How to pick a Christmas tree in less than 15 steps (away from your vehicle)

 The Mosimans have never had much trouble selecting a Christmas tree as the end-goal of the majority of family members is to spend the least time as possible tramping through the wilderness in this holiday hunt. "What about over there," Brad would say, scanning the far horizon for the perfect specimen. The girls and I would have already marked out our pine tree perimeter to encompass approximately an eighth of an acre of pristine property from which to take a tannenbaum.  This year, two more Mosimans joined our annual outing...rugged, hearty Alaskans with a love of the great outdoors. My nieces, Morgan and Briana quickly learned the rules of the game as we systematically nixed every pick as being "too symmetrical" or "too perfectly formed" or "too Christmas tree-y." "How 'bout this half dead one," Morgan asked sarcastically, surprised when we cheered her keen eye. "This one looks like it has a shelf on top," Briana observed. I immediately deemed it "The Hand of God". Any tree that is given a title automatically reaches finalist status.


And then suddenly, not more than fifteen feet from my truck...there it was...the dysfunctional tree to end all dysfunctional trees. "Where would the star go," Sydney asked, observing its array of ascending corkscrew branches. "Why...anywhere we want," I said with delight. Naturally, we sent the one allergic to pine tree sap in to saw our selection down while Syd and I took time out for a selfie. When it was time to carry our tree to the truck, Morgan, Briana and I decided that it would take the three of us to return the saw and pay for our acquisition. "We'll take the dogs with us," we said sacrificially as Sydney and Savannah were repeatedly stabbed with pine needles and Savannah's hands puffed up to three times their natural size. Meanwhile, Brad was staring wistfully off into the distance. "We didn't even look over there," he whispered sadly before he went to wrestle this year's "tree" into his truck. I smiled as I fondly wove my arm through his...the Mosiman girls definitely know how to pick 'em.

Small Business Saturday: Buying local from Zeches

The non-black dog who is actually allowed on the new couch.

My daughter, Sydney and I swung into Zeches Appliance and Furniture Store on West Buffalo Street in Warsaw the minute they opened on Wednesday, November 12, intent on one goal: quickly purchasing a sofa to help accommodate our anticipated onslaught of holiday guests. "We can just drag our dining room chairs into the living room," my husband said, attempting to alleviate my concerns and protect his "emergency funds" account. I paused as he offered other suggestions on how to pack a dozen people into my teeny-tiny living room. "Bean bag chairs are fun," he exclaimed. "So was the World Series," I answered, glancing at his souvenir Kansas City Royals cap. He wordlessly handed over the credit card.

As Sydney had a college mid-term, we were under a bit of a time-crunch so we basically hopped from one couch to another down the entire length of the vast furniture gallery. Bounce, Bounce. "What about this one," Sydney said, sprawled on an over-stuffed model. "Too fluffy," I answered. Bounce, bounce. "What about this one," Sydney called from a couch with two working recliners and cup holders. "Too souped-up," I stated. "Well, what exactly ARE you looking for then, Goldilocks," Vanessa McCormick asked, laughing as she overheard our conversation. After hearing my life history spelled out to her in sixty seconds, the business professional accompanied me to my choice: a light blue couch with a built-in chaise lounge. She asked a few standard couch-buying questions before we began the paperwork process. "Do you have a dog?" (Yes.) "What color is this dog?" (Black.) "Are you aware that you are buying a light blue couch?" (Yes.) Assured that I was of sound mind and body to buy my couch, we proceeded with the sale and, twenty-two minutes after walking into Zeches, Syd and I were off to her exam. We paused at the door to high-five our sofa-selection and as I looked over my shoulder to say good-bye, I yelled, "Buy local!" Unfortunately, the door closed on my final syllable and I think that all Vanessa may have heard was, "Buy loco!" 

Small Business Saturday takes place on November 28th. To my way of thinking, when it comes to personal, caring service, knowledge and quality, EVERY day should be Small Business Saturday. You'd have to be "crazy" NOT to buy local!

170 degrees of separation (before I ripped that turkey to shreds)

"Don't forget to cut off the plastic wrap from your ham," my friend Lee reminded me as I stopped by his house to pick up a pumpkin pie and cookies that his wife, Cathy had made for me. Ha ha. "Mom, Grandma and Grandpa left you a message," Sydney hollered as I listened to my father's voice reminding me to remove the giblet bag from the turkey. Hmmmm...it seems I have established an unwanted culinary reputation for myself. Perhaps deservedly so, I thought to myself later as I debated which angle of the bird would be considered "breast-side up."


