A geography lesson on how I came to be in Iowa for Thanksgiving

There's something about an American Mid-West Thanksgiving that makes you wish that the early pioneers had just gone ahead and quelled their hankering to see what was beyond those Rocky Mountains. "You are NOT a billy goat, Zebadiah," sighed his beleaguered East Coast-loving wife, "and the grass is certainly NOT greener on the other side of those mountains." But would Zebadiah listen? Ohhhh....noooooo. And now, thanks to him, I spend my Thanksgiving holiday greeted by a friendly pig with a looming expiration date, reluctantly settled in with a crew of cuddly canines to watch college football (Go Hawkeyes!) after plunging into a scene right out of Forrest Gump when I challenged Cousin Jerry to list off all the flavors of gelatin manufactured at Kraft. I'm calling him on his assertion that there are chocolate-flavored gelatins. When "the boys" (all well into their 40s, by the way) finished admiring all the armaments in the house, they strapped on their Carharts and trooped out to inspect the newly-installed boiler and then test-drove a skidloader. I fought my way temporarily out of the

dog pack to grab one of the fifty remotes available to view my alternatives to the game (Go Hawkeyes!) only to be waylaid by my 12-year-old niece who spotted Spongebob. The boys came back in to check the game (Dang Nevada! "Um...Amy, they were playing Nebraska."  "Oh.") and grab a snack which led to my brother-in-law's lively conversation about Amish sourdough bread. "Do I detect a hint of pumpkin," he asked Cousin Jeff's wife Shelley who has twenty loaves in various stages of production at any one time. I personally consider the Amish sourdough bread starter blob to be a pyramid scheme. Virgil then admired Shelley's mop which was immediately purchased and shipped to him via Amazon before the boys enjoyed some expensive tequila plucked from the freezer simultaneously speaking scornfully of Jose Cuervo. Before departing, we headed out to the heated garage to load up on Iowa-fed pork loins, hugged and kissed the cousins good-bye, waved a sad farewell to the friendly pig and drove off into the western sunset. "Wait a second, Amy," Cousin Jeff said, interrupting my ironic ending with a brief geography lesson. "Sweetheart," he pointed out gently, "the Rockies actually don't

interrupt access from New York to Iowa. Perhaps you might want to use the Mississippi as your symbolic landform obstacle." I stared incredulously at Jeff's topographical map and then glared at him before shrugging. So Zebadiah strapped on some floaties and navigated the mighty Mississippi...same outcome. I'm in Iowa for Thanksgiving...and grateful for that blessing.

Not your typical "Norman Rockwell" Thanksgiving

Ahhhh...Thanksgiving. You've seen the Norman Rockwell depiction. I've given up any hope of ever achieving that level of nostalgic family togetherness. I have no one else to blame as we seem to be the common variable of dysfunction whether we are in New York or Iowa. While the majority of my fellow Americans were watching the Macy's Day parade, we spent an hour, buried in blankets, transfixed by a horrifying episode of "When Turkeys Attack."

Ensconced on the couch with his daughter and nieces, Uncle Virgil has been busy organizing that fun family game of "Let's compare...(toes, finger spans, bicep muscles and wrist veins). The occupants of the living room received a lengthy dissertation on the rare condition called "Greek toe" where one's second big toe is taller than the captain. When Virgil concluded his lecture on limbs and ligaments, he dramatically rose, causing the couch to rock forward, the girls screaming as their anchor exited his spot.

Awakening after what the hobbits fondly call "First Nap," I stretched and sleepily asked my husband if he could smell the amazing scent of Thanksgiving dinner as it wafted its way upstairs to our room. "I can't smell over the sound of my brother's voice," he mumbled into his pillow. We made our way down to the kitchen where we were assigned jobs according to our specific skill levels. Virgil was making gravy and mashing potatoes while Brad manned the carving stations. "You can be in charge of drinks," my mother-in-law, with gentle wisdom, told me as she wrestled an additional three tablespoons of butter past Virgil's flailing elbow.

