Squares, Triangles, and Intersections: New York City Math Problems

 Kenai. Alaska: Population-7,100

New York City: Population-8,500,000

Okay. So the decision to take my 14-year-old niece to the somewhat over-populated Big Apple at Christmas-time might have been just a wee bit over-whelming ("There are so many people," she whispered, craning her head up at the buildings looming overhead. "If she can handle a bull moose in her front yard, she can handle this," I assured my daughters. "You can't handle crossing the street in Warsaw, let alone Manhattan," Savannah grumbled, pulling me out of the way of an impatient taxi. They are ALL impatient, by the way.).

We dove into Times Square, letting the current of humanity sweep us along to Rockefeller Center. "Let's do the observation deck at The Rock," Savannah suggested, thinking her cousin could use a break. Oh...let's be honest here. I needed a break. "Excuse me," said the thousandth person who bumped, jostled, or elbowed me. "It's perfectly alright," I assured the woman who had just nudged me out of the crosswalk and into traffic, "unless I die," I shouted at her.

The Rock is always magical. I had been tracking my friend, Shanna, who was also in NYC and was always about an hour ahead of my current location. When she had been at The Rock, she'd done a handstand. I was also creating magic with my hands. "The sign says Push, Mom," Sydney said gently, as I wrestled to pull open the Observation Deck door to escape the cold wind whipping around the building. As the girls reveled in the breath-takingly dramatic city landscape, I was watching drama un-fold in the form of a wedding proposal. "Of course she said yes," Sydney told me bitterly as I recounted the scene to her, "a girl will say anything to get in out of the cold."

Still ahead of me out there, Shanna reported that she'd witnessed a proposal in Times Square. "I can beat that," I told her, as we watched a bride getting crammed into a revolving door followed by a parade of giggling bride maids. We followed Luigi from Mario Brothers for awhile but ditched him when we found the Rockefeller Center Tree. "Who said this is fun," Sydney frowned, hitting what Savannah and I affectionately call her "State Fair Limit." "Sydney," I lectured, "you are standing beneath one of the most famous trees in the world. Live in the moment!" Sydney preferred to live in a moment where she was instead eating a New York City hot dog.

Following a lady with a lit cigarette (because the crowd parted for her like the Red Sea), we maneuvered through Times Square to our theater. The debate over which show to see had been quite divisive. Hamilton was out because none of us was willing to sell an organ. "We've seen Chicago," I argued. "Not on Broadway," Savannah argued back. "Avenue Q looks whimsically delightful," I suggested. "Who doesn't love a puppet?" "Mom, the puppets have sex on stage," Savannah informed me. Oh. Cirque du Soleil it was!

Paramour was wonderful. Man on unicycle. Impressive. Man on unicycle with girl sitting on his shoulder. Impressive. Man on unicycle with girl on his shoulder balancing on a 12 inch round table. Impressive. Table rises six feet in the air. Girl stands on shoulder. Girl then balances on guy's HEAD! Who needs a story line? Not Paramour! They just need an excuse for a juggler to toss discs and an umbrella into the air. "This is not a skill that I knew needed developing," I whispered to Sydney, "Why am I teaching 4th graders about early European explorers? I should be training them on unicycles and giant aerial rubber-bands!" "I liked that song Three-Way Love," I commented on the way out. "Mom," Savannah sighed, "It was called Love Triangle."

Thus concluded Brianna's trip to New York City. A small town girl exposed to the sights and sounds, the hustle and bustle of the big city. "It's definitely bigger than Kenai," she admitted before pausing thoughtfully, "How big is your town," she asked me. My daughters grinned as I admitted that Gainesville proudly boasts a population of 223 souls. Who's the real small town girl in this scenario? And yeah...I have trouble crossing the street there, as well.

Who embarrasses themselves at the Botanical Gardens in the Bronx. Three guesses: Eins...zwei...drei

My niece Brianna is currently learning German so that made the seven-hour journey from Western New York to Connecticut THAT much more fun. "Eins," Google instructed us. "Eins," we repeated. "Zwei," computer voice pronounced. "Zwei," we chanted back. We delighted in the sound of five (funf) and were alarmed that someone would hack up a lung for eight (acht) but we were quickly becoming fluent. "Der kleine hund geht zur post," I said to the cashier at a Dunkin Donuts. "Pardon?" she said so I translated helpfully, "The little dog is going to the post office." "Would you like whipped cream on that," she replied. Of course.

As Brianna has an interest in plants, we scheduled a visit to the famed Botanical Gardens in the Bronx. To pass the time during a traffic lull, we played the delightful game, "Name All the Flowers You Can." Turns out that, between us, Sydney and I can think of fourteen. Word-to-the-wise:  There are (slightly) MORE than fourteen types of flowers out there.

Our first stop at the famed Botanical Gardens was the restroom where my new friend, two-year-old Isabelle, was patiently counting to twenty while her mother was otherwise occupied. "You know, Isabelle," I told her as she emerged from the stall with her mother, "One in German is eins." Apparently Isabelle already knew that. Then Isabelle told me about the miniature train show that was going on but, alas, we couldn't go.

"Why can't you go?" the security guard at the library asked us. "Two-year-old Isabelle said we couldn't," I informed him, "What's there to see here?" He shrugged. "It's a small exhibit of just a few Picassos and a Warhol," he said. "Just?!?!" I scolded him, "Why...it sounds like a delightful exhibit." Word-to-the-wise: When the security guard of the exhibit warns you about the exhibit, listen to him. So, even though two-year-old Isabelle intentionally tried to sabotage our good time, thanks to our new security guard friend, we made it to the miniature train exhibit. We promised him that we would return to see the library exhibit afterwards. "Don't feel like you have to," he said, escorting us out the door.

For a girl who is neither a big fan of trains or plants, I have to admit...it was utterly delightful. "So far, I'm having at least $17 worth of fun for my $30 admission," I told Savannah. A half mile of track was laid out, running alongside and over visitors. Not "over" over...over the heads of visitors across bridges. Celebrating the architectural wonders that make up New York City, the designers replicated famed homes and buildings, meticulously made with natural resources found right at the Botanical Gardens. It's astonishing what one can make out of a pine cone and a few acorn caps. I'm a little ashamed that I've limited myself for all these years with simply spreading peanut butter and bird seed on a pine cone and calling myself "crafty."

We inadvertently approached the exit but I wasn't ready to leave yet. "But I haven't seen Yankee Stadium," I wailed to no avail as we were unceremoniously ushered out and instructed to re-enter through the main gate. "I'm deducting $3 from my enjoyment," I whispered to Savannah as we stomped around so I could see the stadium. Stadium seen, I turned to the nearest exit to go and was told I had to traipse through Coney Island and the cactus section to leave. "Seriously," I huffed, hiking past the hibiscus (which was not one of my original fourteen in the fun game "Name All the Flowers You Can.").

