California Sunrise: More came up than just the sun

As we have already established, I was in charge of the itinerary (so I had no one else to blame). What IDIOT puts a 6:05 am sunrise on Day Four, especially when you have to leave the hotel at 4:30 am to hike to said sunrise vista? Yup. That would be me. To their credit, no one in my family complained. They were just too tired. Sydney immediately curled up in the backseat and fell asleep, using my lap as a pillow. Conversation was shockingly non-existent as we drove to Kings Canyon National Park.

EXCERPT FROM TRAVEL JOURNAL:

Imagine an energetic little boy shaking one of those marble games, attempting to get the ball in the divot. Now imagine that same child doing that same activity in a dark closet. That marble is me being driven up the dark winding roads of Kings Canyon to witness the spectacular sunrise at Panoramic Point.  

I am prone to motion sickness. ("No!" you gasp, shocked.) But I quickly learned the significant difference between experiencing motion sickness during the day as opposed to the magnified sensations when one stomachs it in the darkness. This was my idea, I thought to myself hatefully as tears poured silently down my cheeks and I tightly grasped the door handle. Brad and Savannah became aware of my plight, reassuring me that we were almost there. Like I cared. Windows were rolled down. Words of comfort whispered.
Imprisoned by Sydney's slumbering form, I sat rigidly still, willing my stomach to behave, alternately taking deep or shallow breaths to conform to the waves of dizzying nausea that swept over me.

By the grace of God, we pulled into the little parking area at Panoramic Point. Sleeping Beauty awoke, stretching slender arms over her head before catching a glimpse of her now red-faced, hyperventilating mother. "Did you have a bad dream," she asked as Savannah jerked my car door open and helped me stagger to my feet. I wobbled over to behind a sign where I loudly and painfully retched. "It's so peaceful here," Brad commented, eyeing the only other car that was there, its sunrise seekers looking startled, disgusted, and somewhat afraid. While I crouched subtly behind my sign, Sydney read its posted rules. "Number two says to Be Quiet. Try to blend in with your surroundings." She had to raise her voice to be heard over my yakking. She got points for not giggling.

"Just leave me here," I moaned, "Go on without me." Brad has heard me say this to him about a dozen times during our almost three decades of marriage so he has gotten REALLY good at ignoring it. "This must have been important to you if you put it on the itinerary," he said, grasping my arm and tugging me up the path, ""We're not going to let you miss it." Our fellow sunrise watchers were now alarmed as I was forcibly dragged up the hill with Savannah and Sydney pushing from behind as needed. We only paused when I felt it necessary to blend in with my surroundings.

We made it to Panoramic Point where I immediately slumped over a comfortable rock. "It's cold," Brad stated, digging around in my backpack before dragging out my fleece pajama bottoms decorated with fluffy sheep. My lamb-y jammies. He wrestled me into them as I moaned. "Maybe sucking on a Jolly Rancher would help," he muttered, ignoring our companions who weren't even pretending at this point to be there to see the sunrise. We were the biggest show in town this morning. "I can't find the Jolly Ranchers," Savannah reported, "but there are gummi bears. Do you want some gummi bears, Mom?" "Four," I whispered hoarsely before quickly amending that rash decision, "No...three! I want three gummi bears." Clearly I was out of my mind. What sane person asks for fewer gummi bears?

The sunrise WAS magnificent. This wasn't some laboriously slow reveal of warm rays inching up over the hillside to take a leisurely stroll into the valley and meander through meadows. No. This was the Emeril Lagasse of sunrises: BAM!

"That was pretty great," Brad admitted as we returned to the car. The other couple, having taken note of our license plate number, had already departed. "That was the most memorable sunrise I've ever seen," Savannah declared as she and Sydney took a wide berth around the trail-head sign. "Breath-taking," Sydney agreed. It definitely was a unique way to start the day. I sighed as we pulled away...feeling as though I'd left a little piece of myself back there at Panoramic Point. Make that...pieces.

I left my climate-appropriate clothes in New York when I was in San Francisco

Deep-dark secret time. No judgment, friends. This is my safe place. When I get anxious...I...I...well, I...brutally rip off my baby toe nail. There. I said it. Deep breath. Thanks for letting me get that off my chest (and foot). Being responsible for a week-long itinerary directing the activities of a place I'd never even THOUGHT of going to before was very stressful. Both of my baby toe nails paid the bloody price for my paranoia. Not very smart considering all of the walking I would be doing on this trip but I have a bit of a martyr complex and am well-versed in self-flagellation (of my baby toe nails AND re-piercing my lobes when a non-observant 4th grader buys me consignment shop earrings at Christmas-time).

