I pulled a mussel laughing at the all-you-can-eat buffet

"Why aren't you blogging about your trip?" my husband asked, frowning at me. I shrugged. "There really wasn't all that much to write about," I admitted, "It was just a nice, ordinary vacation." Brad stared at me. He paused, taking a deep breath before addressing me. "I think," he said slowly, "that you have gotten in the mind-set of believing a story is not worth telling unless something humiliating, odd, or catastrophic occurs." 

I considered this.

"Cabo is a revolving destination door for thousands of people a day," I explained. "For the shops, the restaurants, the resorts and the expeditions...every day is Ground Hog's Day." Brad sighed. "Trust me," he encouraged, "Your version and perspective is less Ground Hog's Day and more National Lampoon." 

He quickly organized a spreadsheet of his favorite topics:  Amy on a camel. Amy giggling immaturely at the buffet. Amy appalled at a swim-up bar. Amy appalled at the foam party. Amy foregoing her plan to tackle the Big Five each day (margarita: no repeat flavors, daiquiri: no repeat flavors, Pina colada, mimosa, and a specialty cocktail: no repeats) to switch exclusively to tequila. 

The common denominator across all the categories was the giggling. Admittedly, Sydney and I are the least mature members of our family. We are easily amused and impressed. "Complimentary" beer during the shuttle ride to the resort could not be passed up. We grabbed our cans and cackled like naughty hens. I began a stimulating conversation with a man from Saskatchewan about their abundant soybean harvest while Sydney fretted that one beer tended to make her sleepy. I dismissed her worries before resuming my Canadian conversation by bragging about Wyoming County's plethora of potatoes. I'm not sure if it was the beer or the boasting, but we began to lose Sydney. Fortunately, we'd arrived at the resort. "Wow! Time really fries when you're having fun," I smiled at my neighbor to the north before nudging Sydney awake. "We'll ketchup with you later!" I waved as we exited the shuttle.

The second round of giggles occurred the minute we walked into our state room. 

The predominant feature of the room was...a bathtub.

We giggled at the tub, the generously-stocked-with complimentary-beverages mini-fridge, the mini bar, the rain shower, and the weirdly-shaped but well-intended towel sculpture perched on our bed.

We pulled ourselves together enough to go down to dinner.

We were sophisticated. "Thank you, sir, for pulling out my chair for me." Elegant. "Yes, a drink would be lovely." Poised. "Let me spread this fine linen napkin demurely across my lap." Cultured. And reserved. A credit to the good Mosiman name.

Until we weren't.

One step into the "buffet" and we were done.

Wide eyed. One might say bulging...like in a cartoon.

Giggling to the point of guffawing.

There was some pointing. Gesturing (like a Price is Right model motioning to A BRAND NEW CAR!).

Hissing. Shouting. Gasps of delight. A lengthy photo shoot.

We finally came to our senses when Sydney dipped her hand into the two-story chocolate fountain like she was going to baptize herself with Holy Water. 

Time to go.

To giggle another day.

Cabo-yes? Cabo-no? Too late now...time to go.

 I'm not sure how it happened. Jack Frost had hit the snooze alarm on the sunrise for, far, too many days. I was groggy. Ornery. Short-tempered. Impatient. Simmering. "You know what you need?" Sydney asked as I listed my litany of complaints to her over the phone. "What?" I growled, my inner-hibernating bear waiting to explode out of her cramped den. "Cabo," Sydney said, simply.

Cabo.

Two syllables of sunshine. A wave of relief washed over me. Yes. That was EXACTLY what I needed.

But...

Cabo...go?

Or...

Cabo...no?

Impulsively, I agreed and Sydney locked it in before my fears could gain ground.

Pictures and suggestions were sent to me daily...captivating carrots for Sydney's stubborn mule of a mother who began to obsessively worry. "What if I forget my passport?" I'd ask. Sydney would counter by offering me a choice between riding a camel or a horse on the beach. I debated those options for days. TSA is enough of a struggle for me, anxiety-wise. How on earth would I handle Customs? Sydney shared ten suggestions for swimsuits for my perusal and I agonized over skirt or shorts. 

I kept oddly quiet about my decision. What if I chickened out at the last minute and canceled my plans?

The week before break, my grade level team was playing cards at lunch when conversation turned, naturally, to our vacation. I merely shuffled the deck, remaining silent. Whew. Made it. Except I missed the devilish twinkle in my friend Katriel's eyes as she maneuvered the conversation back to me. "Will you be able to squeeze in a visit to your mom's before your flight?" she asked, eyes innocently wide as I glared at her. "Where are you going?" my friends said excitedly, turning to look at me expectantly. I was bubbling like a little volcano and could not staunch the sudden lava flow:  "Cabo, baby!" I shouted and the table erupted.

