Getting Cold Feet at the Frosty Play: Silly...Silly...Silly

Our story begins on October 5th where I was, once again, minding my own business. My friend Erin (also known as "The Bane of My Existence"), had put out feelers for volunteers to participate in her annual holiday production. Having been featured, most unglamorously, in several of these, I decided that this was my year to retire...to pass the torch to the more talented staff members who can take Erin's direction without mocking, heckling, or undermining her.

But, alas.

Annoying text message from Erin:  Ummm...I'm sorry. Did I somehow miss you signing up with me
after the faculty meeting for Frosty?

I responded with an adorable snowman picture "waving" to Erin with BOTH of its stick fingers.

Erin:  Oh! Are you raising both hands to join? Super. I'll count you in.

Fast forward to October 9th where I foolishly believed the lie my mother told me when I was nine: Just ignore her. She'll go away.

Annoying text message from Erin:  What are your feelings about villains?

Me:  Compassion...respect...a deep, relatable connection.

Erin:  Perfect! Professor Hinkle you will be!

Me:  I am not being in the play this year.

Erin:  You said that last year and, yes, you are. You will be amazing!

Fast forward to the first play practice that I purposely ignored because I had stated firmly, emphatically, and unequivocally that I was NOT going to participate this year.

PA Announcement:  Will Amy Mosiman please report to Erin's room? Amy Mosiman? Report to Erin's room or she will come and get you.

I stormed down the hall, slunk into Erin's crowded room of eager, excited actors, and sulked in the corner.

During the read-through, I couldn't find "my voice," veering uncontrollably from French to Southern to British to German. I was certain that I would be invited to leave but unfortunately, people started making requests. "Can you do Russian?" No.

Fast forward to the beginning of December where I learn that, not only did my "small" part turn out to be twenty-two lines long, I was also going to have to "leap" from a "moving train."

Wait. 

What?!?

I was assured that I would be given an opportunity to practice said death-defying feat. Yet another lie.

Fast forward to the morning on the day of the play.

While in the midst of trying to part my bangs in the middle, Professor Hinkle-style, I dropped a barrette and hit my head on the bathroom vanity as I went to stand up. Ouch! I cheered up immediately. Death, take me now, I begged, peering unhappily (and dizzily) at my very unglamorous reflection in the mirror. 

Fast forward to the drive to school the day of the play.

Okay, I thought, clutching the wheel, the head contusion didn't do me in. C'mon deer...do your thing.

Fast forward to the play.

This is a TERRIBLE idea. I read my script frantically with Hocus-Pocus the rabbit peering desperately over my shoulder. We scanned the pages like it was that shiny tri-fold life-saving brochure that no one ever reads on a plane UNTIL..."How do I make my seat into a floatation device?"..."How do I get the oxygen to flow out of that dangling apparatus?"..."Who has Frosty's hat in Scene 2?" There were video segments. Choreographed dancers. A choir. A narrator. A LOT of things to be paying attention to. Hocus and I panicked. We NEVER paid attention!!!

Things went downhill the moment I hit the stage. The cast could only stare in horror as I flailed about. I could only think about tracking that darn hat and that I would soon be leaping to my death (or, at the very least, breaking my hip) in front of a live audience of impressionable children.

My friend Eric was a masterful Frosty. Unfortunately, his head was encased in a thick layer of polyester foam with an impenetrable mask that didn't allow him to either see or hear. Afraid that he may have missed his cue (He didn't...I had jumped the gun), I "helped" him by asking him if he wanted me to jump on his back. Little Karen then climbed aboard and I was so caught up in the moment, I decided to go along for the ride.

Soon after, my friend Michelle approached with the rolling cart that served as my train. In her enthusiasm, she rammed that sucker right into my shins. Eyes wide, we stared at each other in horror. Mindful of my hot mic, she leaned forward and hissed, "Don't say it," as I drew in a deep breath and prayed that maybe I'd suffered a fractured fibula. No such luck. Michelle heaved me on the cart and quickly rolled me out onto the stage. I was poised as some sort of lumpy, base-jumping frog. As we careened toward the 1/4 inch thick mat (Cheese cloth would have offered me better padding), I readied myself for my stunt. In my mind, it was a masterful movie-style leap. In reality, it was more of a limp log-roll.

Praise God, the end of the play had arrived. My confrontation with Santa consisted of my Superintendent and myself staring, wide-eyed at one another, as we engaged in a warped and dangerous dueling banjos-style improvisation as we both battled to remember our lines. When he was in the midst of an impressive Hamlet-type off-script soliloquy with no end in sight, "Little Karen" (who actually KNEW her lines) and I glanced worriedly at one another. Unsure of what to do during his monologue, I began yawning, looking at my watch, and miming gater hand at him. All was well at the end though, when he majestically boarded his "sleigh" (the hallway zamboni) and whisked our top-heavy Frosty off safely to the North Pole. We all breathed a sigh of relief. It was over. And nobody died.

Fast forward to me at home, safely tucked into my comfy chair, trying to put this nightmare behind me.

Annoying text from Erin: I didn't get a chance to tell you that you went above and beyond for your role and you were amazing. 

Clearly, she is both blind and delusional. Did she sneak out of the auditorium and attend another play? Did she hit her head on her bathroom vanity this morning picking up a barrette? Had this all just been a bad dream?

I did not respond to her text. My mother used to tell me that if I ignore an annoying person, they will eventually go away.

 

Here, pear, everywhere

Let's just say that, this year, I made some hard-core fruit investments during my school's annual fundraiser. I can't explain what happened. I must have just been plum-crazy or just not peeling well when I decided to purchase my body weight in produce. 

Yeah, yeah, yeah. I've seen that episode of "Everyone Loves Raymond" and, believe me, I can relate to Marie's exasperated exclamation of "What are we going to do with all this fruit?" No. I do not "put up" fruit. I don't can, cake, or cobbler fruit. I don't dice, dehydrate, or decorate with fruit. For goodness sake, I barely EAT fruit.

But there it was. 

A GIGANTIC box of pears. Was I envisioning a shoe box? I certainly didn't picture this cargo container. I don't even like pears. I peeked fearfully inside. Yup. There they were...individually wrapped like little pear presents. 

Well...it was clear that this little problem was not going to disa-pear so I put on my coat, grabbed my bag, and then, being sure to lift with my legs, hoisted my box of pears into my arms.  BIG mistake. I staggered beneath the weight of a zillion pears, listing to the left before slamming into the wall, Three-Stooges-style. For some reason, my instinct was to sacrifice my spine along with my dignity for a fruit that ranks 11th, AFTER mangos, for pete's sake according to https://firstwefeast.com/eat/ranking-of-fruits/  which included this dead-on description as "overripe pears taste like someone pre-chewed the fruit and then stuffed it back into an oblong skin sack." My friend and next-door-classroom neighbor, Kelly, came to my rescue if, by rescue, you count hysterical laughter and then larceny. After Kelly lightened my load by eight pairs, she alerted the masses to my dilemma. "I've never seen you eat a pear," my friend, Geri, remarked, observing my plethora of pears. "I don't like pears," I told her. She nodded. "Naturally. So of course you would spend your life's savings on an orchard's worth." 

It was decided that I would have to Johnny Cash my way out of this problem...carrying my pears out "one piece at a time." I loaded my bag with a dozen wrapped pears and headed home, my heart heavy as I contemplated the zillions I'd left behind. 

Brad was delighted with my delivery. "That's a lot of pears," he admitted, "but I can eat twelve pears, no problem." How on earth was I going to tell him? Was this grounds for divorce? 

