Part 2: Did you say "fired" or "fried:" Where on Google Earth are Sydney and Amy?

When last we left off, Sydney and Amy were in the middle stages of some pretty poor decision-making choices. It is here we find them again, blinking against the harsh sun as it ricochets off the nearby Pacific which is unreasonably loud for some reason. Wait. There is a reason. These two women are drunk. On a Monday morning.

Stop, you say, pausing in your reading. This is not the Amy I know. Sure, she enjoys a mid-month margarita and the occasional cocktail, but I have never known her to imbibe on a regular or aggressive amount.

True-true. You have me there. But these were extraordinary circumstances. I was being a supportive mother using whatever means I had at my disposal to turn a morale-monstrosity-of-a-day into an up-lifting adventure filled with love, laughter, (and yes, liquor).

So, yes...when Syd and I exited our first bar...our next destination should have been HOME.  But Sydney's mind was still filled with the embarrassment, shock, uncertainty, and self-assigned sense of failure that resulted from her morning Zoom call. That Sydney was still reeling. That Sydney had had a devastating blow to her confidence and self-esteem. That Sydney didn't know what her family DID know:  That That Sydney would be employed a week from now with a new job with better pay that didn't demand she sacrifice her soul in exchange for a salary. 

So...we headed to another bar. 

Sydney had been wanting to check out a Buffalo Bills-themed bar and this seemed like an ideal time to do it. Naturally...we walked. As we waited to cross a street, I noticed an unusual-looking fellow pedestrian. And that's saying a LOT for San Diego. "Sydney," I said softly, nudging her gently and gesturing discretely towards the man outfitted like a Ghostbuster/Alien with a small dog strapped to his chest. "It's the Google Maps Guy!" Sydney squealed, delighted with this sighting. Apparently, like Santa, many people had heard of the existence of Google Maps Guy but few have actually spotted him. We waved happily at him as he disappeared down an alley, intent on his job of chronicling every sidewalk in San Diego. With diligent research, Sydney eventually tracked down our encounter on Google Earth...there for the world to see:  Two inebriated women, not discreet AT ALL but, happily, boasting impeccable posture. If you look closely, you can tell that I'm yelling the typical Western New York greeting/good-bye/good luck/I love you catch phrase:  "Go Bills!"

And with that shouted reminder, Sydney and I completed this phase of our healing journey, walking into the safe, familiar, comforting world of our people:  A Buffalo Bills sports bar.

The next phase, of course, would be to call an Uber and return home.

Narrator:  Even though that clearly would be the correct and responsible choice, the two women would NOT, in fact, be returning home any time soon.

 

PART ONE: Did you say "fired" or "fried?"-You may lose your job but don't lose your dignity (or your cookies)

 It began as a day that, in the future, we would never want to talk about again.

A day that we would choose never to remember...

And then evolved into a day where the choice to remember was, thanks to an irresponsible amount of alcohol, taken from us...

I was curled on the couch in Sydney's living room, sipping coffee and enjoying my morning when Douglas suddenly appeared, crouching beside me. "Sydney just got fired on her Zoom call," he whispered, "She's crying in the office. Are you up for a little day-drinking?" Douglas had to leave for work and God had set his little chess-piece on the board...I was in the right place at the right time. I worried, though, that I was not the right person for this particular job...when it comes to drinking...I am definitely a rookie.

But I was game if Sydney was.

The news had not come as a complete shock to Sydney. Her HR responsibilities had shifted over the last year, focusing a lot on letting people go. This dreaded duty was dictated by a binder from which Sydney was not supposed to deviate regardless of reaction. Tears. Shock. Grief. Worry. Anger. Rage. Doesn't matter. Stick to the script. Sydney had a lot of trouble with that practice and her heart was definitely not in her job. 

So an hour was spent, feeling our feelings and then it was time...you can get bitter, better, or inebriated (We'll get better tomorrow).

Which is how Amy Mosiman came to be sitting, sea-side, in a bar, at 10 o'clock in the morning on a week-day. 

Sydney perused the menu and attempted to make a semi-responsible beverage selection. Given the circumstances and Douglas's whispered voice ringing in my ears, I realized that this was it:  Now or never. "No!" I said, interrupting her quiet order and pointing to the menu, "We want THIS." Sydney's red-rimmed eyes got wide and the server surreptitiously glanced at her watch, slightly shocked. 

Within minutes, our $82 pretty punch bowl of alcohol arrived. I took a shaky breath and then manned the ladle. 

