My Pumpkin-faced coffee stain

 I apologize for the redundancy of this particular blog submission (as opposed to the redundancy of all of the rest of my blog submissions) as I veer back to an already-explored topic: Prophetic pictures emerging mysteriously from spilled coffee stains. Fortunately, this one wasn't rated X. Nevertheless, the malicious pumpkin-faced grin met me every morning as I adamantly refused to wipe it up because I DO NOT USE the Keurig machine.

Day One was filled with hope as I imagined the culprit suddenly spotting the stain and hurriedly (and with a hint of sheepish embarrassment) cleaning it away. Day Two had another stain layer added in the mouth region, giving the impression that my pumpkin-faced stain was tentatively sticking out his tongue at me with a playful raspberry. By Day Three, I began exchanging water-cooler conversations with the stain. A relationship began to blossom. If the work day was rough, I would look forward to returning home to that friendly smile and warm (albeit sticky) acceptance.

By the end of the week, I would take care to remove obstacles impeding sight away from the stain such as the blue bowl of quarter-filled drenched-in-extra-butter soggy popcorn (That I also adamantly refused to take care of...I can't believe that I'm so upset that I'm ending sentences with prepositions!). The stain's expression of gratitude and empathy filled my heart.

But as with all great relationships begat from sin and sloth, we were doomed to fail. An admitted weakness on my part, but I could not hold my head high should a visitor cross my threshold with the stain present. Our's was secret love that, when exposed to the light of possible public ridicule and judgment, would wither and die. I was not good enough...noble enough...to stand behind my stain. No...we could not wipe the past clean. We both needed a fresh start. And I needed a clean counter.

"Farewell, Pumpkin-faced Stain," I cried as he faded from sight. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

Photo-bombing a beluga

 Marineland has been Savannah's go-to birthday location from the time she was in footie pajamas (yesterday), racing through the house in a Pavlovian response to the television commercial jingle. She knew ALL the words to the Marineland theme song before she could spell her whole name (again...yesterday).

The Mosimans knew all the tricks for an epic Marineland visit. Smuggling in a 5 pound bag of dog kibble for the deer and the fish along with apples for the bears. We knew where to double-back for the roller-coaster to avoid walking all the way back to the beginning to ride again. We knew the precise time when the polka band would begin to to play. It was, quite simply, under-the-sea fantastical. We could never understand why other families did not have as much fun as we did (Hello Rachel, falling into the carp pond) even when we were elbowing our way past the animal rights activists at the front gate. Thanks, by the way, guys..."No Shamu for you!" Dolphins don't give off much by way of a splash zone...and I doubt Rachel doused anyone but herself during her dip in the drink. Don't get me wrong. I believe orcas are best suited for the sea. It's just the likelihood of me being able to kiss an ocean-dwelling orca appears minimal...even if I am wearing bright colors.

But now it's 2016 and Brad Mosiman put his foot down and refused to try and smuggle apples across

the Canadian border. I packed a large pizza worth of Disalvo's into my backpack and Brad invited me to carry it through the park's entry gates. No one even looked at me. "See," I hissed self-righteously at him as he reclaimed the backpack, to lug a large pizza and five beverages around for the next four hours, "We could have been packing porterhouse steaks and fireworks for all these people care!"  Marineland is charmingly, nostalgically, fabulously trapped in the 70s. I myself was trapped in their bathroom forever...flushing my own toilet, turning on my own faucet, expelling my own soap, and unfurling my own paper towels. I love it!

Our first (and only hurdle) was the deer. Syd had been psyching herself up for the deer encounter. Unbeknownst to us, she apparently had developed a bit of a "Deer-jumping-on-me" phobia. "I thought you were only afraid of manatees," Savannah stated, amazed before following up with a related question. "Are you scared of ALL herbivores?" Anyhoo, a padlock separated Sydney from facing her fears. Just as well. No sense in upgrading Syd's condition to a "Deer-stabbing-me-with-its-antler" phobia.
No one fell in the carp pond. Thanks to Rachel, we now wear safety harnesses. "Belay," I yelled, a carp pebble in my palm, leaning toward a friendly-looking goose. "Belay on," Brad answered, letting out enough rope for me to reach the water while counter-balancing his backpack full of Disalvo's pizza and beverages.

We paid what some might deem an extravagant amount to feed the belugas. I say I would have paid MORE just to touch that wet, rubbery skin and exchange some whistled greetings from my friends, the canaries of the sea. Our guide, slipping us sardines (Now don't make that seem dirty), educated us about these peaceful looking animals before our "big fish finish."

