Pasteurized? No...up my nose

There is a reason realtors suggest having an apple pie or chocolate chip cookies baking when selling a house. There is a reason that the aromatherapy business chalks up over a billion dollars in sales each year. And there is a reason why I have NOT volunteered to be on my school's LEAP committee AND there is a reason that I rarely venture out of my classroom. I try to keep my nose out of other peoples' business and hope (in vain) that they return the favor. And what do I get for my trouble? A whipped cream pie injected up my nostrils by a giggling 3rd grader who refused to be intimidated, threatened, or bribed. To be fair, it was better than the giant toilet brush used for Covid testing but still...

Upon entering the auditorium, I was neither prepared nor pleased to be wrestled into a black plastic garbage bag with a spiffy shower cap to capture my hair before being pulled on stage with the other "volunteers." "I'm getting you a dictionary for your birthday next year," I growled at Erin who danced around in delight that I admitted that I was even THINKING about getting her a gift. Wrong reaction. Frowning, I did a quick inventory of my fellow victims and was startled that they were all smiling. Idiots. It was time to awaken the sheep. "Don't you understand what's happening here?" I asked, gesturing to the wild crowd whipping themselves into a frenzy. To my shock, I learned that they had signed up for this spectacle. "But I didn't sign up," I sputtered. They nodded happily, laughing. "You wouldn't have come if we'd told you," Erin explained. No, duh.

I sighed dismally and resigned myself to my fate. Thank goodness my generous paycheck reflects these daily humiliations that I am forced to endure. My archnemesis Tyler was sacrificed to the mob before me. I watched in horror as he moved to sit in the chair positioned on the tarp, only to have Erin heartlessly whip it away so that he cruelly fell to the floor. Could this get any worse? She pretended to apologize right before he got smacked in the face with a pie. I inched closer to the exit. 

The 3rd grader who selected me obviously lacked the gift of foresight. Towering over him, I offered him several options. "Let's just forget about all this and head to the vending machine," I said, smiling encouragingly. Nope. Okay. "Wouldn't it be HILARIOUS," I tried again, "if, instead of hitting me with the pie, you veer off at the last minute and hit Mr. King? And then...you and I will head off to the vending machine. The world is your oyster, kid." Nope. Must be the boy wasn't into seafood or didn't understand idioms. What on earth are they teaching in schools these days? Time to pull out the big guns. Looking as menacing as a woman wearing a shower cap and black garbage bag can, I snarled, "You better HOPE that you don't have me next year!" He giggled. Dang. I sat down...holding onto the chair and keeping an eye on Erin the entire time. I should have kept my eyes shut because that third grader pummeled me with the pie. Hope he enjoys writing three page essays about Reaganomics and the navigational travel patterns of dung beetles. 

The olfactory system has an amazing ability to trigger memories. The scent of honeysuckle transports me to a Nantucket bike ride. Lilacs lift me back to my childhood home. A blast of Brut deodorant plants me as a passenger on a three-wheeler, ripping through the woods as a teenager. But Spring in Wyoming County often has us wishing to be distanced from our sense of smell...especially if you attend school surrounded by fertilized fields. Now add in an unseasonably hot and humid day. And layer THAT with whipped cream conditioner in your hair and dairy drying into your denim. What a combination! Sour milk and manure. Where is Erin? I am going to "tractor" down and kick her in the "dairy air." 

Geri's Retirement Party

 September:  "Ya know, we should start our plans for Geri's retirement party," I said to my 4th grade team before Rachel tried to gently explain that she'd signed us up for the first character-building assembly of the school year. "To get it out of the way." I got to work over-seeing my husband wrestle several six-foot-tall hand-shaped props out of cardboard. "It'll be a cinch," I assured him, "Zip-zip." We temporarily shelved our plans for Geri's retirement party as the team choreographed a complicated Mr. Hamburger Helper-inspired dance segment so that students would be better behaved. 

October:  "Maybe now we can begin planning for Geri's retirement party," I started to suggest before it was lost in the excruciating debate that determined the song choice, theme, and dance moves that would accompany our annual 4th grade flash mob for Halloween. Oh, and don't forget the HOURS of coordinated costume planning. I was scared to bring the subject of Geri's retirement party back up.

November/December:  Thanksgiving/Christmas. Erin's holiday play in which I was unceremoniously threated and coerced to participate...then cruelly deceived when promised a "small" part.

