Post-apocalyptic posting: Apparently I'm a "gluten" for punishment

How silly and naive I was. In the event of the Apocalypse, I was worried that my survival hinged on my lack of knowing how to "grist" wheat into flour (and then, consequently, knowing how to do ANYTHING with the flour I had thus gristed. Plus, it had never been adequately explained why people first funnel flour through that fun flour confetti device that either has a fragile lopsided handle crank or a hand-squeezie exercise mechanism.). I also cannot make fire...be it with two sticks, flint, matches, or a lighter. I also cannot siphon gas out of a container. Surely, I was going to be among the first to die in the Apocalypse.

But no. Turns out...once again...I was wrong. Apparently my survival during the End-of-Times is based on my technological expertise...or lack thereof. So while my friends Tyler and Eric are smoothly transitioning to educationally-enriched interactive on-line experiences in real-time...conducting exciting science lessons...leading in-depth book club discussions...I'm trying to find the "record" button on my phone's filming device. I don't understand the difference between "upload" and "download." The thought of either of them makes me want to up-chuck. Being pregnant, our team's technological guru is understandably holed up like Saddam Hussein, probably busy gristing her wheat, so the rest of us are left "flour"ndering!

After hours of exasperating taping, Geri and I painfully pieced together our first lesson to roll out to an excited 4th grade public who have been eagerly waiting to resume the high-level of instruction to which they are accustomed. "I'll just up-load/down-load this to The Facebook and we're good to go!" I said confidently. I began this process at 11:30 in the evening as my internet connections were pretty spotty on a good day...The Apocalypse has since gatling-gunned my Google. What I thought would take ten minutes TOPS ended up with me, four hours later in the fetal position, hyperventilating as I screamed out to this cruel, cruel world, "WHY LORD? WHY? WHY have you cast this burden upon me, your not-so-humble servant?" After sniffling and feeling sorry for myself for several minutes, I then stood up, dusted myself off, went out to retrieve my laptop from where I had cast it out the window and onto the lawn like I was exorcising demons, and bravely declared, "Not my will but yours" before STARTING ALL OVER AGAIN.

For some reason (Satan? My own ineptitude?), I couldn't get the videos to post privately so I said screw it and posted them publicly and then "Shared" them over to the private 4th grade page. This should ASTONISH those who know and love me that I even knew how to do THAT. There were consequences to this little maneuver as cousin Jeff in Iowa was now baffled as to why he was suddenly being re-introduced to quadrilaterals. With cautious hope, I posted public, shared private, then went back to delete public. ARRRGGGHHH! Yup! Deleted EVERYTHING!

Started over AGAIN. Posted but then realized I posted in the wrong order. Huh. Maybe there's an option to shift their order. NOPE. Started over AGAIN. My face grew used to the feel of tears streaming down it.

3:30 am. Couldn't...take...it...any..more. Googled how to grist wheat into flour. It HAD to be easier than this. Posted the videos. Then discovered that they either cut out or looped back to the beginning. Many swear words were said. Began posting them individually...maybe Virgil in Alaska needed a refresher course in quadrilaterals. Heck...maybe the WHOLE world needed to know this information seeing that we are involved in a global crisis.

I forgot to mention that in the midst of all this ridiculousness, I'd inadvertently hit a wrong button (the first of thousands, I'm sure) and somehow recorded Geri's voice saying, "Are you there, Mrs. Mosiman?" which began to play, unceasingly, on my device. Think of the scene in Jurassic Park when Wayne Knight's character booby-traps his computer and when the good guys try to over-ride what he's done, Wayne's face pops up on the screen with "Uh-uh-uh!" playing on repeat. That was me...fighting to post...while listening to Geri chant "Are you there, Mrs. Mosiman?" a million times. "No! I am NOT THERE!!!" I screamed. I couldn't fix what I'd done to have Geri's voice germinate in my phone so I finally turned the sound off. For all I know, she's STILL asking me if I'm there.

