"Orange" you glad you ordered Arincino?

I am, unfortunately, a creature of habit. A better-the-devil-you-know kinda girl.  I remain stupidly, stubbornly loyal...even in the face of irrefutable evidence that, perhaps, it's time to change things up a bit. One example is when my pizzeria (which I had frequented since childhood) delivered my order with a piece of metal baked in as an unsolicited topping. When I called to alert them to this potential problem, foolishly thinking they would offer me a refund, a new pizza, or credit towards a future order, they instead merely advised me to remove the offending object prior to pizza consumption. Which I did. And continued to order pizzas for years after...after diligently running them through a metal detector, of course.

When I do gather the courage to try out a new place, I tend to go meerkat. Constantly on the alert...distracted by every flicker of movement, every sudden sound, bright lights...I have trouble concentrating on the person/people I'm with, fidget continuously with utensil placement, and am rendered practically paralyzed regarding menu selections. Fun, right?

There are a host of strategies that help ease my unease but, unfortunately, it is embarrassing (and feels sort of entitled-ish) to request "special treatment." Which is how I ended up being seated right in the middle of the action...kitty-corner to a teenage boy's birthday party...across from a wall of mirrors...my back to not one, but TWO, points of entry. My husband watched me shred and drop my napkin a hundred times before encouraging me to self-advocate for a more suitable table to accommodate my crazy. Even though it was busy in the restaurant, our server was gracious and kind when I made my choked request. 

Newly situated...back to the wall, out of the way, able to observe everything...I could relax a little. "Better?" Brad asked. I nodded, still slightly embarrassed but proud that I'd been able to handle the situation without breaking down in tears or racing out of the restaurant (or both). Keeping an eye on the birthday party, the toddler who clearly wasn't a fan of Italian food, and the table for eight who only had two people currently sitting at it...I considered the menu. Stuffed mushrooms were my standard choice but another item caught my attention (two more people joined the table for eight)...fried ricotta balls. Yum! I showed my choice to Brad who was pleasantly surprised that I'd opted to change culinary lanes. 

The server re-appeared so I decided to ask some clarifying questions about the appetizer.  "How do you eat it?" I asked, a little confused but always brave when cheese is involved, "Do you serve it with crackers?" She looked puzzled. "No, you just eat it with a fork." Odd. Well, it was too late now...I was now invested in this order. But...who eats a cheese ball with a fork? (Italians, apparently.) "I'll have the Arancini," I smiled. 

"Arincino is Italian for small orange," I told my husband as I sought to educate myself quickly about my order. "So my cheese balls will each be the size of a tangerine." "Or a mandarin orange," Brad added, ever the romantic. I wondered if the wait-staff would request the four people to re-locate to free up the larger table. I also noticed that only one of the birthday boy's friends had thought to bring him a present but he (the gift-giver) also seemed to be the out-cast of the group...pushed to the end of the table and mostly ignored. The toddler couldn't be ignored as he splatted fistfuls of fettuccine on the floor. I turned back to Brad suddenly. "Speaking of languages, did you know that by spelling out the English word socks, you are actually saying That's what it is in Spanish? Eso si que es!" "That's what what is?" Brad asked. I frowned. "It." Brad frowned too. "Socks?" Now I was so exasperated that I didn't realize that four more people and my tangerine-sized cheese balls had arrived. "It," I stressed, "life...the situation." 

My linguistic lesson done (I wish I'd order linguini for the alliteration), I turned excitedly to my meal. They were the right size. I tapped one with my fork...crispy. I carefully used my utensil to extract a steaming, bite-sized sample. Brad watched my face, delighted, as my taste buds translated what they were experiencing. "That is not a cheese ball," I reported. Apparently, I had not read for clarity. Not ricotta, like I had envisioned, imagined and anticipated but...risotto, the warm weird rice/pasta wannabee. I felt betrayed...victimized by my vittles. Brad laughed. Finally, all his Spanish tutoring over Covid has paid off. "Eso no es lo que dije?" he asked, pointing to the pint-sized orange perpetrator on my plate. Glumly, I set my fork down and glared at my husband, "You know what?" I said, "You really sock!"

 

To be fair, we had such a moo-velous time, we almost couldn't rein it in

I adore county fairs...the sights, the sounds, the smells, the taste (Hello, fair fries!). I look forward, every August, with equal parts eager anticipation and loving nostalgia, to Pike Fair Week. Nevertheless, I can say, with my Loyalty Card to the Wyoming County Fair firmly in hand, that the Allegany County Fair is the olde-tyme country-est of all the county fairs. I know this may seem sacrilegious to the bulk of my less-than ten readers but bear with me...please notice, I didn't say "better." Pike has a scenic brook and bridge...Allegany has the train. You will find school-aged kids and teens sleeping in stalls, cuddled up against cows at both fairs. Pike has an old jail, a working forge, and a colonial-era kitchen. But Allegany has the porch.

Ahhh...the porch.

Growing up, my daughters ran safely wild at both fairs...enjoying the animals, exhibits, and attractions. After a bit of wandering, my friend Deb and I would select our favorite fair foods and then settle into the cool shade of the porch to watch the fair go by. If we were lucky, some entertainment would be being featured at the nearby pavilion. 

Those days are long gone. But Brad has heard my descriptions of my fair adventures countless times and this year, made sure that, instead of missing the good ol' days, we would work on making some new memories...living in the present and looking forward to the future rather than thinking wistfully of the past.