Games commenced following dinner. The girls disappeared for what the hobbits fondly call "Second Nap" but were immediately roused by my indignant father-in-law, bent on forcing them to have family fun. Blatant cheating was the underlying theme of the day. It just makes one thankful that we have the ability to suspend our morals for this very special day. I believe that was the underlying theme of that Norman Rockwell painting.

To Grandmother's house we go...

Our blonde Alaskan angel arrived after an arduously long flight, semi-prepared to embark on the 17-hour overland journey to America'a mid-west. My niece was understandably quiet, considering the circumstances, facing--as she was--her father's well-intentioned "snack" bag of protein bars and smoked salmon slabs. This, of course, would not do in the land of Amy Mosiman. I tugged on the twelve-year-old's sleeve. "Briana, would you like to make a quick trip to Wal-Mart with me," I asked. She regarded me solemnly, the aunt-she-didn't-know...the woman who stood between her and hours of bland, nutritious snacking. She grabbed her coat.

Hours later, with the strains of Willie Nelson's "On the Road Again" still lingering in the stagnant air of our van, we barreled happily down the highway, alternately munching on Pringles, peanut M&Ms, Ghirardelli chocolate and cookies-n-creme Poptarts. We weren't three hours into our adventure when we encountered the first of our many "signs." "Look," Savannah squealed with uncharacteristic enthusiasm, "the light is on." Like a lighthouse beacon offering hope to weary travelers, the Krispie Kreme light lured us in. We tumbled out of our crammed van like a car of clowns and stormed the donut shop. We re-emerged, victorious, minutes later, our faces glistening with glaze.

You learn a lot about a person when you travel with them. Take my brother-in-law's strict adherence to color specificity. "Look," I squealed with characteristic enthusiasm, "a purple truck." "You mean that lavender one?" Virgil asked. Later on, I pointed out a purple house. "That lilac one over there?" he inquired, visually sorting through the massive assortment of multi-hued houses. "What's your favorite color," Savannah asked him as they regarded fists full of peanut M&Ms. No, not just blue for my brother-in-law..."ROYAL blue," he shared, popping one in his mouth.

Brotherly debate topics shifted throughout the day. Brad and Virgil argued about the Greek Orthodox calendar, the linear alignment of police enforced laser speeding guns, airline mileage points, hot spot capability of Smart phones as well as a lively discussion about time zone accuracy pertaining to the land of demarcation paralleled to when it appears on a cell phone.
Female conversation was not so highfalutin. "When did you realize that the tune to the ABC song and Twinkle Twinkle Little Star is the same," I asked Savannah who immediately stopped dead in her tracks at a thru-way rest-stop in response to this starting revelation.

In an effort to bring life to Brianna's assigned ELA/Science report, we squeezed in a stop to the

famed mighty Mississip (intentional omission of the ending ~i" for whimsical flair) and wrestle reluctant relative into a picture. The last three grueling hours were filled with car games. Note-to-self: be careful using just any ol' interactive website for a lively game of "Taboo." My first choice would have received an X-rating. A Disney-themed round of 20 Questions is particularly entertaining as Brad has trouble naming even half of the seven dwarves. Finally...over the Mississippi River and through mid-west flatlands...to Grandma Linda's we went.

The Sanibel Gals: Part 3- Life's a beach

I learned a lot about myself on this trip, I thought reflectively, as I scanned through my phone at the text messages I sent throughout my journey.  Poignant conversations that I had with my fellow travelers such as when my friend Kathy watched admiringly as I cleverly navigated my way onto the plane with my over-sized rucksack. Noticing that I was staggering beneath my heavy load, the man who scanned my ticket expressed his concern for my welfare, saying, "I don't know if that'll fit, darlin'." I assured him that the bag only looked big in proportion to my tiny figure and lurched gracefully down the gangplank. I accepted Kathy's compliment regarding my diplomacy skills without hesitation but admitted, while I threw myself bodily against my backpack as I stuffed it into the overhead compartment that, of all my character traits, "I'm most proud of my modesty."

Later, after inventorying my character traits, I watched with envy as the strong, independent women with whom I was traveling would wander away, to walk the beaches alone...to become one with nature...to embark on a Thoreau-ian adventure, melding mind, body and spirit with the sand and the waves. I stared longingly at my television before slouching off to be re-awakened by nature. I would be strong and independent too.

