No pressure: Just keeping it "wheel" after a really tire-ing day

It was one of those days where I should have just crawled back into bed five minutes after getting up. The kind of day where the planets, my back, and my truck were ALL out of alignment. But still, I persevered. 

Survived the workday to run my ka-zillion unavoidable errands afterwards. Made it to the bank TWO minutes after they closed at the very-reasonable, customer-friendly hour of 3:00. I calmly and quietly returned to my truck and drove at a safe speed to the nearby store to retrieve some photos I had ordered for a student who was moving...the parking lot requires a bit of negotiation and, as it was a bit full, I decided to (foolishly) abandon my ingrained habit of always backing into spaces as my husband has always encouraged.  Hence, the love my daughters and I share for the "pull-through." 

Ran in. Was in the store for less than eight minutes and then emerged to complete confusion. What on earth? WHY was there a tire WEDGED between the asphalt and the undercarriage of the Titan? My brain could not compute this scenario. I literally walked around the truck, crawling over the solid wall of packed ice and snow bordering the right of my vehicle (more on this later) and COUNTED my tires. One. Two. Three. Four. That seemed right. So what's with numero cinco? I've heard of a third wheel. Turns out the 5th wheel serves the same purpose except instead of just feeling "left out," you're left completely stranded. I glanced at my watch. My dentist appointment was in 15 minutes. Time to get hoofin'. Yup. You guessed it. In the rain.

Made it to the dentist "Amy, let us give you a lift back," Dr. Eric AND my dental hygienist Michelle offered. "No, thank you," I replied stubbornly, and stupidly stomped off...You guessed it. In the rain. Reluctantly called my husband who had to re-route his day even though I assured him that "I've got this."  Rarely do I ever "have this."  "It's the spare," he told me, clearing up some of the mystery, "the chain holding it must have snapped or rusted through." Hoping to fix this before he arrived, I dug out a cable and wove it through the wedged tire. I planted my posterior on the parking lot, placed both feet firmly against the bumper, and played tug-of-war with Titan. Not surprisingly, I lost. Okay. Plan B. Inspecting the space in front of the truck, again crawling over that rock hard wall of plowed ice and snow, I gauged how far forward I could inch to perhaps dislodge my bottom barnacle. I delicately moved forward, barely nudging the nose of the truck forward, trying to angle a bit of room. Nope.

Brad arrived and removed the obstruction easily with relatively little comment (just implied criticism). Fortunately, my husband is well-accustomed to being resented for his heroic endeavors. This knight in shining armor is rarely lauded with wreaths of roses and accolades...his good deeds are instead met with the silent treatment and sulking. 

And if all this wasn't bad enough, doesn't Brad have to pop the cherry on the top of this ship-show of a day by reporting the dinner-plate-sized dent in the front of Titan. I rolled my eyes. Brad is always SO dramatic. The next morning, I grabbed a plate as I left for the morning, to show him how ridiculous he is. After he received my picture, he texted back, "I see you were trying to prove me wrong using an actual plate. What a bowl-ed move."

 

We were stood up: At least if they'd asked us to meet at the gym, we'd have known we weren't going to work out

Crystal City Boxing from Dokkoto Martial Arts in Bath had two sponsored fighters competing in Buffalo on Saturday. "Thanks for the sports commentary, Amy," you might be saying right now, "but what does that have to do with you...who typically considers getting up off the couch an Olympic event?" Wow. Well...for one...let's ease up on the sarcasm, shall we? After all, I have very diverse interests. And, two, I was promised dinner after the fights.

After my last, failed, MMA experience, I vowed to up my fashion game but after a thorough search failed to yield strategically-ripped-up pants or a laces-up-the-back boudoir corset, I reluctantly returned to my ill-fitting, high-waisted mom jeans and hoodie combo. With rain boots. Fortunately, the boxing crowd are more my type of people. Sweatshirts and sneakers for miles. 

