I put the "vile" in villainous

"...and Amy, you'll be Ursula." Thus concluded last June's decisive meeting where I would make an impassioned plea to promote costume designs that highlighted our best features (or at least camouflaged our hideous ones). "Please let me wear a slimming costume in which I am clearly adorable," I would beg. But no...the ONE meeting for which I show up late...and my costume future...my fashion fate..is set in stone.

So I spent months in research to capture the true spirit of Ursula the Sea-Witch-with-a-W in hearty DIY fashion. Turns out that wrestling long, narrow sheets of plastic around errant purple balloons is as much fun as you can imagine and resembled tentacles in the same way that my requested haircut EXACTLY resembled that of Jennifer Aniston's. Okay. New plan. Order a ready-to-go model. "I didn't know that they sold a "slutty" Ursula costume," Brad said with sudden interest, leaning over my shoulder as I scrolled past one inappropriate version after another. By the time I finally found a design that actually covered more than 65% of my body though, he'd wandered away.

The box arrived in plenty of time. "I look like an obese octopus," I said dismally. "Aren't you suppose to look like an octopus," Sydney answered off-handedly, looking quite fetching in her Royals gear. "What are you suppose to be," I snapped, peevishly. "I'm Erica Hosmer," she smiled, spinning in her white skirt. "Shouldn't your skirt cover more than 65% of your body," I commented, my vengeful spirit capturing Brad's attention as he requested a late inning skirt substitution. Unable to dispute the ruling of the head umpire, Sydney stomped off.

"I need an Ursula wig," I whined sadly, mourning the eventual loss of my bangs which will leave more than 65% of my face exposed to critical public inspection. Don't believe me? Check out this recent conversation with a darling 4th grader.

Darling 4th grader (head tilted, staring lovingly into my eyes):  Mrs. Mosiman...you should be a witch next year. You have the perfect nose for it.

Brad combed store Halloween sections for appropriate wigs (See what I did there? Combed/wigs...do you really think such brilliant writing happens on its own, People!), sending me photos for approval. All the white ones sported attractive bangs. I waffled. Why couldn't Ursula have attractive bangs? Brad could only find one wig that stood straight up in an Ursula-style Pompadour. "Buy it," I texted morosely.

"I look like an obese octopus with bright purple Troll hair," I said glumly. Brad was more concerned with my stylish elastic waist band. "What if a kid steps on a tentacle," he asked, "What do you have on UNDER your costume?" Great. Like I didn't have enough worries.

My glam squad arrived to transform me into a villainous character that in no-way-shape-or-form would resemble Amy Mosiman. With her extensive background in costuming and make-up design, I was in the sure-and-steady hands of my friend Amy. Except she didn't count on my utter lack of make-up know-how to get in her way as I flinched like I was under-going the "poof" test for glaucoma. Amy finally employed a head-lock to apply my eye make-up. "Didn't I tell you to get black," she asked gently as she was forced to apply red liner to my brows and eyes.

"I look like an obese albino octopus with bright purple Troll hair and a tremulous grasp on her elastic waistband," I cried, "and you can tell that it's ME!" Amy grabbed tissues. "Don't cry," she said, alarmed, "your eyes are already red enough."

It was go-time. I was (65%) committed to this situation and, by golly, now was the time to sell it. Troll wig held high, rounded shoulders slightly squared, a cloud of tentacles swirling about my feet, I sailed off to join my fellow Disney villains. It wasn't enough that we had to parade around a packed gymnasium. No...we would also have to perform an attention-getting dance too. I will never be late to another meeting again.

Dressed to kill...(Brenda, my yoga guru)

http://aworldof2mrs.blogspot.com/
2012_09_01_archive.html

I haven't been to yoga for well over a month. And, no..."well over a month" is NOT code for "practically a year." I blame Brad's recent shopping spree where he graciously encouraged (tricked) me to buy actual yoga clothes. Shopping that entails anything other than buying groceries typically sends me into a Death Spiral but since this is an actual yoga pose, we figured What the hey! 

Pants are tricky as I am long-of-the-leg, wide-of-the-waist and big-of-the-butt. And why on earth would I spend over thirty dollars to accentuate 2/3 of those characteristics? I was unceremoniously shoved into a dressing room (that opened up right onto the sales floor...what marketing idiot dreamed up that brilliant game plan? There was no WAY I was going to model my yoga couture for an athletic store full of fit athletic people.). However, I didn't calculate the three inch gap at the bottom of my dressing room door.

