Fighting tooth and nail to get over this...

I haven't had my nails done in almost two years. It wasn't a terrible sacrifice but I do admit that it was a luxury that I missed. Having survived a small session of clothes shopping with Sydney, who harvested my non-verbal choice selections from subtle shakes of my head, we decided to ride this wobbly wagon as far as we could. 

So an appointment was made and I promptly expelled any thought of it from my mind.

Until an hour or so before we were set to depart.

Obviously, if I were by myself, I would have cancelled. 

But Sydney was going. AND she had invited our poor, unsuspecting friend, Jessica who THOUGHT she knew, through Sydney's descriptions, how my anxiety would appear which is much the same as READING about the scent of a skunk's spray as opposed to EXPERIENCING, firsthand, the packed punch of that aromatic armament to the face. 

I felt like I was walking through two feet of wet mud as I approached the salon. The air was thick cotton. I am well-versed in my triggers. Loud noises. Sudden movement. Gatherings of unfamiliar people. Unwelcomed touches. Strange places. Sydney planted me in the chair closest to the door and sat in the neighboring station with Jessica beside her. I hesitantly showed a picture of the nail design I'd researched to the technician who immediately dismissed it. Panicking, I whispered, "Pink." 

Pink. Ugh.

The beautician guided one of my disfigured feet into the bubbling brew and I watched, with horror, as I forgot to fight gravity and the consequential SLAP of my sole resulted in a wave like that from a retired whale at Sea World. My technician and I both silently agreed that it was time to throw in the towel. Her, to mop up the tsunami that I'd caused and me, to have an emotional breakdown.

I hate the tears. I have tried EVERYTHING to stop them. Mental, sensory, and physical distractions. I'm embarrassed to admit that I have even discreetly stabbed myself with small, sharp objects in an attempt to abate the involuntary eruption of emotion, to stem the tide of tears, dam up my flood of fear. It doesn't work, of course, and then I'm just pissed at the pain. 

Fortunately for me, I was assigned TWO technicians which threw my feelings of being over-whelmed into over-drive. I had not figured language confusion into my triggers and listening to my daughter try to calmly explain that I was just feeling some anxiety and to please continue made me feel even more ashamed and embarrassed than usual. Everyone always assumes that my anxiety is rooted by fear of the virus. Fuck Corona. I was never afraid of the virus. But I took a GIANT mental hit by the societal changes that resulted from the lock down...where I previously experienced problems pertaining to trust and control...now I am a basket-case. 

I hate appearing weak but that's all I've experienced for over a year...every time I venture out in public. And I have to ignore everyone's assumptions because I am unable to accurately voice what is wrong with me. So there I sat, whispering answers to Sydney's state capital quizzing while clients and staff tried, surreptitiously, not to stare at me. Inconveniencing and embarrassing my family is bad enough, but I felt TERRIBLE for the salon technicians. No salary or potential tip is worth working on a sobbing, snotting, shaking woman. The poor receptionist was beside herself...especially as I was the first thing that clients saw as they entered her establishment. First, she whispered in my ear, reassuring me that all her employees were vaccinated. I sighed in resignation, used to people making this leap. Later, she thrust her cell phone at me. "Watch," she told me, "It will make you happy." Through my veil of tears, I squinted, expecting romping kittens or kids hitting their unsuspecting dads in life-altering areas with sports paraphernalia. Instead, I saw a man, presumably in a third world country, with no legs or forearms, hauling buckets of mud or concrete across a parking lot. "See?" she said smiling, patting my leg. "You're not him. You are very lucky." 

She was right, of course. I am very blessed. I have so much to be thankful for...I thank God often for my husband, daughters, dogs, health, family, friends, jobs, and nationality. Not a day goes by that I do not experience shame about my ridiculous lack of self-control in light of all the tragedy in the world. 

Sydney was furious but I realized that the gesture came from a place of kindness...of wanting to help. I imagine how I look to others...how infantile I must appear. The receptionist truly believed that she was offering aide. Much better than the person who'd hinted that perhaps my condition was a cry for attention. That suggestion sent me spiraling as I spent several sleepless nights terrified that it was true. That comment is my constant companion now...further crippling me. Believe me, I want to pull myself up by my bootstraps (after I slap the person who uses this term silly with it first). I want to shake it off or fully realize that it's all in my head. 

