This "snow" way to treat a lady in August

 It was our last week-end in August.

"You know what we should do?" my husband said.

I perked right up, my mind whirling with the possibilities of the fun we could have, on this...our last few days of summer.

Motioning with his arm for me to follow him on this memorable adventure, Brad headed outside. Positively QUAKING with curiosity, I hurried after him only to be completely befuddled as he began to wrestle our generator out of the garage. I could think of NOTHING fun to associate with our generator.

"We're going to see if it starts," Brad informed me happily.

It did.

High on the success of that little enterprise, Brad then tugged out the snowblower...in AUGUST.

In our family, we are big on thinking about our future selves. For example, how is Future Amy going to feel the next day when Present Amy stays up until 2 am reading? Present Brad is ALWAYS talking about the economic planning surrounding Future Amy's retirement which is a total bummer when Present Amy wants to go to Disney. 

"Won't we be happy that we did this in August rather than in November or December?" Brad asked, as
he valiantly pulled the starter cord. I nodded, settling into a nearby lawn chair and popping the top on a Moscow Mule. On the twentieth try, the snowblower flickered briefly to life. Brad made a few adjustments and then grasped the cord again...only for it to immediately snap.  

I froze in place, knowing that the attention of the T-Rex (and Brad Mosiman) are drawn to movement. I was pleasantly surprised when my husband simply shrugged. Tossing it to the ground, Brad said, "Well, it's not going to start that way." 

Bouncing along in his ignorant bubble that this process is SO much easier in summer, he began the process of dismantling the housing unit for the cord. Easier said than done, of course. I watched (on my second drink, by now) as he tried to meticulously "fish" the starter cord through with fishing line before finally deciding "housing compartment be damned" and just magically wrapped the cord around some dangerous motor part and gave it a go, grinning at me when it worked. I got up, went in the house, and grabbed another beverage. 

Now, all that was left (of my few waning hours of summer) was to tip the heavy, cumbersome, filthy snowblower vertically at least a dozen times to poke, wiggle, twist, and lube different parts while I lamented that these same verbs could have been applied to some other fun, end-of-summer activity. 

FINALLY, thanks to Brad's diligent attention,  the snowblower turned on. Me...not so much.  

Let's just say that, for the Mosimans, the end of summer did not go out with a bang.

 

What's a zombie's favorite cereal: Brain flakes

For good or bad (Notice how, when anyone says that, it usually leans towards the bad?), I am doggedly loyal. When I commit...I commit HARD. And this loyalty isn't just limited to people. Pepsi. Russell Stover Chocolate Marshmallow Bunnies. Wyoming County. The East Coast. My friend Val and I almost came to blows over the great Hostess/Little Debbie debate on Tuesday but, fortunately, we were able to find common ground in our mutual love for insurance commercials.  

So it was, with my loyalty leotard firmly in place, that I screeched to a halt in the grocery store, my wobbly-wheeled cart leaving tread marks on the highly-trafficked tile. Usually, the appearance of my childhood favorite cereals brings about squeals of delight and an internal debate conflict of how many boxed purchases would result in cashier judgement.  But this time, I (appropriately) felt waves of horror at an unprecedented addition to my usual monster cereal line-up. 

I immediately alerted my girls.

Me: (sending pictorial evidence) What the...? Cherry flavored???!!!

Sydney: (horrified because she's been raised right) Did Frankenberry get censored? 

Me:  No...it was on the bottom shelf. As you know, it's strawberry flavored. They (insert snarl here for obvious betrayal of my cereal trust) ADDED a new monster cereal. I don't know whether to be delighted or disgusted.

Lisa:  Ha-ha. Did you get to try it? (She's new folks, so we have to forgive her light-hearted flippancy. Her use of the word "get" denotes a privileged opportunity. If...and that was a big IF...I chose to sample this unasked for addition, it would be in sacrificial service to the cereal-loving community.

Me:  I refused on principle and regretted upon passing.

