Try to romaine calm! Don't be blue! Lettuce try to enjoy this sham of a salad

As long established over the course of countless blogs, I am not a complainer by nature. Stalwart. Resolute. Forbearant. That's me. Easy-going. Unflappable. Compromising. 

But I like what I like.

When I go out to eat, I like Laurie's in Warsaw ("Hi, Naomi and Dana! What's this? Lobster bisque!?!") and Ace's in Belfast ("Hi, Laci!" Virgil LOVED the sweet potato pancake!"). I will, occasionally, venture out of my comfort zone but will inevitably end up making unfair comparisons to my tried-and-trues. 

Case-in-point, we were taking my beloved brother-in-law out for a special meal to commemorate this, his most recent, visit. "If we want it to be special, we should take him to Laurie's," I muttered but gamely accepted the challenge of discovering a new favorite restaurant. Sigh.

We walked into the nearly empty eatery and were told that there would be about a ten minute wait as they were preparing for a party. No problem...we settled in at the bar where a rather temperamental tapster begrudgingly filled our order. I watched four of the waitstaff wrestle a plastic tablecloth onto a table for ten which was surrounded by twenty empty tables. I sipped my mediocre margarita, not feeling like a valued customer, longing for Laurie's, where I was loved. 

At last, we were brusquely led to our table. Knowing we were already on shaky ground, Brad agonized more over my meal selections than his own. He threw caution to the wind and ordered the spinach-artichoke dip to curtail my impulse of wrapping my hands tightly around Mr. Ten-Minute Wait's throat. 

Clearly, I had lost mind of my senses. I ordered a salad. But it was the promised land of lettuce, laden with blueberries, pomegranate pellets, sunflower seeds, assorted nuts, and topped with mandarin oranges. A blueberry vinaigrette river would then wind its way through this wonderland of wilted greens.

The masterpiece arrived and I frowned. "What's wrong?" Brad asked. What could POSSIBLY be wrong with a salad? "I thought they meant fresh blueberries," I said dismally, pushing the dehydrated bl-aisins around on my plate. "Weren't there supposed to be mandarin oranges in your salad?" my brother-in-law asked. Brad glared at him. We were tilting precariously on a precipice and who knew what would nudge me over?

These were desperate times. "Would you like a rootbeer float?" my husband asked me. I brightened, forgetting for one second that I lived in a world that embraced bl-aisins. "She'd like a rootbeer float, please" Brad told our server. "Throw a shot of bourbon in there," Virgil added, now aware of the volatile conditions in our corner. "That's five dollars extra," she informed us. Brad handed me a salty french fry doused in malt vinegar as I made a sudden move to stand while removing my hoops. "That's no problem," Brad assured her as she backed slowly away from our unstable table, "in fact...put in two shots. 

I didn't "meme" it that way!

I'm not sure when I became the self-appointed Morale Meme Maker for my school...oh, who am I kidding?  I know EXACTLY when I became the self-appointed Morale Meme Maker for my school. But the when and whys aren't really all that important though, are they? Particularly when they end up making me appear peevishly small and immature. Let's instead focus on the incident at hand...where I was heartlessly betrayed by a trusted friend and colleague in this, my greatest moment of need.

Starting back in September, I have made it my life's MISSION to build up, cheer up, or shut up my colleagues with fun, inspirational memes. I spend excruciating HOURS, agonizing over proper phrasing, deliberating long into the night for just the right balance of picture-to-word ratio. I strive to ironically mirror our lives in meme. And for the most part, I fancy that I'm pretty successful. The "Banksy" of my time.

Except...

Maybe I was over-tired. Maybe my Zumba workout had been overly strenuous. None of that matters. There really wasn't any excuse. I dropped the ball. My appropriateness meter had somehow missed its mark.

I remember debating the merits of this specific meme. It definitely fulfilled my first criteria of making me laugh out loud but sometimes that could be a BAD thing. The meme in question was also a meme-of-reflection, causing the viewer to pause and ponder. But my gut...also known as The Holy Spirit...wasn't having it. But, as usual, when faced with any moral quandary, I kicked my conscience to the curb and dismissed it as acid reflux. I posted my newly-printed set of memes and, striding confidently to my truck, cried out, "Amy has left the building!"

