I just need to vent a little...I am not a big fan of driving with no air conditioning

 And here I thought, as a woman approaching her mid-fifties, that my adventures in the backseat were over...

You can deny it all you want, (Prudes) but most of us understand that one's senses are heightened in the backseat of a vehicle. You just feel more. Excited. Bold. Breathless. Rebellious. Daring.

And, in my case? This past week...these feelings have also included nausea, vertigo, and a major hit to my vanity. 

Let me just tell you...things got HOT!

What are the odds that both Sydney AND Douglas's cars would have disabled air conditioners the week I visited with temperatures refusing to budge from their refreshing 92 degrees and higher?  Some might hint that it was purposeful...a subtle inconvenience that would encourage me to limit my stay. But trust me, Douglas LOVES my little pop-ins. ("Ten days is a little pop-in?" Douglas muttered, gripping the steering wheel tighter as he careened around a hair-pin turn. "What?" I shouted over the wind tunnel that was whipping me about in the backseat." "Nothing," Douglas yelled, watching as my image slid back-and-forth past his rear-view mirror as though I were the tennis ball in a Wimbledon match.)

I had requested a nice lunch with Douglas's parents. Living on opposite coasts makes getting acquainted
a little challenging. My efforts to appear as a dignified, stable, rational human-being were immediately wiped out by the hurricane-force winds that attempted to expel me from Douglas's car during the torturous thirty minute drive to the restaurant. The eyelashes on both my eyes were seared together into one sweaty spike each, erupting from my top eyelids like little unicorn horns. I made a great impression as I only ordered dessert...then diving into the Mud Pie, smearing it on my flushed face like a spa mask.

By Day Two, I decided to eschew any attempt to apply make-up or style my hair.

I would emerge, battered and bruised, at each arrival, resembling a rabid raccoon who'd stuck a stubborn paw in an electric plug. My make-up would have melted off of my face and my hair would be sticking straight up like the Bride of Frankenstein. I learned to adjust my posture accordingly. My straight spine, squared shoulders, and prim pose (Ankles together, ladies...lest you be mistaken for a trollop) evolved into a more legs-spread, welcome-to-the-party stance. I would flounder and cling to what automotive manufacturers call the "Passenger assist grip" but is more cutely, casually, and accurately referred to as "The Jesus handle." I can attest, even though the Lord and I communicate on the reg, our conversations became much more supplicative as I clung to that device as we barreled down Route 5 like hell was behind us. 

By Day Three, I realized that my method of trying to adapt to this situation was NOT working. Alcohol did NOT make this scenario better. 

"What was that sound?" Douglas asked, after jerking his steering wheel left like the referee had blown
the whistle to start a tug-of-war battle. Sydney glanced back, squinting her eyes to see better in the dark. "Oh, that's my mom. Mom, why are you on the floor?"

I got used to tumble-weeding my way across the backseat of Douglas's car. Bracing my palms on the fabric-ed ceiling happily served two purposes as it kept me from face-planting (again) and provided yet another way to commune with God. Vanity is a sin and Douglas certainly helped me in that department as well.

For those of you still quietly thinking that Douglas did this on purpose, I say, "Shame on you!"  If anything else, that lack of air conditioning in the vehicles made me want to spend even more quality time with Douglas in the house. Who needs to drive to restaurants, parks, beaches...

"It's time to go to the airport," Douglas told me, sadly. Sweet honey...he'd even graciously packed my bags for me. The thought of getting in that un-air-conditioned car again made me shudder. "What do you think about my staying a few extra days?" I suggested.

It was the first time I'd ever seen Douglas lose his cool.

One man's Wednesday on a school night...Douglas gets the gold

In Wyoming County, if you have out-of-town guests, you are required, by intergalactic hosting regulations, to take them to Niagara Falls. It would be appallingly negligible to deprive these visitors exposure to one of eighth natural wonders of the world. So you ignore the over-an-hour drive, you put up with the crowds, the traffic, the bad parking, and the touristy shtick and you go to Niagara Falls...again.

And it is magical.

Every time.

In San Diego, when Douglas has out-of-town guests (much more frequently than he ever imagined), he is required, by intergalactic hosting regulations, to take them to see the seals of La Jolla. Even if it is his first full week back to school AND a Wednesday. Even if it is 90 degrees and the traffic is bumper-to-bumper. Like a seasoned hunter, Douglas searched vigilantly for a parking space...spotting his quarry and pouncing...parallel parking like it was an Olympic event. Sydney and I exited the vehicle, took three steps to the cliff rail and gasped...Douglas had somehow managed to plant us directly in front of a pod of dolphins...plowing through the Pacific, gleaning their prey from the lush kelp forest. Sydney and I delighted in this almost-spiritual spectacle...staring, unblinkingly, at this miraculous moment as Douglas stifled a yawn, staring off at the horizon, pondering the hundreds of papers he had to grade.

