What to answer when someone asks you to create a puppet show about the Biblical plagues: Aw...hail, no!

"You want me to do WHAT?" Katriel said as I dragged her down the hall. She had just narrowly escaped going home when I'd caught her. "Oh, never-mind," she'd waved at me in exasperation as I launched into a nonsensical, complicated, and unnecessarily long explanation of why her participation was essential for the success of an utterly unessential project based on a fifteen-year-old parody. 

You never know when lightning is going to strike. 

I believe, at this point in our relationship, Katriel has been praying that it will strike me, at the Lord's earliest convenience. 

As for me, inspiration stuck several weeks ago and then continued to zap me every Friday as I went about my business of purchasing my mother's groceries. There it was...on the way from the bananas to the Special K. Hanging on an end-cap. Beckoning me. 

"They're finger puppets representing the ten plagues," I told my husband, excitedly, when I'd returned to the van. He knows better than to go into the store with me. "That's fun," he said absentmindedly before driving us to deliver toilet paper to my mom's apartment. 

Next week. The same thing. Except this time, I fully stopped my grocery cart to inspect these rather weird puppets more closely. "They even have blood and boils represented," I reported to Brad. "What has blood and boils represented," Brad asked. "The puppets!" I reminded him, confused that he wasn't as invested in this little oddity as I was. Speaking of "invested," he finally asked why I just didn't buy the silly thing. I love that he skipped over the whole What what you DO with these plague-themed puppets part of the conversation. I lowered my voice. "They're eleven dollars," I whispered, still suffering from sticker-shock. My husband shrugged. I've spent MUCH more on more ridiculous things. Apparently, to Brad, eleven dollars was worth not having to hear me prattle on about them every Friday. 

It took two more Fridays for me to pull the trigger. I'd taken a picture to send to my daughters who responded with a bit more emotion than their father. Words like "dark" and "morbid" were texted to me. Savannah clicked "loved an image" which could mean she was in Brad's parked-car mind-set or actually embraced my understandable infatuation. Either way, I had finally percolated enough. I had it.

The Potter Puppet Pals. 

The Mysterious Ticking Noise.

Perfect!

If you know, you know.

Sure, the video is over fifteen years old.

Sure, there are some (who are WRONG) who say that the Harry Potter wave is over.

Sure, there are those out there (who should mind their own business) who believe that I could spend my time much more productively. 

Nay-sayers be darned! I was intent on producing the best off-topic parody (of a parody using a set of eleven dollar grocery-store puppets) as possible before Passover. Who did I know, outside of my immediate family, who had the perfect blend of biblical and Harry Potter knowledge to help me pull this project off?

Sarah.

What I didn't account for was her commitment to plague accuracy, syllable count, and perfection.

I lost control of my project.

The only thing that I clung to was my opening line...Plague...plague...Biblical plagues.

I knew that the second line should reflect the Potter Pals:  Dumbledore! but Sarah was intent on including EVERY ONE OF THE BLASTED PLAGUES. Ugh. Her frogs/lice/flies flew in the face of my more-encompassing (and up-beat) Frogs and more! I was in the fetal position for the rest of the creative process as our friend Julia (who had also been roped into this little project) valiantly tried to support Sarah by researching synonyms with more pleasing syllables and inflections. "Would pustule work better than boil with the metronome?" Julia asked as she carefully cut out a cute cartoon image of Moses. Eww. 

We had to pause for research often. My suggestions regarding summarizing were considered sanctimonious and sacrilegious. I finally fled to retrieve a fourth puppeteer when Sarah finally conceded that she couldn't juggle all the parts herself. I don't actually believe that. I think she just wanted me out of the room.

Katriel walked in and simply asked where she needed to be positioned and what she needed to say. We

plunked a dead cow puppet on her thumb and stuffed her under a table and she didn't bother seeking clarification. Inherently, Katriel realized that the fastest path from this puppet show to her house was complete compliance. 

My promised "This will only take five minutes" favor promptly turned into thirty as our blooper reel grew. "I don't think I can bleep that out," I repeated as we veered off-script in frustration. 

But finally, we (sort of) captured our (conflicting) vision(s). 

"Thanks for helping," Sarah said to Katriel as we cleaned up. "Yeah, you really nailed your section," Julia added, glaring at me as she pulled her paper Moses puppet from the trash. They were both surprised that Katriel had walked into this little debacle with no knowledge or planning. "I've learned from working with Amy," she shared, "that it's better to remain in the dark." 

