Meet the Flintstones: Happy Halloween!

 If someone were to ask Future Amy what she thought of today's Halloween plans, without a doubt, that wise woman would yell: "Yabba dabba don't do it!" What on earth was I thinking? Who stuffs an out-of-shape, short-of-breath gal with a history of claustrophobia into a latex head mask and then expects her to navigate the Bedrock-mobile through a parade, race against George Jetson on a hovercraft, and then participate in a flash mob? Wife, Wilma (my friend, Kelly) was trying to get me to do Lamaze breathing as we lapped the gym. Don't get me wrong...we each had our own cross to bear including wardrobe malfunctions...snapping on skull caps...aerosol asphyxiation...as well as the ever-present-danger of hydroplaning on a hover-board. George Jetson had spent the better part of a school year on a mobility scooter and bets were being placed that he'd soon be slapping a handicapped sticker on his windshield again.

Plans for this event had been in the works since LAST October 31st. Car construction duties were handed over to Kelly's creative and talented husband when I threatened to engineer the vehicle with wacky water noodles and cloth laundry baskets. Rachel refused to leave the classroom until her faux-fur stole arrived because she was worried about the appropriateness of her Betty Rubble-wardrobe. Rachel looked GREAT but, to be honest, it did look like Betty was ready to go "clubbing" later. We had to wrestle Kelly to the ground to apply her signature bright red hair. It took several of us to hold her down as she screamed and insisted that she could feel the dye seeping into her scalp. It's easier to give my dog a pill. Geri...homespun to the core...kept insisting that she'd make her own costume. We watched with interest over several days as she unraveled via a series of insane text messages until she finally "caved" and went with a store-bought model.

We'd wrangled the 3rd grade team (our arch-nemesis...wait...what's the plural?  Archnemeses? Archnemesi?) into portraying the futuristic-ally technological counterparts to our out-dated ways in an epic Jetsons versus Flintstones Halloween portrayal of old school versus new school.  And as cartoonish and silly as we might have been, the conclusion was still pretty clear:  Not only is there  room for both...Turns out they are both necessary components in providing quality education. It is not a battle but a ballet...or, in our case, a flash mob. And I couldn't ask for better dancing partners!

Part III (and the conclusion) of the Stupidity Mini-Series

I'm actually feeling a bit better about this particular tale of stupidity given what JUST happened to me, not five minutes ago. My friend, Kelly suddenly bursts into the room, completely disgusted and announces, "Amy! You are NOT going to believe what I just found in the bathroom!" Spoiler alert: ANY story that starts like that is NEVER good. I braced myself before responding with the obligatory "What?" She shook her long brown hair, frazzled. "Someone left a long dump in the toilet..." she shuddered before continuing, "and there wasn't any paper in the bowl." Ugh. thanks for the visual, Kel. But she wasn't done. "Wanna come see?" she asked, apparently needing a corroborative witness to the horror she had so recently undergone. Are you kidding me? NO!

My final installment of stupidity also takes place in the potty but pales in comparison to Kelly's story so I am feeling so relieved (hee hee) that, although my story is stupid...it is NOT gross or unhygienic.

So...there I was...engaged in a brief moment of meditative reflection when I noticed a piece of tape on my shoe. Peeling it off, I then leaned forward to place the piece of debris in the trash receptacle situated conveniently across from me. To my great alarm, my ID lanyard, that I wear faithfully around my neck each day, became hopelessly entangled in my...ahem...intimate garments. Panicked, I reared back like a trapped stallion, attempting to free myself from this compromising position. My friends were feet away, on the other side of the door, unaware that my life (and dignity) were in great peril. They chatted away while I battled the very forces of evil to extricate myself from being strangled to death by my own underwear. Should I shout for help? Would our trusty custodian, Joe arrive on scene to crowbar me out of my confinement? Or would it be...gasp...an administrator?  It felt like hours had passed when, in fact, it was more like fifteen seconds. But it felt like a lifetime to me. Finally...inspiration struck. I ducked my head and slipped the lanyard from behind my neck...heroically saving myself! What genius! Why am I NOT on the rescue squad?

