Emotional blackmail bread

Secretly delivering a gift of ripe peaches to my spiritual guru's home, I encountered a backyard of backhoes. I continued down the sidewalk until a man snapped, "Don't jump over that trench." I looked at him, startled. First of all, with my keen gymnastic abilities, I could have easily cleared his silly little trench. Second of all, who talks to people like that? Seeing that I was on my pastor's property AND that it was Sunday, I took a cleansing breath and swallowed every swear word that leapt to my lips. "Where would you like me to put these peaches," I asked with sweet insincerity before the frustrated contractor launched into a tirade about the perils of underground wires. Nodding compassionately, my poker face did not disclose that my van was filled with helpful electric-detecting devices along with the man who knows how to use them. But while Brad may have been reluctant to help a contractor who limited his wife's leaping, he was more than willing to help out our friend from being tasered by his own lawn. So he returned later...WITHOUT me (to ensure a curse-free construction site).

While we may not necessarily look thrilled about it, the Mosimans ARE helpers. If you need a haiku, celebratory banner, or an appropriate clipart embellishment, see me. Brad covers pretty much everything else. But we ABHOR the "thank you" part of the process. Please don't thank us in person. Feel free to write us long detailed letters chronicling how we have forever altered and impacted your life for the better with our charitable act of goodwill but mail it. And NO thank you gifts. That just starts the awkward and endless cycle of "thank you for the thank you gift." Ugh.

And our spiritual guru guy KNOWS this! We are the poster people for "Flight or Fight" and he has approached us with the cautious care necessary for addressing an undetonated bomb. So when he sent me an email saying that he'd like to bake us a loaf of bread to thank us, I naturally flipped. HOW DARE HE?!? "Stay away from us, you freak," I responded before informing my husband that we were going to start home-churching immediately.

But a week passed with no manna miraculously delivered so I began to breathe easier. Home-churching was becoming quite divisive. We couldn't pin down a worship leader and no one could agree on a time. I'd found several relevant clipart illustrations to embellish our bulletin but Brad argued that the cost of printing had to be factored into the tithe. We suffered a three-faction church split before our first service. "If Calvin had baked us bread, at least we could have had communion," Brad grumbled. "Sydney already drank the cran/grape blend so it wouldn't have mattered," I told him, handing him a can of orange soda.

And then everything changed. There was a knock on the door in the middle of the afternoon. No, I was not sleeping. No, I was not watching my seventh episode of "How I Met Your Mother." No, I was not reading smut on my Kindle. I was baking chocolate chip cookies. Seriously. Actually pulling a pan out of the oven when the knock occurred. There, framed in my doorway was my spiritual adviser, cradling a loaf of bread lovingly in his arms. "You'll want to eat it soon," he said, handing it to me as he glanced toward his parked van where the kids were waiting, "because of the humidity." I nodded wisely. Of course. The humidity.

"Amy, why is there a loaf of bread on the dehumidifier," Brad yelled later that day. I shared Calvin's dire warning while Brad rescued the loaf only to immediately put it under the knife. "He didn't have to do this," Brad mumbled through a mouthful of bread, reaching to cut another slice. "Don't worry," I assured my husband, "I tried to  balance it out by giving Calvin a handful of cookies." "I think the bread tipped the scales," Sydney said, already on her second piece. See? It never ends! But at least now, we can go back to church.

Stacy's wedding: Warning- I use the V-word (and I don't mean "vow")

What's a wedding without a confetti cannon? Let alone MULTIPLE confetti cannons! The orchestration of the wedding ceremony was fraught with symbolism. From the vows accompanied by a melodic lawn mower to the distant roar of gunfire that synchronized the kiss. Guests seated in the back row were entertained by the guy in the shiny suit who was terrorized by a bee as the marriage officiant summed up his message, stating that we all know that Adam was jealous of Eve. I've heard of cannon envy but this was a revelation. "Jealous of what," I discreetly whispered, "...her vagina?" My husband glared at me which further solidified this novel theory that he was jealous of me.

Our friend Stacy, the bride, was radiant wearing her mother's refurbished gown. Ripping off the poof-y sleeves that embodied the 80s, the dress was re-styled with exposed shoulders and arms that reflected the bride's sparkling personality while honoring her mom. I, on the other hand, was wearing an outfit reminiscent of Minnie Mouse and Marilyn Monroe. I was shaped like Minnie and my dress kept trying to fly above my head like Marilyn's. Classic.

