In the absence of verbs...Communicating at Disneyland

"Savannah! Know what's even better than a single stroller?" I shouted back to my daughter as we fought our way through Frontiertown. "A DOUBLE stroller!" she shouted back, skipping deftly around a sudden left turn made by a fancy 18-wheeled canopied cup-holder bearing a pair of would-be pre-school pedestrians.  To be sure, I'm not passionately-opposed to the train-style tyke trolleys...it's the side-by-side wide-loads of which I am sorely tempted to up-end as I am forced into a maniacal shuffle-step when merging onto a Main Street that is mainly filled with...strollers. And let's get this straight. We ain't strolling. We're stalled.

"Look," I shouted again, pointing, "There's Dumbo!" "Only in Disney could you get away with that," Sydney said, giggling. But apparently you can't get away with everything at Disney. Just that morning, as we pulled up to the parking lot attendant, I rolled down my window to hand her the twenty dollar fee with a cheerful "Feliz Navidad!" I felt a slight shift in the car but ignored it because she smiled and handed me a fistful of candy canes. A small careful voice in the car offered advice in the soft, gentle tones that would accompany instructions for detonating a bomb. "There are some people who might be offended by that greeting," I was informed. Naturally, I exploded. Are you kidding me? Who? Who is offended? Satanists? I can see being offended by my accent but not by my intent. I was so confused. I had offered what I had thought was a culturally-embracing holiday greeting on the most perfect of days in the most perfect of places. It's the home of It's a Small World...not It's a Small-Minded World.

I admit to feeling stymied. Inhibited. Fearful to offend or embarrass. It was when I was in line for Mr. Toad's Wild Ride that I realized how crippling my fear of communicating could be. As the people path wound around and around, we kept passing a family chatting away in sign language. Well-versed in helpful nouns such as giraffe, justice, and rocket, I longed to greet them but bemoaned my lack of verbs. "I'd sound like a caveman grunting," I whispered to Sydney (My apologies for offending any blog readers who happen to be cavemen...). Every week, I introduce my 4th graders to new signs and encourage them to continue developing their sign language vocabularies but here I stood, in line for Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, paralyzed with fear. Would I offend them by stumbling through my holiday greeting? What if they asked me a question that required a predicate? Could I slip the word giraffe into casual conversation? Why didn't I learn the sign for toad? Could I improvise by morphing the signs for bunny and turtle but then how do I generate a gender term for an animal? Man-bunny-turtle? It was almost time to get on the ride. It was now or never. Flushed, I tapped one of the men on the shoulder and signed Merry Christmas. He lit up and tapped his wife's shoulder so I could greet her too. Grinning, they signed thank you and very good. We waved and then I was stuffed into Mr. Toad's automobile for a quick get-away that required no verbs.

I offend a LOT of people. Rarely is that my goal. I am quick-to-speak rather than quick-to-think and my humor is often not as relate-able as I would hope. Cynicism and sarcasm are my primary languages. But I am also pretty fluent in the universal languages of love, friendship, and compassion. Or at least I have a working familiarity. Words are words. Open for interpretation and debate. But what is the intent with which they are voiced? Be careful, little ears, what you hear. Listen for the love. Listen for the sometimes frail, fearful attempt to make a connection. Ignore the poor grammar, the sometimes ignorant societal references, the morphing of unconventional nouns, the absence of verbs...listen with your heart instead of your political ideals, your causes, your pride. You wouldn't want anyone pointing you out in a crowd and yelling, "Look! There's Dumbo!"

Getting an assist in behavior management

Ask any teacher, the last few weeks leading to Christmas are soul-suckingly indescribable. "What are we doing?" one of my 9-year-old scholars asked on Tuesday, December 11th when I instructed them to turn to page 47 in their math textbook. "We're factoring to determine which numbers are composite versus prime," I explained, confused. "But it's almost Christmas," came the answering whine. Oh boy.

I have a built-in ten minutes of recess loosely scheduled every day with the numbers 10-1 written vertically on my dry erase board. Students can earn and lose recess minutes based on their behavior and my mood. Let's just say that, yesterday, the children were introduced to negative numbers. "Say Santa again," I snarled, holding the eraser threateningly over my head.

Classroom management in December is considered an oxymoron. But we still try. While shopping solo a little while ago, I'd stumbled into a Five Below store. Apparently, my husband has been lying to me for years, telling me that it sold cheap clothes costing five dollars or less. For a teacher, stepping across the threshold of a Five Below store is like a five-year-old busting through a turnstile at Disney. I immediately grabbed a giant package of candy buttons before filling my arms with fifty dollars worth of useless garbage. Case-in-point: Basketball head. I admit it. I squealed when I saw it. Not only did the box contain the net apparatus that you strap attractively to your head, it also included twenty colorful balls. Twenty. Guess how many students I have? Yeah. TWENTY. Obviously...this was ordained by God.

Naturally there were doubters. How was this FIVE DOLLAR item going to positively affect my behavior management plan for a month already spiraling out of control? I wrote each student's name on their colorful ball which had to be in their possession each time we lined up in the hall. I QUICKLY learned to say "colorful ball" because yelling "Grab your balls" in a 4th grade classroom doesn't sound very lady-like. If anyone uttered a sound as we traversed to our destination, they relinquished their colorful ball, losing their chance to try and either (A) Shoot a basket or (B) Hit the classmate wearing the net apparatus in the face at the end of the day. If you made a basket, you didn't have to complete that night's math worksheet. If you hit your pal in the face...well, that was reward enough.

And for two weeks, it has worked. I have one more day of school remaining before break and then I'll retire baskethead until next year. It's always better to leave them wanting more. I'm sure when they return following their Christmas vacation, they will be feeling refreshed and revived...eager to learn. Oh my goodness, I am SO tired. I'm delusional. An anonymous Christmas elf slipped me twenty dollars to spend on the betterment of my classroom. At this point, that could mean Five Below or tequila.

Bad days are relative

 I was on my way to a funeral...

Not only was it true but it also conveniently works as a literary device foreshadowing the approach of a series of dire circumstances that will ultimately impede the journey of our protagonist (me).

Unable to locate any funeral dirge songs on my truck radio, I made do with Maroon 5's sad lament, Payphone. Suddenly, I realized that I had to sing MUCH louder to compete with the sounds coming from beneath the Titan. Hmmm...I thought to myself... I must be developing a little hole in my muffler. Undaunted, I continued my quest, making the necessary adjustments by turning up the radio. As I drove through town, I was pleased to notice so many infused with the holiday spirit, enthusiastically waving to me. As Adam Levine and I paused to take a breath, though, I heard a somewhat more concerning sound. Sort of a rattle, rattle, bump, bump, grind, grind, thunk. Hmmm...I thought to myself, glancing with concern at the time...perhaps I should take a little peekie before proceeding.

A pause in a parking lot revealed that my pilgrimage was not just momentarily postponed...it was cancelled. I regarded my muffler solemnly as it sat, wedged between the undercarriage of my truck and the asphalt of the parking lot. Sighing, I kneeled down to tentatively poke at it. Glancing at my watch, I calculated the arrival of my soon-to-be-notified hero. Three hours. This part was tricky. Do I leave the muffler alone and invite a slightly-scornful oration on how I should be able to think for myself or wiggle under my truck and tackle the problem head-on? Likening the muffler to a dangling  molar, I debated twisting it off. I knew, at the very least, I needed to get the muffler off the ground so I tucked it gently up onto a handy little shelf nearby. And then settled in to wait. The three hours seemed to practically fly by.