Once I was back together, I stormed out of the restroom to confront the callus crowd congregating in the faculty room. "I almost died in there!" I announced semi-dramatically. "Did you have a tummy ache?" someone asked. "No!" I answered, indignantly, "My problem wasn't digestive..." Everyone let out a big sigh of relief, glancing at the bathroom door, standing ajar. I explained my predicament to my pals as a cautionary tale...a "Don't let this happen to you..." sort of lesson. "It would only happen to YOU," I was told heartlessly as they laughed heartily. "We solved the crime!" one sleuth said, "It was Mrs. Mosiman in the bathroom with a noose!"  I couldn't even try to defend myself. In this particular case...I was pretty clueless.

Part II of the Stupidity Mini-Series

When last we left off, I had murdered someone's meal. "You know," Brad observed dryly, "you bring these things on yourself."  "But that's not true!" I exclaimed, "Most of the time, I'm in my classroom, minding my own business. I don't go looking for trouble. It walks through my door and finds ME."

Case-in-point:  Felicia. In-shape Felicia with glossy dark hair cascading down her back. Felicia...who doesn't drink Pepsi...or soda at all, for that matter. Felicia...who does not consider sugar one of the essential components of the Food Pyramid. "You're stuck in the 70s, Amy," Felicia gently corrected, "The antiquated pyramid ideology no longer exists. It's now a Food Plate."

Felicia, who waltzed in my door with a health release form and a colorful calendar. I was confused. My kids were confused. "You signed up for Zumba," Felicia explained. When my 4th graders and I were finished laughing hysterically, I drew a large (LARGE) imaginary circle to encompass my body with a dramatic flourishing finger. "Does this..." (another circle)..."look like a body that does Zumba?" "NO!" my 4th graders shouted confidently, supporting me (and, at the same time, making my self-esteem slightly plummet).

Felicia frowned and consulted her trusty clipboard. "It says right here that you signed up." It was my turn to frown. What diabolical mind would concoct such an evil scheme as to sign me up for an exercise class? Ty-ler (Channel Jerry snarling Newman's name on Seinfeld). "I'll just leave these with you," Felicia said, "and you can think about it." Oh...I was thinking alright. I was thinking about thumbtacks in chairs, slashed tires, suffered paper bags set on fire on front porches...I noticed some of my kids were still snickering. "Wait," I called to the quickly-departing Felicia, waving her back. "You'll do it?" she asked excitedly. I didn't like the idea that someone would sign me up for Zumba as a joke. I didn't like that my students thought the idea of me exercising was funny. I arranged an emergency exit strategy with Felicia (just in case) and then signed on the dotted line. My kids got quiet QUICK.

Later, I stormed down the corridor to a waiting Tyler who stood armed with an open canister of little pumpkin candy corns. He held one out, extended, like a trainer dangling a dead rat over an alligator pit. "I do NOT forgive you," I snapped, snatching the candy from his hand. Confusion crossed his face as he quickly inventoried his fingers. "Forgive me for what?" he asked, grabbing another pumpkin to ward me off, "I didn't do anything!" "You signed me up for Zumba!" I shouted before popping another pumpkin in my mouth. "I swear I didn't!" he insisted, continuing to back up until he was crushed against his cubbies. I paused, chewing reflectively. Tyler was a LOT of things. Overly-enthusiastic. Ridiculously positive. Annoying. A big ol' jerk. But he wasn't a liar. Hmmm. He handed me another pumpkin while I thought some more.  "You know...you're not the only Amy M in the building," he mused. My eyes widened. My face reddened. And in my heart...I knew. I had falsely accused Tyler of malicious and fraudulent exercise extortion. Fortunately, my mouth was too full of pumpkins to apologize.

Part I of the Stupidity Mini-Series

(Picture will be explained in Part III)

I am well-versed in the art of stupidity. If there were an Olympic event for idiocy...I would regularly bring home the gold. Not to brag...but I am the Michael Phelps of foolishness. The Simone Biles of brainless maneuvers. When someone tells me that they did "An Amy," I cringe because, nine-times-out-of-ten, it is NOT a good thing.

