Yee-huh? We're done? We're done!

Our reluctant, one-year, guilt-ridden directorial gig somehow expanded into three. We've explored weird and wonderful realms:  medieval kingdoms, industrial steampunk circus tents, and the Wild West. We yelled ("Projected"), threatened ("You CAN be replaced!), encouraged ("Cut! Do it again!"), cajoled, quick-stepped and clapped our way through three productions, feeling like fake, foolish frauds. When was someone going to realize that Erin and I had no business doing this?

Directing young actors is an exhausting, soul-sucking endeavor that encompasses your entire life. How on earth were we going to quickly attach a sheriff's badge that could be easily seen by the back row to three consecutive individuals? I sat bolt-upright at three in the morning. Giant magnets! I wrestled a sheriff badge out of cardboard to prototype my idea, Erin glittered it up and we were done. "I appreciated your inclusivity," my daughter commented after viewing the afternoon performance. I was confused. "I liked the Star of David that all of your lawmen were sporting," Sydney snickered. Oh no! I was so busy making sure we didn't unintentionally culturally-appropriate  from our Native American friends (re-casting the part of Chief Squatting Squirrel to the more politically-correct Miner Inconvenience) that I forgot about the tribe of Israel. Oy vey!

I am not sure why this worked. There is nothing subtle about Erin and me. We are loud, obsessive, and have no trouble expressing our feelings. Thanks to God, though, we were blessed with talented, dedicated actors and surrounded by a hard-working, gifted team who all put up with our antics. We front-loaded forgiveness in the beginning, prioritized our friendship over the esteemed (and ridiculous) position of "director", took turns venting, constantly balanced out our roles of "good cop" and "bad cop" and communicated constantly. Rarely were we at 100%. We picked up one another's slacks during the flu, kid-commitments, care-taking, death, and the constant up-keep of Erin's waxed floors. 

We respected and encouraged each other's gifts. Erin is a brilliant choreographer and is insanely organized. She has high expectations of her cast and will nip at their heels to help them bring out their best performances. She kept us to a tight schedule with the end goal always in mind and can delegate needed-responsibilities like a drill sergeant. My roles included re-writing British puns for rural American audiences, creating posters and programs, team-building with unnecessary improv exercises, and, oddly enough, following up Erin's constructive comments to our cast with constant reminders that we love them and are proud of them. Ugh.

Our brain-storming sessions were seasoned with bouts of screaming laughter that alerted our prop manager that she was going to be asked to do yet another ridiculously-impossible thing for a one-second sight gag. A water closet, a stage coach, 18 pairs of cardboard boxer underwear? How hard could it possibly be to create a tumbleweed? C'mon! Snap-snap! And Sandy would smilingly "snap-snap" our vision into place. It would not be too far off to say that one of the real stars of those plays were the sets. 

We never did trust-falls in improv but that's what being involved in a play is like:  One big trust-fall. Holding our breath waiting for the spotlight to hit or a sound effect to land...and it always did (Thank you, Eric and Katriel.). Needing a shovel right at the last minute and suddenly, it appears. Needing a rolling cart to be moved two feet over in the pitch dark near the edge of a stage with a three foot drop? Thank you, Cindy. "Yes, I know you aren't really going anywhere, but we need you to lift your knees higher as you walk in place. I don't care how stupid you feel. Just do it." And Joey did it, keeping a straight face as she sang, holding onto the string connecting

her to a ridiculous costumed mule while behind them, clouds cavorted by, the sun shimmied through, a cabaret of cactuses crossed, tumbleweeds trickled in, and a stagecoach full of our administrators sped by. And Joey just kept singing, trusting Erin to keep time. Trust is what happens with the stage lights go out and the auditorium empties and the entire Mistretta family joins the stage crew to take down a set that took months to assemble. Trust is what happens when, seconds before the performance, Erin and I clasp hands in the darkened hallway and we pray, thanking God for this opportunity to serve Him by providing an environment of acceptance and encouragement for kids to support one another and showcase their incredible talents in a safe and loving atmosphere. We thanked God for our friendship and for the people He provided to help us with a task we weren't sure we wanted or even could do but, by His Great Grace, we'd reached the finish line. 

