Thanks to my LETRS training, this is funny: What do you call a pink bird with a sore throat: A phlegmingo

 I am not at my best on a Superintendent's Conference Day. 

I am in an environment where every fiber of my being is either sharply in-tuned to (A) creating lesson plans, hopelessly re-arranging my learning environment to find that perfect equation to minimize chatter and distractions to best focus attention, and grading assignments OR (B) shenanigans. 

I swear that I read the obituary...I mean...itinerary.

"This isn't a death sentence OR a vacation, Amy," I was informed by a wary administrator as I stumbled, blearily, into the auditorium at 7:30 a.m. "If you'd read the AGENDA, you would know that coffee would be available after the Morning Meeting."  I gasped. How was I going to manage the next 45 minute caffeine-free, pastry-less existence? Fortunately, another administrator wandered by with a comfort animal. Cocker Spaniel kisses make everything better. 

So do snacks.

My 4th grade team knows that my ratio of whining resistance to reluctant productivity is greatly impacted by the availability of snacks. Superintendent Day conferences have been much more palatable with a table decorated with desserts. Allison worried that her kind offering of a colorful veggie tray might cause me to spiral. Not at all. Instead, I stomped all over the building, announcing that Allison had included nine cherry tomatoes in her colorful cornucopia and I had claimed all of them. "I do have a mild allergy to tomatoes," I warned my somewhat alarmed team. "What happens?" they asked as I popped two cherry tomatoes in my mouth. I waved my hand dismissively. "My throat scratches a bit accompanied by a little swelling."  Allison looked horrified. "I would be the one responsible for killing Amy Mosiman." Katriel shrugged before attempting to reassure her. "You could be hailed as a hero...depending on the day." 

She wasn't wrong.

I had already denied personnel access to the building as I gallantly stood in during the school secretary's momentary absence. "Amy," my administrator snapped, intervening as I interrogated this questionable visitor, "Betty has worked at our school for eight years. And why aren't you on your Zoom call meeting?" 

Oops.

"I'm meeting with the head of maintenance," I explained, disappearing before she could ask why.

My OCD had triggered early this morning when I noticed a heating duct cover mounted on the wall was crooked. Surely, someone needed to be alerted.

Then I noticed that ALL of the remaining trees in the courtyard (minus, of course, the one they'd heartlessly cut down the minute I'd left the building at the end of last school year because they KNEW I'd chain myself to it) were devoid of leaves. Strange for Fall? No. But WHERE WERE ALL OF THE
FALLEN LEAVES??? Not a single leaf littered the ground. I was in that courtyard EVERY day...reluctantly feeding the Welfare birds and poking my decomposing puffball.  I had not witnessed the appearance of a single rake or heard the racket of a leaf blower. This mystery obviously trumped a Zoom meeting.

During my hunt for the head of maintenance (pausing at the drinking fountain to soothe my scratchy throat), I found TWO secret doors. One led me to a secret passage to the cafeteria where I helpfully oversaw Tony's work repairing the industrial stove. He pointed out another secret door that he was certain would lead me to Todd...imagine my surprise when I found myself outside the building. And then my administrator refused to buzz me back in until I promised to return to my Zoom meeting.

I returned to my room full of snacks...inventoried my cherry tomatoes...and then collapsed back into my cushioned chair to sulk (after grappling a throat lozenge).

It was here...at this moment in time...that I would later discover that I had ultimately been betrayed by my team.

Stay with me.

Our computer Shared Drive folders can be decoratively enhanced...with either a boring prefabricated background or you can...if you have the patience of Job and endless time on your hands...personalize the folder with a photo.

I had discovered this option years ago and happily devoted hours of my life to putting meaningful snapshots of my team-mates on the covers. It was an exasperating business. Using an infuriatingly inaccurate crop-box as your guide, it would take ten to ten-thousand tries to capture the fraction of the photo allotted for the folder. This process would inevitably be accompanied by frustrated screaming and the occasional flinging of technology upon the floor or against the wall. But persistence pays off. My latest artistic endeavor had Katriel's image, captured for months, as she raced along a highway meridian, searching for an item that had been sucked out a school bus window.

Then, imagine my surprise...my horror...and then my delight, when I discovered the Shared Drive folder had been updated with my own petulant pose. I immediately changed it (of course) but spent the remainder of the day smiling...reveling in the compliment attached to such an utter waste-of-time action. I spent needless hours trying to capture Marissa flipping her hair but it surpassed my skill level so I had to settle for a far-too-attractive picture of Allison lounging by Lake Ontario. Trust me...it's only a temporary filler. Leaving a lovely photo up on a Google Drive Folder is just too hard to swallow.

The only scary creature NOT in my pond: The duck-filled-catty-pus

 

Over the past thirty years, the pond behind our house has evolved from Pacific to puddle...sometimes puny, sometimes protuberant. A savage habitat of snapping turtles and snakes. A haven for honking geese and diving ducks. Blackberry bushes act as a brutal barricade...blood will be drawn in exchange for access to this baby bayou.

"I finally got around to moving the duck blind," Brad reported. Once situated in the middle island, the waning water deserted the spit of land. Targeted fowl would need to be enticed to waddle a wee bit. If we were lucky, Captain Quack Sparrow might mistake the blind for a treasure chest. Duck Vader might want to share a joke:  "Two storm troopers walk into a bar. The third one ducks." 

I wandered down to take a look...and was immediately entranced.