We stopped to purchase our souvenir picture and I can only blame my shock over the admission price, my aggravation that Isabelle had lied to me, my exasperation regarding the Garden's exit procedures and my own complete and utter idiocy for my laying the groundwork for a race war. As I waited for my picture to be printed, I gazed in delight upon the display picture of a lovely family. "Is this you," I asked the nice man waiting on us. He froze. Savannah froze. Sydney locked eyes with the ceiling. I plunged ahead. "Is this your son? He's adorable." The man didn't answer. I raised the picture so that I could see the side-by-side resemblance and realized that the pictured man was, in fact, NOT the man waiting on me. And yes, I kept babbling. Like the man AND my humiliated family, the register also decided to freeze up so we all stood there, awkward and uncomfortable, until he wrestled my change from its depths so we could flee the scene. "I think you have low blood sugar," Savannah said, taking my arm and guiding me to the Gingerbread Cafe where I punished myself with a manufactured Rice Krispie treat. "Mom," Sydney said, trying to guide my direction as I deliberated sloshed through a deep puddle, "Stop. You have a hole in your boot." "I know," I told her, "I deserve this."

 We were devastated that the Rock Garden was closed but we channeled our disappointment by heading back to the library. The security guard WASN'T kidding. Half of the Mosimans were classy and cultured. I offered to provide a soundtrack to the 15' by 30' room. "They can be flower-themed," I told our guard. "I know the beginning of Daisy-Daisy, Give me your answer, do." I looked at thousands of sketches of tulips in confusion and waved Sydney over to the more famous section. "Behold," I announced, "the Picasso!" "You CANNOT be serious," she hissed at the Crayola scribbles mounted on the wall. Brianna, meanwhile, was busy getting in trouble for trying to take a picture. "I think she should actually get a reward for showing interest," I told the guard before reassuring my niece that Savannah would color her a picture later that night.

Sydney and Brianna opted to take the elevator down from the 6th floor but I insisted that Savannah and I would take the stairs, inevitably getting lost on the 4th floor: Fungus. This obviously was...a nightmare. We feigned interest in the fungus before fleeing.

"Thank you for coming," the admissions lady said, waving to us as we exited (voluntarily). "Der kleine hund aus dem Botanischen Garten," I smiled back.

Cave cheese and stinky chips

There's nothing that packs quite so much of a punch as the aromatic combination of salt and vinegar potato chips mingling with the equally subtle blending of dill pickle-flavored potato chips when crammed within the close confines of a truck during a seven-hour road trip to Connecticut. Shake but not stir with a Slim Jim and life would have been nauseatingly perfect.

As my daughter, Sydney and I were traveling with my beautiful teen-aged niece Brianna, we decided to break up the journey at the mid-way point with a stop to the world-renowned Howe Caverns. "You are the most claustrophobic person I've ever met," my friend Sarah protested, "Remember ten years ago when Sydney and I had to push you through the Cavern's Winding Way like you were Pooh Bear stuck in Rabbit's Hole?" "I'm not going in," I reassured her, "I'll relax by the roaring fire."

"Connie," I complained to our ticket taker, "where is the roaring fire?" "It doesn't work," she admitted while I began working on Game Plan B. "Where are you going, Mom," Sydney asked as she and Bree waited in line. "I'm going to gather kindling for the fire," I told her before stomping off.

Once I was brought up-to-date on local fire codes and informed that my plans could be loosely interpreted as arson, I settled into a warm cozy chair to watch three run-throughs of the Howe Caverns informational video. I did learn that the lodge had been burned to the ground THREE times over the course of its hundred year existence so I was glad that I had erred on the side of caution regarding my roaring fire plan. Three times of a boring informational video is definitely the charm because I was soon sleeping like a baby, waking up to Connie whispering to her friends, "That's the woman who was going to start a fire."

Awoken, refreshed, I wandered off in search of sustenance. I realized that I had developed another phobia when I saw that the cafe menu was limited to the sale of giant dill pickles. "No thanks, I'm off pickles right now," I said, walking away. I managed to procure a hot chocolate, touched the grand piano that had a sign that said Don't touch the grand piano, and settled in by the majestic picture windows overlooking the scenic valley below. I rearranged the furniture, kicked back, grabbed a paper napkin, and immediately wrote a haiku. (See Facebook's "The Hundred Haiku Challenge").

The girls at last emerged from the depths of the earth and we hit the snack shop for fudge and cave cheese. It was an amazing mid-trip visit. "Get in the truck, Mom," Sydney shouted as she and Briana shoved me from behind like I was Pooh Bear refusing to enter Rabbit's warren. I wouldn't have blamed that lovable ol' bear, either. If Rabbit's house (howse) smelled like salt and vinegar AND dill pickle flavored potato chips, I wouldn't visit him either. Or get in his truck.

Spider removal plan

A lifetime of staring at my feet while walking has resulted in a debilitating phobia that has altered my gait in darkened environments: A sort of side shuffle with an arm out-stretched, half running back-defending-the-football style and half Frankenstein-groping-for-a-light-switch style. All in my panicked attempt to avoid spider webs and the dangling inhabitants attached to these sticky structures.

I've been mentally preparing myself for this moment for years but I guess you can never be TRULY prepared...

My September resolution to have my class be completely silent in the hallway was broken by the second week of school when I realized that my standing in the middle of a passage screaming at them was actually much louder than their incessant chatter. When did children lose the ability to whisper? So Step Two was avoidance. We just simply clung to secondary corridors with fewer classrooms to avoid embarrassment and minimize distractions. EXCEPT...one rarely-used hallway that we now trafficked was not illuminated. This delighted the children...both walking in the dark AND seeing Mrs. Mosiman walk like a bobbing-and-weaving crypt-keeper.

My method paid off yesterday, though, when I spotted the silvery strand of a spider in the middle of the hall. Fortunately, we walk flush to the right to support traffic flow and practice for when they eventually become (Prepare for another phobia:) licensed drivers. "Unless you plan on driving in England," I'd bark, "get over to the right!"

I admit that I considered continuing on my way without alerting the sixteen 4th graders to the nearby presence of an acrobatic arachnid. But what if someone else came sauntering, unsuspectingly, down the hallway soon? Plus...every-time I tread down this hall, I'd know he was there...waiting. Mr. Spider had to go.

Using my school lanyard (the first time it's actually been used for something meaningful), I created a horizontal mast above the web. The children stood silent (for two seconds) as they watched the transfer of the strand from ceiling to Mrs. Mosiman's now mummy-extended arms. We all moved as one:  Me, walking as though I were carrying a live bomb. The spider, crawling up his line to my lanyard faster than I could mummy-walk. The children, in a huddled mass of concern (for the spider...not me), tripping up my every stiff step. "Child A," I asked in a calm voice, "would you please go ahead of us and open the door?" Off he raced while another student asked his friend why Mrs. Mosiman's voice was shaking. Learning the spider's soon-to-be destination, Child B became hysterical. "It'll die out there, Mrs. Mosiman," arguing with the passion of Fern trying to save Wilbur from the ax. I would not be deterred. "He'll be fine," I comforted Child B, turning the corner and realizing that the decision to have the door open was utterly stupid as the spider swung dangerously in a way that only years of hula-hoop training could save me. "I'll put him in a nice, warm hole in the brick wall."