Suddenly, my phone rang. It was my friend Rachel. "Amy, I just wanted you to know that the kids made a fruit delivery for you after you left." Melon-choly, I slid to the floor. Happily crunching his pear, my husband looked at me. "What's wrong?" 

So...much...fruit.

Rachel reassured me that her son would carry my fruit freight out to my truck tomorrow. "Rachel, we need a fork-lift. Adam can't carry that."

The next day, Adam...who is forever stuck in my mind in his former-4th grade-form...arrived and effortlessly picked up my crate of pears like a black-tied waiter carrying a tray of champagne at a celebrity gala. I quickly provided him with a description of my truck and he laughed. "Mrs. Mosiman, we filmed a video together with you dressed like a bee, driving the Titan while my friends and I pushed it down the road singing a parody of Be Our Guest." He delivered this soliloquy effortlessly while carrying a thousand pounds of pears. Usually, Adam and I only talk about the sandwich that he ate for lunch. He is passionate about his sandwiches. 

Brad carried in the bountiful boxes when I got home. Our kitchen had transformed into a cornucopia. I wondered how hard it was to make those hats that the Chiquita Banana Lady wears. Those would make fun and unique gifts for the holiday. An edible arrangement that you could wear! Why, oh why, did I buy so much fruit?  I must have succumbed to pear-pressure.

  
 

Keeping the spark alive

"I'm going to clean up the garage," my husband said, attempting (and failing) to maintain eye contact with me. There was NO WAY I was going down there. Two deer had been butchered and processed in that space over the last three days. It was like a horror movie down there. To enter my garage at this time would be the equivalent to first, splitting up an established group to seek out a suspiciously missing person and second, going down into a dark basement to check out a questionable noise. 

So yeah, I let him go...without me. With minimal guilt. 

But soon, I realized that I'd never heard the garage door open. Where was he? A quick inventory out my windows soon spotted him by our car, huddled over the engine beneath the open hood. Shoot. Moral quandary. Do I pretend that I'd never seen him and retreat back under the warmth of my comfy covers or do I venture out into the cold to offer my usual incompetent assistance, undoubtedly, triggering a stress-induced spat? Darn it!

The first thing I noticed was the concerning lack of jumper-cables. I immediately deduced several things. One, our jumper cables were in the truck we'd just dropped off to be serviced and two, Brad must have been in the process of making sure the car would start so I'd be able to go to work the next morning with no fuss. Now I felt ashamed. Good thing I'd come out here.

"Here, hold this," Brad said gruffly. I refrained from reminding him to use his manners as I looked, with some alarm, at the brown household extension cord with exposed wires that he'd wound around the car's dead battery and had connected to one of Brad's many hoarded back-up batteries. I gripped the cord tentatively as Brad hopped in the car to give it a try. Nothing. Was it my imagination that I could feel a surge of lightning-strength electricity surging through the wires? Brad returned to peer back under the hood. I prayed my usual prayer that he would suddenly spot a loose plug. "Golly, look at that," he would exclaim, firmly pushing it back into the receptacle as the car suddenly leaped into life. But no...instead he inspected my grip on his death-wire and deemed it unsatisfactory. "Pull it taut," he instructed as I mumbled, "That's what she said," under my breath. 

He got behind the wheel again as I watched my knitted mitten start to smoke. As the flesh on my fingers began developing more seared marks then a grilled steak,  I debated my options of marital disharmony or second degree burns. When the car again refused to cooperate, Brad returned. "It's burning me," I complained. He huffed, rolled his eyes, dramatically grabbed his flammable wires and stomped off. Were we done? Done with the project? Done with the marriage? "Erin would be happy to pick me up tomorrow," I yelled after him. 

Before I knew it, he was back. Goody. This time he held an industrial type of extension cord. Great.

Round two.

I could feel the sizzle in my toenails.

Suddenly, I was demoted to "Try-Starting-the-Car Duty."

Thank God.

I resisted the impulse to tell him that I was cold as I waited for his barked orders to "Try it again." I wish the radio worked. I wondered how Brad would feel if I asked to pop in the house to grab my phone.

Finally, the car sputtered to life.

""We're gonna let it run for awhile," Brad told me. I suppressed a giggle at his use of the royal "We." I watched him gather up his supplies and walk into the garage. I decided that it would be best for our relationship if we gave each other a little space so I returned to my comfy covers. It was the least I could do.

Picking out a Christmas tr-eee! eee! eee!

When it comes to Christmas, the Mosimans are more Norman Bates than Norman Rockwell. Never more so then when you give us a reason to wield sharp objects such as axes and saws. We do not skip merrily through the magical Christmas tree forest, singing cheerful holiday songs. More than likely, we are huffing and puffing, cursing and complaining as we stomp through the snow. My husband is the exception to the rule. He loves tradition, even if he has to drag us kicking and screaming through the frickin' forest.

Fortunately for us, we had, long ago, found the equivalent to the Island of Misfit Toys simply by turning left at the Wooded Glade of Eccentric Evergreens. We have NEVER, in thirty years of diligent searching (Brad searching...the girls and I complaining), found anything comparable to a normal tree. Just scraggly, Seuss-y samples that suited us perfectly. 

So here we were, just Brad and I, in the middle of our Christmas tree forest, having our yearly argument, listing LOUDLY, the pros and cons of blue spruce. "It cuts me to ribbons," I complained, "They should have named it a porcu-pine." "It holds its needles a long time," Brad battled back. "Needle retention isn't nearly as important as determining which tree causes the least amount of blood-letting," I snapped. 

The phone suddenly rang. Somewhere, on the opposite coast, my eldest daughter had felt an unexpected chill and was compelled to call. "What are you doing?" she asked suspiciously as I stormed away from Brad's choice. "Your father is trying to get me stabbed," I told her. "Are you Christmas tree hunting?" she deduced, demanding "Let's Facetime!" 

I had thought it couldn't get any worse. 

I was obviously wrong.

Savannah, joined by our darling friend, Lisa, peered out from the safety of my climate-controlled screen and began directing our route. "Left," they shouted in delight, "Oooo...look at that one!" We had to inspect each of their choices from all angles until they finally...Did you read that carefully, dearest Reader?... THEY finally settled on the perfect choice. A blue spruce. 

"There's a giant gap in it," I complained as I began sawing away at this giant pincushion of a pine. Yeah...I sawed it. I made a GIANT mistake by firmly declaring that I don't saw trees rather than faking a debilitating hand injury like I usually do. So, in the name of equality, I Paul-Bunyan-ed that bastard down.

Then there was the usual stuffing of the too-big tree into the too-small bed of my truck. What is it with my normally super-safety-conscious husband who will suddenly lose his mind when it comes to transporting large items?  "Looks good," he'll shrug and next thing you know, there are a dozen church tables dealt out like a hand of Texas Hold'em on Main Street in Warsaw, or a bathtub/shower combo unit flying down a two-lane highway or my tree doing a tuck-and-roll dive onto a country road. 

Somehow, we made it home, more or less intact. We wrestled it into the living room, to the dachshund's delight. Drinking from the water stand really appeals to her inner wiener-wolf. Brad and I took in our tree that was currently taking up the room. Literally...TAKING UP THE ROOM. Our two genius phone consultants obviously did not factor in width. Entering and exiting my living room was like pushing through a not-so-amusing amusement park turnstile. A turnstile that stabs you as you maneuver through it. Stupid blue spruce.

"Maybe you could do something about that," Brad said casually as he slid out the door to address the battery problem in our car...more on THAT later...I eyed up the murderous monument in my living room and went to work. I bonsai-ed the ever-loving daylights out of that tree. Edward Scissorhands had nothing on me. There could be only one victor here...and clearly, that would be me.