We sat with our friends Vicki and Colin because they were located in close proximity of the nacho cheese station which sported a rapid release valve (Oops...now we're back to why men are jealous of us again). No amount of warning could prevent the flow of cheesy lava from filling our plates. Frantic calls of "bring more chips" filled the room.

Conversation topics were lively and engaging. "So..." I said, leaning in with interest, "what IS the difference between a round hay-bale and a square one?" "Where are you from?" asked a distinguished older gentleman on oxygen to my daughter while I promised Colin that, one day...far into the future, I could officiate at his wedding with a jaunty combination of haiku poetry, sign language gleaned from my established knowledge of The Pledge of Allegiance and The Star Spangled Banner as well as interpretive dance. He seemed receptive.

While Sydney was being chatted up by a man sporting an attractive bear claw necklace, I shared my rule with Colin about how Sydney is not allowed to date anyone wearing a gold chain necklace thicker than 1/16th of an inch (Here goes that jealousy thing again...the officiant was really onto something!). Exception:  The Eric Hosmer Rule. The Kansas City Royals first baseman can wear whatever he wants. Colin agreed that all good parents should immediately implement this rule.

We congratulated the bride on her marriage and her amazing wedding favors when she stopped by our table. The hypnotic quality of the wedding favor increased exponentially with each cup of rum punch we consumed. "The sticker is on the INSIDE," I whispered in awe, scratching the surface of the glass bottle repeatedly with my nail, "HOW did she do this?" Stacy revealed the laborious magic trick that required Q-tips and Hodge-Podge ("Hodge-Podge" is like glue, Savannah," I whisper-shouted discreetly to my daughter across the table. "I'm not stupid, Mom," she reassured me, "Here, have ANOTHER cup of rum punch.") accompanied by a great deal of patience and dexterity. We were further awed learning that the bride had printed on the minuscule labels herself and cut each teeny-tiny tag out with fancy scissors. "That is AMAZING," I told her. "How many rum punches have you had?" Brad murmured in my ear as he moved my glass away. "We should do a shot," Stacy suggested, dashing off with her bridesmaid, Lindsey. "Oh no," Brad groaned, glancing at his watch, "Do you think maybe it's time to leave?" 

"Don't worry, Mrs. Mosiman, it's Patrón," Lindsey reassured me as we saluted the bride. I'm not sure why that should have reassured me. 

Tammy Wynette's beautiful rendition of "Stand By Your Man," filled the room. It seemed an unlikely selection as Stacy was more of a "Kick Your Man in the Can" rather than a "Stand By Your Man" type of gal but I sighed happily as I listened. "Don't you just love Tammy Wynette," I said. "I do," Brad answered, "but that ISN'T Tammy Wynette. It's Kelly." Yup. The bride's sister was killing it!

I watched as an impromptu dance circle began. Sydney and our friend Reggie took turns showing off their best moves. Stacy tugged me out so I could teach everyone how to shuffle side-to-side awkwardly while alternately touching your right and then left elbow. It took awhile but almost everyone caught on.

It was starting to get rather warm. I eyed up the roomy ice-water hydration bins. I dipped a tentative toe in when Brad made the executive decision that it was time to go. "I was thinking sprinkling more than immersion," I reassured him as he led me out the door. "Whether it was a dip or a dunk...it's still schematics," he explained, opening the truck door for me, "you still breached the walls of good etiquette." I giggled immaturely the rest of the ride home. That wedding message really resonates. 

Catching you up on the Connecticut captivity

I've long since made it home but there are memories that remain...plaguing my mind like nursery rhyme lyrics that won't go away.

"London Bridge is falling down,
falling down,
falling down,
London Bridge is falling down..."

"What do you mean that you haven't gone out today," Savannah said, glaring at me as she returned from work, "You can't spend all your time cooped up in my little apartment."

Uh...yes, I can. Didn't you read my recent blog dissecting the intricate plots of that hit television action/drama Baywatch? I have been spending my unintentional time in Connecticut VERY productively, thank you very much.

