Picking out the Christmas tree...it wouldn't have been the same without her ("Next year, let's test that theory," said Savannah)

Not normally a big fan of getting the tree up so early, I wanted to make sure Savannah was home so I scheduled a trip to our local Christmas tree farm for around Thanksgiving. "My feelings won't be hurt if you get the tree without me," Savannah assured me but...nevertheless...there we were. Our tree-picking strategies vary from family-member-to-family-member. The girls tend to like a tree that is within VERY close proximity of our parked truck. Brad likes a tree that will actually fit in our living room while I favor a tree with personality. Sydney's plea to re-purpose a tree that had already had its top lopped off went unheard. "But look," she argued, "rather than a peak, we'd have a tree with a top shelf." Nope. On our second lap around the farm, Savannah began to get desperate. "You really could have done this without me," she kept muttering, "I wouldn't have minded."

After years of being stabbed, I have become passionately anti-blue spruce. For some reason, perhaps because of her tolerant and accepting nature, Sydney is tree-blind. For Sydney Lynn, all trees are equal in the eyes of God and man. After I had vetoed her third blue spruce, Brad snapped...initiating a now-and-forever-more rule to picking out the Mosiman Christmas tree. "Stick your face in the tree," he told her, "if you are in danger of losing an eye...then it's a blue spruce."

I was finally happy with a tree with kinked-up, curly branches. Brad sawed it down with remarkable speed and the girls headed off to pay for our selection. "I'm not all that emotionally-invested in this tradition," I heard Savannah remark to her sister as they disappeared into the Christmas tree forest, "I would have been fine if you'd gone without me."

And thus concludes another precious holiday memory, treasured by all...(most)...(some)...(me).

Ellicottville, Girls Getaway, part three (The Conclusion...thank goodness. The blog submissions are longer than the actual week-end!)

I'm not sure how I actually got signed up for a wine-tasting. I don't even like wine. All the clues were there...I was in a wine store. There were glasses. A bar. I'm not sure when I heard the shouted words, "Amy...do you want to...muffle muffle muffle" while I was in the bathroom, that I would translate the message to "sample an assortment of chocolates" or "go horseback riding in an indoor heated ring down the road" or even "watch a marathon of How I Met Your Mothers." How silly I felt when I realized I'd committed myself to an hour of imbibement. I guess we all have those moments.

FLASHBACK #1:  Geri, confused about the (kind of) new tradition of gender-revealing baby shower cakes, sought further clarification from our baker-friend Deb: "So you don't actually give them the cake until AFTER the baby is born?" We all stared at Geri.

FLASHBACK #2: After referring to the song in conversation, I tried to hum the French National anthem on the darkened streets of Ellicottville and instead broke into the Marine fight song. You just can't beat the red, white, and blue out of this girl.

FLASHBACK #3:  Discussing the possible visit to a nearby arboreum, my trivia-loving friend, Geri asked, "Are there flowers there too?" I paused, my white chocolate hot chocolate mug an inch from my lips, "Arbor: Latin for tree," before taking a warm sip. Kathy, sitting across from me, realized that she was a witness to history and leaned across to offer me a high five. "Did that feel good," she asked.

At the wine-tasting, I ended up next to connoisseur and hotel bed-maker, Deb. Thus far in the trip, I had proven to be a colossal disappointment to her, opting for elastic waistband dachshund jammies at 7:30 pm rather than going out. Although I was determined to do better, I felt compelled to warn her:  "I have the palate of a 3rd grader," I confessed. The wine sampling list is designed to fool you. I immediately signed up for selections that promised dancing tastebuds, hallucinations, and instant toe-curling orgasms. Talk about false advertising! I could over-hear my friend Bev at the opposite end raving about how her sample tasted just like blueberries so I hollered down the line to find out her selection pick but Deb wouldn't let me change my list, claiming that I had to learn how to act like an adult sometime. On top of that, she made me drink double...tasting from my list and hers! I tried to sneak down to Bev who was now happily raving about her grape-y tasting wine. "Stay here," Deb insisted, "I'll take you to Tops later if you want grape juice."  Then it was time to actually buy a bottle of wine. Deb picked it out. I thought she was going to kick us out of the suite later when Bev showed me her technique for drinking wine as she mixed it, 20/80 with diet Sprite.

After that fiasco, Deb ditched me while we were shopping. Fortunately, my friend Sandy stepped in. I was wrestling over an elegant turkey-shaped decanter and a clay, feather-bedecked turkey craft. "The decanter would make for an elegant centerpiece for your Thanksgiving table," Sandy mused, "reflecting your sophistication and grace as a hostess." I smiled. Sandy knew me so well. "The turkey...craft," she said, at a loss for what else to call it, "is whimsical and fun." She paused. "Which one do you think fits your personality better," she asked me. Well...that was a no-brainer. I bought my little clay turkey and didn't realize until I'd gotten home that I had bought the opposite of an elegant, sophisticated centerpiece. I had purchased a centerpiece fit for a feather-brained clown. So much for learning how to act like an adult.

