A long story about Amy placing warning cones at a hole in a bridge. There. Now you don't have to waste time reading this. You're welcome.

Believe or not, there was a time when I, more or less, minded my own business, and did not spend the bulk of my waking hours obsessively worrying about every problem known to man. But here we are.

And there we were...walking our dogs along the track bed near our house. Our daily moment of peaceful solitude...away from the video conferencing, the news, the endless cycle of grading from students who submit work as early as 6:30 in the morning until 10 o'clock at night. Between the early birds and the night owls, I am starting to go koo-koo!

So as the dachshund stopped every second step to sniff single blades of grass and the rottweiler warned us to limit our walk to a half mile or her hips would hurt, we approached a bridge and noticed a sizable hole caused by a rotted-out, cracked beam. The previous night's rain had added to the growing problem by softening the soil around the puppy-sized pothole from which we had to shoo away our curious canines.

"What about all the four-wheelers and dirt bikes?" I fretted. Brad pointed to the "No wheeled vehicles" sign that graced the trail...the one everyone ignored, the one that we laughed at regularly as we walked (and occasionally, rode) past it, the one that might as well be invisible. "People know that it's a bikers beware trail," he said callously...heartlessly, as we headed home to save Juno's hips, "They ride safely and responsibly at reasonable speeds," he assured me as we stopped for several more single-blade-of-grass sniffing sessions. "They do not," I protested, pausing to straighten the "No wheeled vehicle" sign. I inspected it. Maybe I should plant some petunias at the base of it. Or maybe a nice climbing vine would promote readability.

Bedtime brought the brainstorming. Obviously, I lacked the engineering and carpentry skills necessary to address the cracked beam issue myself. I Googled the Army Corp of Engineers but apparently locks and dams are more of a priority than a rickety old country bridge that isn't approved for free-wheeling fun. I poked Brad at 2 am. "Wha-at?" he mumbled, grumpy but not surprised. This was actually turning into our new relationship routine. "Do we have day-glow, fluorescent paint?" I asked. "No," he said, rolling over. "Don't you want to ask me why I want day-glow, fluorescent paint?" I beseeched his back. "No," he answered, his head buried under the pillow.

An hour later, I poked him again. He thrashed about immaturely for a moment but asked me what I wanted after I poked him enough times to determine he was, indeed, fresh. "How do we get a traffic cone?" I wondered if the swiping of one from a construction site would balance out this minor infraction of the 8th Commandment if it were for the greater good. I'm trying to save lives here. He sighed. Heavily. "We have small soccer cones from when the girls were in school." Delighted, I dozed off. Brad remained awake though, his rest ruined.

The next day, after Brad tiredly dug the cones out from under a Jenga-pile of dusty, unused sports equipment, we headed off to plant our protective posts. I stooped to pick up rocks from our driveway to fill the cones. "What are you doing?" my husband asked. I resisted the impulse of saying, "Saving lives" and explained, instead, how I was weighing down the cones so they wouldn't get blown over. Instead of complimenting how clever I was, he decided to quiz me. "What are the track beds lined with?" he challenged. I decided not to answer "Good intentions" and silently dumped the rocks back onto the driveway.

"So...are you happy?" Brad asked after I was done fussing with the perfect placement of my warning cones. "No thanks to you," I snapped, glancing back to check their visibility from afar. "You were right," he said, in a vain attempt to appease me, "This couldn't hurt. And you never know, it might help to avoid an accident."

"Whatever, Mr. Bikers Beware," I told him, "If, when we die, this good deed ends up on your list, I am tattling on you to Saint Peter." "Wow," he said, halting suddenly, "I feel bad enough already. You don't need to PYLON about it."

Exercising: What was once "awful" is now "unlawful"

I had tried to ignore it as long as I could but I knew it was time. Was it because I had recently logged in a daily total of 81 steps (most of them trafficked between the couch and the refrigerator)? Was it when I started walking down my basement stairs backwards, gripping the railing as though I were repelling into a splunking cave? Or was it the day that ALL my muscles ached just from the simple act of getting out of bed in the morning?

"I'll exercise with you," my husband graciously offered. I thanked him and then quoted Mark 6:4: A prophet is not without honor except in his own town, among his relatives and in his own home. I made the call that I had long been dreading.

