Sole searching: Taking steps to walk like Jesus is tough when you're duck-footed ( I quack myself up sometimes)

Did it begin several months ago when my friend Allison indignantly reminded me that she's never been to my house (To be fair, I have also never been to HER house either.)? 

Did it begin yesterday when my work colleagues discovered that Brad and I had added another canine companion to our family and provided me with ALL the emotions that feed my soul:  Outrage, indignation, delight, and demands to meet Charlie? I immediately invited them to come to my house after work today to meet her which then spurred my usual frantic inventory of my messy little house which led to my meticulous dusting of my Dad's decorative stein and the straightening of my two adopt-a-puffin stuffies which adorn my dry pantry. I made an angel food cake (from a box mix...remember, it's me, y'all) and worried that I didn't have enough drink selections in the fridge. I lay awake at 2 am and wondered if I'd have time to scrub out and clean the boot trays before I left for work.

Did it begin early this morning during a meditative walk around my field following a rare but definitely Jesus-led call-to-Scripture where I read and was convicted by 1 John 2:6 "Whoever (Amy) says (s)he abides in Him ought to walk in the same way in which He walked."? I mentally brought my family with me on this short journey, praying for them and my dear colleagues with whom I would be meeting with shortly. I snapped pictures along the way, making a collage to share with everyone. I know...completely obnoxious. I should have been scrubbing boot trays.

Did it begin when I picked up Katriel for our long work commute where I passionately vowed that today...TODAY...I would curb my obnoxiousness. I would tone down my aggressive tendencies and impulsivity. I would think before speaking or acting...

Or did it begin as we pulled into the school parking lot two minutes later and I spotted Spencer's vehicle parked oddly...in the front, stretched across three parking spots. I didn't even hesitate to mess with him. Except it wasn't Spencer. It was his husband, Stephen, with whom I have had very minimal interaction (thus far). "Don't do it," Katriel warned and then immediately began slinking down in her seat because, oh yes, I was doing it. I positioned my truck perpendicular to Stephen who, disappointingly, didn't even look over at me. He just backed up. Oh no, this would NOT do. I turned Titan to face Stephen but he then just maneuvered his car AROUND me to begin exiting the parking lot. No-no! I was now in hot pursuit...lights flashing, horn sounding, Katriel in a ball on Titan's floor. FINALLY, contact was made with the happy end result which would be Stephan completing his errands in town before returning to the school with my medium Dunkalatte order.

Or maybe it began when I hijacked a hallway display case?

Did it begin when I was driving to my house with Katriel, my team (and poor Stephen) in tow, having an internal anxiety attack of epic proportions that Charlie, so very new to us and demonstrating her own internal anxiety attacks by stress-pooing when left alone, might have decorated my bathroom in doggie diarrhea? Well, at least no one would notice my dirty boot trays then. And, thank you Lord, that my anxiety does not present in the form of stress-pooing.

Did it begin when I, in high-speed monologue, provided the most convoluted house tour known to mankind? "This is the dining room...where we dine," I gestured grandly while my husband sighed. I pointed out, in detail, all of the deficits of my internet-purchased convertible love seat (which my guests insisted on sitting upon before declaring it "comfy," bless their hearts). Drink distribution was a disaster. I should have put the choices on a lovely silver tray for ease of selection. Stephen, intent on never being invited back, performed a nifty 180 to get me back for the parking lot pandemonium, traded his Shanty for a Modelo at the last second. Spencer created a crisis by insisting on tap water.

Did it begin when I decided to pray over the box mix Angel food cake, my husband looking at me like I was touched. Yeah. By the spirit of the LORD.

Was it when we decided to further torture Stephen by forcing him to play a complicated game he'd never heard of? (I am worried that I may never see Stephen again after this day.)

Was it when I concluded the visit with a Meadow Walk? Brad was certain, at this point, that I was out of my gourd.