Ellicottville, Girls Getaway, part two

We were ready to experience a little of the Ellicottville night-life. Well...SOME of us were. "We've seen the Why Guy," I whined, "could it even get any better than that?" So preparations were set in motion for us to trip the light fantastic.

Kathy, who had purchased a bionic hair straightener, was eager to wield this weapon on her friends. After transforming Dawn into a goddess, she coaxed me over. "Your hair is so beautiful," she crooned with the practiced lie of a seasoned hairdresser. My hair soon lay in a smooth ripple down my back. Kathy then moved to the front. I could tell that something was wrong as Kathy's lips snapped together like Phyllis Diller's purse. "Maybe if you sweep them a bit over to the side," our friend Bev suggested, surreptitiously reaching for her camera as the six million dollar bang-buster busted my bangs. After several attempts to manage my mane, Kathy went for the Hail Mary, whipping off her new headband and plunking it over my hair. "Maybe Amy wears bangs for a reason," Deb quietly observed as the room sat in stunned silence as they took in my style. Well...silent except for the sound of Bev taking pictures. Silent as in the silent e in mauve that would be used as a Scrabble word when I refused to be seen in public.

Ellicottville: Girls Getaway, part one

 Kathy to me as I took journal notes:  "Amy, let me give you the first line of your blog:"

...and I was amazed, every morning, how radiant and beautiful my friend Kathy could look. 

I was also amazed, how enthusiastic she could be about things so many of us take for granted. For example, as she gave us the grand tour of the suite we were sharing for our Girls' Getaway, we played a rousing game of "What's in the closet?" "An ironing board," I suggested. "The dry bar," wondered Geri. Kathy fairly pranced with excitement. "No," she cried, flinging the door wide, "Voila!" We looked. She looked. Then she disappeared into the closet while Geri and I slapped our foreheads. We hadn't thought to propose a passageway to Narnia. "Where are they," Kathy wailed, not realizing that the washer and dryer were in ANOTHER closet down the hallway. Impressive, nonetheless.

You learn a LOT about your friends when you vacation with them. I now understand my friend Dawn's aversion to horseback riding, I now know that the answer to the question of "Where is So-and-So?" will inevitably be "in the bathroom," and I now know that it is best to remain quiet should the topic of conversation suddenly veer to "weird areas of hair growth."

Eating out was an adventure. I freaked out over life-sized deer murals on the walls of my restroom and warned Kathy before she went in. Thinking that I'd meant taxidermied trophies, she entered trepidatiously and then was convinced that she was in the wrong room, making for an uncomfortable visit.  Geri put the moves on our waiter ("I'm sure you get this ALL the time," she said, "but you look just like a television star." We were just waiting for her to flip her hair.) while a customer put the moves on Kathy while she enjoyed her waffles. Believing ourselves to be of royal status, we demanded the adjustment of television volumes and returned drinks with the wave of a regal hand. And we were, as always, so mature. "Amy," Kathy hissed across the table, "don't look (I looked) but isn't that the Why Guy from Channel 2?"  The casually hushed tone that descended on our table wasn't transparent...AT ALL. "He's too tall." "His face doesn't look like that." "That guy's too thin." I looked and then nodded at Kathy. Sighting confirmed. But for some reason...contact MUST be made. Enter Dawn who marched right over. I complimented his body of work. "You were really believable dressed as a dinosaur to promote the museum on Thursday," I said. "Thanks," he replied in a humble manner. You know what they say...the bigger they are, the nicer they are.

My life (and dignity) were in peril at every moment. When Dawn wasn't busy cracking me full in the face with a door while I was nodding politely to an English gentleman sporting a fedora, Geri was leaving my bedroom door open as I was getting dressed ("Get over it, Amy," she snapped, "We're all girls here."). After I worked up the nerve to FINALLY book what would be my first massage EVER (and forcing Geri to join me for a Couples Massage so I wouldn't be alone), the receptionist with the highest, thickest eyebrows that I have ever seen, looked me up and down disdainfully, sniffed, and then said they were "booked." Meanwhile, in the backroom, they were sending an employee home because it was so slow. Earlier, I'd scuttled off to the fitness room to furtively "work-out." "Where's Amy," someone asked, "In the bathroom," came the reply. Unfortunately, Deb and Kathy managed to track me down and, yes, take pictures.

Our suite was wonderful. Geri and I, who share the same philosophy regarding beds and towels, would peer into our friend Deb's room each morning in dismay at her perfectly-made bed with crisp military corners and her fluffy towels, folded and hung with neat precision. When members of our group declined housekeeping services, Geri and I wailed. Obviously, our trip was ruined.

Conversations on the way to church, part one

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Our conversations while driving to church tend to be rather reverent. Dignified and mature. Brad and Savannah, who had managed to fit in a sacrilegious run before departing ("What do you mean...You're running...It's Sunday. God's day. A day of rest," I protested from beneath my blankets. Sleeping in. As God intended. Look it up if you don't believe me. It's in the Bible.) As Sydney and I rocked wearily in the van, we listened with little enthusiasm or interest to Savannah's assertion that her one coyote spotting of the morning trumped Brad's sighting of four deer.