Jokingly, our much-repeated line to the kids, our first year, was "This is the best play we've ever directed!" To which they would happily bellow back, "It's the ONLY play you've ever directed!" This year, with the Wild West theme clearly in mind, Erin and I, much quieter, determined to make it as much about the kids as possible, promised one another, "This year, we will go out with a bang." During the finale, a rousing number called "The Stetson Stomp," our cast clapped, stomped, and do-si-do-ed around the stage. A high-energy performance that almost knocks Erin and me out of our chairs. What we were NOT prepared for was the wave of matching energy that hit like a tsunami coming from behind us. Our eyes on the stage, we didn't dare look but we could feel the clapping and stomping that accompanied our actors as our audience unexpectedly joined the cast. 

It was perfect.

Last play.

Last song.

We did it. We went out with a bang.

That's a wrap, folks.

Thanks.

Trying not to put my foot (or Erin's) in my mouth

 "Is that Erin's..." I could feel Sydney squinting as she inspected the picture I'd sent her, all the way from California, "foot?" 

I sighed.

Yes.

It was Erin's foot.

I honestly do not know how these things happen.

In the summer, I go off the grid--socially and emotionally. I dissipate. Recuperate. Hibernate. Vacillate. Perseverate. Caffeinate. Hydrate. Chlorinate. Decelerate. 

I do NOT collaborate. Radiate. Invigorate. Ebulliate. Titillate. Initiate. Or venerate.

I do not need a workmate. Teammate. Classmate. Playmate.

But here we were.

Either she has an intuitive sixth sense or had me darted and tagged at some point, but Erin always seems to know when I'm about to peer cautiously out of my reclusive den to reluctantly embark on a small adventure. 

And then she blows it up.

Katriel and I were going to get our nails done. Nothing more. Nothing less. Nails, by itself, is about all I can handle.

In my life, Jesus takes the wheel but, over the last few years, He hands it over to Erin who then careens us directly towards a cliff where Katriel, map in hand, guides us to a miraculously-placed ramp where we fly, Bo and Luke Duke-style, over the ravine, landing lopsidedly, engine smoking, hearts racing, and laughing.

I was going to write about how Erin shanghaied my trip...my lexical leanings originating from an episode of "Bonanza" that I watched as a child where Hoss was kidnapped to crew a sailing vessel for China while visiting San Francisco. Once I wrote the word "shanghaied" though, I worried that maybe it was inappropriate. So, down the rabbit hole I tumbled in my resolve not to offend anyone.

SKIP THIS PART:  Irrelevant and unnecessary

First of all, the episode of "Bonanza" was much more unnecessarily involved than I remembered but the chair on the trap door in the bar was just as I had pictured AND hysterically historically accurate. 

More or less, from the United States' end, the term "shanghaied" evolved during a brief window of history book-ended by the California Gold Rush that lured sailors that harbored on the West Coast to abandon ship to try their luck, leaving rudderless vessels in perpetual port so...rather than offer a livable wage and benefits package (Sound familiar, anyone?), captains organized a crew by tricking, drugging, and kidnapping their victims on the return trip across the Pacific AND the introduction of the steam-powered ship which required a higher level of skilled labor than a sailing vessel rendering the forced-on-board-labor moot.

I also did a deep dive on the miles-long lengths of tunnels connecting hotels and bars to the harbor that lurk beneath Portland's streets that derived from this era. Color me intrigued!

So...two hours later, I still don't know if the term is universally inappropriate. I can only apply the advice that I offer my 4th graders when they are uncertain if what they are about to say or do will get them in trouble. Follow your gut. If your tummy feels funny...it's probably wrong. If it makes you hesitate...head the other way. I would never want to intentionally hurt someone's feelings (aside from Erin's) so I decided to abstain from casual use of this term in my blog. But I also believe that a small group of the easily offended should not have the right to censure language when no offence is intended. I just wanted to write about my pretty nails but, instead, ended up exhausted because a few people have terrorized the rule-abiding part of the population to question every word and to curb their tongues at every turn. We've got to learn to relax a little. Planned ignoring is a great teaching and parenting technique. Walking away (sometimes in a huff) is another strategy. Or earnestly (not dramatically) sharing how those words affect you personally WITHOUT the lecture and condemnation is also another way to go. 

YOU MAY RETURN TO YOUR REGULARLY-SCHEDULED READING

What on EARTH was I talking about?

