Texas: NOT the land of brotherly love "But Mom," Savannah said, trying to defend her newly adopted state, "translated, Texas means friendship." "No, it doesn't, Savannah," I corrected her, "It means yew tree."

Despite what Lisa says, I am NOT a high maintenance girl...

...(picking out Easter candy for me in anticipation of my arrival)

Lisa:  What does your mom like?

Savannah:  We'll never find it. She loves a Russell Stover chocolate marshmallow bunny.

Lisa: (finding the Russell Stover product mother-lode immediately) Here's some!

Savannah: (wary of the high that accompanies false hope and unrealistic expectations...she is MY daughter, after all) Those aren't the right ones.

Lisa:  But...they're Russell Stover.

Savannah:  Those are eggs. She likes the rabbits.

Lisa: (Pawing through several thousand options of Russell Stover products before realizing there isn't a rabbit in the bunch. This is where she makes the critical...but understandable (and frankly, adorable) mistake of thinking I'm a woman of compromise. Let us not mistake my unflinching loyalty and principles for "high maintenance," people. Harken back to those dark times when Jif was in short supply...happily eager to replace it with the generic version, were you?) We'll just get her a Russell Stover egg.

Savannah: (staring at Lisa like she'd sprouted another head) My mother would rather have nothing if she can't have a Russell Stover chocolate marshmallow bunny.

Lisa: (thinking but not saying, "That's ridiculous," methodically begins the process that so many before her have tried and failed:  The What-About THIS One?) But...(holding up an egg)...this one has marshmallow...

Savannah:  No.

Lisa:  (holding up another one) What about THIS one? It's a raspberry-creme marshmallow egg!

Savannah shook her head.

Lisa:  Coconut?

Savannah: Nope

Lisa: (voice rising) Caramel? Chocolate caramel? Dark chocolate? Sea salt?

Worn out and exasperated, Lisa gamely tried another tactic. "Is there any other Easter candy that your mother likes?"

Savannah:  (bristling a bit at Lisa's tone) She likes yellow marshmallow Peep rabbits.

Lisa:  (finding the entire aisle of Peeps) Here's some!

~~~~~~~ONE HOUR LATER~~~~~~~~~~

Lisa:  What about blue?

Savannah: Nope.

Lisa:  Here are some yellow chicks.

Savannah shook her head.

Lisa: Purple? Funfetti? Watermelon? Oh! Oh! Oh! They have Pepsi-flavored Peeps...

Savannah:  No.

~~~~~~~ONE HOUR LATER~~~~~~~~~~

The girls exit the store with their purchase of extra-strength Tylenol.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So, no. I am NOT high maintenance. In fact, I would contend that my specific interests make it VERY
easy to please me...no guess work AT ALL. And when it comes to high maintenance regarding fashion attire and make-up, I am not a froo-froo girl at all. Let's just say I'm more pug than poodle. But I am pretty malleable when Sydney decides to unfrump my frocks and decorate my digits. I usually only get my nails done with Sydney...I am not great with unfamiliar environments, making decisions when selecting from a color palette of 5,000 shades of the same pink, decoding even slight accents, and letting people I don't know touch me. 

("Yeah, Amy," snorted Lisa, "You're not high maintenance, AT ALL.")

Savannah was enlisted to drive us. Our first salon was tucked securely behind the high salvage yard gates featured in "Breaking Bad." We bravely ventured in and were told by the two operators standing in the empty shop that they could not accommodate us today. "Take the cannolis," I muttered, backing up slowly.

We found a spot in the busy parking lot of our next location. I opened the car door cautiously, smiling at the woman parked next to us. "You good?" I asked, making sure she wasn't going to open her door at the same time. She snarled at me. "I don't know WHY you had to park so close to me," she snapped. Ahead of me, Savannah ducked down (to, one, avoid possible gun-fire and, two, check the lines). She shrugged, baffled, but snagged me safely away from the antichrist of asphalt who was sporting a "Don't California Up My Texas" bumper sticker on the back of her vehicle as a warm welcome banner. HOW-DY!

Sydney and I were immediately separated in the salon. My anxiety ratcheted as I failed, again and again, to anticipate which foot needed to be cheese-grated next. I was handed the accordion comprised of marketable fingernails but when I chose one of the 5,000 shades of pink, I was told (I think) that it was the wrong color. "Code PINK," Sydney texted to her sister, who was sitting in the waiting area, keeping a wary eye on "Don't Mess with Texas's Parking Spots." Savannah wiggled her way in next to me and assumed her complicated role of nail emissary/emotional support human. "That's pretty," Savannah said as my stylist picked out the correct shade of pink. I startled out of my self-induced coma. I don't think Savannah has ever uttered that phrase unless it was directed toward a dog. Feeling pretty poodly, I did some quick research on the bumper sticker to discover it was also a delightfully inclusive song. Bad enough that they were mad at California but, my, it takes an unreasonably ugly turn at the end. "Don't New York it either." What the Zac Ephron does THAT mean? My salon nail stylist wrestled me out of my chair (after WWE massaging my injured do-si-do hand..."Tell her," hissed Savannah as my body contorted with pain. "Isn't ouch a universally-understood word?" I gritted back.) and forced me bodily to sit in front of a weird table. My daughters looked at me in confusion as the stylist, in disgust, arranged me bodily, stuffing my hands and feet into medieval stocks built into the table. It turned out to be a wind table. The notoriety  quickly wore off. "Can't I just blow on my fingernails and they take three bucks off the bill?" I wondered. Nope.

Pulling out of the parking lot, Savannah asked if it were safe to go. "Kind of," I said, doubtfully as we drew alongside a large, questionable vehicle sporting a bullet hole. "I think that's known as a Texas welcome mat," I said. Welcome to Texas.