Brad Mosiman is a selfish b@$#@^d: The mini-series

I'd spent thirty or so (or so) consecutive hours in my classroom rearranging my bookshelves and changing the inspirational posters on my walls. I hadn't yet found the perfect location for my stapler, affectionately nicknamed "Big Red" and I had successfully corralled all of my multi-colored pony beads in one conveniently accessible location. The phone rang, disrupting this bout of miraculous productivity. I answered it, annoyed.

Me (in an irritated, snappish tone): Hello?

My rude, thoughtless husband: Hey! How're ya doing? Feel up to a little lunch and then we'll buy you a new outfit?

Me thinking:  The b@$#@^d!

Me (slowly): Yeah...that would be super, I guess...uh-huh.

Brad (totally NOT reading between the lines...didn't he know that I was under an ENORMOUS amount of pressure and had A LOT to do that was vital to the future learning of twenty-one 4th graders): Great! We'll leave in an hour!

I sulked for the entire drive while Brad insisted that I was, at the least, a fairly competent teacher. "I didn't say that," Brad tried to correct me later...yeah, you read that right...he tried to correct me during the post-editing phase of this blog article. "No, seriously," he insisted, "I said you were a wonderful teacher. Hard-working, creative, and driven." "That's what I wrote," I explained patiently to him. "You won an award," he shouted. "They were mocking me," I screamed back. "They may as well take that award out into the school parking lot, back a semi-tractor trailer...no! A manure spreader! They should back a manure spreader over it because it ISN'T real! I AM A FRAUD! I don't understand educational acronyms! My new schedule doesn't accommodate my pre-determined potty breaks! I don't have any cute posters." We arrived at the restaurant. I looked hopefully at the diners visible from the parking lot and foolishly thought that I had a viable shot at a window seat. Our seating hostess, Vicki, obviously had a vendetta out for incompetent educators because she taunted me by having us walk past the hundreds of empty tables situated by spacious windows with breath-taking views (of the parking lot) and then smugly placed us at a cozy table with a remarkable view of the bathrooms and the kitchen. A strategically-placed mirror gave me a nifty "behind-the-scenes" glimpse of the kitchen-happenings.

I sulked for the entire time that I sat in my lumpy, uncomfortable booth watching a world of indigestion walk by my table. I agonized, as always, over my order. I was completely distracted by the pineapple-upside-down-cake featured on the dessert menu. Brad encouraged me to order the lobster but I decided to punish him by getting bacon-wrapped shrimp with a peach glaze. There! That'll teach him! There was an awkward ordering moment when Josh, our waiter, asked if we were in a hurry. I stared at him. What did he mean by that? After Josh's hasty departure, Brad told me that it was a common week-day lunch question to accommodate business diners. "We're dressed like hobos," I said snippily, "Where did Josh think we were rushing off to next...some Fortune 500 meeting to plot a ponzie scheme?" "The only reason you can relate to the word "Ponzie" is because of "Happy Days," Brad told me before I stopped talking to him.

My order arrived and I was rendered speechless. "Why are you crying," Brad asked as he dug into his meal. I forgot what he ordered and it isn't pertinent to this story except that he enjoyed his entree and I didn't.  Selfish b@$#@^d! "They didn't snap my green beans," I sobbed. Brad picked up a long bean and inspected it. "So," he said thoughtlessly. "Aunt Bee always sat on her front porch and snapped the ends off her beans," I complained, shaking a dry, pale bean at him with disgust. Trying to distract me, my husband asked about the bacon-wrapped shrimp. "They're alright," I said in a melancholy tone, "but I certainly wouldn't define this as a glaze." Josh suddenly materialized and asked how my entree was and I eyed him suspiciously. My quick reassuring lie made Josh disappear and I immediately frisked the table for a bug, momentarily losing track of the restroom traffic. I fought my way through the rest of my mostly inedible meal ("You sure snarfed down those shrimp down pretty fast for what you deemed inedible," observed my husband. The b@$#@^d!), and adamantly refused to consider ordering dessert until Josh returned again to remind me of the pineapple-upside-down-cake. Dang! Obviously I missed the bug. I reluctantly ordered the cake to split with Brad (What's it called when I eat 2/3's?...let's change split to shared) and squealed with delight because it looked like a baby bundt. Looking to get out on a high note, Brad rushed, dropping a bit of properly-glazed pineapple on his blue hobo shirt where it left an accentuating belly button stain. More on this stain tomorrow when I complete this ridiculously long account of how thoughtless my husband is to take me out to eat and buy me stuff when I am feeling overwhelmed and despondent.

Gorillas in the Mist (aka Kittens in the Garage)

FIELD NOTES: Zero Hour

Mosiman garage

August 2013

The family pet alerted us to a disruption in the habitat. A scout confirmed the presence of an unsolicited feline, perched among the rafters. Once the dogs were removed from the area, we were able to chase her out. As silence descended again upon the seemingly empty garage, a strange scratching noise indicated that all was not well. A thorough investigation unearthed four newborn kittens.

FIELD NOTES: Hour One

Mosiman garage

August 2013

A committee meeting determined that, for their safety, the infants must be transferred to a new location. To keep the entire feline family intact, Plan A was implemented:

PLAN A:  Brad and I hid behind the shed with an unhindered view of our open garage, awaiting the arrival of the mother cat with the intention of closing her into the structure with her kittens. After a twenty minute wait, the mother cautiously arrived as we sat, frozen, nearby. We sprang into action as she darted into the garage but we did not anticipate her speed as she erupted, seconds later, with a kitten clutched in her protective mouth. Scratch Plan A.

FIELD NOTES: Hour Two

Mosiman garage

August 2013

The committee reconvened to strategize the least traumatic plan (for them and us) to unite and safely relocate the cat family to a more amicable habitat.

Blurred photo of Mama Kitty on the run

PLAN B: A variation of Plan A only making the kittens a tad more difficult for the mother to
access, thus giving us the time advantage to shut her securely in the garage with the three remaining babies. "But what about the one that's out there somewhere," I asked with great concern. Tired of this entire situation but determined not to have his garage smell of cat urine, Brad rolled his eyes. "The mother knows where she put it," he said, as though talking to a three-year-old. I stomped my feet and pouted. "I don't think we should move the family unless they are altogether."

Scratch Plan B.

FIELD NOTES: Hour One and a half

Mosiman garage

August 2013

When the committee members decided to talk to one another again, Plan C was constructed. Despite the complexity of the plan, we felt confident that we would be able to successfully implement it. 

PLAN C:  We again were situated in a low visibility area behind the shed, awaiting the arrival of the mother cat. Over the course of several hours (forgive the lack of time accuracy...I got bored and went in the house to watch tv), the adult female cat returned to the garage on three separate occasions to remove the remaining kittens and carried them away to an undisclosed location.

FIELD NOTES: The next day

Mosiman living room

August 2013

Epilogue: 

"Do field notes have epilogues," Brad asked dubiously, like he know everything about everything. "When did you veer from Dian Fossey to George Lucas?" Not sure whether to be annoyed or complimented, I decided to ignore my husband, a clever ruse that often sends him into a tailspin. Dazed and confused, he headed to the refrigerator. Glancing at the computer on the way back, he said, "Dazed and confused? I just wanted a Snapple." He popped the cap. "Hey," he said, reading the Snapple fact, "porcupines can float."