Perched pond-side, within easy Amy-reach, Brad's shotgun structure resembled a little swamp slip. "This is amazing," I squealed, quickly climbing inside. Brad, pleased by my unexpected interest, reminded me of my instrumental role in its original construction. I was baffled. "I have no memory of building this," I told him. Of course, the trauma related to such an activity could have eradicated it from my brain. "I remember helping (hindering) you haul it out to the island decades
ago," I answered, shuddering from the recollection. Muck-deep, fearfully alert for an appearance from the Leech-ness Monster. Certain that I would be permanently suctioned to the bottom of the pond. Valuing each and every one of my ten, tiny toes should a Goodyear-tire-sized snapper develop a sudden craving for one or two little piggies. We had just learned that a family of Eastern Massasauga rattlesnakes had taken up a waterside residence by the pond.  I was, perhaps, not as enthusiastic about helping my husband as I should have been. There was a great deal of swearing accompanying this task. Scared swearing on one end..."encouraging" (exasperated) expletives on the other.

Before Brad knew it, we were picnicking in his duck blind. Chairs were purchased and hauled down. "My knees touch the front of the blind," Brad commented. "I know!" I squealed, "So cozy!" The turtles were baffled. Dozens of heads periscoped from the water to wonder what the hiddey-hey we were doing. Brad was so embarrassed but I reassured him that no one cared what a bunch of reptiles think. I pried a 5-gallon bucket away from my husband's hoarded pile of a hundred or more...to fill with citronella candles, mosquito repellent, and a lighter...so that it could double as a table for our romantic pond-side seating.

We ordered a pizza and carried it down to our magical get-away.

I stuffed myself into the three-foot-by-three-foot squared entrance hole...then shimmied over the two chairs...straddling the 5-gallon bucket and lightly bumping my head on the low, wood roof. I settled into my little chair (careful to tuck in my knees a bit) and sighed happily. "Isn't this perfect?" I asked Brad who, to be fair, had lacked the imagination to view his duck-blind as a sea-side resort restaurant. A chipmunk raced across the back of the blind. "This is incredible!" I exclaimed. Brad, having shimmied in after me, was gamely attempting to balance our pizza on his knees which were braced against the front of the blind. The turtles had suddenly adjusted their attitudes now that the possibility of pizza crusts had presented itself. They all but put out a "Welcome" banner. Inspired by the Chisholm Trail, they circled the shells to present us with a fun but clear target in which to aim our offerings. 

"You weren't this excited about the deer stand," Brad observed as we gazed out over the water.

I considered this comment as fish rose from the water.

"Can we move it to the pond?" I asked.

Brad wasn't really fawn of that particular i-deer.

Hunting season is coming...I can barely stand it

Tree stand installation and maintenance is not high on my list of favorite past-times. Wrestling a rickety structure into place. Imagining my husband toppling out of said rickety structure in the wee hours of the morning during hunting season. Being asked, politely...repeatedly, to help balance the rickety structure by adding or subtracting a collection of semi-stable rocks. Whining when my fingers get dirty. Yelping when my fingers get pinched. Sulking when Brad pushes me aside to simply do it himself...the frustration and disgust providing him with the burst of  adrenaline needed to lift the rickety structure AND place the perfect semi-stable rock beneath its leg.

I took that opportunity to gingerly open my little pouch of fruit gummies...making it a point to take care, of course, of my hurt finger.

"Your tree stand resembles those long-legged walking tank things from Star Wars," I observed. "AT-AT walkers," Brad muttered, using his body weight to test the balance of his forest home. "You know that the so-called ice planet scenes were filmed in the hotel parking lot," I informed him, helpfully. "You tell me every time we watch it," Brad sighed, "It really adds to the movie magic." "I know, right?" I smiled, pleased that he agreed with me. "Apparently there was a snowstorm in Norway. Go figure. So the ice planet Goth was set next to an outdoor ice machine at a Super 8." "Hoth," Brad said quietly. "It was the ice planet, Hoth. Can you please hand me up the carpet?"

My hoarder...I mean, husband, had saved several musty rugs with the intention of lining the metal-grid floor of his stand. Disappointed that he didn't want to hear more of my movie magic fun facts, I nonetheless shouldered Aladdin's out-casted, odorous aircraft and heaved it up to Brad, receiving a face-full of dirt and dust for my trouble. 

I took a mental health break to get another little snack-y-snack, watching as Brad secured his re-purposed All Terrain Armored Transport stand with what looked like re-purposed dental floss. "You couldn't find any yarn?" I asked. My husband encouraged me to take a little walk-y-walk as he finished up.

What a terrific idea!

Two minutes later, Brad vaulted out of his stand in response to my shrieking. "Brad! Brad!" Like a bullet, he pierced through pine bough blockades to get to me. Reaching me in record time, he quickly scanned our surroundings for danger. "Look at this amazing bug!" I squealed, "Can you

hold it for me so I can take a picture?" My husband took a deep, meditative breath...presumably psyching himself up to pick up an admittedly large larvae.  After our bug boudoir photography session, Brad returned to his stand while I continued my woodland adventure.

Two minutes later, I was shrieking again. Brad's response was not quite as immediate. He must have gotten tangled up in the dental floss. 

"What is it?" he asked when he eventually arrived.

"Look at the purple fungus!" I pointed, practically dancing with excitement.

A second photo session later and Brad declared us finished. We packed up, loaded the 4-wheeler, and returned home. Brad pulled up in front of the house and helped me off. When I asked why he wasn't parking our all-terrain vehicle in the garage, he explained that he'd just remembered that he'd forgotten something back at the tree stand. "Oh," I said, moving towards him, "I'll go with you." He waved me off, smiling. "No, stay home and relax," he insisted gallantly, "It'll only take two minutes."