I pointed out the key features of the walk including the dangerous but magnetically-compelling Pine Cone
Hole, stuffed to the brim with 32 pine cones but still ready to snap an unsuspecting ankle. Allison was my shining star on this journey, exclaiming with interest and excitement about the deer-nibbled milkweed and was just in awe about a weed pod that I thought resembled a miniature purple pineapple. "Will there be berries?" she wondered, moved by the utter magic of our Meadow Walk. Even Brad was caught up in the spell. "Did you show them the patch of horseradish?" he asked, as Allison raced back for a peek. Spencer gained some points, raving about the blueberries. Katriel complimented the Morning Glories. Stephen...let's just say he'll need a Meadow Walk re-do. As my brain fumbled for the word for the critter I see every day in my pond, I mistakenly said "Musk Ox" until Allison gently provided the word "muskrat." "You' d have a whole other situation if it were a Musk Ox," Stephen cracked, ruining the tone of the Meadow Walk COMPLETELY (I'm kidding Stephen, you were such a good sport).

It probably began when the Lord gifted me with a husband and friends who see ME...not my house. Who hear ME...not my nonsensical ramblings...who know ME...and that I want to walk in the same way as Jesus walks but they (God, my husband, my friends) know that I am going to be magnetically drawn, again and again, to Pine Cone Hole, and stumble...again and again and again. They know this and continue to walk with me anyway.

I don't want to split hairs but kayaking doesn't float my boat

It's tough to really pinpoint who is to blame...there are so many to choose from.

I guess we could start with Allison who, for some odd reason, loves this annual outing and COULD NOT BE CONTENT with just her and Katriel attending. Oh no...wouldn't it be just peachy if the ENTIRE 4th grade team participated? She knows I'm a sucker for camaraderie. But only when food is involved. Plus, she was sneaky...attaining Traci's enthusiastic approval first and THEN coming to me.

Which brings us to...Traci. Yeah. LOADS of blame lie upon her slender yet muscularly-defined shoulders. In the classic game of "Which one of these is not the same," one would look at a picture of Traci, Jennifer Aniston, and me, laugh out loud and confidently raise one's hand, certain of a win. Sure, these women are all the same age but two of them have elevated the age of 56 to an art form. They practically vibrate with good health, beauty, and vitality. They obviously work out, eat well, and take care of themselves. The third woman is well-insulated from the cold, fermented with decades of preservatives found in Pepsi, Twinkies, and Dove chocolate and brags about her daily intake of dairy in the form of six string cheeses. Squats are her mortal enemy. Traci KNEW that, by accepting Allison's diabolical invitation for a kayak outing, she was also signing my reluctant watery warrant. 

And then...there's Katriel, who has had to employ her vast knowledge of simple machines to hoist my prone
form off the floor on multiple occasions. Who KNOWS that lowering my unfit form into an unstable kayak would be an act of extreme concentration and heart-stopping skill. Imagine maneuvering an adorable blob of oobleck down the raised surface of a dining room table with the intention of having it drop neatly into a small Dixie cup positioned beneath the rim of the lowered side. No problem. Not embarrassing at all.

And let's not forget Spencer. Who was PERFECT. Kind. Accommodating. Supportive Spencer. Who would have happily set me up in the little ring of Adirondack chairs with a beverage and loudly declared that one member of our party MUST remain back for safety in case the kayakers met with an unfortunate meeting of the famed and feared Perry Sea Serpent. She would have proclaimed my actions "heroic" and "sacrificial" as I, alone, remained shore-side...a watchful eye on the horizon, awaiting the questionable return of our crew. I, alone, surviving to tell the tale. Instead, I latched onto Spencer's kayak and made her lug me about the lake.

Friends, I won't lie, I learned a lot about myself that day.