Which is how it came to be, that Brad Mosiman found himself planted on a porch in mid-July, listening to The Uke-ladies belt out Beatles hits ("Is that Tom Petty they're playing?" Brad asked incredulously, admiring their courageous gall..) to watch the fair go by. And, oh...Does. It. Go. By. Tattoos and temper tantrums...wanna-be cowboys and the real deal...prepositional gasps from the porch over under-dressed, under-aged, under-supervised teens heading over for a round of "I Got It," and us worrying about what they're gonna "get." "Remember, a lady at the fair always keeps her calves together," I yelled. Wagons rolled by...strollers strolled...and the senior scooters plowed through the crowd. 

We eavesdropped beneath the eaves; Scoring, at one-point, a one-sided cell phone narrative argument between an exasperated teen girl battling with what we assumed was her boyfriend while her supportive brother stood by, nursing his ice cream cone for an admirable length of time (Three Uke-ladies songs worth) while occasionally stroking her arm and back soothingly. "I don't think that's her brother," Brad announced. Our heroine was now gesturing madly and pronouncing the thoughtless villain on the opposite end of the line "dead to her." Her brother (or caring friend) moved out of range to shield his vulnerable frozen treat. The phone call ended, the two characters walked off...holding hands. I gasped again. 

The porch also serves as an excellent vantage point for the runway of fashion do's and (please) don't's but, more importantly, it serves as a handy Lazy Susan featuring the smorgasbord of delectable fair food options available. It was this endless carousel of cuisine that finally drove us off the porch despite the lure of the next featured act at the pavilion:  Clogging.

We time-traveled through the display train, showed our age and revealed how utterly boring we've become by oogling the lawn mowers and fan-girling over a yard-sized excavator that, with the fair special, came with TWO extra buckets. Remember when I used to beg for puppies? We spotted an 1800s general store sled that was, rightfully, on display in a nook protected with a chicken-wire shield. The "Do Not Touch" sign was more like a welcome mat at the exhibit featuring antique adding machines and store registers. 

And then...the barns! I kept our daughters updated in real time by ("Thanks, Mom," they texted back gratefully.) sending pictures of each animal encounter. It was tough to decide who squealed louder...the piglets over their position at their picnic or me over the piglets. We marveled over the cleanliness of the cows (and some of their GIANT heads...wow!) and appreciated such loving devotion to rabbits and guinea pigs that they were provided with hammocks, toys, and exercise equipment. Brad bonded with a goat and I went insane when not one, but two, gentle giants extended their long necks to offer loving arm nibbles. "Why aren't you taking my picture?" I cried ecstatically at my husband as I returned horse hugs, kissing their soft noses and thanking God for this fair.

We'd heard rumor of a rodeo thanks to our porch exposure and could now see the grandstands filling up. I'm "on the fence" about rodeos. I definitely appreciate the skill of humans and animals alike. I love when a working animal can be utilized, humanely, in a purposeful way. But, of course, I've also heard the horror stories. I am also aware that I am an uneducated, under-informed, arrogant, self-righteous zealot that needs to always recognize that there is ALWAYS a bias (Example:  Read about the flank strap from rodeo promotion sites and then animal welfare sites...QUITE the difference), that there will always exist extremes, and that first-hand knowledge is a good place to start in developing an opinion. 

It was fun. Patriotic. Americana. 

There appeared to be more danger to the humans than the bulls.

Watching the bulls quickly kick off their riders and immediately return to the gate was gratifying. "I'm done...I would like to go back to my stall and eat now." I am not so delusional to believe that abuse does not occur in the industry...abuse occurs in ALL industries. But these are expensive animals and the whole world is watching...both of which greatly encourages the best possible treatment. Personally, I still prefer the horses:  I love watching barrel-racing and roping. Before this experience, I strove to "steer" clear of bull-riding and bronc-breakin'. But now I realize that my opinion wasn't utterly fair as it really was, just, my first rodeo.

And finally...the food. Remember Templeton the Rat's wild scavenging run through the fair from Charlotte's Web? Yeah. Only my awareness of a night filled in gastric distress kept me in check...how can one decide? I made an impulsive miscalculation in my lemonade order. Number 1:  Always look for bees...they are your first visual proof that you are at an authentic lemonade stand. Number 2:  If there are pre-filled lemonade drink containers standing ready...run away. I failed. "How do you know?" Brad asked, bewildered. "No gritty sugar residue on the inside of the cup," I explained sadly, sipping my sub-par beverage. I also messed up by holding back in front of my husband as we "self-sugared" our fried dough. We ALL know that, left to her own devices, Amy Mosiman would coat that confection with at least two inches of snow. But, no, I wanted to appear like a rational, reasonable person who exercised moderation and self-control. What an idiot.

But I scored BIG on kettle chips! Disappointed, I left the long line for curly fries after watching the poor vendor slaving away furtively at his hand-held potato cork-screw cutting machine. We wandered and weaved through the crowd when I spotted the sign. We drew close to see the daunting $10 price and I watched Brad's poker face go blank as he asked if this was what I wanted. I knew a responsible, economically-minded person would say "No." While I stared at that ridiculous sign and thought about how, at the grocery store, you can often buy three family-sized bags of chips for the sale price of $3.99 and sometimes at the buy three/get two free...Brad Mosiman stepped up to the counter and made our order. 

We chose...wisely.

