I "chews" atrophy: NOT "a trophy"

In-service days are tricky. No matter what is scheduled, teachers are going to complain. Packed with special speakers and professional development meetings? I wish they'd just give us time in our classrooms. A more open-ended day results in I wish they'd tell us what they expect of us. Introducing an auditorium full of grumpy educators to the latest craze in teaching wrapped in a fanciful acronym induces an impressive eye-roll wave while refresher courses injure delicate egos: I already know this... Why are they wasting my time? 

This latest in-service day was a doozy. The preceding e-mail instructing us to wear athletic gear for a Health & Wellness seminar set the building to buzzing. Teachers who would give their eye-teeth to wear sneakers to school were now grousing about appearing unprofessional on Superintendent's Day. The only one to appear truly happy was my friend Traci who once famously spit out her mouthful of sub-par brownie. "I'm not going to waste calories on that," she declared, stomping away from the wastebasket.

"I'm all for Health & Wellness," I told my husband later as I worked my way through a container of French onion chip dip, "but I don't need it foisted upon me." He paused on his way out of the living room to help hoist me out of my chair so I could get some more chips. "So what are you going to do?" he sighed, fearing the inevitable. "I don't know," I said wistfully, "but I'll think of something."

In a show of support (sadly lacking from my husband), my brother-in-law contributed the foundation of my packed with peanuts peaceful protest picketing plan. Wielding a yard of Snickers with back-to-back sassy slogan signs, I marched into the gymnasium. Turns out marching in sneakers doesn't have quite the same emotional impact as heavy boots. Plus my sassy slogans turned out to be a little too sophisticated for this crowd. Many mis-read my "atrophy" for "apathy" which I let go because it kind of worked. Others thought I meant "a trophy" which seemed humorously ironic. "Amy has problems with word spacing," a middle school colleague shared. How I miss middle school.

An administrator stopped by to peruse my protest signs. "I would take a knee," I told him, "but I can't get up out of that position." "Of course," he said, "hence your aversion to Health & Wellness." I tried to talk my friend Carl into being my designated runner in the case of burpees but he refused to take one for the team. Eventually, as all great protests go, concessions had to be made. I finally relinquished my picket sign in favor of a badminton racket. Except for taking a birdie to the nose, I decided that the Health & Wellness seminar wasn't so bad. Thank goodness I'm always so receptive to new ideas.

Amy's "Choose-Your-Own-Adventure" Story: The Car Accident

 So...there I am on a peaceful Sunday morning, lounging in my chair beneath my cozy electric blanket...fresh from a hot, soapy shower, clad in my comfy wine-colored robe when...BAM! The dogs erupt and I lunge from my chair. Out the window, in the middle of my now-destroyed lawn, sat a midnight blue Jeep 4 X 4. A blonde woman with a high ponytail was busy mouthing the words of what appeared to be the ingredients to a batch of dark chocolate fudge as she punched at her steering wheel.

SCENARIO #1:

After quickly trading her slippers for muck boots, Amy dashes out the door wearing her wine-colored robe. "Are you okay?" she gently asks the driver. Grasping her elbow with a steadying hand, Amy guides the shaken woman into the house and makes her a soothing cup of hot cocoa. She leaves out the marshmallows as this is a serious occasion. "I'm so sorry about your lawn and mailbox," the woman sniffles, calming as she sips her cup of serious hot chocolate. Amy waves her hand dismissively. "It's nothing at all to worry about. Easily replaced. I'm just glad that you're okay." The two woman exchange a warm look and immediately become lifelong friends.

