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?