Oh yeah...Erin commandeered my and Katriel's little outing.

I was ready to go home when, during our first, off-course, stop for fancy coffee drinks, Erin began planning for the NEXT nail salon venture. 

"But we haven't even had our nails done yet today," I growled as I wrestled my way with the infinite options of drink possibilities. Katriel's choice was the best...some chocolatey-minty concoction. I spent the bulk of my counter time beseeching the staff to quit changing the menu. Apparently, I have a fondness of limited time offers.

We arrived at the packed salon and settled in, sipping our drinks. A nail salon, for good or bad, is a magical place where, if you pose a question out loud, EVERYONE will provide an opinionated answer and then have an invested interest in the outcome. A big fan of the look and durability of gel, I wondered how dipping compared. 

And...we were off and running.

My newfound nail family advised me up until my name was called.

Erin and Katriel handle my anxiety in equally effective but very different ways. I have trouble with someone I am not familiar with touching me. I am plagued with both tunnel vision AND hearing so accents send me spinning out of control. Noise is a bear. Close quarters...get me out of here.

Amy. Why on earth would you even GO to a nail salon then?

Number one:  I do not want my fear to dictate my life.

Number two:  I love pretty nails.

Erin distracts me by talking CONSTANTLY. She is aware that if she can get me engaged in conversation, I can fake my way through my fear. When we get separated at the salon, she keeps a not-so-subtle eye on me, yelling and waving at me from her pedicure pod where the staff flutters around her like little bees attending to a flower.

Katriel is the clean-up crew...where is Amy's drink, her bag, her sanity as I am moved (pried) from location to location. It is Katriel who, when I look at her in a panic, makes the quick and quiet assessment of the trigger and either alters the environment or gently reassures me in the moment. If she's not within eyesight, Katriel will check in regularly so I know that I'm not alone.

Whew. We did it. We were done.

Nope. 

Before I could even take a deep, cleansing breath from that experience, I was being pulled into a clothing
store. I unfortunately made the mistake of acting too happy when greeted by the staff so Erin and Katriel alternated as intermittent missiles, attempting to re-route the salesperson from being locked onto me. 

I am obsessed with waffle fabric right now and to combine that with a romper was like hitting the jackpot so I couldn't be (too) mad at Erin. She honed in on a glitter tank and a star-patterned light sweater. I honed in on the star-pattered tank she was currently wearing. Eye roll.

Now we were done.

Except, of course, for the obligatory picture. As we held hands (and feet?), I silently gave thanks for my dear friends who put up with my quirks so that we can delight in our time spent together. I am grateful.

Now. We were done.

Nailed it.

Helping or heckling: Solving the case of the missing gum

 I am a WRECK at graduation. Every year, confronted with the ghostly images of former 4th graders who still haunt the halls...their laughter lingering...voices reverberating around my classroom. As I sit there in the auditorium, watching this time-honored ritual that marks their first steps into the world...I am again humbled that I learned more from them than they probably learned from me. 

I am always strangely nervous...attending graduation. Out-of-place in this high school world. A poser. But I am addicted to the surge of pride and excitement I feel when each of my 4th graders crosses the stage...out of the Wardrobe and into Narnia...

"WOO-HOO..."

So, as I waxed philosophic, lost in my reverie...working up the courage I needed to walk through the dark corridors of my quiet school to the auditorium, pulsing with excited energy...a loud, obnoxious voice startled me. "Just let me run to the bathroom and we'll walk down together," my friend Erin hollered down the corridor. I frowned at her and nodded, breathing out a secret sigh of relief.

Ignoring my preference of sitting in the back, Erin quickly ushered us forward to join the teachers already seated in the front. To my surprise, like old Ebenezer, I experienced my first unexpected ghostly encounter...the poised young woman seated to my left was a former 6th grader...lo, all those years ago. I smiled shyly at her...surely she didn't remember me. During a break in the program, though, I couldn't resist, leaning in to whisper a quick description of her incredibly artistic book report diorama project. And magic happened. That beautiful woman turned her slender shoulders to me and disappeared...and my proud 6th grader grinned at me. I got goosebumps.

