Marital advice that you probably shouldn't take

     My husband is so annoying. He insists on spending time with me on, like, a daily basis. What's even worse is that he does not consider sitting in compatible silence while staring at the television to be a quality married couple activity. I have systematically ruled out many of his "Let's spend time together" suggestions. I refuse to carry a kayak over a mile (uphill OR downhill) to navigate a river sporting any sort of classification. "It's only a Class 2," he yelled, as I barreled backwards down the rapids. Rock climbing is out and NOT just because I get dirt caked under my fingernails. You'd think Brad would rule that one out himself as I tend to giggle at the required vocabulary, replacing "on belay" with the Speedy Gonzalez alternative of "andale." Also, my miniscule attention span doesn't exactly inspire confidence when I am singularly responsible for keeping my husband from plummeting sixty-five feet  from the rockface. This lack of focus and motivation ruined our puzzle-putting together "fun" too. Turns out bike riding wasn't going to work when Brad had to pedal home and get the truck after I got tired. I excel at eating out at restaurants but Brad ruins that fun by showing me the bill each time. He is such a kill-joy.

     Today, despite my exhaustion of having worked four hours teaching summer school, I rallied and suggested we go for a little hike with the dogs. For some sick reason, unbeknownst to me, Brad thought it would be a good idea to let me determine our route. The last time that happened, we ended up canoeing through an excrement-filled canal on a hot August day. I naively believe that tractor-forged trails ramble on forever and am quite shocked when they mysteriously stop as though Scotty beamed up the transported tractor. So...now what? Turn back? No. That is not the Mosiman way. I plunged ahead into the wild weedy bush, cutting my own trail and immediately stumbled into a swamp. (Sort of) Following me, Brad managed to avoid a murky ankle bath but his poor choice of wardrobe cost him as sharp blades of tall grass and thorny weeds wrecked havoc on his bare legs. I gallantly and gracefully surged ahead of him again to blaze a painfree path but his trust issues prevented him from following me to the middle of a plowed up potato field. I was amazed at how well my little dachshund was holding up to this grueling adventure. While normally she resists the leash, Chlo kept up so beautifully that I barely knew she was there. Well...that's because she WASN'T there. I was holding one of those invisible starched leash/collar combinations that people with too much money and no imagination buy for their children at the fair. "Chlo! Chlo!" I cried in a panic, backtracking until I found my swamp-soaked, dirt-encrusted dachshund waiting for my inevitable return. Cradling Chloe in my arms, I managed to find my husband and we trekked home.

     I observed Brad's scratched-up legs as I cleaned up Chlo. Does every married couple experience this amount of hardship and difficulty in trying to spend quality time together? As I scraped inches of mud out of my sneakers, I pondered the next bonding activity that my husband and I could enjoy together when I was interrupted by a discreet cough. I looked up questioningly at Brad. "Let's go watch some TV," he said. "Bonanza's on." It was so magical. It was the episode where Little Joe's thumb is held for ransom. I love spending time with my husband.

Savannah could have been a star on "Barney"

Some time ago, we were watching a television special on Taylor Swift and Savannah responded quite noticeably when the talented singer described her up-bringing. "I grew up on a Christmas tree farm in Reading, Pennsylvania," Ms. Swift said, "It was the most magical fun childhood." Savannah has held a vindictive grudge against me since discovering that Selena Gomez was a child actor on Barney and Friends. When Savannah was little, she was entranced by the musical adventures of her prehistoric purple PBS pal. On several VHS videos (remember those?), the show segment would end with a brief actor recruitment commercial and four-year-old Savannah realized that this was her foot in the door to fame and fortune. Having already committed every Barney song to memory,  Savannah began to study each episode to further hone her acting craft. I admit it.  I failed her. It wasn't as though I was lacking in home-movie material. I have oodles of archived occasions featuring Savannah singing the addictive "I love you, you love me, we're a hap-py fam-i-ly, with a great big hug and a kiss to me and you...(blow a kiss to the camera while preparing for the big finish) won't you say you love...me...too? (bum bum)."  Along that same venue, Savannah could have also been the Marineland representative. "Niagara Falls, Ontario...Marineland is the place to go...." Even today, when a Marineland commercial comes on the television, Brad and I can hear the sound of footie-pajama-ed ghost feet as Savannah would race in (even AFTER bedtime) the room to sing along. But I lacked the foresight of Selena Gomez's family. I was short on the sacrificial determination of Taylor Swift's parents. I didn't send in an audition tape and Savannah's dream of dancing with a purple dinosaur was shattered.

Emotionally-scarred for all these years, the possibility of healing arrived ironically.  Johnson & Johnson's Band-Aid brand bandages is looking for their next "Stuck on me" star  https://www.facebook.com/bandaid?sk=app_446166212144556. As my still-traumatized teen sat slumped on the couch, Brad and I immediately began singing the jingle to her. "I am stuck on Band-Aid brand cuz bandaid's stuck on me!" Our bright and shining star, first born from the primordial pits of children's entertainment, then caught in the catastrophic climate change that froze Savannah's fossilized dreams, began to show a flicker of life. But alas...subsequent research revealed that childhood dreams do indeed have a statute of limitations. Apparently, childhood concludes at age fourteen. Savannah, a month-shy of approaching her golden years of twenty, is no longer eligible for child super-stardom. I wince as I consider my role in Savannah's biography. "My childhood wasn't magical at all," she'll share, "If it wasn't bad enough that my shared bedroom was the size of a closet, my mother took every opportunity to burst my bubbles. I coulda been a star." 

Toe-tapping foot facials with Sue

     If Brad had any complaints about me (which, obviously, he doesn't), it would probably be about how I am constantly fussing about my looks. I am definitely what you would call a high-maintenance girl. Although I abhor the term "trophy wife," I've discovered that, if the Jimmy Choo shoe fits, then I must bear that dazzling high-heeled burden.

     I tend to lean to the complementary look of vintage fashion. Sporting a stylish multi-colored sleeveless number accessorized with a cute hoodie the other day, my family marveled at its timelessness. "How long have you had that shirt," Sydney asked with admiration. Savannah began to trace the impressive twenty-year history of this particular article of clothing as it saw the beginning years of my marriage, witnessed the Mosiman membership increase by two, made pioneer journeys across some thirty or more states,traversed oceans, rivers, and lakes as well as ascending great heights upon aircraft and plunging to great depths in creepy, claustrophobic caverns. And all the while, making me look like I'd just walked off a magazine cover. "What magazine," Sydney laughed, "Flea Market Fashion?" "More likely, Thrift Store Styles," corrected Savannah before chronicling the rest of my closet.

     Recognizing me as a trend-setter, my friend Sue, an amazing Mary Kay consultant (http://www.marykay.com/saslocum), offered to visit my home to share her line of foot treatments to tame my tender tootsies. My daughters were naturally thrilled. "No one is touching my feet," Savannah growled callously upon hearing the news. I immediately put in a call to one of the coolest people I know and bribed her over with chocolate raspberry pie. With Meg on my couch, I knew my girls would be both gracious and civil. We were now ready to experience what I cutely called "foot facials." "That's gross," said Sydney, "It sounds like someone is going to give our faces a facial using their feet."

     The first obstacle we encountered was the completion of our client profile cards. "T-zone," Sydney frowned, considering the possible "trouble" areas on her face, "Are there any other letter options?" Given the choices of skin tone, I systematically eliminated ivory, beige and ebony. I really wanted to check "fawn" but my inherent honestly wouldn't allow it. "Is albino available?" I inquired. Meg and I enjoyed the politically-correct terminology of the form when we encountered the term, "expression lines." Sue finally managed to wrestle our reluctant feet into little bath tubs or, as my little dachshund perceived them, giant doggie water bowls. Step one of the foot transformation process was the application of a gummy-type water-resistant gel. The water in our tubs responded to the re-entry of our feet like the Red Sea responded to Moses' raised arms while the Israelites raced through. Meanwhile, we all held our hands up like surgeons while Sue patiently wiped them. The next application was a gritty cream which exfoliated our rough heels followed by a satiny smoothing cream. Rising from this baptismal bath, my feet were transformed into those of a movie star. "Which movie star," Savannah said, "Fred Flintstone?"