Unwilling to listen to how I was currently using the show to build a 4th grade ELA lesson teaching exposition, rising action, and dénouement, Savannah hurried me out the door for a walk. "I'm not a basset hound," I growled, tugging away from her firm grip of my elbow. "Where would you like to go," she asked, "and don't say Back upstairs." I frowned at her. "Let's find the pedestrian access to the bridge," I said, heading AWAY from our usual (hilly) route to the park. Savannah was startled. "You know that the bridge is over a mile long," she shared. I nodded. And it's flat, I thought. 

We discovered the pedestrian path where it dipped into the forest undergrowth and passed beneath the bridge trusses. "This feels safe," I commented, kicking cute little liqueur bottles out of my way, "Is that a crack pipe?" 

"That was a straw," Savannah sighed resignedly. 

But I did catch her glancing surreptitiously over her shoulder as we walked. I peered into the dense forest foliage. "I feel like we should have a plan," I told my daughter. "If there is just one prowler, I think we can take him..." 

"Did you just use the word prowler," Savannah clarified, "This isn't mid-1800s Victorian England." 

"I was trying to use unalarming lingo," I responded flatly, "But I'll have you know, Jack the Ripper was in his prime during the mid-1800s Victorian England era. Anyhoo...if there is more than one assailant...there, happy?...you make a run for it." 

"I think that I would have a better chance of fighting off bandits than you," Savannah argued. 

"I know that! I'm sacrificing myself, fool," I snapped, waving at my outfit, "I'm not getting anywhere with my stretched-out sandals and skorts that keep riding up." I tugged the fabric over my flaming thighs.

During our argument over who should be the first one to die, we finally emerged onto the longest bridge in Connecticut. "Nice," I remarked, shouting at Savannah over the eleven lanes of speeding traffic roaring by. 

"It IS nice," she shouted back. 

I rolled my eyes as loudly as I could. "You rode your bike over the Peace Bridge, Savannah...MUCH more significant. Plus the only danger was deportment or getting hit by a truck." I paused to pick up a sea shell while I discreetly re-adjusted my skorts. 

"Look!" I exclaimed, waving to a passing motorist who had honked at me. "Do you think a sea gull dropped it?" I peered out over the water as the sun began its slow descent. 

"I'm surprised you picked it up," Savannah said as we hurried back to Rapist Row before dark. 

"Why," I asked, wondering if dirt could mimic the soothing properties of baby powder. 

"With your extensive background in recognizing drug paraphernalia," she explained, "I thought you'd identify the shell as a pipe bowl."

A pickle platitude: No ketchup packets for you!

I'm not a complainer, by nature (Pause for several minutes of unrestrained...and rude...laughter from my four loyal readers) but occasionally I will encounter a situation where I will feel COMPELLED to share as a service announcement of sorts to the public at large. It is my duty as both a patriot of these great Unites States as well as my position as a global citizen. 

SUBJECT:  Thru-way restaurant, quality & service (or lack thereof)

My expectations are not unreasonable when I pull off at a thru-way rest stop so I feel that I am more than emotionally prepared for what I am about to encounter.  A John Stossel report once (graphically) demonstrated that the first bathroom stall you encounter upon entering is statistically the most hygienic. Check. I vigorously wash my hands to the tune of "Row, Row, Row Your Boat" as my friend Hazel taught me because it (a) impresses and inspires fellow bathroom go-ers and (b) I still have nightmares about the John Stossel report. Check. 

From there, I proceeded to the alarmingly SLOW "fast" food order line. We're not going to talk about prices. Of course they hike them up because you are being held hostage by your state and your taste-buds. Capitalism and consumerism in their ugliest forms, mired in a meat patty and saturated with salt. And you just HAVE to have it. Savannah and I made it to the register emblazoned with pictures of food for a society that no longer depends on literacy. No "Welcome to McMeatPatty." No "How can I take your over-priced order?" Not even a "Hello." But as a slave to the ironically-named "service" industry, I overlooked this lack of human interaction and eagerly ordered my McMeatPatty and was assigned my number. Stripped of my identity, I (now known as Number 53) shuffled over to the side with the rest of my human herd, waiting, wide-eyed and unblinking, for our number to be called. Very dystopian. An elderly woman ahead of us (“Mom, how do you describe yourself, age-wise,” Savannah unwisely asked, especially since I would soon be in charge of golden crisp French fry distribution), clutched her ticket number 52 hopefully. She did not light up with delight when her number was called and I realized that her grasp of the language wasn’t quite as firm as her grasp on her ticket. She approached the counter fearfully, holding up her ticket like a shield or a sacrificial offering even though I’m pretty sure that the McMeatPatty didn’t meet the high standards of the fatted calf. The “restaurant” staff barely acknowledged her, shoving the bag in her direction without checking her oh-so- important assigned number. No smile. No thank you. Just a really riled up Number 53. 53’s daughter was concerned about a scene.