"These are incredible," Brad remarked as we made our way through our generous, punch-bowled portion of steaming hot, salty, AMAZING chips. We had returned to the rodeo in time to pray for the injured bull-rider being taken away in an ambulance and to catch the beginning of the team calf roping. The rodeo experience is THAT much better when accompanied by the right snack. Our potato chips disappeared right as the storm appeared...sending people (and animals) scrambling for shelter. We made it safely back to our vehicle and headed home...so happy.

"Did you have fun?" Brad asked, carefully driving us through the storm (Please notice significant metaphor about my life there). Grinning, I told him, "It was incredi-bull!" "So have you changed your mind about rodeos then?" he wondered. I thought about that for a minute. "It's too soon to tell," I answered, "maybe I need to start with something smaller." "What's smaller than a rodeo?" Brad inquired. "A sidewalk-eo!" Brad groaned. "Maybe next year, you should go on your own." I laughed, "That's fair!"

 

We're not "lion"...we didn't cheat!

Game night. Otherwise known as a way for Geri to showcase how stupidly inept the rest of us are compared to her...ugh! Any game that takes over 15 minutes of direction-explaining (allotting, of course, for another 15 minutes of questions and clarification) is certain to be in Geri's wheelhouse. But the food was good, the drinks were generous, the house was charming, and the company was kind...no, scratch that...not ALL of the company was kind...one team was immediately deemed "The Mean Girls" for their unsportsman-like behavior, unfounded accusations, and unnecessarily loud and intentionally obnoxious  "time's up" noises. 

By God's good grace (and a late entrance), I ended up on the perfect team, comprised of three laid-back
ladies with a complementary blend of talent, enthusiasm, and convivial wit with a confounding side of "We could care less" which would suddenly surprise the one who insistently ordered it up (in spite of the warning asterisk listed on the menu) with a sharply bitter, lingering aftertaste*.

No one (not even Geri) knew what the hell was going on. My team...cruelly (and for no discernible reason except to discredit our good names and reputations) was called The Cheaters (The game had barely even started yet!) but Bev, Tracey, and I recognized that one must not fight the current of a riptide...we instead decided to go with the flow...like our courageous, underdog forefathers, who were cruelly mocked during the glorious Revolution with a Weird Al parody of a pub shanty (Yeah, ya Lobster Backs...Yankee Doodle THIS! And stick your feather THERE!), we embraced the name and made it our own...The Cheetahs (complete with choreographed celebratory high-fives with sound effects).

Generational differences soon made a painful appearance:  Some in the crowd easily recognized the introductory music for The Smurfs while others thought it was a polite word for flatulence. One of our youngest (and loudest and meanest and most obnoxious) members didn't know who Carol Burnett was and was almost immediately expelled from all future Game Nights. 

Even though no one actually had a full handle on the rules, everyone (except the laid-back ladies of The Cheetahs) loudly voiced their objections to any perceived infractions. "She used TWO words," one player yelled. Geri who self-appointed herself judge-and-jury of all things (No one opposed her since she controlled the flow of liqueur) yelled back, "Opposed...stinky was a brainstorming word leading to the word dirty which determined the correct phrase of "Dirty Harry." It goes without saying that a lot of pouting and sulking accompanied ALL of Geri's decisions. Geri, herself, had to be brought into line when, in a fit of frustration, she leaped up behind the clue-giver who was pointing frantically to the sky at pretend "stars" to flash Spock's classic Vulcan salute. "How hard is it to give a clue for Star Trek?" she shrieked. "Wow!" whispered fellow Cheetah, Tracey, to me, "I could hear her even with the malfunctioning hearing aide in my back ear." "Which ear?" I asked, worried that maybe she wasn't hearing my clues clearly enough. "Don't worry," she said, winking, "I can hear with my final-front-ear." Naturally, as we howled with laughter, The Cheetahs were again accused of guilefulness and subterfuge.

The limits of mimicry and hand motions were sorely tested. We delighted at Geri racing at Bev to be
swept magnificently into the air a la  Baby and Johnny in "Dirty Dancing." That was pure, undisputed art. She (Geri) threw (another) fit, disgusted by a player who, for "Psycho," slashed horizontally rather than vertically but as it was a question of execution rather than rules, the point was not disputed...only mocked. However, another player holding up her hand three times to flash 4-5-1 for "Fahrenheit 451" seemed completely unfair. "Over-ruled," our judge declared while I seethed and stormed that, by that decision, I might as well finger-spell all the clues using ASL.  Geri eyed my near-empty glass so I elected to die on another hill. 

We roared as Rachel rocked her clues...ribbeting her way across the floor for "Frogger" and then repeatedly racing out of the room to peek back in for "Terminator." Everyone was stunned when Bev hummed the Addams Family tune and I bellowed, "The Munsters!" (Yes...we were, again, immediately accused of cheating.) When given the opportunity to pass, Virginia littered the floor with clue cards like they were confetti. And as fast as our flower girl tossed down her petals, Rachel raced to pick them up so "The Cheetahs" couldn't see them. "Boy, she has a LOT of faith in our vision," Bev whispered. 

"The Cheetahs" missed a first place finish by ONE point but we celebrated our second place victory with our signature high-five with sound effects. By tomorrow, NO ONE will remember who placed first, second, or third. But they will remember our choreography AND how a small group of under-estimated, misjudged, and maligned women overcame incredible obstacles, rising above the malicious jealousy and mean-spirited bitterness around them to compete competitively while modeling gracious, dignified behavior; cheering on their opponents and congratulating all for their efforts. Cheetahs-of-the-World...UNITE!