But this week, I managed to rocket right off the stupid scale into stratospheric insanity. There was just no stopping me as I manned the half-witted helm screaming, "Ludicrous speed, Colonel Sandurz!"  As a side-note, perhaps adjusting my movie-watching predilections from such slap-stick humor as Spaceballs to something more intellectually mind-elevating such as...ugh...I can't even think of one. Is Jane Austin a character or an author? Is it a movie about a book about an author? Wasn't she cast in "Doctor Quinn, Medicine Woman?" Look! I'm expanding my mind already...oh no! I've gone PLAID!

Any-hoo...Part I of this Stupidity Mini-Series begins with lunch. All morning long, as I navigated educational paths through plural possessives ("I don't know where to put my apostrophe," yet another scholar whined for the fiftieth time in ten minutes. I gazed ceiling-ward...stoically refraining from telling them exactly WHERE I want them to place the apostrophe.), I yearned for lunch. Bleu cheese blended with horseradish mashed potatoes. As we bridged the complex structure of double-digit multiplication by times-ing by ten ("I'm not sure how many zeroes to add to the end of my product," I was told, again and again. "How many zeroes are in ten?" I coaxed gently, in the soft, calm, reassuring manner of a SWAT team member addressing a villain with a thumb on the detonator. Meanwhile, in my mind, I was exploding, "ADD A ZERO! A ZERO! ZE-RO!"), I longed for lunch. Pork tenderloin with a balsamic vinegar reduction glaze. We finally reached the Hudson River, where we tried to discover why, geographically-speaking, it wasn't likely that Henry Hudson would succeed in his endeavor to find the Northwest Passage. "What direction must you travel to get from the Atlantic Ocean to the Pacific, cherubs?" I asked. "East to West!" they shouted. I smiled, pleased. "Good! Now...which direction does the Hudson River run? "Up and down!" they answered excitedly. Sigh. I glanced at the clock. Thank God. Lunch.

I power-walked my kids to lunch, shoved them into the cafeteria, and rushed to the elementary faculty room; diving headfirst into the refrigerator. I tossed my tupperware into a waiting micro-wave, punched in the heating time, and then obnoxiously talked about my delicious meal for three minutes and thirty seconds. BING! I fairly danced with happiness. I popped the top and then stared at the contents, confused. Why were there strawberries where my balsamic vinegar reduction glaze should be? What was that white stuff? It had the wrong consistency to be my bleu cheese blended with horseradish mashed potatoes. It was...foamy...almost...milky. I gasped in horror. The faculty room was struck silent as everyone took in my bright red features. "I killed someone's lunch!" I cried. In its former glory, it had been a meticulously-layered concoction of granola, yogurt, and strawberries but now it was a batch of inedible slop. My friends in the faculty room supported me by laughing hysterically as I raced up and down the halls of the school (Envision Abe Lincoln scouring the countryside for the owner of a lost coin), attempting, to no avail, to find the owner of the murdered meal. I ended up taping blood money to the top accompanied by a heartfelt postie-note.

The owner turned out to be a kind and gracious woman named Michelle (not the Michelle that makes gross protein shakes and judges me...a KIND Michelle) who valiantly attempted to return the money. "Everyone makes mistakes," she told me, as her poor empty tummy grumbled hungrily. She waved the money at me. "All those containers look alike," she insisted, holding onto her clear, round receptacle. I discreetly hid my square, green dish and begged her to keep the cash to assuage my guilt. "Did it even occur to you to give her your meal?" my husband asked later. Ashamed, I shook my head. This whole thing had just been a recipe for disaster. But little did I know...it was JUST the beginning.

A doggie deluge

"You have a rottweiler?" my administrator (a man I've known for over twenty years) asked incredulously. Okay...I get it. I do tend to go on a bit about the dachshund but, c'mon people, I love Juno too. It's just that Chlo is my spirit animal...my canine bff. And Juno is my dog...a sweet, beloved pet. And...when her health and well-being is in jeopardy, I will lose sleep and move mountains to get her ship-shape again.

