To bee or not to bee

I am a great one for suffering in silence. Whether I'm sporting a horseshoe bruise on my calf, a fiery sunburn framing my face or a painful puncture wound in the soft fleshy part of my foot, you will rarely hear a whimper out of me.  Stoic and strong.  Uncomplaining.  Little did I know that I had role-modeled that behavior to be emulated by those around me.

Brad and I were sitting on our sidewalk steps, enjoying the afternoon sun when we noticed that Chlo was no longer frolicking happily among the tall dandelion stalks.  She likes to pretend that she's slaloming between the slender stems.  Our little dachshund sat and looked at us plaintively with one tiny paw held up in supplication.  Furry paw problems are not unusual in our house.  Doggie booties are purchased every winter and then promptly discarded by Chlo as we attempt to avoid a rather serious case of "cold feet." Stickers and stones often become lodged within the recesses of Chlo's paws.  Recently, Chlo got herself into a rather sticky situation when she was involved in the investigation of pine tree.  We cut out as much sap as possible but Chlo looked like she was walking on tiptoe for days.  On the plus side, we'd invented the first organic doggie deodorizer. She smelled like Christmas!

Chlo isn't one to complain so Brad went over to investigate.  The initial inspection revealed nothing but it was clear that Chlo was in distress. Comfortable quoting both the Bible and Shakespeare, Chlo's patient acceptance and unshakable trust in us seemed to say, "O bee...where is thy sting?"  We tag-teamed her and a meticulous search led us to a minuscule protrusion in one of her pads.    Like Androcles and the Lion, the "thorn," in the guise of a bee stinger, was swiftly removed.  Proportionally, little Chlo being stung by a bee is the same as us being terrorized by a Pterodactyl-sized prehistoric bug.  She was a trooper; laying quietly in her little laundry basket of blankets, her petite paw quivering.  She rallied somewhat when I was eating some chicken.  And as I type this, Chlo is nestled on my arm, determined to soldier on.  To answer the age-old question of "to bee or not to bee," Chlo respectfully submits that she would much rather "not to bee."

The true bird of peace

I'm sure that you're already aware that I have my fingers constantly monitoring the pulse of current events.  Today, for instance, I was among the first to be appalled when Beyonce's bounce was interrupted as she bent over to greet fans stage-side during last night's concert.  Oh no he di'nt!  She promptly had him booted from the venue (For those of you who may miss my subtle pun-play...please note the clever use of the word "boot" slyly referencing  Beyonce's famous posterior feature).

Savannah keeps me appraised of what's going on in the world as well.  She recently described the atrocious conditions in Syria and that they are experiencing an embargo limiting arms and various other supplies.  Apparently, the news depicted the inevitable ingenuity of the human spirit as desperate dieters tunneled out and successfully retrieved...fresh Maine lobster? No. Ears of Iowa corn? No. Vermont Maple Syrup? No.  No...what the Syrian people really want, aside from a stable government and peace, is KFC.  http://www.nbcnews.com/video/nbc-news/51917539

This is a cause I can get behind. I personally took the Hostess bankruptcy very hard. I understand food cravings. When I learned of the incredible measures and risks that the Syrian people were willing to undertake to achieve this simplest of human desires...well, I had to reach out as a culinary comrade.

My journey actually began this morning when my husband and I began stage one of our "We've just returned from a family vacation" blow-up to re-establish marital harmony.  I stormed angrily out of the house in response to Brad's ridiculous assertion that I actually "parent" my children.  I fancy myself a bit of a mediator rather than a director, or, in Brad's case, dictator so his presumption was rather presumptuous.  Fortunately, he came to his senses when I returned home and set about implementing stage two of our process, code-word: feeding the beast, by taking me grocery shopping without questioning every single blessed purchase. Does baby want some chocolate mousse? Throw it in the cart. Does baby want a cannoli? Toss it in! Pecan sticky buns? Why even ask? Make room! As we headed to the van, I realized we were about to enter phase three where, in exchange for Brad’s peace offering, I would, in turn, admit a certain percentage of accountability.  Busy as I was, brainstorming my gracious speech, I almost didn't notice when Brad pulled into the KFC parking lot.  I was handed cash without an accompanying economic dissertation.  I bought enough chicken to feed a small Syrian nation.  Our family is old-school…original recipe, all the way.

The Mosiman peace talks came to a satisfying conclusion over a bucket of the colonel’s secret recipe  ("Satisfying?" Brad asked dryly, "I'm still waiting for your so-called gracious speech.").  Customarily, the dove is viewed as a bird of peace but ultimately it’s about feeding basic needs.  Smugglers are rewarded enough to put their very lives on the line to tunnel into Syria to bring its stricken people a KFC 12-piece meal deal.  It seems so simple.  Put down the weapons, pick up your forks and salute the true bird of peace:  the chicken.

The twenty that got away: A sad fish tale

Bundled up for a delightful Memorial Day excursion on the lake.
(photo taken by Sydney Mosiman who was greatly annoyed
that her picture didn't make the cut)

"My goal this year," Sam Ratigan vowed on our four hour annual drive to Black Lake, "is to not do anything to make Mr. Mo yell at me."  Past years have thus far been unsuccessful.  He yelled at her when she dropped a big bass on the bottom of the boat.  He yelled at her when she demanded he rotate our anchored boat 180 degrees so that she could fish from the "successful" side, and he yelled at her when she announced she was bored in the middle of our Memorial Day vacation.  I, as usual, held my tongue, despite her constant criticisms of my driving.  "Why don't you pass?"  "Someone's passing you on the right."  "You're making me nervous."  Why do I continue to take this person with us to Black Lake, I wondered, holding the steering wheel in a death grip.