Out of sheer kindness, we decided to lighten Brad's load, breaking for lunch. Normally I have a dachshund and a rottweiler nearby to accept my gifts of pizza bones but they were nowhere to be seen. What to do...what to do? It was time to write a commercial for my favorite pizza shop: Disalvo's Pizza...bear-tested...people-approved! Turns out that karma is a b!tch though. Who would have thought that the most dangerous creature at the bear enclosure would NOT have been the bear? My friend, Joan, attempting to rescue me from the billions of bees, swatted one on my hand, successfully driving the stinger into my tender flesh. I howled. The bears laughed vindictively. I didn't blame them.

Despite the warnings and apathetic advice of fellow guests who told us that there was nothing down "that way" except miles of dusty heartache resulting in bored bison, we insisted on taking the road less traveled. And how wrong they were! "I wish we had something to feed them," one family remarked, staring at the statue-still animals. Confused, Sydney and I looked across from the enclosures to the small, grass-covered mountain facing us. Moments later, we were back with arm-fulls and suddenly the bison put out a request for a flaming hoop to jump through to thank us for the treat. "Your foot-long blue tongue is thanks enough," I said to my furry-faced new friend as he wrapped it around my wrist like a bracelet (Don't make that seem dirty."). 

"I can't wait to blog about our trip to Marineland," I sighed happily the next day. Savannah paused. "It was fun," she agreed, "but I'm not sure it's what you would call bloggable." "When is the last time that you fed a bear pizza?" I asked. "Never," she admitted. "Have you ever had a blue bison tongue slither up your arm like a snake?" I asked. "No," she admitted. "When's the last time you gave a beluga the big fish finish?" I inquired. She smiled before answering, "Yesterday."

I'm so OVER the moon

 I'm so tired of this game.

"Mom, wake up," Sydney whispered several early mornings ago, "Come look at the moon. It's unbelievably big."  I have accidentally earned an undeserved reputation for admiring the celestial goings-on of the sky over Hardys Road. More accurately, I just get peeved when my neighbor, Deb posts incredible pictures of sunsets/sunrises, ect which I look at appreciatively and wonder, When did that happen? Oh. Five minutes ago while I was watching Pitch Perfect II for the zillionth time?

So with a reluctant sigh, I crawled out of bed, fumbled with my robe, and shuffled slowly out the door. Like a middle-aged zombie, I stomped, stiff-legged through the lawn, my neck fused in an upwards position...searching...searching...for this incredibly big moon that I could lord over Deb. "Where is it," I shouted into the house (to the delight of my neighbors, I'm sure). "Over my car," Sydney bellowed back. What a delight to live next door to the Mosimans. She joined me moments later where I was standing, betrayed, by her car beneath an empty sky. "Well...it was there when I came out," she insisted, "you just took too long getting out here." "Moons are NOT meteorites, Sydney," I snarled before slinking back to bed, "They appear, more or less, in a fixed position as they move SLOWLY across the sky."

"Amy, wake up," Brad whispered the next morning, "Come look at the moon." This is ridiculous. Let Deb have her little victories, reveling in God's great outdoors while my mind turns to mush watching Me-TV. "Leave me alone, " I grumbled, burrowing deeper under my covers. "No, no...you're going to want to see this," my husband coaxed. So with a reluctant sigh, I crawled out of bed, fumbled with my robe, and shuffled slowly out the door. "Where is it," I shouted into the house. Brad, the only considerate Mosiman residing on Hardys, immediately came outside and pointed. "See where that giant patch of dark clouds have gathered," he said. "Yeah?" "Your moon is now hiding behind them. You took too long getting out here."

I headed back to bed, my mind whirling with the great questions of the universe. How does Deb do it? Does she have a trail cam that she uses in between re-runs of Andy Griffith? Does my utter lack of apathy regarding astronomy make me a bad person? And just how fast does the moon travel, anyway?

Why I had to kill my Kindle

"Oh no, what are you doing," Sydney asked, horrified when she spotted me weeping copiously early last Saturday morning. Brad, seated across the room, answered for me. "She's reading a Nicholas Sparks book."  "Mom! No!" Sydney exclaimed, attempting to wrestle the novel out of my hands. "Have you ever read a Nicholas Sparks," her father asked as he attempted to weather out this great gale of tears. "No," Sydney replied, eyeing me with great concern as I started to hiccup uncontrollably. "Mom and I used to read John Green until she declared him off-limits. John Green is the Nicholas Sparks of his generation, she'd attested and I've stayed away from them ever since." "He's a hack," I spluttered, tossing another tissue to the floor, "I can't remember the name of a single character from his books...the're devoid of symbolism...saturated with obvious metaphors..." I took a shaking breath. "Then why do your READ them," my husband asked in frustration. "He's holding me hostage emotionally," I wept.

