Creative Quandary: Don't toot your own horn using a trouser trumpet

One should not wake up first thing in the morning with the panicked thought, "Did I paint REDACTED HALLOWEEN CHARACTER'S NAME'S teeth?" No. Your first thought should be a gentle and welcoming reminder: This is the day that the Lord has made. I will rejoice because He has made me glad. THAT should be your first thought but instead I, woke, completely traumatized by yesterday's events where I was reluctantly gathered with three co-workers, half my age and double my energy, and triple my sophistication. 

Ordinarily, I like to fancy myself a somewhat creative and moderately crafty individual but, on this day, reality struck. I was out-classed with my a** on uncomfortable display. 

While Spencer set immediately to work, sketching out over-sized versions of our characters onto cardboard, Katriel made sure that I was appropriately equipped with drinks and snacks. Allison sorted our paint supply inventory as I sipped my first Mule. As my team sprawled effortlessly all over Katriel's lawn, I perched on a chair, pen and pad in hand, to begin the grueling work of choreographing the songs for our Halloween flash-mob.  "You?" my husband asked later, honestly befuddled, "You couldn't master the Waltz or the Two-Step for Sydney's wedding after months of practice. We have to remind you of the next move when we're doing the Hokey-Pokey. You mess up the beak and wing for the Chicken Dance." Nevertheless. There I was...completely failing at the task I was given. It was time to join the lawn ornaments and plant myself on the grass.

Quandary #1:  I had left my Mule on the table. 

Quandary #2: I was rendered creatively paralyzed surrounded by the talented team around me. "Is there pink?" I asked at one point. "No," I was told, "Just mix it." Just "mix it." Sure. I was, after all, the Picasso of my time. 

Quandary #3: I couldn't hear a darn thing. I'm sure I wasn't missing much. I speculate that the bulk of the conversation surrounding me centered on speculation regarding my eventual retirement. "When can we ditch the Crypt-Keeper?" I heard one whisper.  

Quandary #4: I was also rendered physically paralyzed as my crack-where-the-sun-shouldn't-shine was on full display. It was
my own fault.  I had been afraid to wear the underwear that I confidently enjoy. Sigh. They're beauts, too... effortlessly covering my ample posterior while extending up to the bottom of my bosom line which now happens to happily coincide with my belly button line. I had wished, my whole life, for an "innie" and now realize that I should have been more careful what I wished for as the rules of gravity, when applied to the excess flesh of my fifty-something form, made my belly button disappear altogether. So...so-long  belly button. So-long, confidence-building granny panties.  Hello, barely-covered-by-bikini-bottoms butt crack. Good-bye, any semblance of dignity.

Quandary #5: I watched enviously as my sweet friends kept bouncing up like bunnies and sprinting across the lawn to exchange paint colors or visit the snack table. When it did come time for me to get a new color, I had to under-go a lot of mental gymnastics first...envisioning my graceful ascent, my casual lope across the lawn. Trying to suppress the inevitable groans that accompanied my first three attempts to lift myself off the ground, I eventually attain a sort-of downward dog-style posture from which I could sort-of crab-walk back into an upright position. Allison would have sprinted by me like a cheetah twelve times during this humiliating attempt. 

Quandary #6: As we mercifully neared the end of this two-part adventure (Wait, we need to do this again NEXT WEEK?!?!), we began to collaborate, sharing the same cardboard characters. Spencer and I were, at one point, face-to-face...me frantically holding my breath so as not to offend him with my halitosis. It was, of course, all for naught when I, in desperate need for oxygen, exploded a wind storm of pure stench right into Spencer's face. 

Quandary #7:  Not a fan of conversational lulls, I will resort to any means to fill them. And, in this case, somehow guided the topic to "Dutch Ovens." My team was surprised and tickled by my expert familiarity and knowledge on this stinky subject. No amount of denial could convince them that I was a neophyte regarding rectal turbulence. As the sage elder of this little group, I like to be revered for my wisdom, graciousness, and hospitality. Not hienie hiccups. 

Okay. We can definitely write off this first artistic encounter as a loss.

But, apparently, there will be a second one. Maybe I have a chance to redeem myself.

What have I learned? Wear a romper. Keep my drink and snack within easy reach. Casually place a sturdy chair nearby to help with heaving myself off the ground. Volunteer to paint only the white and black areas. Have a list of socially-acceptable conversation-starters at-the-ready. OR...create a plan to sabotage my teammates. A strategically-placed whoopie cushion would take a lot of pressure off of me. 