Once we hit the outside chill, I was abandoned except for the spider, Child A, and Child B who watched to make sure that I didn't fling his friend to the four winds. Safely cocooned in a crevice in the brick wall (where he was sure to die in minutes and then haunt me...unless his friends and family witnessed my crime and would instead crawl into my sleeping mouth each night for eternity), we re-entered the building. "That was pretty brave," Child A said but his compliment was cut short as I did my best hee-bee/gee-bee dance in the middle of the hall.

Maybe it's time to implement another strategy to avoid this situation that occurs inevitably once every ten to twenty years. I'm thinking about how people slash their way through the thick undergrowth of the jungle. Do you think that carrying a machete in the hall would be considered over-kill?

Brad's Supper-time Woes

"What do you think," Brad asked carefully as September approached, "if we made soup every Sunday so we'd have a back-up meal for the week days that we're busy?" I glared at him. "What are you implying," I snarled. "Are you trying to tell me, after ten years, that cereal is no longer good enough for you?" After he spent an apologetic ten minutes professing his love for sugar-coated cereals, my poor husband tried again. "You make the best chili ever," he started before I interrupted him. "Don't set up false expectations for me," I shouted. "I'm not," he insisted, "but your potato soup in unparalleled." I groaned as he rattled off a list of five soup-like meals to put in a Sunday rotation. This was a nightmare.

But I rose to the challenge. Unfortunately, Brad "Don't-Fix-What-ISN'T-Broken" Mosiman was about to re-encounter his wife, "Hey...Let's-Try-THIS!" Enter: One-pot chicken-and-dumplings:  Fail. So Brad "Let's-Not-Re-Invent-The-Wheel" Mosiman wrote down and posted his Top 5 Soup Picks. So Amy "Back-To-The-Drawing-Board" Mosiman got out her potato soup recipe and yawned.

"What'ya making," Brad asked in cautious excitement as he saw potato-soup-like ingredients strewn about our small kitchen. He peered into the pot. "Is it always this color when you're making it?" he asked with the air of a man who once out-raced piranhas while crossing a shallow river in Panama. "Yes," I snapped, a woman who is energized daily by the tears of 9-year-old children. He wandered over to the recipe book. "Which one do you use," he inquired. "What...are you going to shine a flashlight in my eyes and drip water on my forehead next?" I countered evasively, "I use a combination of three recipes." He scowled as I dumped half a bag of shredded carrots in the steaming pot and tossed a large handful of some sort of green seasoning in after. "What was that," Brad asked in concern. I shrugged. "I don't know...oregano?"

My ghost-white soup turned out a little thicker than usual. "A little thicker?"  Brad said in disbelief before hollering out to his daughter in the other room, "Sydney! Want a slice of soup?" Cereal's looking pretty good after all...isn't it, Brad Mosiman?

Picking out the Christmas tree...it wouldn't have been the same without her ("Next year, let's test that theory," said Savannah)

Not normally a big fan of getting the tree up so early, I wanted to make sure Savannah was home so I scheduled a trip to our local Christmas tree farm for around Thanksgiving. "My feelings won't be hurt if you get the tree without me," Savannah assured me but...nevertheless...there we were. Our tree-picking strategies vary from family-member-to-family-member. The girls tend to like a tree that is within VERY close proximity of our parked truck. Brad likes a tree that will actually fit in our living room while I favor a tree with personality. Sydney's plea to re-purpose a tree that had already had its top lopped off went unheard. "But look," she argued, "rather than a peak, we'd have a tree with a top shelf." Nope. On our second lap around the farm, Savannah began to get desperate. "You really could have done this without me," she kept muttering, "I wouldn't have minded."

After years of being stabbed, I have become passionately anti-blue spruce. For some reason, perhaps because of her tolerant and accepting nature, Sydney is tree-blind. For Sydney Lynn, all trees are equal in the eyes of God and man. After I had vetoed her third blue spruce, Brad snapped...initiating a now-and-forever-more rule to picking out the Mosiman Christmas tree. "Stick your face in the tree," he told her, "if you are in danger of losing an eye...then it's a blue spruce."

I was finally happy with a tree with kinked-up, curly branches. Brad sawed it down with remarkable speed and the girls headed off to pay for our selection. "I'm not all that emotionally-invested in this tradition," I heard Savannah remark to her sister as they disappeared into the Christmas tree forest, "I would have been fine if you'd gone without me."

And thus concludes another precious holiday memory, treasured by all...(most)...(some)...(me).

Ellicottville, Girls Getaway, part three (The Conclusion...thank goodness. The blog submissions are longer than the actual week-end!)

I'm not sure how I actually got signed up for a wine-tasting. I don't even like wine. All the clues were there...I was in a wine store. There were glasses. A bar. I'm not sure when I heard the shouted words, "Amy...do you want to...muffle muffle muffle" while I was in the bathroom, that I would translate the message to "sample an assortment of chocolates" or "go horseback riding in an indoor heated ring down the road" or even "watch a marathon of How I Met Your Mothers." How silly I felt when I realized I'd committed myself to an hour of imbibement. I guess we all have those moments.

FLASHBACK #1:  Geri, confused about the (kind of) new tradition of gender-revealing baby shower cakes, sought further clarification from our baker-friend Deb: "So you don't actually give them the cake until AFTER the baby is born?" We all stared at Geri.

FLASHBACK #2: After referring to the song in conversation, I tried to hum the French National anthem on the darkened streets of Ellicottville and instead broke into the Marine fight song. You just can't beat the red, white, and blue out of this girl.

FLASHBACK #3:  Discussing the possible visit to a nearby arboreum, my trivia-loving friend, Geri asked, "Are there flowers there too?" I paused, my white chocolate hot chocolate mug an inch from my lips, "Arbor: Latin for tree," before taking a warm sip. Kathy, sitting across from me, realized that she was a witness to history and leaned across to offer me a high five. "Did that feel good," she asked.