Now...these were tricky times. Much like the persecuted Christians that were forced to meet in caves ("Not at ALL like the persecuted Christians that were forced to meet in caves," Brad clarified), my physical trainer and I would be taking a great risk in meeting and, gasp, EXERCISING together. I'm not sure if I included the gasp to denote shock that we were breaking rules or that I was exercising voluntarily. It was actually quite thrilling. Would the police come roaring up to our undisclosed location, lights flashing, sirens blaring, and order us to disperse through a blow horn? Would we be hauled off to jail in handcuffs? Would I have to call my husband for bail money and explain I'd been arrested for...exercising! My scary cell mate, clad in an over-sized orange jumpsuit, would glare at me through a haze of cigarette smoke and say, "Whatta in for?" and I'd snarl, "Exercising without a cause."

Except there WAS a cause! I got out of breath getting the mail!

So, throwing caution to the wind, we strapped on our sneakers, snapped on our leggings, and wrapped ourselves up in the Constitution to wrestle me back into shape...literally. "Are you double jointed?" PT asked.

"No," I told her, "Why?"

She frowned, "People don't normally bend that way." I had set clear perimeters regarding my capabilities. "Twenty minutes is all I can handle," I insisted before realizing that three minutes was all I could handle. She stopped the music and stared at me incredulously as I attempted to lunge, my arms stretched out like a tight-rope walker. "Your hands should be on your hips," she stated.

"I'll fall over," I said.

"Let me see," she ordered. After I flopped over, she offered some modifications.

"I should have been paying more attention to you," my trainer admitted, astonished that I had not managed to learn a single Zumba move after a year's worth of classes. "What on earth were you doing back there?" she asked, referring to my coveted back row spot conveniently located to my ice cold Pepsi and cosmic brownie.

More modifications were made.

"You can't do a jumping jack?" she learned, mortified. "Run in place."

"No, Amy...kick ball change," she said for the twentieth time as I flailed about like Bambi on ice. She demonstrated again and again. Got down on the ground and moved my sneakers for me like a weird foot puppeteer. Stood up, dusted off her hands, shook her head and said, "Run in place."

Much attention and ridicule had been directed my way when it was discovered in past classes that I had difficulty with cross-lateral movement. "I thought that was a joke," PT said as she watched in wonder as I kicked...let me amend that..."kicked" and punched from my right side then my left instead of the opposite sides as directed. She stood in front of me and yelled like a drill sergeant, trying to will my limbs into synchronization but it was not to be. "Run in place," she sighed.

Our first session was a grueling twenty minutes...eked out in three minute increments of my asking if it were over yet, interspersed with my enthusiastic clapping at the conclusion of every song. "Amy, there's only two of us here. You don't need to clap EVERY time," PT said.

For the second session, I was more wary. "Maybe we should cut back on the time," I suggested.

"Why?" PT asked.

"I think I have diabetes," I told her.

"What makes you think so?" she inquired, pulling her gloriously long dark hair effortlessly up into a sleek ponytail.

"The tops of my feet hurt," I explained.

"Good thing we're using the bottoms then," she responded before telling me to run in place.

My distraction techniques worked only on a limited basis. As I clumsily followed my trainer's graceful movements in our undisclosed location while waving at passing construction crews, tractors, and one curious cop car..."Is he coming back?" PT asked as we hid behind a nearby tree...I interrupted our session to clarify a lyric. "How does 'got hips like Hyundai' even make sense?" I complained, running in place. "Where does it say that?" PT asked, touched her palms flat to the ground while standing on one foot with the other leg lifted straight up into the air. I chanted out the lyrics to "Body Like a Backroad" to her. She stopped the music to check the lyrics and laughed. "It's 'hips like honey,'" she informed me before [oh no!] starting the song again from the beginning.

"Is it over?" I asked for the thousandth time, clapping as the song concluded. "Yes," she said, smiling as I began hobbling over to my truck, "We just need to do the cool-down." Ugh. I hate the cool-down. And shouldn't that be built into the twenty minutes?

