Fashionable heels: I just can't "sandal" it!

The elementary staff at my school is populated by the most beautiful women on the planet. Beautiful...inside and out. They are smart, creative, hospitable, kind, tough, and tenacious. And gorgeous. Effortlessly gorgeous...whether they're sporting athletic wear, re-purposed rags or the latest fashions. It is infuriating and I hate them all. I rarely leave my classroom but, when I do occasionally pop out, like a disgruntled gopher, they are there to love and support me...regardless of my wanting them to or not.  

My wardrobe is worn and routine. I once upset a 4th grader by unknowingly wearing my "Wednesday" sweater on a Tuesday. Unfortunately, a by-product of this little tendency is that, when I DO acquire something new...EVERYBODY notices. I recently made the mistake of asking my friend Michelle (who looks like Jaclyn Smith or Jessica Alba depending on which generation your opinion is operating from) fashion advice. She was WAY too excited to help. "I'm looking at purchasing some fly-away pants," I told her. Her perfect brow puckered. We happened to be in the office (otherwise known as Grand Central Station) at the time. I tried to explain them to her...sort of a capri/split-skirt/skort combo. Right up my alley. Michelle looked mortified. Fortunately, she had her Chromebook and she quickly referenced my garment. "No...this is good!" she exclaimed, alerting the masses of busy-bodies around us to also weigh in. Horrified, I slunk away and then spent the next few weeks fending off inquires about my impending order. Michelle, at one point, threatened to order the pants for me.

I would return to Michelle again when I accidentally ordered a high elastic waist replica of Julia Robert's brown polka-dotted "Pretty Woman dress. The fabric reminded me of a cheap Halloween costume. Not willing to trust my judgment but still hopeful, I again solicitated Michelle's advice. "Hold it up," she said doubtfully. I did. "Well..." she murmured, fighting for something good to say about it. To her horror, I tossed it immediately in the trash. "At least give it to Sarah," Michelle scolded, "...she'll find something fabulous to do with the fabric." Sheepishly, I offered the garment to my friend like it was a roll of off-off-brand paper towels. Within seconds, she'd unearthed a darling brown cinch sweater and a thin belt that magically transformed my failed frock from Garbage Can Now to Red Carpet Wow.

My recent (reluctant) purchase of a pair of brown sandals sent the school into a tail-spin. I walked the corridors like a run-way model all day, stalking, spinning, striking a pose while everyone ooooo-ed and ahhhhh-ed while thanking the shoe gods that I wasn't wearing my black flats for the 200th day in a row. My poor toes didn't transition well, however. My war wounds required sneakers the following day but I was so secretly pleased by the unwarranted attention that I unearthed a pair of black wedge sandals from the 70s to wear for the Elementary Awards Assembly. 

Sitting, unable to breathe from the alligator death roll hold of the shapewear holding my internal organs in place, I secured the slender straps in my dining room and rose majestically (think Bambi on ice) to my feet. Tottering off, I drove to school and once parked, decided to forego the main entrance and, with the tight, disciplined, graceful gait of a geisha, wobbled my way to the back door. Suddenly, SNAP...I found myself free-wheel walking. With my blown tire, I glanced around for a safe place to pull over. Leaning against the brick wall, I noticed that dry-rot had settled into my sandal, causing an irreparable blow-out. Thank goodness my black flats were in my classroom. I surreptitiously lurched my way down the hall and fell through my door. Crawling to my closet, I fumbled along the top shelf, searching for my shoes but instead hit a vase. Shattered glass littered the floor and I decided to call it a day. In the midst of bending over to retrieve the larger shards, my shapewear ceased strangling me and rolled up, inner-tube style, around my belly like floaties for a four-year-old. 

Done.

 I am content with my contrasting role at the school. There is no light without darkness. Good without evil. Fashion, grace, and beauty without...me. With my feet FIRMLY on the ground!

 

Changing tires puts a lot of pressure on a marriage

 It was a Sunday afternoon. Need I say more? But for SOME reason, Brad felt compelled to be productive and was reluctant to leave me behind. "We need to change the tire on the cart," he announced. First I glanced around for the mysterious person who completed the equation that validated his use of the word "we." Then I foolishly said, "We have a cart?" He motioned to the bane of my existence...the trailer. No good has come out of that trailer yet. "Let me explain something to you," I remarked during a commercial intermission of an episode of The Office that I had previously viewed and enjoyed at least seventeen times, "Don't try to fool me with your intentional mis-use of the word cart.  A cart is a light contraption often attached to something delightful...like a pony. The trailer is heavy and every time we use it, I walk away, battered, bruised, and resentful." 