The next few days were filled with happy chatter so that I only had to contend with sleepless dread at
night. Who could possibly understand how I wanted to stay home, curled under a blanket on my chair, staring at re-runs rather than to bask in the warm sun, blinded by diamonds dancing off the water, a cold drink attached permanently to my hand?

For good or for bad, I made it out, right ahead of the weather.

Navigating carefully, Brad got me to the airport with ample time to spare. He cheerfully extracted me from the car and bustled away quickly.

I took a deep breath and headed to a kiosk. I could do this. Thousands of people do this every day.

Confirmation number. Blurred through the frightened tears in my eyes. I punched the buttons. Printed my ticket and then waited patiently for the luggage stickers.

And waited.

I hate those stupid luggage stickers. I can never seem to follow the directions correctly and end up completely enveloped in them.

I tried the kiosk panel again. No sticker.

I went to another kiosk. Nope.

Got in a line.

The wrong line.

Got waved over to the correct line and then babbled on and on about luggage to the poor man who could only stare at my tear-stained face as I lamented my utter failure in regards to the successful printing of luggage stickers. 

He effortlessly produced them for me and then asked if I was traveling alone. I could only nod as I thought about TSA and Customs ahead of me. Not to mention my intentionally going to a country where I do not speak the language or understand the currency exchange. I'm hard of hearing as it is and let's just throw an accent on top of that. Plus I am spatially unaware, am terrible at listening to AND following directions, get overwhelmed by my environment, and get motion sick.

"What?" I asked the ticket agent. He'd been talking for some time.

"I don't like your small window between Buffalo and Phoenix," he repeated (probably for the twelfth time), "I'm switching you over to Vegas." He took the tickets I had successfully pulled from the kiosk and gave me new ones. "Look," he said, "I marked your tickets so you can board without worry." He circled something on my ticket. "When the agent says this (insert Charlie Brown's teacher's voice here), I want you to board the plane. Do you understand?" I nodded. I did not understand. "You're going to do great," he said with a thumbs up as I shuffled sadly off.

I sniffled my way through TSA and found my gate. Inspecting my tickets, I was horrified to discover predominantly circled red ink declaring me eligible to board ahead of my fellow able-bodied passengers. I work in education. I knew what this was. I was given the airline equivalent of an IEP accommodation. The plane began the boarding process and, mortified, I hid behind a post until I was spotted by my kind benefactor who had apparently followed me to make sure I safely made it to my seat. Like a sheep dog, he herded me into the waiting line of wheelchairs. "I do not deserve special treatment," I hissed in my phone to Sydney. "You wear glasses," she sang cheerfully, "think of them as wheelchairs for your face." I dove for the first available seat which was located in the first row. The flight attendant wrestled my backpack away to store it in the overhead compartment...taking with it...my snacks. Leg room but no M&Ms. 

Five candy-less hours later, I made it to Vegas. A night-time flight over that city does NOT disappoint. The terminal is a nightmare for someone with sensory issues but once I was squirreled away in a safe little corner, I enjoyed watching the action

Vegas to San Diego...this time clutching my M&M container (aka: My backpack).

I made it! I stood outside, taking in the towering silhouettes of the swaying palm trees and reveling in the lack of snow when a voice cried out in the darkness, rising over the hundreds of conversations swirling around me, weaving through the traffic crawling along, waiting to gobble up passengers. "Mom!" It didn't occur to me and it certainly didn't register to Sydney Lynn...as Douglas turned to his wife as they raced toward me from a block away and he said, laughing, "Half of this crowd is made up of mothers. She's not going to respond to your voice." Sydney didn't bother answering him because I had already turned, waved my arms, and exclaimed joyously, "Sydney!"

"Icy" what you did there: Losing my cool and having a melt down just trying to walk to my truck

 It was a disastrous blend of chilling winds, frozen temperatures, sleet and snow that transformed my lawn into a lake of sheer ice. Brad had left for work, pausing to start my truck for me while I reveled in my last fifteen minutes sitting, stove-side, sipping coffee and rolling reels. I was startled when I spotted, out of the corner of my eye, my husband, driving the truck around to the front of the house. My heart melted at his thoughtfulness.