     Even though Savannah initially raised a bit of a stink about the experience, our feet are definitely no worse for wear.  Meg organized a mini-riot upon her discovery that May Kay had discontinued the distribution of a tint-colored lip balm but was eventually calmed after she purchased her favorite fragrance, "Thinking of you." Sydney bustled off to a bon-fire where her feet shone brighter than the flames. Invigorated by her foot facial, Savannah discovered she had a bit more bounce in her step during her seven mile run with her friend Brittany the next morning. As for me, I'm off to a second-hand store to see if I can score some Jimmy Choo shoes to showcase my fancy new feet.

De bus! De bus!

Reminiscent of Mr. Rourke from Fantasy Island, I greet the summer school bus upon arrival every morning. With a fake grin plastered to my face, I stand by as each student descends those steep steps, complimenting outfits, sharing weather-related observations and attempting to coax reluctant smiles from despondent children. Then I wait to receive the daily bus-behavior update. Who spit on who. Who lashed out vindictively at another with a hairbrush or, my favorite, a tiny clip-on tie. The bus is a mobile microcosm of deviancy. Cherubs transform into terrorists during the twenty minute ride. To shield Savannah from the driving debauchery residing on the bus, our teen neighbors told my then-first grader that the middle finger meant "be quiet."

While I'm not quite ready to give up a percentage of my own paycheck just yet, I firmly believe that bus drivers DO NOT receive a compensatory salary reflective of their enormous responsibilities. Etiquette upholder, discipline enforcer, nanny, homework helper, advice-giver, relationship mediator, referee...all while keeping two capable hands on the wheel and careful eyes on the road, occasionally looking into that long rear-view mirror to yell, "Sit down back there! Do you want me to pull this bus over?" Outnumbered thirty to one, bus drivers must rely on their wits to manage their monstrous loads. An intuitive driver can read a sudden silence with ease and assigns seats mercilessly. Because of the marked lack of necessary direct adult supervision, bus drivers find it difficult to extend disciplinary action beyond the bi-fold doors. So frustrating, yet they still dole out stickers and candy. They can recite the names of pets. They won't let a young child off the bus if they notice the reliable parent's car is not in the driveway. They still smile.

Today, I was waved to the bus. I proceeded over eagerly, certain that I was about to receive a long-overdue award. One passenger remained on the recently-vacated vehicle, clinging to her seat like a baby-monkey. I approached the situation with sensitivity and care. "Yo, let's go there, sweetness. Time's a'wasting." Her small hands gripped the plastic-coated seat-bench with renewed vigor. "What's the problem," I asked. "I don't want to go to school," came the time-honored response. "Join the club," I smiled, "but it's a little late for that. We're already here. Now the choice is being cooped up on this empty bus or head into the school where I can offer you an assortment of tasty beverages, all from the comfort of a padded chair in the air-conditioned office." She insisted on holding my hand as we exited the bus. My waiting fourth graders giggled maniacally as we made our way successfully into the school. "Mrs. Mosiman, you can't talk to little kids like that," I was told. "What?" I replied, "I got her off the bus, didn't I?" "You're suppose to be nicer," my eight-year-old student explained. I'm not a cruise director, for pete's sake. There are only two ports of call for the school bus and neither one of them is Puerto Vallarta so I can relate to the reluctance to leave the promenade deck. But thanks to some carefully-worded encouragement on my part, my passenger successfully disembarked and was now ready to set sail on the sea of education. "Smiles, everyone, smiles."

My green thumb has gangrene

I do not work in harmony with nature. My inability to distinguish vegetation has almost cost me friendships. I have been traumatized to the point where I now refuse to consume homegrown produce. My husband is reluctant to let me weed as my hands are magnetically-drawn to his cultivated crops. I get the whole "go green" concept. I just don't want to go where green typically resides. Where there are gardens, there is dirt. Where there are flowers and vegetables, there are spiders, snails, centipedes, and snakes. I do not deny the right of these creatures to dwell upon this earth. I do have a problem with building them a convenient ecosystem right next to my house.

Many years ago, during the early stage of burgeoning friendship with Jeanne, I took a hike with her, pretending to enjoy such activities. Our relationship almost came to an abrupt end as she pointed out and named different plants for me to enjoy and appreciate. Yawn. "That one over there," she informed me, gesturing to yet another green plant, this one with small purple flowers, "is the Deadly Nightshade." Isn't she dramatic, I thought to myself, scanning the foliage hopefully for a Pepsi machine. It wasn't until later that I discovered that Jeanne wasn't tossing around unnecessary adjectives. Because of Jeanne, I know that Dame's Rocket and Phlox are similar but not the same. Because of me, Jeanne can remember most of the rules to euchre.

Jeanne loves to garden; enthusiastically creating an herb wheel in her yard. Get this: she had her swimming pool REMOVED in order to install a bunch of spices that you can get for ninety-nine cents at the grocery store. How can I be friends with this? Her sister, Ann, just spurs her on. I occasionally visit Ann's blog, http://cassidyhillgarden.wordpress.com/, dedicated to gardening, just because I admire her incomprehensible enthusiasm about the subject. She writes about "changing the character of the backyard" and delights in the blooming of hostas. She and Jeanne swap plants like little boys swap trading cards. I like to look at the pictures of her kitty-cats. My husband, Brad and Jeanne can talk for hours about gardening. Their favorite subject is raised beds. Yawn. I refuse to acknowledge the presence of the Mosiman garden. Despite his numerous efforts, Brad has never successfully found a grape or cherry tomato small enough to satisfy me. Brad has another version of the following incident but the true story is that, one day, while I was sacrificially eating a salad made with lettuce grown from the garden, I consumed a slug. From that day forward, I vowed NEVER to eat anything grown from the ground unless it had been hauled hundreds of miles in a tractor trailer, bundled together with the strongest rubber-bands known to mankind, and wrapped in plastic. Similarly, I won't eat fresh fish unless it has spent the night in my freezer first.

And today, just when I thought it was safe to go back into the garden...well, actually, the berry patch. I am blessed with a blackberry bush that beckons just a few feet from my parked truck. I get home from work, walk six steps and start grazing. Couldn't be happier. Later in the day, Brad and I visited another berry bush at a less convenient location on our three-quarters of an acre property. Wrestling a prickly pine tree for the fruit, I gathered up a handful. I popped one in my mouth when a tickling along my palm caught my attention. Horrified, I pitched my handful of ant-covered blackberries and began dancing around, screaming that I ate an ant or maybe even a colony. I know what you're thinking but it turns out that it's a lot easier to give up lettuce than it is to abstain from blackberries. Once the ants had disbanded my berries, I picked them up off the ground and, after careful inspection, gobbled them up.

Brad and I then walked down to the pond to check out the blackberry patch down there. Accessibility was greatly hindered by tall, green shoots covered with prickers. As Brad picked from the opposite side, I systematically stomped down these annoying weeds to give me ample room to reach my blackberries. Wondering what I was up to, Brad wandered around and began yelling at me. He yells at me a lot. "What are you doing," he asked incredulously. "I got rid of these weeds so we could get to the blackberries," I defensively answered. "Those ARE blackberries!" he hollered. Crushed, I looked down in despair at my stained-fingers, "now purple with love's wound" (A Midsummer Night's Dream), and, like Lady Macbeth, rubbed ineffectually at the evidence of my ignorantly irreparable damage. My green thumb, painted purple. I would be the Hester Prynne of the plant community, nobly paying purple penance for the remainder of my days.

