A sign of things to come

 "Someone's looking at you," Brad murmured as we cautiously entered the church sanctuary like November deer at dawn stepping warily into an open field. "Don't make eye contact," I whispered, barely moving my lips. "She's waving pretty enthusiastically," Brad observed, "Do you know any air traffic controllers?" I sighed before turning to face the threat. Cayla.

Bright eyes. Sparkling smile. Bouncy ponytail. Cute baby.

Ugh. I hated her.

"Amy! I didn't know you attended this church," she squealed happily, as I reluctantly greeted her. "This is our first time here." She turned to her husband in excitement. "Amy is the one who slid mean memes under my classroom door." Obviously he wasn't quite sure how to digest that information.

She wouldn't have noticed me suddenly stiffen beneath my bulky winter coat. I'm pretty sure I managed to repress my eye-roll, heavenward, as I thought, "Really, God?"

Today was the day that I was deciding whether to continue attending here or to move on.

Impressively patient, my husband was getting tired of our years-long practice of church-hopping as I sought out a church home that fit my impossibly-long-and-impossible-to-fulfill list of requirements. "Church home," I can hear some of you scoff, "I can commune with God in nature or wherever I am." That's great, y'all. I'm sure you are well-practiced at pondering the Psalms beneath the pines, sleuthing out the inner meaning of Scripture as you weave your way down a river, being all Thoreau-like as you hike. I spend all my time in nature trying not to trip over rocks and swatting away bugs. I am L-A-Z-Y and self-centered. If I am not deliberate in seeking out the Lord, He gets lost in re-runs. So I NEED church to keep me from screening God.

"Let's give this one two months," Brad had suggested after we'd pretty well exhausted most of the houses of worship in the three county area. As long as there is an exit strategy, I can commit to almost anything, short-term (That sentence should have made you laugh). 

Our friend, Michelle, had joined us as we sat with Cayla and her wonderful family. Michelle is like a UN ambassador or an Instagram influencer. She is warmly diplomatic, infuriatingly calm, patiently persuasive, reasonable, kind and, because of these ridiculous qualities, doors open for her. And...she always graciously pulls others in with her. Michelle's presence in our pew communicated to the congregation that Cayla was, clearly, one of God's own.

"But what about us?" I seethed, as Cayla and her husband were given the tour of the building, shaking hands with the pastor before being provided with a schedule of kid-friendly activities. "What about us?" Brad asked. "The pastor has only shaken my hand once since we've been here," I told him. "That's true," Brad admitted, "and that was only because he had the misfortune of getting between you and the door." I frowned. "You don't exactly project a welcoming aura, you know," Brad continued, "You are either wrestling with a hangnail or tying your shoe during the passing of the peace. You took a picture of the car in the parking lot with the coexist sticker and yelled 'Pick a side.' The only time you've engaged in the service is when you raised your hand when they asked if anyone listened to the Kelce brothers' podcast." 

I glared at him. "Are you saying this is my fault?"

To be fair, I already knew it was my fault but my husband, blinded by love with my perfection, shouldn't know that.

"I bet there is a picture of you in every pastor's office in Western New York," Brad went on as I searched for anything serviceable as a weapon in our car. The ice scraper was almost in reach. "That's ridiculous," I snapped, the tips of my finger just brushing the handle. "Remember when you threatened to cut Pastor Calvin because he was blocking your exit?" Brad said, turning left abruptly, causing the ice scraper to slide away from my seat. "I was joking," I exclaimed. "You told the poor guy in Batavia to back off because you're a flight risk," he went on. "I was being humorously personable!" I shouted. "What about that nice lady who asked, 'What's your story?' and you said it was none of her business?"

So today was supposed to be the day that I determined if we'd stay or move on.

Cayla smilingly implied that my presence at that church may have been a sign for her and her family (which is quite ironic seeing that I attempted to terrorize her at work on a regular basis). She didn't realize, though, that God may have actually been using her presence at that church as a sign to me. 

"Let's give it another month," I said reluctantly. Maybe I needed some goals other than finding creative ways to avoid passing the peace. It might be time to take a self-guided tour, venturing out of the sanctuary and edging out past my fragile comfort zone. "Next week," I told my husband, "I'll figure out where the bathrooms are." Brad laughed. "Is that your number one goal?"

