How to Perfectly Time a Soft Boiled Egg

Workday mornings are busy, not a minute to spare. Daniel and I have it down to a science. I know things aren't going to go well if Daniel's not eating breakfast by 6:40am. But routine gets boring, very boring.

Monday morning: 6:09am ugh - must get out of bed - ahhhh shower - beginning to wake up. 6:33am. Start making hot buttered toast as usual for Daniel. Slight change in plan today, he wants a soft boiled egg in his goose egg cup. I think to myself "no problem, just a couple of extra minutes." Pot of water on stove - c'mon boil... "Daniel, can you get the eggs out of the fridge please." I dig through the kitchen shrapnel jug looking for the pin to prick the bottom of the egg. Oh no, it's 6:45! "Sorry Daniel, just buttered toast today, we'll try again tomorrow."

Tuesday morning: 6:05am - wake up - get dressed - stagger into kitchen. At 6:30 I've got the water on to boil when Daniel makes his appearance. "Why did you poke a hole in the egg" he asks as I gently drop the egg into the water. Lengthy explanation while making his lunch. The timer yells at me "Beep-beep beeeeeeep!" The egg is done; where's his toast? My heart sinks as I realise that I've forgotten to make his toast. It is 6:43am, far too late to begin making toast. "Sorry Daniel, looks like you're having cereal today. Eat quickly Sweetheart, we're running late."

Wednesday morning: 6:06am - usual morning routine - drag myself into kitchen for effort #3. Boil water, prick egg, toast bread. I'm getting the hang of this! I've almost finished making his lunch, just need to get his water and school snack ready. What has been my problem all week? This isn't so difficult. Beep-beep beeeeeeep! The timer's yelling at me again. Quick! Run egg under cold water for a few moments. Tap-tap-tap. "...just need to take the top off Love, take your toast to the table, I'll be right there." Tap-tap-CRUNCH! I've dropped the d***ed egg into the sink. Defeated yet again.

Thursday morning: 6:03am - oh my head hurts - think I've caught Daryle's cold. 6:30am and Daniel's standing in the middle of the kitchen, hands on his hips, telling me he's going to make the egg himself. "Fill your boots child, make one for me while you're at it" says my cranky inner voice. He drags the stool over to the sink and fills the pot. I put the pot on the stove - heat as high as I can crank it. We prick two eggs today. Who knows, maybe hell will freeze over and we'll both have an egg with toast. Daniel pops two slices of bread into the toaster. Just as the *%$^# timer screams "Beep-beep beeeeeeep!" the toast pops up. While Daniel butters the toast, I cool the eggs, remove the top of one and peel the other. Plates and egg cup on table, something to drink, sit down and tuck into breakfast! Success!!! Teamwork, why didn't I think of that sooner?

I feel great now, like I've conquered something. Daniel's expression of delight is fantastic. We're a team, we can do anything. I begin to plot our next conquest; perhaps we'll try to make a bit of bacon...

"Mom, I think, maybe, I don't want an egg now." he says, peering down into the egg.

^%*@!

Mr. Funny's Untimely Demise

For many years I’ve treasured a small Mr. Funny mug, given to me when I was a child. It has travelled with me from home to home, sometimes tucked away at the back of a cupboard, sometimes front and center. I was so pleased to pass Mr. Funny along to Daniel when he was three. I smiled every time he used it; it was quite wonderful to see Daniel enjoy the mug so much. If given the choice between Mr. Funny and any other mug, he always chose Mr. Funny.

“May I have some more water please?” Daniel asked.

“Hold your mug still – here you go.”

S M A S H ! ! ! Between the two of us we’d knocked Mr. Funny to the floor; obliterated into hundreds of teeny tiny pieces. Gone. Forever. Daniel burst into tears and began trying to pick up the pieces.

“Daniel, go sit at the table, I need to clean this up. It’s okay, honey, I’m not cross.”