The first thing wrong with all that nature, obviously, is all the sand. It's everywhere, for Pete's sake. I immediately took a picture on my phone to send to all my friends. Standing in the Gulf of Mexico, I called my youngest daughter to share with her the wonders of my world. "I'm standing in the Gulf of Mexico," I told Sydney who, for some unfathomable reason, was not particularly delighted to hear this news. "Oh my goodness, a shell," I screeched suddenly, hanging up on her while I wrestled it from the grasp of the Gulf whereupon I immediately took a picture to show Sydney, proclaiming it "our shell."

I tentatively wandered a bit more down the beach until I encountered an oddity. I, of course, grabbed my phone, "Quick, someone, Google the type of shell that looks EXACTLY like dog poo." Upon closer inspection, I then texted, "Never mind." A gang of tiny sea birds chased me around for awhile. When I was done screaming, I unearthed what may have been my greatest find. I, of course, grabbed the phone. "I think I found a manatee hoof!" I texted everyone. I learned a lot about myself AND my friends that day. I learned that many of my friends actually think that I'm stupid enough to actually BELIEVE that I found a manatee hoof and I learned that I am actually stupid enough to mistake an ACTUAL hoof for a type of shell. "What is this," my husband asked wearily upon my return home as I spent two hours showing him each shell and giving him a blow-by-blow account of the discovery experience. "It's part of a broken off shell I found," I said excitedly, "doesn't it look exactly like a hoof?" He sighed (He does that a lot.). "It IS a hoof," he said, holding back our excited dogs (They REALLY like shells..."No, they don't," Brad corrected, "They really like hooves.")

"Well...if that's the weirdest thing you found...then you're actually doing pretty good," Savannah remarked encouragingly after I called her about my little faux pas. There was a long pause. "Mom???"

So...there I was sitting on the beach, watching a group of women. One woman sat back off the tide
line, watching the horizon as her friends scampered about excitedly for shells. One would suddenly make a discovery, pounce, hold it up to then race  to share her treasure with her friend who would bemusedly admire each offering. I giggled as this scene re-played itself a dozen times before a thought came to mind. "Geri," I said, poking my friend who was sitting well above the tide line, watching the horizon, "Do you think we look like that?" "Not even close," she replied, reminding me of my last "treasure." I had been scooching along in the sand when my toes closed in on something

soft and squishy. Fascinated, I unearthed what could only be described as a dully fluorescent orange brain. I inserted a nearby shell into it and raced across the beach to show my friends, Geri and Judy who immediately began waving me away from them. "If it's soft and squishy, then it's still alive," Geri yelled at me. "Put it back in the water," Judy suggested. "She stabbed it," Geri hollered, "putting it back won't do a whole hecka of a lot of good now." Mortified that I may have caused mortal damage to one of God's ocean creatures, I raced back to the water's edge and hurled the brain back in. I screamed as it immediately washed back to me. I gave it a gentle kick only to have to return again, just like Lassie. "This is for your own good," I snarled through gritted teeth, delivering a powerful soccer blow to the brain, lifting it out, above the waves to land safely in the world for whence it come.

I told you I learned a lot. If it looks like a hoof...it probably is. If it's soft and squishy...don't stab it.  And when the opportunity comes to walk in solitude upon the beach...just turn on the TV.

Oh dear

Two contradictory forces have dwelt within the Mosiman home for over two decades as Brad and I have wrestled with what some would view as my hyper-sensitivity to animals; especially during this, the bloodiest of seasons. Brad was first confronted with my souped-up sensitivity syndrome twenty-five years ago when we picked up our pre-packaged venison from the butcher's. "Where are the antlers," Brad asked. "Oh," the butcher replied, shrugging, pointing with the cleaver clenched in his massive fist as his leather apron glistened with the life-blood of God's woodland creatures. "The head is over there." I will spare you the description of my new husband sorting through a pile of decapitated deer heads like a little kid looking for the right size Lego. He tossed it, with an alarming amount of nonchalance, into the back of our Plymouth Horizon. I felt like a member of the mob as we drove down the dark road with a head rattling around in our trunk. Brad gallantly unloaded our meat, bag after bag into my parent's freezer but became bogged down in rearranging the contents so as not to block my mother's Sara Lee pound cake, Swanson meals, and frozen lesueur baby peas. "Could you please just grab the last bag," he asked from the depth's of my dad's freezer. I ventured out into the darkness and approached the Horizon. I made a quick grab for the bag only to be met with terrifying resistance. I tugged and pulled frantically, gasping in terror as I locked eyes with the deer (head), dead-on. He had inconveniently rolled so that his antlers were pinning the last bag in the corner of the trunk. Twenty minutes later, my husband came looking for me and found his wife, a crumpled, sobbing puddle, in the middle of my dad's driveway.