Good grammar according to Evie and Jane

Typically hypocritical, I love to edit but hate to be edited. Re-reading my own blogs causes me pain as I inevitably stumble upon a spelling or grammatical error that, to me, invalidates my entire message and exposes me as a writing fraud. Teaching the parts of speech is so much fun but I'm still trying to decipher split infinitives and often unintentionally leave my particles dangling. How embarrassing. The writing process is fascinating as the brain must sift through thousands and thousands of words in search of literary gold. Yesterday, one of my summer school scholars had returned from a week of camp to revisit a developing paragraph on the traditional life of the Iroquois. When she encountered a brain block, I helpfully prompted her, saying, "Think of something you caught at camp." Her forehead wrinkled as she pondered, "A cold?"

Although I tread lightly around plural possessives, I adore apostrophes and will not abide the public mistreatment of punctuation.  The other day, friends and I were out for a little treat and passed a pizza shop sidewalk sign, advertising the day's specials: two pizza's for the price of one. I began to hyperventilate. Glancing furtively around, I crept up to the sign and discreetly wiped the chalked apostrophe off before scurrying away. Later, my friend, Evie spoke up. "Amy, Jane and I have an ELA-related question." Uh-oh, I sometimes get in over my head during these discussions. "Shoot," I said, semi-confidently. "Is is proper grammar to use the phrase 'these ones'?" Jane asked. Good question. The word these is a plural pronoun and those of you familiar with Schoolhouse Rock (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=koZFca8AkT0) will remember that a pronoun takes the place of a noun which, in this case, is the word ones. Although I don't know if it's wrong, it does seem unnecessary. "Let's think of a scenario where it might work," I suggested. After some deliberation (and snacking), Evie suddenly brightened. "What about this?" she said, "Imagine there are several piles of one dollar bills and someone asks which pile has the counterfeit bill in it?" Jane smiled, reaching across the table for the stack of imaginary cash. "These ones," she shouted, waving the magical money in the air. We digested this scenario for a moment. Score! Intellectual table conversation is so gratifying. I learned a lot. But the most important thing that I learned is, if you need any grammar tips, ask Jane and Evie.

"Helping" Brad tile the floor

The one direction that I was given was short and simple: do NOT walk on the newly-laid tile. The first time I walked across it, Brad yelled at me to get off. The second time, I surfed across its smooth, slippery surface while Brad scowled at me. The third time, I skipped across them like they were hot coals. Trowel in hand, Brad gave me my next direction so here I sit, watching him spread out the mortar and carefully place each tile. I also watched, with some resentment, as our little dachshund, Chloe traipsed across the forbidden floor to be happily welcomed by my husband. "She doesn't shift the squares," he said in response to my frown.

After Chloe was finished tromping on the latest tile as though it were a trampoline, she began a stealthy ascent up the forbidden dining room stairs. Steep for her squatty little legs, the stairs present a tempting challenge as Chlo stretches her body up and over each step. I watched her slow progress and then caught my breath as she teetered at the top. Time stopped as my little dog hung suspended in the air, like a dewdrop from a rose, before plummeting to the ground as my scream echoed in the tiled chamber of my dining room. "Wait a second," Savannah interrupted, "I about busted an elbow earlier this afternoon and you couldn't be bothered getting out of your chair to see if I was alright yet when Chlo falls a couple of feet, you fall to pieces?" In my defense, Savannah responds to pain like a wounded animal, more likely to snap than accept sympathy. I prefer to let her pain subside a bit before I approach her. Chlo, on the other hand, clearly needed immediate cuddling and consoling before once more glancing longingly to that missed top step. 

Why are directions so hard to follow? My stepping on those tiles was an automated response similar to when one uselessly flips a light-switch when the power is out. Chloe is looking to elevate her current one-and-a half-feet-from-the-floor status. And, of course, that which is forbidden is just so darn tempting. Stay off the tiles. Stay off the stairs. Stay within eyesight. Stay within the speed limit. Staying within the lines just isn't my and Chlo's style. Unfortunately, that might result in a crooked floor and a broken back so perhaps we might need to reach a compromise. A taped-off barrier might be a handy visual reminder for a forgetful mind and Chlo simply needs a Sherpa for her next summit attempt. 

Sydney's blackbelt test

I have been married to a martial arts practitioner for a quarter of a century. It requires a tremendous amount of self-discipline to be partnered with such an individual as Brad Mosiman as his tolerance for my karate-related humor definitely has its limits. Sydney has been taking karate with her father since she was a little girl and today, she took her black belt test. The preparations for this day have been intense and, occasionally, I was needed to act as the light-hearted intermediary.  As Brad read off Japanese martial arts moves for Sydney to demonstrate, I would giggle because they all sounded like motorcycle names to me. To be helpful, I suggested my own move. "Have her do mickeymousiegoofy," I whispered to my husband. When he noticed her frustration growing, he slid the term in and Sydney responded by glowering at me. I was beside myself during one of her katas (choreographed defense movements) that has very specific breathing patterns. I re-named it "Darth Vader Presents Baby Simba."  Turns out Sydney doesn't find me all that funny either.

Sydney defending from a chair...
see picture to the right to view the outcome

Look for Syd's foot and
the crumpled chair

Seventeen established blackbelts attended the test today. Some traveled as far as two hours away to be there. Many have known her since she was small, in fact, one held her just hours after her birth, but they weren't there to test a child. It wasn't an easy event for non-martial arts practitioning mother to watch. During a two hour span of time,

Flipping an attacker while
her father looks on

Sydney and her dad

Sydney demonstrated her skills before an intimidating panel of judges. She defended against frontal attacks, weapons, and blows from behind. She warded off aggressions as she was seated in a chair, fought off threats while lying on her back AND stomach, and was shook like a bottle if celebratory champagne, caught up in a restraining bearhug, kicking and clawing like a wildcat. Asked to approach the panel table, Sydney emitted a disturbing but sort of discreet cough. Savannah and I looked at each other in horror. Our little champagne bottle was about to pop. We watched as Sydney struggled to respectfully listen, now fighting an internal battle. Well, let's just say, you can't win 'em all. Sydney vomited (three times) with great dignity and amazing force within two feet of the people who would determine the awarding of her blackbelt.  As a result of this event, a splatter shield, named in Sydney's honor, will now be erected between the panel and perspective blackbelts.

Defending against multiple attackers

Despite Sydney's baptism of the panel table, the test continued. She fought off multiple attackers who rushed at her with an equal fear of being flipped and being vomited on. Her fists flew, kicks flew but fortunately, the remainder of her lunch stayed down. As the test concluded, Sydney stood back-to-back with her fellow test-taker, Jeffrey as over a dozen blackbelts surrounded them. As if on cue, the blackbelts descended upon Sydney and Jeffrey in a terrifying martial arts movie spectacle. I lost sight of her blonde ponytail until she emerged, having created a human-sized corridor for herself by sending bodies somersaulting, flipping and flying out of her way.  And as a result of all this, she earned her right to wear a blackbelt...in this case, her father's blackbelt. Seems like an awful lot of trouble to go through when you can just drive to a Wal-Mart to buy yourself a black belt there.

Unfair odds

Sydney receiving her father's blackbelt

Epic self-serve failure at Yoberry

The Mosimans stridently refuse to give up any personal information to retailers. We have been offered discounts, free socks, cloth shopping bags and candy if we were willing to sign up for the in-store discount card. When asked, we pass on the email, produce a fake phone number and offer Warsaw’s zip code. The Mosimans prefer to do our shopping anonymously. Except Sydney.  Sydney has a daily texting relationship with Yoberry of Geneseo. Sydney, without prompting, happily punches her phone number into their awful data-collecting machine. Today, Yoberry graciously gave Sydney a "free" eight ounce container's worth of their product to reward her loyal patronage and willingness to drive forty minutes one way to get to the store.

