Brad loves, Brad loves, Brad loves...a little Calendar Bear

Went to my parents' house today so that I could ungraciously lose at euchre and Brad could reconfirm that the root of my unsportsmanlike behavior could be traced directly to my dad as we let him steal the deal twice. The highlight of our visit, however, was Brad's discovery of "Calendar Bear." "Calendar Bear" is a furry little fellow sporting festive sweaters themed according to each month. "Calendar Bear" has overlooked his dining room domain for over a decade but my husband, who can spot a deer at dusk in a cornfield from 500 feet, completely missed him but was now, completely captivated. Obsessed with the toy's glamorous wardrobe, Brad grilled my mother about the decoration of each sweater, making predictions until she finally fled the room to dig them out for his inspection. My husband marveled over each one, admiring the knitted snowman, the patriotic flag, declaring the September leaf pattern as his favorite. "But where is August," Brad asked, shuffling somewhat desperately through the pile of petite sweaters, searching for his birthday month. With lightning speed, my mother grabbed the tiny garment and threw it on her chair before barricading her less-than-100-pound frame over it. Brad was dumbfounded and devastated. "I can't see 'August?'" he said pitifully but my mother remained resolute that he should wait eight months so that he could be surprised. She then dramatically plucked "Calendar Bear's" amputated arm from its socket, to demonstrate her level of seriousness. My mother is not someone to be trifled with. I, however, am now looking into acquiring a fashionably dressed "Calendar Creature" as a Christmas gift for Brad. Maybe there's a dachshund one out there!

Bottled-up rage: redemption isn't automatically in the cards

Nothing captures the true spirit of Black Friday more than standing in your local grocery store at 8 pm with a shopping cart over-flowing with redeemable cans and bottles. I admit that my mood was already dampened as I had tried and failed to return used oil at the nearby automotive store but reached it just as the establishment locked its doors for the evening. So here I found myself, trying to be a good citizen and follow all the government-imposed regulations for protecting my environment but feeling less the pride that accompanies active citizenship and more the humiliation associated with being handed a wheel of welfare cheese.

Another family, obviously feeling the same economic-crunch of Black Friday, was desperately thrusting their five cent capsules into the automated machines with the hope of receiving a down payment on a generic hd big-screen tv deal next door. Realizing I was in for a bit of a wait, I released Sydney to do a little shopping, fluffing up my territorial plumage as a man approached, lugging his own garbage bag of goodies. "Back of the line there, Santa," I communicated with fiery eyes. The family finished up, after jamming up one of the coveted plastic bottle machines and I made a valiant effort to show some holiday cheer by waving Santa Cans ahead of me. He was nimble and quick, a grim recycling elf, barely acknowledging my kindness, why did I let him ahead of me, I thought, kicking myself. His final gift to me, as he turned with a jerk, was to jam up another machine and I went completely bizerk.

Sydney arrived in time to witness me in full-fledged temper tantrum. I was making do with the two sporadically functional machines, pausing long enough to make an immature face at a man who stopped to watch me flail myself bodily against the automated mechanism. Finally, all five machines were down; either full or jammed with no one nearby to help so I Godzilla-stomped my way over to the cashiers who cringed in terror. Having been trained not to make eye-contact with crazy people, one of the girls kindly came to my assistance. Sydney and I were soon on our redeemable way, the warped slot machines shooting back more cans than they would accept. "It's my money," I cried out, looking at my cart still 1/3 full of unacceptable cans and bottles.  "Why do I feel like I have to beg in order to get what belongs to me in the first place?"  Sydney spoke soothingly, "How about I cash in our tickets and you can go warm up in the truck?" I looked around wildly for a nonexistent trash, "And what...take these bottles home with us?" I handed Syd the receipts, grabbed the cart and rattled my way out the doors, crashing into the store's large trash can, knocking its lid off dramatically and unceremoniously dumping over three dollars worth of cans into its depths while cautious customers chose this moment to divert to another entrance, far away from me.

When the coast was clear, Sydney used the cloak of darkness to return to me, clutching our hard-earned five dollars plus a gallon of milk. Battle-worn and weary, I sat, slumped in the truck, defeated and demoralized. But beneath the surface, an ember slowly steamed, my political apathy starting to smoke as I raged against a system that holds my money hostage and then makes me beg for it back. If word of a potential Amy Mosiman bottle boycott got out, Pepsi would be sure to react swiftly and decisively. Or maybe, next time I get in line to redeem my empties, I should bring along a few not-so-empties to make the situation a bit easier to swallow.