("Don't listen to her," Geri interrupted, finally managing to infiltrate Amy's blog, "she's trying to pull a fast one.")

*Refer back to Paragraph 1:  Sub-section Two: Mean Girls

 

An a-bridged adventure with Deb

To borrow from the educational placard displayed on a giant rock tucked unobtrusively in a secluded private park ("I'm not sure your descriptors are altogether accurate as the park's entrance falls directly between the hotel and a liquor store," my friend Deb said gently, in an attempt to clarify.), two youthfully middle-aged women undertook a series of adventures...they had restless natures and a deep interest in the nature sciences. "Do you want some bug spray?" Deb asked as we parked. "I forgot to pack snacks," I said dismally, wondering if such negligence warranted postponing the trip. 

As Deb extolled the many virtues of this visit...physical exercise, nature, fellowship, education...I agonized about revealing even more of my character flaws to my patient friend. As we perused the history of John Wesley Powell, a figure so impressive that we must commemorate his achievements on a ROCK with no less than five paragraphs and the same number of photographs. I'd never even heard of the guy but I was so consumed with jealousy regarding his biographical achievements that I indulged in a bit of interpretive reading:  "It says here that he went to college for seven years but never attained his degree," I pointed out petulantly. Deb squinted and leaned in closer to the giant rock. "It says he was teaching there...I'm not sure how much importance they placed on the degree." I then directed her attention to his evident disharmonious family-life. "He pursued study against his father's wishes," I sniffed. How disrespectful. 

Realizing that I was acting out as a result of some inner conflict (low self-esteem, lack of confidence, self-loathing and the shocking self-realization that I have achieved nothing of significance  beyond spending 5/8s of my life watching sitcom re-runs), Deb attempted to distract me by drawing my attention away from the rock and to the route leading to our little hike. I brightened a bit! "Look! A bench!" Relieved that her ruse worked, Deb assured me that there were plenty of benches along the way. "Let's review them all," I shouted, racing to the first one, "We'll rate them on a Four-Splinter Scale." 

Our little alcoved arboretum ("It's mostly a parking lot to a little kayak launch site," Deb attempted to clarify. "Although," she admitted, "it is landscaped nicely."  was tucked sweetly between the gentle Genesee River and a bouldered barricade. "That's a retaining wall providing the boundary line of the asphalt plant," she informed me. I let out an abbreviated sigh of relief as I had been taking measured, economical breaths since we parked the car. "Is that why I smell oil?" I asked, comforted that the smell wasn't emanating from the river. 

Armed with Deb's impressive walking stick that I am certain she purchased from the Shire, we departed from our delightful little park ("Finally," muttered Deb, wondering if she would be using the stick as a walking aide or a shepherd's crook to prod me along) to our goal...a pedestrian bridge crossing the Genesee River. Fortunately, that's where we encountered another bench! In retrospect, it turns out, organization-wise, that my ignoring Deb's worry that it would look like I was flashing gang signals, my holding up the ordinal numbers associated with each bench was very helpful! Bench No. 3 slipped a bit on the scale due to some weathered wood on the back rest. It featured lovely metal arm rests though and was nice and roomy. We rated Bench No. 3 a 2 on the Splinter Scale. Benches No. 1 and No. 2 were well-manufactured and maintained but both faced in on the pavilion rather than focusing on the obvious landmark more worthy of restful meditative inspection; the river, so we assigned a rating of 3 on the Splinter Scale. 

You wouldn't have known it by listening to us (me) but we loved
the bridge. It was wide ("Why is it so wide?" I complained, sensing an unnecessary wasting of my tax dollars in the air). You crossed a river which is ALWAYS delightful (but you can also cross the river using that roadside sidewalk over there that I can throw a stone to...a challenge that Deb immediately called me on...sadly, there were no rocks available. "I bet there's a rock over there on the road," I predicted.). "Why did they build this?" I groused, having a wonderful time walking, waltzing, skipping, and singing on the bridge. Later investigation revealed, to our great relief, that the 1.7 million dollars spent to construct an uninterrupted continuation of the Greenway Trial  to avoid the danger of walking/biking on the dangerous streets of Mount Morris was provided by the American Recovery and Investment Act. See...no tax dollars involv-...

Oh! And it's wide to allow emergency vehicle access (in case they can't use the road a stone's throw away). I was particularly excited to learn about the $80 gold nut with a GIANT wrench that were used to commemorate the coming together of the two pieces that comprised the constructed bridge...think Transcontinental Railroad. I almost called Deb later to demand we visit again to view the gold nut but apparently it was only used ceremonially. But where is the nut now? "Do you really want me to answer that?" asked my friend. 

And if we weren't already having the time of our lives on the bridge (an experience that actually exceeded my expectations...my goal was just to walk over it...not question, research, investigate, and conduct philosophical musings about it), we noticed several locks attached to the slender railing cables. I was more than happy to obnoxiously inform Deb that this is a traditional throw-back to the famed Lock Bridge (Pont des Arts) in Paris where committed couples perform a ritual symbolizing their relationship...attaching the lock permanently to the structure and then, together, flinging the key into the Seine to permanently pollute the water. As we took note of the many locks, I suddenly noticed, upriver, a heron in the distance, standing along the riverbank. I, of course, pointed this out to my friend so as to fulfill the nature-appreciating part of our journey. "What is that in front of it?" she wondered, as we squinted solemnly together. "Is it a stump with a cup on it or an eagle?" This was surely a situation worthy of speculation. We stood, as statues, staring up-river. "Why didn't we bring binoculars?" Deb lamented. "And snacks," I added sadly. Our patience paid off as "the stump" eventually shook out his feathers. 

