Joshilyn Jackson made me change my book

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While I sucked up every little hint of writing advice offered at the UCF Book Festival a few weeks ago, one session threw a wrench in my WIP.

I’ve already blogged about sitting utterly enamored in the audience, scribbling away in my old spiral notebook during Writing Place: New Fiction form the South: with Nicole Louise Reid, Joshilyn Jackson, and Karen White.

Joshilyn Jackson described writing her most ominous novel, Backseat Saints, as a journey into the depths of hell and back. After she rose from that dark place, she pleaded with her agent and publisher to let her write a nice, funny book. Since she is such an amazing writer who they didn’t want to go completely off the deep end, they said of course dear, whatever you want.

So she wrote a light, funny book. And the readers she trusted with her newborn words said it was good, but it just wasn’t her.

Don’t be afraid to let your characters go to dark places.

She had to go deeper, let her characters crawl into a dank, tight grave reeking in desperation and heartbreak. And she rewrote the whole damn book. And that book, A Grown-Up Kind of Pretty, ended up being the perfect blend of laughter and drama, at times leaving you gasping, at others snorting sweet tea out your nose. It worked. Well.

Her words seemed to glow across the room like firefly had spelled them out in a country dark night sky. (Didn’t you  ever read Sam and the Firefly?)

My most “popular” writing piece of late came not just from my heart, but from a time when that fickle organ had shriveled into a dull husk cowering on the bathroom floor. It was a dark piece, but it was transformative as well: what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.  (That should be my new writer’s mantra.)
I thought about a piece Joshilyn posted on her blog back in February, an utterly devastating, fearsome, and transparent piece. I could see her heartbreak scrawling across the screen with each word.  Though the damn post made me cry,  it was a thing of beauty just dripping with an overwhelmingly distinctive voice. I actually made my Hubby read it, as ingesting the words seemed to be the only way to explain just how powerful a voice in writing can be — he cried too. (Okay, I didn’t get wife of the year that night, and we spent our pre-dinner wine time reminiscing about our lost furry babies, but I needed to prove a point.)  Go read it, you’ll understand: Faster Than Kudzu: No Pictures.
We all have our own dark places, pieces of our lives we’ve buried deep within — areas riddled with cobwebs, weighed down with concrete blocks of guilt, and permeated with the lingering coppery stench of blood. Our characters should as well.
Don’t be afraid to let your characters go to dark places.
You see,  at the time I’d heard those words, I’d been about chest deep in my second draft, working in plot changes and character developments.  I’d been plagued with this niggling feeling that something was still missing, my main character need just a bit more motivation for her actions. 
Evie needed to go to her dark place.
Don’t get me wrong. There’s plenty of  death, deception, and all that other nasty stuff already in there. (And believe it or not, it still kind of funny. At least I hope it is.) My Evie’s life had basically turned into a twangy country song: she’d lost her husband, lost her house, lost her money, lost her sanity, and she’s pretty sure that if she had a dog, it would’ve been hit by the garbage truck, too. But she had to lose something else, something not superficial, to keep propelling her through the plot.
So, I’ve spent the last two weeks trying to work that extra element in, weaving it into my story like  raven’s wing black streaks into a braid. 
And I think it’s working.
Thanks Joshilyn.

lady luck

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“When I was a little girl, I used to run around in the fields all day, 
trying unsuccessfully to catch ladybugs. I’d get tired and lay down for a nap. 
When I awoke, I’d find the ladybugs walking all over me.”
 ~Under the Tuscan Sun
Some days you just need to take a break from the never-ending chase, 
relax, smell the salt air, read a book by the shore.
Take a moment to clear your head, savor a moment of pure kismet,
forget to keep score.


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Our Easter Bunny should be fired

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 First a confession: I have apparently turned into my mother. I used to tease her about the chocolate Easter bunny who lived in our freezer, only to be resurrected each year for a one-day appearance in my basket.  Well, it seems I have outdone her, because I have THREE bunnies in my freezer.  Someone, come and eat them, please.  I’m afraid if I leave them together much longer they will multiply (you know how those bunnies can be).

And the sad thing is, Kiddo had no idea these bunnies were making a repeat performance.
 Bad Easter Bunny.

Saturday morning I woke up at 6:45 in a total panic.  Oh Crap! The Easter bunny forgot to stop by our house!  I woke my husband, flew to the bunny’s secret lair and snatched the loot, and was about to grab all the empty eggs for stuffing when my Hubby woke up enough to think. Someone had to.  “Uh, honey,” he said. “It’s Saturday. Easter is Sunday. Today’s our anniversary.”   