First of all...I look ADORABLE in a kayak. Naturally, I planned my outfit to represent the occasion. My long-sleeved, zippered-front, to-the-knee bathing suit (Warm robe waiting in the car) layered beneath my otter-patterned rash-guard. Brad found the one life-vest that fit over my ample bosum, zipping it up several times for me to ensure that it was working right. He almost made me late, so very thorough and extremely conscientious about safety is he. Cowboy hat and sunglasses? Ready to go! I was so confident in my wardrobe choices that it took me a moment to process that everyone else was just in sweatshirts and street wear. AND...were foregoing life vests. "Amy, it's right here," Allison told me, patting the strapped-down safety device BEHIND her. I will try to resist yelling "I told you so" when the thirty foot swell from a sudden tsunami takes her and her strapped-down life-vest O-U-T.  Amateurs. Our friend Jaime also joined us, outfitted with enough cardboard-colored Carhartt to be in a commercial if Carhartt made kayak-wear (They don't.). I worried that the water-logged Carhartt would make Jaimie sink like a stone when the tsunami arrived and I, naturally buoyant, a gift bestowed upon me by God, would be unable to save her. Allison, obviously, is on her own.

Not all of my self-discoveries were delightful.

Apparently, it is rare for me (these days) to be eye level with my knees.

Spencer paddled over, quickly and expertly, in response to my frightened gasp. "What's wrong?"

Shocked and repulsed, I pointed. "Look."

There. Just starboard of my knee, a single hair towered...the Sequoia of strands...a Truffula-tree of tresses...a harbinger of hope, perhaps? Or a portend of poor grooming? What next? Would my eyebrows slowly grow together? "I could use it as a towrope," I told Spencer glumly. "Toss me the line then," my friend grinned, "I'll pull you in."

I will spare you the sad tale of us floating, like hopeful little bobbers, outside our friend John's lakeside residence, waiting for him to happily discover us. His emailed reply to my inquiry of his whereabouts was "a meeting" but I strongly suspect that he was hiding behind his curtains, praying that a strong wind would sweep us away.

 I will also spare you Allison's super-human strength in lugging me to land. Look away, dear ones, as me and my long leg-hair awkwardly crawl from the kayak. 

It was a quiet drive home as my leg-hair knew the length of its life was being cut short with each passing mile. 

Brad met me in the driveway. "See? That wasn't so bad, was it?"

I handed him my life-jacket as I got gingerly out of the car, wrapped snugly in my warm robe. "I don't know," I told him, "it was a close shave."

Weight for it: Feeling Spencer's "pane" over a broken window

 Obviously...when you find yourself in the midst of an emergency, the first name that pops into your head should be mine...as the person NOT to call should you find yourself in the midst of an emergency.

To be fair, Spencer did not exactly call me...I just happen to be a member of the group chat to whom she directed her Bat Signal. 

Nevertheless...I sprang into action, immediately grabbing a pair of my never-been-used (until now) pink, one-pound-weight dumbbells. I wonder why they're called that?

A little back story:

So...as it's told...the hero of our story was fueling up...nutritionally, energetically & motivationally...at her favorite morning drive-thru. Powering her window down to bravely extend her bare hand to accept the caffeine of the cosmos...the beverage that would bevy her courage, calm her nerves, kick-start her creativity, drown her sorrows, and push-start her patience...Spencer was stymied when the window...in the face of near-negative outdoor numbers...responded to her plea to push up with a resounding "NO!"

Faced (an icy, open-handed frozen slap) with a forty minute drive with a gaping driver's-side window, Spencer made some minute adjustments to her wardrobe (Apparently only her eyes were visible during the torturous journey) and put in a text to the 4th grade team. Oddly enough, it was not the first text that we've received requesting a tarp and some rope.

Little back story concluded:

After receiving Spencer's text, Katriel held one of our infamously-abbreviated, one-syllably-worded phone conversations.

Amy:  Tarp?

Katriel:  Got it.

Amy: Rope?

Katriel: You?

Amy: See ya in a minute.

Tossing duct tape and the weights in my bag, I rushed out the door, driving carefully through snowy conditions, to Katriel's house to pick her up for our long commute. She looked dubiously at the dumbbells. 