Erin, immature as always, kept distracting me. We waved at friends, colleagues, and parents in the packed room. We became fixated on our friend Tyler who had the important job of sitting on the stage for the entire program with the appearance of being hypnotically attentive. "He's chewing gum," Erin observed and we were both bitterly disappointed in him. There is no room in the area of public speaking for gum-chewing. Several minutes later though..."Wait...Tyler's not chewing his gum anymore." We (along with the occupants of our row, the row ahead of us AND the row behind us) stared at him creepily to see if we could clock any subtle signs of gum chewing. Nope. "But...he didn't leave the stage," Erin said, nervously. We (the occupants of our row, the row in front of us AND the row behind us) gasped in horror. "He didn't," Erin stated incredulously. "He did," I answered firmly, not surprised at all. I had come to expect such low-brow behavior from him. "I did," Tyler admitted later, confused. "What was I supposed to do with it?" (Our answer was not fit for publication)

My second ghost arrived on stage.

My Isaac...who I once video-taped racing beside and then, behind, my truck when I was supposed to be responsibly picking him up for school...stepped up to the podium to share his Salutatorian speech...pausing to thank Jesus, our Lord and Savior before delivering his remarks. My heart soared. Isaac generously included his classmates in his message...a loving balance of teasing and tribute. He credited his family, the school, his church and the community with his success. And then thanked me and my friend Ellen for our influence in his life. My heart dropped straight into my stomach for this undeserved recognition. Isaac, brilliant, kind, competitive, compassionate, intelligent, self-motivated Isaac, would have succeeded in a bubble. 

Erin and I amused (enraged, annoyed) our row (and the row in front of AND behind us) with our helpful insights and observations. We all craned our necks back to see the large cobweb decorating the catwalk. We admired the defined muscle tone in our friend Michelle's calves. Everyone was mortified by my lack of staff name recognition: "Who's Mr. Mitten?" I asked, delighted that we now, apparently, were employing sock puppets. "Not mitten," Erin corrected in disgust, "Mitton...m-i-t-t-O-n." Ohhhh. We (our row, the row in front AND the row in back) then repeatedly practiced the correct pronunciation of this, unknown to me, staff member: Mitt-tone. Ma-tone. Muh-TONE. Erin then began to keep a mental tally of all of the school personnel mentioned in student biographies of whom I had ZERO awareness. 

Tyler, meanwhile, was doing a commendable job of trying to ignore us as we kept up a constant barrage of up-lifting little waves, thumbs-up gestures, BIG smiles, other subtle hand gestures to keep up his morale. 

We (our row, front row AND back row) had an in-depth discussion on editing as we noticed the marked repetition of the phrase "This graduate..." in the biographies. Over the course of the evening, it began to take on a more sinister tone..."The culprit...the perpetrator...the accused." I also lamented about our alma mater as Erin and Tyler happily belted it out. "Can't we update it?" I begged. We (our row, front row AND back row) formed a committee to meet over the summer to work on re-writes.

And then...it was over. In the blink of an eye...thirteen years sped by.  Seventeen years ago, they were taking their first steps, propelling them from infancy to toddler-hood and on Graduation Day, they walk across that stage, to the cheering of family, friends, and school staff, to mark their first steps to another exciting phase of life. It was a privilege to watch. Just ask our row (along with the front row AND the back row).

Directing a play about a struggling circus, evil villains and clowns is no small "feat"

Like most things in my life, I'm not sure how I found myself in this situation. "We," Erin suddenly popped in (Whoa! Where did she come from?), "How we found ourselves in this situation. 

Last year, we fancied ourselves the self-described saviors of the elementary/middle school play. Without us, we narcissistically imagined that the show would not have gone on. It was for the children, we heroically stated, sacrificing our time, sanity, and not-yet-damaged-beyond-complete-repair reputations for our noble endeavor. 

And, somehow, we didn't screw it up too badly (Thanks to the Lord, a determined team of experts of prop personnel, sound, lighting & tech geniuses, and ridiculously talented kids). 

But this year? 

Surely, someone who actually knew what they were doing would step into the coveted directorial role for the elementary/middle school gig. I mean...who wouldn't want THAT job?

"Why are we doing this again?" I asked as Erin taught over thirty somewhat clumsy kids to step-ball-change in unison while I wrestled with enunciation problems with tricky phrases such as "Pickle's Perambulating Palace of Performers" (Erin and I finally armed ourselves with umbrellas to protect ourselves from the resulting sleet). Due to our having to repeatedly define the term entrepreneur each time it appeared in the script, we finally revised a scene to also teach it to the audience. 