By 4:30 am, completely traumatized and emotionally-spent, I crawled under the covers. In the morning...wait...it was ALREADY morning...LATER that morning, I begrudgingly checked Facebook only to discover that my teammate, Kristie, had solved my problem with a quick "Swish and flick" of her wrist. I spent the rest of the day:

• Apologizing to families who neglected to read the lesson description instructing them to by-pass Facebook and go to another platform: "Mrs. Mosiman...the video keeps repeating..."
• Clarifying to other families that I wasn't REALLY retiring to raise dachshund puppies and
• Assuring concerned friends and family that my state of mental health was, more or less, stable

 I never knew teaching could be so rewarding. Now...off to figure out how to conference call!

Love the "whine" you're with: Red roses and waterfalls

The day before New York State went on official lock-down, Brad came home from work where I was already going stir-crazy from the sudden and dizzying transition to long-distance teaching. "Do you want to grab take-out from somewhere?" he'd asked tiredly, having left the house that morning at 4:30 before returning shortly before 5 o'clock. The words hadn't even left his mouth before I'd shouted "Yes!", throwing open the door, skipping out onto the sidewalk, bounding across the lawn, and then leaping into the van like a Labrador. I then proceeded to offer forth a fascinating, detail-oriented running commentary of EVERYTHING I saw as we drove to pick up my raspberry wings. It was at this moment that Brad Mosiman realized, for the sake of my sanity and to delay divorce, that daily doses of outdoor adventure were required.

Today's adventure was to the waterfalls in Rossburg. I am not the nimble young mountain goat that I once was...my surefootedness has been replaced with slipping, stumbling, sliding, and screaming. More "ninny" than "nanny." Brad spent the bulk of his hiking time hiking BACK to me...offering a steadying hand which immediately got slapped away as I inappreciatively snapped, "Let me balance off your shoulder!" Many a 4th grader has been used as a helpful handrail in just this fashion. Fortunately, despite my ungrateful attitude, we were soon standing at the base of the first set of falls and, to my utter delight, we were able to wade right in thanks to our tall rubber boots. Not a fan of the selfie (but apparently a fan of me...even when I'm a jerk), Brad indulged me with some picture-taking. I noticed, wedged in a crack, a red rose resting in
the water. "Do you think it was an accident?" I wondered but my ever-observant husband had already noticed the placement of several other roses on our walk but had left the joy of discovering them to me. Don't get too excited...it's not THAT kind of story. No...Brad Mosiman did not "plant" the roses earlier but, oh my goodness...wouldn't that have been the most ROMANTIC GESTURE EVER!?!?

No. Instead we speculated stories of how the flowers happened to be there. Over-the-top artsy photo shoot? Marriage proposal? Symbolic numeration representing the number of victims of a serial killer? A bad break-up resulting in a Tallahatchie Bridge scenario?

Our walk was wonderful! And not just in the "Isn't it so pretty?" sort of way or the "Hey, look! A duck!" sort of way. We talked and laughed and had fun being together. Don't get me wrong. I love Brad Mosiman with all my heart. But after thirty years of marriage, we sometimes have to resort to the "Hey, look! There's a duck!" method of interacting. Today...we were together. I hope that is the case for you, dear friend. That during this odd period of time...where we are ripped away from the rest of the world...that you are drawn even closer to those you love. That you get to know them, all over again. And, even better, discover that you STILL like them...even after thirty years!

Time to Whine: Feeling bird-brained and caged in

I had previously...mistakenly...believed that I was a strong, resilient person; capable of effortlessly and (now I'm ashamed to admit) heroically facing and overcoming any challenge that life might throw at me. Boy...was I ever wrong.

This situation...of extended, seemingly-eternal solitude... is turning me into a sulker...a chronic complainer...and I won't lie...a bit of a b*tch. "But Amy," you say soothingly, trying to console me, "You exhibited ALL of these traits well before the Corona out-break." Thanks. However, now all of my cute little quirks have exacerbated exponentially...to Olympic-level proportions. I would get a gold metal in grumbling. A silver in snide remarks. and bronze for breaking into tears for no apparent reason.