All I ever want to do is stay home. But that is the easy way out...to just let the tide take me. It may not look it, but I AM fighting the current but it is so tiring. I grow weary of the weight of my own imagined fears but as I venture out more and more, beyond the set circumference where I feel safe, I find that I am even more exhausted by the heavy weight of opinion and judgment that is so often offered without invitation. Surrounded by Olympic swimmers, I am just managing to keep my head above water. It would really help if we could forego the platitudes and just ignore me. But if you can't do that, then please hand me a tissue and just show me a video of cute kittens. 
 

So, I did it. I survived the salon. Barely. And while I would like to say that I was as "tough as nails," that would be a HUGE lie. I still need to polish up my social skills a bit but this manicure is really starting to grow on me.

My culture-crash diet

As a cultural attaché representing the southeastern quadrant of Wyoming County in rural New York State, I have failed miserably during my sabbatical here in San Diego. Confused by the appearance of shiny carrots served in an inviting bowl accompanying my complementary chips and salsa, I ignored the warnings of my daughters and bravely sampled this unusual (for me) appetizer accessory before reaching for my water and gasping, "Who makes root vegetables spicy?" Everyone knows bunnies prefer a bland diet.  Nervous about the fried ice cream that Savannah ordered, I was pleasantly surprised by the crisp coating. "The last time I had fried ice cream," I confided between bites, "the outer layer was composed of corn flakes." My daughters were stunned. 

Apparently Sydney had pre-warned her friend Jessica about my epicurean idiocy. "My mom has made us what she calls tacos my whole life," Sydney revealed, "we never had the heart to tell her they were burritos." I stared at my daughter in horror. "You're just telling me this NOW," I hissed as Jessica set a plate of open-faced tacos in warm CORN tortillas shells before me.  Before I could ask, Sydney whispered, "No cheese. No sour cream." Okay. I could do this. I thought back to my brief visit to a Mexican resort but then realized that I had only eaten Nutella while I was there. I hit a jalapeno early but vowed to die before revealing my discomfort. Observing my beet-red, sweating face, teary eyes, and running nose, Jessica pretended to also react to the miniscule amount of pepper in her delicious dish. When I was able to speak again, I apologized, "I have never felt whiter in my life."

Learning of my love of gummies, Jessica treated me to a boba milk tea. "I don't think this is a good idea," I whispered to Sydney but bravely took the cloudy beverage with suspicious-looking pebbles. I tend to keep a keen division between my liquids and solids. It must be the scientist in me. I don't even dunk my Oreos. We enjoyed our treat during our leisurely dusk-time walk back to the apartment. Trailing behind our little group of pups and pedestrians, I would, subtly and systematically, suck a boba pearl up through my straw and then send it catapulting like a cowboy outlaw spitting tobacco juice into a brass spittoon. If this kept up, I was steps away from being kicked out of the culture club.

My words have refused to cooperate this entire visit. My tongue isn't just tied...it's constrictor knotted. Seeing my delight when I was reunited with a familiar tree, Savannah explained that, in the late 1800s to mid-1900s, a horticulturalist named Kate Sessions was responsible for introducing countless flora to San Diego, including my beloved oak tree. Subsequent research revealed that she also forced her seasick horse Charlie to ride a ferry with her every day but I guess everyone has their dark side.  For some reason, Kate's name refused to stick and Savannah would enjoy my linguistic limbo as I attempted to communicate. "What time are we leaving to see the sunset at Kate Spade Park?" I asked. "Kate Spade designs handbags, Mom. Try again." I frowned. "Kate Moss?" Savannah clapped, "Closer. Moss can be categorized as vegetation! But Kate Moss is a model." 

"Middleton?"

"Royalty."

"Winslet?"

"Actress."

"Hudson?"

"Actress again."

By then, the sun had set and my temper had flared. 

"Mom...it's Sessions."