"We'll move it with the 4-wheeler," Brad said encouragingly as I stomped resentfully out of the house. The least he could have done was let me watch the last twenty-two minutes of The Office.  We rounded the corner. "Oh," my husband said," your truck is in the way. We'll just have to move it ourselves." No! "I'll just dash back in the house for the keys," I exclaimed. "No," he shook his head, "in the time it'll take you to grab the keys, we would have already moved the trailer into position." Commence Yelling Session #1 as I apparently didn't garner enough momentum to drive the heavy trailer up and over a barrier of roots that could have successfully held back a stampeding herd of Texas longhorn cattle.  This also marks the place where Bruise #1 began to develop. 

Now situated on flat ground, Brad began the process of removing the tire. I am never mature in an arena where words and phrases such as screw, nuts, line up the hole, and we need some lube are peppered with casual frequency into the conversation. The bolts were refusing to budge and hope, for me, seemed imminent. "Maybe if I had someone to help me," Brad scowled, resting from his wrestling match. I glanced around for that special someone. Oh. He meant me. What on earth did he want me to do? I had trouble opening a cereal box. "Stand in the box over the tire," he directed. Oh. Apparently I did have something to offer after all. Bruise #2 would make its appearance here as I straddled the loading gate to get in. Turns out that I didn't weigh enough to help. I tossed up a prayer of gratitude for THAT little revelation. "Maybe if you carefully step on the fender," Brad brainstormed, gallantly holding my hand so I wouldn't crush his precious trailer. Great. Worked like a charm.

"Could you go and grab the jack stands from the shed?" Brad asked. A stream of consciousness flooded though my mind as I attempted to picture the device he wanted: Jack and Jill, Jack-Be-Nimble, Jumping Jacks, hand stands, lemonade stand, this sucks. Brad beat me to the shed and handed me one jack stand while he carried the other one. Jack stands in place, Brad got busy removing the lug nuts while I giggled. "Can you grab the better of the two replacement tires from the garage," he asked. Will I NEVER be done with this project? I finally located the two tires (Thanks to Brad's shouted directions) and surveyed them with a discriminating eye. Hmmm...which one was the better of the two? To be safe, I hauled both of them out to him. Great. Bruises #3 & #4 AND I got dirty. 

At this point, I invented some excuse to disappear into the house. By the time I returned, an air compressor had joined the party. Brad had left his glasses in the house. "Should I dash up to the house and get them for you?" I offered. "No, you can read the tires for me," he said. We (he) soon realized that the replacement tire size was slightly bigger. "What does that mean?" I asked (stupidly). "We'll have to change BOTH tires," my husband informed me. WHAT THE &%^$! "Look," he said calmly, "I'm hauling a ton of stuff in this thing and I don't want to risk blowing out a tire." I rolled my eyes. "You don't have to be so dramatic," I told him. "Amy...(I HATE when he calls me that!)...we buy two TONS of pellets EVERY fall." Oh. 

It was time to replace the lug nuts on the first tire. "Can you please lift it a bit so I can fit it into the hole," he spit out between clenched teeth. Fighting back my immature giggles, I gingerly lowered myself to the ground. "Hold it there...there...don't move..." I was almost hysterical by now. Cue Argument #6. "If you can't hold it still, I won't be able to get the nut in." It's hard to argue when someone says that to you. "I can't see in this position and my knees are grinding into the gravel," I grumbled. Brad brought out some knee pads. First tire on. Brad moved to the other side of the trailer. "Can you bring the other tire over?" Yeah. You guessed it. I couldn't tell the difference between the good tire and the bad tire. Cue fifteen minute lecture complete with power point presentation and puppet show. 

This time I had a better idea of what I was doing. When it came time to replace the lug nuts, I made sure that I was in a position to see. "That's great for you," Brad complained, "but I can't see with your head in front of mine." There is NO pleasing him! 

Whew! Done. Now there was just the half hour of putting everything away. I put stuff away first and then Brad followed me and put each tool where it was actually supposed to go. 

Whew! Done. Now there was just the finishing touch of putting the trailer back. "I could dash into the house and get the keys to the truck," I offered. Brad waved away my helpful suggestion. "Nah...by the time you came back, we'd have already moved it." Aimed in the right direction, we raced up the incline and immediately careened dangerously toward the house. "Watch it!" Brad warned. "You're steering!" I pointed out. Cue Argument #15. Fed up, I stormed into the house, battered, bruised, and resentful. And tired.

My morning with Erin was a "turtle" disaster

Erin has been determinedly working, for years, to get me to come out of my shell. But recently, she has taken this endeavor to a whole new level. As ignoring her is futile, I have learned to avoid her as much as humanly possible at work. I spend a great deal of time peeking around corners and glancing backwards over my shoulder as I surreptitiously traverse the corridors. Fortunately, her diabolical plot to infiltrate my classroom with an undercover ambassador of sparkle and sunshine backfired as I quickly corrupted the culprit. My pupiled protégé learned the language of sarcasm like one born to bitterness. This student spy's inherited love of bright colors and sparkle was temporarily suspended in favor of brainwashed black. Within the walls of my small classroom, I had won.