We meandered down the winding walk-way, following the coastline...led by the siren's song of barking seals. Pelicans punctuated the sky as the sun began its slow but steady descent. Settling on the low concrete wall, we watched the drama of multiple story-lines unfold...naughty pups wandering too far from their watchful mothers...snoozing seals rudely awakened by playmates, a raucous version of "Marco Polo" suddenly interrupted when a lifeguard spotted the presence of an unwanted interloper:  "Pervert in the pool," shouted Seal Team 6 as frantic mothers evacuated their brood from the water.

Douglas heroically endured Sydney and me completely butchering the lyrics of Kenny Chesney's song, "When the sun goes down," as that shimmering gold medal slid seamlessly into its effervescent envelope, its slender ribbon still shining upon the dark water.

We stood, an ovation to dusk's denouement.

Never anticipating an encore.

As we strolled, sated by the splendor, Sydney noticed a small pavilion so we paused for one last look at the Pacific. Windmilling from the waves, two dolphins rose, snout-to-stern, to pinwheel back into the water. 

Somehow, Douglas managed to herd us back to the car. Eventually, he would plow through his pile of papers to grade. Never...would he realize the gift he'd given to his mother-in-law.

Our love is snow joke: My brief love affair with a penguin

 As part of a penguin's courtship ritual, a male may present his lady-love with a token:  A small pebble. According to our Penguin Encounter ambassador, countless of these exchanges have taken place in their exhibit over the years.  

Oh, puh-leeze. 

Attempting to anthropomorphize their penguins is a cheap trick designed to get me to shell out some serious coinage to book a reservation with a waddle.

Fun fact:  A group of penguins on water is a raft; on land is a waddle.

This was NOT my and Sydney's first black and white rodeo. We met our first penguin pal, Opus, around five years ago. With that magical meeting in mind, Sydney learned of another Arctic opportunity except, instead of just meeting ONE penguin...we would commune with a colony!

We got off to a shaky and uncertain start...wrestling our sweaty feet into suction-inducing muck boots ("Good luck getting these off later," I muttered to Sydney.) and donning insulated coats to brave the frigid temperatures of the fake glacier of which we would be transversing. The rapid temperature change from San Diego spicy chili to Antarctic sterile chilly was dizzying. My eyeglasses, first steamed from the oppressive humidity, were now fogged over from the cold. My perspiring palms were now in danger of frost bite. My nipples didn't know which way was up.

Our exploration team was a small group of six. They did not dress on-theme as Sydney and I did. They were calm, quiet, and professional where as Syd and I were all a-twitter, quite boisterous, and fan-girling hard before we'd even passed through our first Authorized Personnel Only door. 

Our first stop was the kitchen where I broke the first of many of the thousands of rules necessary for the safety of the penguins. It turns out that when I'm about to trek across a fake glacier to commune with penguins, I am no longer able to comprehend, let alone, carry out, instructions. Every boundary I was given, I apparently blew right through. Past the refrigerator was an out-of-boundary zone...but I had seen a little side-room with several head-phoned staff members over-looking a wall of computer monitors. One saw me and immediately got up to close the door...very Hunger Games...very Oz behind-the-curtain. "Ma'am, please step back into the kitchen," our ambassador directed, distracting me with the arrival of a middle-aged Macaroni penguin with soft, iridescent feathers, a Trump-ian hairstyle and a propensity for projectile pooping. Magical.

We were then given a thousand more rules. I'd already been hollered at twice so I tried extra hard to pay attention. The main thrust seemed to be, with no exceptions...under no circumstances...no matter what...do NOT touch the penguins. 

"Do NOT touch the penguins. Do NOT touch the penguins. Do NOT touch the penguins," I repeated to myself as we approached another Authorized Personnel Only door. We stepped though the wardrobe door...were aromatically punched in the face by penguin poo...and my only thought was "I MUST touch ALL the penguins." Wise to my rule-breaking ways, the staff kept a close eye on me. I imagine my image was featured predominantly on the wall of computer monitors back in Big Brother-land. Sydney, trying to ensure we didn't get kicked out, stuck close to my side.

We loved it.

There were a plethora of penguins. 