Metamorphosis: a change of the form or nature of a thing or person into a completely different one

I am surrounded by the kindest, most thoughtful people. I do NOT deserve them (Cue Wayne and Garth's "We're not worthy" bit). I am not sure how a lazy, apathetic, unmotivated, negative gal such as myself ends up as the recipient of selfless generosity and constant grace. 

But here we are.

My friend Heidi is an excellent example of this. For the past several years, she has insisted I take a container of caterpillar chrysalises for my classroom so that my students can experience the magical emergence of Monarch butterflies. I am far from receptive of this idea. It's just one more thing that I'm going to mess up. "No, no," Heidi assures me. "We'll do everything." 

And it's true. She and her amazing daughter are there from attachment to emergence. Literally, all I have to do is release the butterflies. It's pretty rough.

This year was particularly magical.

My 4th graders were, of course, enchanted. Wiggly and wonderful...squealing and spellbound...tickled
and transfixed. We sang "Let it go," as our new-born beauties flexed their wings, soaking in the sun before soaring into the air. We were scientists, naturalists, and poets.

It was a Friday afternoon and several green cocoons remained, swaying from their slender silken filaments...two butterflies had emerged earlier in the day but their wet wings required a few more hours of dry-time. Heidi had offered to whisk them away but I asked if I could take them to my mother. Heidi, thrilled to share the results of her summer of meticulous labor...maintaining the milkweed, gathering the caterpillars, feeding them, cleaning up after them, ensuring their solid and study attachments...the container she'd given me was labeled "9" if that gives you any clue to how many butterflies she and Alison release each season.

Like the butterflies, my mother has also been on quite a transformative journey. For the last few years she has undergone many changes, enduring a cycle of unimaginable loss...the death of her beloved husband, leaving her home, plagued by memory issues and confusion. For my mother, moments of joy are fleeting and few.

Heidi's butterflies captured my mom's attention immediately. She admired their beauty...fixated on how frail their delicate wings appeared. I smiled...realizing how very similar my mother was to the very creatures she was inspecting. For some reason (C'mon...we know the reason), our baby butterflies were not in too big a hurry to depart...content to remain with us for awhile...resting on a weathered hand as Mom held her breath, afraid to disturb it. She laughed as one made a hair ornament on top of my head. Froze, statue-still, so I could capture a picture of the orange and black beauty against her lilac-colored slacks. For a moment, my mom was happy. She experienced joy. How grateful I am to Heidi, Alison, and God for that precious occurrence. 

And still, we weren't done. Two chandeliers remained...the brilliant green dimming...darkening and soon, the last two butterflies arrived.

So, Sunday morning, before church, Brad and I both set a butterfly each free...using our morning glory
patch as their launching site. Like before, they lingered longer...their waving wings rivaling the brilliant blooms woven into our vined screen. 

What an incredible gift that Heidi gave us. A gift that I didn't know I wanted or needed...but Heidi knew. And she wouldn't let me say, "No."  Thank you, Heidi.

We are all butterflies. Earth is our chrysalis.

~LeeAnn Taylor

The continuing story of the morning glories...

Again, I blame Katriel.

Several years ago, when I had stopped by her house to pick her up for our daily work commute, I noticed some large, brilliantly colored flowers climbing a trellis alongside her house. Naturally, I investigated. 

They were morning glories. 

They were HUGE! The size of my hand! 

In my excitement, I may have embellished a bit to my husband. "They were the size of dinner plates," I exclaimed. (Small dinner plates, maybe. Saucers.)

Morning glories have a special place in my heart. My mom effortlessly grew morning glories in vibrant pinks, whites, blues and purples woven along the metal railings of our front steps when I was a little girl.

Knowing that I enjoy ADMIRING flowers but not actually GROWING them myself, Katriel carefully offered me some of her seeds. I eagerly snatched them up as this could be the beginning of the fulfillment of my floral fantasy to robe the entryway of our empty cow tunnel with vined flowers. 

Just as I'd hoped, Brad Mosiman toiled for hours, laboring to construct a large, narrow garden box, wrestling up a sturdy trellis, and digging a trough for me to daintily place each of my precious seeds...(Imagine an adorable winged fairy sprinkling pixie dust).

We diligently checked each day...only to be disappointed. Some straggly vines emerged but were confused about what they were supposed to do. We helpfully guided them into the trellis. And waited...

By the end of that summer, our efforts yielded ONE off-color white morning glory and a burning resentment for Katriel that would last through the winter.

But the Mosimans would not be deterred.

We researched and purchased our own seeds...buying a variety to hedge our bets. Katriel, obviously repentant, offered up some nutrient-rich fertilizer while Brad and I read the planting instructions carefully. "It says to soak the seeds," I reported dubiously. "Do you want a repeat of next year or do you want to change the destiny of your dinner-plate-sized flowers?" my husband snapped."

So we soaked them.

Then came the crushing blow that the endless current of Covid money would soon turn to a trickle so our poor little country had to find ways to spend it quickly...obviously, our cow tunnel had to go.

What?

We (Brad) carefully moved each baby morning glory sprout to its new destination beneath our tall pine tree. Our already low expectations grabbed a shovel to dig even deeper. 

And then...

A pink puckered rectum shyly pushed its way out between the throngs of vines and papery green leaves.

(I'm really hoping to win some sort of literary award for the poetic nuances of that sentence.)

I danced around the yard and then took a zillion pictures of it for posterity. My family, naturally, was thrilled. Katriel, I'm certain, was seething in envy.

Each morning brought new surprises. I dutifully sent up-dated pictures to California. My daughters and Douglas clamored for more. I considered starting a newsletter. Or alerting a news agency. Or maybe offering up guided tours for a nominal fee.

My initial goal was a solid screen of vined flowers. After last year, I'd adjusted my expectations to a more realistic two or three flowered appearances. But now...? "I want them to reach beyond the trellis," I told Brad, "I want them to run wild in the pine tree."