PG Blooper:

Alternative ending:

It's okay, password...I'm insecure too (Why Amy has to go to remedial training for Data Safety Practices)

Superintendent's Conference Days are always a gamble. Will we be trapped in the auditorium for hours to learn how not to harass one another (I've been signed up for remedial training in that area as well)? Will we be forced onto a video conference call with an intolerably enthusiastic speaker who insists on group participation? Will there be doughnuts in the morning? Do we dare hope for lunch? Will we get any time to meet as a grade level team...to work in our rooms...to engage in inter-collegiate conversations that will inevitably lead to the betterment of education as a whole?

This past conference had some highs and some lows.

We were, of course, delighted that a teacher appreciation luncheon had been organized by our high-schoolers. I had a momentary pang of regret that I hadn't treated them better when they were in 4th grade. As mature, rational adults though, we were, nonetheless, devastated to discover that lunch bit into our morning doughnut dreams. No worries, 4th grade team held a pre-conference meeting the day before to plan a doughnut delivery. "If only," I had intoned mournfully, "we knew someone who drove past a Dunkin' on the way to school tomorrow morning." Marissa sighed and pulled out a paper and pencil. "What'll it be?" she snapped, popping her gum and adjusting her name tag. Gleefully, we offered her our "dream" doughnut selection and then a back-up pastry (Just in case...we've been burned before.). She arrived the following morning to the auditorium, lugging our morale-boosting Boston Cremes, just as I was lamenting not bringing my prop stage knife with the retractable blade for our "Workplace Violence" seminar. "It's avoiding workplace violence, Amy...not condoning it," Katriel hissed at me from down the aisle, body tensed, ready to spring should I provoke a fake rampage. Fortunately, my doughnut placated my horror when I discovered that, according to the seminar,  I could be classified as a level one offender. Wow. Chuck one foam ball at a speech therapist's head and get labeled forever. 

In the five minute potty break between our "Workplace Violence" seminar and the much-anticipated "Data Privacy Seminar," 4th grade team took an online survey determining what your dream doughnut says about you. My artistic, optimistic friend Brooke turned out to actually BE her dream doughnut...a pink pastry with sprinkles. Ugh. I was furious to find out that I was just a glazed doughnut. Boring. Unassuming. Unadventurous. This upset me so much that, when my friend John called on me to share my expert tips on data privacy, I let him down epically.

"Happy to help, John," I said, raising my voice so the entire auditorium could hear (including the state official that was brought in to lead the seminar), "First, I post all of my passwords right on my computer lid for easy retrieval. Then, I share all of my passwords with Katriel so I have a convenient and reliable back-up source." I paused so that Katriel could bask in the accolades and wave to the audience but her shoe must have needed to be tied because she suddenly ducked down beneath her seat. Before I could go on to describe my giant, laminated poster of passwords printed in 48 sized font, John abruptly cut me off, thanked me for sharing and, for some reason, began to profusely apologize to the state official. We heard a muffled, "They're not all like her," before the speaker began to offer some rather ridiculous methods of keeping our data private and safe. Trust me, nothing is safer than Katriel.

When it was finally time to depart for our conference call meeting, I tried to catch John's eye but the dim lights of the auditorium must have been hurting his eyes because he seemed to be inexplicably glaring at me.  

For the next few hours, we meticulously gleaned relevant and meaningful information from our conference call. Team 4 (Amy) soon became distracted and concerned when a small, inset-screen camera view of one of our colleagues was aimed at what seemed to be either a voodoo doll or Chucky. Bravely, I ventured forth to investigate this matter further (No, Amy...don't go down the basement stairs to find the source of the mysterious noise). Some accused me of just wanting to get away from the conference call seminar. How insulting. My intent...my resolve...was to solve a mystery and possibly, save lives.

It turned out to be the kindergarten room. Why was I not surprised? "What's with the demon doll in the corner, there?" I asked them, interrupting their studious note taking... breaking their rapt attention from the fun phonics instructions they were receiving. This weird, red-light district doll soon began to under-go a transformation that defied logic and decorum. She was soon sporting a sign, glasses, and nibbling corn-on-the-cob (because she'd missed her morning doughnut) beneath a rain of glitter. Audience attention veered between diphthongs and developing doll dramatics as it occurred in real-time on the screen before our wondrous eyes. 

Suffice to say, you get out of Conference Days what you put into them. A little humor can be a doll-ightful way to get through a long day. But enough was enough. "Time to put away the toys," I shouted down the hall, "Let's go get some barbie-que!"