Six different species of penguins co-exist in this three hundred member cacophonous colony...including the Emperor penguin. San Diego has the only zoo in the Western Hemisphere to house Emperor penguins and I was watching my daughter dance with one. There was even an Emperor penguin chick...if you could call it that. The thing was a monster. It was a fuzzy black version of the Looney Tunes red heart-shaped monster named Gossamer. We had been warned and managed to evade Vlad the Impaler as he stomped angrily by. He was still adorable but we didn't think he'd take that for the compliment we intended. 

And then it happened.

Just like in the story books. The movies.

Their eyes met across the crowded glacier...

They waddled rapidly towards each other across the field of flowers...

I had kept my hands tucked deeply in the recesses of my jacket to help me repress the overwhelming need to touch ALL the penguins. I watched my little guy approach...a resolute little waddle that would NOT be re-routed by the penguins ping-pong balling all over the ice. He planted himself at my feet. Confused, I inched to the side, worried that I was blocking his way to his intended destination...never imagining that I was his intended destination. He moved with me. 

Time stopped.

The music swelled.

He reached out gently with his slender beak to give my trousers a tug. My heart melted but I kept my hands firmly in my pocket. I was NOT that kind of a girl.

Oh please...I am EXACTLY that kind of girl.

He would not be deterred. 

Bold...he wiggled between my feet and settled in. My hands, imprisoned, because of the strict directives sanctioning our freedoms, flexed...itching to reach out. He gazed adoringly up at me. I bent at the waist...physically and emotionally pained over not being able to touch him. Sydney asked a nearby staff member about our little guy. She gave his name in numbers which horrified us. She quickly adjusted by telling us that his name is Ralphie.

Ralphie.

Oh, Ralphie.

My little Chin-Strap soul-mate.

I hovered, paralyzed, as our auras entwined atmospherically...transcending time, physical space, and species.

"Oh, for goodness sake. Go ahead and touch him," the glacier gate-keeper groaned.

How I managed not to scoop that little guy up and seriously snuggle him...I do not know. With a restraint I did not know I possessed (You would know that if you'd ever seen me with a can of Pringles or a bag of "shareable" M&Ms), I gently stroked Ralphie's glimmering back with one finger. He immediately pinned my wrist between his tilted head and body. I was enraptured.

Too soon...it was time to go.

Hot-on-my-heels, Ralphie followed my reluctant stride to the door before he was heartlessly scooped up to be placed in Time Out. Turns out, Ralphie was a frequent rule-breaker too. With one last backwards look over my shoulder, I stepped across the threshold, back to the real world. My real, Ralphie-free, penguin-less, world. I was devastated. 

"It would have never worked out," Sydney said, sympathetically, as she braced herself, one leg against the wall as she defied gravity, her body horizontal as she attempted to leverage the muck boot off my leg. Tears streamed down my face. "Why?" I sobbed, inconsolable. Sydney steered me toward the margarita stand. I couldn't see because my glasses were steamed up. "Mom, you were polar opposites."

Friendship: Getting a handle on things by expresso-ing ourselves

I do not deserve the friendship of this woman.

Relationships are a fragile ecosystem that require careful tending and attention. A balance must be monitored and maintained for this garden to flourish. 

I kill ALL green things (Watch out, Kermit). I am easily distracted, careless, lazy, neglectful, and often selfish. Relationships require work. Ugh.

Deb is among the heartiest of my harvest of hobnobbers. She is easy-going, patient, flexible, and understanding. So, naturally, I walk all over her. I make plans and promises that I fail to follow up on. I disappear, for months, without word. I am a weed...the stinging nettle in Deb's nursery...yet she continues to baby me along. 

She. Is. Always. There. For. Me.

We typically get together over the course of the summer for a little walk or two. 

This summer, though, I decided to spice things up. So what if we were both plagued with crippling feet problems? Who cares that the only sport that I might possibly hope to qualify in was competitive eating? Why should we care if we are years behind a nation-wide trend?

"Deb, do you want to play Pickleball on Thursday?"

No. She wasn't thrilled by any stretch of the imagination. But she would do it for me.

Deb was a natural. We listened attentively as our friend Sabrina explained the rules, nuances, and very complicated scoring system of the game. Distracted, I disappeared down a rabbit hole, wondering why the area closest to the net was called the kitchen. A deep-dive later revealed that the term was borrowed from shuffleboard and denotes a non-lobbying area to prevent someone from whacking the ball too hard at an opponent. I eventually zoned Sabrina out (to my detriment later) and just focused on one thing: Getting the darn ball over the net.

Deb zipped all over the court, tilting her paddle to send the ball spinning back while I stood, squinting, in a sweaty puddle, swatting clumsily at empty air.  A seasoned coach, Sabrina quickly recognized that I worked more effectively with the benefit of a running narrative. Rather than shouting "Idiot," Sabrina would bellow "Bounce!" to remind me of one of the rules of which I clearly didn't digest. 