Fake belly button fluff is fraudu-"lint"

 "I was sharing with the class, the impact words can have on a person," I explained to Sydney on the phone. "Uh-huh," she murmured, browsing the interweb for something called a cascading veil. "It's a tough balance, because I need them to develop steel spines...to not let the words and opinions of others determine their self-worth. I'm raising wolves...not sheep." Sydney stifled a yawn before her voice brightened, "Oh! The angel cut is nice." "On the other hand, they also need to know the reverberating effect that can result from an emotional punch delivered by cruel or insensitive words." There was a bit of a silence as Sydney missed her cue because she was deliberating between the subtle and stylish 72 inch train that flirts with the floor or the dramatically daring 120 inch train that sluttishly sweeps across the stage. "I told them my outtie belly button story."

Sydney snapped to attention. "What?" 

Brad, tiredly slouched on the couch, sat up. "What?"

"You know this story," I snarled at them. "I was around twelve years old, at a friend's house and a bunch of us were getting ready to go swimming. I was wearing a cute little bikini when..." I could hear Sydney muttering on her end of the line, "Yet I wasn't allowed to..." I continued, "...my friend's father told me that people with outties shouldn't wear bikinis." Brad and Sydney gasped indignantly. My 4th graders had been similarly outraged. "You don't have an outtie," Brad said before staring, with uncertainty, into space. "You're missing the point," I told him, "it shouldn't matter. ANYONE should be able to wear a bikini, safe from unkind comments (hashtag 2024)." Sydney spoke up in support of her father. "Dad's right. You don't have an outtie. Does your belly button resemble a balloon bottom?" Brad quickly googled. "Are you referring to the drip point or the bead?" Wrinkling our noses on both coast-es, Sydney and I said, "Ewww." "Get your minds out of the gutter," he growled, "I'm talking about a balloon." "The little knotted end," Sydney clarified. Brad nodded knowledgeably before turning to me again. "Yeah. You don't have an outtie."

This was a revelation. 

For 42 years, I had been traumatized by this event. 

My adult self recognized the utter inappropriateness of an grown male commenting on a little girl's body. But that little girl's insecurity clung to me like a damp bathing suit for over four decades. That thoughtless, insensitive, inappropriate comment determined my self-worth, censured my clothing selections, and made me think that there was something "wrong" with my body. Innie/outtie...wear it proudly. 

"Well...it's not an innie," I said, thinking of all the perfect little concave wishing wells accentuating the toned tummies of magazine models. "I couldn't sport a belly button ring. It would look like it was trying to escape over the wall (of a rapidly deflating rubber raft)."

The three of us sat in silence as we reflected on my story. The crippling power of words. The paralyzing repercussions of a cruel comment. Realizing one can't go wrong with the 90 inch train because it's labeled as "chapel cut."

"So if it's not an innie and it's not an outtie, what is it?" Sydney asked, baffled.

"It's an in-betweenie," I announced, reclaiming my belly button after two-score years of verbal subjugation. And somewhere out there, a little girl, wearing a cute little bikini, fearlessly raced towards a pool filled with her screaming friends, pinched her nose, launched herself with utter abandon, airborne, screaming (inappropriately: hashtag 2024) "Geronimo!" before cannon-balling into the water.

"Are you watching? Did you see?"

Yeah. I saw it.

Now...do it again.

Part II: A Legend(ary) Party

"Whatcha working on?" my new friend, Julia asked as she strolled into my classroom. Buried beneath an avalanche of index cards, I gestured to an empty seat at the table while I finished writing. "The horns were three feet in length and, wearing stilts, Darkness stood an impressive ten feet tall," Julia read, flipping through my flurry of fun facts. We haven't known each other very long but apparently long enough for her to suddenly get suspicious. Her eyes narrowed. "What are you up to?"  She picked up another card that included an alternative scenario to the seduction scene where a stunned producer demanded a change. "You can't f*(! the princess," he'd explained. Julia laughed. "Well, you proved that one wrong."

And that's how Julia ended up being added to the reluctant roster of my "Valentine's Day is For Suckers" party. "Who throws a party on a Tuesday night when school is in session?" my husband asked ("Ever heard of Mardi Gras?" I grumbled). "You planned the party but it's not at your house?" Julia asked, confused. "Uh-huh. Plus Geri's making us Butter Beers!" That was the main selling point for my participants who weren't exactly exuberant about a watch party for a non-award-winning movie included on several "Worst" reviews. 

Again, my friends let me down.

"Don't bring ANYTHING," I stressed, already ashamed, embarrassed, and insecure about promoting this
ridiculous event. Why would ANYONE attend this poorly planned, cinematic disaster of an evening (besides Geri who was veritably a hostage in her own home)? But no...once again, my GUESTS graciously brought gourmet goodies...making me feel even more guilty for this colossal waste of their valuable time and resources. 