It started when Juno suddenly started favoring a front paw to the point that she refused to use it. She didn't cry out. She didn't complain. Simply adjusted so as not to inconvenience us. Really, it's no trouble at all, she seemed to say with her dark, expressive eyes as we poked and prodded her, I still have three functional legs. Until she didn't. Because she didn't want to move all that much, Juno's back legs seemed almost to atrophy within hours. We had to lift her hips, massage her shaky back legs, and then escort her out for potty breaks. Again, Miss Juno was apologetic in demeanor. This couldn't go on.

Vet appointment made, I was first relieved and then horrified when my dear friend Liz walked into the exam room with her intern. Relieved because Liz is highly proficient, compassionate, and realizes how ridiculously emotional I get when it comes to my animals. Horrified because I was ridiculously emotional. Embarrassingly so. Following a thorough examination, blood work, and x-rays, my greatest fears were set to rest:  My sweet dog was NOT at death's door. Relieved and grateful, we headed home with some medication, Liz's gentle warning about some possible incontinence barely a blip on my radar. Little did I realize that the forecast wouldn't include just sporadic sprinkles...not even torrential rain...no...we had a tsunami on our satellite map.

Juno's medication worked like a wonder drug. She was her usual energetic self the next day. However, when Brad arrived home from work, he found a flood of biblical proportions. She'd ravished rugs. Baptized blankets. Okay. We made some adjustments.  We needed a water-proofed room. The following day, I would be the one to walk into the canine cataclysm. Wet walls. Flooded floors. And then I gasped. Could it be? Was my dachshund DRIPPING? Chlo..who refused to be separated from her ailing pal...who insisted on cuddling up next to Juno in her friend's moment of need...who only wanted to be a source of love and comfort...my poor little dachshund had been doused.

Suds-ed up and soon sparkling again, I fluffed Chlo's fur while scrolling the inter-web-net for a dachshund-sized raincoat. Juno, naturally, was ashamed and embarrassed but Chlo and I were quick to reassure her. As a now-clean Chlo quickly cuddled with the rottweiler, I reminded them that "in every life, a little rain must fall." But, boy, I can't WAIT until that precipitation...I mean...prescription runs out!

Why going to work on a Saturday morning makes me "crabby"!

I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.

So there I was, at the school on a Saturday morning to get some work done (and watch YouTube). I walked into my classroom, kicked off my shoes, danced around to my playlist, and then stomped back out into the darkened hallway to make some copies. And there...lurking in the corridor...a shadow along the baseboard. I cautiously tiptoed closer before skittering away with a hysterical shriek.

When my heart-rate returned to normal and I could again think rationally, I realized what had happened. Like Frankenstein...a science investigation gone wrong.

I took a breath. I had, after all,  extensive state-mandated video-related safety training for situations such as this and was highly-qualified to address this matter.  Naturally, the first step in following protocol was to immediately snap a picture and shoot it off to all my colleagues.

Me (Text to all):  An escapee! What do I do?

Then I bustled about and found a container and a stick-like object (pencil). I also put my shoes back on. "Don't worry, little guy," I crooned, sliding slowly towards him, "Your efforts have not been in vain. I'll take you back to your natural habitat." Please notice my intentional use of science vocabulary. In the midst of a rescue, one must maintain an aura of professionalism to reassure the victim. One gentle poke of my pencil proved that, sadly, his efforts HAD been in vain.

Me (Text to all): Never mind 😢 #reasonstonotgobarefootatschool

A former member of the team, not renowned for her sensitivity chimed in:

Kelly H: Lol

Kelly N-D-D (of whose shallow aquarium our now-deceased friend escaped, wailed. By the way, this is NOT the first time that she would become emotionally-involved in a science investigation. Click link for proof.): Gulp. I am the worst crayfish mother!!!

Kelly N-D-D: 😭

Kelly N-D-D: Rachel, you can now rub it in my face when you said they could escape and I said "pish-posh," and didn't use the lid so they could get more oxygen. And added more climbing rocks..😳

Rachel (Who apparently DOES NOT read for detail):  😪 I'm sorry that I was of no help...I've been on the go this morning. Did he make it back home safely?

Kelly N-D-D: It was a kamikaze mission, unfortunately. ☠

Kelly N-D-D: Amy, you actually could be having crayfish for dinner.