For the most part, PT is professional, encouraging, and kind. But during the cool-down, she was down-right cruel. "What exactly are you stretching there?" she asked as I tried to mimic her crazy arm contortions. She tried to re-arrange me like I had Mrs. Potato Head parts. She pulled at my arms like she thought I was Elastigirl. Closest thing to Elistigirl, for me, is elastigirdle. Failing to tie my arms into a complex knot, PT then just took a picture of me to show her mom.

I drove away...my mouth aching from smiling so much...my stomach hurting from laughing so much...my muscles trembling from just the threat of being used. It was almost like being kinda back to normal. I had forgotten, for a moment, about wanting the pandemic to be over, and instead, like the good old days, had just wanted Zumba to be over. I can't wait to do it again.

How many degrees do you need to see the space station? Apparently I need a few more!

My marriage may not have necessarily been written in the stars but it is certainly out of this world...crazy. I am amazed that, after a long history of screwed-up celestial-watching events, Brad continues to wander outside and gaze heavenward with me. It is dark though...maybe he's just rolling his eyes. Or asking, Why God? Why me?

It's not like I'm a budding astronomer. My knowledge of constellations is limited to an episode of The Brady Bunch when Jan lost some necklace looking for the "little bear" which is why I was shocked and surprised to discover, years later, that the Little Dipper isn't shaped like a bear at all but rather, an actual water dipper like those used in pioneer times.

I am also directionally-challenged, still wanting to believe that the cardinal directions are based on which way I am currently facing. If I'm facing my house, "west" would be right. Were I to face away from my house, then "west" would be to my left. Hence, my admiration for our early explorers. My goodness, every time that darn boat shifted, "west" would go out of whack! How they managed to find ANYTHING is nothing short of a miracle.

Even with numerous false alarms, we continue to search the skies for the greenish hue of the northern lights..."I think I see it," I once whisper-shouted, grabbing Brad's arm and pointing. "I think that's methane rising from the manure lagoon," Brad said, correcting me. Another time, I had us set up with sleeping bags, lawn chairs, and snacks to await the arrival of the moon eclipsing something...we waited...and waited...and waited. "It's late," I reported, frowning. "Are you sure you had the time right?" asked Brad, who knew without a doubt that I didn't have the time right. HA! Proved him wrong. My time was right. My hemisphere was wrong.

So when I announced the schedule of dates whereupon we could catch a glimpse of the International Space Station as it hurtled by, Brad was somewhat dubious. "It's a three-minute window over the course of several days," I informed him. "How do you know where to look?" he asked cautiously. I answered, quickly and confidently. "Tonight, we can see it at 9:38 at 11 degrees north until it disappears at 9:41 at 18 degrees northwest." Despite having to get up for work the next morning at 4:30, Brad agreed to look with me. Thank goodness. I had NO idea which way was northwest, let alone adding in those ridiculous degrees. "Set your alarm," he said, before settling in on the couch for a quick cat-nap. My phone rang a little after 8 and, not wanting to bother Brad, I wandered outside to chat with my friend Amy from Long Island. She was excited at my opportunity to view the orbiting space station. I explained my directional difficulties so she tried to help. "Which way does the sun rise for you?" she asked. Jeesh. This was embarrassing. I turned toward the windmills because I think I took a picture of a pretty sunrise of them once. Or was that a sunset? I chanted the cardinal directions mnemonic to find north. "Never eat soggy worms."  Oh drat it! I just remembered that I took a sunrise picture of my neighbor's barn recently. I spun around and was surprised to see Brad, silhouetted in the darkness, down the road. "I gotta go," I told Amy. She yelled good-bye as I raced to join him.

"What are you looking at?" I asked him. "Are you kidding?" he said. He pointed "north" for me. I would have never guessed that in a million years. "So what's 11 degrees?" He sighed, bending his elbow into the classic right angle. "You know this is 90 degrees, right?" I breathed deeply, preparing for an EPIC fight in the middle of our seasonal dirt road.  Instead, I nodded. Yes. He bent his arm half-way. I itched to raise a certain finger half-way. "Forty-five degrees," he said. "Thank you for this constructive lesson on angles," I told him, "but it's not like I can use my frickin' protractor up in the sky." He cursed under his breath. "No...you're an astrolabe," I retorted.