I peered out the window at him as he made his way carefully from the truck for the perilous journey back to his van. He paused to make loving gestures to me...two-fingers-to-eyes then pointing to the ground. The Brad Mosiman equivalent of blowing kisses. 

I sighed. He can be so-oo dramatic.

I returned to my beverage and brainless browsing.

Too soon, it was time to go.

I stepped out my front door, surprised to find another vehicle parked on the road.

Brad Mosiman.

Lovingly, he rolled down the window to yell at me to put on my mittens. His version of a Shakespearean soliloquy. 

I rolled my eyes at him, stepped down onto the slightly-sloped sidewalk and shrieked as I slid, out-of-control, arms flailing, back contorting, all the way to the truck. Actually...all the way INTO the truck. I slammed right into the side of my warming vehicle and hugged it like a lifeboat as I fought the frozen current beneath my feet. I felt like a cartoon character. I risked a glance at Brad who sat, stone-faced and impatient, as I inched my way around Titan to get to the driver's side door. To his credit...were I he...I would have been video-taping this ridiculous episode and laughing hysterically.

Once he saw me safely behind the wheel, my husband tossed me a wave and drove away.

I thought about Brad Mosiman's love languages as I made my own way, carefully, to work. Care-taking. Acts of service. Worry. The unravel-ler of knots. Cleaner-upper of messes. The anticipator of all the trouble of which I am going to find myself. 

EXAMPLE:  I had declared that we would go grocery shopping after work on Thursday. I came home and made the mistake of sitting down. An hour later, Brad brought me a piece of take-out lemon meringue pie that he'd picked up earlier that day. I looked at him with surprise. He shrugged. "I knew you wouldn't feel like shopping but also knew that you would want a snack."

Brad and I left, after school. to go visit my mom. Arriving back, after dark, the icy ground waited for me...a mirrored menace...shining beneath the moon...a rippling rib-cracker. Brad's voice guided me in the darkness as I shivered with cold and fear. He was wrestling shopping bags while I fought gravity and inertia.I shuffle-stepped over to "help" Brad who was simply setting bags on the ground and letting the ice do the transporting for him. I was, of course, just getting in the way of progress. Brad attempted to guide my route which I promptly ignored and screamingly went my own idiotic way.  Somehow (Later referred to as "The Miracle on Ice"), Brad managed to get both the groceries AND his wife into the house (all while balancing a bag of wood pellets on his shoulder).

So Brad Mosiman's love languages might not necessarily be comprised of endearments and sappy compliments (I REALLY do like those, though)...instead, he valiantly tries to take care of a stubborn woman who insists she can do things her own way...it's a slippery slope. But I'll take the occasional cold shoulder or icy glare over a broken hip any day.

Part 2: Did you say "fired" or "fried:" Where on Google Earth are Sydney and Amy?

When last we left off, Sydney and Amy were in the middle stages of some pretty poor decision-making choices. It is here we find them again, blinking against the harsh sun as it ricochets off the nearby Pacific which is unreasonably loud for some reason. Wait. There is a reason. These two women are drunk. On a Monday morning.

Stop, you say, pausing in your reading. This is not the Amy I know. Sure, she enjoys a mid-month margarita and the occasional cocktail, but I have never known her to imbibe on a regular or aggressive amount.

True-true. You have me there. But these were extraordinary circumstances. I was being a supportive mother using whatever means I had at my disposal to turn a morale-monstrosity-of-a-day into an up-lifting adventure filled with love, laughter, (and yes, liquor).

So, yes...when Syd and I exited our first bar...our next destination should have been HOME.  But Sydney's mind was still filled with the embarrassment, shock, uncertainty, and self-assigned sense of failure that resulted from her morning Zoom call. That Sydney was still reeling. That Sydney had had a devastating blow to her confidence and self-esteem. That Sydney didn't know what her family DID know:  That That Sydney would be employed a week from now with a new job with better pay that didn't demand she sacrifice her soul in exchange for a salary. 

So...we headed to another bar. 

Sydney had been wanting to check out a Buffalo Bills-themed bar and this seemed like an ideal time to do it. Naturally...we walked. As we waited to cross a street, I noticed an unusual-looking fellow pedestrian. And that's saying a LOT for San Diego. "Sydney," I said softly, nudging her gently and gesturing discretely towards the man outfitted like a Ghostbuster/Alien with a small dog strapped to his chest. "It's the Google Maps Guy!" Sydney squealed, delighted with this sighting. Apparently, like Santa, many people had heard of the existence of Google Maps Guy but few have actually spotted him. We waved happily at him as he disappeared down an alley, intent on his job of chronicling every sidewalk in San Diego. With diligent research, Sydney eventually tracked down our encounter on Google Earth...there for the world to see:  Two inebriated women, not discreet AT ALL but, happily, boasting impeccable posture. If you look closely, you can tell that I'm yelling the typical Western New York greeting/good-bye/good luck/I love you catch phrase:  "Go Bills!"