January: Panic began to set in as our team leader started the transition process marking her new position as an administrator. We began chronicling what we would lovingly label "The first lasts..." as in:  "This will be the last time we do this as a team..." as we tried to stave off the inevitable changes that would irrevocably alter our team forever (Dramatic much?). T-shirts were made for every occasion. Toasts were made at any and all events. Team meeting went off the rails:

Geri:  How many beans in a can?"

Answer:  "239. One more and it would be 240." (Read it out loud if you don't get it.) 

A big (but closeted) fan of potty humor including what I call the little "f-word" which is banned from Room 24, Rachel laughed until tears ripped down her face. As the self-appointed team secretary, I dutifully noted the event and illustrated it for posterity (and to prove to everyone why I hated team meetings so much). For the record, that little gem, by no means the most rare and valued of all of our team meeting jewels, occurred on Thursday, January 13th.

February: Survived the week-long onslaught of three team members' birthdays. Plunged into our ridiculously unreasonable and ultimately unachievable biography project (research/essay/weird and often scary doll constructed out of a 2-liter bottle/tri-fold poster board and public speaking presentation-they're nine. I'm 52 and wouldn't want to do that!). Arranged a one hundred valentines display for our out-going principal which consisted of two members painstakingly taping up each Valentine on the wall, presumably in the shape of the digits that make up "100" AND a heart (This was after an hours-long font debate) while other members painstakingly criticized their efforts and demanded immediate change. 

Every month, another thing. Dance parties. School assemblies. Quarterly testing. Report cards. Five week progress notes (Where did THEY come from...??? I thought streamlining to 3 report cards a year was supposed to free us up?). More theme t-shirts. More toasts. Clinging to one another as we were being slowly ripped apart.

From December until April, I emotionally tapped out as my focus abruptly shifted to personal issues. By the time my head was on straight again, Geri's retirement loomed over us and I was officially freaking out. "Don't worry," Rachel soothed, "You know we always work better under pressure."

May:  Secret Meeting Number One met. Well, most of us. "What time was it again?" "Where was the meeting? I couldn't find you guys!" "What meeting?" I threw every idea I had at them...providing a foundation upon which to build as we re-constructed my idiotic plans. "They'll toss most of them," I assured Katriel who listened as I asked if she knew how to scale a rope and dangle headfirst by one leg. To our shock, the Secret Meeting Members enthusiastically (and desperately, if you ask me) embraced ALL of the ideas. Okay. We would need to write a song parody detailing Geri's lovable eccentricities. Practice singing the song parody despite the fact that NONE of us could sing (One of us has infamously been kicked out of not one, but two, bands!). Enlist the help of a talented but patient guitarist (Thanks, Aaron). Plan a Geri-themed trivia contest. Incorporate all of Geri's fun-but-odd snack preferences. Buy a dozen pairs of drug-store eyeglasses for a round of  "Geri's Memory Loss Moments" to incorporate beloved friends' anecdotes of Geri's exploits (Like how she intentionally "loses" things at Disney so she doesn't have to carry them around the park and then conveniently picks them up at the end of the day from Lost & Found.).

May:  Secret Meeting Number Two:  MOST of us managed to be there. Kelly and Katriel, using our brainstormed list of every adorably weird and wonderful mishap involving Geri that we could think of, provided the lyrics to parody Ricky Nelson's "Garden Party." We were on our way! 

May:  Secret Meeting Number Three:  Turns out, singing with an accompaniment is not easy. Tempers flared. Accusations flew. "I can't sit next to Amy," Kelly declared.

May:  Secret Meeting Number Four:  Time to revise. Accept our limitations. Trim back a bit. Aaron, with the patience of a saint, began cuing us in with his foot. I'm pretty sure he wanted to use that foot to give us a boot in the...

Thursday, June 2nd:  "Are you going to ride with us on Saturday?" Geri asked me during our lunchtime game of euchre. "Ride where?" I asked, glaring at my hand of nines and tens while considering "going alone." 

"To the Teacher Dinner."

We all put our cards down and stared at her. "You DO know that the Retirement Dinner is tomorrow, right?" Kelly asked softly, thinking about the hours of practice and arguing we'd put in for the past few weeks. "Friday," Katriel stressed, "NOT Saturday?" Geri looked at me, certain that I was somehow responsible for this mix-up. "Are you sure?" 

"YES!!!" we all screamed.

I told Rachel about this later who immediately saw it as an opportunity to add another lyric. 

"Geri missed the retirement party

because she thought it was Saturday

We sang her song without her there

and now she'll have to pay."