So, as long as I could avoid Erin at work and simply not talk to her AT ALL while OUT of work, I was safe. Facebook, as determined by a historic meme war witnessed by thousands (Or maybe just hundreds. Or dozens. Okay, let's just say "a few."), was my indisputable domain. But she had my phone number. This, obviously, was a disaster. 

Erin had cleverly lulled me into a false sense of complacency by limiting our mostly one-way communications to text. Silly me. How was I to know that this little tactic would have me respond, alert and alarmed, when she actually DID call.

It was 6:45 in the morning. I was involved in a mostly one-way communication with my husband who had called to make sure I was up and moving because I threaten, EVERY day, to give up my lucrative teaching career to stay home and maybe make him a meal once a week or so. I DO NOT talk in the morning so Brad has had to learn to interpret my single syllabled responses and VERY long stretch of silences. This day, he would have to wait, in anxious anticipation, to learn if we could continue living the lucrative lifestyle of which he had become accustomed or if my decision would plummet us into poverty because...Erin popped up on "Call Waiting."

"I have to go. Erin's on Call Waiting," I informed my husband, letting the bubbly water out of the sink as I finished the dishes. Brad was shocked for several reasons. First, I had actually spoken a complete sentence. Second, I was doing dishes at 6:45 in the morning. And third, "Do you even know how to work Call Wait~" my husband asked as I clicked over to Erin. 

I know what you're thinking. Just don't answer. But it was 6:45. She doesn't actually call that often. What if she had a flat tire. Or hit a deer. What if she'd been abducted and was calling from the trunk of some maniac's car. Sink hole. Flood. Forest fire. And let's not mention that she has my precious student in her vehicle.

Heart racing, I answered her call. "What are you doing?" her bright, bubbly voice asked. Now I was irritated. My friend was clearly not in danger and I could resume my usual annoyed demeanor.  I blasted bubbles with my faucet sprayer. "I'm cleaning my sink," I told her. She laughed. "No, really. What are you doing?" For pete's sake. WHY am I having this ridiculous conversation? "There's a giant snapping turtle in the road," she continued, "We're right around the corner from you. You need to come." I closed my eyes. There was the other problem. She knew where I lived. "Why do I need to come?" I sighed in exasperation. "I need you to move the turtle." she hung up. Standing in my kitchen (next to my clean sink), I screamed. Then I walked into the dining room, put on my shoes, and grabbed my keys.

I arrived on scene to discover that Erin had created quite the commotion. Our quiet country road had never experienced a traffic jam until this morning. Standing protectively near...but not TOO near...the almost-as-disgruntled-as-me snapping turtle...Erin was parked aggressively on the wrong side to better "shell"-ter her new friend. One of the ka-zillion vehicles waiting for this little drama to play itself out finally got fed up and initiated Operation Turtle Re-Location just as I walked up. I had to admit to being impressed. My plan was to have the turtle latch onto a stick and gently drag her in the direction she was headed. This guy, with a cigarette stuck to his lower lip, simply grasped her by the back of the shell and lifted her up. I was relieved. Erin was delighted. The snapper was pissed. "Can I get a picture?" Erin asked as the turtle attempted to twist its long neck around to amputate her hero's finger. "You've got to be kidding me," thought the man, the turtle, the line long of waiting traffic, and me. She wasn't kidding. After this fantastic photo shoot, we were on our way. "Thanks, Amy," Erin yelled, waving as I drove by. I "waved" back. "Lose my number," I shouted. 

 

Putting my cute new brown sandals in my mouth when ordering Mexican food

At this point, even I feel sorry for Brad Mosiman. Not only has he had to endure a LOT over the course of his 31-year marriage but the past year and a half MUST have had him rewinding the tape of our wedding video to the part where it said, "sickness and health" so that he could check the fine print. Knowing what he knows now, a 19-year-old Brad Mosiman might tentatively raise his hand to ask some clarifying questions about the perimeters of mental health before saying "I do."

I had our day all planned out this morning. "First, we're going to stop at Shoe Shop A to buy me some cute brown sandals. Then, after we visit my parents (whom we haven't seen, in person, since September), we'll go to Restaurant A for spanakopita!" Brad nodded, impressed, as always, with my enthusiasm and optimism. 