And they DID!

It was an amazing summer. More than I could have asked for. It checked all of my boxes:  

• Nostalgic warm fuzzies of my childhood. 
• A breath-taking backyard. 
• Revenge (Take THAT, Katriel!). 

Now...on to next year and our continued goal for gargantuan, dinner-plate-sized morning glories. Based on this year's success, I be-leaf that our dreams are firmly rooted in reality. Seriously, I'm not just sprouting off.

 

"Amy, why are you sitting by an empty field full of seagulls?" Just beak-ause.

 "Amy, where do you get the ideas for your blogs?" I am occasionally asked by one of the four people who read my silly little ramblings.

I sigh. "Oh honey. They write themselves."

Case-in-point:

For the last twenty years, my friend Joan has faithfully followed my classroom odyssey from the front of the building, with easy parking lot access...to the back of the building, with handy playground placement...to my now-infuriatingly-inaccessible-interior assignment. "I don't know how to find you," Joan complained in frustration, "Short of repelling down from the roof." My latest room has resulted in fewer visits from my friend so imagine my delight when, on my way out of the building on Friday, I encountered her, walking in!

"I'm going to watch my great-niece play soccer and thought I'd pop in," Joan said. I immediately volunteered to keep her company. Sporty events are not my area of strength or comfort but I was game to try on such a lovely afternoon. Joan and I made a side-line trip to gather up chairs and snacks and then sought out the field of play. There were several pockets of people spotting the school's generous acreage so we walked over for some assistance. Obviously, they thought I was lost. Our new Australian physical education teacher interrupted the interrogation of former students wondering if I was just seeking inspiration for a nature-based haiku. She said some helpful words and sent us on our way but I was so entranced by her delightful accent that I hadn't actually listened to her directions. Fortunately, Joan was on the ball.

We arrived at the directed field, filled with seagulls. "How about while we wait for the game to start, we sit over there in the shade?" I suggested. We wrestled our chairs out, tucked in the 90 degree angle by the playground, the lush branches of a generous maple providing a cool roof over our heads. We popped open our beverages and began catching up.

"Hi, Mrs. Mosiman!" a small voice shrieked from the swings. I waved.

"Mrs. Mosiman!" came a roar from over by the rock wall.

"Mrs. Mosiman! Mrs. Mosiman!" a kid screamed down the slide.

"What are you doing here?" my little roving reporters wanted to know.

Sigh.

Finally, my friend Michelle wandered over. 

An alert administrator with a talent for reading the room, Michelle had searched her surroundings quickly, trying to determine why Amy Mosiman was sitting in front of an empty field of seagulls on a Friday afternoon after school. It was a mystery. Time to investigate.

"Mrs. Mosiman, what are you doing?" Michelle asked. She annoys me because she is so beautiful. And kind. And smart. And supportive. And helpful. Ugh.

"Watching soccer," I told her.

Wasn't it obvious?

Michelle frowned. 

Joan took pity on her and explained that we were there to watch her niece play soccer at 5. "That nice new gym coach with the Australian accent told us to go to this field," I added.

"Amy," Michelle scolded, "She is NOT Australian. She's from England."

She sounded Australian to me.

Michelle frowned again and then begin typing authoritatively on her cellular device.

"I hate to tell you this, but the game doesn't actually start until 6:30."

I glared at Joan who groaned while Michelle attempted not to giggle.

Naturally, at this point, another administrator (who lacks MANY of Michelle's amazing qualities) drove slowly by in the school's side-by-side to investigate why Mrs. Mosiman was sitting in front of an empty field full of seagulls on a Friday afternoon.

This was turning into QUITE the spectacle.

Joan called it when the first mosquito arrived (presumably to ask why Mrs. Mosiman was sitting in front of an empty field of seagulls on a Friday afternoon).

We packed up our chairs and made our sad walk of shame back to the parking lot. Before I left though, I made sure to cheer on our loyal players. "You go, gulls!"

"July Amy" enacting revenge on "September Katriel" (I hope Japan was worth it)

Amy-in-the-now (Present-tense Amy) is always acutely aware of Future Amy.  Amy-in-the-now knows that Future Amy is going to want a snackie-snack in a few hours but is too lazy to go grocery shopping. Present-tense Amy knows that Future Amy is a grumple-saurus in the morning but still stays up until 2 am reading or thumbing through reels. Amy-in-the-now knows that if she doesn't use the massaging torture device on her foot before bed, Future Amy will be limping all the next day but...ouchie. Future Amy routinely detests Amy-in-the-now but never so much as she did this past Friday...

Carpool text to Katriel:  Who the f-dances at 8:15 in the morning???

To be fair...this was Katriel's fault just as much as it was Amy-back-in- July's. Katriel selfishly and irresponsibly decided to take some time off this summer to visit Japan...forcing me to take her place on the character education committee. In her absence, I attended two fun-filled days with happy, positive people determined to change the world for the better. I was miserable.

"Amy," my arch-nemesis...the bold and bubbly Erin called, "Come sit with me." Could this get any worse?

Oh yeah, it could.

We needed...a theme.

This was joyously discussed for hours. We landed on the Hollywood Walk of Fame...respectful, responsible, safe, and scholarly All-Stars parading down the red carpet. Posters were made. Helpful worksheets compiled. Folders filled. I valiantly attempted to keep us grounded in reality. What happened to the good old days when kids were content with gold stars? I stared off into space. I sulked. I scribbled immature illustrations in my notebook. I remained resolutely silent. And then...I began to sabotage. 