Feeling dirty, I finally went back and brought it. While I would typically tear into my beloved Booberry or Frankenberry cereal before I'd even left the grocery store parking lot, the box of "Frute Brute" (It even sounds wrong when I say it) sat, forlorn, in sad exile in my cupboard as I wrestled with my consumer conscience about its purchase.

It was then that I decided to conduct a little research (What? Don't YOU research your cereal before you eat it?). As Booberry was a much-anticipated and beloved companion each October of my childhood (Yeah...and adulthood), I was not surprised to learn that it was initially manufactured in 1972, shortly following Frankenberry and Count Chocula. 

Fun fact. They artist who drew the Trix Rabbit, also created the monsters! 

But...get this:  The "Fruit Brute" (apparently he could spell back then) was introduced in (gasp) 1974! WHAT?!?! He was retired in 1982. If his abrupt disappearance was the result of a seedy womanizing scandal or political malfeasance, we are not likely to know as I was unable to find any sort of paper trail. It was interesting to note that "Fruit Brute" made appearances in both "Pulp Fiction" and "Reservoir Dogs." As Taratino also seems to have a foot fetish, I am not surprised that he went for this particular monster cereal.

If that wasn't shocking enough (Are you sitting down?), "Yummy Mummy" made its debut in 1988 but sales must have unraveled because it disappeared in 1992. How on earth did I miss this? Oh...I was 18. Cereal was not high on my list of consumables at that time.

Apparently 2013 marks the unprecedented time in history where ALL 5 monster cereals hit the shelves at the same time...perhaps a preapocalyptic precursor to climate change, Covid, inflation, gas prices, and the invasion of the spotted lanturnfly?

Alright.

Research done, it was time to move forward with my investigation.

With a winced apology to Booberry and Frankenberry, I poured myself a bowl of "Frute Brute," removing rating points just for contributing to the spelling inaccuracies of minors.  Crunching down on my first bite, I was pleased that it reflected the crunchy airiness associated with my monster cereals. The marshmallow-to-dry-cereal ratio was also similar to its fellow frightening breakfast buddies (Note-to-self: Compose a strongly worded lament beseeching the manufacturer to add MORE marshmallows to each box). Okay. I didn't hate it. But did it gain my loyalty? 

Imagine a scenario where I was adrift in the freezing Atlantic, balanced precariously upon a floating doorframe with limited space. Let's just say that I wouldn't hesitate to make room for Booberry or Frankenberry. I would let "Frute Brute" hang on to the edges but I would NOT make any promises to him unless he pledged to immediately conduct a name change upon our return to land. Count Chocula is on his own.

I wish the manufacturer had consulted me prior to this marketing gimmick. Now that I am aware of their desire for monster-expansion, I feel like I have the perfect NEW product name for their line-up:  Cereal Killer!

I hope that this little experiment has been helpful to you, the cereal-eating public. 

 
 

Don't tell me to reLAX: Diagnosis...terminal

I am happy to report that, for the most part, my mental health has returned to its somewhat precarious pre-Covid state. Unfortunately, the heart-pounding anxiety that accompanies my necessary visits to airports was grandfathered in as part of the pre-existing package. And, satanically-seduced by low air fare and a direct flight, I found myself at the fifth busiest airport IN THE WORLD. 

After spending almost three delightful weeks in my company, Sydney's beau, Douglas was a little surprised to discover this quirky little component of my character. I had, after-all, been a model house guest. Quiet. Dignified. Calm. Quiet. The only minor blip was when we finally had to print out a sign reading "Yes" after the third day of Douglas asking Sydney if I was being sarcastic. An act that, I feel, only served to highlight my time-saving, problem-solving traits. 

So, when Sydney subtly alluded to my fear of airports, Douglas thoughtfully did what he could to minimize my anxiety by printing out and reviewing the terminal map with me. I was unable to concentrate, however, because he'd printed it out in black and white. Early on in my visit, Douglas had delivered an impassioned street-side speech about the lack of sincerity of the pet owners who had posted a "Lost Cat" flier of their calico in black and white. Obviously, I had failed to impress Doug as a model house guest. 