At the wine-tasting, I ended up next to connoisseur and hotel bed-maker, Deb. Thus far in the trip, I had proven to be a colossal disappointment to her, opting for elastic waistband dachshund jammies at 7:30 pm rather than going out. Although I was determined to do better, I felt compelled to warn her:  "I have the palate of a 3rd grader," I confessed. The wine sampling list is designed to fool you. I immediately signed up for selections that promised dancing tastebuds, hallucinations, and instant toe-curling orgasms. Talk about false advertising! I could over-hear my friend Bev at the opposite end raving about how her sample tasted just like blueberries so I hollered down the line to find out her selection pick but Deb wouldn't let me change my list, claiming that I had to learn how to act like an adult sometime. On top of that, she made me drink double...tasting from my list and hers! I tried to sneak down to Bev who was now happily raving about her grape-y tasting wine. "Stay here," Deb insisted, "I'll take you to Tops later if you want grape juice."  Then it was time to actually buy a bottle of wine. Deb picked it out. I thought she was going to kick us out of the suite later when Bev showed me her technique for drinking wine as she mixed it, 20/80 with diet Sprite.

After that fiasco, Deb ditched me while we were shopping. Fortunately, my friend Sandy stepped in. I was wrestling over an elegant turkey-shaped decanter and a clay, feather-bedecked turkey craft. "The decanter would make for an elegant centerpiece for your Thanksgiving table," Sandy mused, "reflecting your sophistication and grace as a hostess." I smiled. Sandy knew me so well. "The turkey...craft," she said, at a loss for what else to call it, "is whimsical and fun." She paused. "Which one do you think fits your personality better," she asked me. Well...that was a no-brainer. I bought my little clay turkey and didn't realize until I'd gotten home that I had bought the opposite of an elegant, sophisticated centerpiece. I had purchased a centerpiece fit for a feather-brained clown. So much for learning how to act like an adult.

Ellicottville, Girls Getaway, part two

We were ready to experience a little of the Ellicottville night-life. Well...SOME of us were. "We've seen the Why Guy," I whined, "could it even get any better than that?" So preparations were set in motion for us to trip the light fantastic.

Kathy, who had purchased a bionic hair straightener, was eager to wield this weapon on her friends. After transforming Dawn into a goddess, she coaxed me over. "Your hair is so beautiful," she crooned with the practiced lie of a seasoned hairdresser. My hair soon lay in a smooth ripple down my back. Kathy then moved to the front. I could tell that something was wrong as Kathy's lips snapped together like Phyllis Diller's purse. "Maybe if you sweep them a bit over to the side," our friend Bev suggested, surreptitiously reaching for her camera as the six million dollar bang-buster busted my bangs. After several attempts to manage my mane, Kathy went for the Hail Mary, whipping off her new headband and plunking it over my hair. "Maybe Amy wears bangs for a reason," Deb quietly observed as the room sat in stunned silence as they took in my style. Well...silent except for the sound of Bev taking pictures. Silent as in the silent e in mauve that would be used as a Scrabble word when I refused to be seen in public.

Ellicottville: Girls Getaway, part one

 Kathy to me as I took journal notes:  "Amy, let me give you the first line of your blog:"

...and I was amazed, every morning, how radiant and beautiful my friend Kathy could look. 

I was also amazed, how enthusiastic she could be about things so many of us take for granted. For example, as she gave us the grand tour of the suite we were sharing for our Girls' Getaway, we played a rousing game of "What's in the closet?" "An ironing board," I suggested. "The dry bar," wondered Geri. Kathy fairly pranced with excitement. "No," she cried, flinging the door wide, "Voila!" We looked. She looked. Then she disappeared into the closet while Geri and I slapped our foreheads. We hadn't thought to propose a passageway to Narnia. "Where are they," Kathy wailed, not realizing that the washer and dryer were in ANOTHER closet down the hallway. Impressive, nonetheless.

You learn a LOT about your friends when you vacation with them. I now understand my friend Dawn's aversion to horseback riding, I now know that the answer to the question of "Where is So-and-So?" will inevitably be "in the bathroom," and I now know that it is best to remain quiet should the topic of conversation suddenly veer to "weird areas of hair growth."

Eating out was an adventure. I freaked out over life-sized deer murals on the walls of my restroom and warned Kathy before she went in. Thinking that I'd meant taxidermied trophies, she entered trepidatiously and then was convinced that she was in the wrong room, making for an uncomfortable visit.  Geri put the moves on our waiter ("I'm sure you get this ALL the time," she said, "but you look just like a television star." We were just waiting for her to flip her hair.) while a customer put the moves on Kathy while she enjoyed her waffles. Believing ourselves to be of royal status, we demanded the adjustment of television volumes and returned drinks with the wave of a regal hand. And we were, as always, so mature. "Amy," Kathy hissed across the table, "don't look (I looked) but isn't that the Why Guy from Channel 2?"  The casually hushed tone that descended on our table wasn't transparent...AT ALL. "He's too tall." "His face doesn't look like that." "That guy's too thin." I looked and then nodded at Kathy. Sighting confirmed. But for some reason...contact MUST be made. Enter Dawn who marched right over. I complimented his body of work. "You were really believable dressed as a dinosaur to promote the museum on Thursday," I said. "Thanks," he replied in a humble manner. You know what they say...the bigger they are, the nicer they are.

My life (and dignity) were in peril at every moment. When Dawn wasn't busy cracking me full in the face with a door while I was nodding politely to an English gentleman sporting a fedora, Geri was leaving my bedroom door open as I was getting dressed ("Get over it, Amy," she snapped, "We're all girls here."). After I worked up the nerve to FINALLY book what would be my first massage EVER (and forcing Geri to join me for a Couples Massage so I wouldn't be alone), the receptionist with the highest, thickest eyebrows that I have ever seen, looked me up and down disdainfully, sniffed, and then said they were "booked." Meanwhile, in the backroom, they were sending an employee home because it was so slow. Earlier, I'd scuttled off to the fitness room to furtively "work-out." "Where's Amy," someone asked, "In the bathroom," came the reply. Unfortunately, Deb and Kathy managed to track me down and, yes, take pictures.

Our suite was wonderful. Geri and I, who share the same philosophy regarding beds and towels, would peer into our friend Deb's room each morning in dismay at her perfectly-made bed with crisp military corners and her fluffy towels, folded and hung with neat precision. When members of our group declined housekeeping services, Geri and I wailed. Obviously, our trip was ruined.

Conversations on the way to church, part one

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Our conversations while driving to church tend to be rather reverent. Dignified and mature. Brad and Savannah, who had managed to fit in a sacrilegious run before departing ("What do you mean...You're running...It's Sunday. God's day. A day of rest," I protested from beneath my blankets. Sleeping in. As God intended. Look it up if you don't believe me. It's in the Bible.) As Sydney and I rocked wearily in the van, we listened with little enthusiasm or interest to Savannah's assertion that her one coyote spotting of the morning trumped Brad's sighting of four deer.

My husband's mention of a possible breakfast after church shook me out of my lull and I assumed my rightful position as Family Mediator. "Deer are a dime a dozen," I said diplomatically, "Coyote wins." Savannah cheered but then I suddenly realized that my breakfast at Laurie's was in peril.