Stuck in traffic on the QEW on what SHOULD be a three hour journey to Toronto? Urine trouble.

 I don't have many areas of strength. I can write a passable haiku. My chocolate raspberry pie is pretty good so long as no one knows I use a store-bought crust. I have excellent taste in dachshunds. And, up until pretty recently, I had an iron bladder when it came to traveling. 

Being Brad Mosiman's wife has a whole host of advantages. First of all, he's easy on the eyes. He has a kind heart. He fusses over me when I'm sick. Listens to my endless complaining. Puts up with my helplessness when it comes to anything mechanical. Makes sure my gas tank is always full. Scrapes the ice off my windshield in the winter. And can geographically locate me without the assistance of Air Tags or Find My Friend. 

But...being Brad Mosiman's wife occasionally has its drawbacks. His insistence on being, personally, physically fit feels...judgy. His insistence on do-it-yourself projects that turn into do-it-yourself-while-yelling-at-Amy-because-of-her-incompetent "help" isn't as delightful as it sounds. And, his habit of driving seventeen hours to Iowa and only stopping for gas developed my decades-long philosophy of travel dehydration. Let's just politely say that that is a young girl's game with a brand new, just-out-of-the-box bladder. You know those tall athletic socks with the red stripes around the rim? When you first pulled them up your legs...how they lovingly hugged your lean calves and vowed never to let go? And then, after multiple uses and countless trips tumbling about in the spin cycle, suddenly your trusted friend began inching away from your lower leg to flirt with your ankles? And, eventually, frustratingly, began to hump your heel? 

I began noticing it in my forties. My impenetrable bladder began to betray me. I made adjustments.

Then, in my fifties, there was no holding back the unstoppable force of my blasphemous bladder. My trusty iron storage tank developed a severe rust problem that singing repeat renditions of the nationally anthem could not hold back. I could kegel til the cows came home to no avail. 

But a three-hour trip to Toronto? I scoffed. In my sleep (Did I mention that I wake up between 2 and 3 am to visit the restroom now?)! I immediately went into dehydration mode but Brad kindly bought me a Pepsi for the journey. I tried to resist...but it sang to me from the cup-holder...a liquid lure and, yes, I took the bait.

At two hours, I started to wiggle but my confidence was still high. There was still plenty of play in my line.

And then we hit traffic. Hookset. 

Can you call it traffic when nothing is moving (except me...wiggling, kegeling, folding myself...bodily in two)? We hit parking lot on the QEW. I began eyeing up that Pepsi bottle for alternative purposes. Noticing my mild discomfort, my thoughtful husband told me to keep an eye out for an exit with handy gas stations or fast foot establishments. As he inched by the next exit (I had lost speech capability at this point...using all the powers of self-will to stem the tide), I was stunned. "You didn't say to get off at that one," Brad told me, watching as I googled exactly HOW absorbent the brand of paper towels we keep in the track actually is. I was now holding back tears as well as pee.

He was now VERY invested.

Twenty minutes later (Are they minutes in Canada?...My bladder couldn't convert kilometers), we hit an off-ramp and began the desperate search for an oasis. But we'd entered a residential area. We were in trouble and Brad Mosiman knew it. With an eagle eye, he pulled into an after-hours construction site and parked me right in front of a porta-potty. Beggars could not be choosers. I slid carefully out of the truck, shimmied around it with my knees bowed together and my toes curled, duck-walked the two feet to the porta-potty door, grabbed that door and flung myself inside. I will not describe the interior of that receptacle. That is between me and God. I emerged, moments later, gasping for fresh air, traumatized, but grateful. 

Brad Mosiman and I continued our journey but I sensed a shift in our relationship. When we arrived at Dan and Katriel's, my husband discreetly asked if I needed to use the restroom, scoping out its location like he was scanning the horizon for deer. When we entered the stadium, the first thing he did was nod towards the closest woman's bathroom to our seats. And yes...before we left for our return journey home, he insisted that I used the facilities. I was also asked if I needed a potty break on the way home, too. 

Embarrassing...yes. Humbling...you betcha. But maybe there is a silver lining to this little incident. Is it possible that I will now be able to comfortably and confidently imbibe in a reasonable amount of beverage consumption while gallivanting about the globe? Bladder late than never.