As you can see from the picture above, my assigned gate was immediately to the right outside of TSA. Couldn't have been easier. Terminal 5 was similar in layout to my home airport of Buffalo so I set about getting my step count up during my several hour wait. In the midst of that, I happened to catch a glimpse of the airport monitor that now listed my flight as tbit. What the heck was tbit? To be determined? No. Non-American donut holes? If so, I would throw a great big ol' American fit. 

I tossed off a text to my family as I searched for answers. A nice young man sporting a "God is dope" sweatshirt was helpful. Tbit stands for the Tom Bradley International Terminal. "Isn't he playing for Tampa Bay now?" I asked. "You're thinking of Tom Brady," he said before dashing off. Sydney Lynn was calling by this time as she and Douglas were busy navigating the LA freeway on their way home from dropping me off. She had investigated tbit and was trying to direct me to the new terminal. How hard could it be?

First of all, there were a LOT of stairs. What a great opportunity to get my step-count up, I thought to myself, never imagining the insurmountable journey before me. The Hobbits had it easier headed to Mordor.

 

Three sketchy tunnel-passages and more stairs than I can count later, I began looking for energy-consuming methods.

 

 

Danger lurked around every corner.

 

A slight drop in morale here.

Sydney and Doug were following my adventures in real time...noting my slowly moving dot on Google Maps and receiving fun picture texts from me. "Should we go back?" worried Doug. "No," Sydney reassured him, "Profanity shows that she isn't giving up. Fury is better than fear for her. The dot is still moving so she hasn't gone fetal yet"

  

Jaded (and so...so tired), I would no longer be fooled by propaganda.

I somehow emerged into Times Square. Four stories of sensory overload and high-end shops. I window-shopped Rolex watches for Brad ($13,000) and Sydney texted my moving dot to stop at Victoria's Secret. I lapped Madison Avenue twice before I realized there was a tbit A & B. I finally found the hidden passageway next to the gourmet cheese shoppe. I paused but then thought, I'll just come back when I find my gate.

Sigh.

I had to be getting closer. The signs were all there. I was shooting off unhappy texts to my family as proof of life as I plodded along. Gripping the steering wheel in frustration, Doug predicted that he and Sydney would make it home before I made it to my supposed "gate." "How is she editing photos so fast?" he asked as they continued to monitor my slowly moving dot on the screen. "It's her super-skill," Sydney told him.

And then, finally, there it was. I had initially been assigned the closest possible, most conveniently accessible gate in the entire airport only to be reassigned to the furthest possible, least conveniently accessible gate in the entire airport. I passed under a pair of hungry vultures perched on the now-closed food mart gate while dodging a tumbleweed. 

 

My several hour wait time had dwindled to thirty minutes and my step-count boasted record numbers. And I was starving with only Doug's kind gift of Jolly Ranchers to my name. The cheese shoppe was an unfathomable distance away. I remembered passing a vending machine and, like a lost soul in the desert, staggered over to this industrial oasis. I gazed at their offerings with distain. Amy Mosiman would NEVER, even under threat of death, pay $2.50 for a Little Debbie product. Hostess...maybe. And the chip selection made me shudder. I would not compromise my snacking morals for this.

A determined hunt later, I found a tiny bodega open and quickly snagged a Pepsi. two string cheeses, and a three-pack of Ferrero Rocher and didn't even blink when I was charged $11.45. 

I vowed to ration my precious acquisitions.  One Ferrero Rocher an hour, interspersed by dainty bites of string cheese. I couldn't even say "thank you" to the gate agent who charmingly (ie: patronizingly) scanned my old-school paper ticket like I was a relic from Hee-Haw because my cheeks were stuffed, hamster-style, with mozzarella. The Ferrero Rocher were consumed before I'd fought my way into my confusing seat belt. Only Doug's Jolly Ranchers survived to sustain me during the Red Eye flight home.

With my clunky pink ear phones plunked unashamedly on my head, I took turns staring at the small movie monitor and out the window as I awaited the sunrise that would reunite me with Brad Mosiman.