Having finally flavored the Yoberry experience, I could understand Syd's insatiable craving for their countless kinds of lowfat yogurt and over fifty mind-boggling toppings. As Savannah had not had the opportunity to savor the self-serve experience, our family jumped in the van after supper and made the trek to Yoberry.  I patiently read each of the flavors to Savannah, handed her a dish and then gave her room to deliberate her decisions. Sydney and I were immediately in the zone. I used Tahitian Vanilla as a base, sandwiched between the more daring Caramel Fudge Éclair and Pomegranate Energy. I deftly moved onto the toppings, applying a thin sheet of hot fudge lightly across the top of my cool treat before appraising the amazing fruit assortment. Raspberries and blackberries were the natural choice accompanied by my newest discovery: Popping Bobas. Popping Bobas look like miniature bath balls that explode with fruit juice. Brad, who selected chocolate and vanilla yogurt, mind you, said they resemble salmon eggs. My husband’s treat-related taste buds have yet to fully blossom.

With my created concoction in hand, I went to check on Savannah’s progress. To my horror, she was standing, stunned, with her fluorescent-colored yogurt forming a warped, over-sized sculpture in her cup. “What happened?” I asked softly, taking her gently by the elbow and leading her off to the side as some Yoberry veterans shook their heads with sympathy while others just shook with laughter. “I don’t know,” she muttered, “It was all just a blur.” Sydney and I quickly assessed the damage and realized that there existed no magical topping to redeem this disaster. We paid for our purchases and sat outside to watch the impressive lightning show. Sydney and I tried coaxing Savannah to share our own award-winning creations but her grief was too great. 

Is this how it was going to end? Would Savannah’s attitude about self-serve yogurt be forever blemished by this botched, first-time experience? Would she associate all self-serve experiences in the same category and develop a fear of scanning her own groceries or pumping her own gas?  I refuse to believe it. Sydney’s Yoberry text was a sign that we need to get Savannah immediately back on that low-fat pony. With some encouragement and a stable hand, Savannah will get this process reined right in. It’s time to take a ride to Geneseo.

Bringing a blanket to the movies doesn't mean you're old...just cold

Society has been subtly acknowledging my age lately and as you would expect, I am less than delighted. Several months ago, I sat, distorted and blinded following my eye appointment, because my demented optometrist felt the need to dilate both mine and my daughter's pupils. Blinking like little owls, we waited for sight to return. Sydney rebounded fairly quickly while I resembled a vampire for another forty minutes. "Tsk, tsk, tsk," commiserated the vision specialist, "Eyes tend to do that after age forty." What? Excuse me? My eyesight has been consistently stable since I slapped on my horn-rimmed spectacles in 4th grade. "Tie a rope around her waist when hiking in the woods," one eye doctor advised my husband over a decade ago, "if she loses those glasses, she'll never find her way out." Do all optometrists receive the same sensitivity training?

Today, to escape the oppressive heat, I made plans to attend an afternoon matinee with some friends. As we prepared to depart, I asked to borrow a jacket or sweatshirt. "You are aware that it's 95 degrees outside," Evie said questioningly, handing me a hoodie. "I get cold in the theatre," I responded defensively, wishing that I was brave enough to ask for a blanket. When I was a kid, family friends would visit, lugging in a giant bag filled with slippers (I'm not even going to mention that they were hand-crocheted). It took twenty years for me to recognize the genius of this little maneuver. I now obsess over the comfy quality of my own slippers and uninhibitedly tote them from place to place.

Hoodie in hand, the smell of movie popcorn tantalizingly close, I approached the ticket counter. "Admission for The Heat," the manager said, already punching buttons on his obnoxious little computer. "How do you know I want to see that particular movie," I asked, baffled. He raised an arrogant eyebrow at me. "Did you profile me," I said indignantly. "I might have very well wanted to see Despicable Me II or maybe I wanted to see The Conjuring!" He paused, eyebrow lost along his silver-crested hairline, "So...what do you want to see?" Shamefaced, I mustered enough dignity to quietly hiss, "The Heat, please." As I sat among a quarter-filled theatre populated mostly with middle-aged women (and one creepy guy), I fumed for two hours, watching two middle-aged women actors (who look infinitely better than me and are in much better shape), wishing I had a hand-crocheted blanket and my slippers.

As the credits rolled, I carefully considered the life lesson imparted to me by Sandra Bullock and Melissa McCarthy. If I want to regain a cutting-edge cool aura, I need to change into a black t-shirt and significantly increase my f-word usage. I stomped up the aisle and stormed by the theatre manager as he held the door open for me like I was a doddling old fool. "I will not be typecast," I informed him, "I do not conform to a stereotype."  "Of course, of course," he agreed patronizingly, before asking, "Did you enjoy the movie?" Shamefaced, I mustered enough dignity to whisper, "Yes," before scurrying out the door. Passing a coming attractions poster highlighting the riveting work of Ashton Kutcher, I rallied one more time. "That looks like a delightful movie," I said loudly, wincing as the movie manager nodded knowingly. Dang! I forgot that forty-year-old chicks dig Ashton Kutcher (Isn't it cute how I categorize myself among the ranks of Sandra Bullock, Melissa McCarthy and Demi Moore?). I left that movie theatre with a renewed perspective. I WILL NOT bow to society's expectations of the interests, activities, and supposed limitations of the forty-and-over set. Maybe I'll learn something new. Crocheting sounds fun. Meanwhile, society can just mind its own (f-ing) business.

My theory on bug-related traffic injuries (not yet published in scholarly journals)

Before I begin, let me put it out there that bugs, for the most part, do not bother me. I am not one of those girls who, upon spotting an arthropod, shriek uncontrollably, flail my arms about in windmill fashion and race madly from the room. I admit to a rational amount of squeamishness around large, furry spiders and I break land-speed records backpedaling away from multi-legged millipedes but otherwise, I live in compatible harmony with any bug that I can trap under a plastic cup to fling back to its natural, outdoor, away-from-me existence.

My friend, Sarah and I are prone to deep, philosophical conversations in between commercials or when we should be paying attention during professional development opportunities. Usually our topics center around my abysmal taste in jewelry, her inability to locate the windshield washer solvent compartment in her car, the plausibility of hosting a jousting tournament during our 6th grade Renaissance Faire, and re-routing household funds into a secret Swiss bank account so our husbands will remain blissfully unaware of the thousands of dollars being funneled into meaningful classroom projects. I personally drop twenty dollars alone on googly eyes annually.  

Several years ago, while somewhat listening to a professional extolling the benefits of positivity in the academic setting, Sarah and I realized that that particular philosophy was not compatible to our classroom environments so we began discussing the more-relevant topic of insect-related car mishaps. Having been the victim of countless collisions as bugs came barreling through my open-car-window, pelting my body with stinging barbs or leaving me screaming me with uncertainty as to their creepy-crawling 4-11, I speculated that many questionable car crashes could be attributed to bugs. To further strengthen this hypothesis, I shared that the CSI analysis would undoubtedly overlook this tiny factor as, more than likely, the perpetrator would simply scamper undetected from the scene. Sarah, naturally, was in awe when confronted with such rational logic. Little did I know that this conversation, combined with my shared personal anecdote, would forever alter Sarah's perceptions of insect-car compatibility.

Many years ago, I was driving sedately down the road with my children when, without warning, a bee flew in my window at approximately 55 miles per hour, violently striking my chest before falling into my shirt with angry buzzing noises. I did what an normal person would do: I yanked our truck to the side of the road, launched myself bodily from the vehicle, ripped off my shirt and danced around manically in the middle of Route 78.  My daughters, naturally, cherish this memory. Yesterday, Sarah was struck with a similar situation. She unintentionally and unwillingly carpooled her way from Chili to Wyoming County with an impossible-to-locate but equally impossible-to-ignore bug. She dangerously drove distracted for an hour before reaching me. She threw her car in park and ran away, vowing to never re-enter the vehicle until the vermin had been located and removed. Hours later, we were on our way.