Oops. I knew there was something special about the day.   Not sure which is worse: forgetting Easter or forgetting it was my twelfth anniversary. Bad Mommy. Bad Wife.

I considered resigning as Easter Bunny. If only I could fire myself.

The REAL Easter morning went well, at least. That tricky bunny decided to make Kiddo hunt for some of his presents this year, and stuffed a few eggs with clues.  I was absolutely thrilled when he dug into his new Titanic books and legos and left the wii toy to sit alone by the television.

He’s my kid after all.

For the last…six years (geesh, time flies) we’ve spent Easter afternoon at our friends’ parents farm. They throw a big old fashioned  potluck and egg hunt, and we look forward to it each year.

Half a dozen folding tables hold mugs filled with dye, stickers, and crayons for drawing.  A few years ago, someone decided that garbage bags saved the kids from dying themselves, and they all get decked out in this trashy fashion statement. Outfits saved.

While the eggs dry, it’s time to feast.  The buffet fills the farmhouse’s wrap-around porch, and folks line up on both sides to load their plates with everything from home-grown beans to turkey and ham. 

 You have to clean your plate before you are allowed to hit the dessert buffet. Yes, dessert buffet. I crammed down two slices of cake (luckily there was no banana pudding this year or I would have popped). My friend totally stole my idea and made this adorable Peeps sunflower cake. (Okay, she had no idea I saw the pin on Pinterest and I was too lazy to make it myself.)

The kids run wild for a little bit while the adults digest. 

Then the kids are corralled  inside while most of the adults hide the eggs.  Hundreds of eggs: each child dyed a dozen, then there are huge storage bins filled with stuffed plastic eggs. We spread them over a couple of acres, in citrus trees, on tractor wheels, in plant pots, and tucked in Spanish moss gracefully drooping from oak trees.  Big kids go to one side of the house, little ones on the other. It’s still hard to believe my Kiddo is one of the bigger children now. He was just 2 1/2 the year of his first hunt.

My baby’s grown a little bit.
Funny how he has dirty knees in both pictures. Some things never change.
 

Funny how other things can change in the blink of an eye.

On the way home, we passed by another group of Trayvon Martin supporters marching through downtown Sanford.  Back to life, back to reality.

Because Stormtroopers Read Too

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While wandering the main floor of the UCF Book Festival last Saturday,
 I caught this Stormtrooper in the act.
No, not in the act of defending Darth Vader, or blasting away at the good guys, 
but casually perusing the author booths. 
Reading book jackets.

Because Stormtroopers read, too. Remember that kids. . .

Review: Confessions of a Scary Mommy

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Today is the big day! Confessions of a Scary Mommy hits the book shelves everywhere.  I shall start by assuming you all know about Scary Mommy. If you have somehow lived under a cyber rock for the last few years, here’s the rundown:

The blog: Scary Mommy: an honest and irreverent look at motherhood — the good, the bad, and the scary. Thousands of moms flock to her site religiously for a daily dose of wit with a side of mom-bonding.

The woman behind it: Jill Smokler, a Maryland mom of three, and the reigning queen of dishing out motherhood’s dirty little secrets.  “Erma Bombeck-style insights…about the underbelly of marriage and parenting…to a new generation of women.” …yeah, yeah, yeah… She’s funny, she’s real, you’ll wish she lived next door so you could vent together over margaritas.

Now that we’ve cleared that up, Jill Smokler wrote a book. A pee-in-your-pants, snort-coffee-out-your-nose, funny kind of book. Confessions of a Scary Mommy, hitting stores April 3rd, is not a highbrow work of literature. It’s a book about stretch marks, snot, and shitting on the delivery table. It’s also about cutting yourself some slack, having compassion for fellow moms in the trenches, and maintaining a sense of humor as necessary skill for survival. It lifts the sacred veil off the face of motherhood, revealing that none of us really have any clue what we are doing. It’s about REAL life.

The book’s twenty-seven chapters cover everything from delivery room dramas to competitive birthday party planning.  Each is only a short snippet — kind of like a Reader’s Digest or Men’s Health article — perfect for a quick read while hiding in the bathroom with a sleeve of Oreos and a shot of tequila.