Two young men arrived at the table next to ours and attempted to engage us in conversation. We, obviously, were in no mood...instead, intent on the task-at-hand. Three glasses in, I realized we were in desperate need of carbs. I ordered a montage of appetizers. 

Sydney wandered off briefly and our table neighbors tried again. I discovered that the one young man's dog, a beautiful German Shepherd, had died yesterday and his childhood friend flew in this morning to support him. 

Sigh.

Perspective.

I summarized our own situation and my new friends were immediately sympathetic and outraged on Sydney's behalf.

Our conversation halted upon Sydney's return.

We had just about hit the bottom. Not rock bottom. The bottom of the punch bowl. I sighed. I did it. I glanced around the restaurant, wondering where the equivalent of the Prize Patrol would emerge with my "Mom of the Year" award.

Suddenly, our neighbors were back asking if we would join them for a shot. This was a terrible idea
but...the man's dog had died. I'd seen fifty pictures of his beloved companion. Handed him a napkin as he fought back tears. Offered to pray for him. 

We were doing a shot. 

I embarrassed myself by asking for Patron. These guys had requested the tequila equivalent of a sommelier to present samples at our table. Oh no. 

Before I knew it, I was holding up a $40 shot and toasting a German Shepherd. We all tossed one back and gave our heartfelt farewells. We waved good-bye to our new friends as they left.

Alone again, I flagged for our bill. Our server came over and smilingly told us that it had been paid for us. I was horrified. This was nuts...the $40 shots were bad enough...but Sydney and I were in for over $200. Grief is costly, y'all.

"Where do you want to go now?" Sydney asked as we walked (She walked...I concentrated really hard on standing upright) outside, into the blinding sunlight. I held up a hand to shield my eyes. "Home!" I shouted in my head, wincing. "Oh, I don't know," I said, "Where do you feel like going?" Sydney paused, thinking. "I suppose we should go home..."

Narrator: Even though that was clearly the correct choice, the two women would, in fact, NOT be going home.

You woodn't believe my morning: It was snow laughing matter!

 Not going to lie:  The past few days...weather-wise...have not been that great. I'm not surprised...I do live in Western New York, after all...rather, I am glumly resigned to my frigid fate. But...come on, y'all! TWENTY BELOW?!?!?!?

Brad had headed out the door for work, my truck keys in hand while I remained, curled around my coffee, in complete denial. I outright ignored the reality before me, flipping through Facebook and scooching closer to the pellet stove. But a glance at the clock told me it was time so, singing a little song, I headed to the bathroom to brush my teeth when a scene out the frosted-up window caught my eye. There, in the frozen Arctic that was my backyard, was Brad Mosiman, battling a rebellious battery as my truck staunchly put the brakes on and said, "No WAY am I going out in this!" 

I dove for my boots and coat to get out there...shamed by my utter unawareness as my husband, wielding the jumper cables like a Ringmaster's whip, humbled my tiger-of-a-truck into submission, bundled me into the cab, and sent us on our way.

Rattled but resolute, I drove along...radio blasting to ease my troubled heart, drown my sorrows, and console me from my accusatory conscience. My attention suddenly veered from my ass being in the sand (Thank you, Zac Brown Band) to my heart being in my throat as my front tire clipped a Sequoia-sized wooden post laying in the middle of the road. I held my breath to see if there were any immediate consequences and, when Titan didn't explode (side benefit:  I would have been warm), I carefully continued on my journey to pick up Katriel, wracked with worry. What if someone else, lacking my quick thinking and driving dexterity, hit the wood? What if Erin...transporting two of my favorite people in the world, struck it? What if a bus hit it? 

I was a mess by the time I pulled into Katriel's driveway.

"We have to go back," I gasped as she swung up into Titan's cab. By this time, Katriel is well-versed in my many phases of hysterics. "It's before the big curve," I told her as she sat on the edge of her seat as my scout. "Maybe somebody moved it," I said hopefully as we drove slowly, scanning the ice-and-snow covered surface. "I see it!" she shouted...and then surprised me by yelling in delight, "I want it!" My time-wasting chore had just transformed into a treasure hunt as Katriel leaped from my truck and wrestled a piece of lumber bigger than her into Titan. My life-saving mission would go on to become part of Katriel's creative craft-show inventory.

My story was over...or so I thought.

I would arrive to school safely only to discover a text message from Erin, warning me about the hazardous debris on Hardys Road. Sweet. Right? Considerate. Seemingly. However, rather than focus on her thoughtful intent, I instead became immediately flabbergasted by her convoluted communication. "I believe there is a big piece of wood in the middle of the road on Hardys so please be careful driving." 

