We didn't start the fire...Lisa did

 "So let me get this straight," Brad sighed (Have I mentioned that he does that a lot?), "the girls are FINALLY letting you hang around with their friends and you decided to speak ENDLESSLY about your love of mushrooms, toadstools, and fungi?" "Well...you make it sound stupid, odd, and off-putting when you say it like that," I protested, "I wouldn't use the word ENDLESSLY." "Savannah did," Brad countered. I sighed.

We had gone to a cook-out at Savannah's friend Lisa's house and I was determined to get off on the right foot. The "right foot" being the right-wing religious zealot of which Savannah had had me described. It probably didn't help when someone asked if they could smoke and I yelled judgmentally, "Ye not be sucking on Satan's smokestacks around me, lassie!" I also sprinkled holy water upon anyone who dared utter a profanity in between my scheduled sermon on righteous living. When someone brought out the liquor, I arranged a prayer vigil. "I'd done shots with your friends Stacy and Lindsey right after they graduated," I hissed at Savannah after the third person curtsied and apologized for their sinful behavior, "Have you forgotten my penchant for stealing restaurant cutlery and my mild addiction to soft-core porn? Why are you painting me as Mother Teresa to these people?" I was a sinner in a strange land (ie California) and would have to convince my new friends that my resplendent, celestial glow was just the sun reflecting off the copious amount of sweat brought on by their warm West Coast weather.

Lisa had friends visiting from Texas, Ashleigh ("Spelled like "sleigh" as the end," she told me, "because I'm cool and smooth." I liked her immediately.), her back-flipping boy Lucas, and Ashleigh's sister Sarah. They swore like sailors, verbally mocked the 10-year-old, and made constant demands for alcohol (Well...not Lucas. Lucas was the most mature of all of us.). Who knew my soul sisters lived in the Lone Star State? Lisa was a kind and gracious hostess, catering to the clamoring supplications of her guests.  "You know what we should do?" Sydney asked as our evening concluded, "We should have a camp-fire on the beach tomorrow." Everyone was amenable to the idea which raised my spirits. I must not have offended anyone too much if they were willing to undergo Round Two.

"I see the problem," Brad said, "You forgot the Mosiman motto." "Mediocrity is not a crime?" I asked. "No," Brad corrected, "Always leave them wanting more. That was your mistake." "You're right," I admitted glumly, "It did go down from there."

"Wow. How did you manage this?" I said admiringly as Sydney and I watched Savannah race across the park to help Lisa and her friends lug chairs, firewood, s'more-making supplies, beverages, and artisan cheese to our spot. Sydney smiled somewhat craftily, "I organize events," she explained, "Lisa pulls them off." No kidding. Before the first log was lit, I had an ice-cold Pepsi in my hand, music was playing, and s'more sticks were being distributed. Having contributed NOTHING, I decided to add to the entertainment.

"Here we go," Brad moaned, bracing himself.

Silhouetted against the light of the fire, Sydney's toes were perched perfectly. "Attention, Everyone," I announced proudly, "I would like to share with you one of Sydney Lynn's finest talents, attributed directly from my hereditary line." The sand fell silent. Eyes were glued toward the fire where Sydney's toes twitched in anticipatory readiness. She had waited her whole life for this moment. A gasp arose like a spark from the darkness. Horror? Delight? Morbid fascination? Envy? "I don't understand. What just happened," my niece Alexis said, frustrated. "She splayed her toes..." whispered a disembodied voice from beyond, "wider than is humanly-possible." A God-given gift, perhaps? Talk of demons were quickly dismissed as this was clearly a capability designed for the betterment of mankind. Alexis ripped off her toe-sock and splayed her own feet-fingers. It was determined that her ability was achieved by artificial means like the Pai Dong Long neck people of Thailand who add rings to their necks over the course of their lives.

"And...I may have shared a few pictures from my cell phone of some fungi," I admitted to my husband. "A few?" he accused, "Savannah said you shared them ALL." "Ashleigh shared one, too!" I said in my defense. "So if Ashleigh started telling corny jokes around a campfire, would you have to do it too?" Brad scolded. A long silence stretched three thousand miles between us. "Oh no," he muttered, "You didn't. Please tell me you didn't." I couldn't respond, mortified by my own behavior. "Tell me you didn't tell the Napoleon joke," Brad begged, "It's social suicide." I drew in a ragged breath. "I'm so sorry," I cried. "I'll never be able to show my face in San Diego," Brad realized. I had sealed our fate. We were uncool parents....forever condemned to pot-lucks and free philharmonic concerts at the park. 

Fortunately, Lisa saved the day. With a deft slight-of-hand, she tossed some powder into the fire which erupted into color. "It's blue," I breathed. "Turquoise," Lucas corrected gently, staring hypnotized by the spell that Lisa had cast. In our small pocket of light, flames flickered over friendly faces bathed in pinks, greens ("Emerald," Lucas whispered), blues, and purple. It was a magical evening. "Aren't you glad I arranged this?" Sydney murmured, flexing her toes as we listened to the waves lap the shore. "Yes," I said, smiling at Lisa as she tossed in another batch; bringing a burst of color to our lives.

A journey through the magical kelp forest: Our kayaking sea cave adventure

My friend Joan and I had previously foregone the San Diego sea cave kayak adventure last summer in favor of four dollar toast so when I learned that the girls had it scheduled on my very full itinerary ("When will I have time to catch up on  my Netflix shows?" I complained petulantly.), I encouraged them to cancel. They insisted that I would love it based on my original delight upon discovering, in the marketing material, a warning that a seal or sea lion might hop aboard your vessel in much the same way that I'm sure Scotland also "warns" tourists that Nessie might appear and beg you to climb aboard her mythical back (Please add an ending lad or lassie to that sentence as, in my mind, I was talking in a Scottish brogue~~I've been watching a LOT of Outlander lately.) .

So there I was, being forcibly shoved into a tight life-vest..."Excuse me...Hannah? Do you have anything a bit more..." (I gestured helpfully) "...accommodating?" "She's giving herself FAR too much credit," Savannah told our guide, Hannah, jerking my hand down, "You're fine,"  my daughter snapped, dragging me over to the helmets. Hannah had managed to stay with us. "Is your head large, medium, or small?" "Do you ask EVERYBODY that question?" I inquired, worried about Hannah being caught up a dramatic lawsuit situation. Savannah glared at me and simply grabbed up any old helmet while Sydney and I launched ourselves into a ten-minute philosophical conversation about what constitutes "big." We ascertained that my skull size is bigger than a cantaloupe but smaller than a watermelon. "What about a coconut? How about bowling ball-sized?"  Apparently Hannah had an eye for such things and both Sydney and I were thrilled to find we were mediums.

Approximately twenty of us were in the group so Hannah got us together in a circle so we could
become acquainted. "Hi, Everyone!" I said to my new kayaking companions and soon-to-be-lifelong-friends, "My name is Amy. I'm from around Buffalo-way. I've successfully kayaked backwards down several Class 2 rapids and if I could choose to be any creature in the sea, I would be a Puffer Fish." "Hi, Amy," my sea-faring support group chorused. Once we'd all channeled our inner-sea creature, we set off to meet Alex, for a quick tutorial. "My name is Alejandro," he said musically, "but you may call me Alex." With a glance, Sydney and I communicated telepathically. Oh no...he would forever be Alejandro. We love the song AND can roll our rs (Again..thank you, Outlander.).