Case in point:  There I was the other morning, donned in Day 3 of the same pajamas, precariously balancing my breakfast of yogurt, string cheese, tangerine, and a small container of blueberries when I decided to test my luck, reaching into a cupboard to add a Hostess Snowball (purple!) to my stack of snacks. To the surprise of no one, other than me, I dropped EVERYTHING...my blueberry container exploding and an avalanche of blue balls swept across my kitchen floor. Oh my goodness! See how this insanity has changed me? Normally I would giggle like an immature adolescent after typing "blue balls" but in light of a world pandemic...I could only muster a mere chuckle.  Typically in this type of situation, I would momentarily mourn the loss of my beloved blueberries and then, factoring in my filth-laden floor (which in-and-of-itself could possibly be the source of a future planetary pandemic), I would wastefully sweep up all those blue bombs and toss them in the garbage. But not any more. Oh no. These are troubled times. My first reaction to that morning's tragedy was to burst into tears. As I sat amidst a floor littered with small blueberry boulders, I took inventory of what I STILL had and gave thanks for my Hostess Snowball and string cheese. Then, taking a deep breath, I got to work and carefully plucked each blueberry from the floor with the precise concentration of Mr. Miyagi trying to catch flies with chopsticks. I carefully washed my contaminated fruit...(I can hear you, by the way, Cathy..."Why don't you wash the floor NEXT, Amy.")...and resumed breakfast, grateful that I had survived the first of that day's hurdles.

It feels like EVERYTHING takes a tremendous amount of effort. And my reactions to everything have been magnified to a terrifying level. I constantly argue now with my cockatiel. The feathered fiend appreciates NOTHING. I change his water and he rushes at me like an enraged raptor. Every time I even walk by, he attempts to attack me. "I get it," I snarled at him, "I'm feeling caged up too but we have to work together." I paused as he tried to peck me. I cannot believe that I'm now spending my days talking to a bird, I thought dismally. And then, naturally, I burst into tears. A perfectly...pandemically...way to respond.

Reaching a split-end making a "hair"-larious video

This particular dream began where ALL of the best dreams begin...at a professional development conference. There we were...all stuffed uncomfortably at long tables in the middle school gym (because everyone knows the acoustics in a gym are KILLER)...I had already been re-soundly threatened..."Amy, kindly keep your opinions, observations, and questions to yourself," my friend Geri hissed in my ear as our speaker, Ricky, introduced himself. He looked like Jesus. I was enthralled but determined to be good.

As an ice-breaker, Ricky asked for some educationally-based antidotes. Silence descended over the gym as Geri kept her eyes firmly on me. Blame it on the hormones but suddenly, our very pregnant friend Alicia spoke up. We all turned to stare at her. "I'm sure Amy has something interesting to share," she said. Everyone turned to stare at me. I glanced at Geri helplessly until, with a magnanimous wave, she permitted me to speak. Forget about the ice...the whole darn dam was broken. Ricky soon realized where his problem areas were located...Dave in the far left corner...Tim, a stone's throw from me...Tyler in the center...and me...busy sending inappropriate notes to Erin with a subtle "Pssst" to the line of Passenger Pigeons who dutifully carried these contraband messages to and fro. But then...from far out in right field...an unexpected answer surprised us all. Chaos ensued and a dream was born.

The topic was self-care. We were all trying to keep a straight face and remain professional. "What do you do to get your mind off of work?" Ricky asked, striding between the tables. A long hair dangled from his elbow and I immediately became fixated. No one spoke. I couldn't speak because (a) Geri was glaring at me and (b) I was busy devising a plan to remove the errant hair with a pretty spectacular sleight-of-hand maneuver. Out of the silence, finally, a quiet voice spoke.  Ricky and his hair rushed over with the microphone. "I fix snowblowers," our quiet colleague admitted with the sincerity of a man at a 12-Step meeting. Ricky wasn't quite sure what to do with this information but quickly added this activity to his list which included manicures and spending time on social media. Ricky was almost within reach...that stray hair signalling to me like a siren's call. He'd never even know, I thought to myself, confident of my yet-to-be-tried pick-pocketing skills. I'd be doing him a favor, I rationalized, surely others have become as distracted as me by his elbow hair. I was suddenly reminded of a story in the bible where an afflicted woman, confident that she could be healed, reached out and touched Jesus's robe. With His super-spidey-Savior senses, Jesus stopped and had a few choice words with her. Hmmm. Maybe I should follow Jesus's instructions to keep thine hands to thine-self. Oh my goodness! Was Jesus the first proponent of self-distancing?!?! And then Tim raised his hand. We were thrilled. Administration inwardly groaned. "What do you do to take your mind off of work?" Ricky asked, thrusting the microphone at our already grinning guy, "Zuuum-bah!!" Tim told him, tipping me a wink as he tossed out my most-dreaded activity. Ricky (and his hair) ran with it. Zumba suddenly evolved into a flash-Zumba mob and...as I already said...we had a wild hair..and a dream was born.