A Thanksgiving meal custom-made for Oscar the Grouch

This post will virtually ensure that no one will ever accept a dinner invitation to the Mosiman's EVER but serves as a sad but honest reflection of my culinary abilities. Having stayed up from 1 am to 6 am to provide commentary for Sydney to accompany her premiere viewing of  "Gone With the Wind," I got off to a little bit of a late start this morning causing Brad to experience some alarm about the welfare of his bird. The last thing I had heard before stumbling into bed was the declaration that "tomorrow was another day" but then woke up two hours later to realize that that statement was a total lie. Inherently understanding that, if he wanted to enjoy his Thanksgiving dinner before 8 pm, Brad was busy prepping the bird for its preliminary big show. Unwilling to relinquish my starring role in the kitchen, I did the only thing I could think of:  I immediately began rummaging through the garbage. Beat that for clever cooking tips, "Taste of Home!" While Brad watched, sickly transfixed, I dug out an old, soft apple, washed it, cut it in half and then fearlessly stuffed it into the turkey's torso. Later, as praises rang out about the moistness of the meat, Brad would turn white while I nodded knowingly.

Who knew that the garbage would replace the fridge as the go-to place for gathering the necessary ingredients in order to make the Thanksgiving meal memorable? Sydney was given the job of cutting up green onions for multiple purposes (to jazz up my tasty box of "Stove Top," to adorn my mandarin orange green salad and to add some taste and texture to my fancy smashed 'tatoes.) but her output was alarmingly low.  A subsequent investigation revealed that Syd was only cutting the white ends rather than reaching up well into the slender green stalks. Again, I ignored my husband as he cringed while I reached into the well-stocked depths of our garbage receptacle to retrieve our bounty of usable slender green stalks and, as a result, saved Thanksgiving. Clutching the stems in my determined fist, I raised my hand heavenward to cry out, "As God as my witness, I will never go hungry so long as there is an overflowing garbage in my house!" 

Our Thanksgiving bounty (sorry, I was trying to find a pun using a "Hefty" product but could only get close with a paper towel item) was appreciated and enjoyed. The table was cleared. Left-overs were packed up and stored away in a climate-controlled refrigerator. Plates were scraped into the garbage and, just to be safe, Brad bagged it up immediately and took it down to the garage. It was a meal with biblical origins. Let us consider, for a moment, a loose interpretation of the original Ecclesiastes 12:7 "and the dust returneth to the earth as it was" to the Mosiman version that states that the food returneth to the garbage as it was."  Just as Prissy didn't know nothin' 'bout birthin' no babies, Amy Mosiman doesn't know nothin' 'bout bakin' no turkey but what I do have is a particular set of skills; skills that I have acquired over a lifetime of extracting usable items from garbage cans...wait, I'm not sure how I morphed from quoting from a pivotal scene in "Gone With the Wind" to quoting Liam Neeson from "Taken"...it must be the rush of tryptophan. 

Feeling like an "outtie"-sider

I'm not looking for sympathy right now...ok, that's a total lie. I am desperately seeking sympathy right now.  My self-esteem took another blow to the head today and, to be honest, I'm not sure how much more of this I can take.  It started back in my early middle school years when I was sporting a cute little bikini at a friend's house when her father insensitively offered his unsolicited opinion that girls with "outie" belly-buttons shouldn't expose their midriffs. I was devastated...viewing my bulbous belly-button as a blemish and hiding it forever from public view.

Later, when I was in my twenties, I was asked at a group gathering to share what I thought was my best physical feature. Without even having to think about it, I said, "My slender, swan-like neck," and then stared in confusion as my friends responded by laughing hysterically. I remember feeling along the length of my neck to encounter, for the first time, the beginning of a flabby wattle. Here began my obsession with turtle-neck sweaters.

I entered my thirties cautiously. Who would have suspected that Christmas, the season of peace, would become the next setting for targeting my self-worth? Surrounded by friends and family, I stretched out my legs on the living room floor, crossing my ankles as we prepared to open presents. One party-goer, pausing to admire my form, took this moment to compliment me on my "peasant" ankles. What? I was confused. I had always prided myself on having dainty, gazelle ankles. Asking for clarification was a stupid move as the adjectives "thick" and "sturdy" were added. From this point on, I would publicly apologize if my ankles escaped from their sock holsters.