Epilogue Part II:

The family pet cannot be consoled. Haunted, day and night, she lurks around the garage door. We have allowed her full access to demonstrate vacancy but the smell drives her insane. A committee meeting has been scheduled to construct a plan to distract the dog. Hypnosis, acupuncture, and day rehab are on the agenda.

Wiener Dog Races

So Savannah and I left an inspirational church service where nineteen people were baptized to go to the track. I felt like a character in a low-brow movie as I sat in the dingy seats while people around me clutched their racing forms, flinging losing tickets to the ground in disgust and despair. Obviously, we were out of our element. "What does win, place or show mean," Savannah asked as we watched the returns show up on the infield illuminated board. "I don't know," I muttered, mafia-style, from the corner of my mouth, eavesdropping as Pop-Pop crunched the numbers and bought tickets for his rambunctious four-year-old grandson behind us. Everyone has their own style of picking a winner. Pop-Pop played the odds. Savannah seemed to favor horses assigned with low prime numbers. Superficial by nature, I liked the pretty ones. "What time do the wiener dog races start," I wondered, too afraid to wager on the ponies. What if the other gamblers laughed at me?

Wiener dog racing day featured dollar hot dogs and drinks. Dehydrated from watching the horses (it was a dirt track), Savannah and I headed over to concessions to be confronted with a quarter-mile long line. "For goodness sake," Savannah grumbled, "that line is half the size of the actual track." I congratulated her surprisingly optimistic nature and nudged her toward the dollar snow-cone line. We waited patiently among the six and seven-year-olds for an agonizing twenty minutes before receiving our brightly colored ice treat. I watched Savannah nibble at the filled cone like a horse nibbles an offered apple. It looked much cuter than it sounds.

Speaking of cute, we were lucky enough to stumble on the wiener dog registration; another long line that we actually benefited from because we were able to watch the contestants prior to the race. As we had never attended a wiener dog race before, my overly-cautious husband, fearful for Chlo's safety and self-esteem, scratched her from the race. Savannah and I were there to scout out the competition and get a lay on the land for a potential run in 2014. We spent a lot of time saying, "Ohhhhhhhh." There were minie doxies and standard-sized, smooth coated, long and wire-haired varieties, black, brown, liver, dappled, and piebald. A minor windstorm swept through from all the tails furiously wagging. We were in hound heaven.

The races were spectacular. I have been to concerts, comedy shows, sporting events, and circuses but they have paled in comparison to the level of entertainment and excitement provided by watching those stubby little legs gain ground toward owners squeaking toys and holding tempting treats. The rules were simple: Do not throw the dogs. This was confusing until I saw some owners utilize a subtle underhand lob to give their little racer a bit of a head start (snout start). The first race was a mouth-watering run pitting Snickers and Skittles against Duncan Donut. The crowd favorite was Frank-n-beans. Little Booger lost by a nose. There were a few enthusiastic false starts from some eager participants that humorously delayed scheduled race times as owners and staff chased wayward racers around the infield. Little Daisy led her humans on a fifteen-minute high-spirited pursuit that had the audience cheering for this dachshund deviation. Experience and an intense love of dog treats won out over youth as Gordon, now a three-time grand champion, was the winner of this run for the roses...or rather, this run for the rawhide. Don't get too comfortable there, Gord-o, 2014 is right around the corner. (Cue up: Eye of the Tiger) Chloe's collar is officially in the ring (until we take her for a walk later tonight).

More than a walk in the woods

I'm not sure if the murder attempt on my life was premeditated or spur-of-the-moment. Was it a crime of opportunity or was my demise months in the planning? We may never know. What we DO know, is there I was, altruistically walking my dogs when my world careened out-of-control and I was plunged into darkness; disoriented and afraid. That I successfully emerged on the other side of that nightmare is a testament of my tenacity. Neither man not nature will defeat Amy Mosiman.

I knew I was in trouble the first few steps along the trail. Brad, buffeted by a dark blue fleece, was shielded from the swarm of blood-seeking mosquitoes while I, outfitted in a fashionably sleek silk sleeveless number, was ineffectively flailing my arms about, windmill-style. "I'm done," I said, less than fifty feet into our little hike but my husband encouraged me to off-road it, claiming that the open field would be a deterrent to the horde of mini-missiles. So there I was, walking along the edge of a corn field, razor-sharp fronds slicing my bare legs, still besieged by bugs. The corn field led to a potato field that stretched as far as the eye could see. My fifteen minute walk was now more like fifty and I had not properly prepared for this situation. As I stumbled over the uneven terrain, I considered my options. Although I've been struggling to re-bound from my May kick-ball injury, my knee was not yet conditioned enough to adequately bear up for the challenge ahead. I'd worked my way up to a passable lunge but squat-thrusts were well beyond my reach. I took note of the forest that ran along the field and realized that I would have to put a slender sapling to creative use. Relieved when my load was lightened, I resumed this seemingly endless journey as the sun slowly began to set.

Although conversation between us, at this point, was considerably stilted, Brad took a moment to explain that cutting through the woods would significantly shorten the distance to get back home. Despite a childhood packed with warnings (ie Red Riding Hood, Hansel & Gretel), I ventured into the forest with a madman.  Darkness immediately enveloped me. Branches reached for me. Roots tripped me as I stumbled after my husband. He led and I blindly followed. My feet suddenly suctioned to the forest floor. Sinking sand! I thought in terror before remembering that that was a term assigned to quicksand by the little cartoon dinosaurs from "The Land Before Time" series. My anger at my husband immediately turned to fear. Clearly, Brad intended to kill me. Plan A: Have Amy get infected by the West Nile Virus. Plan B: Cause a gangrenous infection inflicted by machete-sharp corn leaves. Plan C: Precipitate a urinary tract infection by not providing proper restroom facilities on the trip. Plan D: Asphyxiation and convenient body disposal by quicksand. What my dastardly husband DIDN'T plan on was a wife who could and would systematically outwit each of these murderous little maneuvers.  

Claiming to be "scouting ahead," Brad kept disappearing from my sight (Plan E: Lose Amy in the woods to die a slow death). Without warning, I tripped, landing on my kick-ball knee, henceforth known as Wounded-in-the-woods knee. Brad immediately materialized (To gloat? To check my pulse?), yelling "What? What?" Curled in the fetal position, writhing in pain, distraught that there were leaves in my hair and, unlike movie star portrayals, I didn't look at all attractive, I gasped, "Give me a minute." He continued to yell, insisting that I outline my injuries in detail. Frustrated, I finally screamed out a regrettable profanity that echoed dramatically through the forest. Refusing that villain's supposed offer of help, I clawed my way up and began to Frankenstein-walk my way out of the woods.

Two hours from when we first began this little adventure, I spotted my house in the distance. I would not feel safe until I crossed that threshold. Bug-bitten, tear-stained, limping and forlorn, I returned home. I have to admit that Brad looked a tad less murderous in my living room. I don't think I'll be splunking or skydiving with him any time too soon but, to Brad's credit, those scenarios are much too obvious.  Should I perish in a bizarre badminton accident with a glancing shuttlecock blow to the temple or incur an allergic reaction in the bunny barn at Pike Fair, please notify the authorities immediately. I'll just tread real easy until then.