To Boston and Beyond...to stand in the historic footsteps of both the brave and the buffoons (part 3, The Finale)

I was becoming very discriminating regarding the universally-applied fifteen dollar admission fee to cross the threshold of every self-important New England structure of random historic significance. I stormed out of a squatty lighthouse that demanded my money to extol its limited lifespan due to erosion and outdated technology. Imagine my regret when I learned later that I could have viewed Taylor Swift's house from its somewhat lofty perch as well as taken in three states at once:  Rhode Island, Connecticut, and New York. Still, a girl's gotta take a stand somewhere.

I didn't when it came to the Old North Church. I fan-girl-ed like a Swiftie as I stood in its stately shadows. I teach Longfellow's historically-inaccurate poem with glee every year, 4th graders slapping their hands on their knees in unison to maintain the cadence of the steady fall of hoofs over pavement stone and back country road. I happily gave my money to cross this threshold of history. Savannah, Lisa and I walked in and were immediately transported back in time. You HAVE TO GO. It was bright and airy and beautiful. Lisa grabbed an audio set and lost herself in the stories while I just slowly wandered and wondered over the significance and symbolism of this building. We were enthralled with the pew compartments "owned" by Boston's upper class while the upstairs gallery was available for the minorities. "When did Martin Luther nail his treatise against church indulgences to the door?" I murmured, reading about how families would decorate their stalls in an attempt of showmanship and extravagance. Apparently not much had changed since 1517. 

The stately organ was enthroned on the second level at the back of the church. I smiled at the four intricately carved wooden angels on guard around it, having just learned that a privateer, in a flash of guilt from plundering a French vessel (Remember, they provided much-needed friendship, funds, and firepower during our little altercation with England.), decided to donate these religious relics to assuage his guilt and glad-hand God. Martin Luther would not have been surprised at this at all. Hey...fun fact about our friend Martin, by the way. Did you know that he had been a monk and his wife (Yes! Gasp! His WIFE!) had been a nun? Up until now, I thought old Martin would have been pretty uptight and stodgy but now...color me interested.

Lisa and I tumbled into the compartment where Teddy Roosevelt sat when he attended a religious service at the Old North Church. Savannah and I stood in the same spot at Lafayette in 1824 as he gazed upon a bust of his friend George Washington. A bust, I might add excitedly, that was once housed in the right front alcove of the church but, during renovations, a window was discovered and then, ceremoniously restored as, presumably, the hurried exit point of the young man who bravely lit the lanterns before British regulars were dispatched to stop him. STOP IT! Why on earth had I not given more thought to that part of the story? Spies and spy communications were rampant in Boston and lit lanterns were a common tool to signal information. Of course the British would be alert for such shenanigans.

Old North Church: Surpassed expectations.

Our final day in Boston was a trip to Bunker Hill. Lisa heard "hill" and decided that an extra hour in bed in an air-conditioned hotel sounded much more interesting. She graciously encouraged us to go and bring her back a coffee when we concluded our adventure. Fortunately for Savannah and I, the early morning was a pleasant temperature and our Uber dropped us off at the base of the monument so we only had to climb stairs instead of a hill. Years of directing the 6th grade Boston research projects had already alerted me that the bulk of the fighting had occurred on nearby Breed's Hill but, standing atop the incline, looking at the steady slope extending down into Boston, it was humbling to consider the bravery of the men who fought their way up for a fleeting chance of freedom. And, what luck, a bakery was located a block away!

We concluded our New England exploration with a stop at Groton/New London...where Savannah had
moved upon graduating college to work on submarines:  The vessels, NOT the sandwich. We visited Mystic, Connecticut where Lisa enjoyed the shops and I enjoyed watching the bridge lift. We visited the little park and beach area that Savannah remembered fondly. "Dad and I parked the moving van here and ate Pad Thai," she told Lisa as I painfully remembered how the rest of that story played out with them returning home, loading up Sydney's stuff, and then driving my daughters to begin a new life, 3,000 miles away from their mother, to California. Speaking of traitors and having your heart painfully pierced, the girls later climbed the 166 steps of the Groton Monument where a healthy hatred of Benedict Arnold is inscribed deeply into stone:  "When the British, under the command of the traitor, Benedict Arnold, burnt the towns of Groton and New London." This was after the American commander had surrendered, handed over his sword, and then was swiftly, brutally, and dishonorably run through with it. 