And today? My forty-three-year-old sensibilities had never once considered to ponder the beauty components of the human tongue. The armor of which I have had myself wrapped since I was twelve did not include a mouth guard. I was unprepared for my family's reaction when I stuck my tongue out. A comparison using "bologna" is never complimentary. It never occurred to me that a person could have an attractive tongue or an unattractive tongue. Obviously licking my lips is a thing of the past. Lollipops and popsicles are off the menu. How long have I been offending others with my thick-slab deli meat of a tongue?

My self-perception is seriously out-of-whack to the point of my being delusional. I want to be cute, I do but that just might not be in the cards for me. I'm terrified of turning fifty because the only think that I really have left are my adorable ear lobes. If you have anything to say about them, kindly wait for, at least, the next seven years.  Words are so powerful.  I wish I could go back in time to empower a twelve-year-old girl with the ability to flip off a sceevy adult male who shouldn't have been commenting on the body of a minor. That moment triggered a life-long hyper-sensitivity in woman who can find practically anything funny except for her thick, peasant ankles, flabby turkey neck and bologna tongue. Leave my ear lobes alone, people!

Baby shower "blues:" It's not my party but I'll cry and whine if I want to

Throwing a baby shower seemed like a relatively simple and low-key process, especially when the center-of-attention detests games, prefers guacamole and gets perturbed by animal themed-anything. "I can't go wrong," I thought gleefully but to make sure, a shower committee quickly formed around me. Kelly interrupted our Friday afternoon euchre game to devise a to-do list. "But there's nothing "to-do," I protested, eyeing the up-turned club while scanning my very red hand of cards. "We have to determine what everyone is bringing," she insisted, tapping her pencil. Thinking fast, I realized that this situation could be very advantageous to me so I quickly assigned all my favorite party foods. "I could go shopping for the group gift tonight," Amanda offered, sighing as I inadvertently sucked the left bauer from her hand with my first play. "We're just going to get her a gift card," I told her and then told her again when she called me hours later from Babies-backwards R-Us to describe, in detail, the fifty baby-laying-on-his-back-swatting-at-hang-y-things things on display. This is exhausting, I thought to myself as I was burdened with the difficult task of ordering the cake. "What flavor do you want," my talented friend Wendy asked. I briefly considered bringing this matter to committee but decided to make an executive decision. "I like white cake," I declared, not pausing to wonder why Wendy furrowed her brow and shook her head in disgust as she walked away.

Our friend, Wendy Scott, makes AMAZING cakes!

I played chauffeur on the day of the party. "Do you know how to get there," my friend Cathy asked, wrestling her crock pot of the chicken wing dip that I'd ordered into my van. "I'll know it when I see it," I assured her, plopping a giant whale cake in her lap.  Cath became inexplicably exasperated as I slowly drove my van up and down the country road looking for our friend Pam's house. I ignored her as she tends to get a little cranky now and then ("Only when I'm with you," she snarled). "She has a pond," I said. "This house has a pond," Cathy pointed out. "No..." I replied. "What about that one," Cath said, pointing to another pond. "Noooo..." "That one?" "No."  "That one?" "No." "I knew I should have looked it up before we left," she finally shouted as I marveled over the seemingly miraculous number of ponds we'd seen. We finally found Pam who cheerfully jumped in the van and asked, "Do you know how to get there?" "I'll know it when I see it," I assured her while Cathy screamed in the front seat.

We arrived at the party site at our friend Amy's house practically on time. Amy had put up unauthorized baby shower decorations but I maturely decided to let it go as it seemed like bad form to pop all of her festive blue balloons. I grumpily observed her delicate glassware before asking, "Where are the cheap paper plates and cups?" "Oh...I thought this would make the occasion more

Notice the unauthorized blue balloon to the right of this picture.

special," she explained before distracting me with stuffed mushrooms and quiche. Sarah arrived and was quickly surrounded by loving friends, leaving me no opportunity to warn her that the low-key baby shower that she was expecting had veered into a Baby-zilla production of epic proportions complete with blue balloons and an animal-themed baby-laying-on-his-back-swatting-at-hang-y-things thing. Most of the shower conversation is not publishable and frankly, I wish that I hadn't been present for much of it as it had to do with disgusting body fluids. Fortunately, my go-to mechanism was close at hand as I drowned my sorrows in fruit salsa and blue punch.

The only party game we played was the unofficial version of "Guess the baby's weight by eating that equivalent in whale-shaped frosted cookies." Very fun, by the way. We wrestled the animal-themed baby-laying-on-his-back-swatting-at-hang-y-things thing in Sarah's car and began our trip home. Suddenly, a ding sounded in the darkness. "What was that," Cathy asked. "Nothing to worry about," I assured her, "but we should probably start looking for a gas station soon though." "I am never riding anywhere with you again," she vowed. "I know there's a station around here somewhere," I comforted, "I'll know it when I see it."