Moment's pause. "Like Jeff?"

Savannah sighed, "Former Attorney General. Doubt they're related."

It's not like I don't try to better wrangle my words. I just can't seem to properly lasso the proper linguistics. "Where's Sydney?" Savannah asked, arriving home from work. "She went with her friends for some Tide Pods," I answered. Savannah frowned, confused. "I mean tad poles," I hastily corrected. Savannah suddenly brightened. "Did you mean Pad Thai?" Yes! That's it! 

My girls have learned, from painfully-excruciating experience, to intervene immediately should I stumble into a situation where I feel the need to order or seek clarification regarding the ordering of acai or aioli...terms that I use interchangeably as synonyms. Additionally, my twisted tongue, adjusts the terms to a more erotic enunciation. "I would like the areola, please," I politely order, my profane pronunciation causing quite a stir. 

That was the tipping point.

I had to face facts. I was a cultural clown. I could only hope that my inadvertent (and hopelessly ignorant) antics would be humorously overlooked. But you can't tell me, that SOMEWHERE, on the face of this planet that we all call home, that areolas aren't served up as a delicacy  at some swanky five-star restaurant (Never mind, they aren't. I also think that I've just been red-flagged by Google.).

 

This was NOT the stairway to heaven...

Once upon a time, three little Christian girls (accompanied by a small dog, who, at this point, had not yet declared a faith-based affiliation) decided to embark on a pilgrimage, seeking enlightenment regarding the historic lore of their surroundings. During the course of this odyssey ("Did anyone bring any snacks?" Amy asked hopefully), the adventurers spotted a mysterious building, squat in stature, with a battlement-like roof. Stairs curled invitingly to the crown of this little castle. In the time-honored tradition of Eve reaching for the fruit or Snow White stupidly accepting the apple from a questionable stranger ("Did we pack apples?" Amy inquired as they climbed the steps. "You don't like apples," Savannah pointed out. "Beggars can't be choosers,"  Amy shrugged.), the little band of travelers summited but, instead of the anticipated euphoria that typically accompanies the culmination of adrenaline and accomplishment, they realized that they were in danger of inadvertent damnation. 

As usual, the dog was the most intuitive of the group, immediately shying to the side to avoid the chicken leg decorated with a single black feather situated in the center of a shady torn tarp. A spray-painted pentagram adorned one wall, an occult invitation that we hastily (but politely) declined. You know...because...All God's children. Of course we imagined the sudden chill in the air...the goose bumps...the accelerated heartbeats...the labored breathing...but we did NOT imagine the little dog, running to beat the devil, dashing down those stairs to escape whatever weirdness was going on on that warped little rooftop. This would mark the moment where Teddy the chi-weenie, pledged his love and loyalty...his fido-elity--to his Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. 

After we had celebrated our narrow escape from the underworld and rejoiced in the addition of another occupant in heaven's pearly-gated community, we high-tailed it out of there. "Can we go get a snack now?" Amy asked. "What are you feeling for?" Sydney said as we, with relief, drove away. "I don't know why," Amy answered, "but chicken nuggets are really calling to me."
 

What a relief! I made a new friend!

I have made a new friend. And by "friend," I mean someone I hate with my whole heart. As in full-fledged despise. As in looking to murder in her sleep. Her name is Jessica. Please pronounce it like how Jerry enunciates Newman's name. She is tall and fit and fashionable. She is a gifted interior designer and has elevated hostessing to an art form. A bouquet of beautiful flowers and gourmet gummies awaited my first less-than-five-minute visit to her and Sydney's apartment. When I spent the night shortly after, Jessica arose with the sun to prepare a three-course breakfast feast. See what I mean? No jury in the world would convict me.

I was invited to Jessica's game night. The ambiance intimidated me. Green plants flourished, breathing life and vitality into a gently illuminated room, flickering candles creating a calm current of subtle scents. I was frozen in fear...paralyzed on the precipice of revealing my staggering ignorance. Surrounded by hip, cool, trendy party-goers, I was not off to a great start when, in offering clues for the musician Drake, I yelled out insistently, "a male duck!" Thankfully, I (sort of) redeemed myself during "Office Trivia."