Knowing that I was upset about missing the funeral, Brad was gentle and kind as he assessed the situation. "What'cha got going on down here?" he asked, his voice rising calmly from beneath the truck. I explained my idea for elevating the muffler. "So you jammed it up into the transmission?" Brad clarified, nodding solemnly, "Solid plan."

After he wired the muffler up, he declared that it was time for a Pepsi. Marching over to a vending machine, he sought to purchase a salve for my bruised spirit. "I'm so sorry," he said, handing me a can of soda that clearly WASN'T a Pepsi. It was time to call it a day. When I finally got home, I realized that my dear friend, having received my apologetic text that I wasn't going to make it to her dad's funeral, had responded, telling me how sorry SHE was that I was having a bad day. Sigh. Sometimes you just have to suck down the soda that clearly isn't a Pepsi, stuff your muffler up into your transmission (No...that ISN'T a euphemism!), and quit your whining. Because on that particular day, I had absolutely NOTHING to complain about...except that I couldn't be with my friend to support her on one of the days where she needed me most.

Stuff it, Santa! Stop being nice to me!

 Turns out that I am just as bad a gift-receiver as I am a gift-giver. My face never knows what to do. I am awkward and seemingly ungracious when faced with a present. "Seemingly?" Brad scoffed.

Again. Not his blog.

I am aware that I have control issues. "Really?" My husband asked incredulously.

Shhhhhhh.

But there is nothing worse than the one-sided gift-exchange. "Oh! Something for me! How thoughtful and selfless and kind! Here is NOTHING in return!"

Is it selfless? Is it? IS IT!?!?!

How DARE you think of me! How dare you buy/make me something that you think I would like and appreciate. Curses!

But IS there anything worse than the one-sided gift-exchange? I wouldn't have thought so until...I was TORMENTED by the anonymous one-sided gift-exchange this year!!!

I abhor the Secret Santa...believing that it spreads a candy cane-like contagion rather than good cheer. Secret Santa festers in dark places...sneaking thin, Christmas-themed socks onto your desk, hiding inappropriately-shaped holiday chocolates in your filing cabinet, tucking snarky coffee mugs into your bag. No, I state decisively. Secrets and surprises are Satan's stocking stuffers.

So imagine my dismay when I discovered, tucked around my dachshund-themed nativity adorning my hallway cubbies, the addition of a beautifully-crafted dachshund ornament. What is this? I wondered, much as the Wise-men must have marveled at the sudden appearance of that star. I glanced up and down the corridor, hoping to catch a glimpse of my kind benefactor so that I might thank him/her. I then began a massive man-hunt that would make Tommy Lee Jones look like he was trying to track down tube socks rather than the fugitive. I conducted a large-scale investigation, questioned possible suspects, attempted to access the school security system...but to no avail.

And then ANOTHER ornament arrived. Snicker-doodle and ginger snap! Please excuse my language. "Can I borrow your trail-cam?" I asked Brad. He frowned, like I was asking to use a hammer. "Can't you just enjoy that someone is being nice to you?" he asked. I thought about it. No.

Then an envelope arrived. Good! DNA! Fingerprint analysis! Then I realized that the two cases were not related (except there are, apparently, TWO wackos out there who SELFISHLY enjoy making others happy.). I was overwhelmed. It was crushing...this much love. I didn't deserve it. All I ever do is complain and make sarcastic remarks.

Another day dawned. Clean slate. I could maybe go back to the business of being miserable. And...if I was lucky, making others a little bit miserable with me.

But, no. Could it be? ANOTHER dachshund ornament? I had never verbalized my secret dream of

one day festooning my fir with my favorite furry friend. Boughs bending beneath the weight of whimsical dachshund ornaments. The tree twinkling from the glow of tiny dachshund lights. A dachshund angel atop the tannenbaum.

Thank you, dear friends, for reminding me that Christmas is not a time of "deserves." Certainly NONE of us deserved the great Gift of that first Christmas. And none of us has "deserved" any gift that came after. I am a whiny, complain-y, selfish, and sarcastic woman...undeserving but blessed...incredibly blessed with loving friends. Thank you.

I thought we were on a roll...How to ruin Bible Reading Family Time

 I miss my girls so much. Eleven months hasn't done much to ease the ache in my heart. Savannah was home briefly over Thanksgiving and changed the toilet paper...a feat that would have resulted in a parade during her high school years. After she left, I sadly watched the dwindling roll...unraveling like my heart strings. To Brad's disgust and dismay, I verbally chronicled the scroll as it grew smaller and smaller, near tears as it eventually disappeared. I wanted to leave the empty roll as a testament to my grief but Brad was NOT having it.

Desperate for a connection that would span those overwhelming 3,000 miles, I decided to invite the girls to join Brad and I in our daily advent reading of the Book of Luke throughout December. "They didn't want to read the Bible with us when they lived here," Brad pointed out, "What makes you think that they'll do it now?" I thought about it until inspiration hit. "I'll make it a contest! There'll be a sticker chart!""

Sydney graciously accepted my invitation. Savannah, however, suspicious of being manipulated, held back. During the first day's Mystery Question, Savannah had gone phone-silent. On what day are male children circumcised? I asked. From 3,000 miles away, I could FEEL Savannah's angst as she read, with astonishment, her sister's rapid-fire answers as she shot them at us, narrowly missing the target answer with each text. While Savannah may not always be motivated by good works or her love of family, she will consistently be motivated to crush others competitively. The game was on!

Naturally, it didn't go the way I imagined. I envisioned a coast-to-coast reading of God's Word, our souls connected in a spiritual realm that superseded time and distance. Instead, cheating, trash-talk, and all-out-warfare ruled the day.

A beautifully bonding family moment has turned ugly. Who says Suck it, Savannah! while reading the Bible? Apparently one Mystery Question was addressed at a bar. Fortunately, a Cliff Clavin was available as a Christian consultant.

Maybe I should go back to considering on-line chess as a way to stay connected to my daughters. Or postcards. Postcards are sweet. You can't corrupt a postcard. Well...? I thought you couldn't corrupt Family Bible-Reading Time either.

Ruh Roh, Mrs. Mosiman!

 It's that time of year where, I'm ashamed to admit, I have trouble feeling grateful. Instead, I am feeling grumpy and rushed; quick to criticize rather than compliment. So it's also the time of year where I pull out my journal and begin my daily recording of "No Fewer Than Five Good Things." Until I get back into the swing of things, growing practiced in the art of looking for the good, my lists are pretty basic and usually center around food. This year, I dragged my 4th graders along for the ride and was immediately humbled. "My mom got a job," one nine-year-old wrote (The same day that I was expressing thanks for a particularly fresh Pepsi). "We might get our camper this week-end to live in while our house is being repaired from the fire," was another entry. I had eaten a candy cane-flavored marshmallow Peep that day. It was good.

Okay. Message received. I need to stop whining. I am surrounded by smiles and simple kindness.

Every day is a blessing. No...I am NOT being sarcastic. Today, for instance, a small miracle occurred. Due to a manufacturing error (also known as an act of God), TWO of my string cheeses were packaged in the SAME wrapper! I had paid for twelve and, instead, received the proverbial baker's dozen...dairy-style.

Sometimes you have to fight hard to find the good. One of my sweet cherubs lit right up at the sight of me today. Racing towards me, she exclaimed, "Mrs. Mosiman! You look like you could be from Scooby-Doo!" This was NOT the precise reaction I was going for when I carefully selected my purple shirt with hunter green pants combo. Robin Hood maybe. Scooby-Doo? No. I racked my brain, trying to figure out which character she was eluding too. I immediately eliminated Fred and Velma and then hoped against hope that she meant Daphne but since Daphne's style is more in the sleuth-schoolgirl-slut range, I attempted to cushion my pride and self-esteem, accepting that, in this child's eyes, I was Shaggy. We do share a love of food. And if there is even the REMOTEST chance that a monster or ghost is in the vicinity, my legs will immediately begin that windmilling running action in the opposite direction. "Thank you," I said, smiling at my little honey as I quickly deduced that, on the scale of compliment versus criticism, her comment was weighed by love.