Oh. The waves. I'd forgotten about the waves. Initially, I was just worried about getting in and out of the kayak but now I was faced with remembering three instructions to make it past the break line. I've seen Castaway. If poor Tom Hanks couldn't paddle past the break line, how was I supposed to? Well, it was too late now. Here we go:  Point the tip of your kayak forward. Paddle hard. Here comes the wave! Lie back! Lie back! Lie back! Oh. We did it. What the heck was Tom Hanks' problem? Maybe it was because he didn't have a pointy end on his little life boat. Poor dear.

It was time to navigate our way through the magical kelp forest. It can grow up to two feet a day! Apparently there were leopard sharks as well but, unfortunately, visibility would preclude our spotting them. "I can't see the magical kelp forest," I complained to Sydney who kept telling me to stop just paddling right as we were whirl-pooling our way across the water. I reassured her that I WAS paddling on both sides; it's just that I'm apparently right-paddle-dominant, "All this nasty sea weed is in my way." "I think that nasty sea weed IS the magical kelp forest," Sydney said, shattering the illusion.

Along with a thousand other kayakers, we approached the sea cave. "Raft up," Hannah yelled pleasantly. She then proceeded to ask rhetorical questions that I insisted on answering. "Who knows the scientific name for bird poo?" Hannah asked. My hand whipped up. My daughters had never been so proud and I, of course, had now endeared myself to my fellow kayakers.

Sydney, overly-concerned about being dashed to death up against the stone cliffs, was insistent on listening to the safety instructions while I was busy unwrapping the magical kelp forest from around my paddle, apologizing profusely to snorkelers that I had inadvertently kayaked over, and sporadically squealing, "Look! A seal!" a thousand times.

Apparently 87 minutes of the 90 minute tour is waiting for your turn to paddle into the sea cave. Alejandro was in there waiting for us. I think I may have accidentally stumbled onto the plot structure of book with low morals. There was a seal in there too, which lends the scene some class. The view looking OUT of the cave was breath-taking. And reassuring, based on yesterday's post. Looking from the outside of the cave to the interior, it's just a dark hole. But looking from the inside of the cave to the outside was picturesque. Hopeful. Maybe some strange guy DIDN'T actually see me in the bathroom.

We paddled back, bumper-car-style, through the magical kelp forest. During that time, Sydney stood and balanced on our boat before leaping into the Pacific, a sea lion circled our boat, and I discovered Sydney doesn't know how to use an analog clock to orient things geographically. Eleven o'clock, Sydney," I told her, to show her our target position on the beach. I think she may have looked straight up in the air. We've been practicing since. She pointed out something to me yesterday along the horizon and I said, "What time?" She said, "Two-thirty."

We pointed the tip of our kayak to our target. Paddled hard. Lie back! Wheeeee!!!! Alejandro caught us as we held our paddles over our heads victoriously. "Oh man! I thought you guys were going to tip over for sure," he said. We stared at him. How did he miss the pure professionalism in our epic landing? I've decided to make Alejandro the villain-antagonist in my story. "Let's go get something to eat," I announced, returning my too-tight life jacket and medium-sized helmet while ignoring the tops of my sunburned feet, "I know a place that serves the BEST four dollar toast."

Accidental meeting of the neighbors: How do you do-do?

 I was literally in the new San Diego apartment for less than an hour. How is it possible that I could humiliate myself, my family, and a complete stranger in that time?

I waited thirty-six hours before breaking down and confessing to my husband. "Do you want to hear an embarrassing story?" I asked him sheepishly over the phone. I had already told my girls and they were still howling with laughter so it was just a matter of time before the news would inevitably reach him. Better to get ahead of that train. "You already told me about how you tried to check in with the wrong airline," he reassured me. Great. I'd already forgotten about that degrading little debacle. "No," I paused, taking a breath, "I'm not talking about that." Brad gave a nervous little chuckle. "You haven't been there that long...what could you have possibly done?"

Oh boy.

"Well...it really wasn't my fault," I started (It actually was), "I didn't realize the number of windows in the apartment and all the mirrors." "Oh no," Brad murmured, "What did you do?"  "Plus I wasn't aware of the close proximity of the surrounding apartments," I continued. "Just tell me," he moaned.

There is an episode of Friends where Joey leans out his bedroom window to join his overly-cheerful neighbor in a chorus of "Morning's Here." I realized (belatedly) that Savannah and Sydney's apartment is set up court-yard-style with adjoining balconies parallel, diagonal, to the right, to the left, and across. Did I mention there are windows and mirrors EVERYWHERE? Just yesterday, as I stood at their kitchen sink, I could make out the grill marks on the guy's burger across the narrow alleyway as he cooked his family dinner. Should I have been more aware? Absolutely. Is being raised is relatively rural isolation an excuse? No.

"Maybe he didn't see what I think he saw," I thought to myself in a panic. Savannah had just dropped me off at the apartment and after a long, cross-county flight fraught with anxiety, I had sought a moment of...contemplation. I didn't shut the door. I was alone. I thought. Suddenly, I glanced up to catch the reflected eye of the startled neighbor in the mirror posted on the outside of the bathroom door. I teach 4th grade geometry. Angles. This angle couldn't have been more obtuse if I'd tried.  An innocent bystander, now scarred for life; he stumbled from his porch landing into his own apartment while I began the Four Steps of Shame. 

#1: Denial (I was, and still am, on a continual loop back to this step) -I'm sure he didn't see anything. Sure, it felt like his gaze pierced my very soul but looking through windows from the outside can be tricky. I made the girls re-enact the scene multiple times with me. "How many fingers am I holding up?" I'd ask. "Two," they'd report and then erupt into immature giggling.

#2: Blame- How dare the neighbor have eyes! Who posts a long mirror on the outside of a bathroom door? Why wouldn't the rental unit have installed one-way glass if their units were situated so close?

#3: Self-righteous indignation-What's the big deal? Everybody does it! If this were a Shakespearean play, a tragedy, if you will, it would be called Much Ado About Poo.  Stop laughing! Are you telling me that you've never experienced an embarrassing potty problem? Get over it, already.

#4: Acceptance- "This could only happen to you," Brad finally said. "It's really not the end of the world," I shrugged, finally having come to peace with the situation. "What are you going to say if you run into him though?" Brad wondered. "I've thought about that," I admitted, "I'm hoping I run into him in a bar. If so, I'll walk up to him and ask, Is this your stool?"

Relaxing: Nailed it!

 When I think of the word "pampering," I tend to think about diapering a baby's bottom rather than the seemingly-indulgent self-care activities of getting your nails done, hair styled or going to the dentist.  Don't get me wrong. Who doesn't prefer pretty, painted nails to plain ones ripped down to the stub? Healthy white teeth are definitely superior to cavity-ridden yellow teeth (or no teeth at all). And bangs cut evenly across the front are a rare but wonderful treat.