It was time to "get over" our infatuation with this bridge and move on. The remainder of the trail was lovely...shaded, pest-free, with mostly grass-covered cushioning for our feet. Deb used her stick to swipe forest debris from the path and occasionally twirling it like a drum majorette. Our final "official" bench was a Cadillac...a sprawling seat, ample arm-rests, composed of durable composite lumber. Had it been positioned subtly beneath the welcoming shade of a nearby tree rather than exposing us to the inescapable skin-shriveling rays of the sun, this bench came closest to a perfect 4 out of 4 on the Splinter Scale.  (Pause for topic-related joke:  How do outer-space aliens rate our galaxy? One star!) "How far did we walk?" I asked, estimating a reasonable two miles. "Ehh...more around one...if we round up generously," Deb countered, relaxing on the bench, soaking up the sun while I sweated and scanned my surroundings for snacking opportunities. "Wow! Four benches in a one mile rotation! That's amazing! Maybe we could become hiking influencers targeting an audience of reluctant walkers. We could include in our rating-scale the number of and quality of benches, accessibility to restroom facilities, and snack opportunities. Deb stared at me in obvious wonder. "I can't imagine why we don't walk together more."

We walked the dangerous streets of Mount Morris back to our vehicle and even managed to cross successfully to the opposite side...this despite one biking blogger, who in reviewing her trip through this section of the Greenway Trail, warned her readers that New York is "no New Jersey"...(I have no need to state bash...I have very pleasant memories of a hippo named Buttons who happily inhabits the Philadelphia Aquarium, located, oddly enough, in New Jersey). Apparently in New Jersey, state residents stop for bicycles while this blogger prepares her audience that no such courtesy is granted here. "In New York," she wrote, " you can wait 5 minutes for all the cars to stop streaking by  ("in Mount Morris, posted speed limit 30 miles per hour" Amy inserted with agitation and disbelief) (or hope a non-local stops for you!" ). (I will not share my opinion about her implication here...she obviously has so many friends that she thinks nothing about criticizing an entire town/state...no judgement...I have been pretty harsh myself with Connecticut, California, and Texas but, c'mon...they stole my children from me!) 

So, anyway, as we (cautiously) walked, I was enthusiastically willing to broaden my "bench scale" to include all sitting opportunities as I didn't wish to discriminate. "Those are for sale," Deb said about the lawn chairs outside the hardware store. "Display," she dismissed as she wrestled me out of an Amish buggy. "Bedbugs," she warned as I eyed up a mattress leaning against a tree. We made it back to our palatial park and decided to conclude our adventure in a manner befitting the spirit of John Wesley Powell. As he spent four months walking across Wisconsin...some might say lolly-gagging...I mean, really...how big IS that state...so did we, spend two hours walking about a mile (We looked at that stump a LONG time).  He rowed (a lot) the Mississippi from Minnesota to the sea, the Ohio from Pittsburgh to the Mississippi, ect.ect.ect...as we ventured down to the kayak launch and discussed water travel. His exploration of the Colorado and the Grand Canyon is vast and he is among the first non-indigenous people to summit Long's Peak...which means he was probably lucky number 1,471 of over-all "peakers" up to that point. So too, did Deb and I venture out of familiar territory to:

Dunkin' Donuts! Hence fulfilling both our sitting AND snacking requirements! With an adjacent bathroom facility (deemed "sparkling clean" by a sign on the wall), Dunkin' Donuts received a 4 out of 4 on our Splinter Scale! Well...wait. Let me amend that. We missed out on the AMAZING opportunity for fireplace-adjacent seating because a hidden figure, unseen except by their sneakers perched against the table littered by a PIZZA BOX, poached our place and loitered way too long. For this reason, Dunkin' Donuts rated a 3.5 Splinter Rating. 

As for the "sparkling clean" restroom...were it capable of asking me for review on a scale of 1-10, I would cheekily respond, "You're an eight!"

"I can't imagine why we don't walk together more," Deb mused.

The definition of "fasteners" is riveting

Brad parked the van before turning to smile at me. "We just need to pop  in super-quick." I sighed. It's not a lie if you believe what you're saying is the truth. So I begrudgingly followed my husband into the store. The warehouse. The vacuumous echo-chamber of exploding budgets. The lumbering labyrinth of lost souls. Brad has an internal compass that seamlessly guides his way with the smooth, swift precision of Ariadne's thread while I stumble behind, blindly grasping at the hem of his shirt. 

"We just need a few straight boards," he said, sorting through the pile of straight boards. "I don't understand," I said, as he handed me the straightest of the straight boards to place on the wobbly cart. We had two carts going as he helpfully sorted warped boards out of the display pile. "What don't you understand?" he asked, squinting down the length of his next selection like he's sighting in a rifle. "In a grocery store, you buy groceries," I began. "Uh-huh," he mumbled, moving up the mountain of straight board to reach a particularly straight-straight board at the top. "In a clothing store, clothing." Brad descended, cradling his choice like Moses with the Ten Commandments. "Rightie-o," he agreed, making a swap on our wobbly cart. "Stuff-mart is considered a hypermarket, often combining what we know to be a department store and a drug store with a grocery store." Brad paused, impressed, before addressing my concern. "So you want to understand how this store is classified as it doesn't seem to follow a prescribed definition as it is not strictly a hardware store, landscaping/garden center, or a lumber yard."