“Mommy, please can you buy another one?”

“Sorry pumpkin, they don’t make them anymore.”

I began sweeping up the shards. Definitely nothing retrievable: neither the teapot house on the back nor Mr. Funny’s picture on the front. Daniel tried everything he could think of to avoid Mr. Funny’s inevitable trip to the garbage can. Could we put him back together? Could we put him in a baggie? In a final desperate plea, Daniel asked for Mr. Funny to be recycled instead of being thrown away. I suppose he realized that if recycled, Mr. Funny would somehow have carried on.

Daniel sobbed for the dear friend he’d lost. I’d never seen him so heartbroken. We sat together and cuddled. We cuddled for a very long time while he wept. Daniel repeatedly asked for another Mr. Funny mug. This might have been the first thing for which he’d felt a sense of loss.

I hadn’t promised Daniel that we’d replace his mug, but over the next few days I tried to locate one anyway. Nothing. Well, except the for £40 mug for sale on eBay in England, shown in the photo above. Sorry kiddo, but once that mug had been shipped to Canada and duties and freight paid in addition to the original price, this particular Mr. Funny mug just wasn’t in the budget.

My heart broke to witness Daniel's grief. Every day for a couple of weeks after “the accident” he asked for Mr. Funny. Every day I told him that “No Sweetie, Mr. Funny is broken, we don’t have him anymore.”

Although saddened that the Mr. Funny mug is gone, I am pleased that Daniel loved it so much before its demise. I’ve always felt that beautiful or sentimental items with a specific function should be enjoyed while serving that purpose. As Alfred Lord Tennyson so eloquently puts it ‘tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.

Who's Difficult to Buy For?

Hints have been dropped that I'm a difficult person to buy a Christmas present for. I don't know why though - I enjoy so many different things: gardening, music, film, the arts, scrap booking, and so on. This year, in view of my passion for all things yardwork related, I thought something useful like a small wood chipper or leaf blower would be nice. However, considering my history with anything even remotely mechanical - perhaps they're not such good ideas. You be the judge.

My latest equipment altercation involved our weed eater. With Daryle busy working on levelling our deck I wanted to attack the weeds that were threatening to take over my back yard. "Really dear, I can handle it, can't be any more difficult than our small chainsaw or hedge trimmer." Both of which I've operated uneventfully with good results. Daryle got me set up: steel-toed wellies, eye protection, work gloves, earplugs, topped up the fuel and showed me how to dispense more twine. He didn't show me how to turn it off though...

Soon weed corpses and small chunks of earth were strewn all over the place. HA! What power, what a racket, what fun! What vibration... what numbness in my arms and hands... The massacre over, I needed to turn off the weed eater, great machine of destruction that it was. Daryle was nowhere in sight to help. Good - I like to deal with things on my own. If only I knew where the "off switch" was. Surely this beast had one. Let's see, they're usually red, hmm. Oh, way back there, near the motor of course (blond moment - it soon passed). Now how on earth was I supposed to get to it? My hands were quite literally locked in place: one supported the weight of the weed eater while holding the throttle and the other hand had a death-grip on the 'steering' handle. The machine stuttered and the vibrations became even worse when the throttle was released. After a bit of repositioning, my right hand was free to turn the switch off. Easy, right? Not so much. My hand was so numb I couldn't hold my finger stiffly enough to flick the switch. At this point I was hoping that it would just run out of fuel and starve itself into silence. Couldn't put the damned thing down either, not with that whippy thing at its business end winging about. How humiliating. Finally, after several attempts, I managed to turn it off. Sigh of relief, at least now I could put it down and let some feeling return to my arms and hands. Not my best work with yard equipment.