I hope Geri's retirement doesn't work

 I don't have friends. I have acquaintances...colleagues...co-workers...companions. I am surrounded by sweet, supportive, loving people. I trust none of them. I refuse to venture into deeper relationships for fear of drowning...preferring to stick to the shallows because, unfortunately, I AM shallow. My smiles and small talk are all a pretense. Fake. I am a fraud. And I know, ultimately, you will eventually discover that so I only let you peek behind the curtain on rare occasions. Fair warning: I will eventually sabotage any and all relationships that manage to establish a tenuous hold. AND...if I am clear-headed enough to see that a potential friendship is developing, I will slap it down with a sarcastic Spinebuster to wrestle that blossoming relationship into submission. Let's not delve into the psychology of my intimacy issues right now. My marriage of 32 years proves only that Brad is a masochist. Genetically, my daughters HAVE to love me but moved to the opposite coast because it's much easier to love me from afar. Joan has stubbornly remained in the picture for three decades only because she retains the fluid flexibility of a rubber band and exhibits the foolish and fearless qualities of that bird that darts in and out of a river hippopotamus' mouth. 

And then there's Geri. 

Conflict and confrontations are the coffin nails of all of my relationships.

Except for my relationship with Geri.

We have screamed, scratched, spat, insulted, injured, demeaned, and bullied each other for nearly twenty years. Newly-introduced team members have sat, horrified, as we'd recreate scenes from Godzilla versus Kong in front of them. My daughters, as young children, sat nonplussed, strapped in the car as Geri and I battled in the front seat about directions and restaurant choices ("I don't care where we eat, Amy," Geri said exasperatedly as we debated and deliberated each passing choice on the road. I settled on Red Lobster. "You KNOW I don't like seafood," she seethed.). Geri's brother once thrust himself sacrificially between us as we flung f-words at one another like grenades. Meanwhile, Sydney Lynn sat on the floor of our vacation rental and patiently duct-taped her battered boogie board back together, oblivious to the war waging around her.

 I cannot explain it. This sick, mutually co-dependent, relationship of ours. Where we can hurt each other but, God forbid, anyone else even THINK about being mean to one of us...and the other one will POUNCE, Unleashed fury. We are protective feral wolves if anyone else threatens the other. 

Expectations make me nervous. I will NEVER live up to them. But in my relationship with Geri, it was always clear that one of us was always gearing up to say or do something stupid; one of us would inevitably suffer from foot-in-the-mouthitis. Our ideologies never matched up...we never agreed...we were always incensed and irritated with one another. There were no apologies offered. No forgiveness bestowed. We fumed. Pouted. Ranted. Stewed. And then got over it. 

The foundation of our relationship is failure. Built upon the fact that we were going to let one another down, again and again. And each time, we'd haul one another up out of the mud (that we'd been brutally pushed into by the other) and start fresh.

And now we are single-digit days away from Geri's retirement. "We haven't had a good storm-out in awhile," my fellow team member and my-trying-to-keep-her-at-arm's-distance-but-failing friend Katriel observed, referencing the hundreds of times that I've seemingly reached my limit...standing up dramatically, kicking back my chair, and stomping angrily out the classroom door during a 4th grade meeting. I teared up, nodding nostalgically. "I guess those days are gone," I said, voice trembling. 

As we met to play cards in Geri's classroom during lunch this past week, we discussed our constantly revised schedule leading to the end of the school year. Geri, shockingly disagreeing with one of my intelligently-thought-out and reasonable suggestions, snapped at me with a ridiculous rebuttal. I glared at her over my cards. "Amy," Geri snarled, "Stop being so sensitive." I threw down my hand...abruptly stood up, kicking back my chair...and stormed out as Katriel golf-clapped my performance. 

Screen fade.

And...that's a wrap. 

We saw a squirrel, its name is Sal...eating chicken wings by the Erie Canal

I was so excited to coax my mother out to enjoy an evening of dining alongside the historic Erie Canal. Thus far, Vee DeLong has not been impressed to be living along this transformative waterway that played such a pivotal role in the economic status of New York. I theorized that her opinion was low because the water was low. But now it was Spring! The canal was filled and, so too, were my hopes for a rise in her review. "Well," she remarked skeptically, rising up on her tip-toes to peer over the concrete barrier, "at least now it's not filled with just garbage." She wrinkled her nose. "It's still pretty green." 