And with that shouted reminder, Sydney and I completed this phase of our healing journey, walking into the safe, familiar, comforting world of our people:  A Buffalo Bills sports bar.

The next phase, of course, would be to call an Uber and return home.

Narrator:  Even though that clearly would be the correct and responsible choice, the two women would NOT, in fact, be returning home any time soon.

 

PART ONE: Did you say "fired" or "fried?"-You may lose your job but don't lose your dignity (or your cookies)

 It began as a day that, in the future, we would never want to talk about again.

A day that we would choose never to remember...

And then evolved into a day where the choice to remember was, thanks to an irresponsible amount of alcohol, taken from us...

I was curled on the couch in Sydney's living room, sipping coffee and enjoying my morning when Douglas suddenly appeared, crouching beside me. "Sydney just got fired on her Zoom call," he whispered, "She's crying in the office. Are you up for a little day-drinking?" Douglas had to leave for work and God had set his little chess-piece on the board...I was in the right place at the right time. I worried, though, that I was not the right person for this particular job...when it comes to drinking...I am definitely a rookie.

But I was game if Sydney was.

The news had not come as a complete shock to Sydney. Her HR responsibilities had shifted over the last year, focusing a lot on letting people go. This dreaded duty was dictated by a binder from which Sydney was not supposed to deviate regardless of reaction. Tears. Shock. Grief. Worry. Anger. Rage. Doesn't matter. Stick to the script. Sydney had a lot of trouble with that practice and her heart was definitely not in her job. 

So an hour was spent, feeling our feelings and then it was time...you can get bitter, better, or inebriated (We'll get better tomorrow).

Which is how Amy Mosiman came to be sitting, sea-side, in a bar, at 10 o'clock in the morning on a week-day. 

Sydney perused the menu and attempted to make a semi-responsible beverage selection. Given the circumstances and Douglas's whispered voice ringing in my ears, I realized that this was it:  Now or never. "No!" I said, interrupting her quiet order and pointing to the menu, "We want THIS." Sydney's red-rimmed eyes got wide and the server surreptitiously glanced at her watch, slightly shocked. 

Within minutes, our $82 pretty punch bowl of alcohol arrived. I took a shaky breath and then manned the ladle. 

Two young men arrived at the table next to ours and attempted to engage us in conversation. We, obviously, were in no mood...instead, intent on the task-at-hand. Three glasses in, I realized we were in desperate need of carbs. I ordered a montage of appetizers. 

Sydney wandered off briefly and our table neighbors tried again. I discovered that the one young man's dog, a beautiful German Shepherd, had died yesterday and his childhood friend flew in this morning to support him. 

Sigh.

Perspective.

I summarized our own situation and my new friends were immediately sympathetic and outraged on Sydney's behalf.

Our conversation halted upon Sydney's return.

We had just about hit the bottom. Not rock bottom. The bottom of the punch bowl. I sighed. I did it. I glanced around the restaurant, wondering where the equivalent of the Prize Patrol would emerge with my "Mom of the Year" award.

Suddenly, our neighbors were back asking if we would join them for a shot. This was a terrible idea
but...the man's dog had died. I'd seen fifty pictures of his beloved companion. Handed him a napkin as he fought back tears. Offered to pray for him. 

We were doing a shot. 

I embarrassed myself by asking for Patron. These guys had requested the tequila equivalent of a sommelier to present samples at our table. Oh no. 

Before I knew it, I was holding up a $40 shot and toasting a German Shepherd. We all tossed one back and gave our heartfelt farewells. We waved good-bye to our new friends as they left.

Alone again, I flagged for our bill. Our server came over and smilingly told us that it had been paid for us. I was horrified. This was nuts...the $40 shots were bad enough...but Sydney and I were in for over $200. Grief is costly, y'all.

"Where do you want to go now?" Sydney asked as we walked (She walked...I concentrated really hard on standing upright) outside, into the blinding sunlight. I held up a hand to shield my eyes. "Home!" I shouted in my head, wincing. "Oh, I don't know," I said, "Where do you feel like going?" Sydney paused, thinking. "I suppose we should go home..."

Narrator: Even though that was clearly the correct choice, the two women would, in fact, NOT be going home.