Our next encounter was an elegant brunch. Jessica swept magnificently into the room wearing designer

sandals and a Carrie-Bradshaw dress. Feeling inadequate in my high-waisted, dark denium Bermuda shorts with sarcastic tee, I disappeared to change into an outfit with unfortunately-misdirected vertical lines. Now, dressed-to-kill (any sense of discernible fashion possible), I was ready to endure this royal breakfast banquet. The third mimosa Sydney slipped me probably didn't hurt either. Our champagne was a bubbly bottle of sparkling gold flakes, like a liquored-up lava lamp. Jessica began the process of worming her way into my frozen heart when she sat back and sighed, gazing into her mimosa glass oracle. "I hope that the gold flecks are as much fun coming out as they were going in," she announced. I perked up. The ice had begun to crack.

The dam would burst the next day. My game-loving friend had encountered a new product called "Things You Wish You Didn't Know." As we walked the dogs, Jessica enthusiastically shared her new, fun facts that no one in their right mind needs to know. I was both appalled and intrigued. By the end of the walk, I needed psychiatric care and access to Google research. At one point, I stood, immobile on the sidewalk. "Mom, c'mon," Sydney prompted, shaking me out of my shocked stupor. "Are you sure?" Sydney questioned her friend as our walk continued.  "Perhaps we should organize an independent panel," I suggested, "to investigate this matter further." "Excellent proposal," Sydney agreed, "We'll reconvene in four days." We never did get to the bottom of it as The BBC Science Focus later confirmed Jessica's sidewalk scoop. Indeed, with rare anatomical exceptions, (using the most poetic language possible), restroom-wise, it is rare to experience thunder without the rain. 

Which, of course, makes me re-visit my views on this emerging friendship with Jessica. As we all know, a healthy relationship should never feel forced. Friendships shouldn't be hard. We have heard that all that glitters is not gold which means that you can't always trust the outside of the package. One is often better off starting from the inside-out... you can usually trust a person who understands that, when the time comes to make a royal offering at the porcelain throne, we must ALL bring the poo-pourri. And Jessica comes packing with an assortment of delightful scents and loads of fun facts. 

 

Amy Mosiman: Swimming Superstar

Back in the day, I was QUITE the swimmer. I know this because my mother told me so. "Amy, me girl," she would say (imagine a charming Irish accent...my mom is not Irish but it works really well here), "You swim like a dolphin, lass!" She would boast of my spectacular swimming skills to friends and family, striding around our cracked, plastic pool deck in her dainty high-heeled slippers, reflectively swirling chablis in her crystal chalice. According to her chlorine-clouded eyes, the Olympic Swimming team would soon be clamoring at our door. Yes, I really ruled the rectangular reservoir of my childhood backyard. 

Apparently though, I had peaked at age twelve. Without ever fully understanding why, I made the painful decision to cloak my crawl, bury my backstroke, and fold my freestyle. Was it rebellion? Fear of failure? An attempt to deny the day when I would inevitably disappoint my disillusioned matriarch? That is a question that can only be answered by my swim therapist. I was as surprised as anyone when my break-through arrived, quite unexpectedly, at age 51. 

"I didn't know you could ACTUALLY swim," my daughter Sydney said, mere days ago, shocked as I effortlessly slalomed across Savannah and Lisa's pool littered with floating chairs, pool toys, and an accordioned appendage attached to the automated pool cleaner, a third-cousin, once-removed to our dearly departed DJ Roomba. I blushed modestly before making a shy little somersault, surfacing to thunderous applause as my daughters, after having lived their entire lives thinking their mother just a humble little house frau, now saw me as a magical mermaid. 

Like Clark Kent emerging from the telephone booth, I swam to Sydney as she levitated luxuriously in her floating chaise lounge and, clasping the inflated end of her floatie, engaged my core muscles to slowly spin her. My legs, twisting like a cork screw, sped her swivel until she was rotating like a helicopter propeller. "Wheeee..." she exclaimed before I contorted my body to suddenly cease her spinning. Then, like Superman reversing the gravitational axis of the earth to turn back time, thus saving the life of his lady love, I too, reversed the churning whirlpool that I had created, spinning Sydney, faster and faster before catapulting her across the pool as she shrieked with delight.