I nodded as I watched several birds fly by. This does NOT happen in a grocery store. Maybe this was an aviary? 

I flipped the one hundred varieties of light switches (including panels, dials, and one sort of weird roller ball thing) while Brad solved a complicated mathematical equation to determine if he had enough straight boards. I wondered vaguely what project we needed these boards for before I got distracted by a display of toggle switches. 

"We just need some fasteners and then we're good to go," Brad announced, interrupting the fun little beat I'd created over there in toggle-town. We jogged half a football field down, balancing our boards on the wobbly-wheeled cart. We entered the fastener aisle. 

Life-altering.

When Brad said fastener, I had pictured those little bendy metal clips on the back of manila envelopes. I vaguely wondered why we would need these for our project.

Did you know that nails are considered fasteners? Along with screws, nuts, bolts, and even ratchet straps. "We have all this stuff at home," I commented, both bewildered and enlightened. "Wait! Are magnets considered fasteners?" Brad sighed as he searched. "It's an umbrella term...anything that joins two or more items together is considered a fastener." He pulled a handful of smooth, half-dollar sized silver donut discs out of a nifty little drawer among a wall of thousands of nifty little drawers. A fancy fastener apothecary. "Zipper?" "Yes." "The end of an earring?" "Yes." I gasped. "The Flexn' Seal on the sandwich bags?" He stood. "We're done."

As we wheeled our wobbly cart to the register, I pondered these broad definitive terms. This store is too large to be defined...the best its interweb descriptor could do was to label it a home improvement retailer. But we just passed a display of cargo pants. Do the button fasteners validate their shelf presence? Who walks into a home improvement retail establishment with the INTENT of purchasing pants? I know when I walk into a grocery store, I am going to find milk and bread and eggs. My only chance encounter with a bird will be in the meat department. I will not have to deal with the stress of being faced with an endless aisle labeled "Things made with flour." 

I'd made it to the register but had lost Brad. Not a big deal in a grocery store. I can usually find him looking for chocolate almond ice cream. Who knows where he could be in this home improvement retail wasteland? 

Of course I found him by the dry wall (Does wet wall exist, by the way?). Sadly, we didn't have enough room in the van to make such an ambitious purchase. "One project at a time," he said encouragingly. Wait. There's ANOTHER project? What's the first one?

 

 

(You choose) Bright as a button/Button your lip: Pushing the boundaries of blog titles

 I am a responsible, highly-capable, intelligent adult.

 I am a responsible, highly-capable, intelligent adult.

 I am a responsible, highly-capable, intelligent adult.

Maybe if I repeat this mantra fifty times or more, I might be able to convince myself that it's true. After the hypnotic hum of one hundred repetitions, maybe you'll even begin to believe it too.

...

Nah.

Why is it, that when I fail at the most basic of human tasks, I must do it in front of a witness? I am no stranger to pumping gas. In fact, I feel that my strong background in fueling up combined with my stored-up bank of relevant extraneous fun facts almost qualifies me as expert-status. Think Marissa Tomei's gripping courtroom testimony on My Cousin Vinny:

PROSECUTION:   Your Honor, I object to this witness -- improper foundation. I'm not aware of this person's qualifications. I'd like to voir dire this witness as to the extent of her expertise.

JUDGE:  Granted.

PROSECUTION:  While the Court is well-aware that you are a barely-hanging-onto-your-job 4th grade teacher oddly obsessed with convincing 9-year-olds to believe that writing daily haikus and identifying prepositions will be instrumental components of becoming successful adults, what qualifications do you possess that would lead us to the assumption that you are an expert in the subject of pumping gas?

AMY: I have been pumping gasoline into my vehicles since I was 16-years-old. (Laughs, winking at the jury.) So, I guess you could say, I've only been pumping gas for about 5-years!

PROSECUTION: Let the records show that our witness cannot perform simple math calculations. She is clearly MUCH older than stated. Let's assume, based on her posture, swollen ankles, squinty eyes, and swinging underarm fat, that she is on the far side of fifty.

AMY (indignant): Your Honor! It was just a little joke! (She shifts to sit ram-rod straight, arms clenched tightly to her side, ankles crossed) I'm 53!

JUDGE (scolding): Is justice a joke to you, Ms. Mosiman?

AMY (head lowered, ashamed): No, Your Honor.

JUDGE:  Proceed.

PROSECUTION:  Now, Ms. Mosiman, if you could explain, beyond the basic refueling skills that EVERY automobile operator possesses, your expert-level qualifications.

AMY:  While for "starters," (chuckles, glances at stern face of judge before continuing), I began my elevated journey of getting gas with an '82 Ford Granada. Each time I stopped for gas, I would have to pour a bit of dry fuel into the fly-wheel carburetor.

JURY (murmuring)

PROSECUTION: (momentarily stumped by this startling revelation) Why would you do this?

AMY:  My father told me to.

BRAD (in the gallery, slaps hand to his forehead and slides down in his seat)

PROSECUTION: (speaking as though to a child) And WHY would he have told you to do that?

AMY:  To put off having to pay for a new fuel pump. The dry gas works to prime the engine.

PROSECUTION: (falters a bit but then recovers) Have you ever run out of gas?