Each chapter starts with a round-up of “Mommy Confessions,” anonymous admissions taken from Smokler’s highly poplar blog boards where moms air their dirtiest laundry. Many will make you laugh, some will make you gasp, and most will make any mom nod her head in agreement while shouting, “Hell, yeah!” because, well, we’ve all been there. (And yes, there’s even an App for that.)

As to be expected, Confessions of a Scary Mommy doesn’t sugarcoat any aspect of modern motherhood.  If you are not a mom yet, you may be outrageously offended by some of the off-color confessions and candid reality checks. How dare some mothers think these things, let alone say them! These women are EVIL and don’t deserve to raise a child! Ditto that on the brand-spanking-new first time moms still jacked up on the delicious new-baby-smell high. They’ll fall from their pedestals soon enough, and they will come crawling to this book and to the blog to get them through the day.

If you are a mother and you cannot find something to relate to in the first chapter alone (even if you are afraid to admit it) you LIE. Or you are a cyborg, Stepford Wife, or on some really, really good grown-up drugs.  From the dreaded mommy guilt to aching ovaries and swearing at our children when they act like little shits (in our heads, of course) — we’ve all been there. And it is an utter relief to realize we are all a part of this vast sisterhood of Scary Mommies.

This book will scare some people — absolutely— there’s foul language and feces and brutal honesty.  Confessions of a Scary Mommy may terrify my expecting cousin, but I’ll buy it for her because she deserves to know what she’s getting into. And for my mom, so she realizes I now understand all the crap I put her through. And for my Mother-In-Law for — nope, never mind — she’d drop this book like a flaming shit bomb at the first “fuck.”  She’s of the generation who believes some things just aren’t said. I think these things should be screamed from the rooftops, so this generation of moms can be saved from a lifetime of self-flagellation and vodka tonics at 10 a.m. They need to know it’s okay to not like your children every second of every day, even though you love them fiercely. They are okay. Scary Mommy said so.

The only thing missing from this book was a few more pages. I would have loved for the chapters to be longer, explored in more depth, but then no busy mom would be able to sneak in enough time to read it.  Call me selfish, but I just didn’t want Confessions of a Scary Mommy to end.

So buy it. Yourself. It would make a fabulous Mother’s Day gift, but you know your husband won’t remember, so just put a nice bow on it and call it even. Consider it a belated Push Present.  Because you fucking deserve it.

Confessions of a Scary Mommy
by Jill Smokler
Gallery Books, 208 pages
$10.20 [hardcover] $9.99 [Kindle]

Authors & Aspirations at the UCF Book Fest

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I slogged through cross-town traffic, a torrential thunderstorm, and skipped my Kiddo’s soccer game to attend the University of Central Florida Book Festival. It was totally worth it.  I hadn’t set foot on the college campus since a Tori Amos concert a lifetime ago. I put on my big girl panties and a trendy outfit (so I wouldn’t look like one of the college kids’ mothers, which technically, I could be) and marched into the arena…alone.

Vendors, authors, and makeshift bookstores filled the arena floor.  There were twenty-one author panels spread across four meeting rooms to choose from, and a few times it was a tough call  deciding which session to attend.  In the end, I sat in on:

The Liberal Arts Life: From Jazz to Journalism to Novel to Script: keynote author James McBride

Writing Place: New Fiction form the South:  Nicole Louise Reid, Joshilyn Jackson, and Karen White

Stories From the Ladies of the South: Rachel Hauck, River Jordan, Marybeth Whalen, Lisa Wingate

Killing People in Exotic Places: Nancy J. Cohen, Bob Morris, Neil S. Plakcy

Embracing Imperfections through Young Adult Lit: Ellen Hopkins, Jessica Martinez, Ty Roth

Some of the authors I’ve known and loved for years, some tickled my interest, and some I simply must go out and read their books immediately. Or as soon as I eke out some time.

As a lifetime lit fan, occasional book reviewer,  and aspiring author, I hung on every word spewing from these successful writers’ mouths. I thought I’d be generous and pass along my favorite tidbits gleamed from the wonderful panel discussions.

James McBride (The Color of Water, Miracle at St. Anna,  musician, journalist, and screenplay writer): Learn to fail, and fail better — every successful person has learned to accept his failures and move on.  Since I’m prepping myself for the excruciating process of finding an agent and landing a publisher, I MUST remember this. If The Help was rejected 100 times, I can’t imagine how thick my stack of rejection letters will grow.

Nicole Louise Reid (So There!): A successful writer is someone who is good at lying, not in person, but on paper.  I’d never read any works by her before, but her reading was lovely, her words were lush, lyrical, and from the heart…or at least that’s what she’d like you to believe.