By the time the forty minute drive to our destination was over, I had worked myself into quite a little state and canceled my shoe purchasing plans. "There's only three and a half days of school left," I explained to my husband as we sat in the parking lot, "I can live without a pair of cute brown sandals." "You haven't bought new shoes in over two years," my husband replied softly, discretely turning up the air conditioner in the van, "You've been talking about buying cute brown sandals for almost two weeks." He pulled me out of the vehicle and tugged me across the parking lot like a very reluctant balloon. I lurched down two rows of shoes and declared them all "not my style" before racing out of the store. "What exactly IS your style?" Brad asked, chasing me, "Early 1980s?" Relieved that that trauma was over, I plastered my flaming face to the air conditioner vent waiting for my heart rate to de-escalate, not noticing that Brad had pulled into the parking lot of Shoe Store B. "How about this one?" he asked, holding up a hideous shoe. "No." "This one?" "No." This one?" "No." "What about...?" "No." He planted me on a tiny bench with three hideous selections. I wrestled them on, appalled that one choice actually seemed to accentuate the fatness of my feet. "Do you like ANY of them?" Brad inquired patiently. I was beginning to wonder if he was working on commission. "This one isn't bad," I admitted, clutching the box like a teddy bear. "You mean the first pair I showed you?" Yes. He pretended to peruse ugly black lawnmowing sneakers to replace his current ugly black lawnmowing sneakers while I sat on the tiny bench and cried. 

I made it successfully though my visit with my parents as Brad carefully monitored me for any signs of a nervous breakdown. "Where's your kittycat clock?" I asked, noting its alarming disappearance from my parents' dining room wall. Brad was poised to intervene. My mother explained that they are continuing to de-clutter and down-size their possessions. "But how do you know what time it is?" I exclaimed. They pointed to a wind-up analog clock on the microwave-with-no-microwave cart (Alas, another victim of down-sizing). I squinted at the microscopic numbers. "We can also walk into the kitchen and look at the microwave," my dad said good-naturedly, as though it is perfectly normal for people to have to take a hike to determine the time. Thank goodness they still have a microwave. My mom laughed, "Plus, some people still wear watches." She and Dad waved their arms at me like they were preparing to raise the roof.

So I survived that experience as well. "Ready for some spanakopita?" Brad yelled over the roar of the air conditioning. "I've changed my mind," I told him, "I'd like a margarita." Dubious but still supportive, Brad pulled into Mexican Restaurant #1. Seating, like a thousand other things, is a BIG issue for me. Happily, we got a booth. Unhappily, it was trafficked on both sides. The left side of the booth boasted a framed window where the waitress could appear from the kitchen area, quite unexpectedly, to check on us. So, I got a little fidgety.

I calmly ordered my margarita, emphasizing the salt. I was thrown when a frozen margarita arrived (emblazoned with delightful teal-colored salt). I hadn't specifically ordered my drink on the rocks so that was my fault. I need to use a straw for a frozen margarita so, regretfully, the teal-colored salt was now just decoration as I refused to blatantly lick the salt from the rim (in public).  I got a bit more fidgety.

As we walked into the restaurant, I confidently proclaimed that I was going to order Guacamole Azteca. Looking at the menu (WHY do I DO that??? To try to look normal? Oh my gosh...that ship has certainly sailed...off the edge of a waterfall, into a whirlpool, before being crushed against the bottom of the sea.), I thought about the pork tips. Then I became confused about the difference between Chile Renalo and Chile Poblano. I asked (which is a BIG deal for me right now). "I agree," Brad said, "Asking is a huge milestone. But asking doesn't mean a whole lot if you don't LISTEN." Which of course means that I still don't know what the difference between the two dishes are. No matter. It was time to order ("I was on the edge of my seat," Brad admitted, "I had NO idea what you were going to do at this point."). I veered WAY off course. "Could I have the fajita quesadilla?"  I asked, "But could we make it vegetarian?" My server was taken aback. "You mean a fajita?" No. Why doesn't anyone ever listen to me? I repeated my order, emphatically. She wandered away, confused, returning from the now-confused kitchen to pop in, Hee-Haw-style, in our framed-in booth window. I shrieked. "Do you want cheese on your fajita quesadilla?" she asked. I was taken aback. "Who wouldn't want cheese on their fajita quesadilla?" I told her. She wandered away again, confused. "They might have mistaken you for a vegan," Brad offered, momentarily transitioning from spectator of the sh^! show to a guest participant. I giggled. As if. 

My order arrived. I looked at my husband who was valiantly attempting NOT to look at me. Aware that the kitchen staff was peering cryptically out at me, I whispered, "Doesn't one typically cut a quesadilla into cute little fun-sized triangles?" "It's time you knew," Brad said, reaching out to hold my hand, "that you invented this meal. Those poor people had no idea what you wanted." I used a knife to cut my giant-sized fajita, noting with surprise, the appearance of carrot coins, yellow squash spheres, mushrooms, and broccoli among the peppers and onions that I was expecting. I apologized to my server. "You were right," I admitted, "I should have just ordered fajitas." Gamely still trying to understand, she said, "You just wanted it all contained in one package." Yes. That IS what I wanted. 