AMY:  (nodding) A lot of times.

JURY (murmuring)

BRAD (in the gallery, nods as well, slides down so much that he can now barely be seen)

PROSECUTION: Was there ever anyone with you?

AMY: Yes.

PROSECUTION: Who?

AMY: (looks down) My children.

COURTROOM GALLERY erupts with incessant talking. How could she! Didn't she think about the babies? She calls herself "a mother?!?"

JUDGE bangs gavel: Order!

PROSECUTION:  The Prosecution would like to call Brad Mosiman to the stand!

Brad Mosiman is sworn in and then gives his account of the countless times his wife has run out of gas including the humiliating story of when she once called him and, when he asked her where she was, she told him to look out the living room window where he could see her parked an 1/8 of a mile away up the road. 

PROSECUTION:  Your Honor, I believe that the evidence shows that Ms. Mosiman should be excused as an expert-witness and I would further contend that, as a result of what we've learned here today, her license to operate a vehicle should be immediately revoked.

JUDGE:  Hold on. I am interested in what Ms. Mosiman said were her "fun facts" pertaining to petrol replenishment.

AMY:  I don't suppose that my knowing not to smoke or use my cell phone while gassing up count as "fun facts?"

JUDGE shakes his head.

AMY:  How about my knowing never to gas up with a green-colored pump handle?

JUDGE: Case dismissed.

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

I am also what is known as a Gas Pump Princess. For a decade or more, these delicate, slender fingers have rarely touched the bacteria-laced levers that trigger the fuel dispenser. Brad Mosiman, my ethanol enabler, stands staunchly between his true love and the tank...refusing to let the fumes find their way to his fair bride. Only when our Tops points are set to expire, doeth my knight falter in his convicted quest.

OR

I was driving up to the airport with Savannah to retrieve Sydney and Doug. We stopped at the Pepsi store and, while Savannah raced in, I decided to purchase some petrol. How hard could it be? 

"Mom, what are you doing?" Savannah asked as she approached. I was carefully cradling the pump nozzle to my chest, skipping over the long hose like a jump rope. Face, bright red, I confessed, "I can't figure out how to open the little gas door." "Did you push it?" Savannah asked, ignoring me as I immediately broke out into the Salt-n-Pepa song. I shoved the little door angrily. "Yes!"

Savannah moved me out of the way and re-traced my steps along the journey of "Reasonable Places to Put a Gas Door Release Mechanism." "I think we have to call Dad," she finally said after we'd inadvertently popped the hood, depressed the windshield washer solvent, and triggered the horn. I reluctantly called Brad who tried to start us on the journey to nowhere again. "Is Savannah Face-timing me?" he asked before disappearing from my phone. She showed him the vehicle and then, confused, he asked again, "Did you push the fuel compartment door?" Frustrated, I used both hands for dramatic effect and the door effortlessly popped open. Savannah was about ready to kill me. "Thanks, Dad," she told my husband graciously before turning back to me.

"Why are you just standing there?" she asked. I was stupefied. "There's no gas cap," I reported, still cradling the pump nozzle. Using her hip, my exasperated daughter nudged me out of the way, grabbed the nozzle, and breached the rubber O-ring. "I think I'll drive us to the airport," she suggested gently, handing me my Pepsi. I climbed passively into the passenger side as she worked to re-close the hood. Our eyes met as her fingers felt to find the latch. "Mom, is the van still on?" "No," I assured her, "I pushed the button." Savannah hopped into the driver's seat and jabbed the button emphatically. The radio immediately stopped. So did the engine.  "This button?" she asked me. "Did you push THIS button?" 

Humming the song, I turned to her, "I just can't put my finger on why I have so much trouble pushing buttons." 

"You are REALLY starting to push my buttons," she said, pulling out into traffic.

"Do you know what kind of car has a belly button?" I asked her.

Silence.

"An Audi."

"Drink your Pepsi."

Crossword Puzzle Clue: Can you dig it? (Past tense)

Our window of opportunity was very brief...barely 48 hours. Sydney's fiance enjoys venturing from his home state of California almost as much as I like leaving Wyoming County. I was focused on making this the most enjoyable visit EVER but Canada, constant rain, and my own character conspired against me. 

"You know," Savannah informed me, (ever-so-helpfully) minutes before Sydney and her beau's arrival, "he doesn't particularly care for it when you call him Douglas." I stared at her in dismay. Oh no. What was I going to do? It was locked in now. I quickly activated some visualization exercises to adjust what was now concreted in my brain. I repeated his name rapidly in my head until it became nonsensical. Then my verbal-linguistic side wrestled for control and I now had a picture of Douglas holding a shovel, digging. I moved him back to my last visit to San Diego and watched him wrestle his blooming rose bushes and reluctant lawn into submission. I nodded confidently as Sydney and Douggg (I stomped on his name like a brake)...walked out of the airport towards us. "Sydney!" I exclaimed, erupting out of our idling van like a discharged cannonball. "Douglas!" Oh no.

