"Sparkling Ice" coconut pineapple flavored water (with vitamins and antioxidants!)

I've had a mild Pepsi addiction for over a decade. Tired? Reach for a Pepsi. Grumpy? Reach for a Pepsi. Almost felt compelled to exercise? Reach for a Pepsi. As there existed no Pepsi rehab centers in my area, I knew that the only way to stop this vicious cycle of caffeine consumption was to find a bright and bubbly replacement beverage. Enter "Sparkling Ice" coconut pineapple flavored water (with vitamins and antioxidants!) "And cancer-inducing preservatives," my after-school visitor, Maria dourly observed, perusing the label. "Go puff your cheerleader bow," I hissed, "Don't you have homework to do?"

Naturally, there was a problem. Pepsi, of course, is readily available. "Sparkling Ice" coconut pineapple flavored water (with vitamins and antioxidants!) is not. We scour the stores for my Pepsi-alternative but often leave disappointed. When we do find a stocked shelf, we empty it like a raving band of plundering vikings. It is an embarrassing item to buy as it doesn't come in cases so the bottles tip and totter on the check-out conveyor belt and then are so heavy that they often rip through the flimsy plastic bags (sigh...yes, I know I should use the attractive Vera Wang recycled shopping bag set I got for Christmas). So, my eldest daughter set about solving this dilemma of supply and demand. Savannah set me up an Amazon subscription plan with my free delivery Prime plan! So for a minimal cost (except to my postal carrier's back), cases of "Sparkling Ice" coconut pineapple flavored water (with vitamins and antioxidants!) were soon being delivered right to my front door. Climbing to Amy-high heights, these cases solved all of my earthly problems! Except...

"Uh, Amy, have you seen the credit card bill?" Uh oh. That was NOT a good sign. I do everything possible to NOT see the credit card bill. Apparently Amazon got wise to the idea that the free monthly delivery of a ton of water was not economically favorable for their business and up-ed my subscription cost 40% without warning. So, without warning, the newly-addicted to "Sparkling Ice" coconut pineapple flavored water (with vitamins and antioxidants!) unleashed the hounds of hell on Amazon; but alas, to no avail. I was cut-off. Reduced to shopping at the grocery stores like a gypsy.

And little did I know that my own Stack Zoffer was in direct consumer competition with me. Former 6th grader who now towers over me, Zach is currently teaching me the names of Buffalo Bills players ("I've decided to become a sports fan," I announced proudly. Worried, Zach immediately signed on as my tutor.) When we discovered our shared affinity for "Sparkling Ice" coconut pineapple flavored water (with vitamins and antioxidants!), I immediately realized that we needed to start working with, rather than against, one another. As a token of good will, I offered this brawling football star one of my beloved beverages.  Today he came in with a pumpkin-spice flavored milk to share with me. I think he may have missed the point...but it's a start.

What NOT to do at the drive-thru zoo

I've baby-proofed before. And dog-proofed. Brad Mosiman might even make the bold claim that he's Amy-proofed before (Unsuccessfully, I would humbly add, It cannot be done.) But I have to admit that I've never monkey-proofed before. Or should I say "ape-proofed?"

Brief interlude while Amy sings the Veggie Tales "Monkey" song to herself..."If it doesn't have a tail, it's not a monkey...Even if it has a monkey-type of shape..." 

No...I was right the first time. We monkey-proofed our truck for our exciting ride through The African Lion Safari park this past week-end. I'd been ready for this for a WEEK! "Mom, can I open the crunchy cheesy puffs," Sydney asked, startled as I unexpectedly hurled myself through the air  to rip them from her grasp. She held on like a spider monkey, our opposable thumbs waging war, but I finally won. "No," I screeched, "these are for the monkeys!"

Sunday finally arrived and we migrated to the great Canadian north with crunchy cheesy puffs and shelled peanuts at the ready. "Thirty (fake money) dollars," I complained as we approached the admission gates, "What? Do they think this is Disney?" Twenty minutes later. I was thirty feet from a swimming elephant and proudly telling the crowd that I would gladly sell my second-born for the opportunity to dog-paddle with the pachyderms.

After securely tying down our truck tarp and using duct tape to conceal the straps from the prying fingers (minus opposable thumbs) of our monkey friends, we drove through the Jurassic Park-type gates to begin our adventure. We take the "Keep doors and windows securely closed" signs very seriously in the lion enclosures but, for the Mosimans ("Keep me out of this," growled Brad (who CLAIMS that he is law-abiding but has been spotted feeding a cheesy puff on the sly to a Smitar-Horned Oryx)), all bets are off when we reach the vegetarians of the park. Nothing is more magical than sliding a cheesy puff through a cracked window and brushing fingers with an appreciative monkey. He will express his appreciation, by the way, by pooping on your side-view mirror.

In the past, we have had a giraffe's tongue slither in our window and sway with a cobra's hypnotic charm for a cheesy puff. I admit to once pushing a zebra's head off of my lap.