Joshilyn Jackson (A Grown-Up Kind of Pretty, Backseat Saints): People should buy your book not because it’s good, but because your whole heart is in it.  And don’t be afraid to let your characters go to dark places.  I’ll admit, Joshilyn was my main draw. I’ve loved her work since I read the first page of Gods in Alabama years ago, and I totally have a writer crush on her now.  I’ve been reading her blog Faster Than Kudzu, for a while, and now that I’ve met her, I understand. Shes whimsical, slightly manic, and funny as hell.

And, as you can see, my new BFF. Or writing partner. In my DREAMS.  I can only hope that by standing so close to her I sucked up a few drops of her writing talent by some type of  author osmosis. (Hey, I could write a story about that…)  (And I look totally horrible in this picture, I blame it totally on the kind old guy behind me who snapped the shot without any time for me to stand up straight or position my arm properly. It’s not that fat, I swear.)

Rachel Hauck (The Wedding Dress) Fiction is hyperbole, life on steroids, so yes, writers always take from real life.  Character inspirations, settings, and scenes are all around you — suck them up.


Marybeth Whalen (The Guest Book, She Makes It Look Easy) If it’s a priority, you can make it happen. Marybeth has six kids, and still can balance the writing life and family life. I have no excuse. We live in a very visual society now; write it like you’d see it.

Neil S. Plakcy (the Mahu mystery series) I don’t get mad at people anymore. I just kill them. (In his books, of course.)

Bob Morris (Baja Florida, Bahamarama) I like to put real peoples’ names in books, just too see if they actually read them.

Ellen Hopkins (Crank, Perfect) Another reason no one should ban books, or consider certain books inappropriate for a certain age: it’s better to let people, especially teens, learn about the bad things in life, the rough patches, through a book. It gives them a frame of reference, a way of coping with a difficult situation.  And every time (I) am told one of my books has been flagged as inappropriate, I send a stack of letters to that person, letters from fans stating how that book saved their life. I fight for it.



I caught author Karen White (who was charming, witty, and wonderful, but I neglected to take notes of any of her sage advice) signing an e-reader cover instead of an actual book. The wave of the paperless future?

 I had a wonderful, enlightening day.  I also managed to get scared out of my mind by my most-likely masochistic career choice.   I can only dream I’ll be invited to attend one year as a published author myself.

And if not, I just discovered I SHOULD have applied to attend as a blogger. I totally missed an awesome Friday night meet and greet with the authors. Lesson learned, failure noted and accepted. I am taking notes.

Central Florida Bloggers, Food, & Fun

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I finally made it to another monthly night out with a group of fun & fabulous Central Florida Lady Bloggers.  Mexican food, an icy Imperial (a Costa Rican beer), and blogging buddies — ingredients for a perfect evening!

 It felt so good trade out my writing wardrobe (a.k.a. yoga pants) for a bright  new dress, ditch the slippers for some espadrilles, and head downtown.  This suburban girl doesn’t get out much. Though I’m only about ten miles from the hip downtown area, I felt like I was heading into a different world — one that involves the choice of valet parking or driving in circles for hours to snatch a tiny parallel parking spot. But I found a spot where I wouldn’t get towed,  then enjoyed some delicious food, cold drinks, and amazing company.

Carolina, from Peas in a Blog, was smart enough to bring her camera along (because no blogger should EVER leave home without one) and had our young waiter snap this photo. Thanks for letting us all totally steal it!

These ladies are amazing. Not only do they write for a diverse range of blogs, but they run marathons, compete for national fashion blogging awards, host panel discussions at BlogHer Food, produce nationally syndicated television and radio shows, and so much more. I can’t help but to feel out of my league. Take a minute to discover some of their unique blogs — you won’t be disappointed.

Food
Christine – Cook the Story
Kristina – Love & Zest

Food & Fitness
Carolina — Peas in a Blog
Jessica – Sushi & Sit Ups


Fashion
J – J’s Everyday Fashion

Children’s Health & Wellness
Carly & Courtney – Illuminate Blog

Sports
Colleen – Lady Ballers

A bit of everything
Heather – Housewife Glamour
Jackie – Mom Jovi


Social Media/Fitness
Katy – Katy Widrick


Running & Fun
Paula – Eat Watch Run
Victoria – Running Peanut

*Thanks again to Carolina for compiling this list.  And if I miss you, let me know, & I’ll gladly add you.