Holy Sheet (of Over-Priced Paper)

You know how you're standing  there in the store, in a cash-out coma, swaying in a state of uncertainty and fear, catching the occasional purchase in your peripheral? Hypnotized by Hershey Bars, I received a jolt of reality when I saw $8.99 flash across the register. Wait. Did I buy a fancy meat? A merlot? A crustacean? Did I accidentally purchase a pack of generic cigarettes?

No.

I bought a greeting card.

No. It wasn't obnoxiously over-sized. It didn't play an annoying tune. No head-ache-inducing hologram. There wasn't a confetti cannon. The card I chose didn't even have a cute puppy on the cover. Or a sparkly unicorn. It was coated in a crushed velvet material. AND it was composed of recycled material. It used two different fonts.

I didn't know what to do. I was emotionally-paralyzed. What was I going to say? "I've decided my mother isn't worth $8.99," I'd announce with conviction, "Please remove her birthday card from my bill." Then I'd toss a few Hershey Bars on the counter.

I am not a greeting card consumer. With the exception of sympathy cards, I typically make my own cards. It's more personal and often a platform for inappropriate language. Hence, my self-imposed exception of sympathy cards. Although I did once make a bunny bereavement card. Which makes me now wonder about that crushed velvet material. Rabbit fur would be worth $8.99. Would that be considered recycled material?

I would like to start an up-rising. Or my own greeting card company.I would just need some customer testimonials.

"My personalized Amy Mosiman card touched me emotionally while insulting me on a superficially surface-level." 

"While not folded precisely, my personalized Amy Mosiman card had heart, humor, and the f~ word used in a somewhat relevant way." 

"I was only moderately offended by my personalized Amy Mosiman card."

And from such auspicious beginnings, do revolutions arise.

This Greeting Card Revolution was made especially for you by Amy Mosiman...who cared enough to send the very best.

Fund-Raisin Fury

 I don't ask for a lot. My demands are simple. As my brother-in-law likes to say, "Amy, you're not just LOW maintenance...you're practically NO maintenance." Sure he lives 4,300 miles away but his opinion matters. And that being said, perhaps you will forgive this brief segue as I rail against the forces of man and nature that conspired to wreck my world, crush my spirit, and inspire this epic rampage of words...

You've seen the children's programming that challenges students to identify the one that is not like the others.  If you've already investigated the photograph for clues as to why Amy is currently hysterical...you might be a bit flummoxed. Amy flosses? you might be thinking, pleasantly surprised. Or...Why does Amy have a British pound at school? There's a watch battery. A glue top. Assorted coins. A mint. And...a Junior Mint? No-oo. A Milk Dud? No-oo. A Whopper? No-oo. What is it?

Alright. I'll tell you. But be prepared. You're going to be upset for the rest of the day. It might hinder sleep tonight. It's...a chocolate-covered raisin.

I know.

I warned you.

It's a travesty. Some stupid little fund-raising company that preys off my guilt (Yes...I would like 40% of the profit from this sale to go towards another parent's child's acquisition of leotards, hockey sticks, camping experiences, tap shoes, tubas, trips to Boston, New York City, Paris, the amusement park...Snarky side-note: My daughters used holiday and birthday money for school trips...they picked strawberries, blueberries, and garlic to supplement these expenditures. There is something to be said for the character-building experience of "If you can't afford it...go without." Instead...so as to avoid NEVER disappointing Little Jack or Little Jill, parents sell FOR THEM!!! And let me repeat that profit margin. Forty cents on the dollar! Fund-raising companies aren't looking to help the unfortunate...they're making serious bank off of people who either refuse to say no to their kids or have no problem asking friends and neighbors to guiltily purchase GARBAGE from kids who have no idea how to even politely make a sale!!! Or say "thank you"!) Thirty dollars a month is allotted from my grocery budget to accommodate the endless parade of student solicitors in my classroom. I'm sorry. I went and bought a Pepsi. I feel better now.

So anyway...back to that stupid little soul-sucking forty-cents-on-the-dollar fund-raising company of whom I was STUPID enough to purchase chocolate-covered raisins IN GOOD FAITH...They were so busy raking in the money, they couldn't be bothered to separate my raisins...instead throwing them in CLUMPS into their sub-par, waxy chocolate. These weren't cute clusters. These were quarter-sized bunches of dried raisin lumps.  I was, naturally, devastated. This quickly escalated into rage. I paid $7.50 (of which the child pocketed $3 towards a flugelhorn) to be bitterly disappointed. Betrayed. Talk about your sour grapes.

"My eyes are up here"-Halloween 2018

What is a girl to do when she is surrounded, on all sides, by perversion? How am I to maintain my pure heart and innocent spirit when those around me cast lecherous lassos of debauchery, attempting to ensnare me; pulling me down to their own depths of depravity.

Sigh.

What is wrong with this world that a girl can't hot-glue a couple of large white orbs with black painted tips onto her chest and then parade around a crowded gymnasium without fear of judgement?  Madonna did it. Brittany. Katie Perry. The Lady Gaga. I'm in prestigious company here.

I did have a few moments where I questioned my choice of costume design. I noticed several members of the teaching staff had trouble making eye contact with me while I was in character. And my 4th graders, delighted with my outfit, kept asking what the eyes were made of and wanted to touch them. Naked truth here: At 48, there is NO WAY that my actual "eyes" would be so perkily positioned so I grit my teeth and allowed my budding optometrists to examine the styrofoam material.

Judgment, in the form of social media, followed me home, questioning my right to choose (a costume). I have to admit, however, that the biggest wound to my pride came when one kid asked if I was Rizzo the Rat from the Muppets. That kid definitely needed to get his eyes checked!

The Case of the Purloined Pumpkins

I admit it. It's a little early in the school year to be going crazy but somewhere along the line, I hit the wall. Planning Halloween costumes ("How many hula hoops do you want me to buy?" Brad asked incredulously. Really? HOW long has this man been married to me?), producing a music video, performing my own stunts, wrestling seventeen longhouses into my classroom, and trying to get twenty nine-year-olds to pronounce Haudenosaunee correctly (As if I knew how to pronounce Haudenosaunee). And somewhere in there...teach.

So...somewhere along the millionth time that I was forced to stomp by Mr. King's classroom, where his children always appeared to be quietly engaged in learning, I stopped longing to break into his UNOPENED container of candy Halloween pumpkins perched invitingly outside his door and simply acted upon it. It's not like he wasn't warned. This storm had been building for awhile. Just the day before, I had launched a verbal tantrum of epic proportions upon his 3rd graders waiting (quietly and in a perfect line) to enter their classroom. "WHY would your teacher leave an UNOPENED container of candy on top of the cubbies for OVER A WEEK!?!" I yelled. "It's unconscionable!" I stormed off. Mr. King later when on to win the Nobel Peace Prize of Teaching on his stellar vocabulary lesson based on the term unconscionable.