“53?” I aggressively approached the counter. Savannah disappeared. “We just have to make your sundae,” the woman explained. I watched in horror when, instead of pumping their patented hot fudge sauce onto my imitation ice cream, she upended a bottle of chocolate topping. I was speechless. She brought it over and we stared at each other. “Anything else,” she asked roughly. “Ketchup packets for the fries,” I answered, the “please” that I’d been raised with, long gone. “We don’t have any ketchup,” she informed me dismissively. Shell-shocked, I stumbled away. Everything that I had come to count on had been ripped away from me. But there was more to come. I unwrapped my McMeatPatty with resignation. Normally I would have ordered extra pickles but I know not to expect such extravagance from a rest-stop restaurant. I still peeked though and then gasped. “ONE pickle?!?!” This was too much!!! Actually, it was not enough…but you know what I mean.

From where I sat, cozied up next to the over-flowing trash can, I gazed across the little courtyard to the multi-generational family who unpacked their simple yet exotic meal. They pulled out a bag of mandarin oranges and my mouth watered. I savored my one translucent pickle and bemoaned that I should allow myself to have fallen victim to a culture that doesn’t value me as a customer. My expectations need to be adjusted. A thru-way rest-stop is not a magical oasis of culinary refreshment. Shame on my delusional food fantasies. The thru-way rest-stop does not serve as a welcome way-station for weary travelers. We are not treated like guests…just garbage. Which is where I threw the rest of my McMeatPatty. Next time, I’ll pack oranges and just use the thru-way rest-stop in the manner it was intended:  As a toilet.

Day Four: Captive in Connecticut

"We're going to Block Island," Savannah announced in a no-nonsense voice the other night. "Sounds spooky," I replied, barely looking up from my library book. "That means," she said pointedly, "that you'll have to drive me in to work in the morning." THAT got my attention. Savannah leaves for work early.Plus she instructed me to pick up an umbrella at Stuf-Mart should it rain. Ugh. "Can't we just stay home," I whined. "90 Day Fiance is on and they're going indoor sky-diving to better bond." "Too bad," Savannah answered firmly, "you'll be on a ferry heading to Block Island instead."

So the next day, I cheerfully drove Savannah to work before 6 am and managed to find my way back to her apartment without barely getting lost. I perused Stuf-Mart's display of fifteen dollar umbrellas before I got suspicious and discovered another hidden display of ten, eight, and five dollar models. I bought Savannah and I identical umbrellas so we could be twins (and annoy her in the process). While on a hunt for a family-sized bag of plain M&Ms, I watched a man on a lark ram his way through a center-aisle display of Ramen noodles. He never looked back. It was spectacular. I considered adding this activity to my Bucket List as I helped the disgruntled Stuf-Mart employee re-assembly her Ramen noodle arrangement which now resembled an edible Jenga tower, leaning to the left like its more-famous Italian counterpart.

I returned to Titan to navigate my way back to pick up Savannah, pausing nervously at the traffic light to turn left as car after car across from me turned right. Perhaps the law dictates that they disable the turn signal lights of every Connecticut-registered vehicle. I took a breath and inched Titan through the intersection, coming perpendicular to a woman who used her lack of turn signal to indicate that she was traveling forward. Imagine that! I waved at her, my left turn signal blinking cheerfully. She kind of waved back. Oh my.

Having successfully picked up Savannah, we headed to the under-staffed but over-populated ferry ticket office. There were a lot of committed Christians in line as they loudly invoked their Lord and Savior's name as the minutes ticked by leading to the ferry's departure. The harassed agent repeatedly assured her patient travelers that their tickets would ALL be processed and that she would hold the ferry until that time. Imagine having the power to be able to "hold the ferry." Bucket list.

Savannah and I ate a few M&Ms from our family-sized bag and watched Bobbie Flay roll a meatball
as waves rushed us along. An excited group of young people on their way to a wedding rehearsal dinner used the ferry aisles as a fashion-runway as they changed outfits and applied make-up. One of the many Ashleys of the mix sported a crotch-level shimmery nightie with a magenta cape. Bucket list.