That evening was fireworks on a 45-degree-incline overlooking the Thames River. Magical but muscularly-paralyzing. Turns out I can try defying gravity but will inevitably fail. The walk back to the vehicle was embarrassing as I shuffled painfully along like Quasimodo. I dropped the girls off at the airport early the next morning before my six hour, back-seizing, solo journey home. How I treasured re-visiting these memories of Savannah's time in Connecticut. I reflected on the path she took that would eventually lead her to Lisa and the amazing life that she has now. And how grateful I am to be a part of it. 

Beyond grateful.

 

To Boston and beyond...to brave the heat, the crowds, the closed in spaces, and my own innate clumsiness (Part 2)

Hyped as a historic mall food court, Quincy Market calls to me, for some unfathomable reason, like a siren's song. And why not? Who wouldn't want to battle teeming crowds of overly-seasoned tourists in July through narrow passageways to bellow your order to dismissive employees who view their clients as cattle for you to then fight to the death for the rights to a sticky table?

This girl.

Who is claustrophobic, agoraphobic, enochlophobic, and menopausal? 

This girl.

All for lobster bisque in a bread bowl.

Lisa was understandably baffled. Savannah was heroically determined.

Survived it. Was worth it. Would do it again (in another five years).

In addition to the Swan Boats, my other request on this trip (besides torturing myself with Quincy Market) was to tour the U.S.S. Constitution, famously named "Old Ironsides." Up to this point, I had only viewed this famous vessel through the smudged windows of a tour bus or a quick "fly by" on a Duck. A key player in the War of 1812, this frigate is the oldest Navy warship still in service. She never lost a battle....unlike me who began wilting under the unrelenting rays of the scorching sun the minute we got dropped off at the harbor. The journey across the parking lot had me ready to wave the white flag of surrender.

To put it quite simply, she is splendid. The woodwork gleamed, ropes were woven magically into tight spirals and tucked to the side. She rocked gently as I walked, in awe, across her deck...a history book brought to life. The U.S.S. Constitution is the equivalent of a four-story building and I braved the ladder down to her second level, fighting my anxiety as I stood, stooped, before a gallery of long cannons. A patient and knowledgeable young man gave a brief presentation about the vessel, blowing my mind by dispelling the long-held myth that the warship was nicknamed "Old Ironsides" because enemy cannonballs would bounce off her hull which were constructed of resiliently sturdy live oak. "Bounce would not have been an adequate verb to describe how The U.S.S. Constitution withstood the bombardment," the sailor explained. He had me at "verb." Any member of the armed services who effortlessly whips out their parts of speech is a credit to our great nation. "Simple physics can explain the phenomenon," he continued while I swooned, either from the heat, the closed quarters, or his academic prose. He then dropped the phrase "kinetic energy" and my knees buckled. Apparently, the live oak had the ability to absorb the impact of the incoming cannon balls, creating a ripple effect that dissipated the destructive force of the armament. How I wished for an accordion fan. Oh my beating heart.

Lisa and Savannah braved the decks below while I returned topside to fry in the afternoon sun. Savannah returned and, alarmed, rushed me into the museum. Best air conditioning EVER. Highly recommend. 

Our Uber driver arrived soon after. We were separated from her by a low chain fence which Savannah and Lisa skipped nimbly over. Not to be out-done, I followed...immediately tripping and performing an awkward and near-catastrophic stumble dance that was mere seconds from a painful face-plant (had I not been so graceful and dexterous). Applauding my success, the driver waited until I got settled into her backseat before commenting on the hot weather. "Maybe next time," she said, winking at me in the rear view mirror, "you should skip the Constitution."

To Boston and beyond...as long as there is air conditioning, limited walking, lots of snacks, and not too much history (Part 1)

 Poor Savannah.

She definitely got stuck with the wrong travelling companions. 

If there is a peak...Savannah will want to summit it.

If there is a bridge...Savannah will want to cross it.

If there is a river...Savannah will strap on her floaties and start swimming.

For Savannah, there exist no obstacles to impede her journey...only challenges for her to overcome.

She should have known she was in trouble when the only way she could wrestle Lisa and I into the line for "The Freedom Trail" tour was to buy us large lemonades and shift us strategically from shady spot to shady spot. She ignored Lisa repeatedly calling this excursion "The Oregon Trail" and distracted me by pointing out the thousands of squirrels cavorting about the Boston Commons. "How long is this tour?" Lisa and I wondered, wilting in the heat and thinking wistfully of our Duck Tour from the day before. "Forty-five minutes," Savannah said gently, thinking this would reassure us. She missed the look of alarm that passed between Lisa and me. 