To show my appreciation for my custom-made, made-up meal, I staunchly consumed the whole thing. "My tummy hurts," I whispered to Brad, slurping up the last of my frozen margarita with my straw. "I can't believe you ate all of that," Brad commented, "It was the world's biggest fajita." We drove home with the air conditioner on full-blast. "That went much better than I expected," Brad told me, shivering. "What?" I asked, "Shoe shopping or eating out?' He laughed. "The marriage."

 

Cha...cha...chia later! (but probably not)

It was the end of days. Well...the end of school days and I was, unsurprisingly, throwing myself, without shame, against the Pepsi machine. Clutching my ice cold soda victoriously, I pivoted to return, re-energized, to my classroom full of spirited students. However, before I could leave the calm sanctuary of the faculty room, a quiet voice asked, with some concern, "Have you already taken the bi-plane flight that involved weight restrictions?" I spun my Pepsi like a pistol and faced my opponent. "Not yet, Ash-ley," I sneered, "but thanks for reminding me." I then dove across the table at her, seeking to choke the very life from her slender, little body perfectly suited for a bi-plane ride. It took two paraprofessionals, an occupational therapist, and the passing resource officer to pull me away from her. Tensions tend to run high this time of year. 

That doesn't mean that I haven't been trying. I have actually made some pretty intense lifestyle choices. For example, approximately three months ago, I made the startling decision to buy some chia seeds. Obviously, my only exposure to this product prior to my unexpected purchase was the snappy little jingle: "Cha-cha-cha-chia!" accompanied by my husband's adamant refusal to let me acquire each year's fun version as a Christmas present for that special hard-to-buy-for person in our lives. "That's because the special hard-to-buy-for person in your life is ME," he said.

My daughter Sydney had been the one to introduce me to the transformative effects of Jack's magic beans. She encouraged me to sprinkle some over my morning yogurt. Fortunately, our 3,000 mile separation enabled me to hide the fact that the bag of chia seeds remained on my kitchen counter, sealed and silently judging me, for months. I foolishly mentioned their existence to my friend Sarah though. She immediately realized that Sydney's recipe was too complicated for me and offered an easier alternative. "Try sprinkling some over crunchy peanut butter spread over whole wheat toast," she advised. Not known for my poker face, I crinkled my nose. Sarah was stymied. "Was it the whole wheat toast?" she asked. Not wanted to discourage her as she had somehow, without a resume, credentials, or an extensive interview process, assumed the mantle of "Amy's Accountability Partner," I made a slight accommodation to her innovative suggestion. "I wonder how Nutella would work in this scenario?" Sarah sighed and walked away, vowing to renew her fight another day. 

Shortly after this, I found myself at the school on a Saturday, peering into the fridge to check on the condition of the three diet chocolate puddings that I had snuck in there in hopes of finding them a good home. Imagine my initial despair, upon purchase, when I had found myself the tragic victim of mistaken pudding identity. And you know the old saying: There's no pudding up with diet desserts. Anyway, the three gross pudding cups were still in there but, gasp, so was SOMETHING else. Something UNIMAGINABLE! HORRIFIC! NIGHTMARISH! Someone had plucked leaves from a tree, added a milky liquid, and was allowing it to ferment in the fridge.  Was it a science experiment of some kind?  A voodoo potion? A weird herbalist healing balm? Regardless, I was completely traumatized and did what any person in my position would do...snap a picture and post it on Facebook to shame the culprit.

My friend Michelle was immediately outed. But rather than take accountability and apologize, she instead loudly proclaimed the health benefits of her toe-curling concoction and then proceeded to chase me around the school for days trying to get me to sample it.  It was a harrowing week but it did encourage me to make the courageous decision to finally unseal the chia seed bag. Nothing could be worse than Michelle's glass of goop, I said to myself.

It was a proud day when next Sarah asked me about my chia seed journey. "I opened the bag!" I told her. "That's great, Amy!" she applauded, "What did you think?" I blinked at her, confused. "About what?"  She took a deep breath, realizing we still had a ways to go. "Did you sprinkle them on a salad? Oatmeal? What about ice cream?" I scowled. What was it with THESE people? It's never enough for them. "I TOLD you," I growled, "I OPENED the bag." Sarah re-grouped immediately. Smiling, she clapped her hands. "Small steps! I'm so proud of you!"  The Bible talks about faith the size of a mustard seed. A mustard seed sounds a LOT more appetizing than a chia seed! Someday, I'll be able to let you know. Just have some faith.

Sisterhood of the Black Lake loungewear

We adore our friend, Renee, but it would be incongruous to ignore the fact that we live in two different worlds. Renee is stylish and professional and sophisticated. Her nails are beautifully manicured. She wears make-up (even when she doesn't leave the house) and she lives in close proximity to a bagel shop. I wear the same pair of pants four days in a row and routinely have to scrape the freezer burn of my grocery store brand bagels. How was this relationship EVER going to work, I wondered, worried.