My daughters demanded a demonstration of my secret skills. I felt like a performer offering forth encore after encore. "Are there any more?" Savannah demanded, certain that I was holding back. "Well..." I said uncertainly before being flooded by the betrayed fury of my off-spring who had long been denied access to my surreptitious strokes. It was time to come clean. "I may have invented a swimming stroke," I admitted as they gasped with this newest revelation. "But I never had it copyrighted," I hastily disclosed. "Show us! Show us!" they begged.

Taking a deep breath, I dove in, explaining the technique. "It's called The Dolphin," I shared. "On your stomach, you extend your legs and engage just your ankles in an ambiguous little flutter kick." The girls took studious and frantic notes. "Then, chest thrust flirtatiously forward, you propel yourself laterally." Sydney quick-sketched the position."The key to this daring but controversial stroke is the pointless application of the signature move that I like to call Screwing in the Lightbulb." I demonstrated. "Arms parallel to the body. It's all in the wrists with your palms lightly cradling an imaginary 60 watt bulb," I advised, chanting, "Turn the lightbulb...turn the lightbulb...turn the lightbulb." My girls were, naturally, stunned and speechless. "Why haven't you shared this with the world?" Sydney wondered. "You have revolutionized swimming," Savannah marveled. 

Ashamed to have hidden my talent for so many years, I pulled myself from the pool and headed into the house. "Where are you going?" my girls cried, disappointed that I had ceased my swimming. I paused, realizing that I had squandered my life on raising children and establishing a career in education. "I have to call me mum," I answered, my Irish brogue boomeranging back from my repressed childhood. Rolling my r's, I told them, "She needs to know she was right all along."

 

Niagara Falls is for the birds

I couldn't have been happier. My family had flocked in over the 4th of July holiday; migrating from the far-reaches of Alaska, California, and New Jersey. Our culminating activity, before everyone dispersed, was to Niagara Falls. Renee and Lisa had limited experience with this natural wonder that so many of us take for granted so I wanted to address it iconically which, of course means, The Maid of the Mist. Savannah, a BIG fan of The Cave of the Winds, had communicated her displeasure for DAYS but had been loudly over-ruled. The ninety-minute ticket line for The Maid of the Mist proved whom God loves best.  "No one appreciates a gloater," I informed my daughter, sweating as we hoofed over to The Cave of the Winds in the 85 degree heat. "Who am I to deny God's will?"  she grinned, scampering along, baptized in the bellowing blanket of mist. 

So we waited in the (much shorter) Cave of the Winds line, eating the most delicious french fries in the world (That'll be the last time poor Renee offers us "one.") before gaining blessed entry to the air-conditioned inner sanctum that led to the historical film demonizing industrialization 

SKIP THIS PART:  Socio-political-economic rant ensues

Part of my 4th grade ELA curriculum standards focuses on author bias and propaganda. When will we EVER be able to present a balanced perspective communicating ALL sides to the story? Unchecked factories billowing out pollution and exploiting the natural resources...Bad. Jobs? Pretty good. Yeah...yeah...yeah. I'm sure that girl in the Dippin' Dots kiosk is receiving a proportional salary to that. It's just the slew of abandoned houses littering the river walk, that I presume are populated with people in need of some sort of intervention (be it mental health, substance abuse, or criminal justice)...they can't ALL be filming an episode of "Ghost Hunters, can they?), may have once been filled with tax-paying home-owners who didn't work (scrape by) for the tourist or gambling industries.  Oh no...sorry. Soap box. I just don't understand why, rather than forcing industry out, we didn't provide incentives to get them to improve, contribute, stay, and GROW. Niagara Falls IS a natural wonder. The city of Niagara Falls, unfortunately, is not.