Julia, new to the group, had to walk a careful line as I kept a tally of what she added, appeal-wise, balanced by appalling social blunders. I may have tipped the scales a bit in one direction as my own position in the group is a bit unstable at the moment. I pounced, with delight, as Julia was unable to accurately name the villainous blonde in "Little House on the Prairie" and mistakenly called Nellie's signature ringlets, "droopy curly things." (Let us pause in supplicative prayer that our "Little House" fanatic, Marissa, doesn't bully us into a "Prairie"-themed Halloween this year.) "Check," I announced, with a flamboyant finger flourish that was further intended to distract everyone from my ridiculous dessert. Yeah. Try out a new recipe with ingredients that you aren't comfortable with. Great idea. 

FLASHBACK

"What's turbinado sugar?" I had asked my husband, storming through the sugars I knew in the baking aisle. White. Brown. Granulated. Confectioner's. Fake. He looked longingly at the shelves FULL of familiar box mixes that I rarely screwed up. Betty Crocker was a welcome guest in our home. Sighing, he turned his back on the sure thing to help me, not saying a word when we paid five Betty Crocker's worth for a box of tornado sugar of which I needed only 1/4 cup and would never use again. "Puff pastry?" he asked, as though I was removing an explosive from the freezer section. He disappeared later when I wrestled together my Blackberry Puff Pastry Tarts. I was in the middle of a culinary melt-down with Sydney on the phone when the timer went off. I needed a sampler. Imagine that beginning scene in "Taken" when the traffickers pulled Liam Neeson's daughter from under the bed. After a bit of a struggle, I had my sampler. He took a cautious bite as Syd and I held our breath. "It tastes like a Toaster Strudel," he said gently. Sydney and I cheered. Higher praise could not be bestowed. 

FLASHBACK FADES

My confidence plummeted the next day. The review had been given under duress. There was the one day sitting time. My window for optimal freshness was closing. Fortunately, the other snacks were so outrageously delicious and Geri's Butter Beer was so creamy and yummy, that my gourmet goof was overlooked. To make sure, I also pointed out how Julia didn't bring ANYTHING. Check.

I couldn't put it off anymore. It was time to watch the movie. My friends were never going to forgive me. 

I flavored the film with fun facts. I provided back-story. Behind-the-scenes secrets. Prop problems. "His armor was made from crushed bottle caps," I pointed out, before calling their attention to the paraffin wax icicles in the treasure cavern. "The unicorns were both male," I explained, going on to share the reverse-filming technique to capture the stallion's fall following being hit with the poison dark. "Watch his lips," I encouraged, "Honeythorn Gump's voice was later dubbed because his German accent was so heavy." I challenged my viewers to name all the floaty elements that lent a magical flair to the film. "Bubbles," said Allison, pointing. "Feathers," Katriel added. "Bullsh*t," Geri declared when I shared that one of the goblins was modeled after the likeness of Keith Richards." "You're thinking of the Pirates movie." The film was paused as my fun fact needed to be confirmed. Wow. Tough crowd.

I don't believe any one was permanently traumatized by my party. My movie now has a wider audience who can speak with confident authority about this timeless classic. "Legend" is visually captivating and, when accompanied by snacks and facts, is fun to watch.

My only problem now is that Marissa is threatening to host her own watch-party soon. How do I avoid a "Little House on the Prairie" marathon when she was such a good sport about watching my movie? There was only one thing to say when she asked if she should schedule her party. Gopher it.

Digging deep

We do not grieve graciously;

instead

refusing to throw in the towel

a primal howl 

of gnashing teeth, a flash of fang,

lashing tail...

angry.

And lacking a target, 

we zero in on each other

fighting for first, etched with gilt

wounding with words, buried deep, to the hilt

while I wait,

for him to dig us out.

Occasionally I can turn a phrase. I sometimes accidentally stumble upon some lyrical language. I can always be counted on to force a cringe-y rhyme or two and alliteration clings to me like lint. I toss words at you, blinding you with fistfuls of sand, so that you are unable to recognize the true poet in our family.

A sweet gesture...a common practice...but when asked, just prior to putting our sweet little dog "to sleep, (perchance to dream)," if we'd like her paw prints taken after, I reacted with an abhorrent of course not. The idea of seeing her prints, of lifeless paws that would no longer dig beneath blankets, or flail in the air as she wiggled on her back in the grass, or step on my foot as I stood at the kitchen counter to remind me that she was there "to help," sickened me. I didn't even pause to consider Brad, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with me at that moment...to think about what he might want. And in the darkness, with me, he remained silent.

Pain poisons. First yourself, then those around you. 

I began to guard my grief...hoarding it like a cursed treasure...burying it deep.

But Brad Mosiman had begun the process of digging well before he laid our little dog to rest among the blueberry bushes.