That same day, my daughters and I again embarked on a journey down the infamous Route 78. The wind in our hair, semi-fresh country air filling the truck with the familiar smells of summer, I felt a sharp stinging on my shoulder-blade. I yelped and slapped at the area, prepared to pull the van over. "It wasn't a bug, Mom," Sydney said comfortingly. "What was it," I asked fearfully as a PBS survivor (post-bug syndrome).  "You had a string of elastic sticking out of your shirt," she explained. "So you pulled it?" I snapped, my shoulder still smarting. Resuming our travels, I mused that I might have to revise my original hypothesis, broadening the scope to include wardrobe mishaps. I can't wait for my next professional development conference to share this latest update with Sarah. Until then, I will rejoice in the life-saving capabilities afforded by modern technology. What's that saying? When God closes a window, he turns on the air conditioning to save you from a bug-induced car collision.

"Crumb"-y two-pillow pals

After church yesterday, my family attended a farewell potluck banquet for our friend, and church secretary, Amy T. We listened as speaker after speaker approached the microphone and fought through emotion-packed tributes. Had a fire started during the program, the sprinkler system would have been unnecessary. At one point, Savannah poked me and hissed, "She's not dying, for pete's sake. She's just going to Texas!" True. While I did not succumb to ready weeping, I will, without a doubt, miss my friend. Although she is MUCH older than me, we grew up in the same small town and after graduation, went our separate ways. When my family began attending the church where we currently worship, I was surprised to see Amy serving as the organization's secretary. It was an unsettling re-introduction as two adult Christian women eyed each other up, recognizing that both held childhood stories from our shared past that neither one of wanted to re-visit. It was with this monumental step of unspoken trust that we truly began our friendship.

Ours is an easy friendship of laughter, teasing and jokes. Amy and I have served together on several short-term missions trips, each more hilariously traumatic than the last. I began my marriage as a military wife and Brad's subsequent jobs had him away from home regularly so I had trouble relating to Amy's angst over being away from her home and husband. These trips were definitely outside of her comfort zone and, while I outwardly made fun of her, I inwardly admired her commitment and sacrifice in service to the Lord. The trials we endured...it pains me to even write about it now.

It was Waynesville, North Caroline. Or was it Waynesburg? Or Waynesborough? Whatever. We were leading a youth team in revitalizing a church which consisted of Amy T painting, Amy T scrubbing, Amy T sweeping, and Amy T organizing while Amy M ate pizza and oversaw the creation of a giant cross mural on an outside wall. "Maybe we should have sketched the dimensions first," I remarked, taking another bite of pizza and observing the misshapen, lumpy letter "X"  adorning our "revitalization" project. After a long hard day of strenuous labor, we lovingly tucked our teens in and retired to our modest quarters. Now, as Savannah would report it, she would have you believe that fifteen teen girls were left laying on a hard cement floor with threadbare blankets while Amy and I were outfitted with the queen's quarters. Nonsense. What comes next is the actual transcribed conversation recorded from our shared pioneer-like trundle bed.

Amy T:  What's the matter with you! Settle down! Why are you thrashing around like that?

Amy M: Where did these people pick up their hosting skills from? Prison? I only have one pillow! You know I'm a two-pillow person!

Amy T: Oh my goodness! Really?!? Would you just get over yourself! You don't see me complaining and I'm laying on a crumb-coated mattress! 

Amy M: (feeling around) There do seem to be more than your average amount of crumbs in here. Wait...how do you know they're crumbs?

Silence penetrating a dark room somewhere in Wayne City, North Carolina and then screams pierce the air as two women scramble from their bed. 

Having never viewed "Deliverance" in its entirety,  we also agreed to accompany the group on a tubing adventure. Our pastor got bogged down when he insisted on being encased in a lifejacket and we didn't see him again from several days. One of our cherubs was a little needier than we would have preferred...if the world is going to revolve around anyone other than Jesus, Amy and I agreed, it would be us...and when her unreasonable demands could no longer be met, Amy T, her rear in an unextractable state, wedged underwater, within a rubber tire, her perfectly-pedicured toes wiggling skyward, memorably yelled, "Leave her there," as I was trudging upstream to rescue the child for the fiftieth time.  It's the Lord's work, but someone has to do it.

While everyone else bought thoughtful, meaningful presents,
I was busy fabric-painting two complaining cartoon
women on travel-sized pillows.

So my friend, the homebody, is pulling up firmly-established roots, packing her forty pounds of hair products and moving to Texas. I am so proud of her. She is led by love and loyalty and faith. It all comes back to trust. Like two friends who have to trust that the other will keep her secrets (unless they could be sold for a sizable profit whereupon we would split the money), Amy trusts in God's plan for her and her family. Plus I'm excited because I've never been to Texas and I guarantee that, when I visit her, Amy will make sure that my bed is crumb-free and outfitted with two pillows!

This postie-note has not yet been rated

During one of our visits to Saint Augustine, my family visited Ponce de Leon's archaeological park and descended into a cool coquina chamber to sip from the spring of eternal hope. The mythical fountain of youth. While some of the wonder was sapped away as it was served from mini-Dixie bathroom cups rather than the impressive array of goblets featured in the knight's anteroom from "Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade," I was, nonetheless, transformed.

Inspired by this life-changing experience, my husband has been attempting to apply the same principles to our faithful fourteen-year-old Ford Ranger. Often one tire rotation away from total life-support, Ranger gets revived thanks to Brad's constant care and vigilance. On an 8-mile roundtrip-to-work exercise regimen, Ranger is slowly easing into retirement.  I affectionately joke, outside of Brad's hearing, that I often feel like Wonder Woman piloting her invisible plane as the rust eats away my truck's exterior.

Lately, Ranger's exhaust system could drown out a Boeing 747. Because Brad has been spending more time laying underneath the truck than on the couch watching reality tv with his family, I decided to intervene. "Is there anything I can do to help," I asked with complete insincerity.  Without warning, he handed me some metal tube thingamabobs and asked me to exchange them at the auto parts store. Oh no, this never ends well. I listened intently to his instructions about boring clamps and something called a reducer. He rattled off a bunch of numbers and tossed in some math-related terms such as "diameter." I knew I was in way over my head on this one so I grabbed a postie-note and jotted down the information as well as a helpful diagram of the tube, labeling the 2 inch rounded end and then the 2 1/2 inch rounded end. Savannah graciously consented to accompany me after I reminded her of her rent-free existence but she put her foot down as we prepared to enter the establishment. "Leave the postie-note in the car," she said. "Why?" I wondered, knowing that there was no way I'd walk out of that store with anything even remotely

resembling Brad's description without it. "Because your diagram looks like a penis," Savannah said bluntly. I looked at my handiwork in amazement. Why hadn't I seen it before? It was like one of those Magic Eye illusion posters, only in this case, it wasn't a magic "eye." Point taken. We left our pornographic postie-note in the vehicle.

With parts in hand (hee hee), we proudly presented Brad with his requested items. He inspected them like he was looking for flaws in a department store diamond. He sighed with unsurprised resignation. "It's the wrong one." What?!?! "No, look," I corrected, "2 inch and 2 1/2 inch. It says it right there." "It says 2 inch ID and 2 1/2 OD. I had you write on your postie-note ID for inner diameter." Dagnabit! As always, size definitely matters but, until that moment, I had no idea what an important role diameter played too!