"What's wrong," my husband asked later as I realized that my carefully orchestrated meal was out-of-tune and out-of-whack. My side-dishes were ready to go while the star of the show stubbornly refused to hit 170 degrees. Meanwhile, out on the table, my molded butter turkey was beginning to sweat. "I know how you feel," I hissed as my house-full of guests patiently waited for me to conduct this meal to its grand finale. "It's going to be fine," Brad said encouragingly as I debated cranking the oven up to broil, "Every holiday has its little glitches." "No, you don't get it," I glared back at him, "I plan to Norman Rockwell the hell out of this meal." He stopped me before I could take a propane torch to the turkey.

It finally did come all together. Soon all the guests were gathered around our celebratory table and thanks were given. "I don't know how you did this," one of my visitors remarked. I thoughtfully considered this statement, testing it for sarcasm or irony before declaring it sincere. I smiled as I watched my husband gleefully lob the head off my butter turkey before answering. "It was no sweat."

Flag on the field: Unsportsmanlike euchre play

Naturally, the best part of a euchre party is the food. "Amy, would you bring your Cowboy Caviar?"

my friend and party hostess, Rachel asked. Offended, I was immediately overwhelmed with profound feelings of rejection. Doesn't Rachel like my chocolate-raspberry pie? Does she think that I am incapable of any culinary skill outside of opening cans? I considered canceling the scheduled Mosiman appearance at this engagement but feared the devastating social ramifications that would inevitably result from the great vacuum caused by my absence. Plus, as I alluded to earlier, there was a LOT of food there. The spectrum of snack selections offered by educators are as varied as their teaching styles. Perfectly shaped cookies generously crammed with an equal distribution of mini chocolate chips. Marinated mushrooms accompanied by tiny blue-tipped toothpicks. Homemade canned pickles. Brownies nestling a peanut butter cup. We heard long dissertations about the scientific methodology of making peach wine, the extolations of purchasing pretentious olive oils (I just recently learned that EVOO wasn't a naughty acronym), and was lectured about the length of the perfect pickling cucumber. "This is good," Rachel's husband Paul politely told me as he sampled my bean dip, "How do you make it?" I explained the complicated process of opening several cans to him. Noticing that her husband was beginning to glaze over with boredom, Rachel decided it was time to start the card tournament.

The trick to any social occasion is establishing that there is at least one person there more obnoxious than yourself. Unfortunately, I hit "obnoxious-level" right at the starting gate. Normally a demure and modest card player with little interest in actually winning, I got caught up in the excitement of game play (and my second cup of pineapple juice with just a sprinkling of coconut rum). My opponent called hearts alone and, seeing that I had the top two cards in my hand, I slammed them down and yelled, "Ha!" The condemning silence was deafening as I realized that I had made an unsportsmanlike social blunder plus we still had to play out the hand so my opponent could get his point.

Fortunately, the adorability factor of our friend Michelle's baby was able to quickly distract everyone's attention away from me as Emma spent her time lifting baby weights and helpfully unpacking the baby bag every time her mother carefully re-packed it. An enthusiastic card player, Ashley coined the evening's popular catch-phrase when she excitedly yelled, "I'm going alone by myself!" Rachel, who had been an eager student of the peach wine-making process, raced around playing "Silent Night" (kind of) on the piano, trying to kick off a karaoke tournament, and exhausted herself adding the long lists of final euchre scores. In the finale, Geri found someone who table talks more than she does and was stunned when her partner first called her up and then reassured her by saying that he was counting on her to take all the tricks. I'm not even going to mention that Kelly won for the second year running. "We are partners for euchre every Tuesday," I hissed at her as she pulled on her winning t-shirt declaring her love of Doritos, "How is it that we never seem to win like this?" With one eyebrow quizzically raised, my friend looked at me for a long moment before laughing, "Ha!"

 



4th Grade Grit

"My administrator wants us to film a video about grit," I told my husband, already envisioning how cute I would look in fringed buckskins and a cowboy hat. I wondered if I could talk my neighbor into loaning us her horse for an hour. My husband frowned at me. "Why do you always go to the obvious," he asked. "Just because the theme is grit, doesn't mean that you have to do a re-make of True Grit. Lots of movies use that same theme." "Oh yeah..." I snarled at Brad, "Like what?

Which is how, several weeks later found my grade level team dressed like rejects from the pre-pre-pre-Olympic Squad, exhausting ourselves by "pretending" to race up the football bleachers to resemble that iconic moment in "Rocky." Prior to shooting, Rachel, adorable in a bouncy ponytail, commented, "Wow, being dressed in work-out clothes almost makes me feel like working out!" Following our third take, she gasped, "Never mind." Meanwhile, our friend Kelly bounded up the stairs like a bunny. When it was time to punch someone in the face with a boxing glove, we were more than happy to take aim at Kel.

