First off, we were asked to pet sit Buddy, our younger son’s miniature golden doodle, while he and his family vacationed up north for the week of July 4th. Buddy didn’t require entertaining, just constant petting. He’s so needy, but he’s easily pleased.

Simultaneously, our Firstborn and family came up to visit during the week of July 4^th. They are six in all: Mom, Dad, and four sons ranging in age from 10 to 18. I was assured they wouldn’t require entertaining—and obviously wouldn’t need constant petting. All they wanted to do every day is swim in the lake, ride in the newly refurbished pontoon boat, and fish, fish, fish.

I had a plan. I had a schedule. I had rib-sticking dinner menus. I had confidence that everything would go smoothly. Obviously, I was delusional.

I cooked up a storm prior to their arrival so I wouldn’t be stuck in the kitchen cooking during their visit and missing out on all the fun. I made a gallon of slow-cooked pulled pork barbecue in my Ninja. I slaved over a 9×13 pan of Old Settler’s Beans. I whipped up a 9×13 pan of Party Potatoes. I assembled a huge pan of Firstborn’s never-fail favorite: Seven Layer Salad. MG pitched in with his own recipe for coleslaw.

For good measure, MG and I visited Gordon’s Food Service to score items to sate the appetites of teenage boys—no small feat. We purchased a pan of classic lasagna and a huge bag of meatballs. We also bought a sweet potato soufflé to go with a smoked ham we picked up. I tossed a huge box of assorted individual size chip bags into out cart. Just to be on the safe side, we also stocked up on pita bread to make individual pizzas as a backup should all else fail.

Our first planned event was a beach party cookout in honor of our eldest grandson who graduated high school in mid-June. We planned to do hot dogs, the beans, the slaw, chips, and watermelon. It was much more than the eight of us could possibly eat.

In an obvious and pathetic attempt to score Brownie points with my daughter-in-law, I suggested we invite her brother and family who live in a nearby bedroom community to join us to celebrate with the graduate. He and his wife also have four children. I figured I had provisions enough to feed six more without running out.

My DIL was very pleased and said she would call them to see if they were available. There was a slight hitch. No surprise there. The best laid plans…

DIL’s brother said they would love to join us but they had visitors of their own—his wife’s brother and his family. They have three young children. My DIL asked me if it would be all right if they all could come to the cookout? If so, they would contribute to the menu.

Oh. My. God. I never included that many extras to feed in my plans.

Er, um, uh—damn. What could I say without being a party pooper, a lousy hostess, and the meanest mother-in-law on the face of the Earth? ::gulp::

No problem. Tell them they’re all welcome. The more the merrier—and tell them to take swimsuits and beach towels with them.

Let no one call me a party pooper or a lousy hostess.

If only I had kept on cooking ahead of time. From six more to feed, the impulsive invitation grew to eleven more to feed. I was fairly sure the beans and slaw would stretch far enough to feed the whole crowd, and we had plenty of pop, but I knew immediately that I didn’t have enough hot dogs and buns on hand.

Without shifting into panic mode—on the surface anyway—I cornered MG and sent him to the local market for more hot dogs, hot dog buns, and chocolate milk.

I am happy to report that there was enough food to go around. Only one cup of the beans, two cups worth of slaw, and a few dogs and buns were left over. The little locusts lay waste to all but four small bags chips.

I thought that was the end of it and I could relax from then on, but noooooo. All the kids had such a good time swimming and fishing prior to the cookout that they all wanted to come back the next day to fish with their cousins again.

Er, um, uh—damn. What could I say without being a party pooper and the lousiest hostess on the face of the Earth? ::gulp::

No problem. Tell them they’re all welcome. The more the merrier—and tell them to bring swimsuits and beach towels with them.

Let no one call me a party pooper or a lousy hostess.

The kids arrived kind of late in the afternoon, very close to dinner time actually. Maybe too close. So close that Firstborn approached me and asked if I had enough for dinner to feed his nephews and their cousins too.

Er, um, uh—damn. What could I say without being a party pooper and the lousiest hostess on the face of the Earth? ::gulp::

No problem. Tell them they’re all welcome to stay for dinner. The more the merrier.

Let no one call me a party pooper or a lousy hostess.

In a strategic move that would impress the most decorated Pentagon chiefs, I switched the scheduled lasagna dinner on the menu with the five gallons (thank Heaven I cooked that much) of barbecued pulled pork, the party potatoes, the leftover slaw (to top the pulled pork sandwiches), and the remaining bags of chips. The locust boys devoured about a half-gallon worth of the pork, all the chips, and left only a smidgen of party potatoes. Somehow, I managed to survive another feeding of unscheduled and ravenous guests. Whew!