So..yeah. I'm not going to lie. I stole it. The statute of limitations for unopened candy pumpkins perched on a hallway cubby had LONG expired. I snuck the container into the office and proceeded to cut my finger on the practically impenetrable packaging. However, neither blood nor karma could deter me. "Joanne, I need some scissors," I cried. The silent secretary handed me shears and a band-aid. "A-ha!" I popped the pilfered pumpkin in my mouth, victorious! "What on earth are you doing?" Joanne finally asked when I'd stopped hemorrhaging. A staunch advocate of taking personal accountability for one's actions, I bravely admitted my crime (There are cameras in the hall, after all).
Withholding judgement, Joanne instead resorted to blackmail. "But you're diabetic!" I cried, trying to hold the pumpkins out of reach, "Joanne! Consider your health!" Deftly, Joanne spun around, delivering a roundhouse kick before administrating a painful armbar forcing me and my (stolen) pumpkins into submission. Confiscating one candy pumpkin, she then handed back the container, demanding that I return my ill-gotten gain. "I'll be watching," she threatened, motioning to her video monitor. I sighed, returning the container to Mr. King's cubby...my candy-confiscating crime-spree over. For now.

Sacré bleu! Profanity from the pulpit!

If that man dedicated as much of his time to creating  heartfelt, life-changing sermons as he does to making my life miserable, Jesus would quickly be kicking either James or John out of the seats next to Him to make room for Calvin. By the way, I always thought that it took a lot of...nerve to ask Jesus for reserved seating like the Messiah is a maître d. 

But no. Rather than spending grueling hours suffering for his craft, MY pastor is rubbing his hands together gleefully, googling biblical terms that, when read aloud, would make a grown woman blush.

"What am I suppose to do with this?" I growled at my husband who, despite my endless complaining, keeps encouraging me to volunteer. Brad glanced at the word. "What's the problem?" he asked. "Read it aloud," I snarled. He did. Oh. 

Micah 6:5. Remember your journey from Shittim to Gilgal that you may know the righteous acts of the Lord. 

One syllable? Terrible. Two syllables emphasized the naughty word even more. I was at a loss. I'm no stranger to the salty language but I'm usually pretty reserved from the pulpit. "Did you google the pronunciation?" Brad asked. "Yes," I snapped. "It sounds like it's spelled!" Additional research revealed that the term refers to the wood from the acacia tree. Super helpful. 

I couldn't even practice like I normally do. I spent the bulk of the time freezing my face into a placid, reserved expression as I uttered a word more at home in a septic tank than a sanctuary.  Brad's jaw clenched as I practiced in the van as we drove to service. "That sounded good," he insisted as I offered a few words of my own about my pastor's choice of verse selection. A half hour later, I took a deep breath as I approached the podium, taking note of the diabolical smile pasted to my pastor's face. What could I do but throw a Hail Mary? With my best French accent, I addressed the word that could have been my downfall..."Remember your journey from Sh'tem to Gilgal..." I recited. I finished with a flourish, smiled sweetly at my pastor and skipped down the steps...redeemed. Thank goodness I became so fluent during my trip abroad. "Parlez-vous français?" I was asked. "Un petit couleur," I'd answered flawlessly, again deftly navigating yet another conversational conundrum. 

Toot-Toot-Tootsie, Good-Bye. Watch out for the predator!

Well..it happened again. In that epic war of man vs mouse, woman has once again intervened. I walked into my darkened classroom moments before it would be bombarded by twenty 4th graders to glimpse a small shadow float across the floor. It's just my imagination, I tried to convince myself, unwilling to launch myself into the chaotic drama that inevitably accompanies the arrival of a small rodent. I stared at the ceiling, praying that that baby mouse had the sense God gave him to immediately hide. Flight or fight, baby. C'mon. But no. This little guy was a people-person. People-mouse.

Students were now slowly trickling in. As casually as I could, I grabbed the metal lid of our candy jar and gently set it over our little guy as he attempted to raise up on his hind-legs and deliver Hamlet's soliloquy. It was not meant to be. "Rachel," I asked gently, "Could you please gently place your foot on top of our lid?" I scurried off to grab a paper plate. "Andrew, dump the candy out of our jar, please." The kids were surprisingly calm, curious as to what their normally loud and obnoxious teacher was  quietly hiding under that lid. Tools of transfer in place, I delivered a quick lesson on empathy. "There is a baby mouse underneath the lid," I announced solemnly, eliciting gasps. Hands covered mouths in shock. "How does our baby mouse feel right now?" "Scared," they whispered. We discussed the importance of staying silent and limiting our movements. I explained the transfer procedure. No one in the room, including Mrs. Mosiman and the mouse, believed it would actually work. It did. Our baby mouse was safely confined in our glass candy jar. "Let's name it, Tootsie," Charlotte squealed, noting the stuck-on Tootsie-Roll at the bottom of the jar.

I used our science vocabulary to shield me from the pleas of "Can we keep him?" "Where is this mouse's natural habitat?" I asked. We eliminated the playground and the sports fields as release areas. Mrs. Mosiman nixed the plan of traipsing miles out to release our little guy on the Nature Trail. We had a place value assessment to complete. We settled on the small copse of trees by the middle school. As quiet as mice (NOT), we set off on our animal release adventure. Another science vocabulary word was implemented as Ethan spotted a large bird flying overhead. "That's a predator, Mrs. Mosiman!" More begging ensued. We pointed the open jar toward the trees. Tootsie stepped out, took a long look around ("Look UP, Tootsie," Ethan whispered.) and then high-tailed it BACK toward the school. Students screamed. I screamed at students. We surrounded Tootsie like Conestoga wagons trying to turn our stampeding mouse in the right direction. Tootsie finally disappeared into the tall weeds and we returned to our room to discover that it was now to late to take our math exam. "This is the best day EVER," Amanda exclaimed. We cleaned our candy jar and called it a day.

Later on though, the head of maintenance came in. "I heard you had a mouse, Mrs. Mosiman," he said. I looked at him suspiciously. This could NOT be good. "Maybe..." I hedged, wheels turning as I wondered who had ratted me out. "I have a sticky trap," Todd told me. "We're more of a catch-and-release room," I told him. He narrowed his eyes at me. "Oh...me too," he agreed, promising that he planned to catch and release any mouse that wandered into his diabolical trap. I shared with him the educational components that accompanied a visit from one of God's little creatures. I expounded upon the rich and relevant vocabulary that we were able to use in an authentic setting. "I have another rich and relevant vocabulary word for you, Mrs. Mosiman," he said, setting the trap in an inconspicuous  corner. "Infestation."

Our Sunday School Come-Back Tour Was Trashed

So...despite being kicked out of EVERY ministry known to man, Brad and I have somehow resurrected our Sunday School teaching partnership. By "partnership," obviously I mean that Brad spends hours in heartfelt lesson planning to create a meaningful message which I effortlessly mock and make a mess of the moment he implements it. We're a great team.

You can imagine my delight when Brad shared the news that we were teaching Sunday School again. "All...I...need..." he gasped, lunging to the left and right as household projectiles whipped by his head, "for...you...to...do..." he roared, running as I grabbed the broom, "is...to...make...a...poster." He fell to the ground, face contorted in pain as he succumbed to a paralytic cramp.

Huh. A poster. I guess I could do that.

Three days later...

"What is that?" Brad asked.

"Your poster," I growled, frowning at his lack of gratitude.

"A tri-fold board?" he said incredulously.

I glanced around for the broom.

He leaned in for a closer look. "You drew a bridge?"

"You said that verse in 1 Corinthians acts as a bridge for understanding the bible," I snarled.

"And a train?" he pointed.

"We can paste the kids' pictures in the windows," I glared. "It's whimsical."

"This is..." he scratched his head, "AMAZING. You made the Taj-Mahal of posters."

And just like that, marital harmony was restored.