Touch down! Tom Brady forgotten, I was welcomed by a more familiar and comforting figure. I fairly jogged up the gangway and twirled about in the nearly empty (but clearly marked) corridors. Like Dorothy, I needed a ridiculous quest to teach me that there is no place like your home airport. I mulled this analogy over as I waited patiently for my bag...realizing I encapsulated nearly all the characters in Oz from the brainless Scarecrow to the Cowardly Lion to the Tin Man with my heart fairly beating out of my chest. And, like them, I had had all I needed to succeed with me, all along. 

 

My reunion with my husband was bittersweet. Safe in his arms, I was home. Smiling, I sat next to him in the van, chatting animatedly...the memories of my traumatic journey fading away like a bad dream...when I spotted, from the corner of my eye, an item that caused all the feelings associated with that nightmare to suddenly resurface. I reached down and grabbed it by the scruff, dangling from my fingers like a mangy mutt. "What is this?" I croaked, hoarsely.  Brad glanced at the snack bag, confused. "You don't like these?" he asked, before grinning. "Better these on an airplane than deLays!" 

I came home for this?

That was just a dream: Oh no, I've said too much; I haven't said enough

We had spent days preparing ourselves for an evening of culture and sophistication. And here we were...strolling through Balboa Park's rose gardens as we headed to the Old Globe theater. We brought Doug along even though he'd been cruelly lording it over us that he'd attended "Hamlet" in the original Globe Theater in England. "I mentioned it in passing ONCE," Doug grumbled, "Is that the definition of lording?" We were also annoyed with him because he refused to attentively listen to my hourly synopses about our Shakespearean play, "A Midsummer Night's Dream." 

"Fun fact," I announced at dinner, "Three of the 27 moons of Uranus (I pronounced it academically, Your-en-us, so that Sydney and I wouldn't break out in immature giggles and lessen the impact of my fun fact) are named after the forest folk of the play; Oberon, Titania, and Puck." I included Puck's quote about "girdling the earth" which sounded very celestial but Doug was too occupied in consuming his Asada fries to digest this information.

I researched and watched videos pertaining to "A Midsummer Night's Dream"...delighting in one Youtube version that had two little girls giving a giggled explanation as adult actors mirrored their dialog and direction. I story-boarded the heck out of this play. "It's a play within a play," I announced, "A bumbling band of actors are planning to perform Ovid's Pyramis & Thisbe (upon which Shakespeare heavily borrows in his writing of Romeo & Juliet)..." 

I watched as Doug pulled down his colonial-era barrel-sized container of protein and shook it...

I laughed, "I remember the name because I keep thinking Pyramid & Frisbee instead of Pyramis & Thisbe..."

Doug picked up some hedge-clippers and headed out to prune the rose bushes. I followed him.

"There are four stories going on simultaneously," I continued as Doug searched for evidence of lacing on his leaves, sure evidence of an infestation of Japanese beetles. I provided Doug with a detailed accounting of each sub-story, setting, and symbolism as he trimmed trees, emptied the hot water heater, washed the dog, and mowed his grass. I arranged for all of us to do an abbreviated Reader's Theater performance on the beach at Coronado at sunset but Savannah and Doug took too long admiring the architecture of the hotel so we missed our window of opportunity.

The play was wonderful.

We sat in the outdoor theater...an August crescent moon peered down upon the Midsummer moon on stage as a mystical fog enveloped us. 

Doug had thoughtfully provided us with a program (which helped us to overlook his strange snack selection of Red Vines over the more appropriate Twizzlers) that shared the Afro-punk/Marvel vision behind the costumes and choreography so we could better appreciate it throughout the performance. 

It was fast-paced, energized, quick-witty, quirky, and fun. My past experience with the Bard was burdened with heavy dialogue, weighty themes, and exhausting endings. This was frivolous fantasy... flirtatious... offensive...fabulous. He may be no Adam Sandler but, my goodness, Shakespeare is FUNNY.

