Whereupon my San Diego adventures begin and my expectations are shattered...

 "What are some things that you REALLY want to do while you're in San Diego?" asked Savannah as she careened her car at 80 mph through the darkness that would eventually tether the airport to her apartment. "I just REALLY want to see my daughters," I gasped, gripping the armrest (which should be actually called arm-alerts and terrifieds) "and a koala and some free-range sea lions," I quickly added. I leaned into her hairpin turn, praying her tires to the road.

So Friday dawned, bright and early, with Savannah's two-pronged, adventure-filled itinerary designed to meet my simple, seeped-in-reality expectations. We arrived at the famed La Jolla beach whereupon my first set of expectations were immediately shattered. "Mom, the seals are over there," Savannah pointed while I directed my eighteen dollar camera at a set of seaside squirrels. I squealed, "He looked at me!" "No, he's looking at the seals," Savannah said.

"Oh my gosh," I exclaimed, grabbing my daughter's arm, "Look! Pelicans!" I then embarked on a thirty minute philosophical reflection of my self-discovered love of pelicans. "I am a girl born of Western New York," I began, widening my arms to embrace our scenery, as we walked along and Savannah, now bored, counted seals and sea lions

like a slumberer counts sheep, "raised beneath the shadow of migrating Canada geese winging their way, weather-wise, across the sky..." Savannah stopped us before we drew close to the sleepy seal less then ten feet away from us. I was looking to the heavens. "I knew the silhouette of these wardens of winter," I sighed, "they sleep in my soul and re-awaken each spring."

Giving up, Savannah sat on a bench. "But the outline of a pelican in flight," I continued, "is a frenzied flash of frivolousness...a pelican packs a surprising punch as it meanders its way, without concern, over rocks and waves. It is...," I stop short upon this sudden and startling revelation, "my FAVORITE bird!"

Thrilled to have discovered this about myself, I was ready to move on to the next phase of my adventure. Savannah slowly
followed me back to the car, answering her father's text asking for a picture of me with my much-anticipated sea lion. "She saw a squirrel," Savannah typed, "I couldn't get her back." She looked up to discover I'd disappeared. Leaning over the stonewall, I was astonished to discover twenty or more nests of web-footed black sea birds raising their babies. "I believe that they're cormorants," I told her, "and I think they are my favorite bird."

Traveling to San Diego with Neil Patrick Harris ('s book)

"I am a strong, capable woman," I muttered as Brad attempted to gently extricate himself from my death-grip farewell embrace as he (tried to) drop me off at the airport, for this, my first transcontinental solo flight across the nation. "People manage to fly by themselves every day," I murmured as I watched his speeding van disappear into the horizon before bravely grasping the handle of my suitcase full of frozen meat products, horseradish, and two butter lambs into the building. Kiosk. Check. Security. Check. Located the gate listed on my ticket. Check. Whew! I breathed a sigh of relief. This was nothing. What was I so worried about?

I settled in with my good friend, Neil Patrick Harris, having happily spotted him in my grocery store's bargain book bin. He'd coyly penned his autobiography in a "choose-your-own-adventure" format which obviously caught on quick with genre enthusiasts and people in the market for lean ground beef. With a quick mental apology to Neil, I ripped the jacket leaf off so passers-by might be more inclined to think I was reading Dickens. Some chapters were pretty close to hitting that mark. Or in Neil's case...David. 

So there we were, Neil and I, resolutely chained to gate A9, diligently checking the changing times of my departure as they came texted to my phone. A "seasoned" traveler, I also took careful note of the entertaining airport TV listings. Imagine my shock when I suddenly heard my name on the PA system. "Passenger Mosiman, please report to Gate A6 for boarding. Passenger Mosiman." Oh no! I haven't even left my own airport yet! I waved my ticket to the boarding agent, "I'm so sorry. It says A9 right here." He dismissed my apology by telling me to run. I skittered down the gangplank (Wait...is that for a pirate ship), limbo-ed gracefully under the attendant demonstration on how to fasten the seat-belt to his already responsibly-seated passengers and collapsed, filled with shame, in my seat.

Neil tried to distract me by complimenting my discovery of not one but TWO hidden pages in his book but it wasn't enough to NOT make me dread our arrival in Philly. If I couldn't properly board an airplane in my own airport, what hope did I have of EVER making it to San Diego? I would never see my daughters (or a koala) again. 