For our second day in San Francisco, I had scheduled an early morning visit to the famed Tiled

Steps and then a bus tour of the city. "Are you wearing THAT?" Savannah greeted me as I emerged from the hotel bathroom dressed in shorts and a tank. Her discreet diplomacy skills should EASILY earn her a position on the UN panel. She'd have Kim Jong-un playing a hearty game of corn hole before you know it. This would also be the same day that she'd shout from the top of a moving double-decker tour bus that I had something in my nose. She is such a sweetheart. I did end up switching to jeans and layered shirts before leaving the hotel but Sydney, dressed for the fashion run-ways of Milan, refused to yield to her sister's sensible fashion sense. She looked like a model, traipsing up the mosaic-patterned steps shrouded in San Francisco clouds before scampering back into the heated comfort of the car.

But Syd's skimpy sundress wouldn't be able to shield her against the arctic blast of the double-decker bus combined with the chill of the Pacific West Coast. "Syd...look!" I exclaimed, pointing, "The exterior building shot for The X-Men!" "Uh-huh," she grunted, trying to burrow under Savannah's well-insulated-by-many-warm layers-of-clothing arm. Savannah fought her off as she tried to catch a glimpse of where Interview with the Vampire was conducted. "Oh my goodness, did you see Joe DiMaggio's caterer?" I shouted over the whipping wind. "Yeah...changed my life," she admitted as we careened by the Mrs. Doubtfire house before heading to the Golden Gate Bridge painted in its easily recognizable original Industrial Orange because, by the time they'd wrestled it up, the engineers shrugged and said, "Eh. Good e'nuff." Sydney howled with delight as we shot across the two mile expanse.

"How are you hearing ANY of the tour information without your earbuds," Brad asked. It was time to tell him. How would my husband react to the news, after almost thirty years of blissful ignorance, that his wife's ear holes were so warped that no bud could possibly conform to them? That isn't grounds for divorce, is it? After the shock wore off, Brad stepped up...refusing to allow my ear-bud incompatible ears to miss not even ONE more delightful trip fact by tying the buds to my ears. It was here...at my most dignified, that Savannah chose to alert me to a nasal matter.

Sydney welcomed a break from the bus to tour China Town. By this time, she had somehow weaseled at least one piece of clothing from each of us. Savannah and I spotted character-based snuggies hanging from a shop window. "Sydney, they have a unicorn snuggie," we told her, dancing with joy. She frowned, burrowing her hands in Savannah's jacket. "No," she said firmly. "It's forty dollars," I reported. "I'll cover half of it," Savannah declared as we envisioned Sydney dressed (warmly) as a unicorn on her next journey crossing the Golden Gate Bridge atop a double-decker bus. "No," Sydney repeated. We begged. We bribed. We threatened. To no avail. "The trip is ruined," I lamented as we hiked down to the next Big Bus stop. You are either hiking UP or DOWN in San Francisco. There is no middle ground. Brad

glanced at my feet as we settled back onto the bus. "What?" I asked. Noting that I'd changed that morning from sandals to sneakers, he remarked, "At least you don't have easy access to your baby toe nails," before tying my ear-bud cords to my head.

California...here we come

I had never been to the West Coast but after extensive research watching a Katie Perry video, I surmised that it would be hot and expensive. Brad and I negotiated and settled on one checked bag which I promptly filled with Sparkling Ice coconut-pineapple water (Tell me again why I am NOT their official spokesperson?), Poptarts, gummi bears. Jolly Ranchers, and chocolate almond Hershey Bars. "What are you doing," Brad asked in low-level exasperation (He would go through several stages of exasperation over the course of this trip) as I stuffed a box of lotion-infused Kleenex into our suitcase. "California is costly," I explained, tucking my robe as a cushion around my liquids while considering whether I should add string cheese to my inventory. "It's cold in the cargo hold, right," I said as he blocked my way to our refrigerator while simultaneously zipping up our suitcase. "Your mother has lost her mind," Brad told Savannah as she arrived from Connecticut. "Say that when you are wiping your nose on one of my silky, lotion-infused Kleenexes rather than the sandpaper provided by our cheap hotel," I yelled from the other room.