Besides being lazy, ignorant, and negligent in the area of self-care, I believe that my surfacing anxiety issues may also play a role here.  "Surfacing?" Brad snorted, "Your anxieties have surfaced, breached, and are now currently performing back-flips all over the Pacific." Ignore him.

I thought I had just good ol', plain ol' claustrophobia but it turns out I have good ol', plain ol' claustrophobia-squared. It took me years to self-diagnose myself but after hundreds of times shaking, shivering, and sobbing in the dental chair, I realized that I didn't suffer from dentalphobia because #1, I outweighed my dentist by some sixty pounds and #2, I have a  a surprisingly high-tolerance for pain (ie two natural child births, I pierce my own ears usually once a year, and  #3, I recently lopped off a back protuberance with a Ginsu knife. What it was, I realized, with my strong background of making unwarranted clinical diagnosises, was haptephobia; a fear of others invading my personal space. This particular affliction makes it difficult to get my nails done, my hair cut, and my teeth cleaned.

So there I was, getting my nails done in San Diego...

Look, I like having pretty toes. I just don't like having someone touch me to get pretty toes. But it's not like I could actually reach them myself...

So there I was, getting my nails done in San Diego...

...when I realized, once again, how wrong I could be.

Sydney later compared it to "Gulliver's Travels" (and let's just say that I wasn't the Lilliputian), while I thought the experience could best be compared to a NASCAR pit crew changing tires. All of the angst-ridden decisions that paralyze me hundreds of times over the course of a single day were swept away. Delving into the barrel of nail color sample choices, I was told briskly that I would "like THIS one." I was then man-handled by a woman who was, at best, five feet tall, and she wrestled me into a high-tech astronaut chair. A massage remote was thrust into my hand and then snatched back when I looked puzzled. Then..."Ohhhhhh...." A laminated menu was then offered to me to select the services that I wanted.  I lamented. "Maybe the heel scrub?" I was instead given ALL the options. I was exfoliated, smeared with mint gel, massaged with hot rocks..."Your legs are so white," Sydney observed. "I know, right?" I replied, "I had thought I was tan...turns out I was just dirty." My nail team tittered.

I'm not kidding about "the team," by the way. Two people tackled my toes while two more clipped my cuticles. I felt like the Cowardly Lion as he was petted, pedicured, and pampered during his visit to The Emerald City. Meanwhile, Sydney, much more relaxed than me, suddenly squeaked. The team was, of course, concerned. Inspecting her big toe, they conducted a thorough history and mapped out a plan to pluck the foreign object out of her foot. As an impromptu operation occurred next to me, my new nails were being thrust into a tiny metal garage to set the polish. Every time I asked a question or expressed uncertainty or doubt, I was told to "Relax." Oftentimes, this imperative would be followed by firmly thrusting me back into my astronaut chair.

So while Androcles was pulling the thorn from the lion's paw, ANOTHER technician approached to apply the marbleized effect to my nails.  "I didn't know this was going to be so complicated," I protested, "I didn't mean for you to go to so much trouble..." "REE-lax," I was told and pushed back into my astronaut's chair (again). The nail artist meticulously placed pin-prick-sized dots of color on the white landscape of my fingers before using a wet brush to swirl the paint--my brain tried to make sense of this. Pointillism like Seurat? Pixilation like...Pixar? "REE-lax," they told me. I should write a thank you note later, I fretted. Would flowers be too much? Should I make a pie? "REE-lax."

No offense but staying with The Wizard of Oz theme and only because it TOTALLY captures their level of enthusiasm,  Sydney and I were escorted to the door and sent off on our next great adventure with wild waves and shouts of good-bye like the Munchkins wishing Dorothy well.  I know some of you are skeptical. Some of you are certain that I was the victim of felonious finger-nailing.  Go ahead. Put a figure in your head. Manicure. Pedicure. Hand massage. Foot and leg message. Hot rocks. Tingly mint gel leg mask. Sandy stuff. Not to mention Sydney's impromptu surgery. Go ahead. All right...I'm going to tell you. You won't believe it. Really.

Fifty bucks. That's approximately two buckets of fried chicken. Chicken-schicken. The next time I visit San Diego, I will summon the courage necessary to re-visit this salon because I like being told to "REE-lax."

Planes, pretzels, and papillons: Which one wasn't welcome?

I am not what you would call a "jet-setter." I guess I would be considered more of a "couch-sitter." My friend Lauren is spending her summer giving guided tours of France, my friend Lindsey is making memories on the Matterhorn while my friend Tom is somewhere in Andorra complaining about quaint ponies with bells interrupting his sleep. Poor guy. But now it was my time to live a life of adventure.

"Let...go...of...me," Brad insisted, fighting his way out of my pythonian-grasp. "Go on," he yelled after he raced back to the van and locked the doors. If he had had small pebbles, I believe he would have chucked them at me.  I clung to my carry-on and rolled my way into the airport...alone.

FLASHBACK: That very morning between the unreasonable hours of 3:30 and 4:45 AM...somewhere after Brad had wondered why dogs sport so little fur on their bellies. Word-to-the-wise: Don't tell someone who gets up to drive you an hour to the airport at 3 AM that "You don't care" about their thoughts. "Which airline are you flying?" Brad asked. "Foxtrot," I answered confidently (at 3:30 AM).

RETURN TO PRESENT:  "Ma'am? Can I help you?" the courteous representative asked as tears began to stream down my face when my confirmation number failed to work at the self-serve kiosk for the thousandth time. Looking over my travel papers, she quietly directed me to the correct airline. "It's early," she reassured me as I slunk away, glad that she offered insufficient sleep rather than idiocy as my excuse for jumbling my jets.

I mostly made it through security without incident. Fearing that it would be chilly on the plane, I had dressed in layers. Layer One: Dachshund T-shirt. Layer Two: Dachshund Sweatshirt. I made it into the pneumatic tube time-traveling device that freezes you into a Dance-Dance-Revolution move before things went south. Or actual equatorial. "Ma'am? Could you lift your shirt? Oh excuse me...shirts?" Uh...no. "And hike up your pants a little bit." Wha...? "Now spread your feet a bit more." Had I inadvertently stumbled onto the set of a porn movie? They closed the pneumatic tube but were not satisfied with the results. "Ma'am," the agent said, holding up one blue finger, "I am going to probe your waistband. It's a bit bunchy." Wow. That did WONDERS for my self-esteem. Talk about your short-lived careers in the porn industry.

Somehow, I managed to make it successfully to The Windy City. I had thirty minutes before my next flight and I was determined to live life to the fullest. First, I found a Pepsi! YES! Then, with the keen eye of an airport predator (which may be why I was bogged down in security for so long), I scanned the landscape for my target: Aunt Annie's Pretzels! Twelve people in line? No worries. A predator is patient when hunting its quarry. I glanced at my watch: 6:58. Boarding would begin at 7:06. But I was Group 5. I hunkered down.