As we prepared to exit the plane, I offered a small smile to a cute elderly couple wearing matching red sweaters who were seated across the aisle from me. They, apparently, were unimpressed by my theatrical late appearance and chose to ignore me. Listening carefully (one of my BEST traits...ask Brad), I discovered that I would...gasp...have to take a shuttle to either Concourse A or B for my connecting flight. Oh no. With shoulders squared, I marched off with absolutely no idea where I was going. Turns out that the matching red sweaters of my elderly couple friends were right in front of me so I decided to follow them. You have to really know what you're doing in life to pull off matching red sweaters at an airport. We boarded a shuttle...they were, of course, delighted to see I was still with them...and we drove off into the seedy underbelly of the Philadelphia airport. Straining to hear (listening IS among my best qualities), I overheard them talking about San Diego! Yes! Confidence slightly restored, I relaxed a bit. The shuttle dropped us off and we paused, looking right toward Concourse A and left to Concourse B. I followed Red Leader One and Red Leader Two right until we arrived at the gate for SAN ANTONIO! Oh no!

With Neil tucked safely under my arm like a football, we raced back to Concourse B. I launched us onto the moving sidewalk where we made excellent time until I went to step off and stumbled about like a drunken sailor. But...we made it!

Safely boarded, I awaited the arrival of my fellow seat-mates with some trepidation. I had packed comfort-fitted, over-the-head earphones for optimal movie viewing. "They're florescent pink," Brad observed as I packed them. I smile broadly. "I know...right?!?" Looking back upon that conversation, I worried that my new friends might not like my headphones. Would I be the laughing stock of the plane? The three-year-old headed my way did NOT looked thrilled to discover I was her seatmate. I waited for her to notice my headphones so casually wrapped around my neck but she pointedly ignored me. She daintily nibbled the yummy snack that her mom handed her without offering me even a single bite. B!t<]!

I was devastated to learn that the plane didn't have little TVs. Now I just looked ridiculous! I covered by putting the end of the headphone wire in my sweatshirt pocket to look like it was attached to some sort of musical amplification device. I bobbed my head along to an invisible beat. There. Now I didn't look ridiculous.

I watched the snack cart's slow arrival with great excitement. I noticed root-beer among the many beverage choices and fought the impulse to clap my hands. I didn't want my seatmate to judge me. Before I could place my order, however, I was handed a prepackaged biscotti. You know, the kind that tastes absolutely DREADFUL any where else but is the best cookie in the world when you are eating it on a plane? Yeah. Well...I admit. It threw me. This was a fancy cookie. For, like kings and ambassadors and Dame Judi Dench. I don't think root-beer goes with biscotti. I panicked. "Orange juice," I squeaked. This trip COULD NOT be going worse.

I tried to ignore my leg cramps. I tried to ignore the hunk of dry cookie wedged in my throat. I tried to ignore the time change...I glanced at the little she-devil laying between her mom and me. Her angelic head, encased in a critter-themed travel pillow with a sleepy time mask over her eyes, was nestled on her mother's lap. Somehow...I was assigned the feet. I should turn off my overhead light, I thought with guilt. I glanced at my watch. It was past 11.  But in West Coast reality, it was a warped  8 pm. I could still hang out with Neil a bit longer...couldn't I? Sighing. I turned off the light. I soon discovered my seatmate suffered from both restless leg syndrome AND night terrors. My seatmate wasn't some precious three-year-old girl...it was a kicking Clydesdale indent on battering and bruising my ribs all the way from Philadelphia to San Diego. 

And then...finally...I was there. I did it! No...WE did it. Thanks Neil Patrick Harris for believing in me. That I AM a strong, confident woman sort of capable enough to reach the right gate, to eventually locate the correct concourse, and order her desired beverage without fear of judgment. Well...one out of three's not so bad. Kungaloosh! (Read the book...then you'll get it)

A monkey is NOT a unicorn: The Parable of the Polar Bear

There's a famous story in my house that has just about attained "parable" status ("Mom, forcing that story on us all the time, applicable or not, does NOT necessarily make it famous," interrupted Savannah. "And is there an application process to achieve the parable level or is it a series of Vatican-approved steps?" asked Brad.). Anyhoo...as I was saying...my little life-altering story occurred many years ago when Savannah was little and we had gone to the zoo in the winter-time. I was looking at the polar bear when an employee approached wheeling a cumbersome gray cart filled with fish. She began hurling whole fish into the bear pit and that animal sprang into action, snagging salmon with the efficient precision and grace of Royal's outfielder Alex Gordon. How I YEARNED to throw the polar bear a fish...but, shy as I am...I couldn't muster the courage to ask. And I have regretted it, oh, these many years.  What was the worst thing that could have happened? I lament. What? That she might have said no? But she might also have said yes! And now I will never know. The proverb that sums up this sad tale of unfulfilled fish flinging is:  You'll never feed a polar bear if you don't ask.

But what does this have to do with monkeys and unicorns, you wonder?