However the weed eater episode wasn't my worst machine experience. Not by a long shot. At least nothing had been harmed, aside from my ego and the weeds of course. When we lived at a condo in Guildford I was thrilled to have a dishwasher for the first time. Ooooo... I was able to wash everything! I left the machine running on a special load of things like toothbrushes, hairbrushes and gungy soap dishes and dispensers. Off I went to meet my sister to run some errands. Upon returning, we found the new maple-laminate hardwood kitchen floor deeply covered in soap suds and water. Guess the gungy soap dispenser still had some soap in it - oops! Frantically we mopped up the water and suds, but we were too late. The damage had been done - the laminate had warped and the edges had risen slightly. After the floor had dried a darkish stain remained at all the joints.

Now, I've covered off two natural elements: earth with the weed eater and water with the dishwasher. How about fire? I'm sure I have a fire story. Ah, yes, the Coleman stove adventure. While camping in the Salmon Arm area a year or two ago, I decided to heat up some water to make hot chocolate on a slightly chilly evening. Pretty simple: light stove, put kettle of water on stove, wait. Man, that kettle was taking a terribly long time to boil. Oh dear, the flame had gone out. I re-lit the flame without thinking. Whoooosh! Our little camp stove instantly turned into a fireball! Yikes. I quickly removed the fuel tank so that I wouldn't have an explosion on my hands in addition to my already singed bangs and burnt kettle handle. Removing the fuel tank had the added benefit of removing any further source of fuel for the fire. After a few minutes the fire went out and I carried on making the hot chocolate. Daniel's "Is the hot chocolate ready Mommy?" replied with "I'll be right there love, just give me a moment to trim off the burnt bits of hair from my bangs."

These three instances are good examples of why I should never, never be left alone or in charge of a piece of equipment, let alone given one as a present. If I haven't convinced you yet, I have more proof. How about the time I accidentally poured hot tea into a business calculator at work or the time I inadvertently filled the bread maker with water instead of putting the water into the bread loaf pan. Past gifts of a glue gun, power stapler and electric sander have each had rather eventful lives and I'll never forget the times my red Volkswagen Rabbit would repeatedly stall all the way up the Alex Fraser Bridge (water in the gas tank is a very bad thing, especially when it freezes during a cold spell).

I'm beginning to see why I'm difficult to buy for. Those who know me, understand that I'm challenged when it comes to operating just about ANYTHING. Challenged, yet I have a burning desire to try everything. For everyone's well being, I'm now hoping they choose something flame-resistant, un-motorised and with no moving bits. At least the odds of hurting myself or others will be greatly reduced. Can you imagine what fun, er, trouble I'd get into with a wood chipper?

October's Child

We sit together, holding hands, trying to absorb what the doctor and nurse are trying to explain to us. Together, yet feeling so alone. Our unborn baby had been syndactylous, which according to the dictionary "is a condition where two or more digits are fused together." They explained further that he also had severely bowed legs and that his thumbs were located closer to his wrists than they should have been.

I'm numb: I hear voices, see their lips moving, watch the diagrams being drawn on paper, but not much is getting through to me.

A few months ago we felt so alive, everything around us was full of promise. Daryle and I were pregnant!!! So thrilled - this after several years of efforts to convince Daryle to try for another little one. We'd already been blessed with a son and I'd been wanting another child to complete our family. After many discussions Daryle and I agreed to try for #2.

I was so excited about the baby that I began collecting all the necessary bits early. Boxes that had been packed away with Daniel's baby things were brought out and sorted through and I hunted down a bottle warmer, swing, some maternity clothes and a baby bath. An October baby - how wonderful! Everything would go smoothly this time - I was determined. Determined to be strong, determined to focus on my family, determined to do my job well, determined that the doctors would have to prove that something was wrong with the baby before I'd believe it.

Bringing Daniel into the world had been a stressful experience. In addition to my own combination of typical pregnancy trials and tribulations, Daniel had been diagnosed with a 'lemon-shaped skull'. After further testing it was determined that he was just fine - nothing a hat wouldn't cure. He's now 5 years old and handsome, happy, healthy and intelligent. Hence my determination this time around to wait for proof that something was wrong before getting upset.