Pepsi and pretzel in hand, I boarded victoriously! So what if I had a middle seat? One cannot be sad with cheesy dipping sauce. I strode, unhindered to my assigned place; surprised to encounter a papillon. You'd be surprised how often this breed of dog shows up in my blogs. Its owner was NOT very welcoming as she stood to let me in. Turns out, the fate of her world hinged on my lingering in the pretzel line too long to make the flight. As I settled in (and my new furry friend complimented my snack selection), the flight attendant hurried over and cryptically said to my seatmate, "You are going to have to decide what to do NOW...the flight is scheduled to depart." What on earth did THAT mean? Decide what? The woman, in tears, called a friend for counsel before leaping to her feet, cramming her canine into a kennel, grabbing her stuff and leaving the plane. What a mystery! But with some deductive investigation on my part ("Hey, what happened?" I asked my seatmate who'd scored the window), I discovered that the crate the woman was using for her dog was NOT regulation size. If I hadn't come to claim my seat, apparently the dog could stay. But since I (the evil villain) appeared, the dog would have to be...gasp...CHECKED. I would have hated me too. Rather than relinquishing her precious pet to the belly of the beast, she left...leaving me and Window Seat with the most prized of all plane possessions:  An empty seat. Never were two seatmates happier. Luxurious legroom. Elbow space aplenty. I polished off my pretzel with wild abandon. Was this a plane or a magic carpet? We landed in San Diego. Window Seat and I high-fived. "They say every dog has its day," Window Seat said as we walked off the plane, "Apparently today was not that dog's day."

Dis-grunt-led at a graduation party: We certainly weren't boar-ed

Graduation party season is upon us once again. It is the only time that I can think of, other than the Oscars, where it is perfectly acceptable to regretfully announce your imminent departure due to the other three parties demanding your presence.

My husband is a trooper. Accepting his long-established role as "Amy's Eye Candy," Brad knows that he is in for a long day of knowing barely anyone given my hyper-vigilance in keeping my world's from colliding. For fifteen years, I have successfully convinced Brad that I stay after school to productively plan lessons and NOT watch hours of Youtube videos while my friends and colleagues have never been able to actually corroborate whether or not I'm kidding when I've admitted to feeding my family cereal for supper five days a week. It is, obviously, a delicate balancing act.

This past Saturday, Brad and I had successfully worked our way through fresh-cut french fries, cherry Dr. Pepper cupcakes, fruit salads, and slivers of seedless watermelon. Moderation is key on the graduation party circuit. I was holding forth about how, in my esteemed opinion, the only good wine is Welch's grape juice, when I noticed Brad had disappeared. Granted...he had heard this speech several times but being as he was a stranger in a strange land, I worried about what he was up to (and with whom he might be speaking).

The party we were currently at had been sharing the time-lapse evolution of their roasted pig on Facebook since Friday so I had committed myself to a meat mutiny. I like my pork pre-packaged, s'il vous plait.  But I had forgotten that I had married Iowa, born and bred. He runs around disguised as a Western New Yorker so as to fit in with the natives. But today, Brad had found his people.  That seasoned swine sang directly to the soul of my spouse and, like Odysseus, Brad was lured by its siren's song. With feet flying, he was carried to the carcass and joined the fray of men admiring a mountain of meat.

Meanwhile, while Brad was worshiping at the altar of oinks and loins, my friend Cindy approached with a wine offering. Obviously, she had missed my spiel about grape juice. "It's homemade cranberry wine," she told me quietly. I was in a tough spot. Cindy is quiet and kind and considerate. All characteristics of which I aspire and constantly fall short. In the spirit of friendship, I was going to have to sip her sample. And wouldn't you know! It was a "Mikey Moment!" If you don't remember Mikey...you are too young for this blog. Go watch a podcast, you little whippersnapper! I loved Cindy's cranberry wine so much, I offered to buy a bottle.

I know what you're thinking. Well, Amy, you didn't think you liked wine but you enjoyed Cindy's product. Perhaps you should try the pig. Ah...NO.

Back to Brad at the pile of pork...like the new kid standing on the sidelines of a game of kickball, my hungry husband watched as men, up to their elbows, ripped meat from the bone. Oh, how he longed to be among them. By unspoken agreement, one veteran decided to put Brad to the test to see if he was worthy of their carcass club. "Betcha don't know the tastiest part of the pig," the swine-master sneered. Everyone held their breath (except me...I was chugging cranberry wine). Brad brightened...he was, after-all, an Iowa boy, born and bred. Not knowing they had a ringer in their midst, the men gasped as Brad, without hesitating, plucked a plump pig cheek and popped it in his mouth. "Ooohhhhh!" they exclaimed with admiration. "Ewwwww!" I groaned, grossed out.

So Brad was elected into swine society and, thanks to Cindy's wine, I just elected to swoon. Brad took me gently by the elbow to lead me back to the car. "Don't forget that I want a bottle of your cranberry swine," I slurred at Cindy. "See ya later, Brad," his new friends shouted, "Until we meat again!"

It's not fair! Another blooming onion dream denied!

County fair season has arrived! I love county fairs! Whoops. Allow me to be more specific. I love country county fairs. I've had my "fair" number of shocks and surprises when I've wrongly assumed ALL county fairs are the SAME as in...whoa!..."Where are all the animals?"  A dubiously-blue-ribbon-awarded jar of discolored organic pickles produced from African Horned Cucumbers does NOT a county fair make. Bonzai-shaped trees reflecting the theme of urban-expansionism between the early 1800s and today cannot possible hold a candle to a chain-sawed, RIGHT-IN-FRONT-OF-YOU log transformed into a Stick 'em up raccoon. A bubble tea kiosk is a poor substitute to the freshly-squeezed lemonade stand where underpaid workers deftly transform fruit into liquid form wearing gloves made out of live bees.

But I digress.

"So...do ya wanna go to the fair today?" Brad asked. Uh...duh. Yeah. I was already planning my snack selections as I raced like a clumsy Rottweiler to the van. Fresh-squeezed lemonade was a given. Blooming onion because I was still reeling from my mid-west disappointment derived from the lack of that fair favorite. Fair fries are always a standard fav...soaked in vinegar. I'd tortured my daughter Sydney for years because one of my cloth sneakers sported a ketchup blob stain from her enthusiastic over-adornment of her own fair french fries. Now that I think of it though, my entire wardrobe could serve as a walking scrapbook of  fond fair food flashbacks.

We arrived at the fair and I grabbed my bag to hold all my fair promotional give-aways. "Aren't you going to grab our Pepsi?" Brad asked. I stifled a groan. Oh no. WHY, after thirty years of marriage, did he still not GET it? If there is a beverage in my bag, what impetus would lead me to get a lemonade? And the lemonade serves as the fundamental foundation for all other fair food. An hours-old, lukewarm Pepsi, in this very rare occasion, hinders the burst of fair food flavor. He was sabotaging me before I'd even left the disheveled parking lot (It always reminds me of the bumper floor arena when the electric suddenly cuts out). Bravely, I soldiered on.

