome of a race.

The practice of providing race horses with companion animals is still widespread, with horses bonding with ponies, chickens, dogs, cats, and a variety of other animals in addition to goats. Many horses do indeed become deeply attached to their companions, exhibiting considerable stress when these animals are removed, and this behavior could have inspired the idiom “gets my goat” among observers” – Source

You know, cattywampus is a word that doesn’t get used anywhere near often enough. The other day my boss described a crooked picture as “completely cattywampus”.

I loved it so much that I briefly wished all pictures could be cattywampus (forgetting completely about my deep love of symmetry and straight corners).

That has nothing to do with this post. I just wanted a reason for cattywampus to be written on my blog.

I will single-handedly resurrect that word.

So, I’m finishing my MA in counseling this December (and getting married 13 days later). This milestone isn’t one I  thought I’d reach at 24 – life has a funny way of mixing up our expectations. Along the way to the counseling degree I got my bachelors in English and Bible along with a certification in TEFL.

Essentially, I will be able to nurture the emotional needs of non-English speakers as they accept the painful realities of English vocabulary, grammar and spelling. It’s a high calling.

(Seriously though: their, there, they’re? We’re crazy.)

Anyway, along the way to this, my high-life calling, I’ve seriously considered at least five other occupations. Today I was reminiscing on my childhood dreams and thought it would be fun to share them.

If you’re reading this – answer this question:

What did you want to be (and why) as a kid?

Here we go:

• Journalist: Given my love of words & people this one isn’t too surprising. I wanted (want?) to be like Nellie Bly. Gutsy, daredevil, female journalist. I’d want to do only human interest stories though. And work for a newspaper. Probably in a small-town. I think John Grisham has a stock small-town, journalist character in all his novels. I always envy their hypothetical lives and legal pads full of interviews.

• Airline Stewardess: I love everything about flying. Airports, lame snacks, skinny push-carts, uniformed staff. I think I would have loved being an airline stewardess. Maybe in one of my other lives*.
  

• Detective: Umm, what can I say? Probably a bit too much of Frank & Joe Hardy growing up. For a short while I had a detective notebook but nothing of interest ever really happened *sigh*. Once, I found a mouse outside and I fed him grated cheese – I wrote about that in the notebook.
  

• Eccentric Novelist: The setting for this was always a remote cabin in Montana. Someday Tom wants to own a field of hay and a donkey farm. I’m still pushing for Montana. I’ll write while he feeds the donkeys (so. many. potential. jokes).
  

• Irish Dancer: No lie. I saw Irish dancers at a festival in Jersey. I was nine and was deeply impressed. I begged my mom for lesson – instead, that Christmas, she bought me an Irish dancer porcelain doll. I named her Elsie and was perfectly happy. So, maybe it was a good call to forgo the lessons .
  

Have a great day, friends!

*That is a joke. I don’t believe in reincarnation.

No, this is not a post about marijuana.

It’s a post about one of my greatest failures as a girlfriend.

I was born on the second of May in Livingston, NJ.  Twenty-four years later (this is the abbreviated version of the story ) and I’m living in Columbia, SC, working my way through graduate school and dating a wonderful red-headed man who once made me a pipe cleaner candy cane at a Christmas party.

This year, as my birthday approached, I grew more and more excited (per usual, I’m 5 inside). Tom & I love celebrating things.

Graduations, test results, Scrabble victories, sales at Kohl’s  – the like. I knew my birthday would be no exception. I was right.

In April, three weeks prior to The Day, Tom bought a charming blue and green flower-pot and planted sweet williams. They’re a beautiful, delicate flower that he knew I would love and believed I would nurture. Such high hopes he had for me *sigh*.

Aren’t they lovely?

Tom watered them with miracle grow, sang lullabies (that is not a joke) and kept them thriving with the perfect mixture of sunlight and shadow. By the time my birthday rolled around there were 30 perfectly sprouted sweet williams in the flower-pot. Sweet, sweet williams.

On my birthday he arrived at my door with a card, a smile, a gift…and the pot of sweet williams. He presented them to me with pride.

Then, with insistence, explained I should always and only refer to them as “sweet tom’s”. William’s name was not to be named.

He then provided detailed instructions for their care. Sunshine, miracle grow (included in my birthday gift), various musical selections, compliments and water.

I took them with happy tears. All was well for two weeks.

They grew. I sang.

They stretched towards the heavens. I celebrated their upward climb.

Then, it came time for me to house-sit. I packed up my suitcase and tenderly placed the pot of sweet tom’s in the car to make the journey with me. We arrived and settled in for the next three weeks.

I found a sunny patch of light in the backyard for the sweet tom’s, whispered encouragement to them as I left each morning for class and then…

forgot about them during 24 hours of torrential thunderstorms.

The sweet tom’s perished. It’s like they simply never were.

I hid from Tom for two days.

I’m amazed he still proposed. That’s true love.

However,  he refuses to allow me near his herb garden (which he inherited from my sister-in-law). It’s flourishing. He likes it that way.