Life is like a box of chocolates: It's empty because I lack self-control

 I know that the latest trends regarding the psychological ties to effective weight loss equates emotional eating as inner-child abuse. You're basically tossing your poor little id down the cellar stairs of your trauma basement and only feeding her  rolled up tubes of bologna wrapped around processed cheese and a raw hot dog. She rests her weary head on an air-filled package of snack chips and self-soothes by suckling the nozzle of compressed whipping cream. 

Well, if that's the case...then this week, I've moved my baby id out of the basement and basically tossed her happily down the well. 

How is it that the presence of delicious snacks can transform (practically) ANY event into, if not a welcomed occasion, at least bearable situation?

Our elementary staff caught onto this phenomena LONG ago. We may be the ONLY teachers in the country to RACE to our month faculty meetings...hoping to be first in line for the creatively catered finger-food snack buffet designed by our beloved retired friend, Miss Deb. You would think one choice of cupcake would suffice but, no-oo, Miss Deb provided a tower of six colorful varieties. I caved into peer pressure and grabbed the chocolate/blackberry buttercream because they were disappearing FAST. It was dee-licious!  Later though, in the cloak of darkness, behind my locked classroom door, I bit into the lemon bar/buttercream that I had secretly smuggled out and my knees practically buckled when I realized it had a lemon FILLING! And the cupcakes were just a small percentage of Deb's dessert drive-thru...there were pinwheel wraps, veggies, fruit, dips, trail mix, and a luscious sherbet punch. Our administrator couldn't be happier because she can get through her message with little interruption because our mouths are constantly occupied with something other than talking.

A few days later, our friend Naomi decided to host an after-school game night and off we skipped again. Her kitchen island was adrift with desserts. "Rice krispie treats!" I squealed happily, knocking Allison out of the way in my eagerness. I then delivered a heartfelt review. "They're perfect," I declared, my expertise on this topic infallible. "The perfect ratio of marshmallow and butter. Without that careful balance, the rice krispie treat could be rendered too dry...crackling like a crouton. Too much...and it turns greasy...a loose, gooey mess in your hand." I worked my way through sweet chicken wraps, pizza bites, hot dip, a cheese tray, chips, candy-candy-candy..."Why didn't you stop me?" I moaned, trying to fit behind my steering wheel to drive Katriel home. "I value my life too much to get between you and your generously-loaded plate. You must be a master at Jenga," she remarked. I beamed at the sweet compliment. (I woke up, later, in a cold sweat at 2 am when I realized that I'd forgotten to visit Naomi's crock pot of mini-meatballs bubbling on the counter.)

The next day was a Conference Day. The Leadership Class was hosting a Teacher Appreciation Luncheon (I just read somewhere that if there is an appreciation day for your profession, then you are in an underpaid position...sigh) so naturally, we were thrilled. Conversely, we were also upset (of course we were) because that meant that the donuts and bagels so graciously provided to us by our administrators most Conference mornings would not be served so, yeah...like spoiled children...naturally, we were devastated. Fortunately, we came up with a solution during Game Night. I'm not sure where the inspiration came from..."If only," I said, gesturing in the air with my fistful of rice krispie treat, "we knew someone," I rested my chin on my closed fist that was wrapped around a handful of jellybeans, "who would be driving by a Dunkin' Donuts on the way to school." I sighed sadly before reaching for a pizza pillow. There followed a long discussion about everyone's dream donuts where we revealed a lot about ourselves...I've never felt closer to a group of women in my life. 

It takes a LOT to raise one's spirits when one is seated in a school auditorium at 7:30 in the morning to discuss a state sanctioned seminar addressing workplace violence. To avoid...not condone. "Glad I left my stunt retractable prop blade at home," I muttered once I saw where this discussion was leading. Know your audience. I jotted down a quick note to apologize to my colleague Kim for once lobbing a Nerf ball at her face during a phonics meeting. I sat, horrified, to discover that I could be classified as a Level 1 offender. Fortunately, at that moment, Marissa walked in with our donuts and my day dawned bright. It was enough to get me through to the luncheon. Well...actually, it was enough to get me through to Katriel's rhubarb bars that were waiting for us in my classroom and THOSE were enough to get us through to that AMAZING luncheon.

Hello, everyone. My name is Amy and I'm an emotional eater. When I get upset, ice cream. Thanks for pudding up with me. I donut know what I'd do without you.

Katriel comes along for the ride (If Amy was a magician, she would have written her errands on a ta-da list!)