Naturally, I raced to the animal exhibits. I squealed louder than the swine when I spotted the piglets, ignoring the more blatant names assigned to my piggy pals such as "Crispy" and "Bacon" in lieu of my hero, "Peter Porker." My main objective was the bunny building. Big bunnies. Baby bunnies. Long-eared. Short-eared. Floppy-eared. I loved them all. One handsome hare and I immediately fell in love with one another. He hopped as close to me as possible; his wiggly nose pushing through the cage. I cooed and complimented, sweet-talked and surrendered. We were obviously destined to be together. Brad, embarrassed by my overt barnyard PDA, wandered off to engage in small talk with the more stable residents of the facility.

After several rather greedy visitors bullied me away from my bunny ("There ARE other rabbits for you to look at," I hissed while nonetheless, reluctantly moving, because, in my heart, I understood, my bunny was MAGNIFICENT. Wow! That was a LOT of commas. Sorry. I tossed it into an online grammar generator but it came back with zero errors. The ruling on the sentence stands, writing of the post continues.), Brad and I moved briskly past the bull balls. "Stop pointing," my husband whispered fiercely, "Every year we go through this...EVERY year." I sobered up pretty quickly when we exited the barn to be immediately confronted by the first of three lemonade stands. I patiently waited for Brad to suggest a refreshing purchase but he blew right by it ("I see what you did there," Brad observed, peering over my shoulder as I smothered giggles while typing this post, "You could have at least started a new paragraph before using that particular verb. Your sense of prose is profane.").

We toured the homespun exhibits where I am abnormally self-reflective and silent. Don't get me wrong, there is a TON of commentary screaming through my mind, but I can't BEGIN to make a crocheted southern belle toilet tissue holder so where would I get off making fun of it? ("Maybe the standard rule is that you have to separate your raunchy allusions by at least TWO paragraphs," Brad suggested. Goodness! I bend over backwards trying to please this guy and he STILL isn't satisfied...Yes, I'm done now."). We looked at zero-turn mowers and Brad was concerned because I was only interested in the ones with roll-over bars. "How fast do you plan on going on this thing?" he asked. No matter..."we" are content with our dueling push mowers because we "enjoy" the exercise.

Than is drinking delicious
free fair water.

We walked past the blooming onion stand where I deliberately dragged my feet. Hmmmm...must be Brad isn't feeling blooming onion-y. Nervous, I went biblical: Do unto others. "Oh look!" I exclaimed joyfully, "Corn-dogs!" I don't like corn-dogs but no matter, this clearly wasn't about me. I just wanted my husband to be happy (and to ask me what I wanted!). "Naw," he shrugged, continuing on. Oh no! We were almost past the fair fries. We'd left the second lemonade stand in the dust already. I hesitated, allowing a pregnant pause to grow between us. This was the conversational chasm into which Brad was supposed to echo my sentiment of doing unto others. "Hey, there's Than," Brad noticed, pointing out our friend. Grabbing my hand, he pulled me over in that direction. AWAY from the fried dough. AWAY from the third and final lemonade stand. I knew better than to look back. I would turn into a pillar of salted fair fries. It was over and the question was answered: Now we know which Mosiman devotes more time to HER bible reading and application. And my penance (or reward...depending on one's perspective)? A 45-minute conversation about the high sugar content of this year's strawberry yield juxtaposed by the increased concern of mold strains possibly brought on by record-breaking precipitation. Thankfully, the higher chromosomal counts resulted in really robust berries. From there, we launched into a lively discussion about re-built motors, trannies, and brakes. Behind me, the rooster-calling contest began. Not actual birds, mind you...kids mimicking birds which is so LESS annoying but hauntingly biblical. Allow me to paraphrase Matthew 26:74. Then Amy began to curse and swear, saying, "Because Brad Mosiman selfishly neglected to buy his beautiful bride fair food, I will no longer know the man." And immediately, the cock crew.

Operation Unfettered Freckle: Warning-You might want to skip this one

This post is not for the faint-hearted. Or the judgmental. I am not proud of my actions. But I won't apologize.

You've been warned.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

TEXT TO SYDNEY:  Promise not to tell Daddy?

SYDNEY:  Oh no...what did you do?

SYDNEY:  Yes...I promise.

ME:  It involves two different sizes of fillet knives, a Ginsu, scissors and a lot of blood.

My phone rings immediately.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Now...let me explain. I have a protrusion on my back that has been bothersome at best. It is about the size of a small stressball and bulges beneath my bra band like a weird back boob. Stray hairs occasionally catch on it and small mice could swing, Tarzan-style, across the plains of my back with ease. And while Brad has never commented on it, he does place mini-orange cones around it during indiscriminate back massage sessions.

"Before you go any further, allow me to interrupt", Sydney said, interrupting. "My mother is, obviously, exaggerating. The mole on her back is barely noticeable. It is NOT the size of a small stressball unless it is a stressball for the rampant mice scurrying about on her back. Nevertheless, normal people (and bear in mind, please, who we are dealing with here) schedule a consultation with a dermatologist. They DON'T break out a whetting stone and begin sharpening every blade in the house for home surgery."

Doctor/schmocktor, I scoffed. I didn't bumble into this abscission, willy-nilly. I devoted several minutes to Google research and decided that drowning my mole in apple cider vinegar didn't seem feasible given my limited flexibility and taping garlic to it would only succeed in keeping away vampires and make Brad hungry for an Italian dish of which I was not ready to commit the time and effort for. Better, I thought, to just slice it off.

Yeah.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Satisfied that my life wasn't in immediate danger, Sydney hung up and returned to her duties at work, texting occasionally to monitor my process. My bathroom resembled the prom scene from Carrie as I methodically tested the success and subsequent failure of each blade. Turns out flexibility also played a MAJOR factor in this little operation but I was too far in to quit now.

SYDNEY:  Doesn't it hurt?

ME: It would have to possess feelings in order to be hurt.

SYDNEY: Put some antibiotic ointment on it.

ME:  It expired in 2004. Do you think it still works?

SYDNEY:  Maybe you should stop now...

ME:  Let me amend my initial reaction...as I come down from my adrenaline-high, I find that I am, in fact, experiencing a wee bit of physical discomfort.

SYDNEY:  Perhaps a numbing agent would be helpful? Or is that expired too?

SYDNEY:  Get some alcohol!

ME:  To drink? Good idea!

SYDNEY:  No! To rub on your self-inflicted wound!

SYDNEY: Never-mind. Take a swig.

SYDNEY: I think maybe I should call Dad.

ME: NO! It's done. The surgery was a success. Operation Unfettered Freckle has been declared a victory. #freethefreckle #movethemole #banishtheblemish

DISCLAIMER:  Only one mole was injured as a result of this home-surgery.

Premeditative pastoral pestilence

Listen. I tried. The whole do unto others thing. The offer the other cheek scenario. But there is only SO much that a trying-hard-to-be-a-good-Christian
woman can take. Worried that perhaps the detailing of my pastor's EVERY malfeasance in blog-form might not be pleasing to the Lord, I vowed to stop. To take the higher road, if you will. Maybe I was just being too sensitive. Surely, my pastor wasn't spending EVERY waking moment hatching nefarious plots in which to publicly humiliate me. Surely, he had better things to do.