"We should have a point system," I said quickly to distract my sullen spouse. We established a 1 out of 7 ranking and went from there. "What would be at the top of this list?" Brad asked, still annoyed. "Well...bear and bobcat would certainly be the Everest of animal sightings," I suggested. "What would a one be," Sydney croaked from the back. "Woodchuck, without a doubt," I answered. Squirrels and chipmunks rated a two. Deer, which are pretty regular but still exciting (I rubbed Brad's arm empathetically) came in at three. The dawn/dusk critters came next (raccoons, skunks, fox) although Sydney had one condition to that list. "Not opossums," she stated firmly, "they freak me out." The van unanimously agreed to send the opossum down to woodchuck level. "Hey...what about a porcupine?" Savannah asked. Oh...wow. Hadn't considered a porcupine. Rarely seen. "But..." Brad questioned, "is it considered as high as a bear?" That was a decisive "no" from the van.

"What about a hawk?" Sydney inquired. We moaned. "There are so many variables," Brad explained. "Perched, I wouldn't rate it high at all but if it were in flight, with something in its mouth..." "Let's just keep birds out of this," Savannah snapped, beginning to tire from this conversation (and her morning run). We slipped into a contemplative silence.

Spiritually-energized, we left church later renewed with religious fervor. Humming one of the worship songs, we discussed the sermon points as we headed to breakfast. Conversation stopped as we passed a dead beaver along the road. "We need to re-visit our list," I remarked. "Oh no," Savannah sighed, as our van filled with our re-animated exchange.

Game 7

The transformation of Amy Mosiman into a baseball fan has been a slow one. Hindsight revealed that she'd been hibernating beneath the surface all along; emerging like the prophetic groundhog to spout baseball-related jargon before slipping quickly back into her den. I'd occasionally glance up at the TV from my reading and say, "He needs to get his elbow up" or "Two hands on the ball!" Advice I'd learned from the best baseball coach in the world:  My dad. Brad would roll his eyes and just continue watching the game with no comment...bidding his time.

Staggering beneath a fashion avalanche of Royals wear, I finally joined the ranks of the life-long fans in my family (Brad and Virgil), and finally embraced Kansas City in time to watch them win the World Series last year. Fair weather fan or intuitively bidding my time? You be the judge.

And here we are. The World Series once again. But no Royals. Yet...still I watched. I learned about the goat. I bonded with the 104-year-old whose final wish was to see her team win the Series. I admired LaBron James's sports cross-over enthusiasm. I laughed as Bill Murray reved up the crowd while rooting for his team. The Chicago Cubs's left-fielder, Ben Zobrist, is a former Royals player who won the World Series last year. So I cheered first for the Royals, via Zobrist, and then, like Alice down the rabbit hole, fell for the whole Cubs line-up.

Game Seven. You're already nodding. You know. But I was home...ALONE. And I was watching. I knew about Cleveland's pitchers. I knew Kluber was a beast. I watched the Cubs take an early lead. I gasped as the catcher took one to the face and flopped over. Brad and Sydney were calling by now and I was offering sports commentary on the Cubs aggressive batting style. "Each time they're up to bat, it's like they're going alone in euchre," I told my husband, "Each batter may have only three trump in their hand but they're pretty sure they'll at least land a point." "You paint such a picture," Brad sighed unhappily on the phone, pressing harder on the accelerator.

Savannah called, six hours behind me in Hawaii. Cleveland and Chicago were tied up as we entered the 9th inning. "Wait! Will this go into over-time," I cried. "It's called extra innings," Brad corrected me. Unnecessarily. They are the SAME thing! I then argued about how it should go from "bottom" to "top" of the inning because that's how you fill a cup but Brad had slipped snack-size Junior Mint boxes over his ears in an attempt to drown out my voice as I chanted, "Batter...batter....batter...batter...Sa-WING...batter." I'm also a big Ferris Bueller fan. Poor Savannah on a 30 second television delay had to listen to me update her in real time. And even if I could stifle the impulse, she could hear our whole family's real-time out-bursts of delight or despair.

The delay occasionally worked in our favor. "Wait!" I cried, "Was that Santa Claus?" Thirty seconds later, Savannah confirmed my stadium sighting. "Wow," Sydney marveled, "I can't believe all the famous people at this game!"

Rain delay. Oh no. I have to work tomorrow. "So do I," Brad pointed out, "except I do physical labor." I think the definition of "baseball widow" might be wrong. Are you technically a widow if you murder your spouse?

10th inning. Hello, Ben Zobrist. World Series MVP.

You know. You were there too. We all were.

I put the "vile" in villainous

"...and Amy, you'll be Ursula." Thus concluded last June's decisive meeting where I would make an impassioned plea to promote costume designs that highlighted our best features (or at least camouflaged our hideous ones). "Please let me wear a slimming costume in which I am clearly adorable," I would beg. But no...the ONE meeting for which I show up late...and my costume future...my fashion fate..is set in stone.

So I spent months in research to capture the true spirit of Ursula the Sea-Witch-with-a-W in hearty DIY fashion. Turns out that wrestling long, narrow sheets of plastic around errant purple balloons is as much fun as you can imagine and resembled tentacles in the same way that my requested haircut EXACTLY resembled that of Jennifer Aniston's. Okay. New plan. Order a ready-to-go model. "I didn't know that they sold a "slutty" Ursula costume," Brad said with sudden interest, leaning over my shoulder as I scrolled past one inappropriate version after another. By the time I finally found a design that actually covered more than 65% of my body though, he'd wandered away.

The box arrived in plenty of time. "I look like an obese octopus," I said dismally. "Aren't you suppose to look like an octopus," Sydney answered off-handedly, looking quite fetching in her Royals gear. "What are you suppose to be," I snapped, peevishly. "I'm Erica Hosmer," she smiled, spinning in her white skirt. "Shouldn't your skirt cover more than 65% of your body," I commented, my vengeful spirit capturing Brad's attention as he requested a late inning skirt substitution. Unable to dispute the ruling of the head umpire, Sydney stomped off.

"I need an Ursula wig," I whined sadly, mourning the eventual loss of my bangs which will leave more than 65% of my face exposed to critical public inspection. Don't believe me? Check out this recent conversation with a darling 4th grader.

Darling 4th grader (head tilted, staring lovingly into my eyes):  Mrs. Mosiman...you should be a witch next year. You have the perfect nose for it.

Brad combed store Halloween sections for appropriate wigs (See what I did there? Combed/wigs...do you really think such brilliant writing happens on its own, People!), sending me photos for approval. All the white ones sported attractive bangs. I waffled. Why couldn't Ursula have attractive bangs? Brad could only find one wig that stood straight up in an Ursula-style Pompadour. "Buy it," I texted morosely.

"I look like an obese octopus with bright purple Troll hair," I said glumly. Brad was more concerned with my stylish elastic waist band. "What if a kid steps on a tentacle," he asked, "What do you have on UNDER your costume?" Great. Like I didn't have enough worries.