Our neighborhood association puts on a fireworks display on July 4^th. Firstborn mentioned that we had darn good fireworks at the lake. It was then that we learned that the church in my DIL’s brother’s bedroom community that usually has fireworks wasn’t able to do them this year. Seven pairs of young eyes were trained on me, wordlessly pleading for and hoping for an invitation.

Er, um, uh—damn. What could I say without being a party pooper and the lousiest hostess on the face of the Earth? ::gulp::

No problem. You’re all welcome to come watch our fireworks. The more the merrier. They start about ten.

Let no one call me a party pooper or a lousy hostess.

And there went a relaxing evening of not having to worry about entertaining and pleasing guests. Worry I did. The larder was conspicuously depleted except for the pulled pork and the pop. I waited in dread to hear that one of the kids would claim to be hungry. Fortunately, that didn’t come to pass.

Everyone except Buddy enjoyed the fireworks. (We kept him indoors.) The display was fabulous as usual, so fabulous that one of the kids asked if they could come back next year to watch our fireworks again. I didn’t expect anyone to ask that. It definitely caught me off guard.

Er, um, uh—damn. What could I say without being a party pooper and the lousiest hostess on the face of the Earth? ::gulp::

Well, I don’t see why not.

Firstborn opined that he and his family should drive up to visit every year around July 4th, and we should all plan to get together at the lake the way we did this year.

So, it appears I already have guests scheduled for 4^th of July next year. I plan to start cooking a lot earlier and to cook a lot more of everything.

Let no one call me a party pooper or a lousy hostess.

His latest project, which is near completion, is the restoration of our 22-year-old pontoon boat. The old barge was seriously showing its age. The vinyl upholstery was stained, cracked and ripped in spots. The carpet was worn and faded. The canopy had gross bird poop stains, spider webs, and wasp nest on it. Now that I think about it, I suppose it could have passed for a garbage scow. Out of respect for our neighbors on the lake, we kept it covered.

Not long ago, we went window shopping, sort of, for a new pontoon. We almost went into cardiac arrest at how much more expensive pontoons are these days as compared to what our antique vessel originally cost us. We decided to stick with our floating hunk of junk.

In April, when we had our pitiful pontoon delivered from storage, MG had it parked in the driveway’s parking area. He announced that he was going to restore it himself. I admit that I had my doubts. He restored several collector cars in the past, but could he restore a boat—especially one that was on its last pontoons?

MG removed everything—the railings, the couches, the fishing seats, the pilots seat, the live well, the control console—and then set to work on the carpet. Yikes. That carpet was stuck to the deck like a second skin. MG scraped and chipped and sanded it but couldn’t get it all off. Finally, he rented a professional industrial grade sander. He walked it over the deck and that did the trick.

The pontoon was a garbage scow no longer and MG had a blank canvas to work on. I got to play a small part at that point. I helped to choose the design and colors of the new couches and chairs.

With the temperature warming up and summer nearly here, MG got another handy guy from the neighborhood to help him put Humpty Dumpty back together again a little faster. He wants it ready to launch as soon as possible to take advantage of Michigan’s sadistically short summer.

We also need to have the newly refurbished and almost good as new pontoon in the water when the North Carolina branch of the family comes up to visit us during the 4^th of July holiday week. Our grandsons have put Grandpa on notice that they want to fish the entire time of the visit. They’re serious. During their last visit, they fished from dawn till after dusk. They showed the fish no mercy.

One more visit to the local hardware store will put the finishing touches on the pontoon restoration project. The family’s super-duper fixer upper will be a handyman hero once again.

The almost completed restoration!

There was one little hitch in the plans. They scheduled the reunion in summer. In the month of August. In scorching, sweltering, steamy Missouri in summer in the month of August. After experiencing August in Branson, Missouri, it is my considered opinion that air conditioning should be written into the U.S. Constitution as an inalienable right of citizenship.

I distinctly remember that the day we arrived in Branson was the last day of the reunion on which I elected to wear makeup. It reached its melting point and slid right off my face the moment I stepped out of the car at the motel.

Damn, it was hot in Branson in August. It was so damn hot, anti-perspirant/deodorant failure was rife—and ripe. The directions on my anti-perspirant/deodorant’s label read: “Apply a thin layer to underarms.” I tried that. It didn’t last five minutes once I stepped outdoors. I tried applying a thicker layer the next day. Ten minutes, tops. The third day, I slathered it on like cake frosting.