He meticulously meted out a monument, carved in concrete...where fuzzy little feet had once stood, warm and wagging and wonderful...years ago. Like a gem-cutter, carefully shaping this precious stone...a sculptor smoothing the clay, transferring the warmth of his hands to the cool marble, my husband labored, beneath shrouded skies and November's lies, to wrestle this relic from its earthly embrace. To place a paw-shaped peg into a heart-shaped hole. This man...a poet with a pick-ax, kneeling, engaged with the task of harvesting my heart from the frozen ground. How many times can I fall, ever more deeply, in love with him?

Part I: The Birth of a Legend(ary idea)

 

The origin of most of my "great" ideas begins with my trying to evade or avoid an unwanted task(s).

"I cannot possibly handle another three hour Zoom conference call that includes terms like prosody and ameliorated," I grumbled, laying my head down on my folded arms. "Your study packet really helped with team morale last time," Katriel observed, "and Allison even finished her dot-to-dot before the first break." I perked up. Morale. THAT was the answer! "Let's try to keep the violence to a minimum this time," Katriel advised, "flinging a foam ball at Kim for answering all the questions might have been cathartic to you but may have inhibited her sense of welcomed inclusion in our on-line community."

Duly noted.

So, with the next Superintendent's Conference Day approaching, I pledged to make the best out of a bad situation, a la a snack buffet. Ingesting impossible-to-understand information regarding "inter-rater reliability" while nibbling on little nuggets of wisdom as we discern the differences between shallow and deep orthographies is a LOT easier to swallow when my reading table in laden with sweet and salty solace.

Naturally, my team let me down. "Bring a little snack to share," I had encouraged, envisioning bags of chips, Twizzlers, M&Ms, ect. But no-oo-oo...instead, we sported not ONE, but TWO crockpots, home-made baked deliciousness, and full-on submarine sandwiches. My table wasn't big enough to support the weight of our snack offerings. It was...the BEST...Superintendent's Conference Day EVER. Side-note: Turns out my sarcastic remarks are reduced by 65% or more when my mouth is happily occupied with chewing.

"Is this the great idea of which you were referring to in the introduction?" you wonder politely, as the arrival of snacks at any Amy-associated-event seems pretty standard (but seriously...you should have SEEN that spread...it would have made a Renaissance banquet table seem positively medieval). Wow. You really know me. The great idea of which I was referring to, arrived, with the faint streaks of dawn in the darkened sky of that Superintendent's Day as I was seeking out inspiration regarding an encouraging gif to send to my daughter who was scheduled for an interview. A dark, raspy voice in the back of my head had whispered, "Woo her. Charm her. Make her one of us." Perfect! Where do I know that from? And suddenly, as the horizon flickered to life, I tumbled down the dark hole that led me back to 1985. I returned to Legend. Gif abandoned, I sloughed through self-righteous reviews of people who obviously know NOTHING about quality cinema. What do Siskel and Ebert know, anyway?

Infuriated, I listened to the podcast "Why Rotten Tomatoes is So Wrong About Legend" on my five minute ride to work. Wait. Pump the brakes. Legend was a bad movie?!? "All flash and no flesh?!? Fantasy eye candy?!?" Can you hear me shrieking? I was stunned. I remembered Legend as a beautiful, magical movie. I picked up Katriel for our three minute commute where she is rarely allowed to talk. "What did you think of Legend?" I snapped at her as she attempted to crawl into my truck with her crock-pot of apple crisp. "I'm not sure how to answer this," she responded, rarely given an opportunity to add to our morning conversations and loathe to miss this rare moment. "You didn't like it?" I snarled, baring my teeth at her. "I've never seen it," she admitted, shrinking back against the door, wielding her crock-pot as a shield. I stared at her, stunned. And then, without a word, I stormed into the building to begin a room-by-room inventory of viewers who were as beguiled as I by the bobbly-horned unicorns and crooked teeth of Tom Cruise. 

I had never felt so alone in my life.

But then I realized...

Great ideas are also born of great injustice.

It wasn't fair that so many have been denied the privilege of adding a well-rounded dark fantasy featuring Tim Curry (in the last 20 minutes), Tom Cruise's muscular thighs and unheard of gymnastic abilities (We couldn't even COUNT how many times he somersaulted in an impressive aerial flip), and more fun-facts than film to their viewing repertoire. 

Yes. It was on this auspicious Superintendent's Conference Day that I would learn my greatest lesson yet...how to throw a Legend(ary) Party (at someone else's house without their knowledge or consent...thanks, Geri) based on a movie no one (under 25) had ever seen. I would also discover that the people I hang out with apparently have no lives (because they actually attended).