But not THIS year. This year, park staff patrolled with military precision. Blow horns trumpeted threats and warnings to anyone who even LOOKED like they had a cheesy puff. Naturally, the monkeys and I were devastated. Monkeys, by the way, express their feelings of devastation by pooping on your side-view mirror. One super naughty monkey, knowing that our truck housed his beloved cheesy puffs, began feverishly trying to gain access to our truck tarp, meticulously picking at the duct tape so that he could stow-away and come home with us; but alas, we had monkey-proofed too well. Greatly saddened, he departed (after first pooping on our side-view mirror) while Sydney happily consumed the bag of crunchy cheesy puffs.

Longhouse Twinkie Project: Epic Fail

As usual, implementation of my big vision was (not) a rousing success. I spent the bulk of my summer mentally planning my back-to-school bulletin board and then frantically slapped it together seconds before students entered the classroom in September.

Concerned that he couldn't hear the normal decibels of obnoxious noises emanating from my room, my custodian friend Joe peeked in to find me crushed beneath the weight of my refusing-to-stay-unrolled background paper. Together, we wrestled it into place before Joe managed to escape. The next person silly enough to see what I was up to was fellow educator, Linda, in search of a pencil. Encased in a web of hot glue string, I negotiated a pencil for popsicle stick exchange. Linda would receive a pencil after lifting my construction paper/popsicle stick longhouse onto the bulletin board. Think Amish barn-raising. Linda left when I broke out the glitter for my simulated smoke.

Phase two of my big vision was to include student work. We researched descriptions of longhouses and took notes on the reverse sides of their foldable paper models before the frustrating cut-and-paste process began. The end result was a longhouse Twinkie. As a final touch, each student taped a picture of him/herself standing proudly in the doorway, "welcoming" visitors to his/her snack cake shelter. Sigh.

Is "Geri" short for "jealousy?"

It was that time of year again. Time to volunteer for the annual Glen Iris 5K. It is always scheduled following the first week of school and the minute my alarm goes off on Saturday, I wonder what magical pull Gregg Dobbin has, to convince me to do this year-after-year. Especially when I hear the steady patter of rain beating against my windows. My husband intervened as I attempted to exit the house with only a windbreaker. He spent ten minutes wrestling me into a full-body rain suit before I realized that I needed to use the restroom.

This was my first year volunteering without Savannah so the weather matched my mood. But I knew I could count on my friend, Geri to brightened my spirits with our annual trip to the store to buy pre-race chocolate milk and a doughnut. "Ready to stop at Carney's," I asked after she hopped in the truck. "Nah...I'm good," she said, crushing what remained of my hopes and dreams.

This year, I was given the auspicious title of "Event Greeter." I dutifully welcomed each person as they approached the pavilion. Obviously eaten up with jealousy, Geri attempted to undermine my authority at every turn. "Don't listen to her," she'd hiss at frightened guests. "Amy...you don't have to welcome EVERY single person," she'd say bossily, obviously not having read the duty manual that accompanied such an importantly crucial position as mine. I thought she was going to throw a full-blown temper tantrum when I was unexpectedly handed the portable amplifier. "Don't give her a microphone," she yelled at her husband, Gregg, "There'll be no shutting her up now!"

Despite Geri, we made it successfully to the finish line (to watch everyone else cross) before grabbing our well-deserved Glen Iris Inn lunch to head back to Geri's house accompanied by fellow volunteers, Tommy and Momar. We peppered our lunch with a lively debate over whether one is being polite by not offering constructive comment on a loved one's cooking  (Amy's viewpoint) or if one is considered rude by sharing said constructive comment (Geri's viewpoint). For example: Would it benefit the Glen Iris 5K to tell them that their web-posted information had a small, barely noticeable typo (that made me about bust a gut laughing) OR would it be better to withhold comment as the event is over?

Information

Certified NY12115KL T-shits to first 300 entrants

Momar added a little spice to the conversation by demonstrating the rugged durability of his sensible phone by dropping it purposely to the floor. Attacked by sneezes, Tommy used his naval cavity as a paper towel holder which really contributed to the digestibility of my meal.

It was time to play cards. "What are we playing?" I asked. Geri looked at me strangely, "Euchre (duh)." "But we can't play with five peop..." I answered before stopping in horror, staring at Momar who immediately realized that the ghost of Savannah had arrived. Savannah and Momar were famous for an epic game of euchre where they were being severely trounced 8-2 before miraculously (Think U.S. hockey team) making the come-back of the century. And suddenly, we were there again. Geri and I were trouncing Momar and Tommy (8-2) when Momar began shouting to Tommy to get Savannah on Facetime (because Momar's ruggedly sensible phone isn't equipped to handle Facetime) so she could direct him on how to play his cards. Unfortunately, Savannah couldn't be reached and the USSR was victorious. I drove home...another success Glen Iris 5K behind me.

My friend Deb bought pot at the fair (oops...I meant "a pot")

It first began in the year of ought eight. Sydney, her friend Ashley and I were excitedly watching the sea lion show at the great New York State Fair. As the show concluded, the trainers began to set up a small sea lion kiosk. A man's disgusted voice suddenly rang out over the spectators, "What idiot is going to pay $8 for a picture with some seals?" You guessed it...that idiot would be me. I hissed, "They're sea lions," at Mr. Killjoy before crowd-surfing my way to the front of the line.