Plagued with problems, the production still valiantly moved forward. Erin and I book-ended practices with week-long illnesses...but at least we were coordinated. Erin disappeared near the beginning...me, closer to the end. An unforeseen generator problem took out the school's power...cancelling key practices introducing props and mics which pushed our Opening Night back a week. 

We again Amy & Erin-ed up the script hoping no one would notice a questionable number of twins in the play so we could accommodate more actors. We delighted in the appearance of a side-line comedy duo that was meant to resemble the two grumpy guys, Statler and Waldorf from The Muppets, and immediately added a ton more puns for them. We replaced one musical number with the song, Smelly Cat from Friends and had administrators  (and a dog!) sporting kitty ears wheeled out on stage to pop out of trash cans to surprise the audience. Our friend, Tyler, agreed to don a cockroach costume and join the on-stage flea circus, infuriatingly stealing the show. Erin and I used squirt guns to mist the audience during the clown's performance, donned plastic retainers during the on-stage performance of "Artificial Teeth," and dramatically ducked when the Strong Man lifted a lion and effortlessly tossed it over our chairs. We giggled maniacally over our "high-tech" production as we gleefully used laser pens to emulate escaping bees during one scene.

"Why are we doing this again?" I whispered as Erin and I nervously clutched our mics, moments before stepping in front of our full house of proud parents who were eager to see the product of months of hard work (and endless chauffeuring). These were people who have been listening with, I imagine, grave concern to reports of mine and Erin's directorial methods which are largely based on one of us bellowing, "You CAN be replaced, ya know!"

We sat in our director's chairs...literally on the edge of our seats as the curtains parted, the lights illuminated the stage and the music cue-ed our actors to take the stage. Our hearts raced...our spirits soared...as our actors hit their marks, enunciated, flourished, smiled, snarled, sneered, swooned and otherwise encapsulated their characters. No one clapped louder or longer than Erin and me. 

Why did we do this?

The easy answer, this year, was that Erin made me ("Last year was ALL you, babe," Erin pointed out. Huh. There you are. I wondered where you had gone.).

But that's not all true.

Amy pauses, glaces surreptitiously around her to make sure she's alone. 

I do it because I love hanging out with my friend (Please don't tell her...I'll never hear the end of it). We got ourselves into this initially with NO CLUE what we were doing and discovered that, with the right combination of kids, it was mostly fun. This year, we had a better handle on things (organization, time-line, communication) which made things not-so-scary. Erin and I combine our unique talents to create a partnership based on trust, teasing, support, inappropriate inside jokes and, ugh, love. We sink or soar together.

We do it because theater kids are the most enthusiastic, creative, risk-taking, uninhibited, inclusive group of people I have ever met. They inspire me with their ideas, their bravery, and their collaborative spirit. They take words written on paper and bring them to life. Incredible. 

But still...thank goodness that this was my last year.

Mammograms can be so up-lifting (Part 1 of 2)

AFTER THE PHONE CALL:

"What are you most worried about?" my husband's voice floated over in the darkness to where I was attempting to smother myself with my own pillow.

I sighed.

"If they find something, I have to live the rest of my life dealing with Erin crediting herself for bullying me to a mammogram appointment," I hiccuped. 

"That would be pretty terrible," he agreed.

BEFORE THE PHONE CALL: 

Somehow, I have managed to successfully make it to age 55 without the consultation of a committee. But now, all of a sudden, certain bossy individuals are taking it upon themselves to shove me into situations of which I am FAR from comfortable. Case-in-point, my friend Michelle's relentless hounding to get me to go see a gynecologist.

I still wasn't healed from the emotional trauma of that little episode, when...along came Erin with magical stories of "The Breast Bus" that runs through her town like some weird rendition of a food truck. Is there a "Colonoscopy Caravan," too? Having seen more episodes of "The Magic School Bus" than I would like to admit, my imagination ran wild about the appearance of this "Mammogram Mini-Van."  I could not contain my curiosity...okay, sign me up.