We arrived on Block Island with the rain. We walked the road to the left, past the monument, to the end and stood before a menu boasting a fresh blackberry mudslide. "You didn't bring ID," Savannah scolded her whiny 47-year-old mother, turning us in the opposite direction. Savannah prevented my many impulsive purchases including a welcome mat that read, "For whom the dog barks? It barks for thee." (Classic), a jelly fish encapsulated in glass, a buy one/get one free sweatshirt offer ("We could be twins," I squealed, twirling my umbrella for emphasis. "They're still $35 a piece, Mom," my daughter mathematically lectured.), and a compass with Robert Frost's "Road Not Taken" inscribed on the lid. I punished her by delaying her ferry-ride home fudge acquisition. "But they're rated 25th in the nation for fudge," she protested as I pulled her away.

We scored seats on a plastic-wrapped porch for dinner. I shrieked as a pinchy-clawed insect scuttled across our table and Savannah bravely flicked it away as she reached for the bread basket. "Are they warm," she asked, as I held two rolls to my chilly cheeks. I nodded. Speech had been momentarily halted from the arrival of the minuscule scorpion. I ordered clam chowder which Savannah proclaimed delicious. I thought it was a tad too clammy but enjoyed the sprinkling of applewood bacon on the top. "Look, Savannah," I said, pointing, "they gave me TWO croutons!" She frowned at me, anticipating a scene but the scorpion had cured me of complaints. I was grateful for the croutons. My entree was calamari. I'm a texture gal. I love rubber-band-y food. "It's like I'm eating ligaments," I told a horrified Savannah. I teased her out of her coleslaw but retched when I realized it was sauerkraut. Maybe the scorpion had been a sign.

We raced raindrops from store to store, spending 40 minutes putting together puzzles, condemning a sign that advertised taffy since they only sold one table's worth of the boxed candy rather than the bins and bins of assorted flavors that we envisioned, considered (and then later regretted not having acted upon our impulse) buying socks sporting catchy phrases incorporating the f-word in ironic ways and made friends with the high proprietor of a shop filled with Tibetan meditation bells and baoding balls ("Those can be used for something else," I whispered to Savannah, nudging her with my umbrella. "Please be quiet," she whispered back.) and lots and lots of incense.

We ended up in an ESL bakery/ice cream shop. We over-pronounced the word "cookie" a dozen times with accompanying hand gestures and then bravely ordered hot chocolate as well. I almost cried when the young woman asked Savannah if she would like sugar in her hot chocolate. Block Island was scarier than I had first imagined. "Are they Eastern Block," I asked, eliminating French, Spanish, and Italian languages as I eavesdropped on the behind-the-counter conversation. "I dunno," Savannah shrugged, drinking what she thought was the best hot cocoa of her life. I had long-since tossed mine in the garbage. "Norwegian?" "Isn't that slightly Germanic though?" I asked, "They don't seem to be strictly stressing their consonants." "Here," Savannah sighed, pushing her bag towards me, "Have some of my COOK-ie."

We excitedly boarded our ferry home. "Well, THAT was fun," I said, flopping down in an available booth. I paused, looking out the window momentarily lamenting my loss of a fresh blackberry mudslide for a sugar-free, lukewarm hot chocolate. "I'm sorry it wasn't as much fun as we imagined," Savannah said, "I knew we were in trouble when you were so enthusiastic about the flowers. We're hard up if you insist on kneeling in front of a bush to have your picture taken." "Block Island was wonderful," I assured her. "It was a great trial run. And next time we'll rent mopeds, ride horseback on the beach, and frolic in the water." Bucket list. I pulled out the playing cards and what remained of the family-sized bag of M&Ms. Savannah paused, looking out the window, momentarily lamenting her loss of ferry-ride fudge. "Do you want that," I asked, indicating the top card. "Bucket list," she murmured, picking it up.

Day Three: Captive in Connecticut

Day Three: Captive in Connecticut

“You must be so bored,” my husband observed over the phone as I excitedly caught him up on the major plot-points of the old Baywatch re-run that I was currently absorbed in. “One of the lifeguards got a cramp,” I reported, horror-stricken, “and the Baywatch staff were on vigilant alert for a pair of rowdy teen-agers going too fast on their little jet-ski devices.”