This mindset allowed me to remain a little emotionally distant, or so I thought. I tried to prepare for the worst while hoping for the best. Every night I prayed. As usual I would say the Lord's Prayer, then I asked for God to bless us with a healthy child, take the baby to heaven early if there was something terribly amiss and to give me the strength to deal with what He saw fit to give me.

Meanwhile, I found Joan, my wonderful doctor that had seen me through the trying times when carrying and delivering Daniel. Daryle, Daniel and I met with her and her team of nurses and midwives a few times, had the usual tests done and things seemed to be progressing well.

So far I had felt nauseous, endured painful tenderness, craved all things peanut-butter, soared then sunk with mood swings and my belly had begun to grow just a little bit. Joy. My happiness wasn't dampened by a bit of spotting. I called Joan and she said to wait and see what happened, might be nothing to worry about. The spotting continued though, accompanied by a little cramping. Nothing wrong, just my old bod getting used to the little one nestling in, nothing at all to worry about.

The next day, Thursday, Dr. Joan thought it would be wise to come to the office to check that things were okay. Off I went, certain that things were just fine. One of the midwives checked for a heartbeat - its absence was troubling. A viability ultrasound was scheduled for the next morning. Viability? Anger set in, how dare they tell me whether or not my baby was viable, of course it was.

My determination remained strong right through the viability ultrasound. The chatty technician had become increasingly silent as the ultrasound progressed, then I was left alone for quite some time while she discussed the results with others. I was told to go home and wait for a phone call from my doctor. My determination was shattered - I sobbed almost the entire way home. As I approached the Queensborough bridge my cellphone rang. Hi Joan, please call me back at my home number in ten minutes. I can't talk about this while driving. Please.

Ten minutes is a long time to wait. Making it through the front door at about the five minute mark, I collapsed on the rug. On my knees in despair, then staggering about the house, sobbing. I couldn't contain my despair. I managed to speak a few words when Joan called back, but the tears weren't far below the surface. She was compassionate, caring and empathetic to what I was going through. Daryle and I lay on our bed and held each other when he came home. Fortunately, Daniel was staying in Gibson's with my parents so we didn't have to worry about how to break the news to him. Not yet. We shared our grief and spent a lot of time alone together talking and hugging, leaning on each other.

While miscarriages don't happen according to schedules, hospitals run on them. We had to wait until Monday for the D&C. Everyone at BC Women & Children's Hospital were all very professional, polite and compassionate. They must see a lot of couples like us come through the doors. The doctor that performed the D&C was able to save the remains for analysis. I was hoping to find some answers to my questions of what had gone wrong. Maybe this outcome could be prevented next time.

A few weeks later another phone call. I braced myself to hear the results. Tests had revealed that our little boy had genetic defects that had prevented him from developing normally. Yes, we would like to attend genetic counselling.

Why I decided to attend the genetic counselling, I'll never know. God had taken my baby just as I had prayed for and He had given me the strength to deal with it. I really don't need to hear about recessive genes and the possible reasons for the genes becoming damaged in the first place.

So here we are, sitting together, numb to the core. Together, together. The word "together" echoes in my thoughts. Together. Something to be thankful for. We still have each other. We will move on - together.

Happiness is Hard Work and Dirt Under My Fingernails

This weekend was a perfect example of how much I rely on my garden for a sense of well-being. Torrential rain kept me indoors on Saturday. Normally I don't mind rain, even fairly heavy rain doesn't deter me from escaping into the garden. Even with cozy rubberized raingear I couldn't face the deluge. My head hurt, shoulders ached and a deep sense of frustration set in.

The result of pining for my garden was that I felt miserable, grumpy, short-tempered and unable to focus on any indoor tasks. Blissfully unaware, Daniel, my 5 year old son, was focused on building a new Thomas track layout. My husband caught the brunt of my frustration however. I snapped at his every comment and refused to visit with him while he worked on some of his own chores. Normally I like to keep him company - gives us an opportunity to reconnect without the distractions of the tv or computer.