From his vantage point in the driveway, Brad could make out the shadowy outline of what looked to be a Christmas tree through our darkened living room window. With fear in his heart, he slowly walked into the house, not sure what he would find. Among the carnage of needles and boughs littering the floor, he spotted his wife, covered in sap, hacking at his holiday tree. "Stop it, you psycho," he said, carefully removing the shears from her shaking hand. "Don't worry," he said to calm her, "At Christmas, we all go a little mad sometimes."

 

In a fowl mood at the Turkey Trot

My husband was understandably confused when I told him I'd signed us up for the Thanksgiving morning "Turkey Trot" this year. The adrenaline high that I'd experienced after I'd hit "submit" for the on-line form several weeks ago had significantly waned as Race Day approached. 

Brad and I went to pick up our pre-race package the day before. "This may be the only time you see me," I warned my friend Carrie as she handed me my bag of goodies. Sensing my trepidation, Carrie began listing all of the short-cuts on the race route while I rummaged through the bag, looking for alcohol. "Is this a lottery number?" I asked, holding up dramatically large-fonted digits on a flimsy piece of paper. Carrie sighed and handed me four safety pins. "What are these for?" I asked. "Good luck tomorrow," my friend said, waving me out the door.

Thanksgiving morn dawned much too early. "Is it raining?" I asked hopefully. Nope. "Snowing?" Nope. "Is there some aberration of nature that will prevent me from attending this event?" Nope. So...instead of being thankful, I spent the morning cursing.

"I didn't know there was a dress code," I whispered to Brad, feeling self-conscious in my jeans among the slew of sweatpants, leggings, and compression socks. I wished I'd worn a disguise as my athletic "friends" kept excitedly greeting me.  "How am I gonna cheat if all these people, who I clearly have NOTHING in common with, see me?" I whispered to Brad who was trying to wrestle me into my lottery numbers. "No lottery is worth all this," I told him. 

The race was on. I glanced back at my parked vehicle and considered sprinting to it but instead allowed myself to be swept into the river of racers. "This isn't so bad," I admitted as Brad and I easily walked the familiar route to the school...one that we'd walked countless times together as children. "You're speeding up?" my husband said, surprised as we suddenly made an unprecedented pass around a happy group of chatty-Cathys. "I need some advice," one of them had announced, "about hard-boiled eggs." When the advice about hard-boiled eggs exceeded a reasonable two minutes, I decided Brad and I needed a change of pace.

My spirits soared as we turned the corner leading to the finish. "This wasn't bad at all!" I said cheerfully as we enjoyed gravity's pull down Main Street. Brad was silent, allowing me to absorb my surroundings. "Why aren't they turning?" I asked, watching the flow of humanity stretch straight, PAST Maple Street, "Oh, no-no-no," I cried, my legs beginning to wobble. "I thought it would be better if you found out on your own," my husband said as my eyes scanned our surroundings, seeking escape. Maybe I could slip unobtrusively past the mom with an infant strapped to her chest pushing two toddlers in a double stroller. "Let's make a run for it while everyone is distracted by that group of hookers on the corner," I suggested before realizing that several of the daytime prostitutes were, in fact, mothers of my students and were enthusiastically cheering me on. I was not in the mood.

It was the final stretch. "What is that truck doing?" I asked as it lumbered along behind us. "They pick up the traffic cones at the end of a race," Brad explained. "Well...that's insulting," I huffed, "The least they could do is wait until we've crossed the finish line. This is like a waitress taking your plate before you've eaten the whole meal." They reminded me of the little sweeper guy who followed the parade on The Mister Peabody cartoon. "Do you think they'd give us a ride?" I asked Brad.

"Look! You finished in under an hour!" Brad pointed out as we crossed the finish line. "This took a whole hour?!?" I said indignantly. My husband gently guided me to the van. Strapped in and sipping water with the remnants of the race in my rear view, I began to calm down from my Turkey Trot trauma. "So...would you want to do it again?" he asked carefully. "Exercising is not my favorite way to spend Thanksgiving," I admitted, "but I guess it's not what you're doing...it's who you're doing it with."  He grinned at this weak attempt to make the best out of this situation. "I yam so thank to be with you," I told him. "Stuffing better than this," he agreed. Happy Thanksgiving!
 

Team 4 turns itself around

 

Team 4, in the midst of a professional development conference, began questioning the posted vocabulary example of a "steer" as a male cow. 

"Wait a second," I protested, completely missing the big picture of whatever it was I was supposed to be learning (as usual), "A bull is a male cow." 

Team 4 was off and running. We discussed horns. Long horns. Short horns. Unicorn horns. And trumpets. We made the distinction of cow as a general category with heifers as the female counterpart. 

"John Wayne would herd steers to market across Texas. You're telling me that was a herd of all male cows?" I argued authoritatively.  The Cowboys was one of my favorite John Wayne movies after all. 

Finally, we looked it up. 

A steer is a castrated male cow. 

What? That's crazy! 

"Know what's even crazier," Rachel interjected. "A male castrated turkey is called a hokey." Team 4 was silent for a moment as we stared at her, dumbfounded. "Why would you even know that?"  I asked ("Why would anyone ever castrate a turkey?" my husband asked later, wincing.). 

Kelly suddenly began giggling. "It's actually pretty easy to remember," she said. "The hokey doesn't have a pokey." 

We always learn so much during professional development sessions.

Mystery Solved: The Case of the Haunted Hallway

My fellow 4th grade team member, Geri, typically a laid-back and level-headed woman, came careening into my classroom. "Did you see what just went by?" she asked, motioning me frantically to get out of my chair. My mind raced as I sorted through all of the potentially terrifying scenarios that might be waiting for me on the opposite side of my closed classroom door. "The hallway zamboni is unmanned!" Geri shouted, grabbing my arm and pulling me into pursuit. 

The school was like a ghost-town. The corridors were vacuous tunnels; echoing, empty shafts devoid of life. We could hear the haunting drone of the maniacal mechanism as it stalked a side hallway. Like Scooby Doo and the gang, Geri and I sprinted around the corner, our legs pinwheeling without purchase on the smooth, shiny floors.

We caught a glimpse of blue. "There it goes!" we shouted, Paul Revere-ing our way around the wing,
trying to ruffle our clueless colleagues closeted in their own classrooms.  We suddenly came face-to-face with the object of our alarm. We stared in shock at the demon-possessed appliance. We approached it with the comical caution of rodeo clowns. At this point, I began to question our well-intended, developing-along-the-way, plans of intervention. Were we going to leap aboard and rustle this rogue critter into submission? Open the corral doors and herd it outside?  Geri, at one point, appeared ready to throw herself bodily in front of this raging bull. 

Fortunately, her sacrifice was not required as we rounded another 90 degree turn to encounter a team of our highly-trained, imminently-skilled cleaning and maintenance staff who were over-seeing the maiden voyage of the world's biggest Roomba. So, yeah. We felt a little stupid. "Send a girl a memo," I suggested defensively as the ghost groomer continued down the hall, leaving clean floors and lost jobs in its wake. 

Geri and I trekked back to our rooms, our heroic exploits ignored (or, even worse, mocked and maligned). Change is inevitable, I know. But it can sometimes be scary and even a little sad. The new-fangled floor mop trundled past me mockingly, its empty saddle a sorrowful signal of another employee losing their seat. Particularly sad because, in our school, manning the helm of the hallway zamboni is the most envied position of all.
 