It had been an eventful week here in Connecticut. I had made the bed practically every day, ruined a cookie dough recipe by using an overly old egg, and traipsed, unencumbered, up to the library in the stifling heat and humidity to hover over their antiquated air-conditioned floor vents. I huddled over the air-flow like a turkey vulture drying the morning dew from its fluid-soaked feathers. “Mom…tell me that you did not go OUT like that,” Savannah said, shocked. “Look,” I said flatly, “my dainties needed to be washed…I had on layered tank-tops so stay out of my B’s-ness.”

“Dad, we have got to get Mom home,” Savannah told her father. “I’m her only friend in Connecticut…me and the transient parking lot cat. During our walk yesterday, she insisted on returning to the boardwalk in time to see Steve, the beach magician perform. She’s solely subsiding on blackberry yogurt, string cheese, and Hostess cupcakes. It’s like she’s in a walking coma.”

“Savannah’s being ridiculous,” I reassured my concerned husband. “First of all, Steve the beach magician was lovely…he seemed more surprised than us when any of his tricks worked. I think the boardwalk is a nice stepping stone to launch his career and I just wanted to lend my support. And no…I am not flaunting my wares conspicuously about Connecticut. Just the library. They’re very supportive there. Savannah needs to know that it feels good to let loose now and then.”

I'm not sure what I said, but arrangements have been made to transport me home to New York on Saturday.

Connecticut Captivity: Day One

Connecticut captivity: Day One

"You cannot count Saturday as Day One," Savannah informed me with disgust, "you had planned on being here anyway."

We had learned on Friday that Joan and Sydney, otherwise known as My Way Home, had taken an alternative route alongside the shoulder of Route 90 East to enjoy some Disalvo's pizza and test out New York State's mandatory towing system. More on that later although the movie trailer does include such scintillating phone dialog as:

Briskly official New York State towing personnel: Where are the keys to the car?

Me:  In the ignition.

Stay tuned.

So here I was, trapped in a state smaller than my tri-county region whose flag bears allegiance to what appears to be invisible arbors (When's the last time you enjoyed Connecticut wine?) with the ironic motto  Qui Transtulit Sustinet: S/he who transplanted still sustains. Well...I have NOT been transplanted! I cannot thrive in a state where no one uses their turn signal.

To distract me, Savannah took me to Groton's annual fireworks show. "I wasn't distracting you," Savannah interrupted, "That was the whole reason you came out to visit me in the first place." So 2,500 people and I sat on a hillside slant for two hours, our legs braced against its gravitational pull, awaiting the wave of darkness as it rolled over the water.

Courageously, Savannah embarked on an Lewis and Clark-esque mission to find the origins of the river of delicious-smelling food that flowed past us as people floundered up and down our mini-mountain. She returned, victorious and led me to a small city of food trucks. "What does that star on the menu represent," I asked the young man in the cupcake truck as he leaned next to his Tips for Tattoos jar. "It's gluten-free," he answered. I staggered back in the face of such blasphemy. If I'd wanted to eat healthy, I'd have ordered a carrot. He quickly reassured me that my chocolate-raspberry cupcake, despite being gluten-free, was still laden with thigh-killing calories and cholesterol. I stuffed a dollar in the tip jar, suggesting he get the Connecticut state motto emblazoned on his arm.

Savannah and I carefully returned to our 45 degree-angled chairs with spanakopita, pierogies, and dessert as the band was finishing up. The stage lights standing sentinel on both sides of the platform suddenly blazed to life, blinding the crowd blanketing the hill. A lone voice, speaking for all, echoed across the expanse. "Turn off the eff-ing lights!" (As this is a family-friendly blog, I'll let you interpret that message in the manner you feel most comfortable. It really packs a punch in its original form though.). When this more-than reasonable demand wasn't met to the satisfaction of its citizens, a rebellion grew. Voices joined together, a chant of discontent: "Turn off the eff-ing lights!" I was simultaneously mortified and impressed. The lights went out. The crowd cheered. The fireworks started. Power to the people! Maybe I've been too quick to judge the population of Connecticut. Maybe a turn signal isn't always necessary when the entire population has decided to turn together. However, I would suggest the use of hazards when pulled over on the 90, eating pizza.

Joan's unsuccessful trip to Connecticut: How is Amy going to get home?