My husband's mention of a possible breakfast after church shook me out of my lull and I assumed my rightful position as Family Mediator. "Deer are a dime a dozen," I said diplomatically, "Coyote wins." Savannah cheered but then I suddenly realized that my breakfast at Laurie's was in peril.

"We should have a point system," I said quickly to distract my sullen spouse. We established a 1 out of 7 ranking and went from there. "What would be at the top of this list?" Brad asked, still annoyed. "Well...bear and bobcat would certainly be the Everest of animal sightings," I suggested. "What would a one be," Sydney croaked from the back. "Woodchuck, without a doubt," I answered. Squirrels and chipmunks rated a two. Deer, which are pretty regular but still exciting (I rubbed Brad's arm empathetically) came in at three. The dawn/dusk critters came next (raccoons, skunks, fox) although Sydney had one condition to that list. "Not opossums," she stated firmly, "they freak me out." The van unanimously agreed to send the opossum down to woodchuck level. "Hey...what about a porcupine?" Savannah asked. Oh...wow. Hadn't considered a porcupine. Rarely seen. "But..." Brad questioned, "is it considered as high as a bear?" That was a decisive "no" from the van.

"What about a hawk?" Sydney inquired. We moaned. "There are so many variables," Brad explained. "Perched, I wouldn't rate it high at all but if it were in flight, with something in its mouth..." "Let's just keep birds out of this," Savannah snapped, beginning to tire from this conversation (and her morning run). We slipped into a contemplative silence.

Spiritually-energized, we left church later renewed with religious fervor. Humming one of the worship songs, we discussed the sermon points as we headed to breakfast. Conversation stopped as we passed a dead beaver along the road. "We need to re-visit our list," I remarked. "Oh no," Savannah sighed, as our van filled with our re-animated exchange.

Game 7

The transformation of Amy Mosiman into a baseball fan has been a slow one. Hindsight revealed that she'd been hibernating beneath the surface all along; emerging like the prophetic groundhog to spout baseball-related jargon before slipping quickly back into her den. I'd occasionally glance up at the TV from my reading and say, "He needs to get his elbow up" or "Two hands on the ball!" Advice I'd learned from the best baseball coach in the world:  My dad. Brad would roll his eyes and just continue watching the game with no comment...bidding his time.

Staggering beneath a fashion avalanche of Royals wear, I finally joined the ranks of the life-long fans in my family (Brad and Virgil), and finally embraced Kansas City in time to watch them win the World Series last year. Fair weather fan or intuitively bidding my time? You be the judge.

And here we are. The World Series once again. But no Royals. Yet...still I watched. I learned about the goat. I bonded with the 104-year-old whose final wish was to see her team win the Series. I admired LaBron James's sports cross-over enthusiasm. I laughed as Bill Murray reved up the crowd while rooting for his team. The Chicago Cubs's left-fielder, Ben Zobrist, is a former Royals player who won the World Series last year. So I cheered first for the Royals, via Zobrist, and then, like Alice down the rabbit hole, fell for the whole Cubs line-up.

Game Seven. You're already nodding. You know. But I was home...ALONE. And I was watching. I knew about Cleveland's pitchers. I knew Kluber was a beast. I watched the Cubs take an early lead. I gasped as the catcher took one to the face and flopped over. Brad and Sydney were calling by now and I was offering sports commentary on the Cubs aggressive batting style. "Each time they're up to bat, it's like they're going alone in euchre," I told my husband, "Each batter may have only three trump in their hand but they're pretty sure they'll at least land a point." "You paint such a picture," Brad sighed unhappily on the phone, pressing harder on the accelerator.

Savannah called, six hours behind me in Hawaii. Cleveland and Chicago were tied up as we entered the 9th inning. "Wait! Will this go into over-time," I cried. "It's called extra innings," Brad corrected me. Unnecessarily. They are the SAME thing! I then argued about how it should go from "bottom" to "top" of the inning because that's how you fill a cup but Brad had slipped snack-size Junior Mint boxes over his ears in an attempt to drown out my voice as I chanted, "Batter...batter....batter...batter...Sa-WING...batter." I'm also a big Ferris Bueller fan. Poor Savannah on a 30 second television delay had to listen to me update her in real time. And even if I could stifle the impulse, she could hear our whole family's real-time out-bursts of delight or despair.

The delay occasionally worked in our favor. "Wait!" I cried, "Was that Santa Claus?" Thirty seconds later, Savannah confirmed my stadium sighting. "Wow," Sydney marveled, "I can't believe all the famous people at this game!"

Rain delay. Oh no. I have to work tomorrow. "So do I," Brad pointed out, "except I do physical labor." I think the definition of "baseball widow" might be wrong. Are you technically a widow if you murder your spouse?

10th inning. Hello, Ben Zobrist. World Series MVP.

You know. You were there too. We all were.