Fast-forward twenty-five years and my exposure to hunting season has been limited to my occasionally taking a picture (with my eyes closed) and writing witty sayings on the butcher paper as Brad processes his own deer. Like it or not, my daughters have played a much larger role in this little enterprise. Both can hang, skin, and butcher a carcass while, like their father, still maintaining a healthy respect and admiration for animals balanced with a realistic view of where our food comes from. But face it...it's still hard work and it's gross to boot. So when the sound of Brad's 4-wheeler roars to life, his family might be actively praying for the "wrong" team. And upon his return, we race for the window to catch a glimpse...please don't tell him that there is much high-fiving and cheering when his back rack is empty.

We weren't so lucky a few days ago. Sydney and I went down to the garage to "admire" his acquisition. Brad asked Sydney to help hang the carcass. I watched with sick fascination as Brad held it up while Sydney valiantly attempted to run a carabiner through a pre-cut hole. "What's the problem," Brad snapped beneath the weight of his load, unable to see his daughter dodging the left cross delivery from the other leg as she tried to pin the other. Job done, we breathed a sigh of relief until his next words, "Sydney, get me the saw-zall." I disappeared as Brad criticized his daughter's technique of shaving off legs. Oh dear.

The Sanibel Gals: Part 2~It's all about the food

As a diligent reader, you've already experienced my peanut M&M roll of shame down the middle of my departing airplane. Come to think of it, it was actually more of an avalanche. Prior to that humbling experience, I folded beneath the pressure of a grueling hour-long wait at the airport and ordered a caprese salad. Instead of bright red, juicy beef-steak tomatoes and delectable slices of buffalo mozzarella with a light drizzle of balsamic vinegar to tickle my taste buds, I was instead given translucently thin, pale "tomatoes" with dry cheese accompanied by what can only be described as balsamic syrup that tortured my poor taste buds. I can hear my friends, Cathy Nourse and Deb Mehlenbacher now...shaking their heads in undisguised disgust and saying, "What exactly did you think you were going to get...you're at the AIRPORT!!!" I know...I know.


And you know, as well as I, that any trip is all about the food. On this mini-respite, we certainly had our ups and downs. Sharing my vast culinary experience with my friends over our lovely continental breakfast, I demonstrated the short-cut method of peeling a hard-boiled egg by gently pressing the palm of my hand down against the egg and rolling it along the table. Watching me carefully, my friend Dawn eagerly gave it a go. Let's just say that I would never want the woman to EVER perform CPR on me if that was any indication of her accurate application of pressure.

The food, as you can imagine, was incredible.We ate at the renowned "Doc Ford's," which is named for the title character in the  novel series written by New York Times best-selling author Randy Wayne White. Under the best of circumstances, I am incapable of making a decision but faced with a menu that includes fish tacos AND caprese salad (You know what they say about that...when you fall off a caprese salad, you have to get right back on again.), I completely fell apart. Tired of my rather loud wavering, my culinary companion Sandy Lawrence finally relented and agreed to split both meals to shut me up.

Another of our favorite restaurants was named "The Island Cow." My friend Virginia is also a bit of a meal waver-er but, unlike me, is able to elicit sympathy, love and compassion from those around her rather than the eye-rolling and derision that is usually aimed at me. Afraid that her tuna fish would be (gasp) fishy, Virginia soon had our waiter rushing to the kitchen to offer her a sample before she decided to order the chicken salad because she actually doesn't like tuna salad. Our waiter, Terry, loved her anyway.