I was mortified that we may have gotten off to a wrong, perhaps irreparable, start based on the first time we met. Brad and I had INTENDED to take Renee to a quaint little inn nestled among the majestic trees of our state park, overlooking a roaring waterfall. The restaurant menu named their gastronomic delicacies after obscure members of royal families from 14th century Europe. Unfortunately, a delayed arrival had us scrambling to make alternate plans and we instead took Renee to a bowling alley with an embarrassingly limited wine list. We know. She asked. "I think we might have a bottle of red wine somewhere," the confused waitress told my new (soon to be "former") friend. Obviously the wings and beef on weck redeemed us. 

"Don't worry. I've got this," my husband whispered as I watched my burgeoning friendship go down in flames. "Renee," Brad said winningly, "How would you like to sample the best ice cream in the county?" Oh no!

Oh yes.

Off we trooped, next door...to the neighboring gas station. Which...NO LIE...has the best ice cream in the county but, oh my stars and garters, is not where you take a visiting dignitary.  Thanking us graciously, Renee left shortly after and I was certain that I would never see her again.

But that just goes to show that you can't judge a book by their French-tipped nails. 

The annual Black Lake fishing trip was several weeks ago. It is QUITE the event. The lodgings are to die for...meaning you absolutely want to DIE when you find out that you're going to be crammed in a stuffy two bedroom cabin with anywhere from five to ten people at a time. Did I mention the ONE bathroom with the throne in such close proximity to the sink that you can easily multitask if you are confident that you won't confuse your toothbrushing hand with your other hand? Oh. And did I mention you are there to fish? Seriously fish. 

And Renee decided to come.

Well...I never saw THAT coming! 

Unfortunately, because of work obligations, I was unable to join our little fishing expedition until the final week-end. Obviously, I was heart-broken. I invited Renee to join my daughter Sydney and I on our annual excursion to near-by Boldt Castle on Saturday. And even though I am sure she was having SO much fun fishing, she consented!

Traveling with Sydney and me is always a bit dicey as we aren't super-strong on areas such as time,
distance, and direction. Hedging her bets, Renee notified her next of kin, cancelled her salon appointments, packed enough food for four days, and devoted an hour of earnest prayer for our safe travel before we embarked on our grand adventure.

"Where are we?" she asked when, 17 minutes later, we pulled into a parking spot. "We're here!" Sydney informed her cheerfully. "I thought you guys said it was a two hour drive," Renee said, confused. "Around-about," we shrugged, hopping out of the truck. After a great internal debate, Renee decided to unload the forty pounds of food from her bag to better enjoy our walking tour. This would later turn out to be a grave mistake. 

First, like a disheveled band of refugees accompanied by a Disney princess, we waited in a miles-long ticket line for a ridiculous amount of time. Blinded and dehydrated by the sun, we finally made it the front to learn that we were in the WRONG line. Sydney and I shrugged and headed over to the correct line. Renee was beginning to lose faith in us...fast.

We made it over to the little island with little incident (if you don't count Sydney's inadvertent groping of a woman behind her..."I thought you were my mother," Syd explained. "Is that how you touch your mother?" the woman wondered. Oh...and also my and Sydney's frank fascination of the required safety talk on the two minute boat ride. With rapt attention, we watch how to put on and clip our life jackets like it's Les Mis. When the poor guy concludes the lecture that he speeds though two hundred times a day, we lead a rousing round of applause and demand an encore. Renee left us at this point to sit with the lady that Sydney had molested.).

Sydney and I began our self-guided tour of Boldt Castle with confidence, making a bee-line for the small theater that provides an informative background on the history of the castle and sufficient white noise to lull us to sleep from the exhausting boat ride over. We were confronted with a small line so we contented ourselves with contemplating the art work festooning the walls. We wowed Renee with our observations and interpretations of each sweeping brush stroke. Indignant at one point, I called Sydney and Renee's attention to the garish behavior of some disrespectful castle guest. "Look," I said, disgusted, "Someone smeared an M&M on this painting." I made a move to flick it off when Sydney, with superhuman speed and strength, suddenly seized my hand. "Mom, that's NOT an M&M...it's a part of the canvas!" We glanced surreptitiously about for the castle guards or cameras. Whew. It was almost time to take a nap...I mean...watch the educational documentary. "I wish it was an M&M," Sydney sighed, "I'm getting hungry." I was quick to reassure my companions. "I have two warm string cheeses in my pocket," I graciously explained, "and a package of fruit gummies. We'll have a picnic on the castle grounds." It was at this time that Renee realized she had no cell coverage and was trapped with us.