We made it as far as Paul Revere's grave (I searched frantically for a shovel, "Move over, buddy.") before Lisa had renamed "The Freedom Trail," "The Trail of Tears." "We have literally walked two blocks," Savannah hissed as the tour guy, dressed in period clothes MADE OUT OF WOOL, droned on about a bunch of historical nonsense. Pausing to ask if there were any questions, someone (I swear, NOT ME) inquired about the remaining length of the tour. "About two more hours," he said, not comprehending the bomb he had just dropped on Boston. Savannah, fearing a mutiny, admitted immediate defeat and we withdrew subtly from our party and retreated. The battle was lost. Savannah surrendered. 

We headed over to fulfill my wish to ride Boston's famed Swan Boats. Delightful. A shockingly low $4.75 ticket price. I was getting sick of paying fifteen dollars for each site only to see a plaque bragging that so-and-so  had slept there. I would like to suggest an alternative option where I would happily relinquish my fifteen dollars to sleep there myself for the duration of the ten minute tour. Throw in a specialized guest book that you could sign under the heading "________ slept in Paul Revere's House" and you have a recipe to rack in those rates on a ninety degree day. I had already (inadvertently) begun the tradition of visiting the restroom facilities of historic and notable places. Sleeping isn't that much more of a stretch on my list of life's goals.

While Lisa and I were intent on wheedling our way to lunch, Savannah was still busy pointing out the thousands of other historical sites we could go visit. "Could we go to a museum?" I asked, ignoring Lisa's glare as I knew there would at least be air conditioning and a snack bar there. Savannah brightened and checked out the options on her phone. "Were you thinking science, history, or art?" I winked at Lisa. "Art," I said decisively before whispering to my tired and hungry friend, "We can take the Monet and run."

To Boston...and beyond: The Culinary Capers of Savannah, Lisa, & Amy

Who, as an adult, wouldn't want to vacation with their mom?

Much like the ostrich with her head buried deep in the sand, I, too, am occasionally oblivious to the obvious. Doesn't everyone love vacationing with their mom? I fancy myself quite the delightful traveling companion: Flexible and easy-going, adaptable and fun. I just naturally take it for granted that my daughters would want me to accompany them to historical excursions, natural landmarks, and exotic locales. 

But now there are spouses involved.

My husband attempted to gently break it to me that there may be (brief) times that my presence might not necessarily be welcomed. 

What an utterly ridiculous notion.

So I didn't think twice about stuffing myself in the back cab of my Titan to join Savannah and Lisa on their post-July 4th Semiquincentennial jaunt of Boston and surrounding areas. 

I knew things were going to go well immediately when Lisa broke the long-standing (Brad) Mosiman rule

by foraging to eat before we had even left Wyoming County. Two hours on the road warranted a rest-stop pickle purchase. Barely an hour after that, we were eating fried green tomatoes in Troy. I would not go hungry on this trip. Once fed, Lisa was more than accommodating with the Mosiman tendency of researching, learning, endlessly discussing, and then immediately dismissing the fun facts about the places we visit. Troy is the birthplace of Uncle Sam, originating with a meat-packer named Sam Wilson during the War of 1812 when he stamped the meat barrels with "U.S.". We also delved into the history of the Shakers, which was an off-shoot of the Quakers with one of the significant differences being that Shakers practiced celibacy...which explains their near-extinct population today.

Our trip was successful largely because I am well-versed on 4th grade level poetry, prose, and American history while Lisa speaks fluent food. Savannah, thank goodness, is bilingual, expertly translating when needed. My mundane appetite appeals to the consistent menu of McDonald's while Savannah and Lisa's tastes are Michelin-rated. Silly me...I thought Michelin was a tire.

My girls are acutely aware that my anxiety can appear under any number of circumstances:  Crowds, strange places, close quarters, too many choices, any entree that costs more than $19.99, loud, sudden noises, and accents. Savannah and Lisa were strong advocates of secluded seating locations, limiting my menu-viewing, and narrowing down my choices to a more relatable three options. Lisa orders food with a confidence that I find inspiring and intimidating. While she was rattling off ingredients that I had never heard of, I was complaining to my server that Savannah had stolen my gummy candy ring garnish off my fancy drink. A new gummy candy ring was rushed out to me on its own small plate. 