"If you'd let us get you a new Kindle, you wouldn't have to resort to the Take One/Leave One bookshelf in the school's faculty room," Sydney scolded for the fiftieth time. I sighed. It was time to confess. "I don't want a new Kindle," I told her. "But you love your Kindle," she argued, "you read non-stop up until it broke." "I broke it, Sydney," I admitted, "I ran it over with the Titan" (Twice...kudos to Kindle...the first time crunched the screen but the device still powered on). "Mom! No!" she gasped, hands covering her mouth in shock and horror. "I had to Syd...I was addicted to the romance stories (also known as soft-core XXX for semi-literary women). Wait...are you shocked? C'mon now. Do you think all those women on the beach are reading Kafka?

I recalled a month ago when I tried to wean myself off with a classic...food for the soul but I... I hungered for junk-food. I tossed Wuthering Heights aside for the demon call of the Kindle. The free books. The free trashy books. Heathcliff could not compare. Who wants to endlessly wander the moors in tortured angst when you can just cut to the chase? Who wants plot? Who wants characters with depth and substance? Who wants symbolism and figurative language? Apparently...not me.

I tried just draining the battery. I even turned off the wi-fi capabilities but it turned out that I'm just too clever for me. There was only one thing left to do (besides exercise self-control which ANY reader of this blog will attest...I HAVE NONE)...I had to kill my Kindle. I'm so sad. No more power-reading through a book in two hours and casting it aside like a cheap one-use razor. Now I have to think. Reflect. Wonder. Infer. Grow. My mind of mush is once again beginning to take shape. "You're insane," Sydney snapped, stomping from the room (probably to hide her own Kindle). I glanced over at my husband who shrugged, "We could have sold it," he said pragmatically. Maybe my metaphor wasn't obvious enough.

Crying crocodile tears in yoga

"Why don't you ever answer Brenda's questions," grumbled Geri as we limped gingerly to the car after a session of yoga. "Because they're RHETORICAL," I snapped, rubbing my arms.

(Do everyone's arms feel like they weigh 20 pounds each when they hold them in Warrior Pose? Or am I just a complete wimp? Never-mind...don't answer that. It was rhetorical.)

"She is NOT asking rhetorical questions," Geri continued, "She is seeking feedback." I collapsed upon the passenger seat and curled into the fetal position, surreptitiously sipping restorative rum from my "water" bottle. "Well, she wouldn't appreciate my answers so let's just say I'm choosing to be sensitive to the feelings of others," I replied.

Hearing this later, my daughter Sydney nodded. "I've never heard someone whisper the f-word in yoga before," she confessed, "You've made that word your mantra, Mom."

"What do you want me to say, Geri," I growled. "When Brenda asks, 'Doesn't that feel good?'

'No, Brenda...it DOES NOT feel good to be twisted up like a pretzel.'

 'No, Brenda...I CANNOT see my left thumb lifted high into the air as I am stacking my shoulders while bent over into Triangle...all I see are a blur of lights right before I'm about to pass out.'

 'No, Brenda...it DOESN'T feel good to hook my left elbow behind my right knee while balancing (if you could call it that) in the so-called Chair Position.'

Geri nodded slowly. "Crocodile was good though, wasn't it?" We both sighed, wishing that there could be an hour-long class dedicated solely to the Crocodile Pose (see picture). "I didn't want to get out of it," Geri admitted. The rebel in me reacted. "What would Brenda do if we just refused to transition into another move," I asked. We stared at one another. Was there a yoga police? Would our names go on a list? Could you be blackballed from yoga? Could my mat be revoked?

We began our slow ride home, contemplating this radical move. Humming "Crocodile Rock," we put our plan to song:

We thought that yoga would be so much fun
How could we have been just so dumb
Holding our feet back behind our heads
And wishing that we could be struck right dead
But the best move that everyone knows
was a thing called the Crocodile Pose
While the other kids were getting in the groove
We were refusing to leave the Crocodile Move

La lalalala la lalalala la lalalala la

Geri pulled the car in front of my house. Too excited to leave, I turned to her with another inspirational thought. "What about when Brenda chimes her singing bowl, interrupting our meditative trance at the end of class." "Were you meditating," Geri asked, "I fell asleep." "We could stuff material into the bowl next time," I suggested eagerly. "Does that sound good?"  Rolling down her window as she began driving away, Geri laughed and called out, "Was that a rhetorical question?"