This particular venue boasted ample seating with a clear view of the ring. It's really the little things. Much nicer to balance my booty rather than my body on a rickety chair. My patriotic blood pressure rose righteously when I was asked to stand for the Canadian national anthem but I was able to decompress by belting out "The Star Spangled Banner" right after. My experience with boxing is limited to my nearly one hundred viewings of "Rocky"(Thanks, Brad Mosiman)/(My heart melts every time Rocky asks Adrian, "Where's your hat?" as she fights her way to him after his grueling match.) so I was a little nervous about how I should conduct myself. My respect for the program (Not that they needed MY respect...please) rocketed when the first match featured developmental competitors. It was both inspirational and ferocious. I paid close attention to the crowd so that I could better emulate and blend in. "Hit 'em!" was a popular (albeit somewhat obvious) chant. "Put up yer mitts!" made me laugh out loud which resulted in my entire section turning to me in disgust because they thought I was laughing at the fighters. Brad took this moment to pretend NOT to know me. Embarrassed and self-conscious, I decided to shelve my newly-brainstormed bellow of "Put up yer dukes!" (in hopes of encouraging the crowd to join me in an epic Pat Benatar sing-along.).

Speaking of epic, both of our fighters won! Our scrappy elementary fighter stood calmly in her boxing shorts and tank, watching her competitor, bedecked in royal robes and a BIG personality, own the stage. until...the bell rang. Our adult fighter was a role model of resilience...his training, fitness level, and mental strategy clearly evident.

Our group made plans to meet and celebrate after the competition. Having been texted the address, Brad and I arrived first and acquired a table in the busy restaurant. As we finished our first round of drinks, we (I) began to feel anxious (hungry). Soon, my suspicions were confirmed:  We'd been ditched. "They heard I was making fun of handi-capable fighters," I told Brad sadly. "No," Brad told me, "They accidentally ended up at the same chain at a different location." Accident? Maybe. Pretty sure I've been banned from all boxing-related events.

We waved our waitress over and apologized for monopolizing a big table in her area. I ordered a second drink to drown my sorrows and selected ravioli for my meal. "What's this?" I asked my waitress when my entrée arrived soon after. "Your ravioli," she said, making a mental note to tell the bartender to water down my next drink. I stared at my plate blankly, the sauce-covered log roll measuring nearly a foot in length with cavernous openings on either side.  "But raviolis are square, self-contained pillows of stuffed pasta," I said, dumbfounded. She smiled and insisted that the term is open to interpretation. "Not according to Google," I tried to shout through Brad's hand over my mouth. 

"What's the bill say?" Brad asked  later as I sat, stunned, studying our total.  I glanced around. Last time I paid this much for a meal, I'd been stuffed (like a ravioli) in an outdoor igloo watching fireworks and enjoying six courses of impossible-to-pronounce food. Warmly thanking the waitress, Brad paid while I sulked because he'd refused to let me tell her the Google definition of ravioli. As we walked briskly, battling spitting snow and a bone-chilling wind, out to the car to prepare for the hour-long ride home, Brad began the game that we would play for the duration of the journey:  "What else we could have bought for the price of that dinner." Seven visits to McDonalds was the most painful answer. We then had fun breaking our meal down by unit price. We rounded each of Brad's rigatoni noodles to a dollar. 

Our daughters, seasoned veterans of big-city living (and prices), were disappointingly unimpressed and unsympathetic to our complaints. "First of all, Mom drank MOST of her meal," stated Sydney coldly. Savannah had the audacity to admire our friends' flair..."I've GOT to remember that tactic," she said, "What a brilliant way to utilize chain restaurants!" All I've got to say is that this friendship is off to a "Rocky" start.

  

Amy's Adventures in MMA: Wait...what?

Like all great adventures, it started with a snack run. "What do you mean 'You don't stock Twizzlers.'?" I asked, flabbergasted. Quickly recognizing that they had committed the sin to end all snack-related sins, the gas station clerk quickly re-directed my attention to a thirty dollar cowboy hat and the buy 2/get 1 free Snickers egg special. "There's more caramel in the eggs," she confided sweetly. 

Well-versed after 35 years of marriage, Brad didn't even blink an eye as I emerged from the convenience mart, vex-ed because I had experienced a great deal of inconvenience, with an armful of goods that were not the quick bag of Twizzlers and bottle of Pepsi that had been my original quick quest items.

"Howdy, partner," he said, wrestling a container of Pringles, Pepsi, and peanut M & Ms out of my arms while I juggled three Snickers eggs in the parking lot before ducking to clear my cowboy hat as I crawled into the car. 

One item caught his attention though. "What is this?" he asked. "They're fruit leather lollipops," I announced, happily, "And, look! They come ten to a package! I'm going to use them as class prizes." "You are using a product labeled 'Slap' as a prize for 9-year-olds," Brad drawled, "Sounds like a great idea." Lowering the brim of the gas station Stetson over my eyes, I glared at him. He acts as though I have no sense at all regarding my selection of motivational prizes when, just today, I finally, after great inner torment, put back the whimsical wildlife-themed murder masks that were reasonably priced at a tempting one dollar each. See?!? I'm discriminating!