Bar stools, scalp massagers, food frisbees and Mint-Ting-a-Ling

As we'd previously arranged, my friend Deb picked me up at 9:30 this morning so she could switch our breakfast plans to lunch plans. I thought briefly about the six small fruit gummies I'd guiltily consumed as a pre-breakfast appetizer and congratulated myself on my remarkable foresight as I stoically prepared for this unexpected three hour fast. While occasionally exasperating, shopping with Deb is never boring. We scoured several craft stores for a specific make and model of yarn. Foolishly, I'd thought they just came in different colors...silly me. Looking to replace her current breakfast bar stools, we test-drove several thousands. I felt like I'd inadvertently stumbled into The Three Bears' cottage as I listened to a persnickety Goldilocks critique each selection. "This one is too squishy." "This one is too squatty." "This one leans back too far." As for me...I am the ideal shopping companion. Found my much-sought-after scalp massager and was content for the remainder of the day. Nothing beats rubbing an open-ended whisk over one's head for relaxation.

We ate a delicious Mexican lunch at Arriba Tortilla (http://arribatortilla.com/). Their pineapple salsa is amazing! Deb hosts a migrating German former exchange student who must have some Australian lineage because he boomerangs back every year. When she told him that we would be eating alfresco today, he told her that the term doesn't actually refer to open-air dining. Naturally, I had to investigate. Translated from the Italian, al fresco means "outside, at a fresh temperature." The Merriam-Webster dictionary defines the word as an adjective or adverb that means "taking place or located in the open air." So there you have it folks, our world in harmony as two American women eat at a Mexican restaurant, discussing a German query concerning an Italian term. 

A visit to East Aurora, New York would not be complete without a stop at Vidler's 5 & 10  http://www.vidlers5and10.com/. The largest 5 & 10 store in the world, it is impossible to go there without finding twenty items that you didn't know existed and now cannot possible live without. I don't know where I summoned the will-power, but I did manage to put off buying a butter lamb Christmas ornament. I carefully considered acquiring a specially-designed angel food cake slicer before putting it back on the shelf. The red bell pepper-shaped dachshund really tugged at my heart-strings but I stayed strong. Deb, on the other hand, could not be contained. Fascinated by Vidler's remarkable assortment of silicone storage lids, Deb raced through the many passage ways and narrow corridors that connect the four buildings that comprise the store to find and share this remarkable device with me. When I mistook her discovery for a new-style frisbee, Deb first had to explain this contraption. "It's an alternative to saran wrap," she said, trying to patient. "What do you use saran wrap for," I asked. Exasperated, she snapped, "Just watch." Plunking the food frisbee over a bowl, she magically lifted the bowl up using only the floppy silicone lid. "Ta da-aa!" Wow. Ok, she had my attention. I was impressed. We spent the next half hour test-trying the suction power of the food frisbee on every container in the store. No-stick pans were an epic failure, by the way.

With food frisbee in hand, Deb suggested a quick ice-cream stop. The woman in the store didn't seem particularly thrilled to have us as customers but we persevered nonetheless. While I am especially fond of gelato, I am also especially picky regarding the taste and texture of this delicious frozen treat (ironically...gelato is the Italian word for "ice-cream") so I asked for a sample of their sweet cream before I determined that I didn't want ice-cream at all. Deb sampled the latest greatest ice-cream flavor, "Movie-Time" before settling on her tried-and-true "Mint-Ting-A-Ling." We sat outside (al fresco) on a bench, people-watching while Deb enjoyed her snack. "This isn't "Mint-Ting-A-Ling," she informed me, after a few bites, "It's just mint chocolate chip." I'd confused quite a few common household elements today but I soldiered on to ask, "Aren't they the same thing?" She looked at me in momentary disgust before morphing into sympathy regarding my perpetual ignorance. "No. "Mint-Ting-A-Ling" contains toffee bits." Two potential customers approached the store, pausing to ask about the place. Deb shared her ice-cream conspiracy with them and, not surprisingly, they moved on. Before we left, Deb popped into the shop to inform the indifferent clerk of the problem. I'm guessing that the woman was not a professional ice-cream aficionado as I heard Deb again explaining the difference between "Mint-Ting-A-Ling" and mint chocolate chip.

I learned a lot today. I plan on incorporating pre-breakfast appetizers into the Mosiman menu on a regular basis. I can now differentiate among fifty shades of yarn. I can pinpoint the perfect barstool..."This one is just right...if it were affordable." I have become virtually fluent in Italian. Teamed with Deb, I am inadvertently putting the saran wrap industry out of business with a nifty new product. And we are currently co-authoring a potential best-seller entitled: Toffee It was "mint" to be.

College visits for kleptomaniacs

Small road-trip for a college visit today. My friend Joan joined Sydney and I at 6:30 am for a two hour drive excursion to begin mapping out Syd's future academic plans. As always, my utter lack of maturity and common sense made even the simple drive an adrenaline rush of uncertainty as I blew past the first gas station with a casual, "Oh, I think I can get a better price a little ways down the road." The second petrol station was on the wrong side. "I'll pull into the next one on the right," I said flippantly. The low fuel light flashed on, surprising me. "How long do you have before you run out of gas," Joan asked, accurately reading my face to discover that, of course, I had no idea. We began earnestly searching for a gas station to no avail. The walk of shame didn't worry me as much as a) being late for Sydney's welcome reception sign-in and b) the thought of Brad discovering how stupidly irresponsible I was...again.

     FLASHBACK:  fifteen years ago when occurrences such as these were, unfortunately not            uncommon...I didn't have a lot going on then and apparently needed a rush.

     Ring! Ring! Brad picks up the phone. "Hello?"

    "Hey, it's me. Sorry, I ran out of gas again."

     Sigh. "Where are you this time," my husband asked in a defeated voice.

     "Look out the window," I replied, less than a quarter of a mile from my own house.

I like to say that God looks after fools and Amy Mosiman because, some fifteen miles later, we managed to locate a gas station that a) had a better price and b) was on the right hand side of the road! Refueled and relieved, we continued our journey to arrive ahead of time for the event.

Thanks to Savannah, Sydney and I have the routine of a college visit pretty well down and know what to expect. Because Savannah was an engineering major, I quickly learned that I was in way over my head information-wise so, to avoid boredom, I concocted an activity to keep all the members of our party actively involved and interested in the proceedings. Colleges love to woo potential students with cheap trinkets and shiny baubles so we assigned a point system and began collecting...high score wins. Syd pulled ahead early with a purple pen but I paced myself. Opening remarks were given in a lovely room with a fireplace and the sort of chandeliers that Scarecrow would have dropped on the Witch. We eschewed the lined up auditorium seating to grab a comfy couch in the back. I began to growl immediately as the institution began to extol its intent to "change my student's values" and that, the first Thanksgiving following enrollment, I would look into Sydney's eyes and see a different person. Was this some sort of brainwashing community? I really began to worry as they introduced a guest speaker by quoting a previous remark of his: "Intelligence is good but ignorance is better."

I grabbed a bottled water as we headed for Session II, putting myself easily ahead of Joan and Sydney. We learned that Sydney would enjoy student recreational life on campus and that the equestrian club consists of three horses. I became totally fixated on that fact, picturing Little Joe, Pa Cartwright, and Big Hoss's steeds as they raced up to that flaming map of the Ponderosa.

Session III was suppose to describe Sydney's field of study but the professor and I got sidetracked by a conversation about "The Hunger Games." He did mention a fascinating archaeological site centered around digging up a firehouse before I became entranced by his ill-fitting plaid suit-coat that enveloped his body almost down to his knees. I abandoned my doodle-sketch of Little Joe's paint pony to whip off a short, sardonic comment to Syd: "Apparently the fifty thousand dollar tuition isn't applied to staff salaries."