I sighed, my hopes once again deflated. I glanced around for my fellow history buff and emotional support buddy to take a shot but Sydney was nowhere to be found. I had dropped her off at the busy restaurant to secure a table and then I walked the short block back with Mom. Sydney then dashed back to the car to retrieve a forgotten item. As usual, I had neglected to take note of street signs but I provided a detailed description of our parking spot near a sketchy barber shop with skull decals decorating the business, alongside a ripped up sidewalk, turning by a store with adorable animal pillows in the display window. One was a fox. Easy-peasy. But, boy, she's been gone a long time and Mom was starting to make a game of counting all the trash floating down the canal. Her point system was impressive and I prayed that any bodies would remain beneath the surface because I wouldn't want to throw her scoring system off. 

Sydney, sounding a bit breathless, called to clarify my excellent instructions. I repeated them and then added helpfully that I believed that there might have been a taxidermied armadillo in the barber shop window. Sydney hung up without a word. I think it might have been a bad connection.

Meanwhile, I was busy trying to wrestle my five-foot-tall mother into a chair where she could have the best view of the canal and bridge but she was not to be thwarted from taking the worst possible seat. My attempts to break the lifelong habits of a woman who has always put herself last have been frustratingly maddening. Add to that, the fact that she has rarely left her house in the past decade aside from rare trips to the store and the doctor, and you might get a taste of what I'm dealing with. 

Ah! There's Sydney! Tired and exasperated. "What's the matter?" I asked her. "Couldn't you find the car?" Impossible to comprehend given the excellent directions I'd provided. Suddenly, my daughter shot up out of her seat. "We took the car!" she exclaimed, rushing off. "I thought it was the truck! Ignore anything that Dad might say to you if he calls," she shouted as she ran off, "I may have been complaining about you a little." 

I attempted to distract Mom from the litter limbo-ing down the water lane. "Look, Mom! There's a nest of baby birds above us!" "I can hear them," my mother answered, "They're awfully loud." The busy waitress arrived, breathless, neglecting to notice my mother sitting ramrod straight in her chair like a soldier on guard, refusing to touch the sticky table. Hot tea was not available so my mother gamely switched to cold. "Unsweetened's okay, right?" our waitress asked, not watching my mother's crestfallen face. I ordered Syd's drink and an Old Fashioned. Whiskey. I needed whiskey.

Sydney finally made it back, reading the table expertly. She gamely tried to extricate Grandma from her chair with the bad view and failed. Took one for the team when Mama Bird decided to unload her troubles on us. Attempted to wrestle my mostly whiskey-infused drink from me to keep me coherent when I had no desire, at the moment, to be even remotely lucid. AND somehow talked my mother into trying duck wontons. A bite. Followed by an unintentional but alarmingly racist remark that had Sydney and I secretly scribbling out apology notes to the surrounding patrons.

"Why?!?!" Brad would lament later. "Why would you do this to your poor mother? You know she likes Denny's!"

My mom's grilled cheese arrived and we gamely tackled our canal-side meals without utensils while trying to not touch the sticky table. Digging into her pocket, Mom pulled thick, lush napkins out, flourishing them like a magician and we cheered. 

Having tortured my mother enough, it was time to go. As we stood, we noticed a flutter over the water and several scavenging ducks decided to see if we wanted to add anything else to the bill (See what I did there?!?!). 

I am not content with my mother being content. She would have been content with soup from a can in her apartment but I wanted to take her out. I foist all these things onto my mother, imagining that I am making her life more enriched and enjoyable when, in fact, she is just putting up with my antics. But the ducks? That was another matter altogether. My mother smiled. She happily tossed crumbs to our feathered friends. She admired their beautiful, glossy feathers and ignored the trash that floated by.

We started our slow walk back to the car when Syd, knowing my fondness of squirrels, paused to point one out to us. We glanced at the little guy and then froze, astonished. "Is he holding...?" Sydney stammered. I squinted, "It can't be..." My mother shook her head, "No one is going to believe us." But it was true. There. In front of us. Gripped securely in his chubby little paw was a Buffalo chicken wing. He was arguably the fattest squirrel in the world...and also the happiest. We watched him for a long time. "It's not just that he's eating a chicken wing," Sydney said in wonder as we easily used my helpful directions to relocate the car, "It's that he was eating it correctly."