Our holiday week-end weather resembled Christmas more than Memorial Day.  I took my shorts out of my suitcase and replaced it with a winter coat.  Packing is definitely NOT an area of strength for the Mosiman women.  This was reiterated when it was discovered that, aside from Brad, no one in our cabin had packed a bathing towel.  Brad did not seem thrilled to share his towel with the five of us.  Brad, Sydney and her friend, Sam H were huddled in the cabin after a frigid morning battling forty degree temperatures on the water when we finally arrived.  After lunch, Brad took Savannah, Sam Ratigan, Chloe and I out, assuring us that it was much warmer than earlier.  We dressed in layers of sweatshirts, wool socks, rubber boots, rain suits, hats, and mittens and mummy-walked our way to the boat.

Chlo:  The Co-Captain

Chlo's mari-time name is "The Co-Captain" and she takes her duties very seriously; inspecting the boat, monitoring bobber action, and approving catch size and quality.  Brad continued to encourage us by explaining how much colder it was that morning while the drizzling rain, four-foot swells, and dropping temperatures caused us to doubt his depiction of earlier events.  Although I could hardly hear him through my chattering teeth (which Sam Ratigan tried to turn permanently blue with trick candy...WHY do I bring her again?), I listened in disbelief as my husband insisted that the temperature was around 60 degrees.  There's a whopper if ever I've heard one, I thought, as I pried my frozen fist from my fishing pole.

Sam, currently in first-place with the biggest fish contest.
  "Oh, that's embarrassing," moaned  Brad, "that that tiny fish is in first place."

Brad relocated us to a little cove, buffeted from the wind.  "If you can't catch a fish here, it's because you're incompetent."  I watched Sam dancing around and asked, "Did you mean incontinent?"  By this time, I'd assumed the fetal position beneath the blanket and just prayed that I'd eventually make it back to shore.  As the girls began to regularly pull in Sunnies, I heard Brad set the necessary limit to ensure a bountiful dinner for us later.  This was a goal I could work with so I shed my warm cocoon and began fishing with determination.  11 to go.  9 to go.  7 to go.  5 to go.  We finally had our catch and I hurriedly began packing us up.  Brad bounced our boat across Black Lake, great geysers of freezing water spilling over us.  With relief, we reached the dock and grabbed up our gear when Brad made a startling discovery.  Our catch basket, containing twenty fish destined to become our dinner, had not been hauled into the boat as it made its perilous journey across the lake.  The tied off rope, a tenuous tether, grew tight and taut, until, like Mr. Mosiman's temper, finally snapped.  Brad held the frayed line up and we collectively held our breath, ready for the real storm to rage.  But what we didn't realize was while Sam was busy making her vow to avoid triggering Brad's temper, Brad was making a vow of his own.  Whatever turmoil may have been boiling inside, Brad's demeanor was calm and easy-going.  A new fishing basket was quickly purchased and tomorrow morning, we'll work to replace the twenty that "got away."  It takes some patience to catch a bunch of fish.  It takes a ton of patience not to react when you lose a bunch of fish.  "There was actually twenty-two fish in the basket," Sam Ratigan corrected as she listened to the story.  Why do I bring her to Black Lake again?

Enjoying the balmy "60 degree" temperatures.

Slip out the back, Jack

Let me just say right now that I have HAD IT with Jack.  Sure he's cute with his sweet little smile and his little baby fist pumps and wiggling his tiny little toes.  But guess what, everyone? He won't stay cute forever.  As his little baby bobble head eventually grows proportionally to the rest of his Cabbage Patch body, my darling little dachshund, Chloe will remain adorable forever.  What does Jack have ahead of him?  The terrible tantruming twos...that annoying "why?" stage...the twerpy tween years...awkward adolescence...his teens...Kelly has so much to look forward to.

Kelly, Jack, and I attended the 5th and 6th grade Spring Concert this evening.  We were housed inconspicuously in the sound and lighting room overlooking the auditorium.  Let me restate that.  I was housed inconspicuously in the sound and lighting room.  Kelly and Jack were installed like royalty, waving to the cheering peasants below. While I was busy tirelessly and selflessly video-taping the evening's performance as per the band director's request, Jack was trashing the room like a rock star.  During intermission, Kel scooped up her son and dashed down the stairs to greet their adoring public.  "Amy!" she shouted over her shoulder, "Are you coming?  Someone has to take pictures!"  Someone sighed, grabbed her camera (shocker:  Kelly had forgotten hers), and set about the business of documenting Jack's every movement.

I watched with a weary fascination as Jack's fans clapped when he blew kisses, when he stood on shaky legs, when he mooed.  I wanted to scream.  "C'mon, folks!  Wake up!  He's a two-trick toddler, for pete's sake!"  Chlo has at least ten quality tricks in her current repertoire.  After significant effort, we managed to drag Jack away from the pulsating pull of his people.  To avoid further delay in making a hasty get-away, we kept to darkened corridors and headed for a back exit.  Exhausted, I hung up my paparazzi hat and assumed my other duty of lugging Jack's thousand pound baby bag out to the car.  I waved good-bye to my pint-sized pal and was unexpectedly rewarded with a heartfelt blown baby kiss.         Oh my goodness, Jack is the cutest kid EVER!!!

Poetry with Punch

The 5th annual "6th Grade Poetry with Punch" event was this evening.  It was an auspicious occasion of figurative language and an assortment of fine cheeses set off with classical music and extravagant desserts.  With the warm weather, we anticipated an audience of perhaps three and were pleasantly surprised to have every seat filled.  One ball player rushed in towards the end of the program, out-of-breath from practice, in order to read his poem.  Our students were sweet and sincere and proud of their poetry. As emcee, I was loud and bumbling and obnoxious and incredibly proud of their public speaking skills and poetic talent.