Coordinated with my Zumba instructor, Felicia, we bullied, beguiled, and tricked our friends into making a Zumba Flash Mob video with us. Centered around Tim (who couldn't have been happier), we methodically put into practice all that we had learned at our professional development conference. Demonstrating a stunt of hair-raising proportions, Felicia balanced gracefully on a folding auditorium chair as she first taught, and then taped, school staff dancing on stage following a faculty meeting. Not wanting to split hairs, we nonetheless taped and then re-taped our hallway scene...imagining we looked like the Dirty Dancing crew, swaying and snapping our fingers as we snaked our way down the center aisle during the end-of-the-season talent show. We coaxed chemistry teachers and asked administrative assistants to play a role. At first they just told us to please get out of their hair...but eventually, they got on board.

Time was running out. Ricky would return later in March and we were a hair's breadth from post production. But then it all just slipped from our fingers. It was enough to give you gray hairs. A pandemic? Who on earth would have predicted that our dream would be dashed by a global viral outbreak? Procrastination? Yeah. Laziness? Possibly. Apathy? Undoubtedly. But that circumstances beyond our control conspired to upstage our shot at stardom?!? Unthinkable!

Turns out, my bullying skills work just as well over text and by phone as they do in person. Unable to escape...as we were all lawfully required to self-quarantine at home...my friend Aaron, plagued by some forty or so phone calls, managed to piece together a million video segments, trimming where necessary, attaching some extensions, and voilà, we had a masterpiece that set our audience of twelve people buzzing! Ricky would have been so impressed. Now, unfortunately, his only take-away from our professional development conference might be the insane woman who approached him during a break to unceremoniously pluck a hair from his elbow, told him "You're welcome," and disappeared to get a donut. 

Well, the video is done. And, God willing, hopefully this pandemic will also soon be done. And, as I conclude this blog submission at 1:18 in the morning because I'm no longer sleeping as a general rule, I will say the one thing that I've said all along at the end of each blotched film segment:  CUT!!!

It's Time For Whine: Erin is a pane in my glass

Every self-diagnosed acronym I have is coming into serious play here. I am either curled into the fetal position, staring blankly at a screen or pacing the floor like a caged animal. Sleep eludes me as I murmur the names of my students like a mantra. My detail-driven nature, when it comes to lesson plans, had me wrestling with three devices today as I spent hours attempting to access files, edit and up-load videos, rotate photos, and re-arrange content on posts in between learning how to conference call ("Nod if you can hear me!") and communicating with families via phone, text, email, and social media. And I am so cold...a cold that is emanating from within.

Described as an "Extroverted Introvert," I tend to remain in my class room and mind my own business. No one ever believes this because I get into trouble...a LOT. But the trouble comes to me...I swear. And sometimes trouble is spelled E...R...I...N. Prior to a week ago, Erin would invade my classroom on a daily basis to sing an obnoxious little song and bestow upon me an obnoxiously bedazzled little gift. We tried locking her out...relocating Room 24 to a frigid alcove in the hallway...escaping to the high school track and disguising ourselves as Colonial Americans...to no avail. Erin ALWAYS finds me.

So as I struggled to adjust to my new life as a person in a petri dish, I tried to look on the bright side. No more 5:40 a.m. text messages...TING!...with a positive message...an audio recording of her singing like a "Disney princess" (her words...NOT mine)...or video of her kids dancing. No more morning interruptions. No more happy hollers down the hallway..."Amy...I'm going to just keep yelling until you answer me!" No more Hershey hugs in my mailbox. No more Erin.