I was thrilled with the arrival of Sabrina's daughter, a former student. I forced her to be my partner. "My love language is undeserved praise," I told her helpfully. When we had to change partners later (at Mogan's request, I'm sure), I flipped the switch a bit. "I still have access to your school records, Morgan," I threatened as she served a rocket to land expertly in the far back corner, forcing me to flop over backwards, "It's not too late to give you a failing grade in 4th grade social studies! I will ruin you!"

Our taste for Pickleball soured some so Deb and I tried another sport:  Breakfast. 

Much more to our taste and ability level.

And we could talk without fearing failing heart palpitations. 

We caught up. I talked for two hours straight. I finally took a breath so Deb could share. "The chair recognizes the woman in the booth from a ways up the road." 

I learned that my quiet, kind, reserved friend would be leading a small women's group in the Fall, supporting God's sweet sparrows whose souls were swept up in life's storms. In other words, everyone should attend. Deb described the professional training that she'd undergone and the personal introspection she'd experienced that led her to this amazing calling. "What inspired this undertaking?" I asked, stunned by her bravery and service to others. Deb smiled. "It might have been that time I stopped in unexpectedly to visit you," she shared. I stared at her, flabbergasted. "Was I your rock-bottom?" I gasped, horrified. 

The waitress paused at our table with a coffee pot. "Can I fill your cup?" she asked.

Yes.

Perhaps you can get your cup filled by attending a small group. Or maybe joining us at church on Sunday.

(Or you can even risk getting the snot beat out of you on Thursdays playing Pickleball with Deb and me.)

Psalms 23:5 

You fill my cup until it overflows.

Lawn maintenance repair blows

 Sadly, Brad returns to work tomorrow morning, cutting short our many bonding opportunities that have arisen organically over the course of this past week. 

How my heart leapt with joy when he mentioned mowing the lawn this afternoon. I made a dramatic show of folding laundry as he exited the house...certain that I had two hours of dawdling time on my hands.

But I made a critical error in returning the laundry basket to the basement, encountering my husband in the garage, wrestling, inexplicably, with the leaf blower. I froze. Oh no. 

Now, this would take some tricky maneuvering on my part. Obviously, pointing out the futility of fixing a gadget that gets used once a year, if we're lucky, was not the way to go. The fake offer to help would get me waved off but leave me feeling guilty AND could be used later as evidence that I don't contribute in maintaining the house. We're a BIG 1 Corinthians family: 1 Corinthians 13:5 (Love) keeps no record of wrongs. The Mosimans keep Santa-sized scrolls. I took a deep breath. I was going to have to hover uncertainly around the field of repair...attempting an impossible-to-achieve balance of anticipating what Brad needed and trying (and failing) to not annoy him or get in his way.

My first task was distinguishing tool names and functions. Long pointy-ended pterodactyl tool (Needle-nosed pliers). Pinch-y blunt-ended tool with a pretty purple handle (side-cutter). A screwdriver (I knew that one). I tried to channel my inner-surgical nurse but kept reaching in front of Brad, blinding his view AND handing him the wrong tool the wrong way. 

I was then relegated to research. That escalated pretty quickly as Brad kept telling me to type in the part number and Weed Eater. Naturally, I argued. "It's a leaf blower," I explained to my husband who had dismantled a fuel pump, filters, and assorted hoses, "NOT a weed eater." Brad enjoys my silent and complaisant assistance. I wasn't intentionally being obstinate. I just didn't want him to get the wrong part or instructions for a different lawn maintenance do-dad. After several minutes of arguing, Brad set down the pterodactyl to explain that Weed Eater is a brand name like Kleenex. Oh. Why didn't he just say so?

Oh, good! Youtube tutorials! 

I expertly fast-forwarded through to get to the relevant sections but Brad stopped me, concerned that we would miss something important. So we watched as repair gurus listed part numbers (twice...in case we wanted to write them down) and explain how they liked this kit because it provides an extra hose but this kit includes an adapter however this kit comes with a handy clap/on/clap/off location sensor because you know every single kit you buy will get lost in that black hole you call a garage. Video #1 didn't completely address our unique situation. Video #2 suggested Video #3 which gave us some handy tricks like cutting our hose on the diagonal, using soap to make the hose slippery ("Oh! Like a lubricant!" I added. "Not now," Brad frowned as I winked at him.), and utilizing a blow dryer to soften the hose so it would fit over the end of the adapter ("Oh, like a cond-" I said. "Stop," my husband answered.).