An "enlightening" tour

 I glanced around with trepidation as we stood in line for the Lighthouse Harbor Cruise. I spotted a woman holding a flimsy book bag sporting the silhouette of a lighthouse surrounded by a heart. Hmmm. The man ahead of me was weighted down with more amateur camera equipment than that carried by Kardashian paparazzi. One lady had a bedazzled image of a lighthouse on her shirt. The polo shirt headed towards me offered some hope but instead of an alligator or a little polo-playing dude, the logo was...you guessed it...a lighthouse. "Are we old," I whispered to Brad whose lips were pressed tightly together as though he were concentrating on walking a tight-wire over the Falls."I'm not old," I insisted, fighting my way through an AARP singles group to the second deck, "I attended an X Ambassadors concert just last week." Squeezed between two retired Navy veterans, Savannah called out, "You only knew their song from the car commercial."

"How did you hear about this tour," Brad asked as we fought senior citizens for seat space. I grimaced, remembering. "The docent of the Nathan Hale Schoolhouse said it was wonderful," I explained carefully. "Wasn't she a retired schoolteacher," Savannah asked helpfully before the captain made an announcement offering headphones for the hearing impaired. We were almost crushed in the consequenting stampede.

Things began looking up when a woman walked by carrying a cloudy drink with a ka-bob of green olives erupting out of it. It turned out that, if you didn't count the unsupervised toddler terrorizing the air-conditioned salon, Savannah was the second youngest person on the boat. "Good news," Brad said, encouragingly, "We might be the fifth or sixth youngest people here (If you don't count the crew)."

It WAS a lovely ride. Over two hours of skirting the shore (which minimized my risk of motion sickness to a manageable degree), enjoying the weather, marveling over the engineering genius of constructing lighthouse foundations in water, appreciating the architectural uniqueness of each structure, empathizing about the loneliness of lighthouse-keeping as a career, and hoping-beyond-hope to catch a glimpse of a rumored harbor seal. "Where are your expectations," Savannah asked, moving her flat palm from above her head to down below her knees. "They're right here, Mom."

The picture-taking sessions were a nightmare. My rule is that if I wanted a picture of a landscape, I'd commission an artist or buy a postcard. BUT...all bets are off if someone you know is pictured IN FRONT OF the landscape. In this case, the nutty lighthouse people with their fifty cameras strapped around their necks with additional equipment holstered around their waists might actually have the right idea as I scrolled through Brad's phone pictures and immediately apologized that he had to be married to someone with such a giant @$$. "What are you talking about?" he said kindly, "That's not your @$$. The wind was blowing your shirt out." I hugged my husband in gratitude before he said, "That's also why your hair looks so kooky."

Thoroughly enjoyed my afternoon. It was relaxing and fun. And fun, as you all know, encompasses ALL ages. Did the tour. DIDN'T buy the t-shirt.

A Saturday morning in September

In a Connecti-kitten land...far, far, away...there lived a Dunkin Donuts shop on every corner of every town. And in true Mosiman fashion, Savannah led her little band of weary, doughnut-hungry travelers to a bakery that had broken free of the oppressive chains of corporate cookie-cutting. But now I was frozen in a state of choice-paralysis. Gone were my familiar doughnut friends. But maybe I was about to meet my new doughnut bff. Would it be the sort-of sticky bun? But what were those strange nuts on top? Walnuts? Clumps of almonds? I don't know. There! A safe glazed doughnut. But what is this? Baked with raisins? How bold! How innovative! How frightening!

Clutching our selections, we then embarked on a doughnut picnic, parking our pastries in front of the Navy destroyer, USS Ramage. We enjoyed the sights and sounds of Savannah's busy little harbor during our breakfast bistro. Savannah happily consumed her chocolate doughnut. Brad was thrilled with his glazed raspberry-filled. I, unfortunately, came to the sad conclusion that raisins should be relegated only to bagels, toast, and bran cereal as well as your occasional oatmeal raisin cookie.

Devastated, I wandered off to walk the pier. "If ever there were a poster child for an attention problem, it would be you," Savannah observed as I paused to poke every puffball in our path before scouring the harbor waters for jellyfish. The emergence of a duck from the depths caused me to cry out in delight until the train whistle or ferry horn redirected my interest.

 The people of the pier were greatly entertained at the expense of one poor seaman who was loudly being chastised on the main deck. The sequel to that little drama was released almost immediately as we watched the Coast Guard bull dog unsuspecting boats who drifted too close to the Ramage.