Apparently not.

Let me first say that I keep meticulous sermon notes to better focus and reflect on the message; NOT to document my pastor's incriminating behavior to later present for a judge in subsequent court proceedings.

But after the most recent fiasco from this past Sunday, I browsed backwards in my journal and was alarmed to spot an alarming pattern of shenanigans. Pastor Calvin is a classic repeat offender in the area of antics. Not convinced? My evidence, your Honor:

The week leading to Sunday, July 14th, the accused lulled the victim into a false sense of security by communicating the service reading well ahead of time  via e-mail instead of at the last minute or not at all which is his usual mode of operandi.

Victim: "Woo Hoo! Proverbs 25:18-22! I could do that in my sleep, son!"

Hindsight: It was easy...in retrospect, a little TOO easy.

That Sunday, the victim entered the church with an inflated sense of confidence until...

Victim: (Taking a sheet of paper from the pastor's wife: PW) "What's this?"

PW:  "That's the schedule of worship. Everyone involved gets one."

Victim: (Sensing a problem) "I have NEVER in my life been given this sheet of paper.

Looks at paper...realizes that she's also been assigned Matthew 5:33-48. Gasps.

Victim: "That's an additional 15 verses! Unpracticed!"

Camera zooms in on pastor's grinning face.

I would now like to call the court's attention to the journal entry dated 6/9/19 whereupon the pastor, henceforth known as the accused and soon to be called the convicted, and I entered into a binding agreement that I would approach the podium to deliver the assigned reading immediately following the children's sermon as dictated by the printed church bulletin that was given to EVERY parishioner in attendance that day. As I stood and proceeded to approach the lectern, the pastor raced across the stage and commenced to lead the community prayer, leaving me in a state of humiliated limbo. Do I return to my seat? Do I improvise a sign-languaged interpretation of shared supplications? Or do I just lean against the wall and light one up?

Camera zooms in on pastor's smirking smile.

And though I have COUNTLESS more, I would like to conclude today's proceedings with an entry from May 5, 2019.

Pastor Calvin (the accused/soon-to-be-convicted): "And that concludes today's community prayer. Amy would now like to bring us the first reading."

Amy, frozen in her own pew (Sorry, your honor, potty humor has no place in the courtroom), stares at her spiritual leader, an evil leer sliding across his face so that he momentarily resembles Senator Palpatine from Star Wars:  "Excuse me?"

The Emperor grimaces gently: "You've been blessed with BOTH of today's readings."

Is a pastor allowed to roll his eyes?

Amy (scrambling, clutching the Bible that her husband desperately thrusts into her hands): Of course...

Amy: (digging into the pulpit with her nails, begins reading, gasping as mortification has paralyzed her airway) I apologize...

The victim watches the accused (and soon-to-be-convicted) make his way to the multi-media center in the back and flip through some papers. His eyes wide, he slowly turns to face her across the rows of parishioners with their backs to him. "I'm so sorry," he mouths, waving with his papers. Too little, too late there, buddy. Amy passes out from asphyxiation. Just as he'd obviously planned.

Camera zooms in on pastor doing the classic gotcha-elbow-snap victory move

The prosecution rests.

This marriage is under pressure: How household chores wreck relationships

SATURDAY AFTERNOON
TIMESTAMP 12:57 PM

ME (texting my daughters):  Doing fun outdoor work with Daddy. Already mowed. We just discovered that I lack experience in the field of hose unraveling.

Sydney: Oh dear, I never would have guessed.

Me:  Get out the tequila, girls...take a shot every time he yells at me or is disgusted by me. You're two in the hole already.

Me: (Having received and failed in Brad's directions on where to aim the sprayer.)  "At the PEAK! AT THE PEAK! Here...I'll do the peak." Is that one shot or three? Or four for disgust?

TIMESTAMP 1:47 PM

Me: I was allowed to spray the pressure washer for approximately three minutes.

Me: He's re-spraying my section now.

Me:  Take a shot.

Me:  I call this one "Tried and True"

Me:  I entitled this one: "I'd rather be
 in the house."

TIMESTAMP 3:15 PM

Me:  Daddy just gave me the "Dirty Dancing" finger signal...the result was NOT the same as the movie.

Me: "Can you run and get me the ladder, quick?" I MAYBE could do one, but certainly not all three.

Me: Take a shot.

Me: We are surely going to win a state, or maybe even national, award for Cleanest Garage Roof.

Me:  When Daddy said we were going to pressure wash the house, I didn't know he meant EVERY nook and cranny.

Me:  Thank God we don't have a bigger house.


Me:  See your father's freshly power-sprayed flip-flop?

TIMESTAMP 4:19 PM

Me: Oh no...he remembered the boat!

Me:  When given the directive, "Get me a good-sized adjustable wrench and straighten the hose," which task do you think should take priority? Take a shot.

Me:  What are the chances that my odds of ending up in hell increase as, on my way to find the wrench, I'm praying, "Please let something be broken...please let something be broken."

TIMESTAMP 4:51 PM

Me:  He just announced that we're 3/4s done. Oh dear Lord.

Sydney:  Oh goodness...can't you just fake an injury or something?

Me:  Daddy inspecting the front:  "Do you think we've got an extra ten extra feet to stretch over here?" Me, while playing with my phone, resolutely replies: "No." Brad then spends ten minutes stretching garden hose and water pressure hose to the max...ten feet acquired.

TIMESTAMP 5:40 PM

Me:  1/4 left to go, my ass.

Savannah: Run.

Me:  Does Daddy look like he's trying to use his sign language skills?

Sydney: Tell him to get down. He's going to slide off the roof.

TIMESTAMP 6:51 PM

Me:  I think we're done! I think we're done!

TIMESTAMP 6:58 PM

Me:  We're not done.

Me:  And it's raining.

Me:  "One more tank of gas and we should be good," Daddy said cheerfully. "Is that thunder?" I asked.

TIMESTAMP 7:43

Me:  "One more little section and we'll be done," he said cheerfully, bleeding from multiple locations and blue with pneumonia.

Me:  LIAR! He has to be delirious at this point.

Me:  What if we spray the roof with Pam so nothing will stick to it in the future?

Me:  It's pretty dark but I think the house looks good.

Me:  Illuminated by the passing headlights of cars, I think it's clean.

Me:  First we have to power-wash the ladder.

Me:  Take a shot:  Daddy just yelled at me for trying to save him as he slid off the roof.

TIMESTAMP 8:12 PM

Me:  The words "Obviously your father never taught you to empty a hose" were JUST used!

Me:  Take a shot.


TIMESTAMP 8:57 PM

Me:  It's over...it's finally over.

Savannah: Power-washing or the marriage?

MONDAY MORNING:

Me:  The town decided to re-dirt our seasonal dirt road.