There was one redeeming factor from this whole

While the sweet tom’s lived in the backyard a new life found it’s way into being.

May, I present what remains of my loving fiance’s thoughtful birthday present?

This is my sweet weed.

You may think it looks a little…dead. However, I choose to believe it’s meditating. Pondering the meaning of it’s life. That takes a lot of stillness to achieve. It’ll be back soon.

…right? Right.

Tom & I are training for a half-marathon.

My heart believes it. My legs are in denial.

He’s done four of them and I envy his shiny medals. I want. Unfortunately, in my commitment to this I overlooked what I temporarily deemed inconsequential. I have an all-time running high of…two miles.

I am a crazy person with delusional goals.

I had this image of myself, running like a gazelle, happy and free. However, my gazelle is very territorial and doesn’t venture beyond say, one mile from home. Tom’s gazelle regularly takes trips into what I’m sure are perilous locations…miles from home. It’s unsafe I tell you.

Clearly, left to my own devices, my half-marathon would consist of a leisurely stroll and a 45 minute medal ceremony.

So, Tom hired himself as my trainer.

I don’t remember agreeing but it’s nice to have someone push me (umm, that’s not a motivational euphemism, it’s meant literally) up the hills when my legs go on strike.

Our running sessions go something like this:

“Sweetie, remember to keep your breathing controlled”

“TOM, I CAN’T CONCENTRATE ON ANYTHING BUT GETTING UP THIS HILL…WHY IS IT SO HARD?!”

“Because you’re not breathing” (in a voice of quiet authority).

So, earlier this week we decided to go on a trail run. Mix-it-up and all that jazz. I do well when the scenery changes and I can forget I’m running. It’s an extremely delicate balance though, people.

A single flower? Pleasant distraction. A field of daisies? I must stop running and lie in them.

I might be ready for this marathon in 2019.

*sigh*

We started our trail run as a trail walk, made it to the edge of the river and then…Tom spotted The Canoe.

Last semester he would spend Sunday mornings canoeing on the river before church. Something about communing with God, spending time in nature and praying – I assured him I did all these things while still in my bed. A picture of the river. The real river. Potato/Puh-tato.

He looked eagerly at me with The Face.

The face I cannot resist. The one that will always melt me. The one that, in the past, had resulted in my driving a tractor and baking cookies at 10 p.m (not, umm, simultaneously).

Though it was a sunny evening, when I looked at the water I saw this:

I waited with fear and trembling, as he righted the canoe, placed it in the water and helped me carefully down the bank.

Then came boarding.

I like boarding much better when it’s a plane. There are little steps to assist you on board, a friendly person in a suit to welcome you, a cushioned seat and the promise of a snack. Clean. Efficient. No crickets.

The canoe had none of these amenities.

I had to crawl (how…medieval) to the front, swing one leg awkwardly over the seat while balancing the other just so in order to avoid capsizing. I’m neither delicate nor graceful and, most of the time, I’m not a multi-tasker. All of these are most essential for boarding a canoe.

I would know.

In January I capsized a kayak. In a mangrove canal.  In Roatan, Honduras. That is a whole other story for a whole other time. However, my point is that I know the perils of water sports. Oh, how I know.

Tom climbed in next in one fluid motion. At least I think it was one fluid motion. I was frozen to the front seat of the canoe.

We started down the river, Tom paddling diligently with a tree branch that weighed 40 pounds. I, clinging tightly to the edges of the canoe as if my life depended on it, Which, it did.

He tried to play the part of tour guide but, when I’m nervous, my voice gets unnaturally high and loud. Which, I imagine, doesn’t put my wonderful man at ease.

“Look how pretty it is, babe!”

“YES DEAR, IT’S REALLY LOVELY….ARE WE DONE HAVING FUN YET?”

After five minutes on the river Tom decided he needed a different paddle. So he steered us towards a tree to break off a lighter branch.

I closed my eyes.

His loving voice broke into my daydreams of a hot tub, solid ground and chocolate.

“Umm, sweetie, do you think you could just hold the tree alittlebit so I can break off a branch?”

After two minutes of struggling around moss, spiders and tree roots he gave up and turned the canoe back towards shore (from which we had progressed 30 yards).

We arrived back on shore. Technically, I was on the bank before the canoe had stopped moving. I turned around to see Tom slowly drifting back towards the center of the river.

Apparently, the thoughtful thing to do is anchor the canoe after you make your exit. No matter how dangerous it is to linger by the water’s edge for another moment. Tom insisted I would have survived but…I couldn’t risk it. It would have been a shame to perish on shore after having survived our river expedition.

After several minutes of deep breathing exercises I regained my composure enough to run. I blamed my awful mile-time on my near death experience. Tom sympathetically agreed but I think he may have had doubts.

Moral of the story: I don’t like dark water or wobbly boats.

Ok, that wasn’t really a moral.

Moral of the story – attempt #2:Avoid dark water and wobbly boats for the sake of your life and health of your relationship. Also, have cookie ingredients on hand when you want to thank your man for his patience with your inadequacies.

Ahem. Lesson learned .