So we're sitting around the camp-slash-house fire last night and Brandon starts talking about our best and worst camping trips.

"Shenandoah-- that was the best! But that other place in Virginia where it rained all weekend. That was the worst!"

I was going to keep it to myself, but it was just too rich. "Umm baby? Up until tonight, those were our ONLY two camping trips."

At least he was accurate.

I really love camping with Brandon. Especially when we're able to set up camp before dark and I don't break the globe of the lantern sending splinters of glass into Brandon's left hand. So when our weekend trip to Ohio to take the house-donated floral sofa to my mom went bust due to a broken Tacoma window and a dented rear fender-- all within 10 feet of our driveway-- I jumped on our suddenly free weekend and planned a short camping trip to Georgetown, Maine. B dug out our equipment, I bought the marshmallows and reserved the site, and we packed up two contractor bags full of discarded house trim to use as firewood.

The day was perfect timed: a leisurely drive, a quickly pitched tent, and in no time we were down at the Five Islands Lobster Wharf, inhaling our three-plus pound lobster and debearding a pound of steamers. Smores, a game of scrabble, giggling at our neighbors, and three bedroom doors and a hallway of baseboard trim later, we were ready to fall asleep under the stars. I like the quiet time. I like the talk and banter and flirting. I like falling into the routines that come naturally to both of us. And the falling asleep to the calming sound of the tide rushing in-- that was just a fantastic bonus.

Lobster hurling and camping next to the man who hates his dog and B's oncoming appendicitis aside, I think we easily uncovered the best out of three.