Well...If you don't know what a Fingerling is...consider it the Cabbage Patch doll, Furbee, or Talking Elmo of this generation. It grips your finger and emits up to forty different obnoxious sounds. My student excitedly ordered the pictured unicorn Fingerling from the book catalog and then spent weeks driving me nuts by asking me EVERY day if it had arrived yet. Until FINALLY it arrived. Only it wasn't a unicorn. It was a MONKEY! WHAT!?!?! We were, of course, devastated. Something must be done! I dashed off a quick email to the book company.

Original Message:
From: 
Sent: 3/22/2018
To: ACME Book Club Company

I have a VERY disappointed 9-year-old student whose (I'm predicting) angry mom spent $20 on a unicorn fingerling and we received a monkey. Can you help?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ACME Book Club Company
to me

Dear Amy,

Thank you for contacting ACME Book Club Company. I'm very sorry for the disappointment of your student because of an item.

The website and the paper catalog both state "Which one will you receive?". The character and color may vary, which is also stated on the website.

All ACME Book Club Company customers are important to us and we never want a child to walk away disappointed or feeling like we've let them down. If the parent decides they don't want the item, please have her contact us for resolution. 

We truly appreciate your support of ACME Book Club Company.

Sincerely,

Megan

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Oh no she didn't! Did the ACME Book Club Company just text-based detail me? I am the QUEEN of text-based detail! My 4th graders mumble text-based details in their SLEEP! We eat text-based details for breakfast! It was now officially real-world learning time. 

Room 24 was now actively involved as I set forth to wage war with Corporate America. We would not rest until justice was served or until it was recess time. Whichever came first. Armed with my own powerful text-based detail, I responded. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mosiman, Amy	Mar 22 (1 day ago)
to  ACME Book Club Company

Thank you for your swift reply. I had checked the on-line order and assumed (yes...I know what that means) that since the order was listed specifically as "unicorn fingerling" that that would result in my Sweet-Baboo receiving a unicorn fingerling. Thank you for providing me with a valuable lesson in which to teach my 4th graders about the importance of reading the fine print. Better to prepare them for the big bad adult world early, huh?

Sincerely,

Amy Mosiman #learntolivewiththemonkey

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And with righteous indignation, Room 24 waited.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ACME Book Club Company	Mar 22 (1 day ago)
to me

Dear Amy,

Thank you for your quick reply. I apologize for any frustration that you have experienced with a student receiving a Monkey Fingerling instead of a Unicorn Fingerling. I am happy to refund the parent for the item.

I refunded $20.00 to your account (customer #1792917864) for the Fingerling. Please reply with the parent's name and address so I can send a refund check to them.

We truly appreciate your support of ACME Book Club Company.

Sincerely,

Persis

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Room 24 exploded! Power to the people! Armed with text-based details and a strong sense of right & wrong, we fed that polar bear!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mosiman, Amy	Mar 22 (1 day ago)
to  ACME Book Club Company

How delightful! Thank you so much for helping me to avoid a possibly angry confrontation with an unhappy parent! Should I send the monkey back?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Scholastic Book Clubs	Mar 22 (1 day ago)
to me

Dear Amy,

Thank you for offering to return the Monkey Fingerling. It will not be necessary. Please keep the item for your classroom.

We truly appreciate your support of ACME Book Club Company.

Sincerely,
 Summer

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So be heartened, dear ones. Don't just sit there and accept when life hands you a monkey. You deserve the unicorn! Fight for it! 

Moral of the story and my new favorite proverb:  

When life hands you a monkey...demand a unicorn!

Come to me, all you whose bladders are burdened...and I will find you a restroom

As my friend, Rachel, described it, her church's version of the Stations of the Cross would be presented in an extra-special fashion this year. "It's called Shadows of the Cross," she explained, going on to say that actors behind an illuminated screen would be representing each step of this mini-pilgrimage depicting the last moments of Jesus's life. I was fascinated. Yeah...it sounded a bit like Little Bunny Fru Fru but I'm pretty open-minded to different biblical interpretations so I was definitely on-board.

Naturally, I guilted my friend, Joan into going with me. She speaks Catholic so I figured she could interpret for me if I got confused. "First of all," she hissed, shoving me unceremoniously into a pew, "people kneel and genuflect before taking a seat. We don't bow like we're meeting the Emperor of Japan." Oops. My bad.

I glanced around the beautiful church with interest. I've been begging my pastor to replace the Colonial America-themed window valances in our church for over a year now. Maybe the stained glass windows here would inspire him. I wonder how much they cost? We could do a fund-raiser. Maybe throw a spaghetti dinner.

The choir was warming up in the balcony. Oooo...a balcony. I made another note for my pastor. Rachel hinted there might be a chant or two. The only chant I have committed to memory are the guards patrolling the castle of the Wicked Witch of the West. Oh-we-oh, we-o...o! I could jump in if need be. The coffee I had had with dinner kicked in following Station Number One. I am not a child, I scolded myself, this can wait. How long could this possibly be?