Truth-be-told, the real entertainment happens behind the scenes. Brad finally unearthed
 my deep dark secret (well, one of them anyways) when he graciously ordered the "Poetry with Punch" cake.  Text message from my husband: Are you aware that this cake is going to cost $60?  Text message reply from me:  Oh my goodness! Really?!?  I cringed as I pictured his calculations as he quickly time-traveled back over the past five years. Ordering it turned out to be the easy part.  When Syd and I showed up later, we initially mistook our cake for a small coffee table. We each grabbed an end and carried it out like a couch.  I stuffed Syd and my very valuable cake into the small confines of my Ford Ranger.  Changing gears took a careful synchronization of lifting, shifting and sifting.  

Its appearance in my classroom had the desired effect of producing an eager anticipation of tonight's event.  "What?!? You want me to come to school at night to read poetry?" is suddenly replaced with "Wait?!? If I show up and read a little poem, I'm rewarded with a giant piece of cake along with an assortment of fine cheeses?  And there's sherbet in the punch? RAINBOW sherbet?!?"  Its appearance at the school further underscored my delusional tendencies to my colleagues.  "What are we going to do with all the leftover cake," they moaned.  Dee generously cut plate-sized pieces for our guests.  Hyped-up on sugar, our students have never read so expressively before, with such passion and enthusiasm.  We may have inadvertently stumbled upon the secret to tackling the global issue of illiteracy.  The question is:  is my husband be willing to fork out another sixty bucks to feed this problem?

Mrs. Harris (Kelly) was busy feeding us and Jack prior to "Poetry with Punch."  While Kelly, Deanna, Cathy and I enjoyed Al's chicken finger pizza, Jack scooted happily around Dee's classroom.  When it was Jack's turn at the trough, Kel plopped him unceremoniously in my lap.  Soon, I was covered in sticky orange slices and purple yogurt.  As a grand finale, Jack's juice went off like a volcano.  I was now officially outfitted to emcee our red carpet gala.  I was so relieved when Savannah showed up with little Chlo.  Thank goodness that a well-behaved, sweet-smelling, quiet little creature would be on hand.  As I introduced poets with my demure dachshund, Jack's voice filled the room.  Seriously...couldn't Kel strap a muzzle on that kid?  Someone pointed out the obvious behavior differences between our two special guests but Kel seemed oblivious that some obedience training was in order.  Even after the event, the contrast was quite evident.  While Chlo graciously cleaned the carpet of cake crumbs, Jack thoughtlessly pulled every book in the library off the shelf.  We got a chilling look at the future when we observed him discreetly researching illegal substances (see picture).   We had a great night.  For some, poetry is a highly-structured, sophisticated affair.  But for others, poetry is sticky and sweet, filled with the hopes and dreams of 11- and 12-year-olds.  For them, poetry actually is a piece of cake.  

Our reasonably-priced purchase

Jack reading from the forbidden section of the library.

A positive reaction to a gentle reproach

It's important to get off on the right foot each morning so as to set the proper mood for the day.  I thought I might be onto something this time as I successfully restrained my natural impulse to scream at Sydney during our long four-mile commute to school as we careened around "Dead Man's Curve" on two wheels, stopped several feet into the intersection, and rode the meridian line like a Cirque de Soleil tightrope aerialist.  Exiting the truck, I silently congratulated myself as I unfurled my tightened fists and expelled the scream-air I'd imprisoned in my lungs.  I heard my name and, searching for the source, I was surprised to see a school bus idling in front of me.  "Mrs. Mosiman...whah...whah...whah...whah."  Apparently Charlie Brown's teacher had taken up retirement work piloting children to and from school.  "What?" I stepped closer.  Apparently this was a fan who wished to bestow a compliment upon me.  "Mrs. Mosiman," the bus driver said, peering down at me, "the dragon in the elementary play was..."  What? I was standing in the middle of a busy bus loop utterly confused by this cryptic message.  The driver, obviously a perturbed grandma, persisted, "Your article for the Courier? You wrote the wrong name.  The dragon was...."  Oh.  Ok.  I made a mistake and it was necessary to pull over a bus to tell me.  I staggered to the sidewalk towards the school to begin my day.

What is it with the Mosiman woman that society feels compelled to constantly correct us?  Yesterday, as we prepared for our upcoming Memorial Day week-end fishing trip, Savannah and I loaded our grocery cart with $300 worth of nutritious snacks.  My daughter didn't even blink an eye when I tossed specially-treated campfire wood onto the pile.  Her understanding nature could possibly be traced to the moment that I pretended not to notice the giant bin of brightly-colored sour gummi worms that she tucked between the pretzel M&Ms and s'more-making materials.  As we wobbled our way to check-out with our improvised Jenga of junk food, I realized that Brad's case of adult beverages would not fit in this puzzle.  Savannah carried it carefully to the conveyor belt when a bus suddenly pulled up.  "Excuse me," my confused daughter was asked, "are you 21?"  "No," replied Savannah, frowning, her arms growing tired of trying to please her father, help her mother, while staying within the ridiculously established perimeters of her state, "but my mother is."  My nineteen-year-old daughter gestured towards me, standing within fourteen inches of her next to a car payment's worth of groceries.  As Savannah and I continued to look confused and slightly disgusted, it was further explained to us that the store was in jeopardy of losing its license should Savannah continue to carry the beer.  I handed the beer to the under-aged clerk while Savannah seethed.

One word to the world today:  relax a little bit.  In the meantime, I'll just wait for the next bus to pull up.