San Diego always makes a great first impression with its stately palms and elegant bird of paradise
plants framing their airport exit against a brilliant blue sky backdrop...whose closest competitor, the mighty Pacific, would pause to wave a welcome at each approaching guest. Now...here was Douggg...taking a hesitant breath of our "airmageddon," trying not to look confused by our soot-colored sky. Wanting so much for him to feel comfortable and at home in his new surroundings, I immediately transformed into Tour Guide Barbie, pointing out all the interesting features of our area. I ran out of things to say much faster than I anticipated. My daughters weren't all that helpful...my dissertation on the world-wide economic impact of the Erie Canal fizzled when they pointed out that railroads and the development of highways and the Saint Lawrence Seaway quickly replaced the construction that really never saw a return on its investment (before they both immediately broke out into song..."15 miles on the Erie Canal...!"). Trying gamely to act interested (despite coming off a West Coast red-eye), Douggg squinted through the smokey haze out his window and then whispered to Sydney, "Is she talking about that ditch?" Before she could warn him, I'd pounced. "Funny you should say that," I smiled, re-energized, "During construction, nay-sayers called it Clinton's Big Ditch." I paused dramatically while Sydney and Savannah silently begged him not to do it. 

But he did. 

Do it. 

Because he's polite. 

"Why did they call it that?" Douggg asked, patting Sydney's hand gently as she whimpered.

After having received a remedial course in Erie Canal Construction 101, Douggg then got to visit another local hot spot. And I'm not kidding. The temperature in my mother's little apartment rivals that of tropical rain forests. He was gracious and gallant and kind. As we assembled for a group photo, my mother good-naturedly complained about being the shortest. Douggg responded by immediately taking a knee. 

There are three surefire ways to work yourself into my heart (if you haven't already plied me with junk food).

1.  Being kind to my mother (check)

2.  Looking at my now-elderly dachshund but still be able to see her bright spirit, gentle soul, and sparkling personality (AND bring her a fun, new toy) (check)

3. Make an effort to connect to my husband in a genuine way:  Presenting Brad with a certified piece of The Berlin Wall. Flashback: 1989. Brad, in Germany, on the phone with his new wife. They can barely hear each other over the celebratory noises and the sound of construction in the background. "Grab a piece," Amy shouted over the distance that separated the couple. "I'm not a tourist," her husband scoffed, uttering words that would mock him for decades later by his disgusted family members. (check)

My ace-in-the-hole was our local state park. Letchworth does NOT disappoint. It was tough to differentiate between Canada's cancer clouds and impending rain...Savannah carefully monitored the situation as we drove to our destination. "It says that it's going to skirt us," she reported as Douggg caught his first majestic glimpse of the gorge before the downpour swept us back into the van. Brad attempted to be Tour Guide Ken, shouting, "If you could actually SEE out your left window, we are passing the middle falls." I suggested that we take refuge in Mary Jemison's cabin. I paused dramatically while Savannah, Sydney, and Brad silently begged him not to do it.

But he did.

Do it.

Because he's polite.

So we rode out the hour's-long storm with a remedial course on The History of Mary Jemison, White Woman of the Genesee. 

Before you knew it, it was time for them to go. I was devastated...having failed miserably to entrance Douggg with our local history, lore, landmarks, and landscape. He admired our laundry chute but I don't think this one small architectural oddity will be enough for him to demand repeat visits. Canada and my new, weird way of pronouncing his name had crushed my chances of getting Douggg to love Wyoming County and establish it as his home-away-from-home. 

But I'd forgotten something.

Something important.

There are actually FOUR surefire ways to work yourself into my heart (if you haven't already plied me with junk food).

4. Love my girls for exactly who they are 

So, as our last Mosiman Big Ditch measure, we attempted to take Sydney and Douggg out for a nice breakfast before dropping them off at the airport. "You can just drop us off," Douggg practically begged, happy to forego the 35 minute/50 mile radius hunt for an open eating establishment on the 4th of July. Yes. The poor boy would have much rather have sat at the airport for 3 hours waiting for his plane than to be stuffed in our van as I wrestled with non-existent GPS navigating skills and Brad snapping at me, "You are NO Meriwether Lewis." So we ended up at a poor man's Perkins in a booth featuring a windowsill fly as our welcoming host. "You know what a fly's opening line in a bar is?" I asked. "Don't do it," Brad warned, shooing it away before shoving me into the booth. "Is this stool taken?" Brad frowned as he handed everyone their menus..."So, is everyone hungry?"

Thirty-seven years ago, a pair of newlyweds stopped for breakfast and the new bride "waffled" over the menu selections. Her beloved never wavered, encouraging her to order what she wanted and, when she was stuck between two choices, grandly invited her to get both. 

And now, years later, I watched as Douglas didn't even twitch when Sydney ordered grilled cheese and fries...in fact, he listened, enraptured and delighted to her questionable rational that, because grilled cheese contains all of the key ingredients, it should possess dual citizenship as both a lunch AND breakfast food. She then somehow managed to subtly slide an order of chocolate chip pancakes into the line-up as well. I had spent a good portion of Douggg's visit assuring him that Sydney Lynn had been raised to use napkins AND that we had, in fact, taught her how to use a knife to properly cut her food so that she didn't have to rip and gnaw her meat like a ravenous hyena. But Douglas doesn't care about those things. While Brad and I watched, horrified, as the child we reared together rolled her pancake, hacking at it unrecognizably with her knife...Douglas gazed at her with mild amusement, entertained by her harmless cuisine-related quirks. This was a man who would be by her side as her partner, behind her as her (2nd) biggest cheerleader, and scouting ahead to make sure they could skirt the rain whenever possible and that there was an open breakfast place nearby. 

Check.

It was a short visit but it meant the world to us.

"Thanks for coming, Douglas," I said, squeezing the stuffing out of him as he exited the van. "Come back home soon."