"There it is," he said suddenly, "Over those trees." So helpful. We live in the COUNTRY. Now I was desperate. Half of 45 is...? Doggone it! I was going to miss the International Space Station because I can't do math under pressure. Let's see...half of 48 is 24. Subtract 10 is 14. Take away 4 is 11. Which way is northwest? Oh! It disappears at 18 degrees! Add seven. Never eat shredded wheat. I'm facing away from the house so west is to my left. But Brad is looking right.

"Between the silo and the barn," he snapped. Oh! There it is! There it is! Like a low-flying, sorta-slow, shooting star. "More like a planet because the light stays steady," Brad corrected. "Planets don't move," I snapped. "Do you hear yourself when you talk?" Brad asked as we turned to walk back into the house. The alarm on my phone went off. "What time is it?" Brad asked, dreading his 4:30 am wake-up. "9:45," I said, "That's funny, the space station was early." Brad went to bed without a word...obviously stunned by the celestial show we had shared together. Just magical.

So yeah...our love may or may not have been written in the stars but, oh my goodness, I love that man to the moon and back.

Kicking (Tyler's) @$$ and taking names...Attendance Video: Take II

So the no-sleeping thing struck again. And as I lay there, my mind spinning with strategies about how to save the world, I was struck with a great idea. Scratch that. As usual, this idea originated where all GREAT ideas come from. Well...yeah. I have to give you THAT. ALL great ideas come from God but apparently, they are funneled through Tyler which is MADDENING. Because there is nothing Tyler likes better than to drop a good idea, like the ingredients to a 3-layered cake, in front of me and waltz off, whistling. It drives me INSANE. I have enough things in the oven without trying to bake a cake on top of it all. Oops...sorry. That was NOT a subtle reference to pregnancy. The only thing that I'm capable of spawning these days are the seeds of insurrection, sarcasm, and insanity. Triplets!

So anyhoo, upon learning that, on top of creating lessons in our basements and wrestling them onto a reluctant internet, in addition to hosting loud, unruly video conferences with 4th graders...

"Honey, can you PLEASE ask your sister to drive her electric car through the kitchen later?" I yelled.

"Child X, does your little brother, who is currently climbing the unstable shelving unit behind you, realize we can see him in his Hulk Underoos?" I asked.

"Sweetheart...PUT ON A SHIRT!" I begged.

...besides developing an unattractive Pavlovian-tic response to whenever my phone notifications ting (beginning at 6:30 am and often continuing until 10 at night), along with responding to dozens of emails, phone calls, and social media communications, as well as trying to track down 9-year-olds who have apparently disappeared from Planet Earth, we are now being asked to take attendance.

This was a difficult enough task when done the customary way because none of us could EVER remember to take it...let along submit it. Now there was a complicated algorithm involved after you'd completed a computer quest ("Complete" is such a cute word indicating that you demonstrated some sort of proficiency or skill when in fact all you did was accidentally, inadvertently, hit the correct tab and then consequently completely forgot which tab you hit so you would have to embark on a whole new quest the next time) to reach the window where attendance was taken.

"If only Joanne could call our rooms when we forget like the old days," Tyler lamented, graciously leaving flour, eggs, sugar, and vanilla behind with his little suggestion.

And there I lay...at 2 am...when it struck. No. Not a solution to save the world. A solution to help us remember attendance.

I contacted our school secretary at 8 o'clock the following morning. "Are you at school?" I texted. "Duh," she immediately texted back...uncompromisingly professional, as always. "Can I come video you for a little movie?" I asked her. This response was not quite so immediate. "Fine," she agreed, the begrudging tone dripping off each of the four letters that made up her ~f word.

If I've learned nothing else, you must strike while the iron is hot (Sorry...my 4th graders are deep in the middle of an idioms unit) so I jumped in the truck and dashed to the school before she could change her mind.

Suspicious by nature, Joanne was even more dubious as I described my vision for the promo. "It'll be like the Liberty Insurance commercial," I told her, singing the song for good measure (idiom). She was NOT impressed. "We'll run two versions of you screwing up your reminder by being nice and then on the third call, you'll nail it (idiom) by raking Tyler over the coals (idiom)." She was NOT impressed. "But I'm always nice to you with my reminder calls," she protested. Joanne, apparently, had another vision that did NOT correspond with mine. Arguing commenced.