Teacher Appreciation Dinner

The teacher appreciation and retirement recognition dinner was last night.  The five hour event was unfortunately cut short when the restaurant locked its doors and began shutting off the lights.  Apparently, we're quite the self-congratulatory group of people.  I watched, inspired, as my fellow honorees took the stage with grace and humility to thank those who had sacrificed for and supported them throughout the years.  I listened with admiration as they paid heartfelt tribute to God.  Finally, it was my turn.  About time!  My "friends" had spent countless hours brainstorming the perfect way to portray my exemplary professional skills.  "Amy Mosiman" impersonators caught me at my best...showing tasteless, unrelated Youtube videos to the children, watching "Big Bang" on the SMARTboard afterhours, bribing students constantly with candy and motivational tickets and prizes while continuously consuming Pepsi and chocolate.  And naturally, the condom story (see "The problem with prophylactics,"  4/23/2013) was featured predominantly throughout my "tribute."  When I was able to wrestle the microphone away from that pack of glory-hounds, I had to forego my meaningful speech about my family, friends, and faith and explain my side of the condom story.  Yes...while everyone else was quoting scripture and making thought-provoking biblical analogies, I came off sounding like a public service announcement delivered by Carrot Top.

The finale was truly inspiring.  "Thank you for coming, everyone," our emcee said, wrapping up the evening, "Thank you for coming and, if you don't mind, please clear your table before you leave."  A confused silence descended upon the room as we looked at one another to see if this was a joke.  Then I watched as our newly-appointed superintendence stood, and, without hesitating, began gathering up glasses.  Following her example, the room full of teachers bused tables, scraped plates, and stacked chairs.  There is a reason we are called public servants and it was the perfect way to end our evening of honoring teachers.

No rottweilers were harmed in the writing of this article

Brad's busy "gearing" up for the annual Mosiman fishing trip to Black Lake.  He thoughtfully asked if I would like to accompany him to the garage and watch him organize his tackle box, the romantic devil.  As exciting as that activity was, I eventually drifted off in search of something slightly more stimulating to do.  I was in the middle of counting fallen pine cones when, like Madame Curie, I stumbled upon an important advancement in the often-neglected "field" of doggie entertainment.  I would pick up a pine cone...ff-whoop...and then toss it in the pasture...ping! ff-whoop...ff-whoop...ff-whoop...ping...ping...ping.  Delightful.  Juno, also known as "The other dog," came bounding over to investigate.  ff-whoop...ff-whoop...ping...ping...boing!  The rottweiler suddenly transformed into a rabbit.  Boing!  Boing...boing!

As Juno frolicked in the field, I continued clearing my lawn of wayward pine cones.  ff-whoop...ff-whoop...ping...ping...boing...boing!  Lost in the tall grass, the dog would magically appear like a leaping gazelle before diving front paws first and nub up toward the next target.  Target...hmmm.  I squinted, wound up and released the pitch.  ff-whoop...ff-whoop...ping...ping...boing...boing...thunk!  Who needs to hit the broad side of a barn when you can hit the broad side of a rottweiler?  Having methodically re-organized his tackle box, Brad wandered down to join in the fun.  Additional points were assigned with the almost-impossible-to-make head shot which made an unduplicatable echoing sound.  Juno added her own component to the game by charging the field, pine cone clasped firmly in her mouth, to re-enter the lawn.  She succeeded twice but her distractability was her downfall as pine cones rained down around her...ping...ping...ping...and she leaped ineffectually about like a cat following a flash light beam...boing...boing...boing! Ten minutes later, my lawn was finally free of pine cones and my dog was happily exhausted.  I'm glad I made the discovery of "Puppy Pine Cone" after we'd cleared the lawn of gravel.

The cost of currency

Foreign currency fascinates me.  The unusual shapes and colors.  Even the texture.  The feel of the foreign currency in Mexico was particularly odd:  soft and fluffy. Not only that, it was bright blue.  Suspension of reality must be employed when one enters a resort environment.  My American money was eclipsed in value by towel cards.  These magical towel cards are distributed with great discretion:  one per person.  You carefully take your prescribed card to a happy little hut and exchange the little piece of plastic for a great big, bright blue, soft and fluffy towel.  You are entrusted to guard this fabric with your very life.  Should you fail in this mission, you will be unable to retrieve your card at the end of your visit, your name goes on a list, and you will be unable to leave the country with any amount of dignity.

Obviously, this established economic structure is a tad flimsy.  Everywhere you look, there is a sea of blue.  Your initial vigilance begins to relax and you find yourself wandering further and further from your towel.  Occasionally, you lose eye contact with your towel.  You then abandon your towel altogether like its a baby at a gas station.

Chuckie and I made the mile or so trek back to where we'd left our towels beneath the shade of a tropical umbrella next to the pool on our way to the spa.  We scooped up our towels and headed off down one of the seemingly endless paths of the resort. A stern voice stopped our steps and we turned to see a rather large man headed our way, gesturing madly.  "I think we should run," I whispered to Chuck from the side of my mouth.  But it was too late, my father-in-law faced this potential crisis head-on.  Interpreting the wild pointing, demonic, accusatory stare and barrage of German shouting, I believe that this nut thought that Chuck and I stole his towels.  Naturally, Chuck responded to this with some impressive gesturing of his own while I hugged my towel to my chest like it was a baby monkey and shouted, "My towel...my towel."  We all headed back to the scene of the crime where the German man's wife was keeping a stern eye on my waiting mother-in-law who too, was clutching a blue towel to her chest and insisting, "My towel...my towel."  The Mexican man from the happy little hut emerged and the great United Nations debate ensued.  It was the tower of Babel all over again.  Justice finally prevailed and the good guys were sent off down the happy trail with their soft and fluffy blue towels.