It wasn't until I made the turn onto my road that I gasped in horror. Pretty sure that the Holy Spirit smirked in smug satisfaction. Told you so, my tummy taunted. The meme that I had thought was just a little naughty...oh no.

I sat in my drive-way, mentally scrolling through the list of trusted friends who might still be at work. My list exhausted, I begrudgingly emailed the one person that I knew could help me. But would he? It took him an aggravating hour to answer me. "I was coaching a game," he said defensively. I cannot believe that I was pinning my hopes on a guy with such a messed-up set of priorities. When he did FINALLY get around to helping me, he admitted that it took him a minute or two to determine which one of my posted memes was the culprit; a ridiculous notion because most of my memes are sophisticated and intellectually-stimulating.

Whew...now that the meme was no longer mounted on the wall, I could relax. My husband, of course, thought that I was blowing things out of proportion. "I just wouldn't want to rub anyone the wrong way," I told him.

Amy Mosiman: Human Disco Ball

I am REALLY trying to be a good sport here...but enough is enough.

"Amy, I had a dream that you cut your hair," said one of the most beautiful women in the world.

I cut my hair.

"Amy, is this the 17th day in a row that you've worn those shoes?" asked another curiously.

I bought new shoes.

Somehow...without actually signing myself up for it, I am now "working out."

Without my consent, bottled water is now reluctantly housed in my classroom.

But Erin's year-long battle to bring (a little?) sparkle to my life has taken on a whole new dimension in this school-wide Amy Mosiman Improvement Plan.

An anonymous package arrived in the mail and what looked like medieval chain metal slid out. I was practically blinded by red and silver sequins. When I could see again, I checked for a return address. Nope. Well, this was a no-brainer. It had to be Erin.

So...the next day, sporting silver sequins, I slinked into the school and hoped no one would notice me. That, unfortunately, was not to be as, according to my "friend" Felicia, I looked like a human disco ball.

My day began by the copier as I watched my other "friend" Traci wrestle with and then subsequently break the office stapler. She stared at me in silent horror...damaging office supplies carried quite the weighty penalty. Many would elect to have their eyeballs plucked out of their heads by a third world dictator rather than face the wrath of our office secretaries. I was attempting to summon some sympathy in my unintentional role as blinding beacon of hope but that was quickly squelched when Traci, as a clever distraction technique, began calling out attention to my attire. Erin's inner radar honed in on me and we were off to the races...literally. Her squeals of joy reached me before she actually could because I had dashed (lumbered) off down the hall before she easily caught me.

Erin is a lot of things. Annoying. Embarrassing. Inappropriate. Kind of pretty. Perky. Bubbly. Moderately intelligent. Loud. Bendy. Frustrating. Sweet. Exasperating. But one thing Erin isn't is a liar. She insists that she was not my anonymous benefactor of blinding blouses.

"Wait," she shrieked, "You have another one?!?"

Yes...in red.

 "I have one too!" she shouted happily, to the surprise of NO ONE. She immediately began making plans to schedule a red sparkle day on Valentine's Day. I firmly said no. SOMEONE has to establish boundaries with this woman...she is out of control. I conceded that I would wear my red disco ball shirt the day BEFORE Valentine's Day...clearly demonstrating that I was in charge of my own wardrobe destiny. She pouted briefly before her ever-present smile reappeared. "Why can't you wear it on Valentine's Day?" she wondered.

I lifted my chin, refusing to be embarrassed. There are some hills worth dying on. "I have a dachshund Valentine's Day shirt that I'm planning to wear," I told her, bracing myself for her mirth. "I can't wait to see it," she cheered, clapping her hands. Erin is such a good sport.

As a side-note, I had gone out to eat that night with my friend Joan. When the waitress, Kayla, brought our drink order, I was delighted to see my hot chocolate adorned with red sprinkles. Thanking our server, she shrugged and smiled. "You just looked like that kind of girl," she said.

Cue deafening scream.