Since I’ve been trying to eat healthier (swimsuit season is already in full swing around here), I ordered the Lettuce Wrap Fajitas.  Probably not the best choice when wearing a new dress. They proved so messy, I dumped  all the ingredients on one plate and improvised a taco salad.  Not bad. And it gave me inspiration for dinner the next night.

I’d bought some of the new Kraft Fresh Takes (coating, seasoning, & cheese mix) when they were free with coupons.  I baked some chicken breasts coated in the Chili Lime and Panko coating and tossed it on top of a salad of mixed baby greens, red and orange bell peppers, black beans, and green onions.

Pretty good, if I do say so myself. And another example of why I don’t eat out much. It’s hard to justify spending $10+ bucks on a dinner salad when I can make it at home.

Oh, and while I was making this dinner, Hubby suddenly remembered that he had a potluck at work...tomorrow.  I wasn’t making him anything at such the last minute, so I tossed him a box of brownie mix and let him figure it out.

Better luck next time?  They still tasted great though (is it possible for brownies to taste bad?) and I’m sure all the ladies at his work will be tickled he made them himself.

Fifty Shades of Hype

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From:  Vinobaby, an avid book lover and budding novelist
Subject: Fifty Shades of  Hype Grey
Date: March 22, 2012
To: Mature Readers Everywhere (that means Mom & Grandma, this is NOT for you)

I fell for the hype. From the Today Show’s segment on the new mommy porn and the countless articles about the sultry Twilight for grown-ups overtaking the suburbs, Fifty Shades of Grey was everywhere, a publishers wet dream. I had to see what it was about.

I wanted to be floored. I wasn’t impressed.

Fifty Shades of Gray is the story of Anastasia Steele, a naive young virgin, and her romance with Christian Grey, a beautiful billionaire. Days before her college graduation, young, immature Ana fills in for her sick best friend/roommate  and interviews the powerful CEO of Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc. for her college magazine.  He is devastatingly handsome. He is rather young himself, especially for a self-made billionaire. He is an utter control freak. Plain, normal Ana falls for him, and even though she is just an “every-girl,” the filthy-rich hunk falls for her, too.

Right.

We discover quite quickly that Christian is not one for a normal relationship. No touching. No staying the night. Just lots of kinky sex. He opens Ana up to the world of chain-filled playrooms, spankings, and calling her boyfriend “Sir.”  He is a dominant and she is supposed to be his submissive. . .she just has a few other ideas in mind.

“I’m no longer angry with him, I suddenly feel unbearably shy. I don’t want him to go. For the first time I wish he was — normal — wanting a normal relationship that doesn’t need a ten-page agreement, a flogger, and carabiners in his playroom ceiling.“

It’s not literature.  Not because of the sex scenes, but because it’s just not written that well. Anais Nin and  Henry Miller spun controversial and steamy stories, but their works still can be found on the literature shelves of bookstores and libraries. Fifty Shades has the distinct feel of a YA novel, just a NC-17 version. The characters are flat, immature, and Ana’s inner dialogue made me want to scream.  Her budding inner goddess thinks, “Holy $hit” every other page. It got old.  She was supposed to be a lit student who easily scored a job with a publishing house. Yet she never owned a laptop. Or, judging by her 13-year-old vocabulary, a thesaurus.

Then there’s the whole brouhaha about possible copyright infringement. The novel supposedly developed from the author E L James’s Master of the Universe fan fiction piece, a Twilight takeoff. While I don’t read fan fiction and the idea of making money on another author’s back is odious, honestly, I don’t see how it’s an issue here.  There are some similarities, yes.  Both of the heroines are naive, unremarkable every-girls who blossom under the watchful eyes of their constant beaus. Only their necessary side of spunk makes them tolerable and different from wet dishrags. And I get it — girls like bad boys with a hidden sensitive side and a sob-story past.  Both Edward and Christian are otherworldly handsome, filthy rich,  and  scarily jealous and controlling.  That whole possessive deal is one of the key issues that scared me with the Twilight saga — millions of young girls and older Twilight Cougars in love with such a controlling freak.  {That’s why I was Team Jacob.}

Speaking of Jacob: his would-be parallel character, Jose, is barely mentioned, not developed at all, and seemingly thrown in just to illustrate Christian’s overwhelming anger and jealousy.  But that is nothing new to fiction, and even a well-developed love triangle is not copyrightable.