My mother was laughing as our evening concluded. It was not the idyllic time that I'd envisioned.  I want my mother to be surrounded by lovely things; ensconced in comfort and color and culinary delights. Instead, I planted her next to a dirty ditch and expected her to be enchanted. But she was laughing. For a few minutes, my mother could step away from the grief, trauma, and uncertainty that has been her life and laugh. That's a win for the Erie Canal. And Amy Mosiman.

"You know, Sydney was really trash-talking your direction-giving abilities," my husband told me when I got home. I sighed. "Don't  even get me started talking about trash," I muttered. "Did you guys have fun?" he asked. Sydney shot him a thumbs up. "Just ducky."

 

Better to be bitter than glitter

Before I launch into my usual tirade against her, let me first begin with a grudging admission that Erin did a remarkable job letting me go quietly fetal for five months. Consoling and casseroles are not for me. As much as it pained her and went against every instinct that she possesses, Erin knew that the best gift she could give me was letting me crawl into a dark hole to heal. But she can only handle my descent into darkness for so long...I should not have been surprised when she eventually arrived, shovel in hand, to dig me out...braving bared teeth and sharp claws to inform me that I needed to wear my red sparkle shirt to school the next day.

As usual, I reacted in a calm, patient, rational manner and, with gentle, dignified language, communicated to Erin how I felt about her proposition. 

"I can't wait to see you tomorrow!" she clapped happily, each time I passed her in the hall...which is A LOT. I intentionally go the long way to avoid her but still manage to get cornered.

Anticipating my brilliant plan to just ignore her, my phone rang at an unreasonable 6am the following morning. I groaned, burying my head under the pillow. Oh yeah...I knew who it was. The devil herself. SINGING. Oh dear Lord...SINGING. At 6 am.

Fortunately, I am well-versed with my word families and have years of poetic experience in my back pocket so, before I even got out of bed, I sent a little song of my own back:

(Tune of BINGO)

There are 4 letters in my head

That I want to sa-ay...

And they end with "k"

And they end with "k"

And they end with "k"

I wish you'd go away-ay.

I begrudgingly put on the stupid shirt.

I begrudgingly posed for the stupid pictures.

I begrudgingly fended off EVERY smart-alecky comment delivered by students (as young as pre-K, darn their quick wit) and our delightfully sadistic staff.

But by lunchtime, I'd had it. "Why wouldn't I have brought a shirt to change into?" I growled at my other arch-nemesis, Tyler, who had come in to "commiserate." He offered to look for some sort of sporty-type shirt that athletes wear but I was already plowing through every drawer and cupboard in my room, desperate to escape my glittery straight-jacket. "Ah-ha!" I yelled triumphantly, discovering a sarcastic shirt left over from my being-dragged-to -Zumba-against-my-will days. "Are you sure you don't want me to find you a jersey?" Tyler asked dubiously, reading the shirt I held aloft like the finish flag at Talladega. 

Oh...I'm sure.

To subtly get my point across, I stomped into Erin's room and changed there.

She read my shirt as I stood there, smirking.

Tapping one finger thoughtfully against her chin, Erin brightened. "Thanks for reminding me! We really need to start Zumba up again!"

Oh dear Lord.

"Don't worry, Amy! I'll call you!" Erin shouted as I slammed out the door.

 

Bowled over with blessings

I am not known for my optimism and positivity. I was once told by an acquaintance that I was the most positive negative person that she had ever met and I was perfectly okay with that description. But lately, having spent more time than comfortable in the doldrums, I have been making a concentrated effort to look for blessings in my daily life. It's going exactly like I would expect.

Take yesterday, for example. As I was driving to work, I caught a glimpse of silver flash out of the corner of my eye and slowed down to see a majestic heron wading through a trout stream, enveloped in a soft curtain of fog. I took a deep, cleansing breath as I gave thanks for this, the first blessing of my day.

Soon, I arrived in my classroom and was surprised to see my chair occupied by a GIANT present proclaiming me "The Best Teacher Ever." I immediately knew who to thank:  My darling friend and colleague Jill who has been a source of unwavering support since I taught her son Ryan over EIGHT years ago. I am still not sure what I did to elicit such devoted loyalty but Jill's confidence in my abilities comes in handy whenever I am feeling like a complete failure and fraud. I took another breath as I logged in my second blessing of the day.

Ask any pessimist and they'll tell you, a streak like this is unsustainable. I should have hauled Jill's present to the truck and immediately drove home. But no. Instead...I looked to the left.

What is the opposite of a "blessing?" A "hex?" "Affliction?" "Curse?" "Plague?" 