As our friend, Sarah, labored heroically, creating a 10-foot tall thermometer to reflect student success, I commented on what I viewed as a perfectly related phallic connection. Oh...I'm sorry. You meant it to look like that? And off I skipped. Maybe this day wasn't going to be a complete waste.

Next on my list was Erin who was up-dating her annual teacher luncheon schedule. The bane of my existence. Erin insists that the luncheons are good for morale and building community. Yeah...my regular dinners rotate around stale cereal and sandwiches. My morale is definitely elevated trying to plan, buying the ingredients for (and forgetting half of them), and inevitably ruining the dish I'm supposed to bring in for Erin's luncheon. "Here," Erin said, pulling up a companion chair next to her's, "You can help me." My help consisted in re-branding her adorably-named luncheon days. "Soup Day" became "What a crock of sh--" Day. I was definitely feeling better.

And then I made a critical error.

I contributed.

Without consulting...thinking about...or caring about--Future Amy. Specifically, September Amy...who is notoriously overwhelmed, afraid, and freaked out.

It sounded like a good idea.

Staff dancing to The Script's Hall of Fame in the opening assembly. There was a super-easy-to-follow on-line tutorial.

Fun. Energetic. On-theme.

Katriel, home from her adventures in Japan, was stunned by all the damage I had caused in her absence.

Really?

"We're doing what?" she gasped.

"Not we," I chortled, "You. I was just an interim member of the committee."

Apparently the committee had other ideas.

Dance practice was held in my room the day before the assembly.

Katriel, knowing that I lack rhythm, grace, and kinesthetic memory, helped me write out the steps on my dry erase board before everyone arrived. We argued over some of the wording...Katriel growing exasperated by the third move as I giggled over every suggestion she offered. She finally banned the word "tap" but couldn't find a suitable replacement for "knock" so she just had to deal with my comments each time we double knocked in each corner of our invisible Dutch doors. Come on. You start the sequence by knocking up. I insisted the next move be called "Scoop up a pile of leaves and toss them exuberantly into the air" which caused Katriel to start looking for affordable flights back to Japan. 

Between our helpful written instructions and the on-line tutorial, everyone was feeling more-or-less confident. One member of the group kept throwing us off by yelling "Woo!" during the lunge sequences but, other-than-that, we were ready to go.

Obviously, my and Katriel's carpool ride to school the next morning was grimly quiet. I don't know what she was mad about. This was all her fault.

I hit the Pepsi machine before I even opened my classroom door.

Erin wrestled my liquid courage from my hand, on stage.

We did it. I don't remember thunderous applause but I'm sure it was there. Everything was a blur.

Katriel glared at me as we made our way back to our auditorium seats. "You are completely responsible for this," I said, matter-of-factly. "How do you figure that?" she hissed at me in the dark. A 4th grader shushed her, reminding Katriel of her auditorium manners.

"Plan A:  Book exciting trip to Japan...without Amy 

Plan B:  Slough off work responsibilities onto Amy

Plan C:  Ignore Amy's threats that she will somehow Get you back

Plan D:  Drive to airport, leaving Amy fuming...vowing revenge

Plan E."

July-Katriel brought me a thoughtful gift upon her return from Japan.

July-Amy set a snare to "thank" Katriel for the opportunity to sit in for her on the character building committee.

Sometimes the best laid plans are laid to waste (and waltz and watusi).

Konnichi-what?

I just need to vent a little...I am not a big fan of driving with no air conditioning

 And here I thought, as a woman approaching her mid-fifties, that my adventures in the backseat were over...

You can deny it all you want, (Prudes) but most of us understand that one's senses are heightened in the backseat of a vehicle. You just feel more. Excited. Bold. Breathless. Rebellious. Daring.

And, in my case? This past week...these feelings have also included nausea, vertigo, and a major hit to my vanity. 

Let me just tell you...things got HOT!

What are the odds that both Sydney AND Douglas's cars would have disabled air conditioners the week I visited with temperatures refusing to budge from their refreshing 92 degrees and higher?  Some might hint that it was purposeful...a subtle inconvenience that would encourage me to limit my stay. But trust me, Douglas LOVES my little pop-ins. ("Ten days is a little pop-in?" Douglas muttered, gripping the steering wheel tighter as he careened around a hair-pin turn. "What?" I shouted over the wind tunnel that was whipping me about in the backseat." "Nothing," Douglas yelled, watching as my image slid back-and-forth past his rear-view mirror as though I were the tennis ball in a Wimbledon match.)

I had requested a nice lunch with Douglas's parents. Living on opposite coasts makes getting acquainted
a little challenging. My efforts to appear as a dignified, stable, rational human-being were immediately wiped out by the hurricane-force winds that attempted to expel me from Douglas's car during the torturous thirty minute drive to the restaurant. The eyelashes on both my eyes were seared together into one sweaty spike each, erupting from my top eyelids like little unicorn horns. I made a great impression as I only ordered dessert...then diving into the Mud Pie, smearing it on my flushed face like a spa mask.

By Day Two, I decided to eschew any attempt to apply make-up or style my hair.

I would emerge, battered and bruised, at each arrival, resembling a rabid raccoon who'd stuck a stubborn paw in an electric plug. My make-up would have melted off of my face and my hair would be sticking straight up like the Bride of Frankenstein. I learned to adjust my posture accordingly. My straight spine, squared shoulders, and prim pose (Ankles together, ladies...lest you be mistaken for a trollop) evolved into a more legs-spread, welcome-to-the-party stance. I would flounder and cling to what automotive manufacturers call the "Passenger assist grip" but is more cutely, casually, and accurately referred to as "The Jesus handle." I can attest, even though the Lord and I communicate on the reg, our conversations became much more supplicative as I clung to that device as we barreled down Route 5 like hell was behind us. 