SORRY: Rant over

SKIP THIS PART: Ridiculous, over-zealous pointless prose

before getting outfitted in fabulous form-fitting footwear accented by canary-yellow plastic ponchos that I am SURE get responsibly recycled or repurposed (ie: See rant above). Don't tell Savannah, but The Cave of the Winds was magnificent. It is the safest (and only legal way) to gain such close access to the Bridal Veil Falls. The thundering water is a mere twenty feet away from you! The sound is a roaring train tunneling through your body. You are submerged while still standing...one with the water cycle. From the bird's eye overlooks, 175 feet up, each populated group below appears to be being pounded into people puddles. Happy, screaming, laughing points of precipitation, arms raised in religious supplication, driving forward to face the watery wrath that welcomes their rapture. 

As we began our journey away from the "Hurricane Deck," I found that I could hear again. My senses, just moments ago, completely captured by the cascades had now been relinquished by the water. I was still rendered sightless as my poor eyeglasses were too steamed and spotted up to be functional. Led by Brad and Sydney, I heard the cacophonic caws of cormorants as clouds of gulls crowded the sky. It was...ethereal.

SORRY: Pointless Prose Over~Here's the point of this whole blog

A bird shit on me.

Brad, when he could speak again (as he and Sydney were rendered utterly speechless at the sight of me after I'd offered my own cry to the heavens, my words taking shaky flight, "I've been hit!"), searched the skies, shouting, "That couldn't have been a bird...it had to have been a flying elephant!" At least, I think he said "flying." 

Sydney was a bit more discreet and sensitive. "Let's just get you cleaned up a bit, shall we?" she said, slipping into a bad British accent while rummaging in her bag like Mary Poppins. Except, for purposes of this story, we'll call her "Mary Poop-ins."  

"This isn't so bad," she crooned as people passed us, in horror. "There's a chunk there," Brad pointed out helpfully, between gales of laughter. "I think we'll just clear her ear passage first," Sydney decided. "What?" I yelled. Shivers of revulsion shook my body. Sydney valiantly tried to act like she wasn't about to hurl. Brad snapped paparazzi pictures that I would delete less than an hour later. It wasn't until Sydney had sacrificed every possible item in her purse that could be used to scoop, scrape, or spoon that genius struck. "Why didn't we just have her go back under the falls?" Brad wondered as Sydney used another gum wrapper to wipe my neck.  We both stared at him. So helpful.

The rest of our party was waiting for us. "Mom, are you okay? You look a little flushed," Savannah chortled. "Sit down," my brother-in-law said gallantly, ushering me to a bench, "You must be feeling wiped out."  "Stop teasing her," Rene scolded, pointing me towards a lone seat. "Sit there, Amy, that stool isn't taken."  Lisa stomped her feet, glaring at my family, "You guys stink!"

What a flocking disaster of a day.

Pit happens when you're raising the woof

I currently find myself living a non-fictionalized account of Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children except it's called Savannah Mosiman's Home for Traumatized Dogs. First out of the gate (although, to be fair, all six attempt to lunge out of the gate simultaneously), is Daisy. Stroking her head, I mourned her missing ears. As I ran my hand down her silky throat, I encountered the raised, angry scar from her restraining rope. Daisy was a reluctant participant, thrust into the unsavory dark shadows of the pit bull underworld. However, like her pacifist predecessor Ferdinand, sweet Daisy preferred flowers to fighting. Rescued from what would have been sure to be a brief but ugly career as a sparring partner, Daisy desires nothing but naps and reassuring human companionship. Timid topaz eyes, like two healing crystals, gaze hopefully at you, attempting to elicit a promise that you will keep her safe. She breaks my heart (and hurts my nose...let's just say she isn't as "sweet as a daisy," packing QUITE the punch when she loudly passes gas)...a four-legged reminder of the unimaginable cruelty that exists in this world. I imagine and pray for the person lucky enough to adopt this dog whose tail continues to wag despite her tumultuous past.

