My morning with Erin was a "turtle" disaster

Erin has been determinedly working, for years, to get me to come out of my shell. But recently, she has taken this endeavor to a whole new level. As ignoring her is futile, I have learned to avoid her as much as humanly possible at work. I spend a great deal of time peeking around corners and glancing backwards over my shoulder as I surreptitiously traverse the corridors. Fortunately, her diabolical plot to infiltrate my classroom with an undercover ambassador of sparkle and sunshine backfired as I quickly corrupted the culprit. My pupiled protégé learned the language of sarcasm like one born to bitterness. This student spy's inherited love of bright colors and sparkle was temporarily suspended in favor of brainwashed black. Within the walls of my small classroom, I had won.

So, as long as I could avoid Erin at work and simply not talk to her AT ALL while OUT of work, I was safe. Facebook, as determined by a historic meme war witnessed by thousands (Or maybe just hundreds. Or dozens. Okay, let's just say "a few."), was my indisputable domain. But she had my phone number. This, obviously, was a disaster. 

Erin had cleverly lulled me into a false sense of complacency by limiting our mostly one-way communications to text. Silly me. How was I to know that this little tactic would have me respond, alert and alarmed, when she actually DID call.

It was 6:45 in the morning. I was involved in a mostly one-way communication with my husband who had called to make sure I was up and moving because I threaten, EVERY day, to give up my lucrative teaching career to stay home and maybe make him a meal once a week or so. I DO NOT talk in the morning so Brad has had to learn to interpret my single syllabled responses and VERY long stretch of silences. This day, he would have to wait, in anxious anticipation, to learn if we could continue living the lucrative lifestyle of which he had become accustomed or if my decision would plummet us into poverty because...Erin popped up on "Call Waiting."

"I have to go. Erin's on Call Waiting," I informed my husband, letting the bubbly water out of the sink as I finished the dishes. Brad was shocked for several reasons. First, I had actually spoken a complete sentence. Second, I was doing dishes at 6:45 in the morning. And third, "Do you even know how to work Call Wait~" my husband asked as I clicked over to Erin. 

I know what you're thinking. Just don't answer. But it was 6:45. She doesn't actually call that often. What if she had a flat tire. Or hit a deer. What if she'd been abducted and was calling from the trunk of some maniac's car. Sink hole. Flood. Forest fire. And let's not mention that she has my precious student in her vehicle.

Heart racing, I answered her call. "What are you doing?" her bright, bubbly voice asked. Now I was irritated. My friend was clearly not in danger and I could resume my usual annoyed demeanor.  I blasted bubbles with my faucet sprayer. "I'm cleaning my sink," I told her. She laughed. "No, really. What are you doing?" For pete's sake. WHY am I having this ridiculous conversation? "There's a giant snapping turtle in the road," she continued, "We're right around the corner from you. You need to come." I closed my eyes. There was the other problem. She knew where I lived. "Why do I need to come?" I sighed in exasperation. "I need you to move the turtle." she hung up. Standing in my kitchen (next to my clean sink), I screamed. Then I walked into the dining room, put on my shoes, and grabbed my keys.

I arrived on scene to discover that Erin had created quite the commotion. Our quiet country road had never experienced a traffic jam until this morning. Standing protectively near...but not TOO near...the almost-as-disgruntled-as-me snapping turtle...Erin was parked aggressively on the wrong side to better "shell"-ter her new friend. One of the ka-zillion vehicles waiting for this little drama to play itself out finally got fed up and initiated Operation Turtle Re-Location just as I walked up. I had to admit to being impressed. My plan was to have the turtle latch onto a stick and gently drag her in the direction she was headed. This guy, with a cigarette stuck to his lower lip, simply grasped her by the back of the shell and lifted her up. I was relieved. Erin was delighted. The snapper was pissed. "Can I get a picture?" Erin asked as the turtle attempted to twist its long neck around to amputate her hero's finger. "You've got to be kidding me," thought the man, the turtle, the line long of waiting traffic, and me. She wasn't kidding. After this fantastic photo shoot, we were on our way. "Thanks, Amy," Erin yelled, waving as I drove by. I "waved" back. "Lose my number," I shouted.