So it was that we now have a nifty little collection of pictures chronicling every year that we've visited the fair. With my daughters grown and reluctantly occupied with other events, my friend Deb chose to accompany me to the fair this year. As luck would have it, we arrived just as the picture-taking kiosk was being assembled. I grabbed Deb's arm to pull her with me next to our new friends and was surprised to find myself instead engaged in a wrestling match. "I'm not getting my picture taken," Deb protested. Unfortunately for Deb, this was not a battle that she was EVER going to win. It's the equivalent of telling a 4-year-old that he can't see Santa at the mall. "I can't believe that you spent ten dollars on that thing," she complained as I clutched my picture happily, floating on Cloud 9 after having received a sea lion smooch on my cheek. She said this BEFORE she dropped over $300 on a cooking pot AFTER making me sit for 45 minutes watching a cooking demonstration where all I got for my trouble was to taste a blanched carrot coin.

Oh my goodness...I'm skipping the other Deb Debacle. I had strayed away from Deb as she grilled the Sleep Number people about implementing a trade-in system because she wants to upgrade to the new independently-operated front-raising mechanism. I gravitated, transfixed, over to a corral of massage chairs. I observed the current, seemingly comatose, occupants and thought, How can they lay there with all these people staring at them? Some discreet investigating on my part revealed that the massage chair experience was free so I grabbed Deb and began wrestling match number two. Stacy, our rather lackluster massage chair consultant, directed us to two chairs. I dove right in. Deb, talking on the cell to her husband about her lack of success with the Sleep Number people, had to be guided in for a landing by the sulking Stacy. Hugged by my chair, I was transported to a magical new world. I know this doesn't exactly sound magical but I lack the necessary words to describe the euphoric bliss that I experienced as the chair billowed up around my feet and legs like a blood pressure cuff and rotating balls pinched and prodded their way up my back, across my shoulders and to my neck while waves of heat sporadically seeped into my skin. Was I at all concerned about the hundreds of people staring at me? As I told my family, I could have been naked and painted blue  at this point and I wouldn't have cared.  EXCEPT...

Except...apparently Deb was not pleased with the roominess of her initial chair and demanded that Stacy move her to a more acceptable apparatus. I believe Deb may have been done taking to her husband at this point so, as she was hands-free, I'm not sure why Stacy had to carry half of my demanding friend's stuff to the new location. I really didn't care because I had entered a new life dimension by this time. Ensconced in her new chair, Deb was quiet for approximately seven seconds before she began bellowing for poor Stacy, demanding to be released from this torturous leg-squeezing contraption. Normally I wouldn't have cared two hoots for Deb's complaints EXCEPT Stacy turned off my chair too! What is this...guilty by association!?!? Despite all of this, though, I can still say that I had a "fairly" good time at the fair with my friend Deb. She's just lucky that I don't embarrass her all the time!

Niagara Falls: Not "falling" too far from the nest

The magnificent city-scape with the breathtaking
Niagara Falls (Trust me, it's there)

 Eldest daughter Savannah made a victorious return from Connecticut and received a queen's welcome. Pastries were rolled out (note-to-self: cross Culinary Arts off of Sydney's list of possible career choices. "Wet the top of the pie," I instructed and then immediately tackled her before she inserted a finger into her mouth. OK, maybe it wasn't that bad but I'm still not sure where she got her definition of sprinkle from. "Sprinkle sugar over the top," I said slowly, watching her dump a pile in the middle and then blow at it like a flickering birthday candle.), extravagant meals were executed, itineraries scheduled. Forget if Savannah's only plans following her seven hour drive were to lay on our couch and stare at the television. OH NO! We must stuff everyone in the truck for a two hour drive to see fireworks at ten o'clock at night.

Fractorially-speaking, what we have here are
two whole heads and three thirds heads. If you
combined my head with Sydney's and Joan's, we
would then have three whole heads pictured.

So with 100,000 of our closest friends, we perched on rocks overlooking the majestic falls to await a straight-on view of fantastic fireworks. "Isn't Niagara Falls where we take out-of-town guests," Sydney asked as we cringed, again and again, as idiots (I mean tourists) balanced on the safety barriers for pre-post-mortem pictures. One particularly idiotic idiot climbed idiotically past the barrier to earn bragging rights that he was able to put his hand in the water (minutes before they would be pulling his body from the river).  I was staring, transfixed at this particular idiot (I mean tourist), when I answered Sydney. "Savannah is from out-of-town."

Dodging 100,000 selfie sticks, I realized that we, too, should capture this moment. Unfortunately, none of us cares enough about photography to actually learn how to take a good picture (note-to-self: cross "photographer" off ALL of our possible career choices lists). Turns out...we could take a good picture of the falls OR a "good" (see examples) picture of us. Totally worth the two hour...no, wait a sec (Amy counting on her fingers...)...nine hour drive!