Daisy is one of four foster dogs available for adoption from Savannah Mosiman's Home for Traumatized Dogs although I have to say, I believe I'm the most traumatized occupant in the residence right now. Having successfully fostered and adopted out dozens of dogs, Savannah, Lisa, and Sydney (almost) make the process look effortless. Deciding to walk (wrangle and wrestle) six dogs at a time should become an Olympic event or a segment on American Ninja Warrior.  Teddy, Sydney's chunky-monkey chi-weenie, throws all his weight against his harness, practically dislocating my shoulder as he huffs and puffs his way, like a disgruntled tugboat, toward the front of the line. Dylan, Savannah's sweet dog who reminds me of a Pharaoh hound, chirps like a bird and her paws rarely grace the pavement. Lisa spent half her time alternately carrying one of the two sibling fosters like cord wood, their impossibly long legs thrusting out at impossible angles like  canine versions of Ker-plunk. Lisa was convinced that we just had to settle on the right order. "Maybe we should have Dylan and Daisy be partners and let the puppies in the lead." Arms aching from holding the tugboat back, I yelled, "Do you think Santa had this much trouble arranging the reindeer?" We were QUITE the spectacle...loud, obnoxious, but ridiculously happy. Relieved, we finally made it back to the house and unanimously vowed to NEVER do that again.

I awoke this morning to the lulling sound of metal dog bowls striking a stone floor followed by the melodious rainfall of canine kibble. Burrowing under my pillow, I faintly heard Savannah mutter, "What is that smell?" I begged myself to succumb to sleep. I tried self-smothering but my preservation instinct kicked in as I faintly detected Savannah screaming. What kind of mother ignores her child in peril? I peered around my bedroom door to see Savannah, frozen in horror, staring at a prone (and poopy) object on the floor. I gasped. "No!" I cried, "Not DJ Roomba!" I stood straight and saluted this valiant soldier who had done his duty but inevitably lost his life in the, now historic, Battle of the Bowels. Scooping up his remains, Savannah raced to the exit as DJ Roomba continued to "bleed" out (btw:  It wasn't "blood"). "Open the door! Open the door!" she shrieked, getting struck by friendly fire along the way. I wrestled with the locks and then the stuck and swollen door as Savannah momentarily lost her mind and forgot I was her mother. Where on earth did she LEARN such language?!?

DJ Roomba expelled from the house, we turned to face the carnage that remained on the floor. Lisa emerged as the clean-up crew, gently reminding Savannah how the purchase of a Swiffer Wet-Jet would have really been helpful in this instance but, for some reason, Savannah was not in the mood for helpful suggestions. The air quality of the house really took a hit. "I'll light a candle," I offered. "Wow," said Sydney, observing this early morning train wreck with the dead eyes of one who has seen it all, "you have a LOT of faith in that candle." With a firm hand, I held the lighter to the wick. "Right now, this is the only thing that makes scents to me."

 

Error Plane: The wrong vehicle for my "flight" response

"My greatest fear," Sydney revealed later, once we had safely made it to San Diego (Spoiler Alert: We safely made it to San Diego), "was what I would do if you bolted." 

It was almost two years in the making. Sometimes the only thing that would get me to take a trembling step into the grocery store would be Brad's sometimes gentle (sometimes NOT-so-gentle) reminders that, if I ever wanted to travel by plane to my girls again, I'd have to be able to actually minimally function in society again.

As usual, I put off thinking about it as long as possible. The day of departure, I was so busy making Brad yellow Jello and hiding fifteen days worth of snacks and jokes around the house (I learned that nifty little trick from how the zoo hides food around the den enclosure to enrich the bears) that I almost didn't have time to pack.

I blatantly ignored Sydney's studious measures as she made lists, labeled piles with posted notes, and subtly researched ways to distract, calm, and/or subdue her anxious mother. Before I knew it, I was whisked to the airport, unloaded with the baggage, and abandoned before I had a chance to throw myself in front of the Titan.