Seeing a suspicious shadow, Sydney hissed, "Mom...what are you doing in there?" Brad had put her on guard duty, certain that I was a flight risk. I emerged, breathless and beet-red, moments later. "I was doing Downward-Facing Dog," I whisper-shouted at her, indignantly, "only to discover that I had Upward-Facing Ass-Crack!" We left the store, rapidly, empty-handed.

https://memegenerator.net/instance/53404753

"Can't we at least up-grade your yoga mat," Brad asked supportively at Stuff-Mart. My current model currently doubles as a slip-n-slide. We looked at the thousands of choices available to us. I gasped at the prices. "But look at the traction on this one," Brad marveled. "Plus it comes with a handy carrying strap," Sydney noticed. Around the corner from the yoga mats, there were racks of yoga clothes (That's called GOOD marketing, folks). I spotted a nifty t-shirt with a Chuck Norris joke on it and squealed. My yoga instructor is blissfully unaware of time and classes often go over. Most people would view this as getting more bang for your buck. Not Amy Mosiman. I grabbed the shirt with some XXXX-large yoga pants and headed to check-out.

And now that I had yoga clothes and a super-tread, no-slip-and-slide yoga mat, naturally, I stopped going to yoga.

Until yesterday.

I wrestled my way into my XXXX-large Superman blue yoga pants with my sarcastically red Chuck Norris t-shirt. "Are you ready to go," Geri asked, walking into my room. Duh. "Wait," I said, looking at her, "aren't you going to change into work-out clothes?" She looked down at the outfit she'd worn to school and then at me like I was an idiot. "My pants are stretchy," she explained, snapping the waistline at me for emphasis, "and my polyester-blend shirt is nice and flow-y." She also demonstrated the flow-y-ness of her shirt. So off we went to yoga: Me in super-constrictive work-out clothes and Geri in nice and flow-y work clothes.

"Cute shirt," Brenda said, complimenting my failed attempt at sarcasm. We immediately began twisting our bodies into unnatural positions. In Table Position, Brenda instructed us to thread our left arm through our right arm with the right shoulder resting on the floor. "Now, if you're able," Brenda encouraged, "stretch your left leg out." By this time, I was humming the "Hokey-Pokey" in my head and Geri was grumbling about "right hand-red" like we were playing Yoga Twister. Somewhere along the line, Brenda was telling us happily that our fluids should be flowing. Geri and I glanced at each other in concern. "The only thing flowing in this yoga studio should be your shirt," I whispered at Geri. I was begging Brenda at this time to show us Corpse Pose. She compromised by putting us in Cobra. Then...because she obviously hates us...we went from Cobra to a Plank and then were suppose to somehow, effortlessly, bend our arms at the elbow and "drift" to the floor. Brenda drifted. We collapsed and accidentally discovered how to do Corpse Pose on our own.

Our ending Resting Pose had us with our bottoms butted up against the wall. I know, I know...I giggled when I wrote that too. "You have three choices," Brenda offered, demonstrating each one. The first two weren't too bad but Choice Number 3 would have had Geri and I running outta there (if we had been able to walk at that point). With her beautiful legs stretched straight up in the air, Brenda then spread them so that she was basically doing an upside-down split against the wall. "You'd be surprised at how comfortable it is," she told us as we winced in pain, just looking at her. "I don't think I'd be surprised at all," Geri reassured her as we didn't choose Choice Number 3.

"How did it go," Brad asked when I got home. "We need to go shopping again," I told him. "I need yoga pants that go up to my armpits and a polyester-blend flow-y yoga shirt with sarcastic comments that are blatantly obvious." Now that I think of it...maybe I should go into marketing.

Fiddling away: Brad on a slippery metal roof singing "If I were a rich man..."

 Without warning, my husband stood before me, blocking my view of the television. "I have a question for you," he stated as I leaned pointedly to the left. I glanced at him. Maybe he wanted to offer me my choice of three different restaurant options for supper tonight. Or maybe he was wondering how I managed to still maintain my youthful glow and startlingly good looks after twenty-seven years of marriage. Maybe he wanted to clarify the size of my ring finger...

"Would you want to have a contractor install metal roofing for $4000 or install it ourselves for $2000?" he asked. Kudos, Brad Mosiman, I thought to myself, leaning back in my chair to look appraisingly at him with equal parts admiration and disgust. He had me in checkmate and I hadn't even realized that the game had started. It was a no-win question. Option A would leave me looking lazy and wasteful. But you ARE lazy and wasteful, my small lazy and wasteful inner voice whined. And whiny, it added.