Having vacationed with me many times in the past, my friend Geri knew we were in trouble when, despite her efforts to distract my attention in another direction ("Look, Amy! A gopher tortoise!"), I spotted the tell-tale symbol of my most favorite restaurant in the whole wide world:  a giant United States flag! I squealed with delight. "It's just a car dealership," Geri said desperately but no, there it was...a Perkins!  Home of the most delicious potato pancakes in the whole wild world!!! Geri's shoulders slumped as she knew then, that she and I would be venturing off the island to take Amy Mosiman to a chain restaurant. YAY!

While I was enjoying the buttery, salty goodness of my crispy potato pancakes and Geri was spilling her chocolate milk in resentment, the rest of the gang was perusing the island's farmer's market. "Why would ANYONE want to go to a silly farmer's market when they could come to Perkins," I wondered through a mouthful of yummy potato pancakes. Strangely, Geri responded only by glaring at something slightly over my head. Unbeknownst to us however, this was no ordinary farmer's market. Our friends loaded up on macaroni and cheese loaded with bacon, pulled pork and salad fixin's for our dinner later that night as well as gourmet cake selections featured at the island's famous "Bubble Room." We dined like island princesses. The meal was topped off, of course, by a Perkins lemon meringue pie.

The Sanibel Gals: Part 1 (The Arrival)

What was I thinking...lo, those many months ago...when it was discovered that the school calendar had allotted us a rare four consecutive days off for Veterans Day? What should I do with this incredible window of time, I wondered, thinking happily of blissful hours camped on my couch, my fingers atrophied around the remote, my shirtfront littered with Cheese-Doodle crumbs. Oh no...this was one prophesy that would go unfulfilled as I was suddenly swept up in the excitement of trip planning...becoming one of an eight-party excursion to the shell-collecting capital of the United States. Yes folks, I became an infamous member of the group now known as "The Sanibel Gals."

Divided between two flights, we departed immediately after school on Friday. Arriving at the airport, we were greeted by additional school personnel scurrying away like beach-clad rats departing a sinking ship. Our friend Traci had an appointment with a well-positioned mouse down south while Nancy was off to Nashville. We bid one another a fond good-bye as we all boarded our respective planes. The first leg of our journey was frought with danger and discourse. Some fool brought on an open bag of peanut M&Ms and naturally spilled it, sending peanut pebbles rolling down the aisle and under seats. To hide our embarrassment, my friend Bev and I ducked behind a SkyMall magazine but, unfortunately, got so caught up in the outrageous merchandise that we filled the airplane compartment with our obnoxious comments and laughter. The fire-burning portable hot tub reminded me of an episode from Twilight Zone where hitchhikers were unwittingly boiled into a stew.  I mistook the single-handed barber for a personal massager.

I was distracted, momentarily, by the bright and bubbly conversation between my friend Kathy and a fellow traveler. "So, where are you from," she asked conversationally, leaning against the seat as we waited to disembark. I glanced at her to see if she was swinging one end of a long, feather boa. When the nice man shared that he was from Buffalo, she lit up happily and shared that, she too, was from that area. I leaned in and asked if she wanted me to poll the rest of the passengers as well. "What are the odds," I marveled, "that a flight from The Queen's City would include a local resident?"

Our layover in Atlanta was a delight as I lugged my 80 pound rucksack out of the overhead bin, through the airport, onto the train connecting us to our appropriate concourse (Where a group of obnoxious teachers corrected the automated voice that helpfully announced our destination, "You have reached Concourse B...B for Bravo." "That's not the sound "B" makes..." we remarked sulkily, "~br is a consonant blend." None of the train's weary passengers appreciated this impromptu lesson in phonics. Waiting for the next flight, I was beside myself with excitement when I discovered an automated trash receptacle, reduced to begging strangers for their garbage just for the pure pleasure of using it.