So, anyhoo...now armed with sub-par adventuring snacks, we proceeded to our destination. The venue was set in the middle of no-wheres-ville with inadequate parking (and, as we would soon discover, inadequate seating). I surmised that the event had uprooted a colony of skunks as the air was permeated with an unpleasant perfume. Fun fact:  A group of skunks is known as a surfeit. Defined, surfeit means "an excessive amount of something."  

So there we were at this obviously high-brow, academic affair when I began to question my appearance on MANY different levels. I was a fraud. A poser. My above-the-head fist thrust did not feel authentic (and I've watched the end of "The Breakfast Club" a million times). My clap was more "middle school play" than "gut-wrenching gladiator competition."  Clad in my comfy Kansas City sweatshirt and giant muck boots, I began to conduct some discreet interviews. "Excuse me, sir, may I ask where you purchased your trendy garment?" I asked a scary man with an impressive number of swear words decorating his outfit. He glanced down and paused because apparently he owns a lot of profanity-laden outer-wear. "I think my kids got me this one," he growled at me. What a fine testament to fatherhood. I gave up trying to take surreptitious photos of a woman with amazingly complicated and colorful hair and just stomped over to her so she could explain it to me. "I love your hair," I gushed.

She smiled and told me my bangs were cute. There were tons of waxed mustaches, ear gauges where the lobes could touch shoulders, tattoos, Dr. Seuss-inspired hair styles, and Hustler-inspired women's wear. I felt very self-conscious. I stuck out like a sore thumb. And that was before I had to deal with watching the ring girls. "Did you realize that there are apparently two levels of ring girl?" I asked Brad, who was startled by my blatant invitation to inspect the subject of my discussion. "Yes. One level is tasked with the difficult job of balancing the Round Cards while the other level must contend with the weighty responsibility of lifting  and displaying the defending belt." Brad nodded, no doubt impressed and awed by the sheer complexities and enormous responsibilities associated with these seemingly degrading and useless roles. "And they make it look so effortless..." I added. Brad nodded again. 

Apart from dealing with my insecurities and inner angst, I also had to contend with my conflicting cases of claustrophobia and agoraphobia as we entered the crowded, practically standing...packed-in-like-sardines...room only area and pushed our way, unable to breathe, directly from one door to the nearest exit. This was going to be a fun night, I thought to myself once I had control of my breathing and out-of-control pulse.

Fortunately, as the evening went on, the crowd began to dissipate a bit and we managed to score some valuable real-estate in the blind area behind security and the control panels. My inner anxiety is only ever out-maneuvered by my anxiety if kids are added to the mix so I was happy to toss my friend Cooper up on an unstable foldable chair. "What does Obi-Wan say to Anikan during their fight on Mustafar?" I shouted over the unsuitable lyrics being blasted. My young padawan laughed, "I have the high ground!" Meanwhile, his sister was busy balancing on two toes at the very top of her unstable folding chair's backrest, fighting to catch a glimpse of the current bout. Brad chose this moment to distract me with french fries. 

The kids were eventually able to score two of the five actual seats for ticket-holders where you could

actually see the action in the octagon so I was able to show off my nimble flexibility by having my husband and a complete stranger haul me up onto the now vacant high ground. Seeing predators eyeing up my territory, I loudly announced, "If anyone tries to take my chair, I will KILL them." Threats of violence are apparently so common at this venue (that doubles as a church on Sundays) that no one blinked an eye. "Look at her in her Kansas City sweatshirt and muck boots," the wary remarked, "Stay away from her...she's obviously CRAZY." 

Perched safely on my pedestal, I once again studied the ring girls. "If I were a level of ring girl, which level would I be?" I asked my now frightened husband. Should he respond by saying gender is a construct imposed upon us by an unenlightened society? Should he say the use of the term "girl" is degrading to women? No...my guy went straight for the kill. "You would obviously carry the belt, you dominatrix, you."  I quickly glanced around to make sure no one could hear or be offended by our saucy talk. "Me-ow," I purred at him with a wink while he breathed a sigh of relief. 