Naturally, hindsight would prove that that $4000 would have been TOTALLY worth it but that was well after Sydney and I squealed with delight and then fought for the privilege of using scissors that cut STEEL. As I'm sure you (and Bryan Adams) could have predicted, the notoriety wore off quickly. They didn't cut like a knife. They didn't feel so right. "Where are you going," Brad shouted at me. "I have to eat a banana," I yelled back, "I have a hand cramp."

On days when it was just me and the man of my dreams, I often considered kicking the ladder out from underneath him. As he waited, from the considerable safety of the roof, I would heave a panel of steel roofing that was longer than my mini-van into the air and stagger towards him. Swaying beneath the weight of this ludicrous land-sail, I'd aim at Brad who would shout encouraging words to me that cannot be published in my PG-rated blog. My neighbor, Jimmy, busy with the harvest, sat idling in his tractor in front of my house, howling with laughter as an inopportune wind came up, blowing me completely off-course. Loving my neighbor as myself wasn't my goal as I "waved" to Jimmy.

When steel-cutting scissors weren't enough, Brad would employ an electric saw and then spend twenty minutes to unearth Sydney and I from our hiding spots. "All you have to do is hold the sheet," he'd grumble but the shrapnel sparks that flew off his blade singed our skin, making us ashamed of all the times we'd complained about cooking bacon. "Look," I snarled later, as I extracted a microscopic shard of metal from my eye, "you could have blinded me. And at what cost...? Yes...that's right! $2000?!?"  Brad showed me a two inch metal sliver laying a parallel path alongside the vein in his forearm while quietly commenting that saving the two grand hadn't been HIS idea. Drat-it-all! Thwarted again! Time to up my game.

"We're going to lay some heat-flashing," Brad explained patiently while I pretended to listen. Tired after having retrieved his requested drill from the garage..."Is it this one?" I'd ask after lugging choice Number One around the perimeter of the property. "No," Brad said, drumming his fingers on the steel roof from the top of his ladder as he repeated the name of the drill. Ten minutes later, I held up Drill Number Two for his inspection. "No," Brad replied in a somewhat snippy tone. Rather than return for a third try, I sank to the ground. "What are you doing," Brad asked. "Union break," I answered. The tide was finally turning.

The tsunami struck shortly after. Wedged where the garage roof meets the lawn, I was unceremoniously squatting while holding the gutter in place for Brad to afix. "Don't move," Brad instructed while I swayed uncertainly. With the femur muscles of an Olympic power lifter, Brad can squat with conviction...for hours. IF I can actually get down into a squat, I can remain there for approximately thirty seconds. "Is it straight," Brad asked, using one of his thousands of drills to screw the gutter in. "Yes," I gasped, before wobbling over like one of those punch-in-the-face inflatable clowns. Brad's precious gutter came crashing down after me. No worries, actually. It hadn't been straight anyway. Brad shared his feelings with me in a prolific way. I shared the irony that we were standing at opposite ends of a gutter.

Thank goodness we saved that $2000. That was about what we would pay out for marital counseling.

My Fall Facebook Fun-Filled Week-End

 I've decided to call it my "Fall Facebook Fun-Filled Week-End."

"What's for dinner," Brad wondered on Saturday as I dragged dusty pans out of the bottom cupboards. "I found this recipe on Facebook..." I started to say but he'd already shot out of the room, the unfortunate victim of some previous Facebook recipe failures. But soon, the smell of my Balsamic Roasted Chicken with Rosemary Potatoes had my family emerging from their hiding places to demand when dinner would be done. We had a winner!

"What do you think about heading over to Letchworth to watch the sunrise tomorrow," I asked Brad and Sydney. They've been emotionally steadying themselves for this request for over a month...ever since I showed them someone's Facebook post of the gorge bathed in dawn's early light. "It's like a river of sunshine rippling through the valley," I told them excitedly. "We had to wait twenty minutes to even get past the ticket gate today," Brad reminded me, "What if there is someone in your spot tomorrow?" I scoffed. "Who's going to be stupid enough to sit in the dark at 6:45 on a Sunday morning," I laughed.