Soon enough, we rendez-vous-ed with Spencer. 

Katriel wielded the tarp like a matador's cape. The cavernous hole in Spencer's door was covered in no time. Spencer used the rope to lasso one of the side-view mirrors and the task was almost complete. I stood quietly to the side...watching the show with unmasked admiration. Glancing at me, Katriel shook her head before declaring wistfully, "If only we had something to weigh down the top of the tarp on the roof of Spencer's car." 

Brightening, I scurried off to get my bag,

Soon, my contribution to this little project was added like the cherry to a hot fudge sundae. Or the star to the top of a magnificently-decorated-to-resemble-the-corpse-of-someone-who'd-snitched-on-the mob Christmas tree.

I was just so proud to have been able to pull my weight.

Job done, three figures moved across the icy parking lot to enter the school:  Two trained professionals, competent in all areas and one dumbbell.

A ballpark estimate on drive-times, ticket pricing, seat location, and walking distances

We had LOTS of options. We could have spent Saturday night in a lovely hotel. We could have skipped brunch and just shot to arrive at the very reasonable game time of 1:30. Or...we could wake up at the butt-crack of dawn to make our trek to Toronto. 

I'll give you three guesses which choice was selected.

When I wasn't snarling at my husband or hate-texting Katriel (who had the AUDACITY to just shoot back a heart icon while still snuggled happily in bed for the next foreseeable hour or so), I was admiring the fluorescent pink sun as it rose. Seeing my semi-interest, Brad said that the color might be affected by the Canadian wild-fires. "Figures," I muttered.

Katriel and her friend, Dan, had lots of helpful advice for getting the Mosimans safely to Toronto. We received text reminders to bring our passports, questions about whether my phone plan (that housed our baseball tickets) included Canada, and, when Katriel assured me my EZ pass would work on any toll lane when I sent her a picture of the QEW sign to let her know where we were, Brad turned to me to ask, "Do they think we're complete idiots?" I laughed and assured him that they were just being nice. "No," Brad grimaced, shaking an accusing finger at me, "This is your fault. This is because you got lost last week while FOLLOWING Katriel to that restaurant."

This would be that same man who, later at brunch, came head-to-head with the space stun gun meant for billing transactions and immediately became economically immobilized. We'd closely watched our friends successfully tap ("Tap! Tap!" So cute. So fun! So easy!) their cards and happily move on with their lives. When it was our turn, we tried aiming the gun, waving the gun, shaking the gun...we tapped our card flat-wise and, in desperation, on its edge like in the movies when they cut cocaine. Katriel intervened at this juncture, wrestling the stun gun from our sad little grip, quickly gave the server a well-deserved 1,000% tip and rushed us from the restaurant. "My fault?" I whispered as Dan effortlessly scanned our game tickets for entry into the stadium at the self-serve kiosk. "We could have done that," Brad argued, as we were swept into the swell of sports fans entering Rogers Centre, before sheepishly admitting, "It would have just taken us a bit longer."

My anxiety about going to this Kansas City Royals game in Toronto turned out, of course, to be unfounded. A Play-Off game here years ago had left me slightly traumatized...so that along with our current political relationship not being exactly neighborly as we debate over, among other things, if a cup of sugar borrowed, results in an equal cup of sugar returned (Don't even get started on borrowing the lawn mower!)...had me hesitant about what to even wear. BOTH teams are blue so the stadium is ridiculously monochromatic. I decided on blaze orange so (a) my daughters might be able to spot me on TV, (b) I wouldn't bolt if someone gave me some good-natured ribbing not realizing I'm ridiculous in this environment, and (c) I didn't want to invite unsolicited commentary on politics. So, at the butt-crack of dawn, I debuted my initial outfit. "You look like a little tiger," Brad remarked diplomatically, proudly wearing his team colors on not one, but TWO shirts. I frowned and stomped away. I had carefully watched the previous night's game in Toronto and had noticed that the stadium vendors all wore orange. I stared in the mirror as I wrestled with my inner conflict. In the end, it came down to who I wanted to be aligned with...ultimately deciding: My man. My team. My country. I quickly changed into Royal blue.