Benched

"Do you want to go and build a bench with me?" Brad asked. I blinked at him and sighed. Now I know how Elsa felt. "Sure, I'm willing to build a bench with you," I answered. Brad frowned. "That's not what I asked," my husband persisted. I closed out the Youtube video I was watching to address this situation head-on. "When, in our over-thirty years of marriage," I pointed out, "have I EVER wanted to build a bench? I am willing to build a bench." Apparently, my not immediately turning somersaults and breaking out into cheerful song with cartoon animal accompaniment caused my husband to doubt my passionate desire to spend hours whittling wood into workable furniture. 

When Saturday arrived, I summoned the necessary enthusiasm to demand that he take me with him to build a bench. Describing the project to me, he used a lot of familiar vocabulary that I have grown to view as trigger words. "We'll just pop this together,"  "This should be pretty easy," and "Zip-zip" are three phrases that warn me that I should have packed snacks, a book, alcohol, and a sleeping bag and have a marriage counselor's number on speed-dial. 

Being Brad Mosiman's right-hand helper isn't all that hard but it can be tricky. Timing and intuition are a must. He mumbles to himself so you can mostly tune out BUT you must be subliminally aware of numbers. "What was that measurement again?" he'll suddenly say. I'll admit it. I've made up figures with the desperate flair of an Atlantic City Strip magician. "Is this your card? What about this? Is it, at least, the right suit?" My brain about exploded when he asked me what half of 3 3/8 was. 

Brad thoughtfully explained each step of the process to me but the combination of my utter disinterest along with my inability to visualize what he was actually talking about had me foolishly hoping that each step that we were on might be "the last step." Amy Mosiman...you naive ninny. 

I watched my husband sit on an imaginary bench with the clinical detachment of a bank teller watching a client approach with a jug filled with nickels and pennies. What was happening in front of my very eyes was part of my job but it was not going to be especially fun. 

My main duties consisted around keeping track of my husband's constantly disappearing pencil, standing where Brad wanted me to stand ("Here?" "No. There."), lifting things wrong ("Is that good?" It never was. It was either higher or lower), dodging metal as it rocketed from Brad's sparking blade as he cut off a wooden ledge ridden with nails, miscalculating every figure he gave me, handing him nails the wrong way, and telling him that everything looked good only to have him pull it apart and do it again. I was, obviously, essential to this project.

My self-imposed duty was Morale Officer. "Whaa-aa-aaahh-a!" I sang cheerfully. Crammed under the bench, drilling boards together (My job was to sit on them...finally...a position that showcases my talent!), my husband ignored me. Undeterred, I continued to sing accompaniment. "Whaa-aa-aaahh-a!" After approximately twenty unrelenting choruses, Brad interrupted his work to pleasantly and politely ask me what the heck I was doing. "I'm trying to remember the Led Zeppelin song intro that your drill keeps playing," I told him. He frowned before saying, "It's Immigrant Song," before ducking under to resume his task. "Whaa-aa-aaahh-a!"

Six hours later, it was done. "Worth every minute," I said loudly, so as to be heard over the growling of my stomach. "It seems pretty high," Brad remarked glumly. I looked at him in alarm. Glum was NOT good for me. We sat on his bench, our little legs swinging like a pair of toddlers in highchairs. In a rare moment of self-restraint, I refrained from reminding Brad of the SNL sketch featuring Lily Tomlin as little Edith Ann in her big chair. I suppressed an immature giggle to reassure my husband who was now  muttering something about how "If Ben wanted a carpenter, he should have hired Jesus." "It's the perfect height for a filet station," I said, trying to distract my husband by reminding him of his love of fishing. "People could park a chair in front of it and use it as a desk!" I went on, describing the multi-functionality of Brad's unique creation. "We could drop a knotted rope from the ceiling so that children could easily access your bench. They'd love it! What an adventure!" Brad had stopped talking by this time. We were in trouble. Frantic, I Google-researched bench heights. "Standard bench heights range between 18 and 20 inches high. "We're pretty close. Besides, who wants to be considered standard?"

One sleepless night later (Not me...I slept like a baby in an over-sized crib), we were back on the road to "Pop these off...and zip-zip...we'll be outta there. Should be pretty easy. Hey, have you seen my pencil?" Although not athletic by nature, I feel a sports analogy to be a pretty apt ending to this little lesson of woe. When it comes to woodworking projects with my husband, I would rather ride the pines than build the bench.

 

When did "fudge" become a bad word?

They say you have to choose your battles. Determine the hill that you are willing to die on. Not surprisingly, my hill is made up of vanilla ice cream peaked with rivers of hot fudge. 

Mere hours ago, Brad and I were in the drive-thru of our (formerly) favorite, frequently-visited, fast food place. As I juggled our purchases, quickly inventorying the bag (We'd been burned before), I didn't notice the state of our sundae cups fast enough. 

"Uh...Brad," I said, holding up the cup for his inspection. He nodded. "Kinda skimpy on the hot fudge," he noted, PREPARING TO DRIVE AWAY. Obviously, my husband had clearly failed to recognize a crisis when he saw one. "There is...like...a nickel-sized dollop of hot fudge on my ice cream," I reported angrily. "Do you want to go in?" he asked rhetorically. He was talking to a woman that hides in bagged mulch forts outside grocery stores, cries in front of spaghetti sauce selections, and has abandoned shopping carts when she couldn't decide on a new couch cushion. He was NOT prepared for my level of righteous indignation. 

"Yes," I stated flatly, "I'm going in."

This is what I expected:

    Amy enters her restaurant, Old Reliable, clutching her fiasco of an order. Employee spots this regrettable error and immediately apologizes before offering to top off Amy's dessert with copious amounts of thick, rich, deliciously hot chocolate fudge. Amy thanks employee and skips away happily.

This is what ACTUALLY happened:

    Amy enters her restaurant, Old Reliable, clutching her fiasco of an order. Manager notices Amy and, frowning, clearly thinks this customer is being ridiculous. Obviously, there are bigger problems in the world~~Manager does not realize that Amy already knows this. Amy cannot unload all those backed-up cargo ships in California. Amy cannot wave a wand and make Covid go away. Amy cannot eradicate world hunger, cure cancer, or spay/neuter the global population of domesticated pets. But Amy CAN request that she receive what she ordered and paid for from her formally favorite fast food restaurant. 

Frowning, Manager outlines three viable options to solve Amy's problem.

    1.  Manager can fill a cup with additional hot fudge as, with Covid protocols, Manager cannot handle the order once it had changed hands ("They had no problem handling our Covid-encrusted cash," Brad said later.) I pictured myself clumsily trying to pour my cup of hot fudge onto my sundae and decided that Option 1 was not for me. This wasn't "Build-a-Bear," after all. If I wanted to make my own sundae, I'd have had Brad make me one at home.

    2.  Manager can make me two new sundaes...Yay! Sign me up! EXCEPT...I would have to throw away my current order. I...I...I...would have to throw away my current order because, due to Covid protocols, Manager cannot handle the original order once it had changed hands (Brad's quote again inserted here). Let's return to the part where Amy can't eradicate world hunger but I certainly don't want to contribute to the problem by blatantly wasting perfectly good food. Forget Option 2.

    3. I forget Option 3 because by now I was so upset that I wasn't thinking clearly. I imagine that Option 3 maybe had something to do with a refund or planting a tree in Israel in my name.

What do I do? Fortunately, my friend Donna was in line placing an order (Let us pause in supplicative prayer that poor Donna had better luck than I did). "What should I do?" I asked her. She eyed my poor excuse for a sundae and encouraged continuing quest. I then spotted another friend seated behind me, enjoying lunch with her grandkids WHO WERE DESSERT-LESS! A-ha!