We finally came to a consensus and shot our video. "Is it good?" she asked, "I don't want to have to go through all THAT again." I checked, saw that our footage came in at about forty seconds, thanked Joanne and left. Piece of cake (idiom).

After several video conferences where I begged 4th grade boys to put on shirts and explained that they didn't have to take their Chromebooks with them INTO the bathroom, I finally had a moment to start putting my attendance promo together. Hmmm. That's weird. What I had thought was forty seconds was FORTY MINUTES! I had filmed everything EXCEPT the forty seconds of Joanne acting!

I called Joanne and humbly explained my predicament. After she was done laughing hysterically, she graciously invited me back for a second shoot attempt (If by "gracious," one means her saying "You have fifteen minutes before I leave for the day. Good luck."). "Are moments like this how blogs are born?" she asked as I walked in, red-faced and apologetic. Joanne delivered an Academy-Award-Winning performance proving that my inadvertent dress-rehearsal was a blessing-in-disguise (idiom). "Please, Mosiman," Joanne said, scoffing at my theory, "I was brilliant in BOTH takes. Don't be such an idiot!"

See how this goes? Tyler comes up with the idea and I'M the idiot!!! Talk about your pie in the face! I mean, that really takes the cake!

Another drawback to this whittle problem: Time to take a bow

There was a time...not so long ago...that my anxiety attacks were only limited to airports, concert venues, sporting events, and MRI machines. Ahhh...the good old days. Now, the uncertainty of walking into even the most familiar stores paralyze me. Brad has taken on more of the shopping responsibilities to avoid my new-found habit of hiding in mulch forts outside of grocery markets. We've downsized stores to an 8-aisle establishment which stocks my finish-line fritter. I strap on my bank-robber mask, run to the bakery case, race to the glass-enclosed check-out, wonder whether my purchases will be placed in something that kills trees, clogs up the ocean, or carries the Covid, and then stumble, gasping, out the automated doors.

Walmart was my white whale. I recognized that NONE of my fears were rationale which made it even worse. I became fixated by the arrows that I'd heard were situated on the floor. What if I went the wrong way? Oh my gosh...SO WHAT?!? This wasn't me. I've gone the opposite way of arrows my entire life. I am the most directionally-challenged person you've ever met. Was that part of the problem? That the whole world was now directionally-challenged and those arrows really didn't mean ANYTHING? Or was it that a girl who liked to think she'd swam against the stream was now being forced to follow the herd? Flock that!

Lots of my time was spent thinking about the arrows and a lot of Brad's time was spent thinking about me thinking about the arrows. He had LOTS of suggestions...all of which I hated. I was only thinking about the arrows. Brad was thinking about how I was going to handle the ever-changing procedures that will accompany my traveling to see my girls and my returning to work in September. And it all started with me walking into Walmart.

First we had to endure weeks of the face mask fashion show. Flimsy hospital masky-thing. Gasping. Sweating. Shaking. Nope. Dry wall masky-thing. Huff and puff like the Big Bad Wolf. Was hands-free self-asphyxiation possible?  Gaiter One. Gaiter Two. In between whirling and twirling on the cat-walk, we would do Walmart drive-bys, casing the joint, bandit-style. "Wanna go in?" Brad would ask casually. "Not today," I'd answer, as if tomorrow was a possibility when we both knew it wasn't. Brad tried putting up raspberry wings as a reward. Turns out I have enough string cheese and Twizzlers to get me through to Phase Four.

Then it was my turn to create a Children's Message for church. And I thought about fear. And those arrows. Which led me to think of a story from 1 Samuel that also dealt with fear and arrows. Like me, David was afraid. And like me, David had someone who loved him and would do anything to help him deal with his fears. For my lesson to be effective, I would have to accept some help from God and my husband to face my fear.

My heart raced as we drove to town. Shallow breaths. Feeling trapped. "We'll try another day," Brad reassured me in the parking lot. "How do feel about looking at the trees for sale in the gardening section over by the cart corral?" I enjoyed the idea of the "park" part of "parking lot." A bunch of basil became my security blanket. I perused the posies and pretended to care about a potential pine tree purchase. We paid outdoors and Brad ushered me back to the van. "I'll grab some dog food and be right back," he told me. "I think I can do it," I said and we made our way to the front doors by way of small, tight circles like Brad was trying to trailer a stubborn steer.