SCENARIO #2:

After quickly trading her slippers for muck boots, Amy dashes out the door wearing her wine-colored

Checking my neighbor's mail. It was
 delivered  "ground."

robe just in time to see this high-tailed terrain terrorist take out more of the lawn as she fled the scene. Stunned, Amy stood in the middle of the road as the Jeep wobbled away. After Amy shouted some words regarding the parental lineage of the perpetrator, she raced into the house for the keys to her brother-in-law's car. Still wearing her wine-colored robe and muck boots, Amy pursued this grass gangster. Hunched over the steering wheel, squinting through the windshield, Amy scoured the road ahead, intent on apprehending this ne'er-do-well and bring her to justice. But she reached the metaphoric end-of-the-road (which she'd traveled at a safe and legally-recommended speed) with no success. "That high-tailer sustained significant body damage to the driver's side of the vehicle," Amy mused thoughtfully, "and busted out her windshield. She couldn't have gotten far." Realizing that her quarry had a better understanding of the region than Amy had been led to believe
(due to her total ignorance of how to keep a car successfully on a road combined with a deplorable lack of morals when it comes to squishing someone's mailbox beyond recognition), Amy raced (at a safe and legally-recommended speed) around the country block to the seasonal road that intersected the area. A-ha! There she was! Amy beeped and flashed her lights at the on-coming Jeep. Nothing. Amy spun around (at a at a safe and legally-recommended speed) and followed, taking note of the make and model of the vehicle and beginning a tribal chant of the license plate number as she'd forgotten her cell phone and neglected to keep a pen and paper in the pocket of her wine-colored robe. After several miles, Amy decided to call off the chase as:
(a) she didn't wish to be viewed screaming at high ponytail alongside a busy highway and,
(b) running High Ponytail off the road, while emotionally satisfying, didn't seem responsible. Moral highroad and all that.

Returning home, Amy called the police and reported her findings. The dispatcher was understandably impressed with Amy's keen observational skills until Amy finally admitted that she went vigilante on High Ponytail. "We don't normally recommend that, ma'am," Amy was told. Amy was ashamed. When the dispatcher explained that a police unit would be sent to the house, Amy requested a postponement. "This isn't court," the woman said patiently. "I know that I might not appear to be the best Christian in the world on the basis of this phone call but..." Amy paused at what seemed to be a stifled snort on the other end of the phone, "Normally I would cancel going to church," Amy continued apologetically, "but I'm doing the first reading and I have some REALLY big words that I'm responsible for so can we meet later in the day?"

Appointment made, Amy then just had to deal with "Dukes of Hazards" jokes from her husband and brother-in-law for the remainder of the day. When they arrived back from a morning of hunting, they stood looking at the destroyed lawn. "What on earth happened?" Brad asked as he came in the door. Amy sighed, disappointed. She had envisioned a Prince Humperdinck-moment from The Princess Bride. He could track a falcon on a cloudy day...hmmm...Car parked askew? Lawn dug up? Mail boxes obliterated? Amy's slippers in the middle of dining room? A-ha! A blond driver of a midnight blue Jeep 4 X 4 with a high ponytail fled the scene with my wife in her wine-colored robe in pursuit! No. Instead Amy got: "What on earth happened?" "Why didn't you keep following her?" "Do you see yourself more in the role of one of the Duke boys or Roscoe P. Coltrane?"

Me in the police truck. I think.

Later that afternoon, the police arrived. Amy rushed out, eager to provide her testimony. "Don't forget to get a picture of me sitting in the police car," she yelled before slamming the door behind her. She waited patiently in the cold for the officer to exit the vehicle to examine the scene. Her neighbor had arrived earlier and Amy insisted that he leave his crushed mail in the box so as to not contaminate the evidence. The officer waved at her to get in his truck so she "wouldn't be cold." Amy began rattling off her critical information. He wasn't interested. Eyeballing the craters in my lawn, he spit-balled, "What do you think...about $100 worth of damage?" Amy waited for him to conduct a paint-chip analysis, put out those adorable little numbered signs before taking numerous photos from every possible angle...or at least GET OUT OF THE TRUCK! "Do you need me to sign anything," she asked hopefully as he concluded the interview. Amy glanced out the passenger window to offer Brad a wide grin as he took a close-up picture of her as an official police witness. "No," the officer said, "Stop by headquarters if you want the report to submit for your homeowner's insurance." Let down, Amy sighed as he drove away. Police work isn't always pretty. Neither is the lawn.