Sydney and I raved all the way back to the car. "I was a bit surprised by the lack of subtlety during the Bacchanalia scene," Sydney admitted. "What scene?" Doug asked, stopping in his tracks as Sydney whispered in his ear. "They showed THAT on stage?" he said incredulously. Clutching his Red Vines, Doug breezed past me to open my car door. "Three days of summation and you failed to mention THAT particular scene?" he snarled, slamming it shut. Before he entered the vehicle, I whispered quickly to Sydney, "Should I tell him about Helena's speech to Demetrius to "use me but as your spaniel?"" "Dear lord, no!" Sydney said, "he's still recovering from your fun fact about Uranus."
 

WE'RE GOING TO A CABANA? No, kombucha. AT THE ZOO? No, you're thinking "capybara." Kombucha. It's a drink. OH. GOTTCHA.

"Mom...we're going for kombucha tonight," Sydney yelled. I regretfully glanced away from an episode of Breaking Bad as I was currently power-watching the series. "Great!" I yelled back, pausing to Google the term "biznatch," (This show was doing wonders for my vocabulary), "but you'll have to remind me of the steps."

Frowning, Sydney popped into the room. "What steps?" "The steps to kabootie," I told her, "I can barely remember the moves to the Macarana, let alone kabootie." "First of all," Sydney began, sighing, "I said kombucha, not kabootie. And, as far as I know, there is no dance called kabootie. Kombucha is a fermented tea with probiotic properties." 

Wow. I was experiencing a LOT of conflicting feelings.

Relief that I wouldn't be dancing the kabootie (which I think entails a complicated choreographed maneuver using three silk scarves, a sword, and an impaled ripe watermelon), an involuntary muscle spasm that accompanied the word "fermented," and self-conscious embarrassment that I would be sharing a probiotic with the public in general. I prefer to keep my probiotic preferences private...on a don't ask/don't tell level. 

I momentarily veered off my Breaking Bad vocabulary lesson (where I just learned that it's not necessarily a good thing to take a trip to Belize) to research this purported health drink. Remember, I'm from Wyoming County...where milk is the reigning monarch of making the body good.  My initial research disclosing that kombucha is made from a mushroom turned out to be inaccurate. It is made from a colony of bacteria and yeast. It's science, people. The Frankenstein's monster of health drinks.  Or, the Amish friendship bread of beverages, banking almost two billion dollars on the global market. 

Brad's phone call interrupted my investigation. "Where are you going tonight?" he asked again, not hearing my initial whispered response. "They're taking me to Cabelas," I hissed, trying to quietly communicate my concern. "But you hate camping," Brad said, confused. "I hate dancing too," I told him, "but here we are." 

"It's unpasteurized." I later explained to Sydney, who was trying to understand why I was so nervous. "So is your apple cider back home," she calmly responded. "Do we want to have a discussion about honey?" Savannah helpfully inserted.  How could my daughters be so blase?  When they lived with me, they refused to sniff the milk container a moment past the due date! "What if I have a histamine reaction? How do I make sure the kitncaboodle wasn't brewed in a ceramic container? I could suffer lead poisoning or anthrax!" 

In light of my hysteria (also known as the product of due-diligence in researching...forgive me for being well-informed!), my daughters tried another tactic. "Let's just go for ice cream instead." "No," I protested, "I love trying new things!" After this, I was going to sample "Franch" dressing...Breaking Bad-style!

 

Orca-nizing a river trip

The only thing possibly more important than a river trip is the snack trip preceding it. There is a LOT riding on those sugar- and salt-laden decisions. Sydney's beau, Doug bravely stepped up to the challenge.  "We'll want some chips," Savannah began. Doug paused...he'd clearly navigated these troubled waters before. The Mosiman women were fiercely specific in their snack selections. "Lays," Savannah said, generously casting a wide net. Doug wrinkled his nose and the Mosby gals went for the kill as we rallied to defend a brand that, prior to this moment, we could have cared less about. Yes...another hill for us to die on (or kill Doug who had foolishly wielded his sour cream and onion sword...a weapon hidden like Lucius Malfoy's wand, cloaked in a crutch). He was saved when Lisa sent out the knights of the vale to extricate this San Diegan Jon Snow by professing her love of a rival chip. To say we were "ruffled" would not be an exaggeration.