My glam squad arrived to transform me into a villainous character that in no-way-shape-or-form would resemble Amy Mosiman. With her extensive background in costuming and make-up design, I was in the sure-and-steady hands of my friend Amy. Except she didn't count on my utter lack of make-up know-how to get in her way as I flinched like I was under-going the "poof" test for glaucoma. Amy finally employed a head-lock to apply my eye make-up. "Didn't I tell you to get black," she asked gently as she was forced to apply red liner to my brows and eyes.

"I look like an obese albino octopus with bright purple Troll hair and a tremulous grasp on her elastic waistband," I cried, "and you can tell that it's ME!" Amy grabbed tissues. "Don't cry," she said, alarmed, "your eyes are already red enough."

It was go-time. I was (65%) committed to this situation and, by golly, now was the time to sell it. Troll wig held high, rounded shoulders slightly squared, a cloud of tentacles swirling about my feet, I sailed off to join my fellow Disney villains. It wasn't enough that we had to parade around a packed gymnasium. No...we would also have to perform an attention-getting dance too. I will never be late to another meeting again.

Dressed to kill...(Brenda, my yoga guru)

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I haven't been to yoga for well over a month. And, no..."well over a month" is NOT code for "practically a year." I blame Brad's recent shopping spree where he graciously encouraged (tricked) me to buy actual yoga clothes. Shopping that entails anything other than buying groceries typically sends me into a Death Spiral but since this is an actual yoga pose, we figured What the hey! 

Pants are tricky as I am long-of-the-leg, wide-of-the-waist and big-of-the-butt. And why on earth would I spend over thirty dollars to accentuate 2/3 of those characteristics? I was unceremoniously shoved into a dressing room (that opened up right onto the sales floor...what marketing idiot dreamed up that brilliant game plan? There was no WAY I was going to model my yoga couture for an athletic store full of fit athletic people.). However, I didn't calculate the three inch gap at the bottom of my dressing room door.

Seeing a suspicious shadow, Sydney hissed, "Mom...what are you doing in there?" Brad had put her on guard duty, certain that I was a flight risk. I emerged, breathless and beet-red, moments later. "I was doing Downward-Facing Dog," I whisper-shouted at her, indignantly, "only to discover that I had Upward-Facing Ass-Crack!" We left the store, rapidly, empty-handed.

https://memegenerator.net/instance/53404753

"Can't we at least up-grade your yoga mat," Brad asked supportively at Stuff-Mart. My current model currently doubles as a slip-n-slide. We looked at the thousands of choices available to us. I gasped at the prices. "But look at the traction on this one," Brad marveled. "Plus it comes with a handy carrying strap," Sydney noticed. Around the corner from the yoga mats, there were racks of yoga clothes (That's called GOOD marketing, folks). I spotted a nifty t-shirt with a Chuck Norris joke on it and squealed. My yoga instructor is blissfully unaware of time and classes often go over. Most people would view this as getting more bang for your buck. Not Amy Mosiman. I grabbed the shirt with some XXXX-large yoga pants and headed to check-out.

And now that I had yoga clothes and a super-tread, no-slip-and-slide yoga mat, naturally, I stopped going to yoga.

Until yesterday.

I wrestled my way into my XXXX-large Superman blue yoga pants with my sarcastically red Chuck Norris t-shirt. "Are you ready to go," Geri asked, walking into my room. Duh. "Wait," I said, looking at her, "aren't you going to change into work-out clothes?" She looked down at the outfit she'd worn to school and then at me like I was an idiot. "My pants are stretchy," she explained, snapping the waistline at me for emphasis, "and my polyester-blend shirt is nice and flow-y." She also demonstrated the flow-y-ness of her shirt. So off we went to yoga: Me in super-constrictive work-out clothes and Geri in nice and flow-y work clothes.

"Cute shirt," Brenda said, complimenting my failed attempt at sarcasm. We immediately began twisting our bodies into unnatural positions. In Table Position, Brenda instructed us to thread our left arm through our right arm with the right shoulder resting on the floor. "Now, if you're able," Brenda encouraged, "stretch your left leg out." By this time, I was humming the "Hokey-Pokey" in my head and Geri was grumbling about "right hand-red" like we were playing Yoga Twister. Somewhere along the line, Brenda was telling us happily that our fluids should be flowing. Geri and I glanced at each other in concern. "The only thing flowing in this yoga studio should be your shirt," I whispered at Geri. I was begging Brenda at this time to show us Corpse Pose. She compromised by putting us in Cobra. Then...because she obviously hates us...we went from Cobra to a Plank and then were suppose to somehow, effortlessly, bend our arms at the elbow and "drift" to the floor. Brenda drifted. We collapsed and accidentally discovered how to do Corpse Pose on our own.

Our ending Resting Pose had us with our bottoms butted up against the wall. I know, I know...I giggled when I wrote that too. "You have three choices," Brenda offered, demonstrating each one. The first two weren't too bad but Choice Number 3 would have had Geri and I running outta there (if we had been able to walk at that point). With her beautiful legs stretched straight up in the air, Brenda then spread them so that she was basically doing an upside-down split against the wall. "You'd be surprised at how comfortable it is," she told us as we winced in pain, just looking at her. "I don't think I'd be surprised at all," Geri reassured her as we didn't choose Choice Number 3.

"How did it go," Brad asked when I got home. "We need to go shopping again," I told him. "I need yoga pants that go up to my armpits and a polyester-blend flow-y yoga shirt with sarcastic comments that are blatantly obvious." Now that I think of it...maybe I should go into marketing.

Fiddling away: Brad on a slippery metal roof singing "If I were a rich man..."

 Without warning, my husband stood before me, blocking my view of the television. "I have a question for you," he stated as I leaned pointedly to the left. I glanced at him. Maybe he wanted to offer me my choice of three different restaurant options for supper tonight. Or maybe he was wondering how I managed to still maintain my youthful glow and startlingly good looks after twenty-seven years of marriage. Maybe he wanted to clarify the size of my ring finger...

"Would you want to have a contractor install metal roofing for $4000 or install it ourselves for $2000?" he asked. Kudos, Brad Mosiman, I thought to myself, leaning back in my chair to look appraisingly at him with equal parts admiration and disgust. He had me in checkmate and I hadn't even realized that the game had started. It was a no-win question. Option A would leave me looking lazy and wasteful. But you ARE lazy and wasteful, my small lazy and wasteful inner voice whined. And whiny, it added.

Naturally, hindsight would prove that that $4000 would have been TOTALLY worth it but that was well after Sydney and I squealed with delight and then fought for the privilege of using scissors that cut STEEL. As I'm sure you (and Bryan Adams) could have predicted, the notoriety wore off quickly. They didn't cut like a knife. They didn't feel so right. "Where are you going," Brad shouted at me. "I have to eat a banana," I yelled back, "I have a hand cramp."