By Day Three, I realized that my method of trying to adapt to this situation was NOT working. Alcohol did NOT make this scenario better. 

"What was that sound?" Douglas asked, after jerking his steering wheel left like the referee had blown
the whistle to start a tug-of-war battle. Sydney glanced back, squinting her eyes to see better in the dark. "Oh, that's my mom. Mom, why are you on the floor?"

I got used to tumble-weeding my way across the backseat of Douglas's car. Bracing my palms on the fabric-ed ceiling happily served two purposes as it kept me from face-planting (again) and provided yet another way to commune with God. Vanity is a sin and Douglas certainly helped me in that department as well.

For those of you still quietly thinking that Douglas did this on purpose, I say, "Shame on you!"  If anything else, that lack of air conditioning in the vehicles made me want to spend even more quality time with Douglas in the house. Who needs to drive to restaurants, parks, beaches...

"It's time to go to the airport," Douglas told me, sadly. Sweet honey...he'd even graciously packed my bags for me. The thought of getting in that un-air-conditioned car again made me shudder. "What do you think about my staying a few extra days?" I suggested.

It was the first time I'd ever seen Douglas lose his cool.

One man's Wednesday on a school night...Douglas gets the gold

In Wyoming County, if you have out-of-town guests, you are required, by intergalactic hosting regulations, to take them to Niagara Falls. It would be appallingly negligible to deprive these visitors exposure to one of eighth natural wonders of the world. So you ignore the over-an-hour drive, you put up with the crowds, the traffic, the bad parking, and the touristy shtick and you go to Niagara Falls...again.

And it is magical.

Every time.

In San Diego, when Douglas has out-of-town guests (much more frequently than he ever imagined), he is required, by intergalactic hosting regulations, to take them to see the seals of La Jolla. Even if it is his first full week back to school AND a Wednesday. Even if it is 90 degrees and the traffic is bumper-to-bumper. Like a seasoned hunter, Douglas searched vigilantly for a parking space...spotting his quarry and pouncing...parallel parking like it was an Olympic event. Sydney and I exited the vehicle, took three steps to the cliff rail and gasped...Douglas had somehow managed to plant us directly in front of a pod of dolphins...plowing through the Pacific, gleaning their prey from the lush kelp forest. Sydney and I delighted in this almost-spiritual spectacle...staring, unblinkingly, at this miraculous moment as Douglas stifled a yawn, staring off at the horizon, pondering the hundreds of papers he had to grade.

We meandered down the winding walk-way, following the coastline...led by the siren's song of barking seals. Pelicans punctuated the sky as the sun began its slow but steady descent. Settling on the low concrete wall, we watched the drama of multiple story-lines unfold...naughty pups wandering too far from their watchful mothers...snoozing seals rudely awakened by playmates, a raucous version of "Marco Polo" suddenly interrupted when a lifeguard spotted the presence of an unwanted interloper:  "Pervert in the pool," shouted Seal Team 6 as frantic mothers evacuated their brood from the water.

Douglas heroically endured Sydney and me completely butchering the lyrics of Kenny Chesney's song, "When the sun goes down," as that shimmering gold medal slid seamlessly into its effervescent envelope, its slender ribbon still shining upon the dark water.

We stood, an ovation to dusk's denouement.

Never anticipating an encore.

As we strolled, sated by the splendor, Sydney noticed a small pavilion so we paused for one last look at the Pacific. Windmilling from the waves, two dolphins rose, snout-to-stern, to pinwheel back into the water. 

Somehow, Douglas managed to herd us back to the car. Eventually, he would plow through his pile of papers to grade. Never...would he realize the gift he'd given to his mother-in-law.

Our love is snow joke: My brief love affair with a penguin

 As part of a penguin's courtship ritual, a male may present his lady-love with a token:  A small pebble. According to our Penguin Encounter ambassador, countless of these exchanges have taken place in their exhibit over the years.  

Oh, puh-leeze. 

Attempting to anthropomorphize their penguins is a cheap trick designed to get me to shell out some serious coinage to book a reservation with a waddle.

Fun fact:  A group of penguins on water is a raft; on land is a waddle.

This was NOT my and Sydney's first black and white rodeo. We met our first penguin pal, Opus, around five years ago. With that magical meeting in mind, Sydney learned of another Arctic opportunity except, instead of just meeting ONE penguin...we would commune with a colony!

We got off to a shaky and uncertain start...wrestling our sweaty feet into suction-inducing muck boots ("Good luck getting these off later," I muttered to Sydney.) and donning insulated coats to brave the frigid temperatures of the fake glacier of which we would be transversing. The rapid temperature change from San Diego spicy chili to Antarctic sterile chilly was dizzying. My eyeglasses, first steamed from the oppressive humidity, were now fogged over from the cold. My perspiring palms were now in danger of frost bite. My nipples didn't know which way was up.

Our exploration team was a small group of six. They did not dress on-theme as Sydney and I did. They were calm, quiet, and professional where as Syd and I were all a-twitter, quite boisterous, and fan-girling hard before we'd even passed through our first Authorized Personnel Only door. 

Our first stop was the kitchen where I broke the first of many of the thousands of rules necessary for the safety of the penguins. It turns out that when I'm about to trek across a fake glacier to commune with penguins, I am no longer able to comprehend, let alone, carry out, instructions. Every boundary I was given, I apparently blew right through. Past the refrigerator was an out-of-boundary zone...but I had seen a little side-room with several head-phoned staff members over-looking a wall of computer monitors. One saw me and immediately got up to close the door...very Hunger Games...very Oz behind-the-curtain. "Ma'am, please step back into the kitchen," our ambassador directed, distracting me with the arrival of a middle-aged Macaroni penguin with soft, iridescent feathers, a Trump-ian hairstyle and a propensity for projectile pooping. Magical.