It started simply enough.

A text.

"Do you want to grab a margarita sometime this week?"

She had me at margarita.

Unfortunately for Katriel though, nothing involving me is ever simple.

Her brilliantly succinct plan of point A to point B was quickly edited to include ALL the letters of the alphabet.

"Do you mind (driving an hour out before doubling back to our destination) popping in quick (an hour or more) to see my mom?" I texted back.

"Sure!"

"Wear clothes intended for the islands" I texted, to (a) set a tone of tropical delight and (b) offer a subtle warning that it is possible to keel over from heat stroke in my mom's apartment. I then proceeded to don a sweater because Mom likes pink and always compliments me when I wear it.

I made sure Katriel was safely strapped into my gas-conserving clown car before providing her with our itinerary packed with delightful destinations such as returning cans and buying bologna. "Let's stop quick and get coffees first," I said, hoping that a caffeinated coma would cloud the drudgery of our day. 

Unfortunately for Katriel though, nothing involving me is ever quick.

My friend Shanna is the best barista in the county. She even has an award! Lucky us...we happened to
catch her mid-shift. She whipped up our delicious beverages in the blink of an eye, leaving ample time for her and I to catch up. We didn't pop in so much as plop in. But the coffee made carrying in a car-load of cans so much easier. Holding the coffee in one hand left the other one free to hold the door for Katriel who heroically hefted nearly a dozen bags into the recycling center. "Where's your coffee?" I asked her. "It's in the car," she gritted out as she had the handle of one bag clenched in her teeth. So inventive.

We bought the bologna (and the thirty or so other grocery items I may have failed to mention to Katriel) without incident before heading to the next town so that I could flesh out a possible mail fraud scam at the post office. "Is this a scam?" I asked, holding up a questionable text message to the post master. She didn't even blink an eye. "Delete it." Case closed which meant, happily, that I could give Katriel a "quick" tour of my hometown. "Frederick Douglass crossed THIS street," I emphasized, pointing, "to deliver his scheduled-but-cancelled-due-to-idiocy speech on the steps of the Bissell house." 

Can caffeine make you sleepy? Katriel stifled a yawn. I thoughtfully abbreviated our tour to my and Brad's childhood homes and to the village green upon which I once fell asleep as I used it as a mid-way break bicycling to my early morning employment destination of picking strawberries (before quitting  (or being invited to leave) three days later). "I'll show you the space rock in front of the library on our way home," I promised. "Great," Katriel said sleepily.

Several hours after picking Katrial up, we finally made it to my mom's apartment. I slowly sweated to death in my pink sweater after I stuffed Katriel into a corner of my mother's living room to meticulously apply vinyl accent stickers to Mom's half wall. My mom admired the beautiful flowered decorations while I complained, "Katriel. How much longer? We want to play cards." Mom and I heard her voice as if from very far away, hidden behind Mom's recliner and wrapped around the lamp stand. "I'm almost done," she sighed.

After Mom beat us in several rounds of Crazy 8s, Katriel and I departed. "Do you want a flight or a glass big enough to swim laps in?" I asked. Turns out, it didn't matter! The restaurant we chose served both! I did backstrokes while Katriel delicately discerned the subtle flavors of her flight. 

It's bad enough that Katriel is smarter, more organized, more sensible, harder working, more patient, and nicer than me. On top of that, I have been, valiantly, coming to terms with the fact that one of my best friends is more than half my age. To be fair, it's not an issue that often weighs on my mind. However, others seem to like to point it out. At the beginning of this school year, while partaking of another one of our favorite beverages, I was asked if I was the matriarch of our entire cider-imbibing crew. At the moment, it seemed easier to just respond "Yes"  to this very insensitive question posed by an obviously myopic idiot and move on. I didn't expect my "daughters" to so-enthusiastically embrace their new role in my life, thanking me for the cider and asking me what we were having for supper before I threatened to ground them and suspend their allowances indefinitely.

So I shouldn't have been surprised as, when I was diving down to the bottom of my glass to retrieve the cherry, it happened. "Is this your daughter?" our attentive but obviously blind waiter asked. I groaned while Katriel cackled. I sighed. Being mistaken as Katriel's mother is definitely a compliment but still..."Don't be such a sour-puss," Katriel scolded, signaling our waiter who rushed off to get me another drink, hoping to recoup his chance of getting a decent tip. "Don't be so salty," I shot back, fore-going the straw and gulping down the contents of my glass in record time. "Or I'll send you to bed without your margarita."