 So the alarm went off and I sprang out of bed to make cinnamon rolls (from a convenient tube). I packed up cider, glasses, and a cozy blanket before shepherded my yawning family out the door. The dogs were thrilled to go. "Is this what you guys do every morning after you leave us," they thought (with just a hint of betrayal) when we arrived at the park...just as another car pulled up...ruining my serenity. Okay...maybe my hushed string of profanity also contributed to this interrupted peace. We nodded to the strangers as we unfurled our blanket and they set up expensive-looking camera equipment. Another vehicle approached. "Are you kidding me," I hissed. We were going to sing as dawn approached. I'd been brainstorming theme-appropriate choices. "Here Comes the Sun," "Walking on Sunshine," "Sunshine On My Shoulder," or "I'm Going to Soak Up the Sun." I finally settled on the ever-popular "You Are My Sunshine" because we knew all the words. A lyric sheet might ruin the mood. Along with the tour bus full of park visitors. I was devastated. "I was never actually going to sing," Brad remarked, trying to console me.

So...surrounded by paparazzi, the sun rose. Turns out that the squirrels and chipmunks were as annoyed as me by this invasion of sun-spotters and spent their time chucking acorns at our heads. "Are we done yet," Brad asked, dodging a tree torpedo. "Do you think we missed it," I mused. "The valley is supposed to be bathed in a heavenly glow." "That's just the filter that the photographer put on his camera, Mom," Sydney said, tugging me back to the van. "That was fun," she said, "Let's go home."

But, no...not yet. I had also seen (on Facebook) that, with the severe reduction of water flowing over the Middle Falls, an Indian head rock formation could be viewed. Well...we HAD to see that! However, Facebook had failed to tell us that, in order to view this mystical wonder, you had to be standing at EXACTLY the right spot. Don't worry...we painted a giant "X" to mark the spot for you. And because we are such reverential people, we naturally had to take immature pictures of ourselves kissing the Indian and tickling him under the chin. "Oops...Sydney was picking his nose in that one," Brad noticed before quickly deleting it. We wouldn't want to be disrespectful.

My Fall Facebook Fun-Filled Week-End was a glorious success. How did I ever manage to have fun before the days of social media?

Hat's off...oops, I meant "hair"...to Alea and Alexis!

 I adore my nieces and nephews. They are kind, intelligent, and compassionate people. Even to spend a small slice of time with them is a blessing. To share a slice of pizza during that slice of time is even better!

My nieces, Alexis and Alea, recently donated their hair as a part of an Anna's Wish event, shaving off their beautiful blond hair as an outward demonstration of their love and support and revealing their true inner beauty in the process. Meanwhile, back at home, I was lamenting the appearance of an unfortunate red spot on my nose the morning of School Picture Day which sent me into hysterics.

I was worried about my reaction upon meeting the girls following this rather drastic change in their appearance. What if their heads were lumpy? Brad and I attended Alea's swim meet and the first thing we noticed was that the lack of hair made her much more aerodynamic (or is it hydrodynamic?) which would undoubtedly increase her time. "Like a knife through butter," I whispered to my husband as Alea slid seamlessly though the water's surface for each of her five dives. The lack of hair also impacted her body temperature. Poor Alea stood shivering, wrapped in her animal print towel whenever she wasn't participating in an event. "She needs a knit cap," I observed. "That would go great with her swimsuit," Brad agreed.

Another accessory that goes great with swim meets are ear plugs. Goodness gracious, it's loud (and echo-y) in there! "Alea?" I asked on the way home, "Does it help you when everyone is yelling Go! and Swim! at you?" She thought for a moment, "We-ll," she answered, trying to be diplomatic, "it doesn't help me personally but I'm sure others might
find it helpful." "What about when people make that penguin flipper motion with their hands...do you even SEE that?" She laughed. "No." Now I was excited. "Maybe we could suggest that swim meets could model spectator behavior after golf," I suggested to my niece, "With whispering accompanied by light, polite clapping." She promised she'd get right on that for me.

We met her siblings for pizza. "Did you order breadsticks," my nephew asked by way of greeting. "It's good to see you too," I grinned, hugging him. Having enjoyed high and tight haircuts during his stint in the Army, Brad could no longer resist. "Can I rub your head," he asked Alexis. I glared at him, having concentrated on making stellar eye contact with the girls the entire time so they wouldn't have to say, "Eyes down here, Aunt Amy." Alexis grinned. "Sure, it feels nice." She bent her head while her uncle rubbed her skull as though a genie were going to pop out of it. "Try it," Brad encouraged. Both girls welcomed my hesitant touch as I reached out to encounter the soft, fuzzy hair that now crowned their heads. It did feel nice. Soon, I was trying to get that genie to appear as enthusiastically as Brad. I wasn't disappointed when he didn't show up though, because I couldn't possibly wish for better nieces and nephews than the ones I've been blessed with.

