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.