Who starts a car with a prison shank?

"It's all very simple," my husband explained. "Until Sydney's car is fixed, she'll drive the Titan, I'll take my van, and you can have Virgil's rental." I frowned. This didn't seem simple at all. "Remember that car is under my name," my brother-in-law joked. I glared at him as my family headed out the door to their respective destinations. I only had four miles to go. How hard could it possibly be?

Minutes later, I was sitting in the rental, wrestling Virgil's key-chain, which strongly resembled a jack-knife. I finally stumbled upon a secret button. Snap! A prison shank erupted from the housing. What was I suppose to do with this?

After moments of deliberation (I ruled out a stabbing spree as my brother-in-law was safely ensconced in a tree stand somewhere as he fearlessly hunted herbivores in the forest), I inserted the shank into the ignition and hoped for the best. Yes! Despacito was on! But no! The car wasn't. Hmmm. The car was in park. Tried it again. Nope. I pushed on the gas. Nope. Hit the brake. Nope.

I listened to the rest of Despacito before reviewing my options. Riding my bike was out. I called my fellow 4th grade friend Kelly but she didn't answer. Tried neighbor Sondra. Same. The bus thundered by. I considered flinging myself in front of it on its way back. They'd HAVE to pick me up, wouldn't they? I called my friend Shanna with some trepidation as I had written somewhat mean-spirited blogs about her in the past. She answered mid-second ring with a gravelly voice. Oh no! I woke her up. Nope, she just sounds like a sexy lounge singer in the morning. "Wow. You answered so quickly," I marveled. "When you call," she admitted, "I fear it's the 2nd Apocalypse."

As I stood waiting by the road for Shanna to pick me up, Sondra and her family roared past. I discovered later that I was the main topic of conversation on their ride to school. "Mrs. Mosiman is standing by the road," high school student Natalie observed, "Do you think she needs a ride?" Her mother shrugged, intent on tearing up the road between her house and the school. "Don't worry. I'm sure someone is picking her up."

I was eventually delivered, along with Shanna's brood of children, safely to school. I haven't been dropped off at school by a loving mother in some time. I miss that. I wouldn't hear from Shanna again until 6:30 the following morning:

Shanna: Was it an easy fix for the rental car? Or was something really wrong with it? Do you need a ride this morning?

Amy:  I was suppose to depress the brake pedal. The only thing depressed in that car was me.

Which actually wasn't true at all because who could be depressed when Despacito is playing? The beginning lyrics were somewhat ironic though, given my situation:

Comin' over in my direction

So thankful for that, it's such a blessin', yeah

Thank you, Shanna!

Disclaimer: I don't REALLY think Jesus is a vampire

I've been having a lot of trouble lately communicating clearly; particularly on the subject of vampires. It's surprising how often they come up in casual conversation.

Case in point: There I was, one unseasonably warm Autumn day in the bus loop, admiring a colleague as she approached me with her super-sparkly bedazzled shirt. "You look like one of those shimmery-bright twinkly vampires from Twilight," I raved. I was not prepared when she pulled up short and glared at me. "I prefer the radiant light of Christ," she snapped. I was stunned. It was like taking a pan-full of ice cold Holy Water to the face. Well...yeah. Me too. Shimmery vampire in one hand/Jesus in the other? I'm going for my Lord and Savior every time...but still...a compliment is a compliment. Well, no sense dwelling...

Until...