"I know there isn't much hot fudge on it," I said apologetically (The first apology uttered in this establishment thus far) to her, "but would the kids enjoy the ice cream?" She assured me that they would. Happily, I returned to the counter to retrieve my new order, generously topped with hot fudge (AS I HAD ORIGINALLY ORDERED). I shared with Manager how I had solved the problem and requested two spoons for the kids. 

Frowning even more (if that were even possible), Manager than tells me that I MUST throw out those "sundaes." Obviously, I disagreed. If she wanted them thrown away, then she should have done it but, since, due to Covid protocol, I am given that responsibility, well then...

Apologizing...NOT for the screwed up order...that she must follow Covid protocol due to health regulations, Manager begins to skulk toward the children...oh no, NOT THE CHILDREN!!! 

(Que "She's a Mean One, Mr. Grinch")

I rush ahead of her to toss the lack-luster products away myself, immediately replacing them with my new ones before storming out of the building (after blowing kisses to the kids and embracing my friend Donna).

Brad was understandably confused when I returned empty-handed and furious. I filled him in in between filling my mouth with fries. Disgusted, I spat one out. "What's wrong now?" he asked. "They're rubbery," I wailed. He laughed. "Wanna take 'em back in?"
 

You've "goat" to be kidding me!

It has become a tradition. A great Fall gathering of sorts. First comes the annual negotiating our way onto the veranda. "You MUST order from the meal menu," we are told. Four educators then try to show, mathematically, the economic wisdom of allowing our party dessert and drink privileges. Everyone is grumpy by this point. The disgruntled hostess begrudgingly permits us to sit in one of the five or more tables on the vacant veranda. To appease her, we ask about the soup selection. Apparently, poetic culinary recitations are not included in her hostessing duties. 

The waitress approaches us warily. Apparently, our reputation had preceded us. In an attempt of reparation, Sandy ordered a cup of soup. Hoping to stir the pot a bit more, I requested four spoons. Our food server laughed. Dang. A sense of humor. 

Warm beverages on the way, we settled in, enjoying our surroundings. "There's a beam of sunlight on that table over there," a member of our group observed. "Oh no," I thought to myself, "here we go." So yeah...we played a rousing game of Musical Tables...eventually finding our way back to our original spot. Every. Time. Every. Darn. Time.

Following our first course of delicious desserts...and soup...and a wrap (because, belligerence aside, we're rule-followers, at heart), discourse could begin. We realized that three of the four educators at the table were sporting superhero t-shirts...what seems perfectly normal at school during Spirit Week does not translate equally well at a place that charges nine dollars for a specialty coffee. We discussed my re-scheduling of a bi-plane ride as I had failed to lose the required forty pounds to stuff myself into the seat. "You still have plenty of time," my friend Pat said encouragingly, and then, horrified, hurriedly clarified, "Not that I think you're fat." I nodded while taking another large bite of my harvest apple cheesecake with caramel sauce. 

Worried that she wouldn't be portrayed well, blog-wise, Pat changed the subject. "Amy, have I ever told you about my goat, Blessed?" I settled in happily. I love a good goat story. I didn't know, at this juncture, that goat horror stories existed. 

Pregnant with twins, Blessed's mother had struggled in labor. When Pat arrived in the morning, she was sad to learn that Blessed had not made it. Observing the cold newborn on the floor, Pat reckoned back to some reading from an old manual on how to resuscitate a goat in such situations. "His eyes weren't empty," my friend told me somberly, going on to describe how she plucked Blessed up and, like a lariat, swung him about. This cannot be real, I thought to myself, nodding as Pat mimic-ed her actions from that fateful day. Mind you, she's dressed in a superhero shirt, seated on the veranda of one of the classiest restaurants in the county, simulating the medicinal swinging of a dead goat while I'm finishing up my harvest apple cheesecake with caramel sauce. She's insane, I thought but, upon later Google research, had to eat my words. The procedure warns practitioners to stand well away from walls and other possible hard objects...like pinatas. 

Surprised that this method didn't work ("Really?"  I said to myself, wondering about the alcohol ratio of my warm beverage), Pat still refused to give up...ready to wrestle her baby goat from the grim clutches of Death Himself. When warm water immersion also failed (My friend Sandy pushed away her soup at this point), Pat conceded, leaving her little goat at the base of her Virgin Mary statue. Hours later, in what can only be described as divine intervention, Blessed was resurrected...by the Father, Son or Holy Goat...we may never know. It was an un-bleat-able story. 

I was exhausted. We had experienced a lot of highs and lows over the course of this shared meal. We stood up, Pat pushing in her chair with her strong, goat-swinging arms. "I don't know why we don't do this more often," someone said as we walked back to our vehicles.

I do.
 

Mission Impawsible: A bear-napping nightmare

 I began this school year DETERMINED to act in the dignified, professional manner befitting a woman of strong moral character. That lasted about a week before my friend Geri stormed into my classroom, waving a piece of paper like a matador tempting the bull. She slammed it down in front of me. "This has been left on the copier for days," she complained, "It's time you did something about it. Snark it up." She then stomped out the door. 

I looked at the paper that was causing such great offense. It was a sweet little worksheet, emblazoned with profound questions to spark deep thinking in our young learners. I just made some mild modifications. "Can you ride a dog?" the paper wondered. "Only if you can afford a good lawyer," I added. "Can a circle have a corner?" the paper inquired. I chose a different angle, writing, "I don't see the point." I had no comment for the question that asked, "Can you blow up a float that has no hole?" congratulating myself on my self-restraint and maturity.

That out of my system, I resolved to return to the straight and narrow path. That lasted approximately a day. Dear friends had posted a charming message outside their room but, unfortunately, it was driving me insane. "Welcome you rock," read their sign. I knew what they meant. Everyone KNEW what they meant. The meaning was clear but the lack of punctuation lured me in. But, NO! I was stronger than that. Mind your own business, Amy, I told myself, avoiding that corridor. But think of it like a grammar hangnail. I just COULD NOT leave it alone.

Obviously, there were many ways to address this. I opted to leave our friend Duane Johnson out of this despite his now-easily-recognizable cartoon status. I agonized for several days before deciding that simplicity was best...the addition of an "r" still promoted a positive message. Plus I loved the visual imagery of petitioning a pebble to join their fellow pupils in the learning process.

Unfortunately, my friends opted to take the high road and outrightly ignored my antics or...gasp...even worse, never even noticed my hijinks. Obviously, my shenanigans are a desperate cry for attention. How dare they not feed my childish need for acknowledgment!

It was time to move onto other prey.

This opponent had it coming as she had decided...dangerously...to poke the bear right from the get-go. I have a five foot tall cardboard bear named "Buster" who makes a yearly hallway appearance during the school's Food Drive to encourage donations and terrorize children. Jealous, my friend Sarah decided to try and one-up me with a FREE-STANDING three foot tall, stuffed bear that welcomed adults and children alike on "Meet the Teacher" day. Sure, I wanted to kick it in its furry little face but I held back as befitting a refined woman of wisdom and reserve. But after awhile, I just couldn't bear it anymore.

Yeah. I stole it. And not a jury in the world would convict me. She had it coming. I can't sing. Can't dance. Can't draw. No musical talent. No athletic ability. No special talents to speak of...at all. All I had was a five foot tall cardboard bear that I had had to go dumpster diving for. Look! I'm so upset that I'm ending sentences with prepositions. This is preposterous!