Except...

Nope. Erin doesn't understand isolation. But she does understand that I'm a burrower. We were well on our way through March...I'd begun to peek tentatively out of my dark den...Erin coaxing me along with Pepsi and chocolate...and then...the virus with no shot heard 'round the world struck...and I dove right back into my hole with Erin...chattering away, dancing around...diving in after me like Rikki-Tikki-Tavi after the snake. Incessant text messages. Video calls. "Answer the phone, Amy...I know you're home. You're quarantined!"

Erin decided to deliver my daily gifts last week before the mandatory shelter-in-place was
announced. "I'm going to wear gloves," she informed me, "and hang the bag with your presents on your mailbox." I didn't want her to come. I stared out the window for an hour, looking for her car to come down the road. Because I didn't want her to come. I made a sign for the window, expressing how I felt about this unwanted visit. Because I didn't want her to come. We pressed palms through the glass before she left...before she drove away and I cried...because I didn't want her to go.

It is, for all intents and purposes, a physical isolation. But you cannot...be it over miles, down a hallway, or through glass...isolate the heart.

It's time for whine: Can I get a "Watt! Watt!"

I once read (something other than smut) a gothic short story of one woman's descent into madness entitled, "The Yellow Wallpaper." Her obsession with the ornamental design of her room's wall coverings eventually leads to her insanity. Now...embarking on Day 6 of my Corona Captivity, I can totally relate.

There is a short leading to the light-bulb in my refrigerator. It is not a permanent problem...not unlike my current situation...sometimes when I open the door, the light comes on. Other times, my food and beverages are cloaked in dark despair. What will happen when next I pull upon the handle? I don't know but I find myself peering in...every passing second...even when hunger and thirst fail to drive my desire...I find myself inexplicably drawn to the door...what is going on behind that weighted wall? Will the light come on? If it does...my mood brightens...my spirit soars...hope is illuminated. I take a steadying breath each time before I tug it open...fearing the black cavern that could suck my soul into its frigid depths...leaving me in a vegetative state.

Calluses have begun to form as I clench the curved handle...like a weapon to wield in an
uprising...except the uprising is coming from within. Within me. Within the refrigerator. Follow the light, Amy...NO! Flee from the darkness! Which way do I go? Always forward...always toward the refrigerator. The meat drawer beckons like a mortician's drawer...This is just the wurst...I'm bacon somebody to make this madness stop.

Shut up (at home): Our terrestrial time-out

March. I tried to warn you. But you wouldn't listen. "Amy's being dramatic...as usual," you muttered, dismissing me as I ticked off time change, Friday the 13th, Super Moon, Seasonal Affect, and state testing as acceptable reasons for despising March. And now look where we are. And this particular March looks like it's so bad that it might bleed into other months. The March-to-end-all-Marches. My worst nightmare...the never-ending March. In like a lion...out like a lamb? More like the lion pounced on the lamb, ripped out its entrails, and is now eyeing us up.

"What do you need?" my friend Erin had asked...was it just weeks ago?...as we sat in her room waiting for our Zumba group to congregate. "I need you to leave me alone," I growled at her, hugging my knees and rocking back against the window. She smiled, nudging me gently, infuriating me with her certainty that I didn't need that at all. And now look where we are. Be careful what you wish for.

In addition to being the March-to-end-all-Marches, it also appears to be a very impressive Cosmic Time-Out. A planetary punishment sending everyone to our rooms so we can think, long and hard, about what we've done. All those ridiculous arguments about people, politics, and plastic bags? Live and let live suddenly becomes a LOT easier when you're living all ALONE with no contact from the outside world! Mind your own business is a snap when you can only get up in yo' own bidness. And now look where we are...trials, tribulation, and toilet paper.

