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In all of the letdown over the nonexistent hurricane, I forgot last night’s frog trauma.

George is a generally brave person. While I worry about everything, he’s never afraid of anything. It's actually a little annoying.

But then I learned he does have a secret phobia: frogs. He’s terrified of them.

Last night I brought in all of my potted orchids, so they wouldn’t get swept away by Ernesto, and left them in the kitchen, lined up on the table.

Just as we were calling it a night, we heard a weird chirping sound coming from the kitchen. George went to investigate. A minute later he was back, looking pale. Beads of sweat had appeared on his brow.

“There’s a frog in the orchid,” he said. “Please help.”

“What do you mean?”

“What do I mean?” he asked, his voice rising with anxiety. “I mean, there’s a frog sitting in the orchid pot. It’s just sitting there, with its disgusting sticky fingers.”

“Just put it outside,” I said patiently.

“The frog?”

“The whole orchid. Just stick it to the side of the house. I’m sure it will be fine.”

So he did. And then, just as he was settling back into bed, we heard it again: more chirping.

“Oh, Jesus,” George groaned.

Another orchid, housing another frog, was dispatched outdoors. George hadn’t actually gotten back into bed when the chirping started again.

“Another frog,” I said helpfully.

Only this time, when George went into the kitchen to deal with it, he let out a yelp.

“There are frogs everywhere,” he shouted. “Please, please come and help!”

And he wasn’t kidding. Teeny tiny frogs were hopping all around our kitchen – on the kitchen table, under the stove, in Lulu’s water dish. Apparently, those orchids were like a high rise apartment building to the neighborhood frogs.

George opened the door, and, one by one, I chased the frogs outside. George even gently picked one up – in his hands – and moved it out.

“I’m so proud of you,” I said, when all of the frogs were safely outside. “You faced your fear! It was very healthy.”

But George didn’t share my optimistic outlook. “Sticky fingers . . . pee when touched . . . disgusting creatures,” he kept muttering. And then he’d shudder.

Posted 30 August 2006 at 08:03 PM