Erin and I made the call together and were devastated to discover that "The Breast Bus" had been re-tired.  Obviously, this meant that I could just park my plans. Whew! Unfortunately, Erin and the receptionist decided to change lanes and, before I could blink, an appointment was made for Monday. "THIS Monday?" I gasped. Most medical and dental appointments are made months out...giving me plenty of time to cancel. "We'll go for drinks first," whispered Erin. The receptionist, now Erin's new best friend and my mortal enemy, laughed, chiming I with, "And after!"

Of course, my mammogram prescription had expired so I had to make the Call of Shame to my gynecologist who THANKED me for calling and CHEERFULLY wrote me another one. Everyone is conspiring against me.

I spent all weekend, whining to the point of exhaustion.

"Are you okay?" Erin asked, as we departed for our Monday appointment.

I was a bit congested. So tired. Inexplicably, my voice was starting to go.

We went out to eat before our appointment, Erin ordering me a little liquid courage. 

I don't remember this.

We were still a little early so Erin suggested popping into a store.

I don't remember this.

Great. Another store.

Nope. No memory of this.

Two weeks later, I would show Erin a picture of her in an unknown location and ask her what the heck we were doing.

She stared at me, stunned. "You don't remember this? You sulked your way around this entire store with me."

I do remember most of the mammogram visit as I was on high alert.

I am usually rendered mute in circumstances such as these so Erin did most of the talking. 

Then she wrestled me into this weird half-robe contraption.

We shared a locker because we are "breast friends."

Then...Erin was whisked away.

The technician arrived to escort me to a tiny room with giant machines. My weird half-robe had become a straight-jacket so the poor technician had to help me. My breasts were individually lifted onto a platter, quivering slightly like a Jello mold. I cooperated by shaking uncontrollably, tears silently streaming down my face while being unable to follow even the most simple of directions. I have posed for pictures in the past...but not like this. "Chin up. Feet parallel. Hips tilted. Arm stretched up over the machine." The technician had to physically move me into place each time. Then...the noise of the machine and the pancake-flattener. The technician was so kind...so professional...so patient. My anxiety leaves me feeling embarrassed, vulnerable, and ashamed. She tried so hard to be encouraging and complimentary. "You did great!" she said, hugging me. 

Yeah.

Apparently, Erin took me for ice cream after.

No memory of it.

Got home and collapsed.

Tried to go to work the next day until my team blocked me from my classroom door and insisted I go home.

Discovered I had Influenza A.

The next three days were miserable.

The phone rang on the second day. My heart fluttered when I saw it was the Radiology Center. I didn't want to answer it. This was one of those moments in your life where you realize that your life may be about to take another trajectory. My mind flashed to my mother. She needed me. I didn't want to answer that phone. But I did.

(Don't worry...this story has a happy ending)

You've got to know when to fold them (or in this case: UN-fold them): Breaking out "basic" black

 It's not something that I'm proud of but I admit it...I completely and utterly exploited my position as an educator to facilitate a diabolical plan of darkness...manipulating a child for the most noble of pursuits...revenge.

It happened innocently enough. Room 14 was completing our daily editing challenge:  To find ten errors (spelling, punctuation, syntax, ect) in a passage. One of my little honeys completed his task and announced...confidently..."I found them ALL."

No, he didn't.

But I didn't say that. I looked at him with calculated interest. I had to admire his bravado. 

The class typically is awarded a minute added onto their recess if they are able to collectively find eight errors. My editing Einstein then tossed the gauntlet when he boldly said, "What do we get when I find them all?" Not if...when.

I sighed. This was SO Erin's kid.

Wait. 

This was ERIN'S kid!

I resisted the urge to rub my hands together in glee.

I tossed an extra ten recess minutes onto the table.

The room gasped.

"But what do you give me WHEN you DON'T find ten?" I asked. 

The room immediately went silent. Not finding ten errors was inconceivable to them. Ah...the impetuous arrogance of youth.

"What do you want?" my aspiring editor asked, ready to bet a fiddle of gold against his soul.

One of my administrators has a built-in shenanigan-radar and apparently Room 14 was glowing red-hot. Tyler slipped into the back of the room as our agreement was just concluding.

"WHEN you do not successfully find all ten errors," I stated (as his classmates scoffed...so certain they were of their champion's abilities), "your mother, on Monday, will have to wear...BLACK!"

The room gasped.

