What did the melon say to the lemon's proposal? I cantaloupe

It's not like it came totally out of the blue. Douglas is a mathematician, after all. Spreadsheets are his love language. Prior to Douglas, I was unaware of the infinite cuts and shapes of diamonds. Thanks to Douglas's pre-proposal diamond-interest inventory, I now know that an ideal/excellent round cut diamond produces the maximum sparkle effect. A marquise diamond elongates short, fat fingers. A pear-cut diamond placed in the classic side-stone setting will make your man-hands look more ladylike. Think of it as your ring riding sidesaddle...

So...yeah. We weren't exactly startled when Douglas broke away from our usual obnoxiously over-sharing group chat to message Brad and me directly. 

We put Douglas on speaker phone when he rang several minutes later, a screaming child in the background serving as an impromptu portend of the far-off future. Brad and I were both pleased and touched by Douglas's old-fashioned but very respectful gesture so naturally, we responded in kind. "There are several things we like about you, Douglas," I began grandly (generously opening the door for him to wonder about the slew of things I DIDN'T like about him...he didn't bite), "You appear to be very fiscally responsible." Brad raised a palm in the air, hallelujah-style. Emotional, I faltered. Brad hummed under his breath and I picked up his cue. "You eventually admit when you're wrong when we argue about Star Wars trivia." Brad tipped his elbow which brought me to my grand finale. "You make sure that your home is well-stocked with coconut-pineapple water when I visit," I concluded. There was a long pause on the phone as Douglas digested this information. "So, are you okay with me proposing to your daughter?" he wondered. Brad and I shared a long look. "I thought he just received the Golden Apple Teacher of the World award or something like that," Brad whispered. "But that's in California," I told my husband, "We have to make concessions." Brad slowly enunciated his answer so Douglas would be sure to understand. "Yes."

An hour later, it was done.

The Mosimans are a sentimental group. Brad, Savannah, Lisa, and I were already on a group chat, awaiting this news. Memes and sarcasm are our love language and we were well-armed. Forget rice at a wedding. Nothing beats a right-on-target meme following a heartfelt marriage proposal. We rained down our well-wishes like sparkling sarcastic stars...the group chat briefly silent before one of us would explode with laughter, yelling, "Check this one out!" followed by an expectant hush before we were all hysterically howling as another "perfect" meme would appear. We almost spent more time congratulating each other as we did the happy couple! 

As the evening drew to a close, I stole a glimpse across the living room to my husband, who was staring out the dark window, presumably pondering the up-coming changes to our family. I nodded, understanding. For a father, there is no gift as precious as a daughter. "You're right," Brad said reflectively, "but I don't look at this as losing a daughter but more like gaining an IT guy."

Congratulations, Sydney Lynn and Douglas. Thank you for making us part of your happy, memorable day. 

 

Don't start with me, Brad Mosiman!

 For two Saturdays in a row, I have been denied the luxury of planning for my work week at the school. Two weeks ago, I was recovering from a NASTY stomach "bug" ("Bug" is too cute a word to assign to this ailment...imagine a post-nuclear war cockroach crawling out of the sewage lagoon scene from Slumdog Millionaire.). Last Saturday, temperatures had dipped so low that my truck couldn't even consider starting, emitting, instead, a shaky moan. So this Saturday, I was thrilled to be back in my quiet classroom, surrounded by piles of paper and planning out my week by the minute. 

And then the phone rang...

Yeah.  I considered not answering it.

Brad's car had broken down in Dansville. "Turn right when you get to the sign for the hospital," he told me helpfully, not factoring in that I had no idea how to even get to Dansville. I gamely jumped in my truck, heading in what I thought was the right direction. Google Maps quickly told me that my instinct was, of course, wrong, and I immediately turned around.

I arrived in a reasonably efficient amount of time, leaping from my truck, loudly humming my hero-quest anthem. Dramatically handing me the one side of the jumper cables, unnecessarily warning me NOT to allow the handles to touch, Brad asked why I was singing the Bonanza theme song. Startled, I temporarily forgot about wondering what would happen if I just touched the handles a little (A spark? An interruption in the time/space continuum? A shock of such epic proportions that you could see a flash of skeleton, cartoon-style, through my skin? Or was Brad just being theatrical, as usual?). "No," I told him, "I'm humming the Lone Ranger song." Brad removed temptation from my hands and shrugged. "I've never heard that version of the William Tell Overture before," he remarked as I immediately regretted rescuing his sorry ass.

Before we jumped back into the truck to let the car's battery charge, I noticed (and ignored) a box of fund-raising donuts on Brad's passenger seat. We sat in the donut-less cab of my truck for ten minutes or so, chatting about our respective mornings before attempting the next leg of the journey home. "If it's the alternator, as I suspect," Brad told me, "We may have to repeat this process a couple of times." "Happy to do it," I replied magnanimously, happy in my hero role. By the third pit stop, however, my resolve faltered and I yielded to the siren's sweet song. No, I didn't cross the streams. I snagged the donuts.

The 4th stop had me parked, precariously, along a steep embankment. I clung to the side of my truck to deliver the cables, imagining the real possibility of my tumbling down the sheer, snow-covered escarpment. 

Brad made it back to the house before me. As I moved to reverse the truck into the driveway, I wondered why he was parked in the middle of the road. Seemed odd. He was waving VERY enthusiastically at me. Also odd. Oh! I know! The car must need to be jumped one more time. As I attempted to maneuver the truck into position, Brad YELLED at me. Yes. He yelled at our hero. "Just park it," he yelled, ungratefully, "We'll just push it into place." What?!?! THAT was his plan?!?! That sounded TERRIBLE. Working together to rock the car, to time the rocking, and to throw all of my body weight (Thank goodness for the donuts) against the car at the precise moment while my treadless shoes slipped ineffectually on the icy ground was as much fun as you can imagine. Brad yelling encouragement was a lot of help too. Turns out, I don't really get a charge out of being a hero.

Calling Erin & Amy's pen duel a draw

 My friend Erin may be the only person I know, under 80, who still comfortably uses the words, "Yoo-hoo!" when trying to capture a reluctant person's attention.  She is also not averse to breaking out in an effortless and enthusiastic jog to catch up with someone who may be walking briskly away from her in the opposite direction. She also exercises NO BOUNDARIES when it comes to texting decorum: BEFORE 6 am...the morning of a much-reported dangerous Arctic chill...my phone dings, my heart leaps, and my entire being begs..."Please, Lord...let it be a delay." But no...it's Erin. Relentless, annoying, exasperating Erin...wearing me down before I can even lift my tired head from the pillow.

I know you've heard this all before. It is a common complaint. But I am afraid that you, like so many others, have actually been fooled into believing that Erin is the GOOD one in this relationship.  I don't blame you:  The incessant smile...the perky, seemingly optimistic good nature...the bubbly personality...the empathetic ear...the charitable causes...blah-blah-blah. But you know what they say: You can't judge a book by its frequently-exercised and in amazing shape cover.

Guys. C'mon. Dig a little deeper.

We share a birthday month, Erin and I. She was giddy. Me? Not so much. The best gift she could ever give me would be TO JUST LEAVE ME ALONE. Knowing that was not in the cards, I mustered my strength and rallied...ordering her modest gifts mildly reflecting her carbonated character. I was trying to set the tone.

A week later, I was presented with tasteless tokens trimmed in tacky trash talk. I was appalled. I felt attacked...ON MY BIRTHDAY.

Clearly, now you must see...

Clearly, now you must realize...

Who is the victim and who is the villain? 

The writing is on the wall. But was it put there by a fanciful fountain pen or a profane-ridden ball-point?