Kelly N-D-D: I'm joking but I really feel terrible about this.

Geri: I just can't believe you say pish-posh!

Rachel:  I don't think I actually heard her say those exact words!

Amy:  Unless you're Mary Poppins, pish-posh is always implied rather than explicit. And while sad that our crustacean perished, how I admire how he went out. Just imagine that rush of adrenaline...the exhilarating thrill of escape. Despite his brief existence, he certainly lived life to the fullest. Go with God, small friend.

Kelly H:  Lol...omg. Thanks for the laugh!

Again...I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.

A shout out to customer service (and a public service announcement to write down your passwords)

“Mom, do you have the Horizons account password?” I briefly thought about it before giggling. What a silly question. Of course I didn’t. “What’s the matter, honey?” I asked, concerned. There was a suspended pause before Sydney answered. “My phone was stolen,” she said softly. “From church?” I gasped, horrified. “No…I wasn’t at church,” she admitted. “Well…if you weren’t at church…where were you? At a charity event?” “Let’s just say I wasn’t at church,” Sydney said, getting a little feisty (and some would say…defensive), “Can you help me?” she asked again.  I answered confidently, “Of course.”

Not.

Apparently, to access one’s Horizons password, one must be a part of a prestigious class system as an Account Owner or an Account Member. I was only a serf. If I couldn’t come up with the magical five-digit number, I would have to go, accompanied by my Account Owner (Brad…who was NOT amused by ANY of this), to the nearest Horizons hub located a convenient one and a half hours away. “How hard is it to WRITE DOWN a password?” Brad grumbled, waving his own precious password book at me.

Enter Andrea.

It started off a bit shaky. I dialed the 800 number, said a prayer to my patient God, and rattled off my life story to the customer service representative in less than ten seconds. I heard her take in a breath before asking me to please clarify my problem. Oh no, I thought, she doesn’t have a sense of humor.

How wrong I would turn out to be.

First, we tried every password combination known to man. After the hundredth attempt, I tried to end the call. “I don’t want to waste any more of your time,” I told Andrea. “We have all the time in the world,” she assured me, “Don’t give up. Surely you haven’t tried everything.” “Well,” I admitted, embarrassed, “there is one more but it’s so stupid…I’m sure I wouldn’t have used it.” “What is it?” Andrea asked, her curiosity piqued.

“54321.”

I listened as she laughed while she typed in the famed Spaceballs luggage combination.

Nope.

I attempted to conclude the call again…releasing Andrea from her misery. She had jumped through fiery hoops for me. We’d even tried re-setting the account member setting on the computer. “Look for settings,” she told me for the fiftieth time. “Andrea…” I snarled peevishly, “It isn’t on my screen.” “Left-hand corner,” she instructed. “It’s not there,” I gritted. “Did you try you OTHER left-hand corner,” she teased. “I told you…it’s not…oh,” I sheepishly hit the settings button.

Nope.

“Amy…hold the line,” Andrea finally said. “I’m going to be gone a bit but STAY on the line.” She disappeared. I waited. And waited. Was she coming back? She said she would come back. And then she was back. “I re-set your account,” she told me, “Here comes your password. Are you ready?” I nodded. “Do you have a pen?” Andrea asked doubtfully. “I have a pen,” I reassured her. “Get a pen,” Andrea ordered. Fine! I got a pen.

“5.”

I dutifully wrote “5.”

“4.”

I wrote “4” and frowned.

“3.”

“Andrea…,” my voice dropped down into the danger zone.

“Amy…write it down,” she chortled.

I wrote “3.”

You guessed it. We both laughed our heads off. By this time, Andrea knew all about my family and job. She had counselled me on my doubts and insecurities. Encouraged me to step out of my comfort zones. Applauded my successes. And had been added to my Christmas card list.

I thanked my new friend and attempted to hang up once again. “Oh no,” she insisted, “I’m seeing this through to the end. Text the girls the pass code and tell me when it goes through.” Within minutes, Sydney was on her way to new phone ownership and Andrea had pictorial evidence when I sent her a photo of my daughter victoriously gripping her trophy! Touchdown!

And that’s what Customer Service is all about, Charlie Brown!