The tour of the grounds was wonderful. Great architecture. Relaxing fountains. Statues and sculptures. As we reviewed the classrooms, our student guide, "Rah" ("Like the Egyptian sun-god," I asked before Sydney shushed me) proudly pointed out the new renovations, listing the curtains, carpeting, paint and SMARTboards. "Shouldn't the SMARTboards have been the primary focus here," I said before I was asphyxiated by the application of fresh purple paint. It looked like Joan was going to be the winner of our childish contest when she spotted an abandoned baseball perched on a water fountain. I winced as I kept passing projection screens. I sensed lunch ahead so I surged forward, maneuvering my little group to the front of our guided tour where we were greeted warmly by Rah. Pretending to make polite conversation, I asked about class enrollment sizes. I figured I had misheard Rah's answer of 1200 students. That couldn't be right but I didn't have time to further inquire as the lunch line loomed ahead. I couldn't help admiring her form as Joan lunged forward although I questioned her initial selection of broccoli salad. The caprese salad sold me on this college. As I piled sliced tomatoes and mozzarella on my plate, I promised that I would endeavor to raise the needed funds to enable Sydney to attend this institution. The dessert table convinced me that it would be alright to mortgage the house, if necessary.

As we dined on fine china ("I would have used paper plates," Sydney shared with admiration), I asked the advisor seated with us to confirm that crazy number. Rah was right. There are a total of 1200 students enrolled at this college. I temporarily abandoned my eating to steal a purple pen and begin doing the math. I divided the total scholarship money available by the total number of students to determine that there was approximately twenty-two thousand dollars in scholarship funds available per student. Now factor in the bozos that rush out to mortgage their homes and apply for soul-sapping student loans instead of exploring other options and you can maybe push that number up to twenty-five or even thirty-thousand dollars. I sighed and returned to my Chocolate-Turtle pie. Wait! This wasn't Chocolate-Turtle pie! I had accidentally chosen peanut-butter pie. I'd been duped. Even with the scholarships, Syd would still be paying out huge sums of money. Even though it was presented in a fine china cup, it still contained grape Kool-aid. I subtly slipped a game-winning engraved fork into my bag and we left.

Wyoming County Fair

A county fair is timeless; an event that inspires nostalgia while setting the stage for countless happy reunions admist spinning carousals, cow stalls, and colorful quilts. This past week, I went to the Wyoming County Fair in Pike, New York three times which is a low number of visits compared to true fair fanatics.  I like to see the fuzzy chickens, squeeze sheep and constantly question why some goats have their ears removed. Apparently the answer is either so horrific or so boring that I always forget the answer to my question and I have to ask it again every year. Attending the fair is a chance to get out of the house while feeling like you're still at home.

 The fair has many distinctly separate personalities. When I went on Tuesday morning to watch my friend Evelyn compete with her horse Jazz, the grounds were quiet, blanketed in a soft misty fog. The mid-way was statue-still, vendors were just beginning to open and the smell of breakfast almost diverted my route to the horse arena. Afternoons are busy; packed with waist-high, laughing children willing to risk the most stomach-churning attractions. Evenings are a hodge-podge of families, leashed pups, packs of teen-agers, seniors, and strollers. Nighttime is deafening with the sound of tractor-pulls, a haze of smoke now clouding the jam-packed arena.

It is particularly entertaining to view the fair through the eyes and excitement of my friend Sarah. She had worked with me at Letchworth Central School for five years until lured back to her city roots. "Chili is a suburb, Amy," she repetitively reminds me. Five years of former sixth graders stampeded down the fairway to jubilantly greet her, pushing me ruthlessly out of the way. While Sarah was busy being uplifted by her horde of adoring fans, I was being grilled by a geezer who habitually casts aspersions on my writing skills in a public forum. I tried to restrain my outrage because he's a pastor and because he looked so darn cute in his little newsboy cap. But I tell ya...I can only be pushed so far before I pop him in the nose!

Having extricated ourselves from these delightful social situations, we then ordered delicious pulled pork paninis from Decisions of Silver Springs. We were horrified by the explicit prize posters adorning the wall of the neighboring pop-a-balloon game so we momentarily planted ourselves next to it crying out, "Look away, Citizens!" Well, ok. That might have just been me. Wandering through the exhibit buildings, we pondered the ribbon distribution criteria associated with submitted baked goods, canned fruits and vegetables as well as preserves. One cannot ponder aloud at a county fair because multiple unsolicited responses will immediately be forthcoming. There's no such thing as a reciprocal comment at Wyoming County Fair. We had a very confusing conversation with Evelyn about her ride results. I blame the noise level of our surroundings but as Evelyn was describing the barrel racing game of "Steak-n-Shake," Sarah and I were both picturing Evie pulling a USDA grade beef steak out of a barrel as she swept by on her horse. Turns out, she meant a stake...aka a stick...aka a pole. Ohhhh....I believe we may have been further distracted because Sarah and I had enjoyed one of the best milkshakes of our lives at a "Steak 'n Shake" in Erie, Pennsylvania. I ordered a chocolate-covered strawberry milkshake...yum! Oh. Evie took second place!

The Thursday night talent show is one of the pinnacles of Pike Fair. It is a surreal event. A stage of sawdust. An audience that includes cows that are either being clipped or milked during the performances. The entertainment roster is a thrill-ride of varying abilities. I tend to be a tad chatty..."A tad!" commented my friend Deb, "You talked all the way through the show!" Now, mind you, I stood in line for a half hour to get that woman a special-ordered fried elephant ear coated with cinnamon-sugar on one side and powdered sugar on the other. You'd think she could be a little more gracious. Who could possibly remain silent as little girls clog energetically to the inappropriately lyric-ed "Ain't No Holla Back, Girl"? Who isn't going to sing along with sister act Shelby and Haley's melding melodies as they harmonized on "Collide"?  We cheered for violinists, hula-hoopers, singers and dancers. During intermission, we admired the cellphone images of our former student, Brandon's lawn tractor, outfitted to resemble "The General Lee." Trying to recall Waylon Jenning's lyrics from "The Dukes of Hazzard," I inadvertently created my own mangled mix-tape:

                                                                Just a good ol' boys, 
                                                            Never meanin' no harm, 
                                                            Beats all you've ever saw,

                                       Been in trouble with the law since the day they was born

                                                    Wasting away again in Margaritaville.

You always leave the Wyoming County Fair wanting more. We weren't able to squeeze in time to ride the mechanical bull. We missed a prime opportunity to try and win a goldfish. Sarah refused to have her picture taken with a toad that can grow to the size of a dinner plate. We did learn how to craft our own plates by gluing printed fabric to Corelle ware. We cursed our luck that we hadn't been able to see the Fair Queen parade and talent show. This year, apparently, was particularly memorable as one of the contestants was outfitted with wings to resemble an appropriately-attired, homespun Victoria Secret's model and one of the talents included a demonstration on tree-climbing. Drat our bad luck! Next year, we may just have to spend more time at the fair. Maybe we could sleep among the livestock like so many kids do. Our sad regret is assuaged by the knowledge that Pike Fair is a reliable friend who will reappear next August, giving us another chance to be reacquainted with all the best that Wyoming County has to offer. 