When owly I tend to withdraw into myself. Typically, I immerse myself in a movie or tv series in order to escape my own negative thoughts and frustrations. All day Saturday, between loads of laundry, cleaning toilets and making lunch, I watched several episodes/commentaries/extras from BBC's Robin Hood series. My immerssion became so intense that when I had to surface to do some menial, but necessary, chore I couldn't resist trying to manipulate or fantasise about the series. I even tried to manipulate Daryle when he made a comment in passing about wanting to shave his scruffy beard and moustache. "No, I like it. It makes you look rugged, dear." Meanwhile my inner voice was saying "it's the only way you remotely resemble Jonas Armstrong in Robin Hood - don't you dare shave it off. Oh, and you need to wear this woodsy outfit if you want any action tonight."

Okay, enough of my obsessive compulsive oddities. I did make it through the day without stomping terribly on anyone's feelings and was thrilled at the lack of torrential rain on Sunday morning.

YES - out I go! Donning my grungy gardening gear and pulling on my cold, damp gardening gloves I felt, here it is, HAPPINESS! A small thrill at thoughts of cutting up some of the brush-pile from the neighbour's fallen tree, realigning the edge of my flowerbed, manipulating rocks into position, the possibilities for the next few hours were very exciting.

With the Raconteurs' song Old Enough running through my head, I clipped up a green-waste bin's worth of the neighbour's tree. Picture this: slightly deranged woman dancing and humming while clipping cedar branches. Which reminds me - must get an MP3 player - the music in my head wasn't nearly as good as the real thing.

Next I began repositioning and setting stones to form the redefined edge of my garden. I'm trying to achieve a somewhat natural look to work with the steep slope where the main part of my garden is. The rocks define the outer edges and this spring I'll sow grass seed to fill in the bare areas of dirt between the sections of flowerbeds. Again the Raconteurs' music featured on my internal playlist. While shifting some stones that I couldn't even lift, Steady as She Goes played on, and on and on. I need to learn the lyrics - the drivel I came up with certainly wasn't likely to be the actual words to the song.

As time flew by I became increasingly dirty. A neighbour came by for a chat, catching me completely off guard. What a sight I must have been: bedragled hair, face red from exertion, dirt-caked shoes and gloves to match. Not to mention the lime green sequined t-shirt peeking out from under a hunter-red fleece topped off with my turquoise all-weather coat. Lovely. Perhaps I'll consider my wardrobe a little more carefully before heading outside next time.

When I'm outside there's always a picture of the finished garden in my mind. I see a pleached laurel hedge,a jungle gym for Daniel and of course colour. Loads and loads of colour. Flowers, both annual and perennial with vegetables and herbs nestled amongst them. Groundcovers, climbers, and shrubs combine to add elements of depth and height. Ideas gleaned from magasines, other gardens or even just contemplation of function, shape and colour have begun to weave themselves into my imagined paradise.

Pleaching, in particular, has captured my imagination. As our yard is so steep and rocky I want to do away with having to construct a fence. A fantastic alternative to fencing, pleaching will provide a dense, impenetrable barrier between properties while rendering the changes in grade irrelevant. The roots will even help stabilise the slope. Sweet. I just need to wait a couple of years for the baby laurels to grow to the point where I can graft them together.

I'm also hoping to incorporate Daniel's jungle gym into the tiered retaining wall with the slide descending to the flat grassy area near the bottom of the garden.

Relaxed now after the hard work and planning; my head no longer hurt, shoulders no longer ached and the sense of frustration - gone. The strength of the sunlight had diminished. The rocks assumed a uniform greyness, a sense of quiet and tranquility told me that the time for repositioning and heavy lifting was over. The time had come to put tools away, take off gloves, scrape soil from shoes and make my way back up to the house.