Sitting on a throne of Jell-o: How to treat your man like the king he is

We hear about how important it is to treat your lady like a queen. "Happy wife/Happy life" and happy horsesh*t like that. And I'll be the FIRST to admit I'm spoiled. Spoiled enough? Probably not. But spoiled, nonetheless. Recently, though, I was faced with a random, chance encounter that forced me to realize that the spoiling in my marriage may (gasp) be a one-way street.

My mother-in-law had made jello. Orange Jell-o. Orange Jell-o permeated with those cute little mandarin oranges that were suspended gelatinously as part of an edibly successful science experiment.  Brad and Savannah went NUTS. Embarrassingly so. It was JELL-O.  Imagine their disappointment and despair when they learned it was off-limits because it was set aside given Chuckie's dietary restrictions. "So Chinese food isn't considered a restricted category?" Brad caustically complained. "Or a pork tenderloin sandwich?" bemoaned Savannah bitterly. I was shocked. All this for JELL-O? It was a wake-up call.

I tossed and turned all night, questioning this perplexing problem. When was the last time that I made Jell-o? I couldn't remember. And I'd long ago given up trying to add fruit. The Jell-o outwitted me every time. My additions ended up in one of two inevitable locations: Sunk to the bottom or perched on the precarious peak. These failures tormented me.

I awoke, renewed, inspired. The ghosts of unset Jell-o molds from the past had transformed me. I would live my life, from this point on, by the creed of "Happy spouse/Happy house. I would treat my husband like the king he is. I began immediately. Instead of my usual routine of jumping on Facebook or staring at the television screen as Brad sat in his van, ready to depart from our driveway, I intentionally turned in my seat to wave good-bye to him. Okay...he's typing something into his GPS. Adjusting the radio. Shifting his stuff around. How long is this going to take? I took a quick peak at Parks & Recreation. Oh. He's pulling up to the end of the driveway. Looks left...right...left again. Pause. Sip of coffee. Oh my stars and garters! DRIVE DAMMIT! Left...right...left....LOOK AT ME! LOOK AT ME! I'M WAVING AT YOU, YOU SON OF A B~~~~~!!!

Okay...that didn't work. Now what? Oh! I'd make Kool-Aid! Brad loves Kool-Aid (which further explains the success of our marriage because, obviously, his expectations are incredibly low). I then began the Herculean task of cleaning out our backroom. Within five minutes, I was completely worn out and overwhelmed. I decided to divide the labor into four quarters to be divvied up over the next few weeks. Brad called and would soon be home. I rushed into the kitchen and began to prepare one of his favorite snacks, smearing cream cheese into celery sticks. Ugh, I know. I intentionally left the stalks long as hamsters and gerbils seem to enjoy nibbling their way down their chew sticks. Beavers also seem to prefer whole trees rather than parts. Brad walked in, surprised by what was awaiting him. Thanking me profusely, he then retrieved a CLEAN knife from the drawer and proceeded to cut each carefully-thought-out celery stick in HALF. IN HALF! I stood there, shocked. I picked up the TWO dirty knives littering my kitchen counter and tossed them in the sink in utter disgust. B@$T@{D!

No-no. We're okay. Take a breath. We can do this. "Would you like a drink?" I asked courteously as Brad logged onto his computer to complete his daily time sheet. "Just a little one," he confirmed, intent on the screen. I decided to bring a bit of playfulness to the situation. Filling up a small shot glass with purple Kool-Aid (We weren't there yet, folks...but it was getting close), I set it on his desk with a regular-sized one at the ready so we could share a little laugh. He typed a bit. Squinted at the screen. Fumbled for his glasses. Take a drink, my king! I silently implored. He scribbled something down on a piece of paper. Punched numbers into his calculator. The drink! Take a drink! Cracked his neck. Oh...I'll do more than crack your neck...He finally took a drink and didn't say anything. Just kept working. D@#^ him! I slammed his regularly-sized glass of grape Kool-Aid in front of him, shouted, "You're no fun!" and stormed out of the room.

Bewildered, he followed me through the house to the backroom and exclaimed in delight over the work I had begun. "Should I get some more bags or boxes?" he asked. I stopped dead. "For what?" I snarled. This was obviously a colossal mistake. Happy guy, my eye. How about happy guy, stab him in the thigh?  Or A happy fellow makes his own d@*n jell-o!

From Iowa: Our prepostional tour of the heartland concludes (You're welcome)

As with all good things (aside, of course, from God's love and salvation), our visit to Iowa would come to its inevitable end. Why it has to end at 4:30 am instead of a more reasonable hour, ask Brad Mosiman. But, nonetheless, Linda, Chuck, and Savannah dragged their poor selves out of bed to wish us farewell. You don't have to thank me, y'all, for taking your picture. It's part of the whole package for being included in "Amy's World." And you're also welcome, suburban neighborhood, for my screaming "I love you" for several blocks. Next time, limit your fireworks to half-hour increments up to and before midnight and THEN we'll talk.

Having learned my lesson, snack-wise, from our trip TO Iowa, I was well-equipped in that department.

I thought.

Uncommonly kind and thoughtful, Brad encouraged me to catch a nap shortly after our emotional departure (I had never left Savannah in Iowa before..."Turn around," I sobbed as Savannah walked forlornly back into her grandmother's house. "Do you miss me?" I typed.  "I'll text you back after I wake up," came her despondent reply. "She's clearly miserable," I told my husband. "Uh-huh...go to sleep," he soothed. How uncommonly kind and thoughtful, I thought. Until I awoke to discover my now-cavernous can of Pringles violated. "How could you?" I snarled, shaking what was now just a maraca of chip crumbs at him. "What?" he asked, innocently, "I thought they were for both of us." "No! We went snack food shopping and I got the Pringles for me!"I ranted in righteous indignation. "But I didn't buy any snacks," Brad protested. "You should have spoken up!" I screamed, "You have a mouth!" "And I used it," he grinned, funneling the remaining Pringles crumbs into his big, fat face while I fumed (I don't mean that...I love my husband...but still...). "Why don't you go back to sleep?" he suggested, "It'll improve your mood." Oh no...now I knew I had snacks to defend. There was no way I was letting him get his mitts on my expired box of Hostess Snowballs, my liquefied Nutella or my room-temperature string cheese. "You just stick to your unsegregated snack crackers there, Slick," I sneered.

No matter. Brad Mosiman had other prey in his sights. Savannah was flying out of Minneapolis that afternoon and Brad had made it his life goal to beat her home. You guessed it. The true victim of this sick cat and mouse game...would be me.

I didn't realize how seriously this game was until Savannah actually confirmed that she was boarding her plane. Up until then, Brad was pretty easy-going...by Brad-Mosiman standards. I wasn't even suspicious when he offered to stream-line my unexpected thru-way stop purchase. I normally forego rest-stop restaurants as Brad has perfected a cautionary lecture series about the inevitable disappointments that accompany free-way food. He launches into his speech approximately twenty miles prior to the stop. He reminds me of the McDonald's that once ran out of ketchup. Five minutes from our destination, he resurrects the reconstituted gas station frankfurter that Sydney convinced me to get her after staring longingly at it like it was a pet puppy playing on a treadmill. "I'll just get a Pepsi," I assured him as we raced into the rest-stop. But then...I stopped short. Was it a mirage? Was I hallucinating? Could it be...? An Aunt Annie's Pretzel shop, pure and true, tucked lovingly among the other restaurants of ill-repute? Clearly this was proof of a Higher Power!