"Whew," I sighed, relieved when we returned to the van after a successful trip, "That went well." "Are you kidding me?" Brad said, obviously traumatized as he began listing the number of times I ran over him with the cart, describing my cute quirk of dashing through aisle intersections, and how I apparently failed to follow his instructions and got separated from him which resulted in my standing, statue-still, by the cart, mentally chanting the Ten Commandments backwards until he found me again (Thank God it was the candy aisle!). "But I got my picture by the arrow!" I cheered. "Can you name a single thing we bought?" he asked. Nope. Not a thing. "Did we buy candy?" I questioned hopefully (We did!).

We did.

And there's another arrow in my ever-quivering world.

The Return to Room 24

Teachers were cleared, under strict guidelines and intimidating protocols, to re-enter the school to clean out our classrooms.  This was not something that I was looking forward to...returning to a hollow room filled with the scattered evidence of our abruptly interrupted lives. In my mind, I likened it to the frozen-in-time effects of Pompeii. Archaeologists would stumble on this site and speculate, What happened here? Where are the children?

I didn't sleep the night before...picturing my classroom. Four walls. Windows. Desks. Chairs. Stop being a baby, Amy! It's just a job, for goodness sake! Morning arrived and I made the familiar drive...dreading every passing mile. The hushed hallway was dark as I approached my door...still assaulted with sparkles from my March War with Erin. My parade of decorated dachshunds had been bagged up like mortuary corpses. The helium balloon tied to my pencil mug lay deflated and defeated amongst half-corrected papers. The song reverberating through my mind was "Dearly Departed" and I hummed it as I slowly roamed the room. "You and I both know that the house is haunted/And you and I both know that the ghost is me."

I looked at my Agenda Board, barely recognizing my own handwriting. Monday, 3/16/2020. I felt a
compulsive need to erase it...that date didn't exist for me anymore. I swiped the eraser over the numbers but it refused to budge. I pressed down harder but the date was stuck...just like us. Through my tears, I glanced at the clock. How interesting that the minutes continue to move but the days don't. I had a video conference call scheduled with my boys followed by another meeting with my girls. I rolled my comfy teacher chair to the center of the room and brought up the call on my mobile SMARTboard and one-by-one, my boys arrived...tousled hair and smiling. We talked and teased and were together in Room 24...I was no longer haunted by ghost children as my goof-balls infused the room with light and life and energy. I had barely said good-bye to the boys when my girls came careening in, giggling and so excited to see one another. One of my honeys was so intent on NOT missing our meeting that she conducted her call from a moving car! For a few minutes, I wasn't alone. We were together and I could breathe again.

Of course it would snow as I got about the weird business of cleaning out desks in May. I solved the mystery of the missing white boards as I unearthed two, sometimes three, nestled among the sets of worn notebooks and folders. Another scheduled appointment offered me a built-in break from this dreary process, filming  a silly project introduction for a student on-line lesson. And then I was back at bagging up the interrupted education of my 4th graders. Before I felt, too heavily, the burden of each load I lifted, I was visited by another apparition...in the form of a delivered letter. A ghost of a 4th grader from the past, who described, in detail...down to our classroom custom of clapping a warm welcome for guests...how much our time together, those many years ago, had meant to him. A friendly reminder that it's NOT just a job. It's my family. And that it's okay to feel the pain of interwoven lives suddenly ripped apart. I wasn't done. This is not how you "wrap things up." Not in plastic bags. Set out, curbside, for pick-up.

My 4th graders...my sweet cherubs...my treasures. Your presence is a reverberating echo in this empty room...it is an ache that I feel in my haunted heart. How is it possible that the kids with whom I spent the shortest amount of time will end up staying with me the longest?

Coocoo for cockatiels: One woman's desperate need to keep hope alive (Emily Dickinson reference there)

I'm worried about my bird.