Frankly my dear, multiplication facts are for fuddy-duddies

7s facts fingernails

I don't know what happened. Yesterday, I was the greatest teacher on the planet, singularly responsible for successfully embedding the multiplication-by-6 facts into my students' heads through a careful regimen of specially chosen computer games (Google: multiplication of 6 facts games), daily timed drills accompanied by low-decibel shouting, verbal skip-counting and kinesthetic activities. Today, like a high-powered magnet rubbed across a credit card, the 6 facts had been eradicated from their memory banks. I was, without a doubt, the worst teacher on the planet. What was I doing wrong? I had highly motivated students, eager to participate in the lessons, clearly on board to learn and I had somehow failed them. The disintegration of automaticity when it comes to multiplication recall is often cited as the single most factor contributing to the break-down of today's society (the lack of implemented cursive writing comes in at a close second). You've heard the old codgers say it all before (insert shaky, grizzled voice here) , "Why in my day, kids could count back change, recite the Gettysburg Address backwards, and diagram sentences blindfolded. Now, EVERYBODY gets a trophy and NOBODY knows how to change a flat tire. The only thing these whippersnappers need to be able to spell these days is AAA."  Well, I wasn't about to schedule a tire-changing lesson for my 4th graders (although we did spend an entertaining twenty minutes watching the Safelite Autoglass guy switch out a windshield in the school parking lot yesterday), I refused to give up on our multiplication facts. "Back to the drawing board," I bellowed, "we're going to keep practicing! Learning numbers is a snap!" I snapped my fingers and inspiration struck. I dug through Sydney's vast repertoire of nail polish colors, grabbed the brightest one and quickly applied a base-coat to every fingernail in the room. Once dry, I carefully drew a 7s fact on each finger. We reviewed 6s and then began our 7s regimen. 7 x 3 was frustratingly evasive. I tried a biblical tactic. We marched around the perimeter of the school, chanting 7 x 3 is 21 at the top of our voices until we nailed it! (Is it necessary to point out my little pun or did you catch it on your own?) I hope the fingernail thing works because the next step is a field trip to the closest tattoo parlor. Allow me to paraphrase Lincoln's famous speech to suit the occasion: "As God as my witness, we will master our multiplication facts!"

"Sweet Home Alabama, Sydney shouldn't be listening to you"

For reasons that will never be fully understood, New York State issued Sydney Mosiman a driver's license. For reasons that are more-than-obviously apparent to anyone who considers road safety a chief concern, Brad and I immediately implemented some rules for the protection of our child, other motor vehiclists, and anyone within a 250 foot radius of the road.  Rule number one was that Sydney has to text us upon arrival AND departure. Rule number two: no radio. Now, just between you and me (and the three other people who read this blog out of sympathy), I am FULLY aware that the minute Sweet Baby left the drive-way and was out of sight of the house, the radio was quickly turned on. But as long as she was smart enough to have it off each time Ranger was parked in the drive-way, I could a) fool myself into believing that she respected and abided by my rules and b) know that having her conscientiously shield her clandestine radio antics from me, she also had to acknowledge that her parents consider the radio a distraction and she might, just might be a bit more careful. Hey, face it. If I can't get Sydney to ride around in a magical bubble, I might as well hop aboard.

So there we were, Brad and I, deep in meditative prayer as Sydney made the perilous 14-mile journey to work. Suddenly, Brad's cell phone rang. He listened for a moment, then, with an alarmed glance at me, set the device to "speaker." "Sweet Home, Alabama...where skies are so blue..." I admit I was baffled. Was this some sort of satellite interference? Did we cross lines with someone else's phone? Can a cell phone actually "cross lines?" Now alarmed at my level of ignorance, Brad mercilessly pulled my head out of the sand. "That's your daughter. She butt-dialed me." We marveled as Sydney finished accompanying Leonard Skynyrd, wondering why she had ever quit chorus. She then began the process of shuffling though thousands of other stations to find another song to her liking. Meanwhile, I was busy sending her a complimentary text, informing her of some significant changes that were being made to her summer schedule plans.

Some time later, Savannah arrived home to find her father and I in an agitated state with no discernible explanation. Sniffing around for clues, she eventually stumbled on my carefully crafted cell phone message to her sister and enjoyed a soul-cleansing laugh before pausing to ponder HOW Brad and I came upon our top-secret information. The interrogation immediately began. Under this extremely annoying pressure, I eventually caved; confessing that Daddy had installed security cameras in all of the family vehicles. Doubtful at first, my college daughter continued to grill me. I admitted my lack of knowledge regarding the schematics of the process but said that I was on board, like my nation, occasionally willing to forego the luxury of privacy in the name of safety. Savannah then turned her now-angry attention to her father. She threw out some technical jargon which her father easily lobbed back as he explained how the security system also routed through the fm system of the radios. "Get it out NOW!" she shouted, immediately regressing to age two. Brad and I high-fived as Savannah stomped out of the room. What this little anecdote demonstrates is that, when consumed by negative emotions, re-focus your energy on more productive activities, like messing with Savannah's head.  As for Sydney, she was listening to the wrong song. We are currently working on a parody of "Video Killed the Radio Star." The working title is "The Radio Killed Any Chance of Sydney Having a Social Life."

Teaching outside of the cardboard box

I have taught summer school for the past seven years. Teamed up with my friend, Elisha, that first year was pretty magical. We erected a giant tent in the center of the classroom and conducted lessons from there. In between reciting math facts and reading, we made worms-in-dirt and Oreo cookie spiders while singing about dying cockroaches and Catalina Magdalena.

Subsequent years boasted some pretty memorable moments including the genius implementation of Sundae Fridays, squirrel tag, and the assembly-lined creation of pipe-cleaner mice based on Avi’s rodent-ridden adventure, Poppy. Then there was the infamous year where I cleverly invented a game called “Bounce a tennis ball against a brick wall and catch it.”

I admit that this year, I got off to a bit of a rough start. Surrounded by young, nauseatingly enthusiastic teachers (wait, when did I STOP qualifying for this category?), I growled as I observed their classroom doors, decorated with fun, colorful surfboards and banners. Peering into rooms, I saw reading corners adorned with beach umbrellas and desks sporting cute little supply buckets. To top it off, my across-the-hall neighbor posted a ridiculous sign that read: “Welcome to Camp Learns-a-Lot.” Blah!

Self-reflectively, I assessed my summer school classroom with its bare walls (a blank slate!), my messy desk (Albert Einstein is famous for saying: “If a cluttered desk is a sign of a cluttered mind, of what, then, is an empty desk a sign?”), and the cavernous room devoid of color and overly-obvious nametags (Don’t they already know their names?). It was a far cry from that fun-filled first year. I racked my brain, considering what to do. It was pretty clear that my first impulse, which was to de-face the “Camp Learns-a-Lot” sign, while cathartic, was counter-productive. And then, it came to me.

Our planned read-aloud was Norton Juster’s classic, The Phantom Tollbooth.  I put in a call to my big box connection: Zeches Furniture Store in Warsaw and acquired a refrigerator box.  We started slow, designing the tollbooth based on the description from chapter one. I wrestled the box in the next day and realized that teachers expend WAY too much time creating complicated bulletin boards. I once spent two and a half hours taping a blue construction paper Yangtze River across my classroom floor. What an idiot move. All you have to do to engage students is throw a big box in the center of the room. Done.

I almost cancelled the decoration process of step two because the students were so happy with the box but I couldn't bear the perceived judgment emanating from hallway passers-by when they spotted an arbitrary cardboard box in my room.  So after summer school was over today, Sydney and I hauled the box outside and, armed with spray cans, began the process of transforming it into a magical purple portal. Having seen the maneuver on plenty of cartoons, I licked my finger and held it up to determine wind direction. Prevalent conditions forced us to double-team one side at a time. “Do you like to be high,” I asked considerately, squatting to cover the lower half with a sweeping spray of purple mist. Wondering why my daughter wasn’t coating the top half, I glanced over to see her bent over, laughing hysterically.  

With both barrels blasting, we successfully painted 3/4s of the refrigerator box, 60% of our clothes, and ended up with some pretty fashionable purple highlights in our hair. After ample drying time, we wrestled the now-purple box back into the classroom.  Take that, Camp Learns-a-Lot!

Next on the summer school horizon: I will be transforming the school parking lot into a life-sized place value chart visible from space.  

