What happens when you pile eight men into a cabin after eating several bowls of chili. This isn't one of the things on my bucket list although for my boyfriend it was the beginning of fulfilling one of his.
A trip to Canada to fish for a week had been planned for nearly a year with his son and six other men.
Granted, I love to fish, but can't imagine spending 12 hours a day trying to catch the big one, although I'm sure he doesn't want to spend an entire day at the mall shopping.
He spent weeks preparing his lures and gear and bought a new rod and reel that I was allowed to hold until I reared back as if to cast and hit the top of the garage door. You would have thought I had cut his right arm off, as the look he gave me was that terrifying.
Leaving me with several lists of instructions they hit the ground running, and although I was going to be responsible for a weeks' worth of business on my own, it seemed his main concern was his tools.
He repeated himself so many times about how there shouldn't be any reason to use any tool other than the can opener while he was gone, I was beginning to wonder what he thought I was going to try and build by myself. I really can't blame him, as I have destroyed several things by thinking I could handle the situation and really couldn't.
The vise grip, which is covered with pink finger nail polish, is a constant reminder I can't be trusted. In my mind, putting the bottle in the vise grip while trying to unscrew the lid with pliers seemed like a logical solution.
The lodge they stayed at offered bear hunting as well as fishing and they were told to lock their doors at night. That gave me nightmares of them being invaded by grizzlies, which may or may not be worse than eight men trying to share one bathroom.
The majority of the group were half his age, and after a week of fishing during the day and playing cards at night, although he wouldn't admit to it, I'm pretty sure he was ready to get home.
He's wondering if he'll be asked to go again next year, as the newbie to the group, he managed to catch the trophy fish of the day, every day, and was proud to show off his award patches he wants sewn onto his fishing shirt. I offered to give it a whirl, but he politely suggested I take it to a seamstress.
I managed to keep everything in tact while he was gone, with just a few mishaps that could be fixed with a little duct tape and probably won't be noticed until he ventures into the basement to look for his droplight I used while trying to give myself a pedicure.
Page 2 of 2 - He may have the patches for trophy fish, but I've been blessed with the best catch.
Sandy Turner lives in the Kansas City area and writes this column for GateHouse Media.