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."