There are also none of Twilight’s subplots (or much plot at all, really).  I kept waiting for a  rival pack of rich and carnally hungry dominants to raid the town, leaving a trail of deflowered young girls — some element of mystery or danger.  Instead it is 372 pages of I know I shouldn’t like this guy or this crazy sex, but I think I kinda do anyway..holy crap…

Honestly, a young woman falling for a sparkling, sexless (at least for a while) vampire seems more realistic to me than a college-educated virgin jumping panties-first into a BDSM relationship, complete with contract and all.  I couldn’t bother to root for any of the characters.

I don’t think this book would have received any of the publicity, sales, or a massive book deal if it hadn’t hitched its steamy wagon to  the nonstop Twilight train.  It’s just not that good. I wanted to attack the manuscript with a red pen in hand, because apparently it was thrown into print without a copy editor. Others have said it’s an emotional roller coaster, heartbreaking, and thrilling — I found it to be utterly flat, and as exciting as Disney’s Hall of Presidents.  But hype is everything now, and this book is rivaling  Blue Ivy and the slut controversy.

If you are looking to read some smut, excuse me “erotica,” but you are to nervous to go to your local bookstore to pick some up, I guess this may be worth your time.  {But, just so you know, you can order online and no one will ever know.}  I’m certainly not recommending this book though. I would have put it down after the first ten pages (long before it got to any of the good stuff) if I wasn’t so curious about all the hype. I’m rather disappointed it didn’t live up to any of it.

Have you read Fifty Shades?  What did you think? Five star or one (or a shade of grey somewhere between)?

The Booze Canoes {or it must be St. Paddy’s Day}

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If you want to test a relationship, go canoeing.

I’m serious. I see it happen (and live it) every year. That fine line between this is the most lovely, relaxing day with my significant other and I’m going to kill him.

We have a lovely, near pristine piece of old Florida not far from our home. Far enough that I can’t hear the traffic, the constant hum of air conditioners, and the whirl of sirens. Close enough that we still get emergency cell phone service (in case we are eaten by an alligator or bear) and only have a twenty minute drive home.

Each St. Patrick’s Day we gather with a large group of friends from Hubby’s soccer team and our local English pub for the St. Paddy’s Day Paddle.

The jello shots start at 9 a.m.

Yes, I know. But in pre-kid days, it used to start earlier — as in everyone meet at 8 a.m. for a few beers, but most of us are too old for that now.  And it really does help with whole relationship thing. A little liquor tends to tune down the urge to throw your spouse or significant other overboard.

A  pack of 12 to 20 canoes gather annually for this 8 mile river run. From families to single swearing Scotsmen still drunk from the night before, it’s a diverse bunch.  Some paddlers have experience. Some don’t know which end of the paddle goes in the water. Those are the guys who drink the most. And tip the most.  And are the most entertaining to watch.

Steering a flimsy fiberglass boat through alligator-infested waters is enough to make some people nervous. Add in hairpin twists and turns, dark water riddled with underwater obstructions which can snag and dunk you, and swampy shoals where you can easily run aground, and the REAL fun begins.

Someone has to steer. Someone has to navigate and listen. And when do couples ever work in such harmony?

Shouts echo down the river.

Why didn’t you tell me we were going to hit a log?

Steer right, right, no your OTHER right! {crash}

Ackh! Spiderweb, you steered me into a giant spiderweb!

Watch the damn water, and stop trying to catch jello shots!

You DO NOT jump and lean in the boat when we see a gator. 

What do you mean you forgot the toilet paper? Am I supposed to use a leaf?

If you tip us, so help me God, you will be sleeping on the couch until NEXT YEAR’S paddle.

Paddle faster. Paddle faster!  I hear banjos… {Not really, but I did find a teen serenading three girls with an acoustic guitar.}

Usually, if a couple survives the comedy of errors, their relationship is bound to last. Canoeing should be a part of mandatory premarital counseling, a mini-Survivor, where only the strong-willed and strongest relationships will make it off the island and down the isle. Everyone bickers, from couples just dating to those who have persevered through decades of marriage.

During those moments when things are under control, it’s an absolutely lovely day.  No noise but bird calls, frog croaks, and the breeze blowing through towering cypress trees.  Over the years we’ve spotted otters, snakes, alligators, zillions of water birds, wild turkeys, and resting turtles along the Wekiva River. Deer and black bears frequent the area also, but we’ve yet to spot one along the river (I’m guessing the banging boats and wild Englishmen’s swears scare them away).

Our St. Paddy’s Day tradition — booze, canoes, and wilderness. What could possibly go wrong?