Despite the heat, Macho Guy and three of his classmates decided to play a round of golf. I reminded him that the expected high for the following day was 101 degrees. He said it wouldn’t be a problem; they reserved an early tee time. The next morning, we had a very early breakfast together. Macho Guy left to golf in the oppressive heat, and I went back to our cool, comfortable air-conditioned room to shower before getting in some writing time on the old laptop I brought along.

I finished showering and opened the glass door to step out when in my peripheral vision I caught a somewhat blurry creature crawling across the tile floor to my right. Since my glasses were on the vanity, I had to squint at it to get a better look. I thought it might be a large insect of some kind, but it was a creamy, off-white color and it didn’t look like any insect I’d ever seen. I thought about stepping on it and squashing it. Not a chance. I was barefoot—I was bare, period—so I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

Good thing I didn’t because I wouldn’t be writing this and you wouldn’t be reading it. The creature was beginning to look oddly familiar, more so the closer it came to the shower stall. When it climbed onto the fluffy bath mat, I got a good look at the distinctive upward curl of its tail. My flesh broke out in industrial-size goose bumps. Even without my glasses on I could see that I was in very deep doo-doo. My unwelcome visitor was a small but deadly scorpion.

A SCORPION? OH, MY GOD!

I was alone, I was dripping wet, I was in the altogether, and I was freaking out because a scorpion was right outside the shower stall.

HELP! SOMEBODY, HELP!

No one heard me, of course. Then I had a brilliant idea. One of Macho Guy’s female classmates had a sign on her motel room door that read: “I’m out of estrogen and I have a gun.” She could shoot the blasted scorpion for me—if I could get past the scorpion to get to the phone and call her.

HELP! SOMEBODY! ANYBODY! HELP!

The scorpion looked as if it was turning in my direction. Not good. Maybe it heard me yelling for help. Too bad no one else did.

I was on my own. I had to kill the scorpion before it killed me. Also not good. I freak out if I have to kill a spider. Where was Macho Guy when I really needed him? Oh, right. He was playing golf.

I took a frantic look around the shower stall for a weapon. Let’s see. One bar of soap the size of a credit card. One tiny bottle of shampoo the size of a tube of lipstick. One tiny bottle of after-shampoo conditioner, same size. One wet washcloth. Some arsenal—I was a dead woman.

The scorpion drew closer while I decided which of my weapons of miniscule destruction I should throw at it first. I decided on the tiny shampoo bottle, but then I hesitated. If I hit it and didn’t kill it, I’d probably make it mad. I did not want to make it mad. I didn’t even want to annoy it. There had to be something I could do that would prevent that scorpion from sending me to the Great Publishing House in the Sky before my time.

The wet washcloth. Of course! I could trap the scorpion under the wet washcloth and then escape. Why didn’t I think of it sooner? No, don’t tell me. I’ll get the answer myself . . . got it! I didn’t think of it sooner because I was scared spitless.

I knew I would have only one chance. I had to land the wet washcloth right on target because I wouldn’t be able to retrieve it if I miscalculated. With knees knocking and teeth chattering I leaned out and held the washcloth a few feet directly above the scorpion and dropped it.

Bullseye! I trapped the little beasty right under the center of the washcloth. I leaped over it to freedom and wrapped myself in a warm, dry fluffy towel.

As soon as I stopped shaking, I called the front desk and informed the desk clerk that there was a scorpion in my room. She made me repeat it twice before she realized she heard me correctly. She said she would send someone up to take care of it.

All the while I patted myself dry, I never took my eyes off that washcloth to make certain its prisoner did not escape confinement. Then it occurred to me that the desk clerk would probably send a man to take care of the scorpion, and I was still in my skin suit.

I was in a warm up suit when the scorpion wrangler arrived with his pincers and specimen box. I showed him where the unwelcome visitor was being detained. He reached down to lift the washcloth and I gasped. Was he insane? I asked him if he wasn’t afraid of being stung by the scorpion. He straightened and apparently thought better of lifting the cloth. He lifted up one boot-clad foot and stomped on the washcloth. He then peeked underneath. He nodded and said, “Yep. Scorpion.” He gripped the washcloth and the scorpion’s corpse with his pincers, deposited them in the specimen box and left. Whew! Close one.

I spent the rest of the morning writing and constantly looking over my shoulder to be sure no more scorpion intruders were sneaking up on me. I wouldn’t sleep in the bed that night until Macho Guy removed and shook out the bedding to be sure no scorpions had taken up residence there. We checked out the following day.

I thought we might get a partial refund because of the scorpion incident. I mentioned the scorpion to the desk clerk checking us out. She sure was quick on her feet. In a bright cheery voice, she said, “Oh, don’t worry about it. We won’t charge you extra for having a scorpion in your room.”