Brad stood in an agonizingly long line for my Pepsi (Two customers...people think that I'm the exaggerator in this family) while I eagerly awaited my pretzel procurement. I was trying to keep my expectations low but I fairly tap-danced as I placed my order with the friendly freeway employee. "Yeah?" she muttered, intent on surpassing the customer service standards of her industry. "Cheese or mustard sauce?" she slurred. I was so pleased with her kind offer that I paused but Brad, appearing from no-where, shouted, "Cheese." I smiled, thinking someone was taking our picture. Brad quickly exchanged my pretzel for a five dollar bill...that again, come out of no-where...yelled, "Keep the change," and, with a hand firmly gripping my elbow, escorted me out of the building like a true gentleman. He even opened the van door for me although I have to say he thrust me rather roughly into the vehicle like it was a kidnapping. "Are we role-playing?" I asked. "Eat your pretzel," he said, gritting his teeth and we shot out of the parking lot like we were in a get-away car.

Throughout the journey, I kept our daughters updated with fun-filled texts and photos so they could follow our cross-country progress. Brad fretted that I was giving Savannah an edge in the competition but relaxed a little when he caught a glimpse of my Welcome to Ohio picture. Very art-sy.

From the moment Savannah landed in San Diego, my life was a blur. I'd never seen my husband drive with two hands on the wheel before.

Accusations...like the van...flew. "That stupid Steak & Shake," he muttered maniacally, clutching the steering wheel tighter.

FADE-TO-FLASHBACK

TEXT TO SAVANNAH & SYDNEY:  Talked Daddy into going to a Steak & Shake in Erie. "There are a ka-zillion varieties," I told him. We drove into the vacant parking lot. I believe a tumble weed brushed up against the van. A lone wolf howled."You know how many varieties of milkshakes this Steak & Shake serves?" he observed dryly as I sat frozen in bitter disappointment, "Zero."

BACK-TO-MY-NEAR-DEATH-DRIVE-HOME

Long story short..."Short?" Brad groused, "The drive took less time than the reading of this post." Don't mind him. He's just being a poor sport. Savannah won with nine minutes to spare. "She didn't have to contend with an unplanned pretzel stop, a boarded-up Steak & Shake, tractors, and an Amish buggy," Brad complained. 

In my heart, though, I feel the real winner was me. The pretzel...was delicious! And while I admit to feeling rather queasy, what with the hills, the curves, the speed, and the shouting, I never succumbed to motion sickness. Eyes to the horizon, friends...eyes to the horizon. Farewell, fair Iowa...until we meet again!

In Iowa: Part 3-Hoping my in-laws are still speaking to me after this post

The best part of Iowa, obviously, is visiting family. I am the luckiest girl in the world because I count my mother-in-law among my very closest friends and Chuckie?  Well...Chuckie is Chuckie...my staunchest defender, advocate, my protector...a surrogate father of whom I treasure. But I'd be lying if I didn't admit that they're both a little warped in the head. I'm not sure if it's Iowa, their affiliation with me, or just simple insanity, but everything they do is slightly bent. From hand-feeding a possum on their porch, to providing squirrels with grape jelly-filled watermelon rinds, to doggedly resurrecting a 17-year-old dead fish, to Linda's enraged obsession to eradicate her lawn of cute toadstools...I couldn't be more delighted to be related to such wacky and wonderful people!

The very center of Chuck and Linda's world is their adorable little dog, Ziggy. Forgive me for saying it, but the Zigster is a bit spoiled. At one point during our visit, his highness stopped dead in front of his full-to-the-brim water bowl and pierced Linda with a scathing stare that sent her scrambling. "Oh honey..." she cooed, "Do you need some fresh water?" She quickly re-filled his bowl of which Zig-a-roni deigned to lap with lackluster enthusiasm. Then he walked away, evidently disappointed. If he could have shrugged...I believe he would have. Chuckie made it slightly better by adding ice cubes to the bowl but I believe the dog, if we dare call him that, was holding out for Acqua di Cristallo Tributo (Oh my gosh...look it up. $60,000 a bottle!). My father-in-law, in an attempt to appease the little tyrant, is content to act as Ziggy's human Chucksicle.

Chuckie's second obsession, following Zig-a-licious, is the meticulous care of his beloved aquarium. Each resident has a detailed patient chart rivaling those used at the Mayo Clinic. Chuck is up-to-date and prepared in the eventuality of any fish ailment. Forget fin rot and ich. These diseases are small potatoes for the plecostomus in Chuck's tank. Chuckie should either take up a new profession as a fish doctor or finally admit and seek treatment for Munchhausen Syndrome with Chichlids. One poor little guy was on his last leg...er, uh...fin while we were there and Chuck refused to let him go. I casually petitioned Sydney for prayer via text during lunch. A candlelight vigil was scheduled and black velvet cloth was unearthed in order to drape the aquarium for when our little friend finally passed (through the plumbing system.). But by sure will alone...sidenote: Do NOT let Chuck by my deathbed...how is one to pass peacefully into that great aquarium in the sky with that guy endlessly poking you in the fin and blinding you with that blasted 1,000 watt fluorescent light-bulb? In the end, I think the fish decided that it was just easier NOT to die.

And then there's Linda. It has taken me YEARS to uncover her neurosis and, by jiggity, it was a big one. Big enough to almost ruin our relationship.

So...there I was, admiring Linda's front lawn when I spotted an adorable little toadstool peering out

between Linda's lush blades of grass. So sweet. I pointed out its presence to my mother-in-law who immediately frowned in studied consternation. "I had thought I'd stomped on all of them yesterday," she grimaced, rather Grinch-like, if I'm being honest. Brad, Savannah, and I gasped in horror. We are big fans of the fauna fungus. In fact, Savannah's screensaver sports our little dachshund posing next to an impressive sporophore. Leering, Linda lunged toward my minuscule mushroom. "No-oo," I cried, shielding it with my body. Backing off, Linda lamented, "Amy, I'm so sorry. I had no idea what that little toadstool meant to you. How about I go into the house and make you one of those flavored coffees so that you can enjoy it when you get back from your walk?" Peace was restored. A relationship repaired.

Fool. I never saw it coming.

Returning from our abbreviated walk given the mid-west's melting heat (We hadn't even made it half a block before I was begging to turn around), a clear, line-in-the-sand had been drawn. A message served. A warning bestowed. Barring my path to the door (and all that sweet air-conditioning) lay the strewn, lifeless bodies of two toadstools. Their mangled forms clearly

communicating Linda's directive of: My lawn/My laws.  Clearly, this was not a woman to be "truffled" with.

I had never viewed these people, my people, from this perspective before. But if the worse that they have to offer is an obsessive need to resurrect reluctant fish and heartlessly tromping toadstools, then I am more than proud to call them "family." Thank goodness I don't have any obsessive or troubling habits!