A bird that I have actively detested for 16 years. What idiot buys their 10-year-old a bird with a 25-year life-span? Yeah. THIS idiot. And when said idiot's 10-year-old grows up and moves away to California (breaking her mother's heart in the process), guess where the bird ends up?

Yeah. At home, teaming up with his adopted brother (because heaven forbid JUST the 10-year-old have a bird! Guess what the 8-year-old decided to do with HER birthday money?!?) to terrorize me.

These pair of feathered raptors are loud, messy, and often explode into the air to dive-bomb me without provocation. Just attempting to change their water is to risk losing a finger. Savannah's bird (I don't know why we credit her with ownership as she hasn't cleaned a cage or bought birdseed in over a decade), Al, is the alpha bird, having plucked every feather from the back of his "pal" Percy's head long ago. Thanks to Al's menacing ministrations, poor Percy resembles a young Telly Savalas or a baby condor. I have never liked Al...my fingers are spotted with beak bites so that it looks like my digits were victimized by tiny vampires.

But I'm worried about my bird.

"Something's wrong with Al," Brad said, peering into the cage, perilously close to pecking-distance. I had noticed, keeping an eye on the situation from a safe six-feet away. Al has been known to easily spit a seed that far. A proud, indignant bird, Al is renowned for his posture...rearing up like a boxing kangaroo or a king cobra if you get too close. But lately, his feathered body rested...almost spilling over...on his feet. "He is getting older..." Brad mused speculatively, watching as Al thumped clumsily from his perch and scuttled away from my husband's unwelcomed health inspection. No one likes to be told that we're not young chickens anymore.

But things got worse. Al's aggressive air raids ended up with him dive-bombing the floor rather than us. The fighter jet that could land with keen precision on the top flight deck of his cage instead missed his mark, hitting an ocean of woodwork, splatting like a rotted plum as he struck the floor. Ground landings were usually only a momentary set-back for Al...he'd rest a moment, sneer at the startled dogs, and then take off again. But now...he just sat there, a little stunned, somewhat embarrassed...chagrined...until we intervened. Our assistance was accompanied by a vicious bite which I found weirdly reassuring.

"I think he had a stroke," Brad offered, looking up from his phone. I laughed uncertainly, surely he couldn't be serious. But he was. And the pieces fit. Al was definitely droopy and ungainly on one specific side. He looked (glared) at us now with a dominant eye. He scuttled about like ET and disconcertingly slept with his head angled awkwardly in his seed bowl like a drunk at a bar. What do we do? Suddenly, I was singularly focused on the well-being of my beloved bird. Was he suffering? We watched him obsessively. He was eating, drinking, pooping, and pecking us. All of the things he loved doing.

Some modifications were definitely needed. The penny drop from the top of The Empire State Building had to stop. To his credit, Percy alerted us immediately the minute Al took the plunge but we needed to curtail this soon-to-be-crippling dare-devil act. Safety rails were added to Al's cage. Wooden barriers acted as crib bumpers to both protect and support him while still allowing Al to enjoy his now one-eyed view of his domain (the living room).

My already sleepless nights were now plagued with worry and regret. I was a terrible bird owner. I had voiced my disdain, disgust, and dislike for these birds for years.  I may have, once or twice, swatted that sucker out of the air as he aimed for my head. I may not have changed his water as regularly as recommended.

Brad grew even more concerned when I began crawling into bed at 3 am, shaking with sobs for my poor, sweet little bird. "You need to sleep," he told me (again). I nodded. "Regular exercise would be good for you," he encouraged (again). I sniffled and nodded. "An all-sugar diet isn't healthy," he pointed out (again). Uh-huh. "You need to stop obsessing and stay off the screens," he suggested (again). "This is bigger than the bird," he explained reassuringly, "This is ALL of your worries and feelings all balled up into one." Very helpful.

"If only we could do some sort of rehabilitation for him," Brad said during our now daily death-checks of Al. Mostly, he just sat with his head in the seed bowl unless we were aggravating him.

Wait.