On days when it was just me and the man of my dreams, I often considered kicking the ladder out from underneath him. As he waited, from the considerable safety of the roof, I would heave a panel of steel roofing that was longer than my mini-van into the air and stagger towards him. Swaying beneath the weight of this ludicrous land-sail, I'd aim at Brad who would shout encouraging words to me that cannot be published in my PG-rated blog. My neighbor, Jimmy, busy with the harvest, sat idling in his tractor in front of my house, howling with laughter as an inopportune wind came up, blowing me completely off-course. Loving my neighbor as myself wasn't my goal as I "waved" to Jimmy.

When steel-cutting scissors weren't enough, Brad would employ an electric saw and then spend twenty minutes to unearth Sydney and I from our hiding spots. "All you have to do is hold the sheet," he'd grumble but the shrapnel sparks that flew off his blade singed our skin, making us ashamed of all the times we'd complained about cooking bacon. "Look," I snarled later, as I extracted a microscopic shard of metal from my eye, "you could have blinded me. And at what cost...? Yes...that's right! $2000?!?"  Brad showed me a two inch metal sliver laying a parallel path alongside the vein in his forearm while quietly commenting that saving the two grand hadn't been HIS idea. Drat-it-all! Thwarted again! Time to up my game.

"We're going to lay some heat-flashing," Brad explained patiently while I pretended to listen. Tired after having retrieved his requested drill from the garage..."Is it this one?" I'd ask after lugging choice Number One around the perimeter of the property. "No," Brad said, drumming his fingers on the steel roof from the top of his ladder as he repeated the name of the drill. Ten minutes later, I held up Drill Number Two for his inspection. "No," Brad replied in a somewhat snippy tone. Rather than return for a third try, I sank to the ground. "What are you doing," Brad asked. "Union break," I answered. The tide was finally turning.

The tsunami struck shortly after. Wedged where the garage roof meets the lawn, I was unceremoniously squatting while holding the gutter in place for Brad to afix. "Don't move," Brad instructed while I swayed uncertainly. With the femur muscles of an Olympic power lifter, Brad can squat with conviction...for hours. IF I can actually get down into a squat, I can remain there for approximately thirty seconds. "Is it straight," Brad asked, using one of his thousands of drills to screw the gutter in. "Yes," I gasped, before wobbling over like one of those punch-in-the-face inflatable clowns. Brad's precious gutter came crashing down after me. No worries, actually. It hadn't been straight anyway. Brad shared his feelings with me in a prolific way. I shared the irony that we were standing at opposite ends of a gutter.

Thank goodness we saved that $2000. That was about what we would pay out for marital counseling.

My Fall Facebook Fun-Filled Week-End

 I've decided to call it my "Fall Facebook Fun-Filled Week-End."

"What's for dinner," Brad wondered on Saturday as I dragged dusty pans out of the bottom cupboards. "I found this recipe on Facebook..." I started to say but he'd already shot out of the room, the unfortunate victim of some previous Facebook recipe failures. But soon, the smell of my Balsamic Roasted Chicken with Rosemary Potatoes had my family emerging from their hiding places to demand when dinner would be done. We had a winner!

"What do you think about heading over to Letchworth to watch the sunrise tomorrow," I asked Brad and Sydney. They've been emotionally steadying themselves for this request for over a month...ever since I showed them someone's Facebook post of the gorge bathed in dawn's early light. "It's like a river of sunshine rippling through the valley," I told them excitedly. "We had to wait twenty minutes to even get past the ticket gate today," Brad reminded me, "What if there is someone in your spot tomorrow?" I scoffed. "Who's going to be stupid enough to sit in the dark at 6:45 on a Sunday morning," I laughed.

 So the alarm went off and I sprang out of bed to make cinnamon rolls (from a convenient tube). I packed up cider, glasses, and a cozy blanket before shepherded my yawning family out the door. The dogs were thrilled to go. "Is this what you guys do every morning after you leave us," they thought (with just a hint of betrayal) when we arrived at the park...just as another car pulled up...ruining my serenity. Okay...maybe my hushed string of profanity also contributed to this interrupted peace. We nodded to the strangers as we unfurled our blanket and they set up expensive-looking camera equipment. Another vehicle approached. "Are you kidding me," I hissed. We were going to sing as dawn approached. I'd been brainstorming theme-appropriate choices. "Here Comes the Sun," "Walking on Sunshine," "Sunshine On My Shoulder," or "I'm Going to Soak Up the Sun." I finally settled on the ever-popular "You Are My Sunshine" because we knew all the words. A lyric sheet might ruin the mood. Along with the tour bus full of park visitors. I was devastated. "I was never actually going to sing," Brad remarked, trying to console me.

So...surrounded by paparazzi, the sun rose. Turns out that the squirrels and chipmunks were as annoyed as me by this invasion of sun-spotters and spent their time chucking acorns at our heads. "Are we done yet," Brad asked, dodging a tree torpedo. "Do you think we missed it," I mused. "The valley is supposed to be bathed in a heavenly glow." "That's just the filter that the photographer put on his camera, Mom," Sydney said, tugging me back to the van. "That was fun," she said, "Let's go home."

But, no...not yet. I had also seen (on Facebook) that, with the severe reduction of water flowing over the Middle Falls, an Indian head rock formation could be viewed. Well...we HAD to see that! However, Facebook had failed to tell us that, in order to view this mystical wonder, you had to be standing at EXACTLY the right spot. Don't worry...we painted a giant "X" to mark the spot for you. And because we are such reverential people, we naturally had to take immature pictures of ourselves kissing the Indian and tickling him under the chin. "Oops...Sydney was picking his nose in that one," Brad noticed before quickly deleting it. We wouldn't want to be disrespectful.

My Fall Facebook Fun-Filled Week-End was a glorious success. How did I ever manage to have fun before the days of social media?

Hat's off...oops, I meant "hair"...to Alea and Alexis!

 I adore my nieces and nephews. They are kind, intelligent, and compassionate people. Even to spend a small slice of time with them is a blessing. To share a slice of pizza during that slice of time is even better!

My nieces, Alexis and Alea, recently donated their hair as a part of an Anna's Wish event, shaving off their beautiful blond hair as an outward demonstration of their love and support and revealing their true inner beauty in the process. Meanwhile, back at home, I was lamenting the appearance of an unfortunate red spot on my nose the morning of School Picture Day which sent me into hysterics.

I was worried about my reaction upon meeting the girls following this rather drastic change in their appearance. What if their heads were lumpy? Brad and I attended Alea's swim meet and the first thing we noticed was that the lack of hair made her much more aerodynamic (or is it hydrodynamic?) which would undoubtedly increase her time. "Like a knife through butter," I whispered to my husband as Alea slid seamlessly though the water's surface for each of her five dives. The lack of hair also impacted her body temperature. Poor Alea stood shivering, wrapped in her animal print towel whenever she wasn't participating in an event. "She needs a knit cap," I observed. "That would go great with her swimsuit," Brad agreed.