Now, in the past, Brad and I were accustomed to taking our Sunday School class on the road. Youth Sunday School is often treated like they're a band of traveling gypsies. In one room one week. Another room the next. We've held classes in parking lots and supply closets. Needless to say, we were impressed with our new accommodations.

"Look, Brad! An accordion door!" I exclaimed.  "Where should I put the poster?"

"How about next to the case of paper towels?" Brad suggested. I scooched past the stack of chairs, nearly knocking over a pile of coffee filters, to position it.  "This is nice," I beamed.

Our pastor was manning children's church in the spacious area outside our own intimate little alcove. Brad began his lesson in his usual quiet voice, having to raise it though, to be heard over the raucous singing of our enthusiastic neighbors. "They certainly are making a joyful noise," I commented, ignoring Brad's warning glare. Apparently the new Mosiman motto is: Sarcasm has no place in Sunday School. "I'll embroider that on a pillow," I'd told him. "I'll just be satisfied if we're not fired from another volunteer position," he snapped back.

As Brad referred to our poster during the lesson and I channeled my best Christian-version of Vanna, pointing out our poster's finest features, we heard Pastor adjusting the volume on his giant flat-screen TV mounted attractively on the wall. I'd accidentally knocked our poster to the ground from its precarious perch on the paper towels as I'd peered past the accordion door. Brad was challenging his students to come up with examples of whether their brainstormed bible recollections fit into the category of people, event, or idea, when Pastor began demonstrating his best Dance Dance Revolution moves for the kids. Six-year-olds erupted into Moonwalking Moves, Flossing, and Whip-It Nae-Naes. "Here, have an Oreo," I hurriedly said to our students, trying to draw their attention BACK to our poster. "They're double-stuffed."

Pastor was now dishing up hot fudge sundaes. We sighed. Brad pulled out his wallet and started handing out five dollar bills. But the heart wants what the heart wants. By the time Pastor's laser light show had concluded, we deduced that next week's youth Sunday School attendance would dip dramatically as our students would go to the underground, seeking out fake IDs that would prove that they were actually YOUNGER, to get into Pastor's class.

"I TOLD you we weren't meant to teach Sunday School," I told Brad as we sadly lugged our poster home. We had to go the long way because Pastor had set up pony rides for the kids.

What Brad doesn't know (about my vending machine addiction) won't hurt him

It was bound to happen sooner or later. Brad glanced up from his phone with a frown. "How much do you spent on the vending machines each day?" he asked. Uh-oh. I thought he was playing online euchre. He must have finally drifted over to my blog.

I pretended to think. "Oh...I don't know...a couple of times...?" I finally answered. "A week?" Brad clarified. We've been married thirty years. The man may be cheap but he's no fool. I ducked my head sheepishly, attempting to look adorable. "A day," I whispered. He stared at me in shock. "You do know the mark-up rate on that stuff, don't you?" he inquired incredulously. I sighed. Other than being completely obnoxious, I had so few faults to speak of. Why couldn't he let this go? The vending machine was my Vegas. I lived for the thrill of pushing those little buttons. The adrenaline rush when my selected treat successfully navigated its coiled contraption and plunged several snack stories down to its receivership receptacle. The horror and despair that I felt when it was unable to escape the snack slammer.

My utter lack of self-control also is a major contributing factor at play here (Oh! I have TWO faults! Obnoxious AND lack of self-control!). Should a giant bag of peanut M & Ms appear on my desk...I am going to eat the ENTIRE bag. The vending machine actually helps work as a weight management system because I eventually run out of money. For some reason, Brad was horrified by this revelation.

Accompanying me on a grocery shopping run, Brad interviewed me about my snack and lunch preferences. When we got home, he armed himself with baggies and a Sharpie marker and busied himself divvying up portion-sized bags and labeling my string-cheese.  "Look," he told me, pointing to the portions, "You have two Monday cheeses!" I glared at him. Undaunted, he proclaimed gleefully, "Think of all the money we'll save!" So, on Monday, I headed off to school with my two labelled cheeses, a baggie full of peanut M & Ms, a baggie packed with honey, mustard and onion pretzels, and a sack of mini-oranges. "You can eat all the oranges you want!" Brad encouraged me. I was as blue as a girl could be.

What Brad didn't factor in was the truck breaking down this morning. Stressed out, I headed straight to the Pepsi vending machine to calm my nerves and experience that rush. But as long as he doesn't read my blog again, I should be okay.

Teachers talk trash...or treasure? When it's "time" to walk away

"What could I do with a set of twelve mini-wiffle balls?" I wondered. "Well...beer pong is out," my friend Joanne said firmly, "But what about a variation, though, using buoyancy as the objective study?" Sold! I scooped the wiffle balls out of the junk pile.

This would not be my first experience with dumpster-diving in the teacher refuse pile. Educators are committed to the belief that someone out there would want their outdated, ripped, worn, useless stuff (I was actually thinking of another s~ word). Unfortunately, I am that someone. I conscientiously avoid the faculty room like the plague as it is laden with the off-casts of others. But the bathroom AND the Pepsi machine are in there. It's an endless cycle. "Oh my goodness!" I squealed, waddling over, "A stuffed penguin!" It was like a sign from God. I'd just spent over an hour earlier on a penguin font generator printing out the names of my students for their cubbies, delighted when I realized the U was represented by a dead cartoon penguin. How whimsical and fun!

Someone was also getting rid of a 3/4s filled notebook of black paper specifically for use with gel pens. Surely this was an accident, I thought to myself, Who would give this little treasure away?  What? Am I an idiot? Of course I nabbed it.

The lemon law is in effect, though. My friend Geri conned me into taking a beautifully bound photographic book depicting the Erie Canal. I lugged it over to my room to discover that the illustrations featured the architectural history of the homes and buildings lining the length of the 363 miles-long waterway. My nine-year-olds were going to eat that right up! As I snuck the book back to the faculty room, I spied yet another treasure: An old-school event timer housed in its own heavy box complete with convenient handle which plugs into the wall! I remember sports-type people using this little device during high school basketball games in the 80s. I plugged it in and an ear-spitting obnoxious wail filled the room...it works! I MUST have it! Turns out "I MUST have it" meant "I MUST have it until I came to my senses ten minutes later when I envisioned my 4th graders making this go off in Room 24 every other minute." Perhaps yet another sign from the Almighty. From the junk pile you came; unto the junk pile you must return. Until someone else comes along.

A shorts story that's kind of long: For better or WORSE

"First we'll mow the lawn. Next we'll trim the hedges and then, finally, we'll bed down the gardens for the winter," Brad announced, ticking off the items on his fingers while simultaneously ticking off his wife. This was, obviously, a nightmare. But as my slave labor had sloughed off to San Diego in a genius maneuver of getting out of chores, I was the one left holding the bag (of lawn clippings). "I did (idiotically) say for better or worse," I muttered as I adjusted my bright pink headphones before yanking the lawn mower cord fifty times. Brad abandoned his own mower and approached mine, pulled the cord once, and gave me a thumbs up. "Thanks," I yelled sarcastically over the sound of Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody drowning out my shuddering mower. I also offered Brad's back a finger of my own. For some unfathomable reason, in Brad's opinion, completing household tasks together (ugh) falls into the for better category. Not eating a vat of chocolate pudding together. No. Mowing the lawn...together.  That's for better? Is he crazy?!? Well...as always, the blog speaks for itself.