I waited, stalker-style, until Sarah had left for the day. Then I hustled about the school, posting ransom notes...I mean, clues...in strategic spots. My former friend Tyler...recently elevated to knight errant... suddenly came around the bend. As a struggling tenant-farmer, limited by the boundaries of class and decorum, I, of course, did not wish to be seen as a rabble-rouser. Clutching my highly-incriminating extortion envelopes to my chest, I began to walk casually in the opposite direction. "Mrs. Mosiman," he called, halting my escape. I narrowly prevented myself from dropping a curtsy. "Yes, my liege?" "What are you doing?" he asked, frowning, "You're up to something." My eyes widened, shocked. Where on EARTH would he have EVER come to that conclusion? How DARE he make such a bold, and obviously unwarrranted, assumption. What have I EVER done that he would cast such aspersions on my good character and reputation? You would think a former tenant farmer would have a bit more grace. 

Fortunately, His Eminence had more important things to deal with than little ol' me so, with one last lordly leer, he set off to ruin someone else's day. After I posted my remaining ransom notes, I then wrestled that little beast of a bear into a secluded spot. And then, wringing my hands with wicked glee, I waited.

The school day had barely begun when the 2nd grade hallway was filled with a  howling of epic proportions. They had been the victim of a bear-napping. What I didn't count on was the vindictiveness of your average six-year-old. Rather than solve the mystery, they were, instead, intent on stringing up the suspect. With revenge on their minds, the tiny hordes of humans were on the rampage and I had inadvertently led them straight to innocent by-standers. One clue read, "Name the most famous grizzly playwright of the Edwardian Era." The answer, Shakes-bear, was to lead them to the biography section of our library. Poor Ms. Pat wasn't prepared for the vigorous interrogation of the 2nd grade investigation unit.  Our poor librarian may be permanently blinded in one eye from the bright lights. 

The final clue, "Why did it take Mother Nature two tries to make Yogi Bear?" led the revenge-seeking 2nd graders to Miss Joanne in the office. "Why are you here?" our school secretary asked, shaking. "The answer to our clue says Because the first try was a Boo-Boo," a junior detective told her. "Furthermore, the note directed us to go to the person, other than the nurse, who gives out band-aids. And that...is...YOU!"  No fewer than fifteen fingers pointed at Miss Joanne. "Amy," she told me later, "I thought they were going to water-board me." 

So now I'm in hiding. 

I was scared straight, so to speak. Back to the straight and narrow.

Now that I've had ample time to paws and reflect, I realize that there will be no more shenanigans for me.  I simply cannot handle the pandamonium. 

A fluff piece about pillows

"Mom," Sydney said gently, "How old are those pillows?" Hmmm...there's a poser. They came with the couch. I LOVE my couch. It is a velvety-chocolate color that perfectly complements my dachshund's dappled coat. Let's see. Chlo is nine..."Almost a decade," I admitted, startled. Chlo is still as frisky as a puppy, after all. "Don't you think that maybe it's time to buy new couch pillows?" she suggested, waving my worn, flat, faded pillow at me. "They can't be good for Dad's allergies." She had me there.

One should not just willy-nilly run out and buy stuff (Yes...I know that philosophy runs in direct opposition to our current economic system of instant gratification and two-day delivery). I stared at my current cushions for weeks...wavering...pondering...soul searching. After a month of reflective prayer, I made the decision. It was time for new throw pillows. The very thought made me want to throw up.

My local store-of-stuff-I-didn't-need-but-could-never-leave-empty-handed let me down with their limited couch pillow inventory. How hard is it to stock a shade-of-brown pillow? I needed a week to rest and recover after that disappointment.

It was time to go bigger. Beyond my usual fifteen mile radius. After psyching myself up in the parking lot for about twenty minutes, I entered the store. Gripping the cart like a life line, I passed the shoe section and spotted a pair of black flats for fourteen dollars. Delighted, I tossed them in the cart. See? I could do this! I cautiously wheeled my way around the squared-off perimeter of the store, searching for pillows. There! Shaggy. Corduroy. Canvas. Furry. Beige. Caramel. Taupe. Uh-oh. Square. Rectangle. What the hell is this? Octagon? I carefully choose two medium-sized beige pillows and placed them next to my flats. It was definitely time to go. Wheeling away, I soon found myself in the college aisle with another assortment of pillow choices. Starting to hyperventilate,  I switched out my two medium-sized beige pillows for three small tan pillows. On my way to the check-out, I found ANOTHER aisle crammed with cushions. I stuffed my three small tan pillows on the shelf and blindly grabbed Goldilocks' pillows...a Papa Bear, Mama Bear, and Baby Bear sand-colored set. Heart thumping wildly, I was almost to the cashier. Who puts pillows on an endcap by the greeting cards? Abandoning my cart, I ran, empty-handed, out of the store.  

Once my pulse rate returned to normal, I called my husband. "Where are you?" he asked. "I'm in the One-Step-Up-From-Stuff-Mart parking lot," I told him. "I'm in the One-Step-Up-From-Stuff-Mark parking lot, too," he said. Relieved, I leaped out of my truck and raced back towards the store-front. "What are you doing?" his voice questioned in my ear, "Stop." I stopped. "Turn right," he instructed. "Your other right," he corrected me when I immediately turned left. "Walk two rows of cars over," he said. Forget walk. I was running. "I'm to your right...No. Stop. Think about it." I grinned as I saw him walking toward me and skipped happily into his arms. He listened sympathetically to my tale of pil-woe and then offered to take me for lunch when he was done working in about an hour. "Just hang out in your truck, listen to music, and relax," he encouraged, "We don't need new pillows. Our old ones are just fine."

I sat in the truck for awhile, looking forward to lunch but I just couldn't rest easy. We DID need new pillows. I've seen those awful pictures that show the magnified version of the dust mites that live in  cushions. And our mites have had a decade to build up a metropolis in our pillows. It shouldn't be this hard to pick out a stupid pillow. Angry and frustrated at myself, I drove down the length of the parking lot to a clothing store that I knew had home furnishing accessories in the back. No cart this time. No looking left or right...straight to the back. Score. Simple light brown rectangular microfiber pillows. Hypoallergenic. Cue halleluiah choir. I grabbed two and then saw the buy one/get one half off sign. Even better. But wait. I froze in my tracks. My couch has three pillows. Then I saw the medium-sized light brown microfiber hypoallergenic pillow. I was beginning to feel light-headed. Should I lie down? At least I had a pillow. What should I do? Four pillows just seemed too much. The rectangular pillows were perfect (and matched the dachshund). Should I just buy ONE medium-sixed light brown microfiber hypoallergenic pillow? But what about the second one that I'd get for half off? I started to shake. Hugging my two rectangle pillows, I made a run for it. 

Brad was waiting for me as I exploded out the exit doors with my face flushed, perspiring, breathing labored while holding my trophies up over my head triumphantly. I did a victory lap around his van. "What'a-ya think?" I asked, showing him my prize. "Nice," he nodded. "But whata'ya think?"  I repeated, worried that he was failing to understand the significance of this moment. "I think," he said, smiling slowly, "that you need a drink. Let's go to lunch." 

Frustrated, I shook my pillows at him (No...not those pillows).  "They're microfiber," I told him, "and hypoallergenic."  "We didn't need new pillows," he repeated, "Our old ones were fine." "It was for your breathing," I insisted angrily. "Next time, before you buy a new pillow," my NOT-funny husband advised, "you should really sleep on it." I was no longer interested in Brad's breathing. I was now ready to smother him with his new, light brown, hypoallergenic, microfiber pillow. Suffocation would be the reaper cushions for his lack of support and, should the police question my motives, I would simply explain that I was resisting a rest.
 