An aunt's anguish

A couple of times a year, I snag my nieces, Alexis and Alea in order to blatantly buy their love. When they were younger, these little adventures required very little effort on my part. "Aunt Amy, can we go into that cornfield across from your house?" "Why, sure girls," I magnanimously consented. "Aunt Amy, can we go to Pizza Hut?" Despite the enormity of this unreasonable request, I eventually relented. "Aunt Amy, can we leap into that leech-filled swimming hole?" "I don't know, girls," I mused thoughtfully, "I think we should avoid unnecessarily contaminating the natural world with our deadly human bacteria."  However, their disappointment was so great that I decided to sacrifice the planet on their behalf.

Teen-agers require a bit more creativity. My coolness ratio has decreased somewhat since I discovered elastic waist jeans so I have to off-set my dufishness by getting Sydney or Savannah to join us. I planned the ultimate teen-girl outing several months ago with an itinerary that included a mall stop at "Charming Charlies" where I begged my nieces to let me buy them jewelry, a visit to a candy kiosk where we bought ten pounds of sugar-laden snacks, had lunch at our favorite burger joint, Five Guys, and the pièce de résistance, a zombie movie. 

Our recent plans came together rather naturally after I learned they'd never been to my favorite summer hang-out, Charcoal Corral. The first step to having a truly successful drive-in experience is the pre-drive-in-snack selection at the Perry Dollar General. With Raisinettes, Junior Mints, Pringles and Pepsis in hand, we were ready to face over four hours of outdoor cinematic pleasure. Thinking of my truck floor coated with french fries, I giggled when the girls explained that, in their family, eating in the vehicles is not permitted. I stopped giggling when they spilled our seven dollar jumbo tub of popcorn with extra extra butter...twice. We endured great hardship when the announcement  came over the speakers that the public restrooms, always a treat on the most normal of occasions, were temporarily out of order. Those five minutes were among the most traumatic of my life. For the next few hours, I wrestled with my tiny Tinker Bell blanket, having to make the agonizing decision of whether to cover my goose-bump encrusted arms or my frozen feet. I watched as Armie Hammer shot a gun with an infinite number of bullets while Johnny Depp performed a death-defying cirque de soleil act on a ladder between two speeding trains. For the second show, I cheered during a limousine car chase taking place on the White House lawn with Channing Tatum, whose shirt was constantly in tatters. Always a gentleman, he politely asked Jamie Foxx to not hit him in the head with the rocket launcher. Shortly after 2 am, we were at last on our way back home.

 To complete this magical experience, I pretended to be a person who makes pancakes every morning. We then cleaned out the van which consisted of laboriously opening up the sliding door to let the Rottweiler in to snarf up seven dollars worth of popcorn with extra extra butter. We drove the girls home quickly before they could come to their senses and realize that I am a complete fraud as aunts go. I know my time is limited.  I am grateful for every second that I get to spend with them. But what on earth will I do with them next? 

A case for the Kardahsians

Say what you want about the Kardashians, there's no denying that this family generates a wide spectrum of extreme public reaction. You are either fixated in fascinated disgust or you pretend to adopt a moral high-ground and sneak peeks peripherally. And even if you have managed to fool the world into believing that you are embarrassingly deficient in Kardashian trivia, you will be outed when you are at your most vulnerable. Case in point: my friend Sarah, who lacks the necessary emotional commitment and shallowness of character to consistently watch the show but will selfishly use and discard my years of dedicated research in order to legitimize her social status among her more low-brow buddies. And now that Sarah is pregnant, she has been keeping close tabs on Kim who is fearlessly blazing the motherhood trail ahead of her.

Cellphone conversation dated 6/13 from Sarah:  I can't believe I'm asking this but when is Kim Karsashian due? I will get that big, right? She's huge! No chance I'll look like Princess Kate.

Cellphone conversation dated 6/13 from Amy:  She's due later in June...Armenians tend to poof up a bit but petite Italian girls carry their pregnancies in an adorably cute and symmetrically balanced way. No worries.

Cellphone conversation dated 6/14 from Sarah:  Hmmm. I also saw on the cover of  "People" magazine that Kanye isn't going to be there for the birth. Is he the baby daddy? Are they dating?

Cellphone conversation dated 6/14 from Amy: Oh my goodness...do you reside on Mars? Yes...he's the proud papa and don't you believe the tabloids for a minute...he would NEVER cheat on Kim!

Cellphone conversation dated 6/16 from Amy: Kim had her baby...both mom and daughter are doing fine.

Cellphone conversation dated 6/16 from Sarah:  Did Kanye make it for the birth?

Cellphone conversation dated 6/16 from Amy:  He's a busy guy...I'm sure he did his best...there in spirit, for sure.

Cellphone conversation dated 6/16 from Sarah: OMG

Cellphone conversation dated 6/16 from Amy:  Go to church and think spiritual thoughts...get your mind out of the tabloid trash, you heathen.

Cellphone conversation dated 6/16 from Amy: Update...Kanye WAS there! For the record...I never doubted him.

Cellphone conversation dated 6/16 from Amy:  Let's see if Prince William can say the same.

Cellphone conversation dated 6/16 from Sarah:  Um yes, I think I heard a thread of doubt about Kanye's parenting in that last one. I have full confidence in Prince Will. What did Kim name the baby? Shouldn't you be at church too?

Cellphone conversation dated 6/16 from Amy:  It's been a rough-go on that front...I was completely distracted by someone's ugly poncho last week and am afraid it will make a reappearance plus Savannah and I were busy watching Brad Pitt and Jonah Hill in "Money Ball" (free HBO week-end!). Add in the fact that I am NOT a pastor's wife and I feel that you are the one everyone should be judging regarding our bottom-of-the-barrel Kardashian conversation. Allow me to be the one to throw the first stone.

Cellphone conversation dated 6/21 from Amy:  No lie...Kim's baby's name just released as "North West."

Cellphone conversation dated 6/21 from Sarah:  Hooray! I won't be the worst parent ever!

It is almost impossible to hold a Kardashian-free conversation these days.  A heated discussion erupted at a backyard barbecue last week as Nascar-watching, power-tool using, sports fans debated name possibilities for Kim and Kanye West's next bundle-of-publicity. Suggestions included:

a) Go
b) North by North
c) Due
d) Head
e) Look

Like it or not, the Kardashians have become part of the American family. We are all sudo-godparents to  Mason, Penelope and baby North. None of us questioned Bruce's decision to temporarily move into his own "man-house" until Kris dragged him home. We are all waiting patiently, proud of Scott as he slowly evolves into a mature individual who resists the impulse to stuff big bills into a waiter's mouth. We support Rob's sock venture. We admire their love and loyalty to one another. Wish they'd clean up their language a bit. Their abbreviated dialogue has penetrated our vernacular like an invasive species as we describe dinner as "fab" and call one another "dahl" with great affection. We're strangely glad that they've provided a conversational backdrop for practically any setting:  water-cooler, grocery store, dentist office, dining room. So make the choice: you can act all snootie and self-righteous, looking down your nose upon those familiar with the Kardashian dynasty OR you can voluntarily give up some of those self-important IQ points and wallow a bit with the commoners. It's too easy to sling mud but guess what, you get just as dirty.

Fourth of July Foods

So much of this holiday week-end has been wrapped up around food. Brad is an incredible cook and, at Savannah's request, put together his famous barbecue ribs. The ribs attained celebrity status when Savannah was in high school and learned that she could sell them in the cafeteria for a sizable profit. He also treated us to grilled peaches topped with a raspberry sauce. My role in the kitchen is a little

dicier. Brad, trying to make me feel like I actually had the potential to contribute to this culinary enterprise, asked me to make a cool melon relish that accidentally turned out to be edible the last time I put it together. Savannah got another taste of what happens when her mother fails to properly read directions (again) after she spent over an hour meticulously chopping a cantaloupe melon and a honeydew melon into  tiny little pieces. Just as she finished, I glanced at the recipe and realized that we only actually needed a cup or two of each. She immediately resigned from her position as my sous chef. It's so hard to get reliable help.