I have to admit having a groovy new phone has really improved lawn mowing for me. Rather than chanting I hate this fifty ka-zillion times in between calculating how much it would cost to gravel my lawn before realizing it would just be cheaper to hire a hit-man, I am instead chanting I hate this in between choruses of 50 Ways to Leave Your Lover. And thank God for Queen. I had over half of the front lawn done (crooked because I was enthusiastically head-banging blind for most of it) before I realized the song was about my life:  Bismillah! No, he will not let me go (inside) - let me go! Will not let me go! Let me go (never) No, no, no, no, no, no, no! I didn't dare air guitar because I was afraid I wouldn't be able to get the mower started again and couldn't emotionally bear another cheerful thumbs up. I'll show him where to stick that thumb. Oh my gosh. I'm so sorry. I love Brad Mosiman.

A downside of the headphones that no one told me is a medical condition called swamp-ear. It was like my ears were maple sap sweat spiles. Oh how I wish that my oddly-shaped ear canals could anchor those cute little buds! Without the necessary funds for corrective ear canal surgery to straighten out the mysterious labyrinth that is my auditory chamber, I am resigned to wearing musical ear-muffs. It is the cross I must bear until my gofundme comes through.

My lawn mowing finale was cut short when I was chased by a snake. "Time for lunch," Brad announced after finishing both of our sections.

Maybe he'll forget about the rest of his list, I wished fervently through lunch as we watched Barney parade a pageant's worth of perspective suitors for Andy through his living room. We were surprised to learn that neither of us ever thought that Helen was the right choice for Mayberry's sheriff. "I always liked Ellie," I said. "Me too," Brad agreed. Wow. Thirty years of marriage and we're still learning important things about one another. "Okay," Brad began, "time for those hedges." Oh no.

Shouldn't that be a one-person job? I mean, it's not like we can BOTH hold onto the hedge trimmers. But no. I was assigned the important role of rake master. "What are you doing?" Brad asked as I stood at the ready, holding the rake. "I'm holding the rake," I told him. "You're suppose to be raking along the bushes so I can see if I missed any parts," he said. "Really? Rake the bushes?" I was befuddled. He has to be making that up. Trimming up the forsythia bush, we encountered some limbs too thick for the hedge clippers. What to do? IGNORE THEM, I screamed in my head.  Brad was already on his way to collect another power tool. "The lilac bush could use some shaping," Brad mused as I moaned. I was now wrestling branches bigger than me into my wheelbarrow. Wait! Where did this wheelbarrow come from? The sun was beginning to set. "Where are you going?" Brad asked. "I'm dumping the wheelbarrow," I told him. "We have to dump it over the hill," Brad explained. I looked at our overgrown field to the hill in the distance. He nodded. Tears welled in my eyes. "We'll have to get the trailer," he smiled.

"What are you doing now?" I asked, squinting as dusk shaded him from his precarious perch in the pine tree. With a power tool. Balanced with one leg on the rail of our trailer and the other leg braced against the tree, Brad wrestled a branch down. And then another. And then another. Until he realized that I hadn't latched the trailer's hitch to the 4-wheeler properly. A small "who's-at-fault" debate almost concluded the evening's activities until Brad realized what was happening and accepted blame for his near-death experience so we could continue working...by the light of the flippin' moon, y'all!!! The font might be arial but the tone was pure Southern outrage. So with enough lumber to keep a saw mill busy for a week, we loaded up the trailer and headed for the hills. My job was to sit among the wood to keep it steady for the ride. I was, in all actuality, a human-kabob. When we reached our destination, Brad had to extract me like I was a little marble from a Ker-plunk game. A sudden sound, like a tear in the space/time continuum gap, had us both freezing in place. "Was that your pants?" Brad asked slowly. I stared at him, wide-eyed (by the light of the flippin' moon, y'all) and nodded. "Are those your favorite shorts?" he asked. I nodded. "I think we're done for the day," he said.

Joan's perfect gift: What's your spirit animal?

"You do realize, don't you, that you guys have been searching for your so-called chapstick cozy for over forty-five minutes?" Savannah sighed, incredulously bored yet admittedly fascinated regarding the lengths Sydney and I will go to acquire Joan the perfect present. A present that reflects the perfect balance of we care about you and we want to make fun of you. Following Joan's recent chapstick catastrophe, we knew we had a winner. 

"Do they even sell chapstick cozies?" Sydney wondered, doubting me as usual. "Of course they do," I responded confidently. This time, I actually WAS confident as I had remembered sporting a ski jacket with a handy little chapstick cozy dangling from my zippered pocket. It was plausible that I was hallucinating this memory as I don't ski but as Jimmy states in Blades of Glory, "If you can dream it, you can do it!" Buy a chapstick cozy, that is.

It turns out that there are a LOT of chapstick cozies out there. One to match any person's style or personality. Doilied, embroidered, bedazzled, glittered, plain, fancy, sophisticated, understated, and yes...leather-crafted. Score!

Our enthusiasm almost limited our vision when we stumbled onto the handmade cowhide snap-close containers with a spirit animal etched lovingly upon it. And while we were disappointed that it didn't have a retractable zip-line attachment, we decided that that wouldn't be a deal breaker. After all. according to the product description, the tube shape holder perfectly holds your daily vitamin pills or your personal secrets. "Does Joan have chapstick-sized personal secrets?" Sydney wondered. "Well...now she has a place to put them!" I said happily. Who needs a retractable zip-line when you have a place to stash your personal secrets?

Our argument narrowing down color selection was brief as Joan is more of an earth-tone girl. "Teal's too flashy," I insisted, "unless she's taking it to Vegas." But was Joan's spirit animal more hawk or bull? Do we honor her agrarian roots or her soaring spirit? Her work ethic and fiscal responsibility or her predatory nature and excellent eyesight?  Savannah, demonstrating admirable restraint, was refusing to contribute her opinion to this mind-boggling decision. We needed a break. "Are you kidding me?" Savannah gasped. "You've been debating this for almost an hour. Just CHOOSE one!" Ignoring her, we amused ourselves by reading customer comments, questions, and reviews. We were really struck with the precision employed in the craftsmanship of this product.  When asked about the dimensions of the interior, the seller responded, "Chapstick-sized." But it was while we were enjoying our little brain-break that we inadvertently stumbled onto a THIRD spirit animal! The giant panda! Despite Joan's confrontation with the docent at the San Diego panda enclosure, she LOVES this animal! It was as if fate had intervened. "Thank goodness," Savannah said as we clicked Buy Now. "Remind me never to go with you guys when it's time to buy a car."

"Wow," Joan said a couple of weeks later. "This is...great." I beamed, showing her the features. Snap enclosure. Chapstick-sized interior. Leather craftsmanship. "You can attach it to a zipper," I told her. She examined her gift happily, fiddling with the top. "What are you doing?" I asked her. Joan paused, eyeing the key chain. "I was just thinking that maybe I could add a retractable clip."

Planning your first time

Since the advent of the smartphone, I have spent the bulk of my life pleading others to take a picture before begging, "Please send it to me." From there, I would transmit the image to Brad who would then transfer it to my email (AOL--Hey! Don't judge! It's coming back into fashion.) where I would download it to my hard-drive, save in my picture file and then upload to my blog. It's a labor of love, for you, faithful blog followers.

"Don't you think that maybe it's time to upgrade your phone?" my husband asked, frowning as I vigorously shook my little blue flip-phone, Old Trusty, in an attempt to get it to work. He took the annoying apparatus away from me. "It isn't an etch-a-sketch, you know." I sighed. I'm not one to embrace new technology. I'll take an abacus any day. But during our recent failed quest to join the rest of the world mesmerized by teeny-tiny technology, Sydney and I were horrified to discover that our antiquated phones would soon no longer receive cellular signal.