We were then given a thousand more rules. I'd already been hollered at twice so I tried extra hard to pay attention. The main thrust seemed to be, with no exceptions...under no circumstances...no matter what...do NOT touch the penguins. 

"Do NOT touch the penguins. Do NOT touch the penguins. Do NOT touch the penguins," I repeated to myself as we approached another Authorized Personnel Only door. We stepped though the wardrobe door...were aromatically punched in the face by penguin poo...and my only thought was "I MUST touch ALL the penguins." Wise to my rule-breaking ways, the staff kept a close eye on me. I imagine my image was featured predominantly on the wall of computer monitors back in Big Brother-land. Sydney, trying to ensure we didn't get kicked out, stuck close to my side.

We loved it.

There were a plethora of penguins. 

Six different species of penguins co-exist in this three hundred member cacophonous colony...including the Emperor penguin. San Diego has the only zoo in the Western Hemisphere to house Emperor penguins and I was watching my daughter dance with one. There was even an Emperor penguin chick...if you could call it that. The thing was a monster. It was a fuzzy black version of the Looney Tunes red heart-shaped monster named Gossamer. We had been warned and managed to evade Vlad the Impaler as he stomped angrily by. He was still adorable but we didn't think he'd take that for the compliment we intended. 

And then it happened.

Just like in the story books. The movies.

Their eyes met across the crowded glacier...

They waddled rapidly towards each other across the field of flowers...

I had kept my hands tucked deeply in the recesses of my jacket to help me repress the overwhelming need to touch ALL the penguins. I watched my little guy approach...a resolute little waddle that would NOT be re-routed by the penguins ping-pong balling all over the ice. He planted himself at my feet. Confused, I inched to the side, worried that I was blocking his way to his intended destination...never imagining that I was his intended destination. He moved with me. 

Time stopped.

The music swelled.

He reached out gently with his slender beak to give my trousers a tug. My heart melted but I kept my hands firmly in my pocket. I was NOT that kind of a girl.

Oh please...I am EXACTLY that kind of girl.

He would not be deterred. 

Bold...he wiggled between my feet and settled in. My hands, imprisoned, because of the strict directives sanctioning our freedoms, flexed...itching to reach out. He gazed adoringly up at me. I bent at the waist...physically and emotionally pained over not being able to touch him. Sydney asked a nearby staff member about our little guy. She gave his name in numbers which horrified us. She quickly adjusted by telling us that his name is Ralphie.

Ralphie.

Oh, Ralphie.

My little Chin-Strap soul-mate.

I hovered, paralyzed, as our auras entwined atmospherically...transcending time, physical space, and species.

"Oh, for goodness sake. Go ahead and touch him," the glacier gate-keeper groaned.

How I managed not to scoop that little guy up and seriously snuggle him...I do not know. With a restraint I did not know I possessed (You would know that if you'd ever seen me with a can of Pringles or a bag of "shareable" M&Ms), I gently stroked Ralphie's glimmering back with one finger. He immediately pinned my wrist between his tilted head and body. I was enraptured.

Too soon...it was time to go.

Hot-on-my-heels, Ralphie followed my reluctant stride to the door before he was heartlessly scooped up to be placed in Time Out. Turns out, Ralphie was a frequent rule-breaker too. With one last backwards look over my shoulder, I stepped across the threshold, back to the real world. My real, Ralphie-free, penguin-less, world. I was devastated. 

"It would have never worked out," Sydney said, sympathetically, as she braced herself, one leg against the wall as she defied gravity, her body horizontal as she attempted to leverage the muck boot off my leg. Tears streamed down my face. "Why?" I sobbed, inconsolable. Sydney steered me toward the margarita stand. I couldn't see because my glasses were steamed up. "Mom, you were polar opposites."

Friendship: Getting a handle on things by expresso-ing ourselves

I do not deserve the friendship of this woman.

Relationships are a fragile ecosystem that require careful tending and attention. A balance must be monitored and maintained for this garden to flourish. 

I kill ALL green things (Watch out, Kermit). I am easily distracted, careless, lazy, neglectful, and often selfish. Relationships require work. Ugh.

Deb is among the heartiest of my harvest of hobnobbers. She is easy-going, patient, flexible, and understanding. So, naturally, I walk all over her. I make plans and promises that I fail to follow up on. I disappear, for months, without word. I am a weed...the stinging nettle in Deb's nursery...yet she continues to baby me along. 

She. Is. Always. There. For. Me.

We typically get together over the course of the summer for a little walk or two. 

This summer, though, I decided to spice things up. So what if we were both plagued with crippling feet problems? Who cares that the only sport that I might possibly hope to qualify in was competitive eating? Why should we care if we are years behind a nation-wide trend?

"Deb, do you want to play Pickleball on Thursday?"

No. She wasn't thrilled by any stretch of the imagination. But she would do it for me.

Deb was a natural. We listened attentively as our friend Sabrina explained the rules, nuances, and very complicated scoring system of the game. Distracted, I disappeared down a rabbit hole, wondering why the area closest to the net was called the kitchen. A deep-dive later revealed that the term was borrowed from shuffleboard and denotes a non-lobbying area to prevent someone from whacking the ball too hard at an opponent. I eventually zoned Sabrina out (to my detriment later) and just focused on one thing: Getting the darn ball over the net.