That was it! After over sixteen years of being hen-pecked by a hostile bird, it was our turn. Several times a day now, Al receives short scheduled appointments of physical therapy through engaged "play." We are extending Al's life by annoying him. We talk to him and he swears in his birdie language and hisses at us. We walk around his cage so he is forced to turn to keep us in sight with his one good eye. Oddly enough, peek-a-boo seems to be his favorite. We'll talk and click to him and then suddenly "disappear" from his sight. He'll rush to the edge of his cage and peer down through the safety rails to look for us. We'll pop back up to talk some more and the game (or torture) begins again. Percy thinks we're all insane.

This bird can't die. Not now. I feel like I'm barely holding on by a tight, tenuous string and, should Al shake the dust from his feathers and head up to birdie heaven, I might just snap. If I have to continue playing kindergarten games with a cockatiel every day for the rest of my internment, I will...and gladly. Because I love that little bird.

Pedantic pandemic prosaic poetry: I apologize in advance

Boxed in

Walled up

Numb

No fun

Release her 

from the wooden cell

the hell

before you bury her

before she's carried away

home

Not free to roam

without a pass

written as directed

illegible

jibberish

might as well be Chinese

please

Locked in

Locked down

She frowns

cries

tries

to be patient

positive

Not sure 

that the cure

the conjecture

won't kill her first

The thirst

for knowledge

dehydrated 

by colleges

My tithe

cut down to size

rip down the net

I bet

they don't see me shaking

in fury

a slurry 

of words

I am unable to partake

for fear

of offending

delicate ears

Public opinions

based on projections

flickering images

of dismay

fear

so that we can no longer

hear

the last nail 

being hammered

Shaving some years off my marriage is NOT as "hair"-larious as it sounds!

Like many of you, Brad and I were forced by this pandemic, to delve into the darker side of marriage. To push boundaries. And buttons. Things that we'd once said with an upright/uptight arrogant air, clouded with naivety, immobilized by morality, lacking ambiguity: "Oh no," (We'd shuddered at the very thought...the idea!) "We would NEVER do that!" This was something couples did, independently of one another. This was an act...a service...that one PAID for and tipped handsomely if extras were generously thrown in. It wasn't asked about...just accepted as one of those things that kept a relationship on track. Until the pandemic derailed us.

We ignored it as long as we could but the need was obviously growing. It was time to face facts. This time...there would be no other woman's more-skilled-and-capable-hands performing this delicate task. It would be ME touching my husband's head...

I'm ashamed to admit that it's been thirty years since our last encounter. We were so young then and lacked the wisdom and rhythm of more established couples. Brad thought he could hand me the buzzing, vibrating contraption and that I would just go to town. But I was nineteen...uncertain and afraid. My mother hadn't discreetly handed over a pamphlet for me to read in my room like when I was twelve. The motor buzzed in my hand as I regarded my waiting and expectant husband who was obviously eager for me to begin. Should I start at the bottom or the top? How much pressure should I apply? Did he prefer a light touch or a heavy touch? Should I pull it? Gently or hard? What if I hurt him?

So...like most things...I decided it was best to just not dwell on it too much and dove right in...and butchered the hell out of it. I veered WAY off course. I'm ashamed to admit that I left marks. He may have cried a little. And vowed that THIS would NEVER happen again. He would, henceforth, seek the assistance of professionals. I was a little sad but mostly relieved that I would not have to bear the responsibility for maintaining length and keeping things tidy.

But it had been well over forty days...

Forty days and three decades.

And there was just us.

First, there were hints (and allegations...sorry Paul Simon). The matter was alluded to. Lightly joked about. And then we just stopped finding this stuff amusing anymore (again, apologies to Paul Simon for song infringement). There had been an elephant in the room...in our marriage...for thirty years and we couldn't ignore him anymore. Because there is nothing worse than an elephant with unruly hair.

It had been a long time since that device had tickled my palm. Brad regarded me nervously as I inched closer. My hand smoothed its way along the contour of his neck as the razor raked away layers of hair...I combed the quarantine right off of my husband's head. It wasn't perfect by any means. I mean...I'm not licensed, after all and the only practice I ever get is trimming my dachshund's fuzzy little feet. But this time, we communicated. Stated our needs and expectations. Complimented and encouraged one another. Extended forgiveness and grace when needed. And in the end, we were both satisfied.

 A home haircut. What next? Dental surgery in the dining room? Probably. I recently cracked a tooth on a peanut M&M. Totally worth it, by the way.