Several hours later, Brad shed an illuminating light on the situation.  The true culprit in the towel caper was our Aunt Pat.  Fearful of leaving our towels unattended, she'd gathered them up and stored them in her room.  The Germans then arrived, "invading" our territory, and planted their blue flags.  Oblivious, Chuck and I returned and took "our" towels.  Wait.  What?  I wasn't the good guy?  I was guilty of petty larceny on foreign soil?  Brad returned the stolen merchandise to the Germans accompanied by another enthusiastic round of gesturing.  I'm pretty sure my husband made humorous wide circular motions with his pointer finger towards the side of his head while everyone laughed.  Well...I certainly wasn't laughing.  What sort of warped resort was this that assigned such an unrealistic value on towels so that people would be willing to battle, conceivably to the death, to protect them?  It was with a great deal of relief that I exchanged my towel for the plastic card and then returned the plastic card to the hotel front desk to be granted clearance to leave this awful, awful place.  I could return to normalcy, my home where the almighty dollar rules and no one ever argues about it.

Sun-baked buns

My dream of snorkeling  with turtles was surprisingly different from the reality of snorkeling with turtles.  I envisioned a "Fantasia"-inspired underwater ballet where I somersault comically among my flippered friends. Instead, I was awash in fear as I constantly scanned the shallow seas for serrated-toothed terror.  Implementing "Shark Week" in my classroom prior to this trip was a colossal mistake.  Not only was I well-versed on the predatory habits of several species of sharks, I also conducted a research-based project chronicling the geographical shark attack "hot-spots,"  and here I was set to simmer in the day-old bakery bargain bin.  As time passed, I felt torn.  Not a single shark showed up.  What...wasn't I good enough for them?  Should I be insulted or gratified that I don't even REMOTELY resemble a seal?  I refocused on the dreaded jellyfish. "Maybe you should try focusing on breathing through your snorkel," remarked my husband, observing me inadvertently attempting to snorkel sans snorkel on several occasions.  "Your mother thinks she's Aqua-Woman," Brad told Sydney as I spat out several gallons of salt water, "Help her."  Sydney took my hand and tugged me further into the deep depths of the dangerous ocean.  I saw something lurking, a shadowy presence beneath me..."Squirrel!" I shrieked into my snorkel, scrambling backwards away from the giant turtle who glared menacingly at me from the ocean floor.  I had expected hubcap-sized smiling shelled creatures who would flip me five as they glided by.  Instead, Volkswagen-Beetle beasts scoured the sandy bottom of the sea.  Undaunted, Sydney guided me further along to a small coral reef pulsating with potentially poisonous fish.  I held my breath as I glided over the coral, sucking in my already concave gut to narrowly avoid evisceration.  Finally, it was time for this little mermaid to sprout legs and stand on dry sand.  It was then that I realized that I'd overlooked the most obvious and prevalent danger of all.  Sitting would no longer be an option for me for the next few days as, while my head was on constant vigilance below the surface, my "bobber" was busy keeping me afloat and inadvertently exposed to the deadliest element out there.  Of course I'd applied sun protection.  I had enthusiastically lathered it on my cheeks but not my "cheeks."  I'd narrowly avoided a vicious shark attack, just barely escaped being stung by a jelly fish, skimmed over a coral reef machete without a scratch and managed to not die during my turtle encounter.  I would, however, be forever scarred by this experience.  It was a really big red flag.  Hindsight might be 20/20 but my near-sighted eyes were focused on an immediate future fraught with danger. It was NOT a happy ending.  

Parasailing

Parasailing is a painful topic in the Mosiman home.  Once it was determined that we were, indeed, making tracks for a May trip to Mexico, Savannah and I began planning our airborne adventure.  My mountain-climbing, kayak-paddling, scuba-diving husband immediately began to fuss and fret.  The man who voluntarily leaped from airplanes, scrambled up greased poles in Panama, dashed across a piranha-filled river, and consumed raw rabbit during military winter survival training expressed great concern for my safety.  I immediately translated this concern to mean that he had serious doubts regarding my judgment and overall common sense.  Ridiculous!  I have a staunch history of sound decision-making.  The tone of our conversations escalated and some of us said words that will inevitably be thrown back in his face for the rest of his life.  Two of those words were "foolish" and "floppy."  Excuse me...?  Despite Brad's efforts to keep me safely grounded in an unrealistic world of pre-planning, research, and regimented physical therapy to build up the atrophied muscles in my left shoulder, this Bird of Paradise was destined to fly.

In response to our parasailing inquiries, Savannah and I were directed to a stretch of beach in search of a man named Israel.  A strong biblical name...a sure sign.  Israel happily accepted our sixty dollars each, handed us two sketchy-looking life jackets and pointed us to a jet ski manned by a twelve-year-old boy.  I waded into the ocean to gracefully board this flimsy vessel using what is now referred to in the local lingo as suplicando camello or the supplicating camel position. Soon, I was screaming over the crystal blue water, leaping from one five foot wave to the next to approach the waiting boat.  Savannah and I waved good-bye to our now-deaf driver who could once again breath as soon as my arms were wrestled from about his collapsed chest cavity.  Our boat immediately raced off, forcing my already-nervous stomach to drop forty fathoms.  I revisited Brad's now fateful words when I realized that the crew's English was limited to "How much do you weigh?"  After initially being offended (and embarrassed), I more-or-less answered and then, became alarmed as I realized I couldn't make the necessary metric conversion.  Bright side...if my stomach was any indication, I could soon deduct a few lbs from my original answer.