I invented a word (and no...it's not dirty)

Over the course of my life, I've tried, unsuccessfully, to invent words. Turns out "huggle" (Mosiman translation: an endearing cross between a hug and a cuddle) and "fantabulous" were already somewhat, devastatingly, in play. But still, I persevered and yesterday, may have struck neologistic gold. Like all great discoveries (penicillin, gunpowder, low-fat yogurt), it was an accident. By blaming my youngest daughter, I inadvertently assign her the credit for this wonderful shift in our linguistic landscape so I'll just say that a severe shortage of clean brown socks was the inspiration for my new sock slang. After throwing a somewhat immature temper tantrum as I rummaged through my nearly empty sock drawer, I finally settled on a pair of brownish trouser socks. For those of you unfamiliar with this type of foot hosiery, trouser socks are a slickly flimsy garment designed better for dress shoes, not clogs. I became aware of trouble as I traversed the school parking lot, teetering like Bambi on the ice. I glared in response to Sydney's concerned look. "My slocks are slippery," I said accusingly and a word was born. I field-tested the word all day where it was warmly embraced. I must proceed carefully as I have been word-robbed before. Dramatically responding to moments of disappointment or avoidance, I would reach unreliably in the area of my mid-section and cry out, "Oh! My spleen!" Imagine my disgust when an insurance company used my go-to phrase when, after getting ready to "rumble," the representative fell to his knees, complaining that he broke his spleen. Sadly, I had neglected to copyright my move so I had no legal recourse. Paperwork protecting my new word is already in process. Soon, "slocks" will dominate all foot-related dialogue. You're welcome.

Sydney's "Star Wars" Adventure, Part II

And so the "Star Wars" saga continues…

When we last left our hearty little band of travelers, they were holed up at a Red Roof Inn with a questionable stain on the dresser, a loud marital dispute in the parking lot and the thermostat set to a fiery, sleep-preventing 85 degrees. 

Our heroes departed for their destination at 6:30am to be confronted with a determined line of between 50 to 75 fellow dream-seekers.  Armed with little oranges (marketed as “Cuties”) and Raisinettes, Sydney and I joined the throng (sorry for the sudden switch in narrative style). We quickly made friends with our line-mates:  Anthony, a local college student who was a wonderful blend of my nephew Colby and Schmidt from “New Girl” and Jacob, an acting student from Denver who was a dead-ringer for Peeta from “The Hunger Games.” We immediately forged an unshakable alliance; each member contributing to the well-being and success of the group. Anthony was responsible for surveillance and information-gathering, jettisoning from our position in line to interview others and bringing back valuable updates. “I heard that they ask a series of three questions,” Anthony said upon returning from one of his missions,

The line of would-be stars wrapped around the building,

“Do you act? What do you do to relax? and “What’s your favorite movie?” Debating the best possible answers to these questions occupied us for about an hour.  Jacob’s contribution to the group consisted of sharing his acting knowledge with us, rattling off three different types of acting methods which all sounded eerily similar to the fancy-type of pasta dishes served at four-star restaurants.  Besides being eye-candy, Sydney and I were in charge of snack distribution and had direct access to Brad Mosiman, waiting in the van to purchase umbrellas and store backpacks that weren’t allowed into the auditions.

After four hours and one brief rain shower, the line, which had grown to an astonishing 1,500 or so, suddenly began to move as Anthony was shaking down a facilities director for information.  We called out for him as we were swept along toward the door.  Quickly catching up, Anthony and Jacob were admitted before the door was barred.  Sydney and I waited an additional ten minutes before we were also directed in and asked to wait at the entrance of the conference room.  Anthony met us there, explaining to the staff member that he had seats for us and off we went.

Muppet Stormtroopers

The conference room had an occupancy of 600 people.  Our nearly hour-long wait there was filled with lively discussions, picture-sharing, script reading and a lot of checking out the competition.  Without warning, Muppet characters dressed as storm-troopers bombarded the room, racing up the aisles. Sam the Eagle, Gonzo, Monster and Kermit posed with fans, sat at the reception tables and chased an 8-year-old up the aisle before handing it over to the audition representative who explained the process and directed the staff to begin lining people up for their 30-second shot at stardom.