"This won't take any more than twelve minutes to film," I promised several times over the course of the three hours it took us to tape our footage. "What's my motivation," my friend Geri asked as we were set to begin our inspirational dialogue scene. "To get done so we can go home and eat dinner," I told her. "Good enough," she replied.

Depicted as our motivational coach, our friend Sondra was the only one professional enough to remain in character as we stumbled up steps, bounced off padded walls, and flopped over onto the floor...all in our quest to develop grit. "This won't take any more than twelve minutes," I kept repeating, "If you bozos would stop giggling."

Too late, I realized that a behind-the-scenes documentary would have revealed the real story:  The grit it took to film a movie about grit. Ideally, it would be about twelve minutes in length.

Come to the dark side...we have (Cathy's) cookies

My friend Cathy had made my family some delicious Halloween cookies and I wanted to find a way to thank her so I asked Sydney to take a picture of me enjoying the treat to post on Facebook. "Here, let me get your good side," Sydney said, expertly angling the camera and snapping the shot. She made a face as she inspected the result. "Here," she suggested, "let's try a frontal." "Sydney!" I gasped, appalled, "We're not taking THOSE types of pictures!" "No, no, no, Mom," she explained, "just face forward." Oh.

Apparently the front of my face isn't any more attractive than the side of my face. I wonder how the back of my head would appear in photographs? Coughing during a shot certainly didn't boost my self-esteem any. Even the sure-proof  "Look away from the camera and turn fast on the photographer's 1...2...3" didn't work. Refusing to give up, Sydney tilted her head speculatively. "Maybe it's the lighting." She dragged me into the bathroom and took another shot. "Nope...not the lighting." Apparently, I don't have a "good side."  ""Don't worry, Mom," Sydney said to cheer me up, "I think you're beautiful on the outside AND the inside." "Well, my insides are feeling pretty good right now," I admitted, "because they're full of Cathy's cookies." Just don't let me get started on my man-hands.

Having a root-tootin' good time at the World Series: Game Four

 "So...do you want to see a World Series game with me?" Brad asked his daughter. There was a long silence from her end of the phone. "What's the catch?" she answered warily. "Well," Brad responded, "your going is contingent on your willingness to don moose antlers at my whim." "It's a deal," Savannah said, without hesitation which is how, one day later would find her grinning outside Citi Field with quite the conspicuous cap on her head.

Obviously, being left behind was a big blow. I've been a Kansas City Royals fan for days now so it was upsetting that Brad wasn't willing to mortgage the house so that his ENTIRE family could attend what could possibly be a once-in-a-lifetime event. "But don't they play baseball EVERY year?" I whispered to Sydney, confused, "Why is this such a big deal?" "And that is why you've just been cut from the roster," Brad explained. Sydney, though, still had a shot until...

Watching Escobar bat, Sydney excitedly asked, "Does he get two points for that?" Incredulous, her father sought clarification. "Two points for what?" "Two points for hitting the ball," she said uncertainly. The only thing for certain was that her chances for attending a World Series game were starting to fade. "Syd," I hissed helpfully across the living room, "I believe the correct term isn't points...it's runs." And suddenly...Syd was O-U-T.

Game 4. Brad reported that Mets fans were surprisingly gracious compared to our Play-Off experience in Toronto (where I was afraid to go to the restroom unchaperoned)...until the 8th inning where their 3-2 lead took an alarming turn and Brad became the focus of unrestrained wrath. "KC is a fly-over zone," one irate Mets fan yelled at my family. "What does that mean?" Sydney asked, steeling herself to be offended. Her father sighed, "Why are we sending you to college?" When Brad responded by extolling the virtues of Kansas City's world-renowned barbecue, he was told that the sauce tasted like @$$. "How would he know that?" I shouted into the cellphone as Brad gave us a play-by-play of the stadium shenanigans.

Don't get me wrong...I was happy for Brad and Savannah. I didn't want to see Tim McGraw throw out the first pitch. Who cares that Demi Lovato sang the National Anthem. I could care less that they watched John Cena organize and lead a chant for the Mets. Who needs to see Jerry Seinfeld? Not me! Who has wanted to take the subway out to Coney Island to enjoy a Nathan's hotdog for her entire adult life and it turns out they were selling Nathan's hotdogs at Citi Field and I wasn't there? Not me! (sniffle, sniffle) But did Brad have to go and catch a bag of Cracker Jacks for Savannah to snarf down without any thought whatsoever of her poor left-behind mother during the 7th inning stretch?

Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jacks...I don't care if I never get back! Let me root...toot...toot for the home team...

"It isn't root...toot...toot," Brad said in disgust, "You're not a little tugboat. It's root...root...root. And now you know why we left you at home." Fuming, I shouted at my husband, "Your daughter wears cardboard moose antlers!" He grinned, "Darn straight, she does."