Since the dawn of time...men have been stepping in it

 "Amy, why are you taking a picture of an old, ratty sandal before tossing it in the trash?" you ask. Well...first of all. I'm NOT throwing it in the trash. Brad insists that his dog-chewed shoe is still perfectly functional and that it would be wasteful to discard it. Second, the picture is scientific evidence supporting a new evolutionary theory developed...by me! Yes, when I'm not staring brainlessly at the television or writing passive-aggressive haiku poetry or posting angrily bitter and sarcastic memes on Facebook, I think deep thoughts. 

I was in the middle of thinking these deep thoughts while scooping dog doo off of my lawn. 

How is it, I wondered, that I so easily evade these little land minds while Brad takes a hit almost every day? I am certainly not more alert or agile than my husband. I have the spatial awareness of a drunken sailor on a sinking ship while Brad can intuitively locate a rabbit trail in dense brush in an unfamiliar forest. 

Yet, without fail, time and time again, it is Brad who ends up with poo on his shoe. I could mostly ignore this phenomenon until he stepped on a pile in his hideous sandals with the aerated soles. Remember the spaghetti-making tool that Playdough produced when we were kids? Super fun. Now picture Brad's hole-infused footwear squishing sh!t. Super gross. And tossed, unceremoniously, out on my front stoop in the hopes that a heavy rain would help. 

When Mother Nature failed to intervene with a sole-cleansing downpour, I decided to take one for the team. While methodically poking a stick up through each clogged hole, I contemplated the mysteries of the universe and was suddenly struck with a lightning bolt revelation about evolution. 

Let's return to our 4th grade curriculum where we were first introduced to the term hunter-gatherer. If you recall, and I'm sure you do...you-little-scholar-you...the men (Let's, for the sake of argument, call them Mighty Hunters), would, after beating their...drums, disappear into the woods in search of meat. The women, after rolling their eyes, would gather the makings of a healthy salad and enjoy the temporary silence. 

What does this have to do with Brad's shoe and dog poo, you wonder? Well, my inquisitive friend, it explains why men have a greater tendency to step in it than women do. If you apply the evolutionary principle of the hunter-gather to this scenario, you realize that, when MOST men walk, their heads are up, eyes to the horizon, gazes searching the shadows. When MOST women walk, our heads are down, scanning for smoothie ingredients.  

CLICK!

Are you temporarily blinded by the bright lightbulb that just went on?

So dazzling are my scientific ponderings that I have writer's block and find myself unable to construct a conclusion. You'll have to settle for a related joke:

Why doesn't Winnie-the-Pooh wear shoes? Because he has "bear" feet!

And, no. Brad is NEVER allowed outside without shoes.

Camping "Fun:" Part IV

I've been circling the drain on this particular topic for some time as it isn't what you would call polite, appealing, pleasing, or pure. But it's time to let a little fresh air on the subject. Traumatized, Sydney and I had sought counseling until our therapist told us that the reason you can't hear a psychiatrist in the restroom is because the "p" is silent. This was not the compassionate shoulder that we needed. 

When one thinks of Adventure Camping, things like hiking trails, wildlife encounters, beach combing, and water sports may come to mind. Well...now that I think about it, if forced, I would have to place my topic...reluctantly...under water sports. But this was a sport with no decisive winner. 

Pulling up to our reserved camping spot, I was initially pleased to see the restrooms were within easy walking distance. The square building housed four stalls with water spigots accessible from the outside. I was perfectly fine with this. I'm not the Queen, for goodness sake, and do not require a palace to perform my royal duties. 

Sydney and I immediately proclaimed ourselves "bathroom buddies." Brad is a man. 'nuff said. Savannah pretends that she can handle any and all situations effortlessly and without complaint. Sydney and I have elevated complaining to an art form. 

How innocent we were...on that first encounter. Don't get me wrong...we'd experienced our share of porta-potty problems...ran from many a toxic travel restroom site...layered a mattress-worth of tp as a barrier against unsanitary seats of shame. We'd long-honed Olympic-level skills of balance and breath-holding that would have easily made us contenders for tight-rope walking or oyster diving. But NOTHING prepared us for this.

I wasn't in the stall...cell...putrid petri dish...for three seconds before I had make my assessment. While I obviously envied the ability of the scorpions, Argentinian ants, and coyotes to be able to utilize nature's bathroom, I was not in the position (muscular/modest/mutilated) to emulate their wild ways. I would have to make due with my current accommodations. 

Imagine the bottom of a well. The lighting. The dampness. The closed-in, slimy quarters. Dripping. Stunted sound. Ewww...your shoes. Ewww....you want me to sit WHERE? I mean hover. Questionable pre-moistened toilet paper.

"Sydney," I gasped, re-emerging from this hell backwards as it lacked the negotiability for me to turn around without touching SOMETHING. "I need you to hold the door one third of the way open. Stand in the gap, facing outwards. Hold your phone behind your back with flashlight mode on. If I fail to successfully complete my mission in less than a minute...call the authorities." Rolling her eyes a bit, my daughter followed my instructions and I dove out of that dump in 14.7 seconds. I offered to reciprocate for my potty partner but she was confident of her capabilities. I heard whimpering before the door completely closed...like a coffin. "Sydney," I shouted. "This is NOT okay," I heard her whimper. My potty protocols were then immediately put in place for Sydney. 

My obligatory 2 am visit was the most bearable because at least, at that time, I could safely have the door completely open. "Is this even legal?" Sydney asked as we clung to each other on the short walk back to our campsite. "What's that Geneva Convention even for, if not for situations like this?" We prayed for sleep to take us as we were living in a nightmare.

Morning arrived...bringing with it...unexpected hope. "Mom! The park's maintenance crew has arrived to clean the restrooms." This was a sight that could not be missed. It was tantamount to viewing the Northern Lights or witnessing the migration of the wildebeests across Kenya. One might be forgiven for missing the birth of a first child but I cannot imagine the regret felt if you missed the transformative cleaning and sanitation of this sh*thole. Hair disheveled, rumbled pajamas. out-of-breath...we ran as both witness and to be first-in-line, stopping short at the sight that greeted us.

Steering a small water truck (Sydney and I paused in supplicant prayer that the truck was filled with either pure bleach or hand sanitizer), a park employee pulled up in front of the building. He unfurled a fireman's hose, propped open one door before bodily bracing himself and blasting away at the interior. Where were the sponges? The mops? The disinfectants? "At least light a match," Sydney begged as he proceeded to sand-blast the remaining rooms. Mortified, we peeked in as he drove away. You could have wrung out the rolls of toilet paper (if you were brave enough to touch them in the first place). 

There was only one option left. 

Naturally, we spent the bulk of our time in the ocean. "Of all the things in the world to be afraid of," I told my bathroom buddy as we floated like buoyant bobbers, "who knew I'd rank a shart over a shark?" 

Liking Hiking: It's a thing

Take 3

My friend Deb and I really enjoy hiking together. We are extremely like-minded in our love for adventure and in our desire to strenuously challenge ourselves physically. Yesterday, we implemented what I like to call "Phase One" of our pilgrimage plan. Departing at the crack of 9 am, we scoured the horizon like the seasoned outdoors-women that we are. "I sense rain," I remarked, pointing out the subtle shades of gray cloaking the sky. As personal safety is the number one criteria of any experienced trekker, we decided to slightly alter our daunting plans and re-route our hike to a near-by breakfast place. 

"Slow down," my friend cautioned as I raced to shovel down my Belgian waffle topped with fresh-cut strawberries and whipped cream. "Remember to pace yourself. You don't want to get a cramp. Think of it as a marathon rather than a sprint." Very wise. One does not wish to over-exert one's self.