Brad is particularly picky when it comes to potato salad. "No, I'm not," he said, rudely interrupting my important blog writing, "I just like it to taste good." For every one of my twenty-four years of marriage, I have tried (and failed) to make a potato salad that tastes "good." This year was not as epic a failure as in years past. It turns out that adding a pound of bacon can make almost anything taste better!

The requested watermelon shark sculpture became a family affair. Brad and Savannah became somewhat alarmed as my plans escalated from the original directions to include a jello jiggler ocean,

tropical candy fish and Barbie parts. Savannah began an assembly line of cherry "de-pittation" which then morphed into grape sorting. Meanwhile, back in the kitchen, Brad gave me the important job of drawing the ferocious mouth on the watermelon and then promptly took the marker away from me and drew a new one. Brad's past pumpkin carving skills really came in to play here as he put our never-been-used-before melon baller to effective use, quickly removing round watermelon scoops until he was shoulder deep into the melon. More manly tools were also implemented when Brad brought out the level to ensure shark stabilization.  I ripped apart my generic "Barbie" which turned out to be quite cathartic and carefully placed a leg and an arm between the serrated teeth. Remembering the Mardis Gras tradition of baking a baby figurine into the King Cake, we decided to throw the dismembered head into the shark as well. The tiny pink shoes were responsibly discarded, deemed indigestible for those aged three and under.

Coming to class prepared and following directions are two areas of improvement that I address diligently with my students. When it comes to my kitchen skills, these two areas unfortunately also apply to me. An impromptu bonfire turned into a colossal embarrassment when all I had to offer to my group of ten guests was an inadequate number of six marshmallows.  We briefly considered breaking into the bag of miniature marshmallows but the prospect of sliding them onto the stick seemed silly.

Yes, I've seen the commercials. Yes, I know what the 4th of July is suppose to look like. Yes, we have considered going the more traditional route of weinies, baked beans, and chips. But like our forefathers, the Mosimans like to blaze their own trail. Occasionally, we'll encounter a few bumps in the road, fend off a few cougars or ford a few raging rivers but we continue making our way across the mountainous pass to the promise land of culinary delight. I know what you're thinking but don't worry. Brad packed so we are more than adequately supplied, we avidly avoid the Atkins diet, and should the weather appear troublesome, we'll pull over for some fast food to wait out the storm. Until then, I'm researching recipes that would put a doll-sized pair of pink pumps to good use.

Fighting for independence

Unlike the rest of America, the Mosiman women dread the four-day week-end. While others are gearing up for fun in the sun, spending relaxing days lounging poolside, or kicking back with a slew of snacks in front of the tv, we quake in terror beneath the tyrannical rule of King Brad. According to him, four is the magic number in the time span equation of home repair or renovating. The first skirmish was small and initially, it appeared that the colonists were victorious. But when the smoke of the 4th of July parade faded and we had employed our first round of avoidance and denial by abandoning Brad at home to single-handledly wrestle a thirty-five-year old carpet from our dining room, we didn't count on the reverberative repercussion as waves of guilt overwhelmed us.

Day two: Morale is low as battle-weary troops gaze upon the barren landscape. Two hills remain untaken: the hutch and the computer desk. With our shoulders set against the resistant cheap wood laminate, we rallied a war-cry and ripped the orangish floor-covering free.

Our now-cavernous dining room became the setting for one of the largest games of Risk ever played as Brad directed our endless shifting of furniture forces. "You, over there," he barked, waving a pair of needle-nosed pliers threateningly in my direction, "Line up the high-backed chairs to protect the east flank." I glanced with confusion toward Savannah who discreetly pointed to the left while complying with her father's order to move the table, closing a vulnerable gap allowing for a  direct hit on the microwave cart. The troop rations train must be protected to allow for the unrestricted re-heating of barbecue spare ribs and pizza bagel bites.

Day three: Savannah and I are sent out on a top-secret reconnaissance mission. Unintentionally dressed like a harlot, I entered Home Depot to obtain much-needed materials for my militia. Between us, Savannah and I conveyed hundreds of pounds of ceramic tile from the supply source. We received many admiring looks as we leaned and lifted and loaded our purchases. In retrospect, next time I will forego my cute summer blouse for a form-fitting turtleneck. Dangerously deviating from my list, I abdicated adhesive for mortar and really went out on a limb in my unauthorized requisition of tile cleaner and re-sealer. Several hours later, we returned to base where Brad unceremoniously forced us into a merciless deluge of unloading. History will later name this event "Tiles of Tears."

Day four: The cover-up. See the picture to understand why:

What lies beneath:
Memorial wreath linoleum commemorating the fallen orangish rug

The Sorting Hat is wrong!

Have you ever encountered the somewhat unsettling experience of hearing your own voice recording played back? "I don't sound like that," you might have protested, certain that the dulcet tones emanating from your vocal cords were of Shakespeare-spouting quality. Instead, you discover that you should be auditioning for "Spongebob Squarepants."

And while this verbal awakening may seem like a nightmare, it's nothing when compared to character enlightenment. To my core, I am Gryffindor. Heroic, noble, courageous, sacrificial. While for some of you, the Hogwarts Express may have left King's Cross Station a long time ago, the magical world of "Harry Potter" continues to cast its spell over the Mosiman family. Sydney recently stumbled over a "Sorting Hat" quiz on the computer (http://www.okcupid.com/tests/the-sorting-hat-pottermore-test-all-questions). We were all enthusiastically on board the idea of determining our destinies. Combining her predilection for naughtiness with her wicked intellect, Savannah was quickly sorted into Slytherin. Beneath her bubbly exterior and positive spirit, Sydney, it turns out, is hiding a dark side under her cloak of invisibility and was shockingly slid into Slytherin with her sister. The head of the Mosiman house, our leader, our pater familias, Brad was a Gryffindor before the term was originally coined.

I'm not sure where I went wrong. I encountered some pretty challenging questions such as:

You enter an enchanted garden. What would you be most curious to examine first?

 The silver leafed tree bearing golden apples

 The fat red toadstools that appear to be talking to each other

 The bubbling pool, in the depths of which something luminous is swirling 

 The statue of an old wizard with a strangely twinkling eye

Wouldn't you have chosen the cute talking toadstools? C'mon...don't tell me that that is NOT adorable! (Oh.)

Four goblets are placed before you. Which would you choose to drink?

 The foaming, frothing, silvery liquid that sparkles as though containing ground diamonds

 The smooth, thick, richly purple drink that gives off a delicious smell of chocolate and plums

 The golden liquid so bright that it hurts the eye, and which makes sunspots dance all around the room

 The mysterious black liquid that gleams like ink and gives off fumes that make you see strange visions

Wouldn't everyone pick the chocolate one? Yum! (Oh.)

To my horror, I was a Hufflepuff. A happy Hufflepuff. Unremarkable. Unmemorable. Shallow. A weak side character upon whom spells are cast. Why? Oh why? Oh why? Do you mean my moral aptitude was determined because I'd rather talk to animals than hex my enemies? My value as a person was cheapened because I'm scared of trolls?  Why should I have to choose between Robert Frost and Harry?

Which road tempts you most?

 The wide, sunny, grassy lane

 The narrow, dark, lantern-lit alley

 The twisting, leaf-strewn path through woods

 The cobbled street lined with ancient buildings

This is just a silly question. Of course a Gryffindor is going to traipse fearlessly down that dark alley. My first impulse is to go all "Road Not Taken" but I would also love the cobbled streets reminiscent of my time in Saint Augustine and Nantucket. It's time to face my inner demons and realize that I don't have any inner demons. While Brad's off wrestling against the powers of evil and Savannah and Sydney are busy hatching plots against humanity, I'm consumed with sampling every item on the snack trolley and eating the chocolate frogs before they escape out the window. Not everyone is destined to be the hero. Unsettling but true, I must learn to be happy as a Hufflepuff. At least it isn't as annoying as the sound of my squeaky little voice.