Another accessory that goes great with swim meets are ear plugs. Goodness gracious, it's loud (and echo-y) in there! "Alea?" I asked on the way home, "Does it help you when everyone is yelling Go! and Swim! at you?" She thought for a moment, "We-ll," she answered, trying to be diplomatic, "it doesn't help me personally but I'm sure others might
find it helpful." "What about when people make that penguin flipper motion with their hands...do you even SEE that?" She laughed. "No." Now I was excited. "Maybe we could suggest that swim meets could model spectator behavior after golf," I suggested to my niece, "With whispering accompanied by light, polite clapping." She promised she'd get right on that for me.

We met her siblings for pizza. "Did you order breadsticks," my nephew asked by way of greeting. "It's good to see you too," I grinned, hugging him. Having enjoyed high and tight haircuts during his stint in the Army, Brad could no longer resist. "Can I rub your head," he asked Alexis. I glared at him, having concentrated on making stellar eye contact with the girls the entire time so they wouldn't have to say, "Eyes down here, Aunt Amy." Alexis grinned. "Sure, it feels nice." She bent her head while her uncle rubbed her skull as though a genie were going to pop out of it. "Try it," Brad encouraged. Both girls welcomed my hesitant touch as I reached out to encounter the soft, fuzzy hair that now crowned their heads. It did feel nice. Soon, I was trying to get that genie to appear as enthusiastically as Brad. I wasn't disappointed when he didn't show up though, because I couldn't possibly wish for better nieces and nephews than the ones I've been blessed with.

Kristin's wedding (I made it!)

We were thrilled to be invited to Chris and Kristin's wedding. "I just bet you were," snorted Sydney, "after you screwed up Holly's." "I didn't screw up Holly's wedding," I said defensively, "We just missed it by a week." And the whole world will NOT let us forget it.

Saturday. Two hours before "go" time. The phone rings. "Hi...Amy? Just reminding you that the wedding is today," said my friend Sue helpfully before arranging for us to share a table. "Thank you, Sue."

Saturday. Twenty minutes before "go" time. Pass Sue who was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt in the Dollar General parking lot. Confused, I tapped my watch at her and began planning an elaborate "stick in your own eye" speech for when I would encounter her later at the wedding.

Saturday. Ten minutes before "go" time. Haven't even ENTERED the building yet and it begins. "Is the wedding THIS week," asked Kristin's sister, Paula, hugging me.

Saturday. Five minutes before "go" time. "You made it (this time)," the mother-of-the-bride squealed before inviting us to sit at any one of the available tables EXCEPT the ones labeled "reserved." I immediately sat at a reserved table, splitting up a loving family in the process. "They can sit over there, right?" I asked, unceremoniously booting the Cochran kids out of their chairs. "Mom, who is that lady," they asked, scared. "I'll tell you later," she whispered, "Just go." But then Sue arrived, miraculously dressed for the occasion, with her party of three so the Cochran kids had to re-locate again. A friendly but unfamiliar couple occupied the table. I made hasty introductions and then asked if they were on the bride's side or the groom's side. Barely listening to their response, I then introduced them to everyone as "The Pennsylvania Deckers." Everyone. Until I discovered, hours later, that their last name wasn't "Decker" at all. But by then...the damage was done. The "Pennsylvania Deckers" were the life of the party...whether they wanted to be or not.

Kristin was gorgeous. Our table sounded like judges on "Project Runway" as everyone remarked upon their favorite part of her dress as she gracefully made her way across the room to her grinning groom. The corset-like ties up the back. The delicate flowers embroidered at her waist. The waterfall rippled effect of her skirt. Our constant watching of "Talladega Nights:  The Ballad of Ricky Bobby" impacted Pastor Brandon's meaningful prayer when Brad and Sydney fist-bumped the amen. I was shushed during the "Blending of Sands" portion of the ceremony when I pointed out the Kristin was raised in Western New York; not the West Indies. "The blending of soils wouldn't have been as symbolically meaningful," Brad explained.

The food was fabulous but bibs are only meant for mature patrons. Many of the guests were shy but not those seated with the Pennsylvania Deckers. We proudly sported our plastic bibs with the handy catch-all pocket. Sydney thought she was the shining star with her side-tied bow but Sue and I won this particular fashion show as, in the process of taking our protective plastic off, we flung them back over our heads. "Do I look like Audrey Hepburn taking a convertible ride," I asked my husband who was inexplicably crawling under the table. Sue, sporting my same look, hooted. "You like like the Flying Nun!" I tried to seek Sydney's opinion, but she was also under the table. Maybe helping her father look for something. "Yeah...that's it," Brad said later. "Maybe we were in search of a little dignity." This...coming from the same man who led our table in the singing of "Sweet Caroline" while the remainder of the room sat mute (in obvious admiration).

We had a wonderful time. The Pennsylvania Deckers would have made outstanding lifelong friends if we'd actually learned their real names. Watching Kristin make this sacred commitment to an honorable young man was so special. Having been blessed to have had Kristin in our youth group, years ago, Brad and I were humbled to be able to witness this next, incredible phase of her life. Kristin and Holly have three more unmarried siblings. Now that we've proved that we can actually arrive at a wedding on its scheduled date, maybe we have a shot at being invited to the next one!

Report card or tarot card?

 Ahhh...kindergarten. A sweet, simple time. Where the only thing that came out of the closet was the weekly introduction of inflatable alphabet people. I am still scarred by the popping of Mrs. M. Where you discover, twenty years later, that your very tall teacher was in fact, 5'2". And prophetic to boot. Who knew that, a quarter of a century later, I would be locked out of my student-teaching classroom by an irate "master" teacher who loathed working with me? Who could delve into the future and foresee that I would systematically be kicked off of every ministry team in my church? My kindergarten teacher...that's who.

While my report card clearly shows that I was rocking out the Ss (satisfactories) and Es (excellents) regularly, there was one glaring exception. An N. An N for "Needs help." It burns me to this day. I remember it all so vividly (or made it up as a handy alibi). There I was, sitting on the round alphabet carpet, playing with my toy truck with the attached trailer. Not the cheap plastic garbage like you'd get today but heavy, die-cast metal. A fellow classmate and toy truck admirer, Jason, came over and SNATCHED my toy away. "Oh hell, no!" I roared, grabbing it back and then propelled my arm up over my head and soundly walloped him with the vehicle. This was before the days of the concussion test so our teacher just had him rest on his nap mat...with MY toy truck with attached trailer! I believe I was stuffed in the closet with the deflated Mrs. M and then unceremoniously (and unjustly) labeled with an N in the area of Getting along with others.. An N that would haunt me for the rest of my life. Kindergarten curse or self-fulfilling prophesy? You be the judge.