I maneuvered around the room to get a good picture of Sydney as she approached the table. I felt

Syd shaking hands with the casting call representative

terrible for all the other girls because it was so clear that Sydney was perfect for the part. Poised and confident, Sydney stepped forward to shake the representative’s hand. The woman was obviously speechless, so dazzled by my daughter that she was only able to croak out, “Thank you for coming,” before motioning Sydney to the exit. It was the most exciting moment of my life. Jacob, Anthony, and Sydney all left on Cloud 9, all justifiably certain that they will each be receiving a very special phone call in the near future. We all bid one another a heart-felt farewell; glad that we could all say that we knew one another before attaining super-stardom.

All that was left was Brad’s explanation as to why we were traveling through Canada at customs. On the way to the audition, my husband’s response was met with a long pause and then a surprisingly human grin before the agent wished us, “Good luck.” On the way back, the custom’s agent again paused before saying, “Really?”  After answering further custom’s-related questions such as “Was it a play or a movie?” and “How did you do?,” we were on our way back to our home galaxy. Be sure to look for Sydney Mosiman as the starring female lead in the up-coming “Star Wars” release, coming soon to a theatre near you. 

The Road to Stardom, Part I

What a strange world. One day, you're eating under-cooked onion rings at a Bob's Big Boy and the next, you're being "discovered" at a moderately-priced hotel conference room in a suburb of Detroit. But this story actually begins far from our luxurious penthouse quarters of the Red Roof Inn...back almost a week ago when Brad saw a news program about open casting calls for the new "Star Wars" movie. It was (almost like) an act of God. Our family's conversations are peppered with "Star Wars" quotes, Sydney owns an impressive collection of "Star Wars" themed t-shirts, Savannah once talked us into purchasing a $50 Darth Vader mask for Halloween, and Brad and Sydney spent several hours constructing me an R2D2 costume just this year! If there was a movie custom-made...fated, if you will...for the Mosiman family, "Star Wars" was it.

Sydney immediately began doing research and almost as immediately, was devastated as she learned that the cities hosting casting calls (Nashville, Chicago, Detroit) were well out-of-geographical-range...seemingly light years away. Add to that, this week-end coincided with the opening day of deer season, a sacred holiday religiously observed by Brad Mosiman consecutively for well over two decades. One hundred percent behind my secret plans to drive Sydney to Detroit, Brad listened with some concern and trepidation as I mapped out my route. "You will be driving through Canada, won't you?" he inquired. "Why," I asked, "Oh! Is it because a Great Lake lies between NY and Michigan?" "No," he sighed, realizing that he would be missing his favorite day of the entire year to drive me successfully to my destination, "It's because Canada lies between NY and Michigan."

And so began our impromptu road-trip. Sydney, somewhat shell-shocked when she learned this morning that we were heading to Detroit, immediately immersed herself into her character of "Rachel," a beautiful, rough-and-tumble, street-smart girl by singing Disney's "Bare Necessities" for the first hour of the ride. Brad, forgetting how easy we are to please, was disgusted by our excited appreciation for his generous side-trip at a McDonald's along the way. I was caught up in simultaneous feelings of worry and wonder when I discovered that a little ladybug had hitched a ride with us and I worried about this startling transition. This was a big move for her.

Anticipating long lines, Sydney and I packed lawn furniture and sleeping bags good to 40 below. ("40 degrees," Brad sighed, "Don't you EVER listen?"). We arrived at the location a full day early to scout it out, prepared to join the throngs of thousands and spend the night in the bitter cold to defend our place in line. We pulled into the nearly vacant parking lot while Brad, who never for one moment planned to sleep in a parking lot, smirked and pointed out perfect places to set up our lounge chaises. Sydney and I surveyed the lay-out of the hotel and banquet facilities before heading out to fuel up on snack supplies and to settle into our fine accommodations, here, at the Red Roof Inn. It has been a long and arduous journey, fraught with frustration and terror. Alone in a dark parking lot, Sydney and I struggled to secure the van to no avail, faced with the futility that we were too stupid to manage an automated locking system, unaware that Brad, intent on revenge from his having to miss the opening day of deer season because his wife suffers from spacial-deficiency-syndrome, was poised on the 2nd floor balcony, remotely unlocking the van and unhinging his family.  When Syd and I approached Room 217, we paused uncertainly before its darkened window. Is this the wrong room, we wondered? Did we not listen carefully enough to Brad (again)? We knocked hesitantly, peering into the window when a face suddenly loomed out of the darkness, causing us to scream. Brad opened the door, laughing, his self-therapy somewhat relieving the stress of his having to sit in a Bob's Big Boy booth rather than a deer stand.