Blinded by tears and strangled by my mask, I followed Sydney to the kiosk to print our luggage tags. I wrestled with this task back when I was relatively normal so this hurdle, along with being pressed in by sixty or so fellow travelers, had me gasping for breath. Sydney revised my role in this little adventure from complicated instructions such as "Can you please attach the sticker to your suitcase handle?" to "Here, hold this" when she became aware that I'd pulled the wrong end of the mile-long sticky strip and then stuck it to the retractable wheelie steering stick instead of the handle. That accomplished (no small miracle, thanks to me), we then fought our way to the back of the line to process our baggage. The problem with this line was that it far out-reached the hamster maze causing mass confusion AND, the end result would NOT conclude with a delicious cannoli or a ride through Hogwart's castle. We finally reached the roped-off confines of the hamster maze when a man decided to maniacally merge like we were in rush hour traffic. My flight/fight or freeze reactions have been actively-engaged since the lockdown...nuclear eruptions are easily triggered. As he pressed in, I panicked, realizing I was trapped (Did I mention the flashing lights, the intermittent beeps, and the non-reassuring PA announcement assuring us that the fire alarm had been triggered (What a coincidence...so had I) but if there was anything to REALLY endanger us, they'd let us know...Any wonder why no one has confidence in ANY governing body?)...oh...back to Budgy-Budgenstein...I realized that I was trapped by the surrounding crowd so FLIGHT was out. FREEZING would let that rat bastard (Who would probably go on to be my seat-mate) win so "fight" (with a lower case letter) prevailed. I remember using a hesitant, slightly-confused tone and minimal gesturing. Sydney remembers it differently. I haiku-ed it later, for posterity:

"I don't understand

how I got in line back there

and yet, you are here."

Not sure how it happened, but he disappeared.

Security was next. I hadn't stopped crying yet so my glasses were completely steamed up and I was wishing my mask was made out of terrycloth because it needed to be wrung out.  Let's just say security had no problem hurrying me along although I'm sure I was red-flagged by the camera crew as a potential person-of-interest.

Thinking it would be easier, Sydney downloaded electronic tickets to my phone. "I prefer paper boarding passes," I whispered, my voice hoarse by now. She patted my arm reassuringly, scanning airport shops for a Pepsi. "We're streamlining," she told me, "One less thing to juggle." Twenty minutes later, our eyes met in horror as she realized I'd inadvertently deleted my electronic boarding pass. The gate agent, immediately recognizing the disfunction in front of her, asked for my last name and waved us through. 

Sydney had insisted on buying me some snazzy, new-fangled blue-teeth headphones. After wrestling me into my seatbelt, she unceremoniously plopped them on my head, que-ed up my playlist, and popped open my Pepsi. Magic. The only disturbance on that leg of the flight was when, after the flight attendant told us that federal ordinances dictated that masks must be worn, covering the bridge of your nose to under your chin. Apparently someone concluded by muttering, "Unless you're a democratic state lawmaker from Texas." ("Mom, that was you," Sydney grumbled. I perked up. See! I AM still in there...somewhere.)

The second, longer flight was impeded further by a grumpy crew and motion sickness. This flight attendant informed us that non-compliant mask-wearing would result in your being added to the "No-flight" list (like a terrorist) and we should order our drinks according to number. Hold up a "one" for Coke, a "two" for diet Coke and so on. "I wonder what I would get if I ordered this," I asked my daughter, immaturely holding up my middle finger. Sydney silently handed me a container of Play-Dough with a spaghetti-making tool. I immediately made noodle strands to compose profanity. I then wiped my mouth off on the provided napkin that cheerfully encouraged me to "Mask up between sips." I wish I'd saved it to wipe something else. Fortunately, debilitating motion sickness distracted me from attaching my mask to a pole and waving it "Les Mis" style, to incite a mask rebellion. 

Dehydrated from all the crying, I crawled off the last flight and was surprised to see, after all that, Sydney was still staunchly by my side. Her arms must have been exhausted from waving the laminated airline safety sheet to cool me for the last two hours. She'd quizzed me on my state capitals "Is Washington even a STATE," I'd wearily asked, searching my memory bank unsuccessfully for "Olympia." I had recited the Ten Commandments forwards and backwards without effort as, with effort, I 'd battled not to barf.   Emerging from the concourse, battered, bitter, and bruised, Sydney smiled. "Well. That wasn't so bad, was it?" I gritted my teeth as I grinned back, "I won't be doing that again." "Why not," Sydney asked, "You did so well." "I think I have a terminal illness," I told her.