There I was, keeping scrupulous sermon notes in my journal last Sunday when the topic turned to Revelation 3:20. Jesus is knocking at the door but cannot gain admission unless He is invited. I was suddenly startled into alertness. Wait. A vampire cannot gain entry into a home unless invited! Interesting. There are some other comparisons as well. Blood, for instance. Blood of the Lamb. I vant to suck your blood. Immortality. If you ignore the eternal damnation part and the fact that one is a fictional literary character, then you see that I am clearly onto something! Seated next to the pastor's wife, I began to establish my case after church during the potluck dinner housed in the basement. Shuddering as though she'd taken a stake to the heart, she glanced surreptitiously around the room as she tried to shush me. "That sort of talk could get you excommunicated," she whispered. "I'm not saying that Jesus was a vampire," I tried clarifying, "but...." Desperate, she tried changing the subject. "Have you tried the soup?" she cheerfully asked the table. "It was a bit garlic-y for me," smiled my daughter, Sydney, winking at me. I grinned. "This basement could really use some renovations," I commented, to the relief of our pastor's wife. "With its low ceiling and lack of natural light, it's kind of like a coffin down here."

You had me at "blanket of bacon"

Let's just say that the recipe had me at "wrapped in a blanket of bacon." I do not enjoy cooking but am not particularly fond of starving. I am not independently wealthy enough to eat out every night and cereal only goes so far. So...occasionally, I find myself dabbling in the culinary arts.

"You have an entire repertoire of meals that I like," Brad repeated miserably as the week-long build-up of my bacon-wrapped meatloaf began. "Your chili is outstanding. Venison strudel...stuffed shells...breaded porkchops...we love those meals." He watched unhappily as I darted around the grocery store, rooting out my ingredients. I couldn't blame his trepidation. I'd once baked his holiday ham in its shrink-wrapped plastic. Giving oven-baked chicken wings a try, they'd congealed into an inedible poultry-geist. My last batch of potato soup had morphed into a solid accessible only by the sturdiest of wooden spoons to ratchet it out of the pan. Brad Mosiman had real reason to fear. But not THIS time!

As usual, part of the problem was the build-up. Expectations were WAY too high (Mine...NOT my family's). I sauteed peppers and onions. Yum! With baggies protecting my hands from actually having to touch raw meat, I squeezed the ground beef, venison, and pork sausage into a rectangular-ish shape. I layed out the vegetables, a ton of mozzarella and then began the process of rolling this monstrosity into a loaf. "It's time for the blanket of bacon," I called out. My reluctant audience watched as I wrestled our precious bacon around a loaf of meat. Doesn't it sound appetizing already?!? "Such a waste," Sydney muttered, "Like a concert pianist playing Happy Birthday at a rest-stop Burger King."

I set my timer for the required twenty minutes. Ding! I rushed to remove its protective covering of foil and set the timer again for the required thirty minutes. Ding! Hmmmm....the bacon didn't seem quite done yet. "Is the oven on?" Brad asked helpfully, peering over my shoulder at what was supposed to be his dinner. I set the timer for an extra twenty minutes. Ding. The bacon was a bit browner but still pretty floppy. "Maybe it browned from age," Sydney suggested. I boosted the heat. Added another ten minutes to the timer. Ding. "Don't say a word, " I warned, glaring down at the brown noodle-like stripes blanketing my loaf of meat. I yanked the dial up to broil. Set the timer...again. Ding. The bacon was burnt on top and still practically raw underneath. I didn't care. I cut into the loaf and almost cried as I looked at the uncooked middle of my meat. I set the timer for thirty minutes. Ding.

"What do you think," Brad asked as, with hand shaking, I lifted my fork to my mouth. I fought back my gag reflex and choked out, "This is the best meatloaf I have ever eaten." Brad carefully sorted the burned bacon into one pile and raw bacon into another before beginning the delicate process of separating the cooked parts of his meal from the sections that had the potential of killing him. I glared at his dramatics. "Some people are just glad to have food," I snapped at him. "I'll just be glad if I don't get Salmonella," he replied. I was done (even if the meatloaf wasn't). I stomped off, crawling into bed to wrap myself in a blanket of...blankets. I didn't come out until the following morning. Ding.