The rest of the day went well. I spent time with Daryle without barking at him and revelled in playing Monopoly with Daniel.

Today I sit in my office, sunlight streaming through the window. Despressing. I long to be out in the dirt, continuing to build my rock edging, using the sledgehammer to rough up the edges to some concrete foundations, cutting up some more of the brush-pile, digging up another section of drain tile, anything at all as long as it involves being out in my garden. My retreat, sanctuary, escape, where bliss and happiness is possible.

The Best $600 I Ever Spent

I could never relate to women who drooled over good-looking men. I just didn’t get it. And then I turned 38. Now I understand where all those ladies were coming from.

A couple of years ago my husband, Daryle, and I bought a house on a hill with a lovely view of the Alex Fraser Bridge in Delta. It had been quite neglected: stucco siding with chunks missing, carport showing signs of wanting to slide downhill, rotting retaining walls, a 30 foot stump and its trio of neighbouring trees that needed either bringing down or a thorough cleaning. The list goes on and on. Our neighbours even commented on how neglected our trees had become and how they had been the most beautiful trees in the entire area at one point. Hmm.

After two years of being inundated with repairs around the property, Daryle told me to proceed with getting the trees taken care of. He handed me a flyer and told me to call for a quote. Okay, deep breath. In – out – in again. I can do this. After all, I am an office manager, strong woman, and only need to make a quick phone call and talk to someone at the other end. No big deal unless picking up the phone puts the fear of God into you.

I managed to procrastinate on making the phone call for about two months. Descending from a long line of procrastinators, I’m a born natural. But after beginning to have nightmares about making the call and desperately wanting to plant my new spring-flowering bulbs, I finally picked up the phone. Relief, nobody answered. So I left a quick yet ridiculously-phrased message. When Sarah called me back she gave no indication that she felt I was slightly deranged. Within a minute we made arrangements for someone to come out and give me a quote.

The company owner, James, arrived to give me a quote. He was very handsome: smooth complexion, balanced features, strong jawline and a relaxed, yet professional manner. However, he didn’t appear old enough to have any experience in the industry, let alone be able to provide a knowledgeable quote.

Grabbing my grubby gardening shoes, I took him into our back garden. We discussed bringing down the tall dead Douglas fir and tidying up the trio of two firs and a cedar. The large cedar in the front yard didn’t need any attention yet, just some maintenance in a couple of years along with all the other trees that had been topped. I pointed out that there were several dead limbs suspended in the firs. He seemed confident that they’d be able to easily bring down the fir and tidy the trio. He quoted a cool $600, well within my budget of $1,000. Okay, he was fully capable of providing an knowledgeable quote. I was thrilled: I’d be able to get all the work done at a reasonable price and get my bulbs planted before winter!

Two weeks later James’ crew was scheduled to arrive. I booked the morning off work to make sure they did exactly what I wanted. When they made their appearance, half and hour late, they introduced themselves: Brad (OMG!!!!!), Sam and Jonas. Brad was tall, very athletic and had the most gorgeous blue eyes I’ve ever seen (aside from Daryle’s of course). I was so taken with him that I forgot his name instantly, focusing only on his chiseled facial features. I felt a little foolish trying to pick up his name during conversation. The other two seemed very fit, friendly and eager to get on with the job, but they were nothing compared with the Richard Armitage good looks of Brad.

After discussing the trees and what was to be done to them and where the wood was going to be stacked, Brad asked if I was partial to the plant at the foot of the big dead fir. The rings sawed from the stump would probably obliterate it. “Oh, not at all. It’s just parsley, I’ve got some more elsewhere in the garden.” Jonas, upon hearing this, proceeded to pick a stem of parsley and eat it. I laughed and told him there was some mint and oregano that he could help himself to if he were so inclined.