Tomorrow: the audition!

Getting a jump on transportation troubles

I have passed on many remarkable traits to my daughters; chief among them, extra-ordinarily large hand pores and the ability to watch trash television uninterrupted for ten hour intervals. This week-end was another lesson about the generational impact of hereditary characteristics as both Sydney and I suffered from varying degrees of vehicular melt-downs. Prior to heading to Buffalo on Saturday, Savannah asked, "Do you know how to get to the Galleria Mall?" Insulted, I assured her of my directional prowess and foolishly, she believed me. Exceptionally foolish as she has been with me each time I've been flummoxed by the monument round-about in the center of Warsaw. But nonetheless, off we drove and, before we knew it, were hopelessly lost. Sydney and I handle getting lost as an inherent part of our day. Savannah is not as accepting and free-spirited, desperately calling her father and adorably looking for helpful street signs. I continued driving, knowing that, unless I accidentally drove to Canada (which has happened), I will inevitably end up at my planned destination. Our forty-minute window gave us the perfect cushion to eventually bumble our way to the mall, walking into the movie just as the trailers began and buying Savannah an extra-large buttered popcorn to pacify her. Noting his four missed calls, Brad had a pretty good idea of what had happened to his girls. "Your mother is unable to differentiate 190 and I90," he explained to Savannah while Sydney and I sat there, confused by their conversation. Obviously, this isn't our problem, we thought, it's a typo of the highway department.

Sydney's vehicular problems were less about getting where she needed to go and more about actually getting going. She insisted on accompanying Savannah to RIT today and shopping while her sister was in class. I will admit that active prayer was implemented throughout the day as Brad and I imagined our Sweet Ba-boo, who has difficulty finding her way out of the school parking lot, navigating the busy traffic of Henrietta. Turns out that prayer in that particular facet was unnecessary (or successful) as Sydney had a productive shopping day and earned four dollars to boot by taking a survey about toothpaste. Meanwhile, distracted and afraid, I inadvertently ordered fried macaroni-and-cheese balls for lunch. Fortunately, Brad ordered shrimp with rice and shared. I ate the shrimp. He ate the rice.

Returning to the van, we heaved a sigh of relief. She'd made it. But no...the phone rang. I listened to the staggered breathing on the opposite end and my heart stopped. "Is Dad listening," she asked shakily as I raced through the list of possible catastrophes in my head. "Uh-huh," I replied softly as she began to sob. Front-end collision? High-speed chase? No...dead battery. A child of the 21st century, my darling daughter had forgotten that Savannah's car was old-school and that the lights did not turn off automatically.

A lot of important life lessons were learned this week-end. Sydney got some practice using jumper cables (or at least, holding jumper cables, until someone else came along to attach them properly for her). She'll always remember to check her lights. Savannah will never trust her sister with her car again. She will also never trust me with directions again. I'm not sure what life lesson Brad learned. It's always best to stay at home? Only order food your wife doesn't like? There's not much my girls can do to combat the effects of their unfortunate hereditary traits  (I'm sorry, by the way). However, the effects of life lessons such of these can alter the course of how they live their lives in a very real and productive manner. Now, if only we could get New York State to edit the lettering of their signs to stress the difference between 190 and I90.

Dark Angle

Occasionally weary of her "Super-Christian" persona at school, Sydney decided that Halloween was a perfect opportunity to send the message that believers can also have a wicked sense of humor. The night before Halloween had Syd and I trekking into town to find the perfect costume and she spotted it, moments within walking in the door. While she admired the outfit and immediately began planning accessories, I was busy giggling at the packaging. "What?" Sydney said, frowning. "Can't you see it?" I responded, slightly horrified that the daughter of an ELA teacher and part-time newspaper reporter had missed such an obvious type-o. She took another look while I pointed at the title which was suppose to say: "Dark Angel" but instead proclaimed: "Dark Angle." Debuting the costume the following morning, I smiled as Sydney proudly demonstrated how the somewhat flimsy frock still met the regulations of the school dress code including finger-tip length skirt and two-fingers-wide shoulder straps. Even when dressing like a trollop, my daughter tries to stay within the boundaries of proper decorum and propriety. I prepared a quick, real-world editing session for my 4th graders on Halloween morning as I recounted Sydney's shopping experience which resulted in twenty-one 8-year-olds shouting, "Hello, Dark Angle!" when my daughter walked in at lunchtime. Without even trying, Sydney is forever teaching others a valuable lesson!