I was so naive...

I thought blogging would be easy. I'd just sit down at the keyboard whenever the fancy struck me and, shazam!, something entertaining or lovely or moving or inspirational would miraculously just flow out of me. What foolishness! It has been almost three full months since my first and only post and I have been utterly paralyzed by an unidentifiable something ... any time I even think about blogging, my mind turns to mush. Or maybe even worse than mush - maybe something in the liquid family, like tomato soup. I don't know. See, I'm rambling already.

So, Laurie Lane, my favourite follower (heehee - there are benefits to being the one and only), this post goes out to you, my darling friend!
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Okay, I'll quickly tell you the weekend story. Here I was, all excited about taking John to this fabulous place I found .... the kids were super pumped about being at Mom and Dad's .... we had a great drive all the way there, talking about parenting, the future, all the typical "we're finally having an adult conversation" topics. As we entered the city, Steph the Diligent Navigator, promptly got out the Google Map Directions and un-bossily directed John as to where we should be going next. (This HAS been an issue in the past. Sigh.) We got ourselves onto the correct street, which turned out to be quite a high-traffic area, and started watching for house numbers. The magic number on our directions was house #102. No problem. Being the university graduates that we are, we quickly ascertained which side of the road contained the even numbers and scanned them carefully. 46, 58, 72, .... two blinks of an eye .... 134, 142, ....

Eeek! Back the truck up! Hmmm...well, maybe this was how it worked in bigger cities. We were clearly not in Kansas anymore, Toto. John turned the van around and back we went, squinting at the address plates even more carefully. Number 102 jumped out at me just as we were passing a house on the corner. With perfect style and form, my honey wheeled onto the narrow, icy side street and parked us by the curb.

"I don't think we should park here," said I. (Trying hard to be un-bossy and romantic.)
"Why not?"
"Because it's a really narrow, old street and there are two perfectly good parking spots in this here driveway at the back of the Bed-and-Breakfast."
"But we don't know for sure whose driveway this is, so I think we should stay parked on the street, go in and register and they'll tell us exactly where we SHOULD park and I can move the van when I go get the luggage." (No one told me marriage would be so full of tedious, drawn out decision-making conversations where we both try to be agreeable and giving, but deep down wonder why the other person cannot see what is so blastedly obvious to the rest of the world.)

"Alright, darling," I said. (In so many words.)
Off we went, hand in hand, towards the back entrance of the B-and-B. We noticed a cobbled path leading toward the rear of the house (how quaint - a cobbled path) and carefully made our way across a lovely patio area. Just as we were walking under a delightful little archway, my Columbia hiking shoes instantaneously lost all their little traction-bumpies and left me hovering in midair over a patch of ice. Down I crashed, my full weight coming to rest on the pointiest part of my right elbow, followed by a solid crunch of the right hip. Through the fog of my pain and surprise, I sensed a large St. Bernard coming to my rescue behind me. Oh. No, that was John. He was running in one spot on the ice while simultaneously reaching down to help me up. I'm sure we were a sight to behold.

In fact, I KNOW we were a sight to behold because just as we hobbled to our feet, the side door to the B-and-B swung open and we heard a decidedly irritated voice call out, "Can I HELP you? What are you doing back here?"
Hmmm... not the compassionate tone I was hoping for.
"I think you could use some salt back here," I pointed out in a very tactful way, I thought. "We're your 1:00 arrivals."
"Actually, that is our private entrance and no one is to be back there anyway."

Is it self-centred to want someone to care that you've just hurt yourself? On their property? I don't know. By the time she actually said, "Are you alright?" (in a totally unconvincing way) I was too far gone to even make conversation. The fact that she then sent us hobbling around to the front door, which was locked when we got there, and then proceeded to interrogate me as to why we were even BACK there in the first place (this all happened while John was getting the luggage) left me so utterly confused and furious that all I wanted to do was get out of the place. We had a couple hours until official check in time, so we zipped off to do some shopping. Like I was in the mood for that. As soon as we were back in the van, I actually started crying! And it takes a lot to make me cry. (Well, from pain, anyway- a good book or song can make me cry at the drop of a hat.)

I'll tell you, it took everything I had, plus a major infusion of Godly peace, to make me even want to go back to see that woman again. I was so determined to not let it ruin my weekend, and with the benefit of a few hours under my belt before we had to go back, I managed to actually smile at her and even make small talk. But I'll never go back there. Nope.

And that was how our weekend getaway began. I'm happy to report that this was the lowest point and that my wonderful husband quickly rejuvenated my spirits (by shopping for accent cushions for our living room with me). For John, this was the ultimate sacrifice of his time. He really is the best.

Wow, this blogging thing kind of takes over once you get going!