Without any further delay I took my leave and went inside the house. After closing the door, I had to brace myself. Picture me leaning back against the door, arms out at my side with palms against the door. Big sigh. I was smitten. Sad, sad thing for a married, 38 year-old to be. But I was. Very.

Watching the crew, especially Brad, through the living room window was the most entertaining thing I’ve done in a l o n g time. I had to keep myself occupied with other things around the house just so that I wouldn’t creep the guys out. But they were absolutely riveting. I found myself returning to window more times than I care to admit. The sound of the chainsaws, the sight of Brad climbing, and the strength and confidence all of them displayed, was breathtaking. I couldn’t resist calling Yvonne at work to tell her about them.

Then it occurred to me: pictures. I needed to take some pictures. How though, without looking like some sort of deranged, lonely, housewife stalker? The simple answer; when they weren’t looking, of course. I managed to get some good shots of Brad climbing and sawing while working on the big fir stump. Really he was only a few feet away from me with only the window between us; I would have been a terribly poor shot if the photos hadn’t turned out.

Meanwhile, the garden took a bit of a beating. I watched while branches fell on my newly planted laurel ‘hedge’. WHACK!! My attempt at naturalizing some ferns – WHACK!! The poor parsley plant – WHACK!! The ground at the base of the fir compacted a little more with each thud of a ring from the dead fir, leaving a big hollow spot about two feet across. But I’m a big girl, I can cope. It will just mean that I’ll have a cleaner slate with which to begin planning the garden.

When the fir was nearing the height I wanted, Brad looked up and made gestures that appeared to ask if I wanted another ring taken off, or if the height was fine. I replied in similar fashion indicating that one more ring needed to come off. It’s amazing how easy it is to understand each other just by waving our arms about a little. After falling the twentieth ring, he carefully trimmed the raw edges of the stump. Perfect.

Throughout the entire project Sam and Jonas were kept very busy. They picked up limbs and debris as it fell and disposed of them up at the chipper in the driveway. They also passed things up to Brad as needed, like the extendable pole saw, small jug of gas for his chainsaw, a different sized chainsaw, just to list a few items.

When all was said and done, I must say that they did a great job minimizing the debris left behind. Brad made sure they cleaned up after themselves and even directed them to clean up some of the sawdust. Jonas fired up the blower and Sam picked up the rake to begin tidying the sawdust.

Noooooo! I didn’t want anyone walking, raking or causing any further damage to my garden, so I bolted out of the front door to run down into the yard to talk to Jonas and Sam. Hurry – quick – panic. I’m sure I made quite a noticeable exit from the house, arms flapping trying to pull on my jacket then reaching down to tug on my gardening shoes. When I stood up, dressed in my clownish attire of black slacks, red and white blouse, stained runners and turquoise all-weather jacket, to my great surprise Brad was standing shirtless in the driveway brushing sawdust off. Oh my! Must avert eyes – but really don’t want to. Instant visual of helping him wipe off the sawdust. I think I’m in heaven.

I’m sure he had seen me, so I couldn’t make the situation more awkward than it already was by running back inside as though I had something to be ashamed of. Casually, as though I’m used to gorgeous men standing in my driveway half-starkers, I strolled across the driveway to go down to the back yard. Oh, that I could have taken a picture of THAT. In A&E’s version of Pride and Prejudice, Colin Firth goes for a swim in his lake, looking rather stunning in his dripping-wet shirt when he emerges from the water. Well, Brad in my driveway was my coming-out-of-the-water equivalent!

By this time it was about 1:30 in the afternoon. With a quick change into appropriate shoes and a wrap, I was dressed for work and really needed to get going. After paying Brad and telling him that they did an excellent job, I said that I really needed to leave. Jonas finished blowing debris out of the driveway and Brad moved the truck out onto the road. After all three of them had climbed into the truck, I had to smile at the thought of three grown men squashed together while two of them changed their sawdust-covered shirts. Then when I drove by, all three of them waved. Be still my heart. I walked on air for the rest of the day.