Why not to date while married

Having been married for twenty-four years, it's been awhile since I've dated. Brad was in the Army and had gone on several deployments, including Germany and Panama, during our first few years together. I was busy pursuing a career as a naive minimum-wage retail salesperson at a pet store. Realizing that I was alone and in a strange place, the assistant manager habitually treated me to coffee and a baked snack at the TJ Cinnamons conveniently located around the corner. Occasionally, we shared a lunch and once we went to the movies. I was initially shocked and then embarrassed when Brad asked me how long I planned on dating this guy. I'd never broken up with anyone before but, seeing that I was married, it seemed like the right thing to do.

Fast forward over two decades and I suddenly found myself in yet another precarious situation. Titillating text messages from an unfamiliar number peppered my phone for days. "Hey, remember me?" and "Are you busy tonight?" had me racking my brain as to how I had unintentionally solicited such attention. Knowing that Brad wasn't exactly supportive of my dating, I ignored these calls. As unreasonable as his opinion was, I wanted to respect my husband's feelings.

So imagine my surprise when I received yet another text as our family was en route to Philadelphia. I have taken the liberty to transcribe the conversation for you in its original format. Understand that it causes me severe physical pain to intentionally ignore the conventions of proper writing mechanics but I feel that the lack of punctuation and capital letters contributes to the flavor of the situation.


UNFAMILIAR NUMBER:    Hey its steven from sams party tried to say hello a few times to talk to u

ME:     Hello Steven from Sam's party...this is the 43-year-old mother of the pretty girl at the party who is now grounded for giving her number out to strange (no offense, Steven) people. Have a good day.

.............................................eleven minutes pass by............................................................

STEVEN:    Sorry i asked her so that was my bad dont be mad at her


The next hour and a half in our van was rather lively. I admit to experiencing some conflicting emotions. Relief that I wasn't accidentally dating again. Disgust that the person with whom I had thought I might have been accidentally dating may have been of an age to cause my arrest. Remorse that, apparently, "accidental dating" is a chromosomal anomaly that can be passed from mother to daughter. How did I miss the obvious signs? Two years ago, Sydney confirmed a Facebook friendship from "Scooby-Doo." Who doesn't love Scooby? However, it quickly became clear that Scooby had more on his mind than a Scooby snack. He might have gotten away with remaining a Facebook friend...if it hadn't been for Sydney's rascally parents (and that he creeped Sydney out so much). A few months ago, Sydney was besieged by a series of text messages from another admirer but managed to end that relationship without parental intervention. I should have seen it coming.

Despite Steven's slightly delayed but gallant chivalry, Brad and I are a bit old-fashioned when it comes to our daughter dating. A young man willing to meet the parents avoids having to appropriately punctuate his sentences while demonstrating that his motives are (kind of) honorable. If her boyfriend doesn't want to interact with her family or, even worse, treats them disrespectfully with single word responses or grunts, hopefully Sydney will be able to see past the good looks and see him for who he really is inside. But maybe I'm being unreasonable and ridiculous. If so, then...my bad.

Waging war with an army of ants

As I lack any original thoughts of my own, recent events have encouraged me to pirate my contemporary’s unique blend of helpful advice with the random bird facts he finds printed from the lids of Snapple bottles. Adored by the bird-loving public-at-large, Hanz Kunze in an invaluable resource for avian enthusiasts. I confess that I’m not the biggest fan of our feathered friends. Following the foolish purchase of cockatiels for our daughters six years ago, I was devastated to discover their ridiculous lifespan of twenty-five years…thank you, Snapple cap…I immediately began devising a series of murderous schemes which the birds have cleverly evaded, time and time again. Each time I've been thwarted, I shake my fist in frustration, screaming, “I would have gotten away with it too, if it weren't for those pesky cockatiels.”

Over the last few weeks, the Mosimans have been the victim of an ant invasion. Always the conspiracy theorist, my husband is convinced that for every ant seen, a hundred lurk in the shadows. I tend to be a rainbow-after-the-rain type of gal, believing that the ant is merely on his way to a picnic somewhere. As I watched my husband shake the lawn staff that holds our hummingbird feeder so that a hail of red ants sprinkled the ground, I vowed to end this plague. “Why is there a container of Vick’s vapor-rub on the windowsill?” Brad asked a day later. “I decided wrapping fly tape around the bottom of the pole was inhumane and unsightly,” I explained, “I read that if you smear the pole with vapor-rub, ants will be repelled.” My husband stared at me, shrugged and then walked away.

Several days later, outfitted with tiny clothespins on their noses, the ant army made its perilous way back up that slippery slope. “We need to make a moat,” I declared to my husband after another round of research. “What?” he responded with a marked lack of enthusiasm. “We’re going to drill out the bottom of a paint cap…well, you are…run a string through so we can attach it over our hummingbird feeder, seal it with caulk and then fill it with water.” Brad nodded distractedly and went back to what he had been doing while I immersed myself again in investigative research. “Oh my goodness,” I exclaimed a moment later, successfully capturing my husband’s attention again. “We have to fill it with oil because ants can walk on water!” “What?” my husband asked incredulously, “Why this sudden fascination with ridding our hummingbird feeder from ants?” I shared with him how I had observed his frustration with ants and wanted to support him, waiting for the accolades and adoration that was certain to follow.  He paused as he realized who was turning out to be the real pest in his life. “I don’t want ants in the house,” he said slowly, “I could care less about the hummingbird feeder.” My eyes widened as realization set in. “That’s going to take a LOT of oil,” I told him, “and we’ll have to rent a trencher.”  

Obviously, I have a long way to go before I can come close to achieving the bird-brain status of someone like Hans Kunze. I have been drinking a LOT of Snapple and I’ve make it a point to clip out and save Hans Kunze’s articles before lining my cockatiel cage.  As a result, I am proud to report that I answered two out of the five questions in the birding category during round one of Teen Jeopardy. You just watch out, Hans Kunze, Amy Mosiman is well on her way to knocking you off your perch. 

published in Warsaw's Country Courier: August 1, 2013

http://www.mywnynews.com/arcade_warsaw/

Philadelphia: Part 3-We had a hippo-rrific time!

Our "ph-inal" day in Philly was "ph-antastic" (sorry). For reasons unbeknownst to the Mosimans, Philadelphia seems to run on a strict 10-4 schedule. On a happy note, this tendency allowed the Mosiman women to sleep past the typical "We're burning daylight" early wake-up call. Our slow and easy morning eventually led us to Penn's Landing where we counted down the minutes leading to the 10 o'clock tour opening of the Spanish-American War Cruiser Olympia and the World War II Submarine Becuna. 


Brad had a wonderfully enriching experience as he delved into the rich history of the two navel vessels. Savannah, not overly fond of anything associated with water, kept a keen eye out for the exits. Sydney and I spent the bulk of our time inspecting the teeny tiny toilets while making immature comments. Although this will not surprise my friend Sarah at all, I can now say, with utmost sincerity and conviction, that I can cross "submarine crewperson" off my list of potential career paths. I'm not sure what stroke of genius led me to tour a submarine. Sarah and I used to chaperone school trips to Howe Caverns where we descended 156 feet into the dank, dark earth to view a pile of aging cheese. If that wasn't bad enough, we then traversed a whimsical little route called "The Winding Way," a cramped corridor upon where my now-notorious claustrophobia was first chronicled. Picture Pooh Bear's posterior protruding from the bee tree and you can sort of imagine Sarah's trials in trying to wrestle me through "The Winding Way." And now, here I was on an over-sized tub toy with a case of kick-ball knee which hindered my swift and graceful maneuvering through thigh-high thresholds. Nevertheless, I scampered through the sub like a psychotic squirrel and launched myself up the ladder as though I were a contestant for "American Ninja Warrior." 