Still not fluent in martial arts regardless of having a husband who has been a practitioner for forty years, I found myself rooting for the competitors to stay upright as, if they went to the mat, we lost sight of them. Vaguely familiar with the lingo, I spun (cautiously) around to stare, wide-eyed at Brad, when the next fight was announced as SUPER heavy weight. The entire room stilled as we turned in unified anticipation, wondering what was going to be coming in the door. Two robust men, with more confidence than I will ever hope to have, whipped off their shirts (I'm embarrassed if my shirt even rides up a LITTLE), and entered the ring. Like enraged bull elephants, they clashed...falling back against the

cage wall. "That's over 700 pounds," Brad muttered, mentally inventorying the nuts and bolts that were currently battling to hold the octagon together. The people sitting ring-side were currently questioning their life choices and I took a moment to be grateful for my rickety chair near the exit. My first authentic fist thrust of the evening followed the declaration of the winner who immediately dropped to perform "The Worm" for the wild crowd.

We were there (of course) for the Head-Lined Fight. Naturally, Amy Mosiman would be at a sanctioned MMA event for the main fight. Brad's friend Chase, sporting a nifty pair of leopard print shorts, was AMAZING. It helped that Brad front-loaded the fight by getting me a fried pineapple cheesecake eggroll. Striking hard, Chase won in the 3rd round with a TKO...it was impressive (and horrifying) to watch. The eggroll had a nice crisp outer shell and the pineapple finish
was warm and sweet. I'm not sure I need to re-visit either experience again but I'm glad I was able to encounter them both at least once. 

As snack-based adventures go, I'd definitely say this one was a knock-out!

 

It's Narnia business why I'm dressed as a lion

On the very rare occasions when it does happen, I have to swallow my pride and admit when I've brought trouble upon myself.  I do contend, however, that the lion's share of the blame still rests with Erin. Several years ago, I was lured into confiding my ferocious aversion to the month of March with her. No matter what you call it ("cabin fever," "the winter blues," or "Seasonal Affect Disorder"), March, for me, triggers VERY strong feelings of repressed rage, inner loathing, sedentary sloth, emotional eating, wearisome worries, and a desperate need to isolate. So as I prepare to go fetal, Erin prepares a fiesta. Hence, Amy & Erin's March Madness was born. 

This year, I decided to go fur it and grab this situation by the tail before it became too wild. As we brainstormed, I MAY have mentioned how March is associated with lions and lambs when BOOM! Suddenly, I found myself wrapped in warm plush and tossed to the wolves. I knew immediately that things were not going well when a first grader, exiting the bus, pointed at me and shouted, "Look! A bear!" I growled as the sweet slender sheep beside me giggled and capered about, easily identifiable and immediately adored. Erin made the children laugh and play to see a lamb in the bus loop.

Accompanied by my faithful 4th grade friend, Callie, I wound my way back to Erin's room to deliver the
morning announcements. Snarling, I glared as small hands reached out to stroke my soft fur or risked life and limb by grabbing my tail. "No, she is NOT a teddy bear," Callie clarified, gently wrangling the herd of small humans out of my way. "Mrs. Mosiman," she said sternly as I kept roaring, "you have to stop scaring the kids." 

Lunchtime wasn't much better as I made my rounds of the cafeteria, stalking my prey to capture cucumber rounds, fun-sized Snicker bars, and string cheese. I high-pawed pint-sized pupils, tickled tummies, and booped noses before escaping that zoo. 

But then...magic.

Every year, Room 24 reads C.S. Lewis's "The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe." We draw the destinations. We spend weeks walking across the map to reach Cair Paravel. We explore Greek mythology connections. We despise Edmund until suddenly we don't despise Edmund. We nibble on Turkish Delight. We read on the rug beneath a revolving light of sparkling stars. And then the day...the magical day...when the story was read by A FREAKING LION!!! 

So yeah...I feel a little sheepish admitting this but TOTALLY WORTH IT! Suffocating all day in that sweaty lion suit, being ceaselessly pawed at, ridiculed by my peers...I would do it again in two shakes of a lion's tail. C.S. Lewis certainly needs no help from me to improve the Chronicles of Narnia. I am enchanted and transported, year after year after year. My silly lessons are merely the sides to the meat of the meal. C. S. Lewis provides the prime rib while I flounder to deliver a three-bean salad and room temperature fries. But that Friday in March, I managed to serve up piping hot homemade mac-and-cheese with that crispy topping. (Notice I avoided a Chinese food comparison. What lion would want low mane!?!)