I was more confident in Quincy Market, home to the best lobster bisque bread bowl in the world. Unfortunately, it was as crowded and as hot as you can imagine the week following July 4th while the World Cup was currently going on. Empty-handed, I took to high ground, perching like a vulture on a railing, waiting for a table to open up on the second level while Savannah and Lisa fought the masses for the soup that was my sole reason for driving seven hours. WHY? WHY? WHY? do I not bring my own cutlery? My bread bowl deserves a table cloth (or at least a clean table) and an actual metal spoon. But...no matter. Like my patriotic forefathers, I, too, could endure the hardship of screaming toddlers, obnoxious tourists, plastic silverware, and the appalling sight of people eating chicken fingers in a seafood city as I soaked in the historic atmosphere beneath the Great Dome that had been designed in 1826 by Alexander Parris. 

I enjoyed so many amazing meals on this trip. I should have kept a food diary but I'm not diligent enough to do it justice. We sampled pastries, Mediterranean, Mystic pizza, and more Michelin-rated restaurants. I had a funnel cake-type dessert delicately shredded into a filled bird nest bowl, a crispy-coated Caribbean shrimp that I was obsessed with, a hummus flight, and ham-hock croquettes. We enjoyed a pleasant evening overlooking the Boston Harbor where the Mayflower was docked in preparation for the weekend's upcoming Tall Ship Parade, bay bunnies bouncing out of the bushes at dusk.

And, of course, Dunkin.

My indecisiveness practically paralyzed me as Savannah and I stood patiently in line for Lisa's coffee. I spotted a Dunkalatte on the menu and, befuddled, immediately researched it. I landed on an article brilliantly written by Nick O'Malley, laughing hysterically (to the point of snorting) and reading parts of it to my fellow customers. Thank you, Nick, you had me at "melty milkshake." You were an instrumental part of my seven hour solo drive home after dropping Savannah and Lisa off at the Hartford Airport.

We'd determined which of Rhode Island's magnificent mansions to tour based on food. The Marble House sported a Chinese Tea House atop the sea cliff out back. Of course it did. 

Alva Vanderbilt had the Tea House built to host women's suffrage rallies. In 1911, the Chinese Revolution provided a brief window of advancement for women's rights. Brave women soldiers helped smuggle in the weapons that would put a substantial dent in the armor of the Qing Dynasty. One of their leaders, Qiu Jin, protested vehemently against the painful and permanently-disfiguring practice of foot-binding before she was executed. Alva arranged for some of these women to come to her home to be honored. I was excited to experience the Tea House (#1) because Sydney loves to partake in the custom of "High Tea" and (#2) my friend Katriel was in China at that exact moment. Unfortunately, it turns out another trigger for my anxiety is obscene opulence. 

Savannah and I were eager to re-visit Carson's Store in Noank from her tenure as an engineer at Electric Boat in New London. We stuffed Lisa into the tiny booths and happily ordered their generously portioned breakfasts. "Did you text me from the bathroom?" Savannah asked as I returned from the back of the restaurant. I nodded. "I wanted you to see the teeny-tiny sink," I explained.

There was more...so much more. A never-ending smorgasbord of deliciousness. I am so blessed that Savannah and Lisa invited me along, welcomed my company, and kindly tolerated and accommodated my anxiety issues. I admired how comfortable and effortless they were in the more upscale culinary environments of which we found ourselves. Me? When it comes to a Michelin-rated restaurant, I just feel like I'm in the wrong attire.

7

Sole searching: Taking steps to walk like Jesus is tough when you're duck-footed ( I quack myself up sometimes)

Did it begin several months ago when my friend Allison indignantly reminded me that she's never been to my house (To be fair, I have also never been to HER house either.)? 

Did it begin yesterday when my work colleagues discovered that Brad and I had added another canine companion to our family and provided me with ALL the emotions that feed my soul:  Outrage, indignation, delight, and demands to meet Charlie? I immediately invited them to come to my house after work today to meet her which then spurred my usual frantic inventory of my messy little house which led to my meticulous dusting of my Dad's decorative stein and the straightening of my two adopt-a-puffin stuffies which adorn my dry pantry. I made an angel food cake (from a box mix...remember, it's me, y'all) and worried that I didn't have enough drink selections in the fridge. I lay awake at 2 am and wondered if I'd have time to scrub out and clean the boot trays before I left for work.