So we agreed that, during my visit to San Diego, we would...sigh...try again. "Millions of able-bodied adults of more or less sound minds have bought phones without problem," I told my daughter, "We can do this." We arrived promptly when the doors opened on Saturday morning, interrupting the store manager's breakfast of yogurt with granola. Armed with a list of stupid questions, I assaulted Nile with my unique blend of charm and idiocy. Four hours later, Sydney and I were assigned the officious position of in-store greeters, had taken a smoothie break across the road,  purchased a McDonald's hot apple pie for Nile, bought two complicated phones, determined a plan best suited for my lifestyle, added Nile and his associate Gary to my Christmas card list, and was given a tutorial on something called a hot-spot. After pushing a series of buttons in a sequence that certainly must mirror the pass-code key to gain admittance to the Pentagon, Nile thrust the contraption at me. "Now you try," he encouraged. "Before I do that," I said, "could you remind me how to turn my phone on again?" It took three staples to hold my billing statement together. Nile and Gary were sorry to see us go. I reminded them that we'd be seeing them over Thanksgiving.

Sydney was snapping photos before we'd even made it to the parking lot. I shook my head sadly. Somewhere along the line, I'd failed her as a mother. "Your first time should be special," I told her. I, myself, had been planning this moment for a long time...practicing all week.

My friend Joan and I had installed a hummingbird feeder on Sydney's balcony and immediately lured in a little hummingbird named Luigi. Nasty little bugger with the heart and soul of a terrorist, attacking every other hummingbird that dared to draw near. "He's black and white," I complained. "I wanted emerald. Translucent jade. Shimmering sapphire. Instead I get a black and white bird intent on the genocide of his species." But still, he was a hummingbird, nonetheless. For a week, I sat feet from his feeder, acclimating him to my presence. Then I raised my arms, my hands close together, framing his portrait.

With phone in hand, I rushed into the apartment and stationed myself on Syd's balcony like a National Geographic photographer. Sydney flopped down on the nearby sofa and scoffed. "This is never going to work," she told me, "a hummingbird can fly up to fifty miles per hour."

"How do you know that?" I asked incredulously.

"Snapple fact," she muttered. 

Maybe she was right. Maybe I should just have wound up my lips for a selfie duck pout in the parking lot and just gotten it over with. Maybe I'm old-fashioned thinking that one's first time should be magical. And then it happened. My hummingbird hovered near. I held my breath, heart hammering. With outstretched arms braced, my thumb flicked the button. And I was forever changed. My black and white world exploded into vivid color.

Part Six of Joan and Amy's Adventures in San Diego: Four Dollar Toast is Fabulous

"Good morning, my name is Bobby and I'll be your server today."

"Good morning, Bobby," I replied, "We'll be having a kayak rental's worth of breakfast today. We'll start with 2 four dollar and fifty cent glasses of your freshly-squeezed orange juice and an order of your finest four dollar toast, my good man."

Joan and I had decided to spend the day at La Jolla (NOT pronounced with a J--WHY did I decide to take French in high school?!?!!) to tour the sea caves and frolic with the seals and sea lions via kayak tour. Sounds pretty magical, right? Sigh. Never believe the interweb.

So Sydney nervously dropped us off on her way to work. "Are you sure about this?" she asked, "Nine hours is a long time." We assured her that we were excited about our upcoming adventures and not to give us a second thought. We decided to check out the seals first where Joan conducted an extensive scent analysis.

"They smell horrible," Joan grimaced.

"You're from Wyoming County," I said accusingly, "You grew up on a farm."

"Cows and chickens smell like a rose garden compared to this," she gasped.

I was undeterred. "Take my picture," I begged. As we had arrived at the break of dawn it was just us, sleepy sea lions, and insane swimmers. "A little to the left..." Joan advised as a man emerged from the Pacific and stomped towards us. Let's just say there was NO resemblance to Daniel Craig from Casino Royal. Yes, I interrupted my writing to quick watch the clip from Youtube. Judge me all you want. He (the insane swimmer, not Daniel Craig) warned us about getting too close to the seals. The man who was SWIMMING with the seals was warning us about the dangers of seal proximity. I thanked him (the insane swimmer, not Daniel Craig...but remind me later...I DO need to send Daniel Craig a thank you note), high-fived my sea lion friend and marched off. Kidding. I also saw the video of the sea lion who practically ripped off that little girl's arm to drag her to the murky depths of the ocean floor so I have a healthy respect for sea lion proximity.

After Joan lost her second pair of sunglasses (I think they're with all the partner-less dryer socks on some remote island in the Philippines), we headed around the cove to find the kayak rental place. The walk gave us some perspective. "What is the width of the water?" I wondered, "One? Two hundred feet?" We watched as the tour guide stopped the group well outside the sea cave entrance. "Don't we get to paddle INTO the sea cave? I asked. "What's with the dumb helmet? It's not exactly white water rapids out there." We located the venue and were pleased that there were several openings. We were NOT pleased that the cost was comparable to a ticket to Disney. "It's cheaper if we rent a tandem kayak," I told Joan. "Don't even think about it," Joan scoffed, "I know how that story would play out." We decided to head to breakfast instead. "Can we just sit here for nine hours?" I asked Bobby.

"Just rent a kayak and go out by yourselves," Bobby advised, loading us up on Belgium waffles topped with bananas, candied walnuts, Chantilly cream, and REAL maple syrup. We gave Bobby a brief tutorial about real maple syrup. "Vermont is sending you their dregs," Joan explained, holding up her tar-colored container of syrup. Bobby nodded, obviously concerned. I had read the signs about paddling out into restricted waters and was scared of being arrested by the water police. "We're going to hike Expedition Way to see the secret swings," I told him. Bobby looked alarmed. "That's a long hike," he said. I nodded, taking a bite of the most delicious four dollar toast in the world (Did you see the picture?). "I think they took those swings down," he said desperately. I frowned, disappointed. "But it was on my list."

"List? What list? Let me see." Bobby scanned my paper and began muttering, "No...no-no-no-no." He turned back to me. "Can't you just hang out at the beach?"

I spotted a young man zipping by on a one-wheeled motorized skateboard. "Where can we rent those?" I asked excitedly. Bobby pulled a set of keys from his pocket and thrust them at us. "Here. Hang out at my apartment. I have Netflix."

But no. Instead we decided to hike the seven miles of coastline back to the sea cave. Joan was impressed with my endurance. "I think I see shade ahead," I'd gasp and lurch forward. At one point, we shared the shade of a telephone pole in our attempt to escape the sweltering sun. We arrived at the entrance of the sea cave where we first argued about the purchase of water. "It's tepid," I complained, my face flushed fire-engine red. "It doesn't matter," Joan said, wrestling the bottle from my shaking hands. "I will NOT pay two dollars for warm water," I stated emphatically, my vision blurring a bit. "You just paid four dollars for toast," Joan responded. I was feeling light-headed. "It had Nutella on it," I yelled.

Re-hydrated and no longer experiencing hallucinations ("Was I hallucinating or did I pay two dollars for warm water?" I asked Joan when I regained consciousness on a park bench later. "Let it go already," she sighed.), we made a decision about the sea cave based on an informal poll. "Don't go down there," a man with three kids who had just emerged told us, terror blanketing his face. Sydney called on her lunch-break, offering to pick us up but we assured her that we were having a marvelous time. "What are you going to do now?" she asked. We heard her friend Kasey in the background screaming NOT to go into the sea cave. The reported one hundred and forty-five steps decided it for us. "That's one hundred and forty-five steps down," I said, my voice shaking, "and one hundred and forty-five steps up." Joan and I stared out in silence, over the ocean. "That's a lot of steps."