There are varying accounts of how this happened but to the best of my knowledge, it began with this:

Joan: I would love to spend the week-end in Connecticut but isn't Syd's car held together mostly with duct-tape?

Joan (later): I would love to spend the week-end in Connecticut but the last time we drove there, the Titan's brakes went.

So it was arranged that Savannah and I would drive the Titan to Connecticut on the 4th of July to have Joan and Sydney follow us, several days later, in Savannah's safe, reliable car.

"It's time to go," Sydney shouted, pulling into Joan's driveway like a demon. Racing out of the house, Joan slid across the hood of Savannah's car before dropping down through the open window. Punching the dash, Joan yelled, "Hit it!" The pair peeled out and were soon two-wheelin' it on the 90 East exit. The speeding car passed a sign: Bridge Out Ahead. "Connecticut, here we come!" they bellowed as they hit the ramp. Joan whistled "Dixie" as they flew through the air, "Yee Ha!"

Joan:  That is NOT what happened.

Sydney:  We were traveling at the lawfully-posted speed limit when Savannah's car inexplicably began to run rough. We were afraid the engine was going to seize up so we pulled over. Joan employed all of her skills as an amateur mechanic but was unsuccessful in diagnosing the problem. We called Durwin and he said he'd bring us a screwdriver.

Savannah: Sydney broke my car.

Amy: Savannah, show some empathy. Your sister and Joan are abandoned on the side of a dangerous highway...frightened and alone.

Brad: Where are they?

Amy: Near Leroy.

Amy: Never-mind. They're near Victor.

Amy: Mile marker 338.

Brad: Please stop helping me.

Savannah: Sydney broke my car.

Amy: Savannah...stop thinking about yourself! Poor Joan and Sydney are, at this moment, exposed and afraid. Starving to death.

Sydney: Actually, Joan brought a Disalvo's pizza.

Amy: She brought a pizza but didn't bring a screwdriver?

Savannah: Mom...what were you saying about empathy?

Amy: We're stuck here in Connecticut and THEY have a Disalvo's pizza.

Brad:  Does ANYONE  know where they are?

Joan: I would have loved to have gone to Connecticut for the week-end but the Mosimans don't seem to own a vehicle that can actually make it there.

They're just some good ol' gals

Never meaning no harm

Beats all you never saw

All the people that they'd call 

when they were broke down in Farm...

Amy: Farmington! They're in Farmington!

It's all fun and games until someone lays on a bed of bees: Holiday dangers that they didn't warn you about

 It occurred to me, as I watched my children scale a roof for optimal 4th of July parade viewing, that there is an element of danger to almost every holiday event. It occurs to me, Savannah interrupted, that surpassing the legal drinking age and living seven hours away should upgrade me from "child" to "adult." Bear with me though. Think about it. Thanksgiving is a clear risk between flailing carving knives and the latest trend in deep-fried turkey explosions. Although the Victorian-Era tradition of candled Christmas trees has evolved to a more flame-free version, there is still a possibility of Christmas plant poisoning. Although I would have to question the mental stability of the individual who deliberately ingests Mistletoe ...still, the risk remains. Easter seems relatively harmless. But a little research revealed just how dangerous this seemingly sweet holiday could be: 

• Do not hide eggs near an electrical outlet or plugs. 
• Do not hide eggs in light sockets
• Do not hide eggs in, on, under or around glass.
• Keep eggs at or below eye level of the children.  (You wouldn't want the little darlings to get a neck-ache...no unnecessary chiropractic bill for you!--parenthetical notation courtesy of Amy Mosiman--I deleted the rest of my snide observations to this bullet-ed list as they seemed crass and/or insensitive to the idiocy of others)
• Keep count and track of the eggs you hid.
•  (https://nationalsafetyinc.org/2013/03/29/easter-safety-tips-2/)                      

But the 4th of July is a given. Especially at my house. Last year was our unintentional re-enactment of The Hunger Games. This year's movie shout-out was Than's nuanced portrayal of New York City policeman, John McClane of the Die Hard franchise. There he was: Hunched nimbly among twenty-year-olds, flicking his Bic at a flimsy inch-and-a-half wick, Than remained calm and cool as fuses were lit with random precision around him. Ignoring the crowd screaming at him to run, Than held his flimsy lighter with steely resolve. Time stood still, a hush fell over the suddenly silent field, and then the wick took. Knees high like a marching band drum major, Than fled the fiery scene, silhouetted in a blinding halo of orange, yellow, and red as the area erupted.


