~ The Taser of Death ~

I was so pleased with what I saw yesterday.


The two men in my life were being, well, manly.


And traditional.


I love it when manly and tradition crash into each other.


It’s almost as wonderful as when womanly and tradition crash into each other, only with more facial hair.


Every year since I was a little girl, DECADES ago, when we came down to Pop-pop’s cottage, someone, at some point, would be given a hammer and told to pound the nails back into the walkway up the dunes.  Pop-pop usually gave that job to one of my brothers, but occasionally he would entrust me with the sacred, rusty hammer of doom.


Because sometimes, the nails would pop up, or worse yet, the boards would rot and wittle bare tootsies do not like falling through rotten boards.  It can ruin your whole summer. I vividly recall one summer when one of my feet were punctured by a rotten nail on that boardwalk.  I spent weeks having to soak my foot in peroxide after going to the beach.  In a word, it sucked.


So when I saw My Captain working with Critter on fixing a rotten board, I was pleased, you can be sure.


It seems like every year since I married My Captain, he has replaced at least one boardwalk plank per summer.  He doesn’t ask permission.  He doesn’t try to delegate it to the people who are actually paid to do it.  He just does it. He is like this with EVERYTHING.


I sure do love that guy.


I love the fact that he is willing to take the time (and patience) to teach critter how to be a ‘get her done’ kind of guy.


I love the fact that he is willing to spend time teaching critter how to use tools.


At least I did until he went all “Calvin” of “Calvin and Hobbes.” He became The Creature, and My Captain’s drill became “The Tazer of Death.”


And that would have been cool,


except that my prized double peach lilies became his nemesis.

He’s healing just fine, thanks.

Oh, and My Captain, if you are reading this:



your Beloved.

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