Let's go with "plague." Except, instead of a horde of locusts, my desk was baptized in a river of blood. Or...that's what it looked like. Turned out to be a container of grape juice that one of my cherubs had tossed into the snack basket yesterday. The tell-tale "drip...drip...drip" delivered a consecrated current across my work area. I took a deep breath; attempting to stem the flood of foul language that threatened to spill from my mouth. Then, I gave thanks to the charitable contributions of parents who had answered my beginning-of-year call, begging for paper towels that actually ABSORB liquid. I grabbed one of those rolls immediately and then noticed that, miraculously, the blood bath had somehow missed my waiting piles of worksheets and the yellow field day t-shirts that were perched on my desk like sacrificial sheep. Okay, I thought to myself as I finished cleaning up, that wasn't as bad as it could have been. Maybe I could squeak this event into the "blessings" column.

The math project was next. I always think I like tessellations until we actually start doing them.  Creating the tessellation template required some skill...namely listening to and following directions. Yes. You guessed it. Room 24 was in trouble. Once we were finished wrestling the templates together, we then had to deal with the abstract idea of "mapping out our vision." I soon became embroiled in a War of Wills as one of my little honeys saw a bird where I was certain there was a mermaid. "Whose project IS it, Mrs. Mosiman?" you might gently interject but, c'mon! Look at the template!

While the debate raged on, a couple of high school boys wandered into the fray, lugging a red bowling pin with them. Fortunately, it was enough to distract us from our disagreement. Turns out, ironically enough, that I had been selected to receive an award of appreciation from our school district's middle and high school students. Yes, as I was throwing a GIANT, immature temper tantrum and attempting to foist my will upon a nine-year-old, I was being recognized as a terrific teacher. Talk about your divine metaphors. I was really "striking out as an educator." That little slap of reality was enough to get me to re-set and encourage my artist to meet with me after school so that we could calmly direct her project in a way that best reflected her artistic interpretation. We started from scratch and somehow ended up with a prairie dog next to a cactus. It was perfect as I had been feeling pretty prickly. There's a pun in there somewhere, linking the bowling pin and the cactus, something about being on pins and needles but I am too exhausted after a day of counting my blessings to verbalize it. So, just spare me, already.

 

 

What in carnation was Brad Mosiman thinking?

I COULD blame myself; after all, I COULD have just had a bouquet delivered to my mom for Mother's Day. But I wanted to deliver them in person. I COULD have picked them up the day before but I wanted them fresh that day. So...were this to go to trial, I believe that I would be found in the wrong. 

EXCEPT I wasn't!

Our Christian batteries re-charged, we left church to head over to see my mom. "Can we head over to Wegman's first to pick her up some flowers?" I asked. Translated from the Latin as "I want to go to Wegman's for some beautiful, high-quality, fresh flowers with which to present to my mother as a demonstration of my love, gratitude, and devotion." Apparently, Brad is a bit rusty in his Latin translation because he frowned and said, "Wegman's is a bit out of the way" and then took it upon himself to pull into...(get ready)...a GAS STATION!

Let me first point out that Wegman's is about a MILE from my mom's apartment. Second...what the hell?!? No need to remind me that I'm just outta church..."hell" is the edited form of the word I wanted to use.

Incredulous, I glared at my husband who staunchly defended the quality of GAS STATION flowers. I got out of the car. Slammed the door. Stomped into the gas station. Looked at their bucket full of flowers. Spun around. Stomped back to the car. Slouched in my seat, folded my arms over my chest in a huff and lied. No flowers. 

No worries. Brad Mosiman then drove to a Family Dollar, another gas station, a Rite Aid, and a charming place called Food Town where apparently even the celebrities buy flowers for their mothers. Glared. Slammed. Stomped. Lied. Until my husband pointed out a person lacking any sense of floral wherewithal exiting a shady store with fishy flowers. "This store has flowers," stated Mr. Obvious excitedly.

Glare. Slam. Stomp. Purchase repugnant posies. Toss them in the backseat and refuse to look at them.

My mom accepted her gift with gracious charm. As I helped her arrange this "gift," I took note of the headless stems adorning her bouquet like so many middle fingers and resisted the urge to share one with my husband.

"I'm so glad you're here," my mom said, opening up a few cupboards and taking a quick inventory. "I just realized that I'm running low on some groceries."

Oh no. I turned to stare at my husband.

Brad, in the middle of his sudoku, froze.

My mom smiled. "Do you mind running to Wegman's to pick me up a few things?"