With a lot of enthusiastic gesturing, I was soon wrestled into a harness and hooked onto a steel arm.  Savannah and I took one look at the industrial-sized carabiners and searched our brains for the Spanish translation of "We appreciate your impressive equipment but we'd prefer you use locking carabiners as the man in our life won't even let our car keys dangle from a carabiner without a locking mechanism."  Before we were able to adequately voice these valid concerns, I felt myself suddenly lift off, as gently as a dandelion spore.  Wait!  Where was my safety lecture?  I haven't signed a disclaimer yet.  

Amy Mosiman, human kite, floated gracefully over the ocean, the occasional tug of the tether rope reminding me of my earth-bound connections.  Were it not for my sagging seat and the building muscle spasms threatening my upper upper thighs, I would have been utterly euphoric.  Savannah slightly diminished my excitement as she explained how I was the hypotenuse created by the boat to human triangle.  Truly, math is everywhere. 

We were reeled in, brought back to earth.  The boat ride brought me back to a belly-ache.  Nausea was my new companion and I feared our new friend would cause an uncomfortable riff in my relationship with my daughter.  I dug my toes into the worn, indoor/outdoor carpet, gritted my teeth, and kept an unwavering eye on the horizon. Finally,  I  flopped from the boat onto the waiting jet ski.  I noticed our driver was also gritting his teeth.  Maybe he was suffering from motion sickness as well.  Savannah and my stomach successfully made it to shore.  As our adventure came to its inevitable end, I thought with a great deal of satisfaction that, as usual, Brad was wrong.  Foolish and floppy?  Ridiculous!

On our way...

Months of Chuck's carefully calculated planning resulted in my family rising at 3 am on a Thursday to vanish momentarily from our lives of finals preparations, teaching lessons, service calls, and sandwich prep to  make a break for the border.  My father-in-law had been email bombarding me for months with helpful travel tips ("Don't talk to ANYBODY.") as we initiated the necessary steps enabling us to temporarily walk away from our mundane, white bread and orange juice lives to browse the exotically-overflowing and abundant buffet of Mexico. As usual, I was trapped next to a blabbermouth on the flight..."Excuse me, sir? I'm trying to read."  "Get over yourself, Amy," Brad snapped, "you can talk to me for at least five minutes.  Then you can resume ignoring me for the duration of the flight." Worried about his exaggerated diagnosis  of "deep-vein thrombosis" to explain the mild stiffness of my legs while traveling,  Brad then proceeded to badger me to engage in ridiculous exercises.  "Stretch out your leg," he demanded, not caring that I was perfectly content to remain contorted into my teeny-tiny little assigned airplane area until I would reach the most amazing travel destination EVER:  Newark! I painfully limped off the plane to a nirvana of food court fabulousness.  After hours of agonizing inner turmoil, I settled on a caprese sandwich.  A daring choice as I'm not what you would technically call a "sandwich girl" (paninis don't count) but I was feeling rather adventurous.  With reckless abandon, I took a bite and immediately realized that my life would be forever changed by this moment.  Fresh red ripe tomato buttressed by thick, creamy mozzarella, snuggled in a chewy Italian roll upon which a garlic-basil olive oil rain would gently fall.  What do you mean...it's time to board the next plane? I would NOT leave Newark! In lieu of calling security, Brad coaxed me on board by waving a warmed chocolate-chip croissant ahead of me until I was securely buckled into my seat.  I sighed, forehead pressed against my teeny-tiny, bacteria-ridden airplane window...watching my beloved city grow smaller.  Adios, Newark.  J'taime.

She passed the test

In the list of events not likely to EVER happen including the successful reception of a McDonald's veggie burger, the introduction of a tasty zero-calorie alcoholic beverage, the scientific discovery of an instantaneous fat-busting pill not accompanied by disgusting side-effects or Sydney Mosiman passing her driver's test on the first, second, third, fourth try...well, let's just say I thought I'd be choking down a broccoli burger before I'd be sending Syd solo onto the streets of Wyoming County.

It's been a long terrifying journey of near-death experiences as we've jerked, stalled, careened and bumped our way through parking lots..."Syd! You came within, like, four centimeters from clipping that car!"
"What car?"...intersections...(in a calm, comforting tone) "Syd, we can't stay here, honey...a car could come around this blind curve any second...start the truck, honey...that's ok, try again..."(tone shifting slightly in tempo)"...take a breath, you can do it...ok, first gear...uhmmm...try again..."(insert hysterical tone here)"...GET OUT!  MOVE! MOVE!  I'M DRIVING!!!"...and 3-point turns..."Syd...be mindful of the...ditch."

Through it all, Sydney has been resiliently positive and unrealistically confident in her driving abilities.  "Am I on the wrong side of the road," she famously inquired while her passengers screamed, "Yes!!!!"  As we approached a school bus ahead of us, I warned her to keep a healthy distance so the driver wouldn't mis-interpret my daughter's desire to pass.  A healthy distance, according to Syd, is drafting two feet from the bus bumper.  Surprisingly, the bus moved over.  "What do I do," asked my daughter.  "Pass the bus," I moaned.  Syd happily downshifted (a newly acquired skill) and we rocketed past at an excruciating twenty-five miles per hour while I systematically waved to every child on the bus and motioned a heartfelt apology to the impatient driver.

She begged us to sign her up for her driver's test.  There is no way that they'll pass her, we thought. Why not?  This will show her that she needs to practice more.  We tried to prepare her emotionally for the inevitable outcome. Undaunted, Syd excitedly counted down the days and we ended up learning not to count Syd out because, she passed...on the first try.  As we are not as confident as New York State in Syd's licensed skills, she is currently under a strict Mosiman-probationary period that may extend well into her mid-twenties.  She must text prior to every departure and arrival.  Our first text conversation:

Syd:  Leaving

Mom:  Praying

a short while later...