Today marked "Phase Two" and 9 am greeted us bright and early with blue skies and a blinding sun. With the limitless hiking opportunities available to us here in Wyoming County, we decided to combine our love of local history with exercise. With a little digging, our research unearthed a bounty of biographies waiting to be discovered at the cemetery. 

We parked beneath a magnificent maple. "I don't think that's a maple," Deb said, squinting up into the branches. Before I could launch into a passionate rebuttal, she pointed. "Look at that spiky-ball-y thing." She had me. Maple trees do not sprout spiky-ball-y things. We took a sample so that we could research the type of tree later, walking away while congratulating ourselves for our intellectual curiosity and botanical interest. 

The layout of the cemetery was split down the middle by a well-trafficked road. This division caused us some confusion as our research did not factor in the halves. Bad enough that we were instructed to go to the southeastern side ("Do you have a compass?" I asked Deb as she tried to orient herself to the sun like she was Davy Crockett.) but we didn't know if they meant the southeastern side of one of the halves or the cemetery as a whole. Lost but hopeful, we wandered, having lively debates about font, the sometimes unscrupulous measures of the stone cutters who allowed mourners who were paying, by the letter, to include obvious/unnecessary information ("...who died..." I read, "Pretty sure everyone knows the "who" and the ultimate outcome of the situation."), agonized over those who died too young, expressed delight and sometimes confusion over the old-fashioned names, and discovered that reverse, raised etching really stands the test of time rather than embedded etching. Our search for the infant son of the town's earliest settlers who was the first occupant of this historic resting place was unsuccessful. "Due to the lack of lumber," I read to Debbie, "he was buried in the wood constructed from a wagon box." Confused, we looked at the large trees that surrounded the cemetery as we returned to the truck. Deb plucked the spiky-bally-y thing up off the seat, reminding us that we had some more research in which to delve. Happily, we spotted a sign (that must have been posted while we were walking the grounds) that helpfully labeled the tree as a "Washington Sycamore." 

To reward ourselves for that exhausting research, we headed to the most popular coffee shop in town. Having tirelessly worked my way through an impressive frappe menu board in San Diego, I was eager to see if my local place could measure up. My friend Shanna works there and she immediately set to work creating a Milky Way frappe for me and OH MY STARS!!! It was scrumptious! Cool, creamy, smooth, intergalactic goodness. Exploring the shop, we discovered a super-secret conference room where my friend Peggy was leading some sort of meeting about world domination. Some time later, as Deb and I finished our drinks outside, Shanna and Peggy joined us for a fun round of "Let's Make Fun of Amy." I do not understand, with the infinite number of intelligent conversational topics out there, we invariably return to mocking me. "It's common ground," Shanna told me.

And, to commemorate when friends gather together, we decided to take some pictures. My friend Peggy, as it turns out, is QUITE the talented photographer. "Take One," I said, smiling for the camera. Peg looked doubtfully at me as I approached to admire her work. "Take Two," I announced as Peg took a very artistic picture of the chairs next to us. "Take Three," I prayed.  Whew! Success! "That's a wrap," I exclaimed. "We serve pastries and paninis too," Shanna shouted. 

It is said that a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. When it comes to hiking, Deb and I really embrace that philosophy of a single step. But how much better is it, when along our arduous journey, we encounter fine food and good friends! Don't you just love hiking!?!

Take 2

 

Camping "Fun:" Part III

In case you missed it...

 Camping "Fun:" Part 1

Camping "Fun:" Part II

Savannah had carefully planned out our packing supplies to the nearest detail (Okay...as a non-coffee drinker, she overlooked the creamer and sugar but, really, how important are THEY? Quick on his feet, Brad tried to improvise by offering us butter and a marshmallow as substitutions. Horrified, Sydney and I checked our calendars to make sure it wasn't April 1st.). For my comfort, she had blown up an air mattress that would've given "The Princess and The Pea" a run for its money. So lovely except with the (slight...minimal...barely worth mentioning) weight differential between Brad and I, our bed doubled as a see-saw. Imagine Colonial American pan scales. Yeah. A slight shift in movement from me could cause Brad to rocket through the roof of our tent. For herself and Sydney, Savannah had procured inflatable floor mats that resembled oversized bubble wrap. Unfortunately, Savannah's had a small leak but she fixed that problem by secretly switching with Sydney the next night. "How was it?" I asked Sydney on our first morning. "Fine on my back or stomach but side-sleeping was the worst," she reported. "So the secret is distribution of weight," I nodded, "like laying on a bed of nails." After her second night, Sydney would have considered a bed of nails an upgrade.

Despite my comfortable accommodations, I had difficulty sleeping. Cradled as we were, tucked between LA and San Diego, the two cities cast an illuminated glow as cozy as any nightlight. The rhythmic roar of the Los Angeles freeway drowned out the annoying sound of the Pacific Ocean. A fleet of naval cruisers filled the horizon like gentle fireflies. The thrumming of passing helicopters was a soothing experience similar to that of a baby who can both feel and hear her mother's heart in the womb. Ahhh...and those fifteen minute intervals of the high-speed passenger train! Who needs the subtle sounds of a grandfather clock? And to be so close to nature! As a poet, I wasn't sure what to make of the half dozen crows crammed onto the skeletal remains of a dead tree, eyeing Sydney and I as we walked wearily along the desolate trail. I wasn't sure how to process the story of Brad and Savannah's hiking expedition whereupon they encountered a coyote. "He'll run off as we get closer," Brad reassured Savannah. "Dad...he's not running off." "He'll run off if we make a lot of noise," Brad said, clapping his hands. "Dad...he's not running off." "Never mind," Brad said, "this trail over here looks good." 

I read the infestation of posted signs about the infestation of Argentinian ants and learned, by their extensive list of which environmentally-aggressive products NOT to use to get rid of them,  exactly HOW to get rid of them. I handed my husband a list. "What's this?" Brad had asked before leaving for his hiking trip where he was almost killed in a vicious coyote attack. "Comet. Ajax. Draino," he read. "What about a Brillo pad?" he asked. I frowned. "Why would I need that?" "For your brill-ant plan."

So I was disappointed to discover that, during my three hours of deep, restful sleep, I missed the magic. 

Rising in the morning, Sydney and I were channeling our inner pioneers, gamely sipping our piping hot black coffee. "It hurts my hand," I whimpered. "The silicone wrap around the cup is supposed to protect your hand," my daughter informed me. Brad wordlessly traded his mug with my camping cup. Wide-eyed with wonder, Sydney suddenly gestured to us, directing our gaze to a neighboring tent. We watched, incredulously, as a little gray rabbit rose up on its back legs and scratched at the tent entrance with its furry little front paw. "This. Cannot. Be. Real." I whispered, turning to Savannah. "Did you order US a wake-up bunny?"  "That explains it," Brad said nodding. "Explains what?" I asked, still stunned by what I'd witnessed. "Last night there was a scratching on our tent but I didn't dare investigate because you'd finally fallen asleep and I didn't want to freak you out." 

I stared at him, horrified. I'd heard the campfire story of The Hook more times than I could count. I saw Brad's picture of the coyote. I knew, deep in my heart, what those ravens represented. I watch the news.  My husband opted to just LIE THERE while our very lived hinged on the balance?  While some unknown entity lurked nearly? "Besides," he said, "if I had attempted to evacuate the air mattress, I risked having you capsize and possibly crush Sydney." "If only," Sydney muttered, discreetly dumping her coffee near a sand mound which may or may not have been the starter home of an Argentinian ant colony. Savannah held up her still-hot pot. "More coffee, anyone?" "Is there rabbit room service, too?" I wondered.