"What did you do next?" Sydney asked later, horrified by our recounting. "We took a nap in La Jolla park and began rationing our Wether's Originals. "You slept in a park?" Sydney gasped. "Yup. On my Winnie-the-Pooh towel." We'd walked the beach. Were lured into a restaurant by a sign promising gelato cookie sandwiches but turns out it was a bait-and-switch and only served healthy teas and smoothies with names like butt-buster promising to sooth my chi. Chi/schmee. Naturally, we stormed out. We ended up soothing our chi with strawberry milkshakes before Savannah saved us...er...I mean picked us up from La Jolla. We have GOT to learn how to Uber.

What lies at the bottom of the ocean and twitches? Amy who was a nervous wreck: Boogie:board failure

"Let's go boogie-boarding after church," I suggested to Sydney, thinking to myself, How hard could it possibly be? There are seven year olds and grandmas out there doing it, for Pete's sake. My friend Joan and Sydney had already boogie-boarded twice during our visit to San Diego and, now, with Joan gone (Don't be sad, friends, she's in a MUCH better place now--Wyoming County), it was my turn to step up to the plate as Sydney's adrenaline-junkie boogie-boarding partner. "Mom, the waves will barely reach your knees," Sydney clarified, "I'm not sure how much adrenaline is going to play into this little adventure of ours."

Before I proceed, allow me to explain that there were several factors against me here, beginning with my admittedly unreasonable but hysterical fear of sharks. "Why would you wear that to a beach?" I snapped at a man sporting a tank top emblazoned with Jaws. It's like Smokey the Bear wearing a snazzy t-shirt advertising matches. Second, there is the matter of my limited vision. My optometrist once requested a special consultation with Brad. "If she ever loses her glasses in the woods," he told my husband, "tie a rope around her immediately and tether her to you." We laughed. He didn't. He even made a little note of it in my file Frequent followers of my blog are already well-acquainted with my marked lack of athleticism so I don't think we need to re-hash that topic.

Add to these well-established factors, a new one: What the hell is a riptide? That's all anyone talks about here aside from bragging about their grass-fed beef. You know those dooms-sayer prophets who stand on street-corners proclaiming the end of the world?I took up residence screaming about how ALL cows are grass fed. "Hay is grass, people!" I shouted to passing cars. "Silage? Guess what? Grass! You're living in a commercially-induced fantasy world designed to force you to pay four dollars more for your hamburger!" A nice man gave me a dollar for my cause. "Don't even get me started on reverse osmosis water," I told him.

So, with my heart hammering wildly, I walked blindly into the ocean, tethered to my boogie-board. I swished my ankle around in the Pacific. "What are you doing?" Sydney asked. "I'm testing the water for a rip-current," I told her. The first wave knocked me down. "That was actually more of a ripple," Sydney reported, picking me back up.

"Normally I'm a big fan of your excellent posture," she told me after she'd picked me up three more times before we'd even gotten in to knee-high water, "but maybe you should spread your stance out a bit and lower your center of gravity."

Oh my goodness, Syd must have sucked in too much of that reverse osmosis water. She was going California-kooky. "You can't change your center of gravity," I informed her as I was almost swept away in a rip-current. "You think apples are going to start falling up now?" 

"Try bending your knees," she sighed.

We finally made it out where we could catch some gnarly waves. "I think that's a shark over there," I whispered to Sydney (so as not to catch the attention of the Great White lurking nearby). "That's another swimmer," Sydney said. She clarified that the thirty sharks surrounding us were ALL swimmers before beginning my boogie-boarding lesson.

"I love your sunglasses," I said, squinting at her.

"Thanks, they're perfect for boogie-boarding because they stay flush to my face."

Well...let's just say they WERE perfect.

"Mom," Sydney sputtered, "it works better if you jump WHEN I say jump instead of AFTER I say jump."

It was a rip-wave if I've ever seen one...well, if I could have seen one. It crashed over the top of me, grinding me out like a human cigarette on the ocean floor. Sydney had to make a choice: Her sunglasses or her mother.

"I think we're done for the day," she said, brushing buckets of sand out of my hair before leading me back to my corrective lenses laying safely hidden in my shoe thanks to the unwritten code of the beach. We watched as a lifeguard pulled up in his fancy golf cart and announced to the ocean the presence of a rip-current. Sydney and I scanned the ocean for evidence. How do they know? Is it a different shade of blue? I've helpfully decided to google this so you'll know: The website was titled Learn How To Identify a Rip Current So You Don't Die On Spring Break. Very reassuring. Apparently there are tell-tale gaps in the water (Like Moses-Parts the-Red-Sea gap?). Look for discolored water (like yellow?) and an alarming line of seaweed going in the wrong direction. 

I apologized all the way back to the car. "I'm sorry I ruined our fun time," I told her as we paused to watch two Monarch butterflies playing? Locked in battle? Oh...we blushed and hurriedly moved on.

"Don't you dare be sorry," she scolded, "You tried really hard. I bet you'd be a great boogie-boarder if you could see...the sea." Who knew that my fear of sharks and rip currents would make me consider corrective laser eye surgery?

Part Five of Joan and Amy's Adventures in San Diego: Going to the beach (in a caftan) is the pits

Aside from the sand, the sweltering sun, and the seaweed...I love the beach. I even purchased a swimsuit caftan, anticipating that I would be spending time seaside along San Diego's sunny shores. But, because of my height and width, the plus-size cover-up barely covered my plus-size posterior. (pronounced boo-taye in the Mosiman house. "Not by me," Brad corrected. "Or me," Savannah added.).

"I think it's cute," Sydney reassured me, "I love the orange fringe at the bottom." "I look like I'm wearing a set of drapes," I complained. Joan shrugged, "If Scarlett O'Hara could do it...why not you?" Thus bolstered, I squared-up my shoulders and, with chin held high, slogged through ankle-high sand to claim our spot on the crowded beach.

"Isn't it just called a cover-up?" Sydney asked as we wrestled beach chairs, boogie boards, backpacks, and coolers across a seemingly endless desert, "I've never heard of a caftan." "You also never heard of a hassock but we had one in our livingroom for your entire childhood," I gasped, heat blisters forming along the bottoms of my tender feet. "Is it pronounced caf-tan?" Joan wondered, walking like a cat with tape on her feet, "or caft-an?" "Is it ka like the Egyptian god or ca as in catapult?" Sydney added with interest. She was mastering the art of beach navigation by mimicking the familiar movements of a marching band drum majorette. I was really beginning to regret this purchase.

We finally set up our spot. Unable to at first trust the unwritten code of the beach, Joan initially stood guard over her $12 watch and my cell phone from the early 80s until the lure of the sea was too much. I stayed out in the water until the ocean knocked me down. Returning to my beach chair, I read and mindlessly consumed cherries, placing each stem and pit carefully in my sandal. "A lady NEVER lets her pits show," I told Sydney, bestowing yet another timeless nugget of priceless womanly advice upon my daughter.

I watched benignly as Joan and Sydney whooped it up in the Pacific. We were easily the loudest ones in the ocean. Suddenly, a stomach cramp of epic proportions came upon me like a rogue wave and I was tossed from my beach chair like so much flotsam. I went fetal on my sand sheet. "Mom! Are you okay?" Sydney yelled, having spotted my sudden disappearance from the sea. "Too...many...cherries..." I moaned.  Of all the ways I'd imagined going, a fruit overdose hadn't even made my top one hundred. Sydney and Joan immediately began packing up.

"Wait," Sydney said, "Mom's saying something."

Joan leaned over my prone figure, pressing her ear close like my head was a giant shell and, if she listened hard enough, she would be able to hear the ocean AT the ocean. Living the dream.

"What is it, Amy?" she asked, "What can we do?"

"Don't forget my caftan," I whispered.