Deb zipped all over the court, tilting her paddle to send the ball spinning back while I stood, squinting, in a sweaty puddle, swatting clumsily at empty air.  A seasoned coach, Sabrina quickly recognized that I worked more effectively with the benefit of a running narrative. Rather than shouting "Idiot," Sabrina would bellow "Bounce!" to remind me of one of the rules of which I clearly didn't digest. 

I was thrilled with the arrival of Sabrina's daughter, a former student. I forced her to be my partner. "My love language is undeserved praise," I told her helpfully. When we had to change partners later (at Mogan's request, I'm sure), I flipped the switch a bit. "I still have access to your school records, Morgan," I threatened as she served a rocket to land expertly in the far back corner, forcing me to flop over backwards, "It's not too late to give you a failing grade in 4th grade social studies! I will ruin you!"

Our taste for Pickleball soured some so Deb and I tried another sport:  Breakfast. 

Much more to our taste and ability level.

And we could talk without fearing failing heart palpitations. 

We caught up. I talked for two hours straight. I finally took a breath so Deb could share. "The chair recognizes the woman in the booth from a ways up the road." 

I learned that my quiet, kind, reserved friend would be leading a small women's group in the Fall, supporting God's sweet sparrows whose souls were swept up in life's storms. In other words, everyone should attend. Deb described the professional training that she'd undergone and the personal introspection she'd experienced that led her to this amazing calling. "What inspired this undertaking?" I asked, stunned by her bravery and service to others. Deb smiled. "It might have been that time I stopped in unexpectedly to visit you," she shared. I stared at her, flabbergasted. "Was I your rock-bottom?" I gasped, horrified. 

The waitress paused at our table with a coffee pot. "Can I fill your cup?" she asked.

Yes.

Perhaps you can get your cup filled by attending a small group. Or maybe joining us at church on Sunday.

(Or you can even risk getting the snot beat out of you on Thursdays playing Pickleball with Deb and me.)

Psalms 23:5 

You fill my cup until it overflows.

Lawn maintenance repair blows

 Sadly, Brad returns to work tomorrow morning, cutting short our many bonding opportunities that have arisen organically over the course of this past week. 

How my heart leapt with joy when he mentioned mowing the lawn this afternoon. I made a dramatic show of folding laundry as he exited the house...certain that I had two hours of dawdling time on my hands.

But I made a critical error in returning the laundry basket to the basement, encountering my husband in the garage, wrestling, inexplicably, with the leaf blower. I froze. Oh no. 

Now, this would take some tricky maneuvering on my part. Obviously, pointing out the futility of fixing a gadget that gets used once a year, if we're lucky, was not the way to go. The fake offer to help would get me waved off but leave me feeling guilty AND could be used later as evidence that I don't contribute in maintaining the house. We're a BIG 1 Corinthians family: 1 Corinthians 13:5 (Love) keeps no record of wrongs. The Mosimans keep Santa-sized scrolls. I took a deep breath. I was going to have to hover uncertainly around the field of repair...attempting an impossible-to-achieve balance of anticipating what Brad needed and trying (and failing) to not annoy him or get in his way.

My first task was distinguishing tool names and functions. Long pointy-ended pterodactyl tool (Needle-nosed pliers). Pinch-y blunt-ended tool with a pretty purple handle (side-cutter). A screwdriver (I knew that one). I tried to channel my inner-surgical nurse but kept reaching in front of Brad, blinding his view AND handing him the wrong tool the wrong way. 

I was then relegated to research. That escalated pretty quickly as Brad kept telling me to type in the part number and Weed Eater. Naturally, I argued. "It's a leaf blower," I explained to my husband who had dismantled a fuel pump, filters, and assorted hoses, "NOT a weed eater." Brad enjoys my silent and complaisant assistance. I wasn't intentionally being obstinate. I just didn't want him to get the wrong part or instructions for a different lawn maintenance do-dad. After several minutes of arguing, Brad set down the pterodactyl to explain that Weed Eater is a brand name like Kleenex. Oh. Why didn't he just say so?

Oh, good! Youtube tutorials! 

I expertly fast-forwarded through to get to the relevant sections but Brad stopped me, concerned that we would miss something important. So we watched as repair gurus listed part numbers (twice...in case we wanted to write them down) and explain how they liked this kit because it provides an extra hose but this kit includes an adapter however this kit comes with a handy clap/on/clap/off location sensor because you know every single kit you buy will get lost in that black hole you call a garage. Video #1 didn't completely address our unique situation. Video #2 suggested Video #3 which gave us some handy tricks like cutting our hose on the diagonal, using soap to make the hose slippery ("Oh! Like a lubricant!" I added. "Not now," Brad frowned as I winked at him.), and utilizing a blow dryer to soften the hose so it would fit over the end of the adapter ("Oh, like a cond-" I said. "Stop," my husband answered.).

Now, these were tools I could work with! I rushed upstairs to get the dish soap and my blow dryer.

I went to plug the dryer into a handy outlet that was adjacent to direct lighting and a generous amount of workspace. "That outlet doesn't work," Brad sighed, taking the blow dryer out of my hands to disappear under a stuffed-to-the-gills shelf to plug it in. He wedged a flashlight into a space that somewhat hit his target that was balanced on Brad's shifting ladder that was laying on its side. I was still standing by the non-working outlet, confused. "Come over here," Brad growled at me. "How long hasn't it worked?" I asked. "How long have we owned the house?" my impatient spouse answered. I decided now was not the time to remind him that he's an electrician. 

The blow dryer did the trick. Brad refused to use the dish soap to prevent more dirty talk.

The hoses were threaded through successfully (Despite me).

The fuel pump was re-assembled and installed (Despite me).

The bulb-y ball was pumped. Pull cord yanked. The little engine roared to life. And Brad tested it by blow drying my hair.

Success. Despite me.