Tyler stumbled back, catching himself against the wall before checking the school by-laws to see if I was violating the school's code-of-conduct. Legally...I was well within my boundaries. Morally...I was WAY out in left field...happily shagging fly balls and chatting up the crowd.

"Deal," my little guy said without hesitation, immediately selling out his mom. I couldn't have loved him more in this moment.

I dialed up Erin who apparently has ALL THE TIME IN THE WORLD to chat on the phone ("Make a note of that," I hissed at Tyler who apparently has ALL THE TIME IN THE WORLD to stand around in Room 14 to watch an 8-year-old locate spelling errors in a reading passage about Pablo Picasso.). I explained the challenge and she also did not hesitate. "I'm in!' 

I admit to feeling a little worried about this family. Erin's half would have happily bet the trifecta of Titanic/Hindenburg/and the 2017 Cleveland Browns. Fortunately, Kenna and Kevin tend to exercise more self-control and common sense.

The kid found four.

I had no mercy.

The stakes were high that day in Room 14 and a hard lesson was learned. "I have several years of experience over you," I reassured my worthy opponent. "Not to brag, but, I am pretty skilled at finding 4th grade level editing mistakes." Down but certainly not out, he grinned at me, "Not to brag either, Mrs. Mosiman, but I'm a little bet-ter."

The road to school is NOT paved with good intentions

 I am writing this with the greatest of reluctance, knowing that calling attention to Erin's antics will only encourage her. But as our shenanigans (mine being defensive in nature) may have caused the only known non-tractor or livestock-related traffic jam in Wyoming Country, it seemed to bear witnessing. 

Erin and I manage mornings in very different ways...sparkle versus sludge. She skips. I stomp. She's singing show tunes while nary a syllable slips past my lips.

It's bad enough that I am forced to deal with her good cheer at work but we also often share the same sunrise journey; our vehicles meeting at the start of School Road. If I have the misfortune of Erin being behind me, I have to don protective eye wear to fend off her blinding, blinking high beams sending me a merry Morse Code message. If she's in front of me, I am delayed at every stop sign by a Broadway performance or, if she's feeling saucy, a burlesque show...as she shimmies across the street.

Not a jury in the world would have blamed me when, yesterday, I finally snapped. First stop sign. Sigh. Here she goes...in a slinky little black number with sequins. She teaches KINDERGARTEN, folks. As she turned to offer me a booty bump, I tossed the Titan in gear and blew past her. As the second stop sign approached, I decided to give her a taste of her own medicine. Of course, it was dress-up day at school...THANKS TO ERIN who made every flippin' day in December a dress-up day. So, clad from top to toe in red velvet with white fur trim, I flung myself out into the other lane and, illuminated by Erin's spotlight, put on my own show. 

Suddenly aware that there was traffic in the intersection, I moved, with a deep, dramatic bow, to re-enter my vehicle. The other car, situated perpendicularly to Erin and I, was immobile as the driver was incapacitated with laughter (Sorry, Candy.) Seeing cars beginning to line up behind my cackling co-worker, I tried to wave Candy on. Why won't my door shut? Is that a police car stuck in the traffic jam that we (Erin) caused? My red robes, waving majestically OUTSIDE my door, acted as a red flag to direct the confused cars as I prayed vehemently, "Please let that be Officer Ivan. Please let that be Officer Ivan." I rolled down my window so I could better hold my door shut and ignored Erin's incessant phone calls. Pretty sure I was racking up enough traffic violations (and creating some new ones) without adding being on the phone to my misdemeanors. 

Poor Katriel is accustomed to my grouchy greetings each morning but even she was startled by my degree of disgust when I picked her up. "It was my own fault," I fussed, "I lowered myself to her level." "This all happened on your way to work?" Katriel said, stunned, "You literally live five minutes up the road!" 

By the time we entered the building, Erin had alerted every occupant about our exploits. So much for my single syllable responses...I had to spend my morning delivering dissertations defending my actions. Officer Ivan eventually wandered down to take our statements and issue stern safety warnings. My principal listened sympathetically as I explained how Erin had provoked me. "It's always the one who was provoked who gets caught," she observed, offering to help me lay out a plan to avoid a repeat performance in the future. Neither leaving earlier or taking a longer, alternative route appealed to me. "Take the higher road, Amy" my boss encouraged. Forget that...fueled by road rage, I'm ready to hit the streets.