Kristin's wedding (I made it!)

We were thrilled to be invited to Chris and Kristin's wedding. "I just bet you were," snorted Sydney, "after you screwed up Holly's." "I didn't screw up Holly's wedding," I said defensively, "We just missed it by a week." And the whole world will NOT let us forget it.

Saturday. Two hours before "go" time. The phone rings. "Hi...Amy? Just reminding you that the wedding is today," said my friend Sue helpfully before arranging for us to share a table. "Thank you, Sue."

Saturday. Twenty minutes before "go" time. Pass Sue who was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt in the Dollar General parking lot. Confused, I tapped my watch at her and began planning an elaborate "stick in your own eye" speech for when I would encounter her later at the wedding.

Saturday. Ten minutes before "go" time. Haven't even ENTERED the building yet and it begins. "Is the wedding THIS week," asked Kristin's sister, Paula, hugging me.

Saturday. Five minutes before "go" time. "You made it (this time)," the mother-of-the-bride squealed before inviting us to sit at any one of the available tables EXCEPT the ones labeled "reserved." I immediately sat at a reserved table, splitting up a loving family in the process. "They can sit over there, right?" I asked, unceremoniously booting the Cochran kids out of their chairs. "Mom, who is that lady," they asked, scared. "I'll tell you later," she whispered, "Just go." But then Sue arrived, miraculously dressed for the occasion, with her party of three so the Cochran kids had to re-locate again. A friendly but unfamiliar couple occupied the table. I made hasty introductions and then asked if they were on the bride's side or the groom's side. Barely listening to their response, I then introduced them to everyone as "The Pennsylvania Deckers." Everyone. Until I discovered, hours later, that their last name wasn't "Decker" at all. But by then...the damage was done. The "Pennsylvania Deckers" were the life of the party...whether they wanted to be or not.

Kristin was gorgeous. Our table sounded like judges on "Project Runway" as everyone remarked upon their favorite part of her dress as she gracefully made her way across the room to her grinning groom. The corset-like ties up the back. The delicate flowers embroidered at her waist. The waterfall rippled effect of her skirt. Our constant watching of "Talladega Nights:  The Ballad of Ricky Bobby" impacted Pastor Brandon's meaningful prayer when Brad and Sydney fist-bumped the amen. I was shushed during the "Blending of Sands" portion of the ceremony when I pointed out the Kristin was raised in Western New York; not the West Indies. "The blending of soils wouldn't have been as symbolically meaningful," Brad explained.

The food was fabulous but bibs are only meant for mature patrons. Many of the guests were shy but not those seated with the Pennsylvania Deckers. We proudly sported our plastic bibs with the handy catch-all pocket. Sydney thought she was the shining star with her side-tied bow but Sue and I won this particular fashion show as, in the process of taking our protective plastic off, we flung them back over our heads. "Do I look like Audrey Hepburn taking a convertible ride," I asked my husband who was inexplicably crawling under the table. Sue, sporting my same look, hooted. "You like like the Flying Nun!" I tried to seek Sydney's opinion, but she was also under the table. Maybe helping her father look for something. "Yeah...that's it," Brad said later. "Maybe we were in search of a little dignity." This...coming from the same man who led our table in the singing of "Sweet Caroline" while the remainder of the room sat mute (in obvious admiration).

We had a wonderful time. The Pennsylvania Deckers would have made outstanding lifelong friends if we'd actually learned their real names. Watching Kristin make this sacred commitment to an honorable young man was so special. Having been blessed to have had Kristin in our youth group, years ago, Brad and I were humbled to be able to witness this next, incredible phase of her life. Kristin and Holly have three more unmarried siblings. Now that we've proved that we can actually arrive at a wedding on its scheduled date, maybe we have a shot at being invited to the next one!

Report card or tarot card?

 Ahhh...kindergarten. A sweet, simple time. Where the only thing that came out of the closet was the weekly introduction of inflatable alphabet people. I am still scarred by the popping of Mrs. M. Where you discover, twenty years later, that your very tall teacher was in fact, 5'2". And prophetic to boot. Who knew that, a quarter of a century later, I would be locked out of my student-teaching classroom by an irate "master" teacher who loathed working with me? Who could delve into the future and foresee that I would systematically be kicked off of every ministry team in my church? My kindergarten teacher...that's who.

