One of the bigger rewards we once received was a day off work ... and on the owner's boat. On a day we should be processing loans, the entire office (it was a small office) would get to don bathing suits and hang out at the reservoir, on a boat, sipping beer in the sunshine.

I didn't want to go. I really did not want to go.

I didn't want to go because despite having been born in Minnesota, the land of 10,000 lakes, I didn't know how to swim. Which would have been okay if it were to be just a slow row around the reservoir, but one of the planned events was a contest of who could survive the longest on the inflatable "bullet" attached to the boat by a rope and pulled around the reservoir at top speeds. An activity in which my participation meant certain drowning. Assurances from the only coworker who knew of my fear telling me again and again "You'll have on a life jacket!" were of no comfort. I still didn't want to go.

But I did, of course. It was a "reward" and I was expected to accept it.

When it came time for the bullet contest, my coworkers took turns hopping on the bullet, whooping and hollering about what fun, what fun! As they straddled the bullet, they gave our boss -- the man behind the wheel and the gas pedal -- the thumbs up and off they went, skidding across the water at top speeds. Another thumbs up meant "faster, faster." Each would go through the same routine, seeing who could go the fastest, who could go the longest. Each would fly off the bullet and into the water when the speed became too much for them to bear.

Then it was my turn. I could barely breathe. Only the coworker with whom I'd shared my fear knew the terror I faced as she helped me onto the deathmobile. I straddled the inflatable, grabbed onto the handles on each side, then gave a weak thumbs up. The boat slowly moved away from the bullet until the rope was taut. I gave another thumbs up, then quickly grabbed the handle again. As the boat gained speed, I began scooting across the water. Another thumbs up then quick hand grab and I went faster. I did it again ... and again ... and again, each time quickly flashing my thumb then returning to the handle. Each time going faster and faster.

As I flew and bounced and soared across the water, I kept my hands gripped around the handles and my eyes fixed on my coworkers as they laughed and smacked each other on the back and gave me a thumbs up in return. Faster and faster I went, holding on tighter and tighter, praying harder and harder that the insane fun would end soon because I was not having any fun.

Finally the boat slowed and they began reeling me in. "What's the deal?" I wondered. Maybe my coworker had told them of my fear and they decided enough was enough.

As the bullet reached the boat, everyone cheered and shouted congratulations to me. I was the winner! I had gone the fastest, the longest ... and never fell off the bullet! Yay, Lisa! They slapped me on the back, helped me off the bullet, handed me a beer. Woo-hoo for me!

My coworkers couldn't believe my cojones, my nerves of steel, my ability to hold on. What they didn't know was that I held on because there was absolutely no way in hell I was going to fall in that water. I didn't know how to swim, I didn't trust the life jacket to save me. And I surely was not willing to die during a workday spent at the reservoir drinking beer and riding bullets when I had three babies at home who needed me for many, many more years to come.

I held on for my life -- and looked like a success to everyone else -- because there was no other option.

Which is exactly what I've been doing all my adult years: I hold on with a steel-plated grip because I have no other option.

In every facet of my life, I've survived, made it through, didn't drown. But it's definitely not because of any special ability, powers or knowledge. In fact, it's precisely because I don't have any special ability, powers or knowledge that I'm surviving from one day to the next. I cling so tightly because there's nothing else I can do. I don't have a Plan B. I don't have a safety net to protect me from failure -- financial, physical or otherwise. And despite taking swimming lessons at the age of 40, I still don't really know how to swim.

But I do have one helluva grip.

And I continue to hold on.

Today's question:

Time to brag: What's one thing you do really well?

My answer: I make excellent chocolate chip cookies!

Like many long-time wives, I spend far more time complaining about my husband than I do complimenting him. So today, for his birthday, I'd like to do something a little different.

My top 10 reasons why I love my husband:

1. He makes the bed every morning and helps with the dinner dishes every night.
2. He loves independent and subtitled films as much as I do.
3. Bubby's the cheese on his pizza, too, even though he'd never put it that way (and said I sounded really weird when I wrote that post).
4. He has unflagging faith in my ability to make a living as a freelance writer, even to the point of encouraging me to not apply for jobs and not accept ones I'm offered -- despite our dwindling savings.
5. He sings loud and proud and can sound just like Johnny Cash, Jeff Keith, Randy Travis, Brent Smith, Bobby Darin and Vusi Mahlasela from the South African township of Mamelodi ... to name just a few.
6. He willingly buys tampons for me when I ask -- and gladly purchased the Black Forest cakes for the "period parties" we threw when each of the girls had their first period.
7. The more grey he gets, the more handsome he becomes. 
8. He loves Lyla, Isabel and Abby even though he tries to pretend Mickey is the one and only animal for him.
9. He's given me shots, changed my catheter bag and literally carried me to the doctor when I couldn't walk. And would do it again in a heartbeat, if need be.
10. He's my forever partner in parenting, grandparenting ... and home repair.

Happy birthday, Jim. I kinda think you are the cheese on my pizza, too!

Today's question:

What was your best birthday celebration ever?

My answer: The year Megan scared the hell out of me surprised me on my birthday by flying home to be at the house when I got home from work. (And Jim kept the secret for months!)

Bubby's "cared" face.

Here's the story, according to Megan: Bubby and his friend Ro-Ro were recently watching the Nick Jr. show "Yo Gabba Gabba," something Bubby hadn't seen much of but Ro-Ro was a dedicated fan. At one point, Ro-Ro pointed out to Bubby how scary one of the characters is. "Scare, scare" he said again and again to Bubby, using his vocabulary that's nearly as limited as Bubby's to make it perfectly clear the character wasn't one he or Bubby should ever want to share their Teddy Grahams with.

Fast forward to naptime the next day. Bubby slept for a bit, then Megan heard him singing and playing and happily entertaining himself in his crib afterward. Being the psycho playful mommy she is, Megan decided to surprise Bubby by quickly swinging open his bedroom door to enthusiastically welcome him back to the land of the awake.

Instead, she scared the hell out of the poor kid. And he now, thanks to Ro-Ro and "Yo Gabba Gabba," knew how to express his fear with something more than a scream. Wide-eyed and staring at his crazy mommy, Bubby sadly uttered, "care ... care, Mommy." He was scared -- and he knew how to use the word "scare" to identify that.

Of course Megan felt awful and apologized again and again to her frightened little boy. But he was more than frightened -- he was empathetic to Megan's discomfort at startling her baby so he sweetly smiled at her as if to say "It's okay, Mommy." Then he held out his little arms and said, "keeze," which in the Bubby household means "squeeze," the condensed version of "let's hug and make everything all better."

Sounds like a simple exchange between mommy and son, but it speaks volumes about Bubby's development.

My only question: Why in the world is there such a creepy character on a kids' show that it teaches them how to identify their feelings of fright? Or is that just how kids learn such things nowadays?

I guess learning from creepy TV characters is better than being able to do nothing more than scream and cry when Psycho Mommy bursts into your bedroom unannounced.

Today's question:

What television show do you remember being scared by as a kid?

My answer: "The Twilight Zone" (the original one) -- specifically the episode where the main character keeps seeing changes in a painting on the wall, where a grave is being dug deeper, and deeper and deeper. Scary stuff!