We had a WONDERFUL time. The small amount of trash spotted, I'm sure, was put there by Americans. Dan could be a member of Canada's Olympic Power-Walking Team as he hustled us about. He patiently indulged my desire to sit on the second level of the train, bought us each gallons (liters) of water to stave off dehydration, and heroically suppressed an epic eye-roll when I got slightly hysterically when I read the ingredient list of the ice cream treat he kindly provided for us included spiders. "It's not arachnid," he told me calmly, "It's arachides. It's French for nuts." Though he valiantly attempted to hide it, his face clearly thought that more than just the ice cream was nuts. 

Katriel insisted on introducing us to a Beaver Tail.

Oh. My, Goodness. Hello, Beaver Tail!

Think fried dough but crispier and in the shape of a beaver tail and loaded with a host of fabulous toppings.
Brad and I shared chocolate pistachio while Dan and Katriel got the much-less-messy cinnamon-topped version. I gleefully rang the bell at the shop, marking this culminating event of a first time Beaver-Tail-taster. Dan and Katriel primly consumed their pastry like adults while Brad and I gnawed away at our order like we were taking out an over-sized oak. We toppled that treat like the wild, woodland animals that we are.  At this point, Brad and I just gave up and resigned ourselves to the role of "children" for the remainder of the day.

Brunch was at a darling restaurant with outdoor seating so I could enjoy people walking from a safe distance...well, we thought it was safe until an impressively unkempt woman broke away from the crowd (to their relief) to curse us in her indecipherable language ("Are you sure it wasn't French?" Dan asked when he returned to our table.). "I think it was English," Katriel said, "The poor woman was dealing with some questionable dental work." "To be fair," Brad added, "it might not have been a curse at all. She could have been bestowing a blessing or offering directions to the stadium."

It turned out to be a curse.

My avacado toast arrived. Oh my. What was that artistic garnish? A wonderful sort of sweet cream? Dan frowned, leaning in for a closer look. "I thought you said you DIDN'T WANT the poached eggs?"

Ewwww!

Katriel sighed and cut a generous portion of her pancakes for me.

The game was fantastic! Rogers Centre has an amazing retractable roof. "Katriel," I complained, "Go see someone about closing it a bit. I forgot my hat (and my sunscreen and my chapstick...)." It takes 20 minutes to close AND could easily contain Lady Liberty...pedestal and all. The game was fun to watch. Bobby Witt Jr. executed a quick-thinking play, throwing to Salvy instead of making the easy-out that ran right by him...effectively stopping a run and setting up a silly Three Stooges maneuver between third and home that had me giggling for the rest of the inning. Vinnie demonstrated his long-legged splitting abilities as he stretched to snag a throw to first, missing the out by milliseconds. I became a huge fan of the Blue Jays' first baseman, Vladimir Guerrero, Jr. First of all,  he rocks an awesome first name. He's built like a catcher but slides like a shortstop. When he first stepped up to bat, I noticed he paused to make some sort of design in the dirt. That got me curious so I made sure to make note of all of his at-bats and, yup, sure enough, Vladimir continued the practice. I looked it up. The Canadian/Dominican player was spelling out "Dios." God. Fan for life. 

As opposed to the man behind us, mad at something, yelling, "Jesus Christ! Show some respect." Brad glanced at me, surprised when I laughed at this. "That's called well-intended irony," I told my husband.

The game went to extra innings with the Royals edging out the Blue Birds at the end. I love learning new things (and forgetting them seconds later)...I didn't realize that there was a rule that placed a runner on second during over-time to reduce the possibility that the game drag unnecessarily on beyond my already limited attention span. Very helpful. 