Syd:  Here

Mom:  Miracle
 

Self-diagnosis: Deep vein thrombosis

Without a word of complaint, I have traveled the seventeen hour drive to Iowa and back over twenty times.  Each journey had one crucial element in common:  strictly-scheduled rest-stops not to exceed fifteen minutes interspersed in eight hour intervals.  Consequently, the Mosiman women have developed bladders of steel.  Age forty, however, has found me faced with another problem.  Three hours cramped up in a car has me exiting the vehicle, hunched over, bow-legged and wincing in pain.  I associate it with my body refusing to give in any longer to completely unreasonable travel expectations.  Brad has grimly diagnosed me with deep vein thrombosis.  Ridiculous.  But, once the seed is planted...

Late at night, I stare up, out into the darkness, considering the ticking time-bomb that lurks within the vessels of my body...the missile, set to fire along inner passageways...the proton torpedo aiming for a direct hit upon my Death Star sweet spot.  To distract myself from my imminent end, I've composed a little song based on that Toby Keith classic "Red Solo Cup."  note from Brad Mosiman:  readers unfamiliar with this song may not reach the author's intended enlightenment.  "Everyone knows "Red Solo Cup," I argued, defending my illuminating parody.  "I don't," he replied, causing me to question the very foundation upon which my marriage has been established.  

Red throbbing veins
I'm in such pain
Deep vein thrombosis
Deep vein thrombosis

My leg's in such pain
Will I walk again
Deep vein thrombosis
Deep vein thrombosis

No high heeled shoes
A clot might cut loose
Deep vein thrombosis
Deep vein thrombosis

I can't seem to walk straight
It might be too late
Deep vein thrombosis
Deep vein thrombosis

Obviously, my skills as an amateur song writer need work and my self-diagnostic abilities may also be somewhat questionable.   Irregardless, I feel it is important to face my uncertain future with a song in my heart.  In the meantime, I'm trying to score an illegal prescription for fashionable compression hosiery for my next trip to Iowa.

Tractor-driver...flip that horse!

[insert sing-songy voice here:] Like a good neighbor...the Mosimans are there.  We sport a long pet-sitting history and were we put before a House Judiciary Committee, we would, undoubtedly, be indicted.  Pronounced "not guilty" in two separate murder trials, the Mosiman family are nonetheless still called upon by desperate vacationing families to care for their furry, fin-y, feathered and four-legged little friends.  In this particular case, we were asked to again care for our neighbor's horses. Many would consider this request surprising as, not so long ago, an emergency equine surgery occurred during my watch.  Is there a pet version of Münchausen syndrome? 

Any hoo...one of the horses we were responsible for was an older, somewhat arthritic mare named Street.  Our neighbor walked us through the theoretical possibility that, should she lay down on "the wrong side," she may be unable to get back up by herself.  Describing the series of intricate rope tying maneuvers I was to employ in the event that this should, improbably happen, my neighbor assured me that this rarely occurs and is a cinch to rectify.   

You guessed it...Savannah and I arrived yesterday morning to find Street was giving new meaning to NOT getting up on the wrong side of the bed.  Dilemma number one was getting her poor head out from its wedged position beneath the gate.  Problem number two was that her back was braced against the stable wall.  Even a trick roper would have trouble flipping her over with a wall in the way.  As my chief problem-solver was gone for the morning, I called upon my other neighbor, Jerry who quickly used manpower to re-position the power-less horse into a more-maneuverable position.  Dancing around heavy hooves, we tied her legs for round one of our day-long tug-o-horse contest.  

During rest spells, I updated my friend Sarah who had once briefly "helped" during one of our care-taking sessions.  Assigned to hold the gate open, Sarah's main contribution was screaming down the alley as the horses "thundered" toward her.  

Text from Amy:  (accompanied by dark picture) We are spending our morning trying to flip a horse...thus far, unsuccessfully...wearing sandals...poor choice.

Text from Sarah:  Spending a morning working on a house sounds like a poor choice anyway!  Maybe try the sandals as an excuse to leave early? 

Text from Amy:  And what?  Leave the horse to die? Surely even Sarah Sigmon isn't that heartless?

Text from Sarah:  There's a horse?!?

Text from Amy:  We're trying to flip her over so she can get up...didn't you see my sandal-wearing skills of strength? I sent you a picture, for pete's sake!

Text from Sarah:  Hahaha I read that you were flipping a HOUSE.  Close reading is so important!

Text from Amy:  The horse is finally flipped...how do you flip a house?

Text from Sarah:  It means to take an old crappy house, fix it up, and sell it for more.  I figured it was a Master's Hands church project.

Text from Amy:  Oh...completely reasonable hypothesis.

It took all day and the eventual use of a tractor, but Street finally regained her footing.  The clever use of simple machines were enthusiastically discussed and some were utilized over the course of the day.  Pulley system?  No.  Wedge.  Yes.  Treats were dispensed.  Hay flew.  Hooves flew.  Humans flew.  All the while, I was mentally drafting my pet-care-taking resignation letter.  In between pulling splinters out of my hand and horse manure from beneath my fingernails, I admired the determination and genuine concern of the men who did the bulk of the pushing and pulling.  My husband Brad, neighbor Jerry, and our unsuspecting recruit from the barn-next-door, Roger who tirelessly worked to help Street.  They all got clipped by flailing hooves, they all went air-born at least once and they all paused several times to stroke Street's neck, re-adjust her harness to make her more comfortable, and all fed her a buffet of hay, oats and who knew...yummy Karo Syrup.  What a great way to spend a Saturday!