Having learned much about the nautical history of our great nation during my three-second tour, I was ready to move on to our next adventure. We crossed the Delaware (again) on a little ferry boat to access The Adventure Aquarium in the good company of a thousand third graders. "We're in New Jersey AGAIN," Savannah scowled, shoving a six-year-old out of her way. Despite the sea of schoolkids, we had a magical time. As luck would have it, the aquarium was celebrating "Shark Week" and offered an admission reduction for anyone sporting shark-related items and Savannah was wearing her very-cheerful "Bite Me!" shirt adorned with...you guessed it...a jaw-dropping discount! We boot-kicked a few brats out of our way to touch some small sharks, elbowed our way to the sting rays, and enjoyed the spacious, well-lit glass tunnel that worked as a reverse aquarium, transforming me into a human guppy while sharks swam slowly overhead.  


And finally...my Philadelphia quest was complete. "We're in New Jersey, Mom," Savannah snidely reminded me but I was nonplussed. For right there in front of me was The Adventure Aquarium's star attraction. There she was: Button! While she didn't exactly live up to the Aquarium's description http://www.adventureaquarium.com/What-to-do/Aquarium-animals/Hippos.aspx in that she didn't frolic and jump about (at least, not while we were there), she was magnificent and didn't look a pound over three tons. "I had no idea that you were so passionate about hippos," Sydney said, taking note of Button and her companion's adamant refusal to move for over thirty minutes. "I'm not," I admitted, watching the water cloud mysteriously around the two submerged creatures of the Nile. "But isn't she as cute as a button?" 

We re-boarded the ferry, reflecting about our adventure while we crossed the Delaware (again). When we weren't busy being in New Jersey, the Mosimans were experiencing Philadelphia in all its historic and pop culture glory. It was with great regret that we bid a fond adieu to this "ph-ine" City of Brotherly Love. We look "ph-orward" to visiting Philly again soon. Maybe next time, we'll visit Unna, the hippo housed at the Philadelphia Zoo. "What!" Savannah screeched, "You mean we actually could have seen a hippo IN Philadelphia?" 

Philadelphia: Part 2- If you encounter a Philly cheesesteak sandwich in the woods of New Jersey, is it still a Philly cheesesteak sandwich?

When last we left off, the Mosimans were hunting for hippos in Philadelphia. We were also scouring the city for food. We passed many a tempting treat from the upper level of our double-decker tour bus but alas, our drop-off point was blocks away from the more reputable restaurants. I admit it: we ate in a (gasp!) food court for lunch. Ashamed by my lack of culinary courage, I vowed that dinner would be different.

Prior to embarking upon our Philadelphia expedition, I had perused a website called Restaurants on TV (http://www.tvfoodmaps.com/s3/PA/Philadelphia) to see which local restaurants had been featured on television shows. A sandwich joint called Tony Luke's immediately stood out as it had been the setting for not one, not two, but five well-known programs including "Food Wars," "The Best Thing I Ever Ate," "Man vs. Food" and "Throwdown with Bobby Flay." However, by the time we'd wrestled our way out of Philadelphia, I knew that we more than likely had a cheap chain restaurant in our future. Imagine my delight when, not a mile from our hotel, we spotted a sign for Tony Luke's! "But we're in New Jersey," Savannah observed, consulting my homemade "Phun in Philly" brochure, "We're going to have our authentic Philly cheesesteak sandwich in New Jersey?" Imagine my tired husband's delight when we discovered that we'd hit Tony Luke's on the occasion of their grand opening in a bowling alley!

The joint certainly was jumping. Customer traffic flow was a tad congested and our much-anticipated order took some time to prepare. Brad and Sydney sat at a dark corner away from the busy bar having eschewed my seat selection of stools peering over the crowded bowling lanes. Savannah and I lurked near the counter, waiting to pounce upon our prey. "Brian," the counter girl bellowed. "Did she say "Amy?" I asked. "No, Mom," Savannah said. "Ross," came the next cry. I looked at Savannah, "Was that an "Amy?" "Nope, not yet." "Vanessa," was the next name shouted out. I could pull off being a "Vanessa." It was a name with a wide range; anywhere between baroness and bordello. I threw back my shoulders before glancing at my daughter who responded with an emphatic no. Twenty names later, my moniker was cast above the hungry crowd and, like a tempted trout, I leaped from the swirling masses to latch onto my Tony Luke's order.

Reactions were mixed. Not a cheese-lover, Savannah ordered her Philly cheesesteak sandwich plain and insisted that her plain Philly cheesesteak sandwich WASN'T a plain Philly cheesesteak sandwich at all but a plain New Jersey cheesesteak sandwich which, while good, didn't count as authentically regional food. Sydney and I, who are not overly fond of meat, daringly ordered fries. Brad, however, rose to the occasion. Despite the regional discrepancy, he ordered and consumed with gusto, his Philadelphia cheesesteak sandwich and declared it "delicious."

By the way, upon returning home, I discovered that, in addition to Philadelphia and New Jersey, you can order an authentic Tony Luke's Philly cheesesteak sandwich in Delaware, Rhode Island, and Maryland too http://www.tonylukes.com/. Instead of Mohammad moving to the mountain, Savannah's plain Philly cheesesteak will eventually move to New York, where it will undergo a slight name change with a wide range. There's more than just geographical distance that separates Philadelphia and New York. Baltimore crabcakes, a Coney Island hotdog, a Philly cheesesteak sandwich. Each entree is accompanied by the sights, sounds and memories associated with its originating location. The flavor fades slightly, further from home.

Philadelphia: Part 1

Old City Hall reflected in modern architecture

Given the option of a three-day away-from-home excursion to any destination within driveable distance from my home, I must admit that I was stymied. Considering the endless possibilities (NYC, DC, Toronto, Gettysburg, Lancaster, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Boston...), I devised an ingeniously elaborate formula to determine this delightful get-away. Take a location with historical features, add in some pop culture references, then calculate in weather and traffic. In case of a tie, apply the hippo factor. According to the math, Philadelphia was the place.

Sydney's victorious shadow says it all!

Obviously, we saved our visit with Buttons the hippo as the culminating event of our mini-vacation to the City of Brotherly Love. We like to take advantage of city tours where available (another factor in my equation) so we grabbed a double-decker bus to learn about Philadelphia
(http://www.bigbustours.com/eng/philadelphia/tours.aspx). What we inevitably learn on these tours is that we won't have enough time to visit everything of interest. Our first bus was a REALLY big bus so Brad spent the bulk of his ride tackling me to prevent decapitation by tree branch. History was sacrificed for pop culture in the morning as our stops included a photo opportunity at the "Love" sculpture and a run up the Philadelphia Museum of Art's seventy-two "Rocky" steps (I energetically sang "Eye of the Tiger" until step twelve and then I just concentrated on my breathing).

The afternoon was dedicated to more historic pursuits. We waited in line for a bit to view the Liberty Bell. Our family had a spirited argument about the security surrounding this symbol of freedom. Sydney was disappointed with the lack of a metal detector to which Savannah responded, with some disgust, about the likelihood of a villain targeting a two-thousand pound broken bell with enough explosives to trigger a security alert. She also questioned the motive of a gun getting past the sensors. Would the evil-deed-doer use the bell as an over-sized shooting gallery target? For my part, I was delighted with the twirl technique required of visitors not burdened with bags. The guard made that little spinning signal like you might see on "Project Runway." I responded enthusiastically but was cut short due to a bout of vertigo. Brad and Savannah were the only two members of our family to actually learn the history of the Liberty Bell as they read the displays leading to the main attraction. Sydney and I slalomed the displays like Olympic skiers to get our picture taken by the bell.