When we weren't busy sleeping, Sydney and I were busy heckling the movie. While the rest of the audience swooned over the tragic romance of the abandoned castle, Sydney and I were calling for a congressional hearing to unearth what George was actually up to. Our savage, cynical hearts refused to accept the idea of a man so in love with his wife that he would re-shape an island and build her a flippin' castle. "Wake up, people!" I told the spellbound audience. "You know he was making up for something," 

Renee was done by this time. "What is that charming little architectural wonder?" she said, taking over our little tour and heading down the hill. "You mean the ice cream concession?" I asked. There was still lots of the castle left to explore. Not to mention the power station. And then we were going to divide two almost-liquefied string cheeses three ways. We would save the fruit gummies for the end of the tour. "I wonder if they sell coffee?" Renee continued. Uh-oh. Now she had Sydney's undivided attention. I was losing my tour group. "They had coffee where we got off the boat," Sydney suggested. Tour over.

Disappointed, I approached the counter. "I would like some agua," I said cheerfully, "That means water." "I know what it means," the counter girl frowned, missing the idea that I was trying to impress her with my linguistic acrobatics here on the northern border.  She was NOT impressed. But she hadn't met Renee yet. My friend ordered her coffee and then sought further clarification. "What kind of milk do you have?" Renee asked, moving the paper napkin dispenser aside and avoiding a ketchup stain.  Our server stared at her. So did Sydney and I. "We have milk for coffee," our hostess stammered. Renee was about to create an international incident. I stepped forward to interpret. "She wants to know if you have soy milk or maybe almond milk," I repressed a shudder from even having to say the words. "We have coffee for milk," the girl repeated resolutely, the remainder of her sentence not needing to be said. Because it was clear. Because we are in AMERICA!

This was it, surely. Renee was never going to want to hang out with me again. And I couldn't blame her. I lacked the sophistication of someone who consumed milk that didn't originate from a cow. I didn't drink wine...I just whined. She is well-traveled and wise. I presume she uses expensive moisturizer. I bet she has NEVER eaten Nutella out of the jar with a spoon. 

But I underestimated Renee because, by the end of the evening, despite all of our snafus, despite the fact that we had embarrassed her publicly and starved her unnecessarily, she had wrestled a campfire together, taught us to make s'mores like a socialite, and gamely put on the Black Lake sweatpants that we bought her so we could all be "twinning!" She may not ever want to learn to gut a fish, but she's certainly not lacking any of her own ("We do NOT gut fish," my husband said, reading my blog in disgust, "We fillet them." I shrugged. "Poetic license."). Renee is not afraid to step out of her comfort zone or afraid to invite someone to inhabit her's. 

I'm happy. 

I made a friend. 

 

An anti-social Cinderella who did not have a ball at the ball

What could POSSIBLY go wrong at a professional function? It would merely be an extension of school which is one of my established "Covid Quadrilateral" safe places. I would be surrounded by familiar faces. The mask restrictions had been significantly eased. There would be food. No problem!

"We're going to park in my secret spot so we won't get hung up trying to leave," Geri told me, easing the car into a spot behind Kohls. I squinted as I tried to see our venue in the distance. Geri and I rappelled down the steep, mountainous slope that led to the far back (and I mean REALLY far back) lot of our venue. I paused before beginning our hour-long trek across the parking lots to consider Geri's car, perched upon the summit, briefly wondering if I should retrieve my phone. I was already gasping for breath, though, and the thought of the oxygen-deprived atmosphere surrounding Geri's car convinced me that I wouldn't require a communication device. 

As we entered the venue, my tummy gave the now-familiar roll that warned me that I might have to begin employing one of my dozens of distraction techniques.  I felt a ridiculous sense of pride when I hopped on the escalator without incident. Thank goodness I wasn't going to have to add THAT to my long list of fears and phobias. We entered the room and I immediately went to reach for my absent phone. The narrow room was closing in on me like a frickin' coffin. I was having trouble distinguishing even one familiar face from the milling herd of humans rushing about. And, oh my, I love them dearly, but my colleagues are LOUD. Bursts of laughter were detonating all around me. Maybe Brad Mosiman could sense the shrieks of terror filling my head. Maybe he was already on his way. I would just sit, hugging this brick column, until he arrived to take me home. 

"Can you talk?" my friend Erin asked. I shook my head. She rummaged in her purse and handed me a piece of candy, standing with her back to me, chatting with friends, and blocking me off from as much of the room as her slender frame would allow. I spotted an unbent paperclip and went to town. I had shaped it into over half of the letters of the alphabet before Tyler took his turn to babysit the lunatic. He regaled me with a fascinating story of refilling his pool. When I am able to function again, remind me to provide him with a list of more interesting conversational topics. My friend Michelle took her turn and that's when we stumbled onto a fun little game called "Amy's Restroom Tours." I may have led at least seven expeditions to the exotic world of washrooms...expertly guiding my friends down the escalator (I really wanted to brag about how effortlessly I glided up and down it) and to the little secret alcove that housed the loo.  