Did it begin early this morning during a meditative walk around my field following a rare but definitely Jesus-led call-to-Scripture where I read and was convicted by 1 John 2:6 "Whoever (Amy) says (s)he abides in Him ought to walk in the same way in which He walked."? I mentally brought my family with me on this short journey, praying for them and my dear colleagues with whom I would be meeting with shortly. I snapped pictures along the way, making a collage to share with everyone. I know...completely obnoxious. I should have been scrubbing boot trays.

Did it begin when I picked up Katriel for our long work commute where I passionately vowed that today...TODAY...I would curb my obnoxiousness. I would tone down my aggressive tendencies and impulsivity. I would think before speaking or acting...

Or did it begin as we pulled into the school parking lot two minutes later and I spotted Spencer's vehicle parked oddly...in the front, stretched across three parking spots. I didn't even hesitate to mess with him. Except it wasn't Spencer. It was his husband, Stephen, with whom I have had very minimal interaction (thus far). "Don't do it," Katriel warned and then immediately began slinking down in her seat because, oh yes, I was doing it. I positioned my truck perpendicular to Stephen who, disappointingly, didn't even look over at me. He just backed up. Oh no, this would NOT do. I turned Titan to face Stephen but he then just maneuvered his car AROUND me to begin exiting the parking lot. No-no! I was now in hot pursuit...lights flashing, horn sounding, Katriel in a ball on Titan's floor. FINALLY, contact was made with the happy end result which would be Stephan completing his errands in town before returning to the school with my medium Dunkalatte order.

Or maybe it began when I hijacked a hallway display case?

Did it begin when I was driving to my house with Katriel, my team (and poor Stephen) in tow, having an internal anxiety attack of epic proportions that Charlie, so very new to us and demonstrating her own internal anxiety attacks by stress-pooing when left alone, might have decorated my bathroom in doggie diarrhea? Well, at least no one would notice my dirty boot trays then. And, thank you Lord, that my anxiety does not present in the form of stress-pooing.

Did it begin when I, in high-speed monologue, provided the most convoluted house tour known to mankind? "This is the dining room...where we dine," I gestured grandly while my husband sighed. I pointed out, in detail, all of the deficits of my internet-purchased convertible love seat (which my guests insisted on sitting upon before declaring it "comfy," bless their hearts). Drink distribution was a disaster. I should have put the choices on a lovely silver tray for ease of selection. Stephen, intent on never being invited back, performed a nifty 180 to get me back for the parking lot pandemonium, traded his Shanty for a Modelo at the last second. Spencer created a crisis by insisting on tap water.

Did it begin when I decided to pray over the box mix Angel food cake, my husband looking at me like I was touched. Yeah. By the spirit of the LORD.

Was it when we decided to further torture Stephen by forcing him to play a complicated game he'd never heard of? (I am worried that I may never see Stephen again after this day.)

Was it when I concluded the visit with a Meadow Walk? Brad was certain, at this point, that I was out of my gourd.

I pointed out the key features of the walk including the dangerous but magnetically-compelling Pine Cone
Hole, stuffed to the brim with 32 pine cones but still ready to snap an unsuspecting ankle. Allison was my shining star on this journey, exclaiming with interest and excitement about the deer-nibbled milkweed and was just in awe about a weed pod that I thought resembled a miniature purple pineapple. "Will there be berries?" she wondered, moved by the utter magic of our Meadow Walk. Even Brad was caught up in the spell. "Did you show them the patch of horseradish?" he asked, as Allison raced back for a peek. Spencer gained some points, raving about the blueberries. Katriel complimented the Morning Glories. Stephen...let's just say he'll need a Meadow Walk re-do. As my brain fumbled for the word for the critter I see every day in my pond, I mistakenly said "Musk Ox" until Allison gently provided the word "muskrat." "You' d have a whole other situation if it were a Musk Ox," Stephen cracked, ruining the tone of the Meadow Walk COMPLETELY (I'm kidding Stephen, you were such a good sport).

It probably began when the Lord gifted me with a husband and friends who see ME...not my house. Who hear ME...not my nonsensical ramblings...who know ME...and that I want to walk in the same way as Jesus walks but they (God, my husband, my friends) know that I am going to be magnetically drawn, again and again, to Pine Cone Hole, and stumble...again and again and again. They know this and continue to walk with me anyway.