An impromptu tour of Fort Trumbull followed and I could chalk up a well-spent Saturday morning! And to think...I could have been at home in Wyoming County on my couch, eating grocery store doughnuts!

Bangry: My first day of school

Was it Churchill who first uttered the haunting phrase that those who fail to learn from history are doomed to repeat it? I'm not sure that he was referring to hair styles at the time but it was still aptly spoken. WHEN WILL I EVER LEARN? WHY AM I SO STUPID? ARRRGGGHHHH!!!!

Poor Brad and Sydney had to deal with my emotional breakdown as my recently-trimmed-the-night-before-bangs (-using-my-eyeglasses-as-a-leveling-device) transformed into a stiff roll-out awning over my eyebrows. Further mis-use of my hair-flattener twisted my bang awning into a sideways rooster comb. The irony only made me cry.

I drove to school, lamenting the no-hat rule, realizing that my poor choice was going to severely limit my students' responses to that eager, end-of-day parental question of: What's your new teacher like? Scratch "pretty." Forget "adorable." "Cute" was definitely off the table. The most I could hope for was: "interesting."

When I returned home hours later, I was faced with that eager, end-of-the-day husband question: How was your day? I paused and considered his inquiry before answering, "My bangs were the only bad part." This time the irony didn't make me cry.

I am considering writing a parody of Pink Floyd's Another Brick in the Wall. Instead of "Teacher...leave them kids alone," I would instead sing, "Teacher...leave your bangs alone."

EVERY year...my goodness. WHAT is wrong with me!?!?!?

http://www.hippoquotes.com/full-bangs-quotes

Make Way for Mosimans in Boston

Sydney's favorite part of this picture is the
guy yucking it up in the background.

 I have been to Boston with Savannah as a chaperone. I accompanied Sydney to Boston as a teacher. I have thrown up on whale watch boats more times than I am comfortable admitting although plenty of student videos archived the event for posterity. I have never visited Boston with my husband and for good reason. He (mistakenly) believed that, since I had toured Beantown so frequently, I was the quintessential guide. WRONG! I spent most of my time on the tour buses (a) yelling at children, (b) playing euchre (backwards in my seat...not a good idea), or (c) keeping my eyes tightly shut in terror when faced with Boston traffic. Brad began to suspect my geographical limitations as soon as we entered the city when I mistook Boston's famous Leonard P. Zakim Bunker Hill Bridge with New York's Tappan Zee. Please note the occurrence of "z"s" in both names...I'm sure it's a common error. I did manage to redeem myself historically when I could later recall events from the Great Molasses Flood of 1919. You know...the truly important stuff.

Faneuil Hall (Home of the "copper hopper"

I had three goals for my trip to Boston: "chowda" bread bowl at Quincy Market, stroll through Boston Common, and attend a game at Fenway Park. All three very magical experiences. Having previously experienced Boston's passion for baseball, I was a little nervous to parade around all day outfitted in Kansas City Royals gear but we were treated with gentle good humor. "Kansas City fans pay double to ride the Harbor Cruise," we were informed by the ticket agent (insert your own accent, please)."Where're you folks from," our bus driver asked as we boarded.  "Say Iowa," I hissed at my husband who refused to shy away from the truth that could be our ruin. "Upstate or city," growled the driver. "Western New York," Brad's voice echoed in the suddenly silent bus. "Well...okay, then." Whew. Later in the day, Brad would have to gently pull me away as a nice man offered to pay for my face painting fee (with a Red Sox logo).

Sydney was the only passenger thrilled when
we passed The Tipton Hotel, the setting of
"The Suite Life of Zack and Cody."

After years of passing Boston Common with a mob of middle schoolers, I was looking forward to actually walking through it. For the last decade, I have housed a statue of a mother duck and her babies in my classroom that Brad Mosiman graciously allowed me to purchase in honor of Robert McCloskey's Make Way for Ducklings. And now I would be in Boston Common to see the real statues dedicated to his famous children's book! Except those poor ducks were besieged with parasites. Like fleas on a dog, children swarmed my little flock. Patience was NOT the remedy in this particular situation. I waded into the fray and began removing ticks. I have to admit, though, it was refreshing to see, in this fact-paced world of technology and adrenaline-pulsing 4D attractions, that McCloskey's simple story still resonates. Those little ducks serve as the Saint Patrick of Boston Common and the kids are the snakes. And I'm the exterminator. Just like I told you...magical.