It was obviously NOT this groups' first river rodeo. All the amenities were provided in regards to comfort, safety, and excess. I, on the other hand, was, proverbially, a fish out of water.  Instructed to get a rashguard to protect my vulnerable lily-white skin that, like the very wings of Icarus, would implode upon contact with the scorching sun of Yuma, I went full-board body armor. The incredulous reaction of my family members upon delivery did nothing to build up my confidence and self-esteem. Will all the other river rafters laugh at me? I wondered, worried. Is it too late to cancel? 

But it was too late now...swept up in a current of insecurity, I stepped, conflicted, into the Colorado River...and was immediately transformed. I self-baptized before arising anew from the transformative water.

"Do I look like a river goddess?" I asked my daughter rhetorically. Of course I did. Sydney tilted her head as she took in my metamorphosis. "You look like an orca." I reverse-breached to sink back beneath the surface. Lisa was waiting when I popped up. "She meant the colors. And how stream-lined you are. Like Flipper." Sighing, someone handed me a single-serve box wine container. Fortunately, my SCUBA suit sported a nifty cleavage zipper so I tucked my wine in and off I went. 

The soft sandy river bottom would only make occasional appearances on our journey. I would be twirling happily about like a spastic seal when I would suddenly encounter a sandbar. "I've run aground," I'd shout, posed, like Shamu on stage, waiting for a treat. I'd eventually wiggle off, plunging back to my watery home. At one point, my pod of pals had gotten away from me when I encountered another band of travelers. Worried for me, they asked if I needed alcohol. Unzipping, I untucked my toddy to reassure them that I was well-endowed. Eyes wide, they cheered before offering to let me hitch a ride back to my family.

Approaching the tubes was a risky maneuver as Savannah stood at-the-ready with spray-on sun protection. Like bear repellent, it renders its victims blind when aimed toward the eyes..."Mom, CLOSE your eyes," and cruelly asphyxiates its victim when sprayed in the mouth..."Mom, stop SCREAMING." But, eventually, when I grew hungry, I would predatorily circle the corralled tubes. I snapped at Slim Jims and crunched chips before hitting the mother-load with a Lunchable snack sandwich of crackers, cheese, and pepperoni. It was a veritable feeding frenzy. 

91% of Yuma's year-round weather is blinding, soul-sucking sun. But our sometimes over-casted day yielded a streak of lightning or two in the distance and a rumble of thunder. "Everyone outta the pool," I shouted, falling into default mom-mode. The seven sprinkles that fell had me finally join sides in the whole immersion debate.  Especially when I discovered one of those "sprinkles" was delivered, not from heaven, but by another mode of winged representative. Washing my hat off for me, my daughters reminded me that it was "good luck" to be marked in such a manner. 

We had so much fun. Lisa, hailing originally from Texas, was in charge of the playlist so she, Sydney, and I belted out country for four hours straight and I was shocked to discover that Savannah had been playing opossum with her knowledge of that genre for years. Doug, channeling his inner Rambo, jogged along the river bottom, with his weapon of choice held aloft over his head, guiding the tubes away from entanglements, confrontations, and danger...effortlessly dropping one-liners and quips to maintain morale. "Pinot? No, later." 

Sydney joined a group of n'er-do-wells to swing from a rope under the Yuma bridge, bringing pride to the family as her little T-Rex arms fought to cling to the vine. Savannah played tugboat as, after 4 hours of swimming, my legs gave out and I was no longer able to propel myself forward to our amphibious finish. 

We staggered up the ramp of the boat launch, triumphant...restored...changed. "What happens on the river,

stays on the river," Lisa shouted as I worried about re-stocking my wine repository. "Until it gets blogged about," I whispered. The river may keep its secrets but I feel no such compulsion. The Colorado has depth while I tend to be more juvenile.