And what a blow to the collective ego to discover that we, the majority of the population, are not deemed essential. Being suddenly shifted as the self-appointed center of the universe is PAINFUL. "What do you mean I'm not essential?" we howl, forced out of school, church, restaurants, bars, and beaches. "Go home. We don't need you," we're told. But as we sit, in time-out, with nothing left to do but think...reflecting rather than raging...considering contemplatively rather than with condemnation and contempt...we suddenly realize that the world just re-set. Priorities just got grounded in reality rather than wealth. Being a good singer, holding a rally, delivering memorized lines, conducting interviews, filibustering, designing a dress, throwing a ball...how cute. Good for you. But standing on your feet all day, patiently cashing out endless lines of complaining people...you are a hero. An essential component of our community, How did we not see it before? Medical personnel facing looming numbers, inadequate supplies, and a hysterical public? Your images should be printed on currency...etched into a mountain. Truckers, truly the life blood of our land, endlessly transporting goods to re-stock shelves emptied in panic. We celebrate and thank the scientists, farmers, emergency personnel, waste management, postal workers, and the countless behind-the-scenes people who keep the day-to-day running. How did we not see you before? I can tell you...we were too busy looking at ourselves.

"Ask NOT what your country can do for you..." JFK had challenged, "ask what you can do for your country." And right now...my country is asking me to stay home. I can think of worse things. For the good of our families...friends...community...state...country...and the world...it is essential that we think of others ahead of ourselves. I recently wrote my 4th grade students a letter. Now is the time to shine...not to whine, I exhorted. Not quite as classy and inspirational as Kennedy but still, from the heart. Who knew you could save the world simply by sitting in your living room, drinking Pepsi, and watching re-runs of Grey's Anatomy? But look where we are now. I had unknowingly been training for this moment my entire life. Couch potatoes unite! Separately, of course.

P.S. Whining will come later. Trust me.

Preparing for the end

Enough was enough. It was time to wrestle back reason is this current season of fear, flu, and insanity. Which is why, a group of like-minded women of similar interests, decided to meet in order to map out a game-plan detailing how to successfully conduct ones-self in the event of quarantine or uprising. Anyone foolish enough to listen to or believe the media is not surprised to learn that we are in the midst of a zombie apocalypse. And we want to be prepared. What does one wear in the event of a zombie apocalypse? What scents most successfully repel said zombies? What weapons should we wield?

Naturally, the task of organizing such an important event fell to Felicia, my Zumba instructor. She is, after all, the most qualified to out-run an army of the undead. She has LOTS of experience with the mostly dead as I spend a large percentage of each class sprawled, lifeless, on the floor. Mindful of local, state, and federal ordinances cautioning the accumulation of large gatherings, I was trepidatious about attending such a controversial committee. But taking a deep breath, I concentrated on those historic wise words, The ends justify the means, as I drove to Felicia's house. Parking in the driveway, I bravely approached her front door, knocked and entered. Spotting several party-sized pizzas, I continued into the house, surprising Nana, who was seated in the kitchen. I greeted her warmly, introducing myself...thinking how nice it was of Felicia to include her grandmother in such a private and delicate matter as zombie apocalypse preparation. "Where is everyone?" I asked. Looking slightly confused, Nana told me they were upstairs. O-kay. Up the stairs of the quiet house I ventured, my instincts telling me that something was VERY, VERY wrong. I haven't been trained for this, I thought as I reached the landing and began my inspection of the many photographs of Felicia, looking rather gangsta (her...not me). Suddenly a door opened and Felicia's mother appeared. Upon seeing me, she screamed. Then I screamed.  Hmmm. Turns out I'd missed a memo. The meeting was being held at Lauren's house. I sighed. I was certain to be the first one killed in the zombie apocalypse.

After touring Felicia's room (I admit to some worry about an individual who neglects making her own bed leading an uprising of women but pushed those worries...and Felicia's laundry...aside as I made myself comfy under her covers), I hopped back into the truck. The only one who responded to my desperate call for directions was, of course, Erin, who, between dainty giggles and great guffaws, ground-guided me in.