No Pepsi here...but points for freshly-squeezed California
orange juice and Syd loved her individually-sized creamer

Hindsight would prove me (mostly) right. The lotion-infused Kleenexes were a delight. The Jolly Ranchers were a big hit although Sydney's lips may be stained permanently blue because they were her favorite and she hoarded them like a gold miner protecting his claim. The gummi bears proved surprisingly useful during a stomach-churning sunrise (more on that later) but, should I be given the chance to go back in time, I would have replaced the chocolate bars with the more-durable-to- California-climate-Twizzlers. Those Hershey bars went through the crucible of melting and re-solidifying to the point where all the almonds slid down to the south end of each now-warped bar. Sydney, the most dedicated processed food eater of all the Mosimans, used the wrapper as a funnel at one point and another time, I caught her eating her Hershey bar like a Go-Gurt.

Toward the end of the trip, when exhaustion sets in and patience takes a hike, Brad was unloading our bags from the car and removed what looked like a brown squished travel pillow from Sydney's seat. The package of Hershey bars had molded to the curvature of Sydney's...rear window. Words were said. Horrible words. Sydney refused to accept accountability for this awful crime. Blame. Denial. Grief. Unable to accept this great loss, Brad tossed what he now referred to as The Butt Bars into the hotel mini-fridge and we all hoped...

No Pepsi here.

This was also the day where I could no longer hide my hostility that California was a red state. "Do you serve Pepsi?" I asked, day after day, only to be offered Coke instead. Savannah's beverage was almost hurled off the edge at Glacier Point when it squirreled itself into a photograph. "I will NOT provide free advertisement for that product," I yelled as I attempted to wrestle the bottle from her hands. We agreed that, for the environment's sake, I could Photoshop it later. So...while we were breathlessly waiting about the outcome of our Butt Bars, I called in for a pizza delivery. "Do you serve Pepsi," I asked, enunciating carefully. "Yeah...sure," the guy said. "It has a blue label," I clarified, "Pepsi." "Yeah, we have Pepsi," he answered. Forty-five minutes later, there was a knock on the door. I spotted a pizza box and a two-liter of soda with a RED label. "Pepsi is NOT synonymous with Coke," I screamed, lunging at the delivery guy. Brad tackled me while Savannah tipped the man. I howled at the injustice of it all. California. How DARE you call yourself a state?

"A pre-packaged crepe! How delightful!"

"A pre-packaged crepe? Hmmm"

"A pre-packaged crepe? I should have had a Poptart."

Veggie omelet of the Apocalypse

Brad Mosiman discovered, long ago, that when it came to the salvation of his family, no cost was too high. When he realized that the amount of complaining about attending church diminished exponentially when that activity was accompanied by a breakfast out, he made it his life's mission to first fill us with eggs, toast, and orange juice so that later, we would be better filled with the love of Christ, compassion for our fellow man, and the Holy Spirit. Who knew that that was what the "C" in our packed-with-Vitamin-C orange juice really meant!?!

Getting a handle on our new breakfast place has been tough (We miss you Laurie's). "Sweet potato pancakes?" I frowned, perusing the menu, "Well, my friend Deb would like those." I wasn't sure that a place that served sweet potato pancakes was fit to feed me spiritually. My younger daughter suffered no such qualms. Sydney jumped on board the single serve chocolate chip pancake and never looked back. Our waitresses, Jenn and Makayla, did what they could to make this traumatic transition easier for me and I was soon placated with a plate of crispy hash browns. Jenn innately sensed that Brad would want his medium egg placed precisely on top of his pancake order so he settled in easily to his new breakfast home. Savannah, however, was in for a bit of a surprise. As were we all.

Deciding to play it safe on her first visit, Savannah ordered the veggie omelet. We sat in stunned silence when it was delivered with a Chinese baby corn erupting majestically from the middle. What defines a vegetable omelet...one must first ask one's self. Tomatoes. Peppers. Green, for sure. Red if you're feeling whimsical and risky. Onion. Seasoned wait staff should warn customers if mushrooms are present since they don't technically fit the vegetable criteria. But Chinese baby corn?!? What?!? That's just INSANE! Are we on an episode of Bizarre Foods? Further tentative investigation revealed that the Chinese baby corn was just the tip of Savannah's omelette iceberg. Carrots? That's crazy! Broccoli? Bizarre! Asparagus? Is the Apocalypse at hand? 