Now, these were tools I could work with! I rushed upstairs to get the dish soap and my blow dryer.

I went to plug the dryer into a handy outlet that was adjacent to direct lighting and a generous amount of workspace. "That outlet doesn't work," Brad sighed, taking the blow dryer out of my hands to disappear under a stuffed-to-the-gills shelf to plug it in. He wedged a flashlight into a space that somewhat hit his target that was balanced on Brad's shifting ladder that was laying on its side. I was still standing by the non-working outlet, confused. "Come over here," Brad growled at me. "How long hasn't it worked?" I asked. "How long have we owned the house?" my impatient spouse answered. I decided now was not the time to remind him that he's an electrician. 

The blow dryer did the trick. Brad refused to use the dish soap to prevent more dirty talk.

The hoses were threaded through successfully (Despite me).

The fuel pump was re-assembled and installed (Despite me).

The bulb-y ball was pumped. Pull cord yanked. The little engine roared to life. And Brad tested it by blow drying my hair.

Success. Despite me.

Bouncing back from a canceled vacation: Brad springs into action

My Week of Amy came to an abrupt halt when Brad's anticipated trip to Alaska was suddenly canceled. My carefully planned itinerary, that included a grueling marathon of television watching, tireless snacking, and multiple opportunities to sleep in, was up-dated to include some doubles events.

Nestled in my chair, clutching a fistful of Twizzlers, I watched as Brad, looking to fill what was supposed to be a week filled with fishing with something productive and meaningful, got up to leave the room. "Where are you going?" I asked, praying that his answer would be, "To the refrigerator." 

No such luck.

"Thought I'd pressure wash the house," he said.

I sighed. What a way to spend his hard-earned vacation. And there goes my Week of Amy. Okay, then. I guess we were in it. Let the games begin.

So...first up, was target shooting. 

From multiple angles and incorporating varying degrees of difficulty. 

Pressure-washing a two-story house using a ladder apparently wasn't hard enough. Let's introduce
motorized vehicles. So, as Brad balanced along the raised edge of the cargo bed of our Titan directing 1500 PSI of water at his target, I played ground crew, trying to maintain a perfect amount of slack in the hose to keep my husband from pitching forward or sling-shotting backward.

Fortunately, I had a prior commitment that kept me from seeing the conclusion of this activity. I drove off as Brad entered the perilous next leg of his event: Scaling the roof and skipping rope with twenty feet of hose.

I spent the next several hours representing my proud family name in water sports; including fencing with wacky water noodles. I also tested the boundaries of buoyancy by swimming the breast stroke with a 6-year-old attached to my neck. "Margaret Mitchell," I gasped, "Hold onto my shoulders." 

Somehow, both Brad and I managed to survive this day.

Those of you raised in the 70s and 80s well-remember the now-incomprehensible reality of being limited to three channels of television. And those of us not particularly fond of sports were then further tortured. March Madness was a nightmare. But the Olympics...oh my. The Olympics were a never-ending horror show. Enter 2024 and my husband's utter delight that we have multiple channels focusing on every obscure sport known to humankind. What on earth was the basketball thing with no dribbling and a soccer net? We watched, amazed, at the smaller-than-we-remembered ping-pong table and how the players seemed to serve from their foreheads. "We'll have to remember to fluff the feathers," Brad suggested as we took note of the badminton players tricks to win.

And, oh my, the trampolining. Initially skeptical, Brad was quickly converted. His commentary (that had been RAMPANT throughout the Olympics) evolved into colorful  and quirky sound-effects. Fortunately for us, this fortuitous exposure would prove beneficial the next day when we embarked on our next event: Team Mattress-Marketing. We bounced on all surface-levels including multi-gauged inner springs, gel memory foam, latex, and hybrids. 

Next, we competed in the  javelin.

Which consists of Brad trying to stuff an uncooperative wire brush up our pellet stove pipe. Obstacles included retinal burn from a misdirected flashlight beam as well as vision impairment when your partner fails to shield you from a shower of soot.

The next day (Sigh...remember the Week of Amy?) was heavy-lifting. Unloading a ton of pellets. Not the hyperbolic ton as in I ate a ton of M&Ms. No. A literal ton. Amy (sort of) helped unload a ton of pellets. 

I'm not sure what Olympic event is the equivalent of Brad and I racing the emptied trailer back to its resting space OVER a thick nest of tree roots. Hurdling? Steeple chase? All I can say for sure is that, in this instance, Brad's coaching could have used a little work. I have to admit that this particular activity got me a little emotional: I just couldn't get over it!

Sigh.

And, yeah. I would have gotten away with it, too...if it hadn't been for my medal-ing husband.