Our room at Sanibel Island

Arriving in Fort Myers at the dead-of-night ("11:30 hardly qualifies as the dead-of-night," my friend Geri remarked rudely.), we made our way to Sanibel Island. We located the resort with no trouble but were unable to locate the promised key or, even worse, our reserved suite, forced to wander around the property bellowing for help. At long last, we made it into our beautiful rooms, collapsing gratefully on our beds, the Gulf of Mexico mere meters away (I'm currently engaged in a unit on the metric system). What more beautiful sound, I thought sleepily, than that of waves crashing on the shore. "I should probably warn you," our friend Dawn said as she fluffed her pillow. "I scream in my sleep."

Geri leaving our little screened in porch for an island adventure

That's the stuff: The day I glued my eye shut

Under normal circumstances, dear friends, I would attempt to shield you from this harsh reality but it's time to face facts...my dreams of becoming the next great beauty queen will never be realized. On a happier note, however, this terrible trial revealed that my husband realized, early on, that my attributes are more like a scratch-off lottery ticket...the promise of value that lurks beneath the surface.

Case in point:  Halloween morning as Sydney plastered make-up on my usually unadorned features before approaching me with the stiff wire sparkly caterpillars which were to become my eyelashes for the day. Applying the adhesive like one would to a set of dentures, Sydney carefully latched each lash on. I peered out from beneath this glitter-encrusted veil...blink, blink. Brad stared at this vision of his wife in warped wonder. "Wait," Sydney said, "one end needs a bit more adhesive." She carefully applied it directly to my eye with predictable results. Yup...that's right. My eye was now glued shut. Fortunately, I couldn't actually see my family laughing as I wrestled my weighted eyelid open. Vision restored, I could now see my husband slumped helplessly against the wall, unable to catch his breath. Sydney had disappeared. I turned to the mirror and practiced fluttering my lashes. My poor husband is married to that, I thought dismally, considering the ridiculous creature reflected back at me. Laughing again, and then heading off to laugh throughout the day, my husband kissed me good-bye, thinking, "I'm married to that."  That's right, buddy. All this is yours.

Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale...

Let's face it, Halloween is a nightmare. But when you're part of an over-achieving grade level team who insist on dressing as a theme, Halloween takes on a whole new kind of horror. Last year, I jammed my 5 foot 10 inch frame into a claustrophobic R2D2 can. Nothing could be worse than this, I thought to myself as I staggered shakily around the gymnasium, guided by 4th graders, during the much-anticipated annual costume parade.

"Gilligan's Island?!?" I said doubtfully when the idea was presented during team time. "Yeah, you'll be the Professor," I was told. OK, I thought, I can handle that...Hawaiian shirt with a lei and white pants...good to go. Uh-huh. Two weeks later, I was unceremoniously re-assigned to the Movie Star, Ginger. I flew home in a panic. How was I, Amy Mosiman...who owns forty shades of brown pants, going to pull off a statuesque red-haired vixen? I quickly ordered a costume on-line, ignoring the "fits sizes 12-14" label, and put the entire matter out of my mind.

Until the witching hour...when I tried to try on my costume. "I look like a polska kielbasa that's been microwaved," I sobbed to my family as they stared, thunderstruck at me, stuck in this dress. Sydney was confused by my over-wrought analogy until Brad quietly described how a sausage will get all blown-up and bumpy as they wrestled me out of my costume casing.

All seemed lost until I was rescued through the combined heroic efforts of Sydney and school librarian/friend, Amy White. Red wig taped to my head like a jaunty little hat, colleague Kelly-Nichol-Dime sacrificed her lunch to stuff me into my dress which was every bit as pleasant as you would imagine. One foot planted against my rear to brace herself, teeth clenched, arms straining as she pulled the back corset strings tight. Sort of like stuffing a pillow into a pillow case. Seams straining, I strapped on five inch heels and tottered off.

Firmly in Ginger-mode, I took the school by storm...slinking, winking, pouting and posing my way through the halls. I WAS a movie star...an honest-to-goodness goddess. My fifteen minutes of fame flew by in a flash and I was back in my familiar world of mom-jeans and a t-shirt before you could say bippity-bobbity-boo. I made the mistake of reviewing my pictures too soon. What I encountered was not a rapturous island beauty but a tired-looking  but well-meaning transvestite. Talk about your fateful trips.