 (I'll pause here while you laugh hysterically)

By Station Three, I had embarked on a mini-pilgrimage of my own. "Where are the restrooms?" I asked a mother corralling a herd of toddlers in the back. She gave me complicated directions that would take me to the front of the church, looping around the confessionals, down a ramp, through two rooms, down the stairs...never-mind...I am not a child. I can wait. I returned to my seat. I refrained from bowing this time. The narrator was talking about an empty vessel. I sighed empathetically. Station Six. Almost there. Or wait. Was I thinking about the Ten Commandments? "How many stations are there?" I whispered. Joan looked at me solemnly, "Fourteen." I reached out in horror and nailed her leg. Yes. I am certain there will be bruises. I then began implementing every yoga move known to man...I tried settling my unsettled pelvic floor. I practically jiggled Joan out of the pew. My posture was extraordinary.

Around Station Eleven, I hit what can only be compared to as a Runner's High. I've got this, I thought to myself, practically euphoric, before an overly-long song brought me abruptly back to earth. By this point, no one in that church was praying as fervently as me. Although Joan, positioned downstream from me, was probably a close second.  As the stations came to a close, the priest concluded the meaningful service with a prayer. Turns out, a significant difference between my style of worship and Catholicism, is that, in my world, "Amen" equals "Thanks, Lord...over and out." In a Catholic service, "Amen" is the equivalent of "You said it, brother (or sister)! Let's pray some more!"  After I blasphemously half-stood three times, it was over and I was hurdling pews, diving around the confessional, barreling through a room of de-robing teen-agers ("You guys were great," I shouted), and sliding down a flight of stairs while chanting The Star Spangled Banner. I slammed the door, danced a mad jig, momentarily keeled over as a panicked seizure threatened to take over my body, pounded the wall, and then...stuck the landing. No one in that church was as thankful as me.

I apologized profusely to Joan as we left the church. "The Shadows of the Cross far exceeded my expectations," I told her, "What a meaningful way to contemplate the sacrifice of Christ. I'm sorry that I distracted from that. Unfortunately, my spirit was willing but my bladder was weak."

I'm wavy dotting you...Facebook Messenger's version of "waiting with bated breath"

Learning to communicate with someone with whom you've spoken face-to-face EVERY DAY for the past twenty-two years after they've moved three thousand miles away is a little challenging. I detest talking on cell phones. I miss the big, bulky phone receivers that used to take up your entire face. It was very clear cut. You never wondered which side the speaker was on...it had a convenient handle to grasp...you haven't lived until you've swung an extended curly phone coil around like you're getting ready for a double-dutch tournament while chatting mindlessly with your best pal.

But Sydney and I are starting to get a grip on what works best for us as evidenced by this transcript from a recent Facebook messenger conversation:

Amy: Do the wavy dots mean you're typing?

Sydney: Sometimes. Sometimes it means I left the typer thing on

You're dotting me

Grandpa signed up for a discount card at Value and dramatically removed his coupon to save $5 from a $20 purchase from the little card detailing how to validate his account on-line. I was ridiculously pleased to be assigned the important task of signing him up. I carefully placed this document in my back pocket for safekeeping only to GASP discover...when I got home (cliffhanger)

What did you do?

that it was gone. "Oh no!" I gasped and immediately began tearing the house apart.

Hearing the panic in my voice and seeing the terror in my eyes, your father rushed out to the van to see if it was there...

It wasn't...

I had been entrusted with this awesome responsibility and I blew it...we wracked our brains and mentally retraced my steps...

There was no where where I would have left my rear flank exposed...

but....

Could it be that I had been victimized by an evil villain intent on assuming your Grandfather's identity to cash in on his lucrative Value deals and discounts? According to the document (that I held, so briefly in my possession), Grandpa would be given privy to some advanced sales unbeknownst to the uninformed consumer who wasn't savvy enough to get in while the gettin' was good.

In desperation, I finally conducted a self-imposed strip search. Perhaps I'd missed my pocket and mistakenly tucked the card into my lady looms. I'd never felt so violated.

omg

Although to be fair, you have discovered wads of cash in a similar fashion

It was time to face the music. I called my parents...although they put on a brave front...I could tell they were devastated. They'd really been counting on those savings from Value.

I was given one ridiculously small task and I failed.

It was a risk they took. You aren't to blame

No wonder they chose my brother to be the executor of their estate.

You would be a great executor of state! Or is that Secretary of State?

Amazing how a 30 second story can transform into a made-for-TV docu-drama...

You have a gift

Now, I realize that this LOOKS as though the conversation is a tad one-sided, but as I said before, it's a work in progress. My written communications with Savannah consist of postie note progress reports detailing damage that I've done to her apartment or a list of jobs that neither of us wants to complete for the other. So I'm going to chalk up my little Facebook Messenger chats with Sydney as a win.