And it wouldn't "bee" the 4th of July at the Mosimans if our little uninvited guests didn't make an appearance. Brad had repeatedly mowed a swath of field as a viewing area. As dusk dimmed to dark, my friend Amy unfurled a blanket and stretched out...sitting up in alarm to ask if were normal to have her blanket writhe about. Little did she know that she was laying on a bed of bees. It just heightened the excitement for a "bee-"-dazzling display. No matter the holiday, the Mosimans laugh in the face of danger. Then we scream and run away.

Stick a pin in me...I'm done (throwing parties)

I DON'T do parties. I enjoy attending the odd party or two but hosting a get-together gives me hives. My idea of successful party planning encompasses rubbing balloons against my head and sticking them to the wall. Festive! But Pinterest has taken my already pre-existing social anxieties and multiplied them by twelve. Who has time to individually paint a dozen paper towel tubes red, white and blue to then hot glue them together into a flag shape? Who even thinks to collect paper towel tubes for that purpose? I could also wrestle Bounty paper towels into toilet tissue tube napkin-rings (also painstakingly painted in holiday-themed colors) to resemble firecrackers by fringing the ends and braiding red, white and blue beads on the frays. Exactly what a party guest wants rubbed over his or her face while attempting to scrub off that wayward marshmallow from an out-of-control s'more incident. I have enough trouble properly following the directions of the Jell-o Jiggler recipe.

Sydney was ALL ABOUT the planning. "Dad...can I paint stars onto the lawn," she asked, already enthusiastically shaking a can of white spray paint. He determined that this would make our yard look trashy. We were currently using a wood pallet for a serving table. And not a Pinterest pallet either. Our hauling trailer was being used as a launch pad for what looked like a NASA-budgeted excursion to the moon. Giant bowling pins were set up as entertainment for our younger guests. They would later be used as blunt swords and baseball bats. Inexplicably, a kayak appeared and was used as a non-mechanical ride similar to the quarter pony you'd find outside the grocery store. But "no" to painted grass stars. Too trashy.

Undeterred, Sydney returned to her research and was soon rummaging for mason jars. She unearthed the Minute Rice (of which she has never actually eaten...in her life) and was in the process of finding food coloring when her father re-directed her with the important job of making clarifying signs for our guests. Sydney, unfortunately, has inherited my inability to make a simple sign. No Sharpie marker for us. Hours of searching for just the right clip art and relevantly humorous meme result in an unforgettable sign that no one ever bothers to read anyway. Since Savannah and I were in the process of waiting for our Jigglers to transform from the slosh stage to the more-solidly wiggle stage, we picked up Syd's reins.

"This is enough rice to feed a small African village for a week," I yelled into Sydney as we measured out the necessary amount to fill the mason jars. "Do small African villages have microwaves," she wondered as she giggled at an inappropriate meme.  "Besides...remember when you had your students make topographical maps of New York State out of dried beans," she retorted, "People making 4th of July votives out of colored rice shouldn't throw black-eyed peas."

Savannah and I stirred the food coloring into the designated rice piles. "It says here that we need to lay the rice out flat to dry," Savannah read. "That's ridiculous," I scoffed. We immediately layered our red, white, and blue rice into the jars. Now for the candles. I quickly found a red tapered candle that looked as though it had once been used as a prop for "The Phantom of the Opera." It towered eight inches over the top of the mason jar. "Classy," observed Savannah. I then found advent candles that we had inadvertently stolen during The Great Mosiman Church Search of ought-16. To our credit, we had been frightened and ran away, candles still clutched in our panicked fists. "Aren't you afraid we'll be struck by lightening if we use those," Savannah asked. "They're not CURSED, Savannah," I told her, "The Lord understands that it was an accident." I did pause to wonder about the man-made lightning housed in in my husband's hauling trailer though.

Hours later, perched elegantly on the back of the 4-wheeler parked in our garage, our candles emitted a patriotic glow. EVERYONE noticed them. "Did you see our candles," we greeted each guest, leading them on an informal tour of our garage before they were allowed to eat from our wood pallet serving table. "Here, have a jiggler." Manning the hot dogs, Brad had already begun making plans for next year's soiree. "You know what would put this party over the top," he said to me in between candle-spotting tours, "...balloons."