Dan and Katriel were not ready for our fun day to end. Still full of energy, they were busy brainstorming other activities but I couldn't hear them because I was busy counting the steps out of the stadium, into the bus depot, down to the platform...fiercely concentrating on NOT falling...not caring WHICH level of the train I sat on...shuffle-jogging to keep up with Dan's Olympic gait...and I spotted a Canadian squirrel. The suggestion of soup dumplings definitely caused me to pause (and catch my breath) but Canada had tired my poor little American ass out. I was ready to go home to my country. And my couch.

Going out on a limb to hang out with my friends

 I am so blessed to be part of a grade level team that genuinely enjoys one another's company in AND outside of school. We were excited to meet at a whimsical little place that was part blueberry farm, part tree-house bar and restaurant, sprinkled with magical fairy lights, sculptures, yard games, and music. 

My friend Rachel rode with me as we followed our friends Allison and Katriel to meet Marissa at the venue. Rachel and I rarely have one-on-one time so we were busy catching up and enjoying the scenery during the back-country road drive. 

Suddenly, Rachel's phone rang. It was Katriel. I could hear her asking Rachel where we were. Confused, Rachel and I waved enthusiastically at our friends, positioned in the vehicle right in front of us...the same car I had relentlessly been tailing through the twists and turns of countless narrow, shoulder-less, passages through hamlets, hay fields, and hillsides. Rachel turned to me, mouthing, "That's not them." 

Huh.

Must be time to turn on the map.

"Mom," my daughter Savannah lectured later, "Why didn't you have Maps on to begin with?"

"I was following someone, Savannah," I replied, the "duh" implied. "That's the beauty of a caravan."

"Even if I am following someone," my daughter shared, "I have Maps going, too."

Well, goody for you, Savannah Evangeline.

Rachel and I found our destination easily enough..."Whoops, we missed it," Rachel exclaimed as we shot by the entryway. No worries.

Feeling victorious as we navigated New Titan into an abbreviated parking spot ("Rachel, leap out [on your sprained foot] so you can ground-guide me in." She fearlessly catapulted herself out of my truck, easily managing the three-foot-drop on one leg, landing, flamingo-style, to help me.), we could not understand why our three twenty-something companions were standing nearby, as unhelpful bystanders, laughing hysterically. What on earth was so funny? We got here, didn't we?

The Blueberry Treehouse Farm & Cafe reminded me of the forests of Endor from Star Wars. I would not have been surprised to see an Ewok about as we climbed up the levels that led to the seating area. I  mistakenly ordered a blueberry moscato...confusing it for prosecco. They are NOT the same. My bad. 

My group graciously gave me the honor of choosing the seating. I immediately selected an isolated spot with cozy Adirondack chairs surrounding a low table. Second mistake. Oh. I guess, if you count my little re-routing incident...third mistake. Turns out that it's not easy to eat, reclining back, in Adirondack chairs while balancing your weighty pioneer log plate in your lap. So we ate, hunched awkwardly forward, literally on the edge of our seats. Allison, who had, out of consideration, claimed an uncomfortable-looking metal chair, had the perfect posture of a princess and nibbled her flatbread with grace and dignity while the rest of us, Quasimoto's quadruplets, snarfed down our food like gargoyles.

I had ordered the peach flatbread pizza, sprinkled artistically with basil. I noticed a bit of the herb had landed next to my tree trencher so I plucked it off the table and popped it in my mouth. Fourth mistake. Marissa watched with concern as I grimaced and spat it out...unfolding it to discover the remnants of a maple leaf. 

In spite of me and all of my mistakes, we had a delightful time. We caught up, laughed a lot, and just enjoyed each other's company. It was somewhat different than our usual narrative story...the characters were the same, of course. But the setting had switched abruptly from school classrooms to the tops of trees. The problem was no longer how to effectively instill knowledge into young minds but instead was how to keep Amy alive, on the right track, and having somewhat the appearance of someone who knows how to act while out in public. I was with the best educators in the WORLD so I was confident that we would meet these objectives with no problem. Simple. Easy. It was elemen-tree. 

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.

"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?