Let me first say, that the food at a Zombie Apocalypse Preparation party, though questionably-shaped, is TO DIE FOR.  I briefly wondered why we were eating Peppa Pig cookies but they were so yummy that I forgot to ask. Our guide began by instructing us that our right arms would be assigned for smelling and the left for tasting. Obviously, this caused me great concern. "I thought the point of this party was how to avoid being eaten," I whispered, cocooned safely on the couch between Erin and Traci. "Well...at least your arm," Erin whispered back, giving me a reassuring wink.  Thankfully, she began taking meticulous notes because the rest of the evening was a blur. As the senior members of the gathering, Erin, Traci, Tess, Cassie, and I were less interested in the frills ("In the end, does it really matter if it's a snap or velcro-enclosure?" we mused) and were instead focused on the big guns. I did briefly interrupt a tutorial on the effective use of a numbing agent by snorting derisively. The crowd fell silent. "Look girls," I explained, "I'm fifty years old. I've had a lifetime of experience building up to this moment. I am IMMUNE."

The couch committee took over as the contraptions cropped up. "Nothing powered with double or triple A batteries," I waved dismissively. When told most of the tools were re-chargeable, I scoffed. "Yeah? How long a charge does it hold?" I demanded. I'd been burned before. But even the couch committee quieted in the imposing presence of the Main Attraction. The weapon to end all weapons. When fired to full-capacity, it spun like a propeller. We were stunned. Shocked. Was that even LEGAL? "I'd need to take out a second mortgage on my house," I murmured as Erin read the catalog to Traci and me.  The three of us headed to the inner chamber to place our orders. I listened, astonished, as Traci was up-sold on her intended order. "There are desperate times," she shrugged practically, "We need to be prepared and stock up."  She's right, of course. Forget stocking up on toilet paper and bottled water. If you're not ready with your zombie apocalypse preparation weapons, then you've really blown it.

It's March (sigh)

I'm not sure what to call it. Seasonal Affect. The winter blahs. Cabin fever. Whatever it is...March hits me hard. Has for the last twelve years, at least. "Are you exercising?" "Getting enough sleep?" "Drinking plenty of water?" Mind your own d@mn business, I scream in my head as I softly smile at these brilliant inquiries. "It's really just mind over matter," helpful people inform me. "Think positive! Count your blessings!" F*!k you, I bite back, swallowing my own words. I cannot explain it nor do I want to. A giant weight presses down on me...my vision feels clouded...sound is submerged...thoughts and responses are on a painful 3-second delay...my muscles ache...I am SO tired. My treatment of tears, tantrums, and tequila have yet to be successful but they are the only weapons in my repertoire.  "I have an essential oil for that!" I will bury you, I shriek mentally, and sprinkle your essential oils over the grave!

My husband noticed I was wearing a new shirt the other morning and made the mistake of commenting on it. "I see you're wearing your new shirt," he said thoughtlessly. The b@$t@!d. Naturally, I started screaming at him. I cry in my truck on the ride home from work...regularly. I have trouble taking deep breaths...strangling on the shallow ones that lack the ability to adequately fill my lungs. I don't want you to fix me. I just want you to leave me alone.

March is hard for my friend Erin because it is hard on me. My usual snark becomes snappish; my sarcasm sharper...yet she draws closer; certain that her sunshine can pervade the darkness that envelopes me. I am the girl hiding under the bed in Taken and it is Erin who doggedly grasps my heels and pulls me out as I fight and flail at her. I disappear and she finds me. I slink down the hall and she steps into my path for a hug. I stand there stiffly, waiting for it to end...enduring it because I love her. And she whispers into my ear, "This is where you hug me back," and I vaguely remember how to be human and allow her to shoulder my weight for a moment.

We go to war in March. Erin realizing that I now just wave the white flag to the cold depression that seeps like an unrelenting mist under February's closing door and she refuses to surrender her friend without a fight. I rally for her. She sings and I try not to sulk. Spirit Days are scheduled and she cheers when I organize my entire class to be clad in protest black. The self-reflecting room is a monument to our battling memes...Erin carefully tipping the scales in my favor. For her...my faked smile is better than no smile at all. I'm given space but am not allowed to vanish for too long. The whys don't matter to Erin. All that matters to her are the what can I dos. I wait for March to be over...enduring each day through gritted teeth. "But Spring is nearly here!" someone will say encouragingly, not realizing how close they are to being punched in the face. Erin plans for March...counting down the days with me while trying to make each one a little bit more bearable. She tries SO hard and because of that, I have to try too. D@mn her.