It's not always easy trying new things. Sometimes it's scary. Not every item on the menu may be to your pleasing but you don't storm out of a restaurant just because your omelet has been pierced with a Chinese baby corn spear. Savannah wasn't deterred by this experience. Upon her next visit, she gamely ordered the apple fritter french toast and declared it "splendid." And it was...a splendid metaphor for life. You are not ever going to like EVERYTHING on the menu but, if you stick it out, you'll be sure to find something you enjoy. Or at least can choke down.   

Why I love my veterinarian clinic

I LOVE my veterinarian clinic. My animals have been pet patients there for over thirty years. During that time, we have run the gamut of procedures from a beagle with a football injury (torn ACL) to an "Oh my gosh, WHO ate the two pound box of chocolate covered cherries?" (wag, wag) to a cautionary trip when an ant trap disappeared.  With Bob Barker's sign off forever etched in our brains, we have always remembered to have had our pets spayed or neutered. Enough cones have been placed around canine necks that we could start our own SNL skit. I once felt like I'd accidentally dialed a 900 number when I hysterically requested a phone consultation about my compulsively masturbating cat.

"It could be a sign of anxiety or boredom," I was told, "He might need to be environmentally enriched."

"Well...right now he's getting environmentally enriched on my fax machine," I snapped.

"Is it on?" the tech asked with concern.

"Oh, it's on all right...and my cat is getting off."

And through it all...delight and, unfortunately, despair, the staff at my veterinarian clinic has been patient, prompt, reassuring, comforting, and occasionally blunt.

Me: Can you please do SOMETHING about this gross growth on Juno's stomach?

Vet (inspecting my ridiculously happy rottweiler who is oblivious to my diabolical plan): What did you have in mind?

Me: Lop it off? Tie a rubberband around it? I think Sydney still has those little ones from when she used to wear braces. How about tying a string around it and slamming the door? (I can't believe I have to pay these people when I'm the one coming up with all the good ideas)

Vet (first murmuring to receptionist to call the Humane Society for a home visit before saying to me): Amy...it's a skin tag. It's completely harmless. Would you want to do an unnecessary procedure for cosmetic purposes?

Me (sighing as Juno grinned happily up at me, her skin tag flopping over at a nauseating angle): I guess not.

Vet to receptionist: Cancel the home visit but let's keep her on the watch list.

It was during our most recent visit that I realized how far my veterinarian clinic was willing to go to treat ALL aspects of pet care; maintaining peak physical conditioning was not enough for my doggie doctors. Oh no.

Chloe, Juno, and I were...as always...warmly greeted. After we played "Guess the weight" as both of my dogs refused to cooperate with the floor scale, the technician quietly asked about our levels of anxiety. "Mine is through the roof," I admitted. He smiled before redirecting me to consider the current stress levels of my dogs. I likened Juno to Spicoli from "Fast Times at Ridgemont High." Juno was a laid-back, righteous rottweiler. Chlo, on the other hand, was shivering as usual in my arms. "I have just the thing," the technician murmured, ruffling through a box of colorful fabric until he found a swath that highlighted her eyes. "It's been sprayed with an anxiety-reducing pheromone," he said soothingly, tying it around my dachshund's neck while we looked at him skeptically. I glanced at the door. Did I bypass a curtain of beads when I walked in? I sniffed cautiously. Did I detect incense? What next? Doggy yoga? Would Juno soon be placed in downward-facing human?

I was disappointed when we were called to our examination room by a simple, "Can you come this way, please?" rather than a meditative gong. I watched Chlo carefully to see when she would slip into her zen-like trance of tranquility. She raised a quizzical eyebrow in return and readied herself for battle. She was soon swept away to another room. Upon return, Chlo was promptly deposited into my loving arms. "How did she do?" I asked. Did her blissed-out bandanna work? "She was just a little sassy once," I was told. Oh. That's code for "Your dog was a rabid wolverine who required restraints, multiple handlers, and a tranquilizer gun at-the-ready."

So I wasn't sold on the pheromones. Maybe the Mosimans (except Juno) are too sarcastically skeptical for holistic medicine. But I definitely appreciated the effort. Chlo did look pretty cute in her bandanna. It's way too easy to schedule a shot and then just be shown the door. However, just like me, my veterinarian clinic is invested in the health and happiness of my pets. I was going to light some incense when we got home but all I had were birthday candles.