Independence Hall was amazing. Absolutely pulsating with our country's history. Impossible to

ignore that George Washington, Ben Franklin and James Madison stood in these same rooms. We viewed a document that Washington edited ("A document?!?" Savannah screeched as I read the blog to her. "A document!?!? Mom...don't you realize what that document was?!?! It was the CONSTITUTION!!!" , saw the Assembly Room where both the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution were signed and sat where members of the House of Representatives discussed matters pertinent to the development of a new nation. A visit to Independence Hall is much more thought-provoking than a school textbook lesson as you consider that act of signing the Declaration could be viewed as a courageous quest of freedom or proof of treason. Eye-openingly gratifying to recognize the unique freedoms afforded to us by our forefathers. Instead of bounding us by rules, that initial document ideally spells out our rights and limits government interference into the lives of its citizens.

Obviously, the combined effects of my rapid walk up the Rocky steps, my dizzy spell in Liberty Bell Center and the weight of history pressing down on me in Independence Hall resulted in an exhausted headache. I came to Philadelphia to see a hippo. Hippos do not give me a headache. Stay tuned to find out how I managed to screw up our goal of eating a genuine Philly cheesesteak sandwich and wonder why a woman with a clinical history of claustrophobia would decide to tour a submarine (not the sandwich).

If marriage is a journey, what's the ending destination? And what if it's closed when you finally get there?

We have just concluded Day Two of our "Havin' Fun in Philly" mini-vacation. Brad has enacted a surprisingly effective counter-offensive to combat my subtle manipulations designed to get him to do what I want on trips. During my twenty-four years of marriage, I have developed what is referred to in obscure medical journals as a steel bladder. On a typical seventeen-hour trip to the midwest-entertainment-capital of the world, Mason City, Iowa, we stop for three timed potty breaks. Brad believes in Point A and Point B and will not be swayed by corn mazes, petting zoos, or a buy one/get one free hot dog special. Courageously  refusing to look longingly in the rear view mirror as the fun attractions of my life pass me by, I pondered a future with a man who cannot abide my packing style, is irritated that I have a slight problem with deciphering a map, won't let me drive as I refuse to merge, and prefers to leave the radio off. I had to do something...for the children. I did a test-trial on our drive home from Florida. With calculated casualness, I charmingly read each and every one of the the thousands of billboards advertising the fun to be had at South of the Border. Having been married to Amy Mosiman for over two decades, Brad is able to ignore me for impressively long lengths of time but eventually I wore him down. He sighed, "If you want to be able to spend any time at Harper's Ferry, then we can't stop. It's your call." (No, it's not). I nodded in agreement, stoically gazing out my passenger window, "I know, you're right...mumble, mumble, mumble." "What?" Brad asked, his internal GPS refusing to deviate from its set destination. "Oh nothing," I replied, "I just forgot who I was vacationing with for a second." "What do you mean," he said, sensing a trap. "It's just that, if we were with Geri, we wouldn't even have to question a brief stop at South of the Border. We'd just do it." Gritting his teeth, Brad changed lanes and I changed conflict resolution philosophies.

But I got lazily complacent in my victory. While I was busy getting my way all the time, Brad was simultaneously concocting a scheme to regain the upper hand. In hindsight, I can now see how he put his evil plan in motion. The first step was to disorient the target.  We had barely left Wyoming County when Brad offered to pull over for a little snack. "Doesn't Geri start off your vacations with a strawberry milk," he asked, pulling out his rarely-seen wallet and handing me twenty dollars. Baffled, I took the money (I'm not completely stupid) and systematically sifted through the gas station food-mart for something remotely edible. Savannah settled on breakfast pizza while Sydney braved a sausage sandwich. Happy with my strawberry milk, we resumed our journey. Moments later, a disgusted voice emerged from the exterior of the van. "I'm so done with this," Savannah said, disdainfully dropping her gas station selection. Without missing a beat, Brad rolled down the window and said, "Let's feed the bears then."

Thirty minutes later, he pulled into a Wegman's and again, pulled out that wallet. Taking the money (I'm not stupid), Sydney and I headed straight to the bakery section. With delight, we watched a woman filling fresh cannoli shells. She delivered four straight into our hands and we returned victoriously to the vehicle. Our next stop was at the Welcome to Pennsylvania visitor center where I browsed attraction pamphlets and wandered the pumpkin patch. I irritated my kickball injury by stretching my leg so Brad helped me to the van. When we later stopped for gas, my husband encouraged me to visit the neighboring farmer's market despite the fact that I am incapable of picking out fruit. He barely blinked an eye when I returned with a six dollar container of golden plums and two rock-hard peaches. We ended up feeding another bear when I bit into a plum and it exploded all over me. Then we stopped for breakfast at Perkins...yes! Potato pancakes! By the time we arrived at Washington Crossing the Delaware park, everything was closed. Brad shrugged good-naturedly. "I just have fun being with you," he said as we peered into dark windows and peeked over locked gates. It was then that I knew I'd been had. How could I have been so stupid?

Despicable Me cupcakes

Like all idiotic plans, it seemed like a good idea at the time. So what, if I'd never seen the movie? So what, if the cost of ingredients exceeded the gross national product of the Polynesian island nation of Tuvalu? So what, if I lack technical cooking and baking skills, having never successfully produced a radish rose or a pinch-able pie crust? I would, by golly, defy the natural odds of physics and fate and mass produce sixty cute cupcakes to conclude our summer school program.



After months of ceaseless prayer, Hostess re-emerged from the dust just in time to decorate my "Despicable Me" dessert. Unfortunately, a snack-starved public resulted in an unforeseen snack shortage. Thus began my Twinkie-pilgrimage. While not thrilled about the nearly eighty mile round-trip journey to acquire this vital ingredient, my husband, nonetheless, agreed to accompany me on my quest. What he was not prepared for, however, was my emotional meltdown in aisle 4 when we were confronted with the empty shelf that would render my (very) public promise to produce amazing cupcakes equally empty. Confused by my reaction, Brad pointed to a comparable cream-filled cake. "No," I shrieked. "That's NOT a Twinkie! It won't have the right sponge-like consistency. The filling will lack flavor. I'm ruined!" Brad shrugged and walked away while I debated the possibility of traveling an additional twenty miles to the next sizable shopping center. But time was growing short and so was Brad's patience. I snatched up several boxes of the Twinkie-wannabees and traveled home to spend a mostly sleepless night interspersed with traumatizing Twinkie-filled nightmares.

Step one in creating these cream-filled creations was to bake sixty cupcakes. No easy feat, given my hectic television-watching schedule and afternoon nap routine. Problem solved with some effective delegating. Dear Sydney, my cheerful morning postie note greeting said, Please bake sixty cupcakes. Love, Mom. My next hurdle was to now mass produce muffin-shaped minions. With two hours at our disposal, my student, Arrie and I arranged our supplies including "Smarties" candies (eyeballs), boxes of Twinkie-twins, vats of frosting, and blue decorator icing.  Disgusted that I'd never seen the movie, Arrie brought it in and we watched while we assembled our miniature minions. While our end results did not exactly mirror our on-line inspiration:
http://cupcakepedia.com/2013/07/15/how-to-make-minion-cupcakes/, our occasionally cross-eyed, Leaning Towers of Totally-Fake Snack Cakes definitely had personality.