Geri had, by this time, intubated two drinks into me and it was time to eat. The brick column no longer provided comfort...I was now acutely aware that the entire room was to my back..."Who are you, Doc Holiday?" Geri asked. I told her she was mixing her Wild West ruminations. Bill Hickok, obviously also an anxious person, was renowned for watching his back until a hand of Aces and eights did him in. I croaked something indecipherable to Tyler and he somehow understood that I needed to change seats with him. I've never given him credit for being intuitive before. I don't think I'll start now. Even a blind squirrel finds a nut, now and then. Speaking of nut, I was shaking so bad and was so out of sorts that I ended up scooping a large portion of au gratin CAULIFLOWER on my plate. It was then that I began devising other methods of getting home. Three of us...Eric, Erin, and myself...made it back to the table first so I asked Eric to pray which is usually pretty risky for me because it often makes me cry but as Eric gave thanks for the food and prayed for the event, instead of asking God to to smite the crazy out of his friend, I did okay.

By this time, I was exhausted. I don't actually remember a lot about the evening...just concentrating REALLY hard on getting through it and feeling so incredibly foolish. Eye contact was almost impossible. Trying not to flinch. Reminding myself to breathe. I remember Michelle questioning my lifetime commitment to bangs and manipulating her own hair to see how the style would look on her. I lowered my heavy head upon Erin's shoulder for a moment, praying for the night to end. 

So...yeah...I'm not there---yet. But, believe it or not, I am getting better. Five months ago, we would have needed a stretcher to get me out of there...if I could have even walked through the event doors at all.  I want to send an apology letter to every one who attended our little function, explaining that I was not being intentionally anti-social and how sorry I am if I darkened the mood of such a fun festivity. So yeah...I'm not there---yet. But I have a plane to California to catch and if I'm EVER going to be able to do that, I am going to first have to be cognizant enough to avoid the au gratin cauliflower in a buffet line, be able to listen, with feigned interest, to Tyler's boring stories, and wrestle a pulsating room into place. No problem.

Barb's molehill is my tick-infested, carcass-ridden mountain of death

I full-board blame my friend Barb for this one. It was another "Apple Fritter Sunday" where upon Brad and I found ourselves back at our favorite spot. Some time ago, I had penned a post about an exhilarating but precarious hike at this same locale. Apparently, Barb had read all of the cereal boxes in her house and had nothing left, literature-wise, so had to make do with my sad, little blog. As a result, she was ready, the next day to offer some advice. "Amy," my race-running, snow-skiing, wave-balancing, beautiful friend said, "There is a much easier trial that runs all the way up to the dam on the left side of the creek." I nodded in response to her helpful suggestion, already making the necessary mental calculations to convert Barb's definition of "easier" to a more realistic model. In other words, I was certain that a tow rope and helicopter rescue would need to be employed for me to successfully traverse this path. 

That being said, it was a beautiful morning and I was experiencing what could only be described as "a fritter high." Brad and I walked over to the somewhat rickety steps that led to the trail. My husband quirked an eyebrow at me. "Are you sure?" How dare he doubt me! He waited patiently for the fifteen minutes it took me to crawl up fifteen steps before we began to ascend the pleasant, shady slope leading up to the dam. Brad tried to hurry me past a murky little bog alongside the trail but a flash of brown slowed my steps and I gasped at the prone body of a baby fawn. Tears flooded my eyes as I envisioned its sad struggle and the confusion and helplessness of its poor mother. "Think of it as a La Brea tar pit situation," my husband said in an attempt to soothe me but instead succeeded in making me NEVER to want to visit the La Brea tar pits. We sat and rested (for a startled second) by the eviscerated remains of a large crayfish, skirted what we tried to convince our screaming minds was a pile of dog poo until we finally reached our destination. 

It was time to take the obligatory picture. Brad snarling ("The sun was in my eyes," he protested.) and me ALWAYS looking at the wrong place on the cell phone. "Hang on a second," my husband said casually. TOO casually. He plucked something off my neck. "What was that?" I asked (Never ask.) "Just a tick," my-born-in-the-mid-west-and-used-to-ticks spouse said. The words were barely out of his mouth before I was screaming and sprinting back down the trail, high-stepping like a marching band drum majorette. And cursing Barb the entire time. 

What did I learn from this experience (besides NOT ever listening to Barb?)? Well...first of all, I'm never stepping outside again unless I'm in one of those huge human hamster balls. I also need to start carrying a wildlife-ready defibrillator kit in my car. And a shovel so as to provide a dignified burial. Well...so BRAD could provide a dignified burial. More significantly, I learned that, should I decide to accept advice or suggestions from others, they should share a similar physical fitness philosophy to mine. It will be awhile before I am brave enough to face the great outdoors. It will be even longer before I'm willing to accept advice from my friend Barb.