Measuring Up

The pinnacle achievement of every teacher is to be compared, even remotely, to elementary teacher Becky Kelleher.  Becky Kelleher, who greets each student warmly each morning with a genuine smile and sends them off with a hearty handshake.  Becky Kelleher, who fills her classroom with a giant inflatable astro-lab, transporting her students to a magical star-filled world.  Becky Kelleher, who houses baby chicks and crawfish between student desks, bringing the natural world into the academic realm.  Becky Kelleher, who sends greeting cards to students as they proceed forward into middle school and even into high school.  As her students graduate, a final card comes in the mail, filled with nostalgic pictures of their past together with a lovingly-written congratulatory note assuring students of Mrs. Kelleher's unshakable belief in their abilities and her confidence in their good character.  Becky Kelleher...Becky Kelleher...Becky Kelleher.  Sigh.

Occasionally, I rally and attempt to summit this seemingly impossible Everest of Achievement.  Unfortunately, it takes a LOT of effort.  My friend Kelly and I decided to team up and see if perhaps, in the great educator equation of life, two little teachers (no giggles, please) might equal a Becky Kelleher.  Last night, several students from our school were presenting in a 4-H Fashion Show.  Kelly and I rubbed our hands together with diabolical glee!  Here was our chance to shine!  To bolster our resolve, we met for pre-show icecream, Kelly's little honey, Jack enthusiastically covering her in Cherry-Berry Cooler.  We were so excited about this opportunity to appear even a quarter as fabulous as Becky Kelleher that we arrived a half hour early.  Kelly noted, with surprise, the marked lack of vehicles in the parking lot.  "What time does this start?" I asked, somewhat grumpily as my ice cream glow was beginning to wear off.  Thanks to Jack, Kel still had a strong rosy glow.  "I told you...7," she responded, a tad on the testy side for someone trying to appear wonderful.  We carried fifty pounds of Jack's required gear into the school only to learn that we had a wait on our hands.  Kelly occupied Jack with a slew of toys while attempting to distract and pacify me with complicated games on her fancy phone.

We were spotted by several of our students as they arrived.  No...it never even ONCE entered our minds that this was our chance.  Who would know, after the lights dimmed and the show began that two little teachers (remember, no giggling) ducked out to perhaps attend a post-icecream conference?  But that move has never been published in the Becky Kelleher playbook of recommended teacher practices.  One student scrambled over for a brief visit, interrupting Jack and I from our activities.  The young man needed a boost of confidence, nervous about his up-coming public performance.  Excellent, this was precisely why we were there!  I admired his hand-sewn pants with the practiced eye of someone who has never needled-up a day in her life.  "How cute," I squealed, "are you trying to look like a leprechaun? "   Confused, the 7th grader looked at the design I'd near-sightedly mistaken for green clovers.  "No, Mrs. Mosiman," he said, "the pattern is John Deere."  His confidence restored by this affirming conversation, mere minutes before he hit the big stage, our fashionable friend departed.

The show was a raving success.  Kel and I were a disaster.  I couldn't follow the plot, baby toys flew across the room, Kelly shoved me out of my chair to help a woman who'd fallen who didn't want my help, and we finally got kicked out because Jack wouldn't stop laughing.  I saw NOTHING in the fashion show storyline to induce such a reaction.  Was I missing something?  There was a lot of talk about invisible zippers.  Maybe Jack picked up on a subtle humor that I'd overlooked.  Irregardless, Kel and I definitely fell short of our goal.  During the post-icecream conference, we brainstormed our next expedition.  Our calculations were clearly faulty.  In order to measure up to Becky Kelleher, we might need to add another teacher or two.

Don't be fooled by his fashionable outfit,
 Jack was singularly responsible for getting us
kicked out of the 4-H Fashion Show.

Pooch Perception

Recyclable Chlo

It was sort of a rough (ruff) day, self-esteem-wise for my little dachshund.  We walked into my friend, Geri's classroom, delighted to see her, only to have her insensitively regard Chlo and say, "Isn't she getting a little fat?"  I can hear the gasps of horror echoing about the cavernous corridors of the world wide web as you read this. I know.  Prior to this traumatic experience, Chlo and I were having a happy little day.  We took Sydney to work and shared a yummy portion of french fries doused in vinegar on the ride back to the school.  Following a detailed investigation of the school's perimeter, we made that barely-worth-mentioning (brief) visit to Geri. After I pointed out the significant difference between "winter weight" and the hurtfully generalistic and  misunderstood term "fat", I exited this toxic environment.  Near-sighted, Geri, of course failed to notice Chlo's luxuriously thick undercoat which may have contributed to her ridiculous misperception.  Not one to hold a grudge, Chlo rallied on.  We returned to my classroom for a little snack until my friend Cathy popped in for a visit.  We sat outside, enjoying the warm weather as Chlo explored the school yard.  Concerned for our safety, Chlo raced off to the tree-line to make sure that it was secure.  So intent was she on her duties, Chlo was unable to respond to my calls directing her to please return.  The sun glaring in her eyes made Cathy's facial expression appear a bit judgmental as I wrestled my sweet little dog from the underbrush and carried her back.  "Perhaps a little obedience training would help," Cathy said carefully.  I have to admit, I was a bit surprised by this comment.  "She's self-taught," I explained proudly.  The sun glare must have prevented Cathy from noticing that Chlo did not wiggle or squirm as I dug her out from beneath the bushes.  Misunderstood and unappreciated, Chlo and I returned to my classroom.  I didn't realize the depths of Chlo's depression until I discovered her a half hour later, curled into the recycle box, next to the trash.  I coaxed her out with a little yum-yum and before you knew it, we were on the mend.  Soon, my sweet little dachshund was curled up happily in my lap.  I don't know what got into Geri and Cathy today.  They just don't see Chlo the way I do.