While my report card clearly shows that I was rocking out the Ss (satisfactories) and Es (excellents) regularly, there was one glaring exception. An N. An N for "Needs help." It burns me to this day. I remember it all so vividly (or made it up as a handy alibi). There I was, sitting on the round alphabet carpet, playing with my toy truck with the attached trailer. Not the cheap plastic garbage like you'd get today but heavy, die-cast metal. A fellow classmate and toy truck admirer, Jason, came over and SNATCHED my toy away. "Oh hell, no!" I roared, grabbing it back and then propelled my arm up over my head and soundly walloped him with the vehicle. This was before the days of the concussion test so our teacher just had him rest on his nap mat...with MY toy truck with attached trailer! I believe I was stuffed in the closet with the deflated Mrs. M and then unceremoniously (and unjustly) labeled with an N in the area of Getting along with others.. An N that would haunt me for the rest of my life. Kindergarten curse or self-fulfilling prophesy? You be the judge.

Room 24's Decorated Door Policy

I must...I must...I must increase my...test score results. Meanwhile,
in a school corridor, not-so-far-away, my friend,
Cassie was demonstrating, on her classroom door, 
how important it is to be flexible.

 Fair or not...how your classroom door is decorated says a LOT about you. That's the real reason some people opt to teach middle school or high school...so they can escape the pigeon-hold pressure of a theme-related identity that you just can't shake or the ridicule that accompanies an inadvertently lame door design. It never ends. Store-purchased punch-outs? Unoriginal. Carefully constructed crafts? (Insert nasal whiny sincerely-insincere tone here.)"Wish I had the time to take away from the important business of actually educating students to color for hours."  What is one to do?

This year, I decided to break with my tried-and-true dachshund theme to give poor Chlo a break. Each time I brought her in, I would carefully explain to the children, "You will know if Chlo needs some rest from your loving attention if you see her sit at Mrs. Mosiman's feet." Last year, Chlo attached herself to me like dachshund-shaped slippers. The less said about Chlo in the classroom, the better.

So, for some inexplicable reason, I went Super-Hero themed. I don't even really like Super-Heroes (although Chris Pines's helicopter scene in Captain America almost make me a convert...ME-OW!). Photoshopped each student's head onto a superhero figure. Chalked a city-scape onto black construction paper. Highlighted inspirational quotes connected to learning and character development ("I have much to learn. I know that now"...Thor). Crumpled blue tissue paper to have a 3-D version of Superman "flying" out of the top of my door. I was done. Everyone was going to hate me.

Except something was missing. No...someONE. Room 24 is a classroom community and I'd forgotten to include Mrs. Mosiman. Did a quick search of women superheroes and immediately realized that I wasn't woman enough to fill their...shoes. Holy-over-the-shoulder-boulder-holders, Batman! My door had to be rated G, for goodness sakes. But then I stumbled onto my cyber-super hero secret identity. When needed, this D-cupped diva and her dachshund companion speed to the scene to avoid apathy and respond sarcastically to passive-aggressive skeptics. For the good of the cause, I decided that my door could be PG. I attached my image to the door and stepped back to admire my handiwork. A passing colleague paused beside me. "Must be nice to have time to put something like that together," she said cheerfully, dropping an under-mining bomb without a second thought. But my deflector shields were up. "If it's important enough," I said, "you make the time." Ba-BAM!

The Puffball Paradox

I am tactile-sensitive. My entire family rolled their eyes as, during the worship music in church last Sunday, I hypnotically rocked forward to pet the feathery, squirrel-tail phragmite that made up part of a nearby window-sill autumnal decoration. A beach littered with the bodies of dead jelly-fish would have other people running for the hills while I ran for a stick. And the recent birth of con-joined puffballs in my yard sent me straight to heaven. I monitored their growth daily. Fiercely protected them from the harm of frolicking dogs or looming lawn mowers. I considered setting up a web-cam. Last week, as I lovingly stroked the head of a beluga, I compared it, in texture, to my little puffballs.

When they finally swelled to the desired C-cup size, I knew my time with them was limited. Their youthful vitality began to droop. Brown age spots began to appear on the blindingly white globes. Sagging, they didn't energetically "bounce back" when handled. "No," I cried, clutching them to me, mourning the loss of my moldy melons. Brad was oddly empathetic. "Time touches us all," he said, prying me from my puffballs. "C'mon, honey," he coaxed, leading me across the lawn, "I think I have some bubble-wrap in the house."