Obviously, it would've been a LOT easier to bring in chips. It was super-rewarding to hear six-year-olds squeal with delight when they caught sight of our completed project. It was pretty cool to have a six foot four inch tall fifteen-year-old boy ask to take a few home to his "little bros." The best part, though, was completing this ridiculous goal with Arrie. "Can I pipe on the pupils and hair," she asked. Wanting them to be perfect, I hesitated and then shrugged. "Sure." After a bit, she wanted to switch tasks. "You don't have to ask, Arrie," I reminded her for the zillionth time. "I'm not the boss. It's OUR project. We're a team." This concept is apparently unheard of but magically liberating for a 9-year-old. I had anticipated enthusiastic participation for the first twenty or so cupcakes but Arrie soldiered through to the very end; mortaring eyeballs, filling boxes and telling me not to whine. Our shared success was very gratifying. Even more gratifying was Arrie's parting gift. "Here," she smiled, handing me a horseshoe," good luck in 4th grade." Her present is already adorning my new classroom, a constant reminder of how lucky I was to have been able to spend my summer with her.

Attention: Sufferers of IBR (Involuntary Body Responses)

     Involuntary body responses rarely occur in convenient locations or at convenient times. Their untimely arrival are inevitably accompanied by public mortification and followed by a lifetime of emotional scarring. While gainfully employed at a McDonald's at age seventeen, I was diligently scrubbing dishes, bent over a deep sink that faced the wall when a guy took the opportunity to goose me. I'm not sure who was more surprised by the result of this action. "The Great Goosing Debacle of '87 "eruptly" ended my fast food career and discouraged that boy's penchant for pinching the posteriors of unsuspecting women. Twenty years later, the two parties in this particularly sordid drama were reunited on a school field trip. Needless to say, reminiscing was unnecessary.

     Hiccups got us expelled from a solemn exhibition dedicated to our 16th president. "Hic!" Savannah choked out, the sound echoing though the dimly lit corridor. A glare from her father had her immediately taking deep breaths to prevent a recurrence. "Hic!" came the second one. "They're hurt-y hiccups," Savannah hissed at me, now bracing herself bodily for the next onslaught. "Hic!" Her body convulsed with the violence of the hiccup and I began convulsing with giggles. A mind-over-matter guy, my husband claims to have developed complete control over the spasmatic responses of his diaphragm. Consequently, he has no pity for the luxury of rampant hiccuping. Three times and you're out, in his book. Savannah was unceremoniously evicted from the museum and I was tossed out for hysterical laughter. Just the sight of a stovetop hat takes us back to that dark day.

     A double sneezer, I have developed annoying sneeze-preparation habits that have me looking like a comic-strip character. At the first hint of an on-coming sneeze, I begin waving at my face like a Southern Belle fending off the vapors. Upon the realization that there is no turning back the tide of this nasal explosion, I assume the position: back braced, legs daintily crossed, arms extended. The jolt of the sneeze normally launches me back a few feet, giving me just enough time to prepare for the next sinus onslaught. Having observed this process in action, my summer school students have been offering methods to waylay my sneezes. "Look at the light," they cried as I wound up for a round of sneezing. "I'm not dying," I managed to gasp before receiving my gesundheits. Today, as I felt that familiar tickle, one of my little honeys encouraged me to say "banana" as a defensive mechanism. I waved my hand toward my face, positioned my body and "ah...ah...ah...BANANA," I scream-sneezed. My student fell to the floor, helplessly laughing. I glared at her. "You could get kicked out of Lincoln's museum for that, you know," I said but she was too busy re-enacting the event for her friends a thousand times to be able to hear me.

Like detours around troubled bridges

I have experienced unfavorable driving conditions in my lifetime. I've been trapped for over an hour in clogged Chicago traffic in the cramped cab of a Chevy S-10 sans air conditioning in August. Another traffic jam in Toronto was caused by the arrival of an unexpected elephant. Tour bus rides through Boston shaved years off my life after encounters with motorcycles, bridges and irrational pedestrians. Wyoming County traffic complaints usually focus on getting stuck behind morning buses, tractors and the infrequent cow crossing. Friends visiting from the city will scream with frustration from our established habit of waiting to enter traffic if we can even see a hint of an approaching vehicle in the distance. But lately, Wyoming County residents have several valid reasons to legitimately witch about road conditions.



Bridge #1

Bridge #2

Consider this: Amy Mosiman exits her driveway (after patiently waiting for a Chevy Impala spotted an 1/8 of a mile away to pass by) and turns left, turning up the radio to drown out the hole in her muffler. As she considers the ironic irrelevancy of Adam Levine's lyrics about the antiquated payphone, she encounters a "road closed" sign as a construction crew stares serenely from the bridge they intend to repair. She sighs and turns around. At the opposite end of her road, she is confronted with the identical scenario. She is now traveling in a perpendicular fashion as she cannot differentiate north, south, east and west. She has almost made it successfully to work when, you guessed it, another bridge is out, a mere hundred feet or so from her employment. A student of "The Dukes of Hazzard," Amy briefly debates the merits of launching her Ford Ranger up and over this annoying obstacle but fortunately remembers that the last time she'd been foolish enough to take Ranger over a bumpy road, she'd left the exhaust system  in the dust. Let's try this again. She backtracks a bit and tries another approach only to find a fourth bridge out. Is this a joke?
Tonight, Savannah and I loaded up the dachshund and set out on a journey of documentation for the Doubting-Thomases of the blogging world. Taking pictures of closed bridges is not as pathetically boring as one might initially think. We commiserated with some passersby who, on the bright side,
realized they could walk right down the middle of the road. The construction crew left their machinery invitingly road-side so we fulfilled Chlo's dream of riding one. At our third bridge, I decided to set a mood. "Look sad," I coaxed my little dog as we sat by a sandbag. Incapable of looking sad, Chlo instead scampered toward immediate danger, nearly plunging three feet to her detriment. The fourth bridge (this is beginning to sound like a video game journey where we should be collecting gold coins) was
a traumatic nightmare.

Through the looking glass of Savannah's windshield.
We were afraid we'd be rendered blind if we looked
to the right.

As we pulled up, a suspicious-looking man turned away from our car, turning toward the steel building next to him. Suddenly, it dawned on us. The creek beneath the debunked bridge wasn't the only thing flowing. Our presence did not seem to inhibit our public pee-er at all. "Oh my goodness, oh my goodness," I cried, "Turn around, turn around." "No," Savannah said, realizing that a well-executed three-point turn would have us parked in front of this urinating exhibitionist like we were patrons of "Sonic" (Please notice my writer's restraint as I steer away from the obvious pun of ordering a foot long). "Just take the picture through the window and let's go," I begged, crouching down in my seat. Not one to
let a little pee get in her way, Savannah was nonetheless ready to plunge ahead with our plans but I was just too mortified.

There are two bridges out to the west of me. Two bridges out to the east. One bridge is out to the south of me and another one to the north. The detours resulting from this fiasco has more than doubled my four-mile drive-time to work. Was it absolutely necessary, safety-wise or economically, to systematically shut down the entire south side of Wyoming County?  But obviously, there is a bigger issue at work here. The stress from this inconvenience has evidently rendered some of our residents incontinent. I will be so relieved when these bridges are operational again.