Let's break this down folks.

Number One:  WRONG ROAD.

Number Two:  ON THE ROAD? It's a four-mile stretch! Give me a landmark! A fraction! Or...better yet:

Number Three:  Pull your car over and MOVE the object of my possible demise!

Naturally, this situation blew up dramatically at work. Our friend, Al, immediately took my side after reading her misleading message. Michelle, on the other hand (who had received a similar dire warning and, with her warm heart and gracious nature, appreciated the kind gesture), needed more time to be swayed to my indignant way of thinking.

Fortunately, all well that ends well. If we were to rank all the morning participants in order according to level of heroism, selflessness, personal sacrifice, kindness, and thoughtfulness, I think we can all agree that Brad Mosiman comes in at a strong first place. Second place is easily awarded to Katriel who, happily, was rewarded by fate for her actions. If you are squinting in her binoculars for Erin and me, give us a second, we'll be arriving at the home stretch as we battle it out for third. I certainly got off to a rocky start, oblivious to Brad's outdoor struggle of man-versus-machine-versus-twenty-below-temperatures (in the pitch dark) as I sipped my hot beverage by a toasty stove singing a little song. I don't look particularly heroic as I failed to stop and remove a dangerous impediment from an already perilous path. But...I went back and, like a superhero, made Katriel move the cumbersome clog from our rural artery. And Erin...blasted by it like a boss and then tossed out misinformation about its location like she was deliberately trying TO KILL ME! Gasp! Yeah. Not as sweet as she seems.

If any of this seems remotely familiar it's because it is. Katriel is well-versed in retrieving things from vehicles and Erin is equally adept at alerting me about objects in the road.

Philosophically-thinking, it all ties together. The battery represents Erin and me. A negative and positive charge are both necessary to keep things running. And when that battery gets drained and the lights grow dim...that's when the true heroes shine...the calm, quiet, capable people in our lives who wrestle obstacles out of our way or transfer some of their energy to our deleted supply...selflessly getting us up and going again.

Thank you, Brad Mosiman.

Thank you, Katriel.

And, yeah. Thank you, Erin (I guess).

Making soup gets me into hot water

I am not a natural cook. I am not at home in the kitchen. I lack a subtle palate or any manner of cooking common sense. 

But when etiquette calls for it, I hear "Batter up!" and step up to the plate.

This particular case did not call for cake batter. Instead, I put my chocolate raspberry pies on the roster. Brad was going on a hunting trip with some buddies so I let him choose the heavy hitter for the main entry, wincing when he selected turkey soup. I wanted to call "Foul!" but it was too late. 

My attention deficit issues are not well-suited to hovering over rice as it simmers so, as usual, I stood swearing over the stove, twenty minutes in, scraping the pan armed with my forked-edge wooden spoon. It has a LOT of practice doing this.

I'd sauteed the celery and onion. Added the carrots. Tossed in the turkey and wild rice. Mixed in the milk. Squirt of lemon. Sprinkled in slivered almonds. Done.

Brad came over for a taste, reaching for the wooden spoon. I waited for him to tell me that it needed salt so that I could start screaming at him...it's a reliable release valve for my nervous energy. The rice wasn't the only thing simmering in that kitchen.

But he didn't say anything.

My heart pounded. I must have forgotten an ingredient or accidentally doubled or tripled one.

Finally, he spoke.

Carefully.

"When did the wooden spoon lose one of its prongs?" he asked, holding it up.

My heart sank.

I stared at him in horror. He stared back. Then we both looked at the pot of turkey soup.

I lunged at the soup and immediately began a desperate search.

Brad watched, flabbergasted. "Remember when Sydney lost her goggles in the Atlantic?" he said, "Finding a tiny piece of wood in a pot of turkey soup  is the equivalent of finding those goggles."

I ignored him.

"Remember when you dove into your parents' pool when we were teenagers and your contacts floated out of your eyeballs?" he said, trying again. He pulled the pot away from me.

I grabbed the handles and headed toward the door.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"I'm throwing this across the road and then I'll make another batch," I snarled, stopping short as my
husband raced past me to block my exit. 

"They're duck hunters," he told me, "They are not going to care about a little piece of wood in a pot of turkey soup."

"I care," I said staunchly, trying to wiggle past him.

Brad wrestled the pot out of my hands and returned it to the counter.

Together, we carefully seined the soup, spoonful by spoonful...every celery slice providing false hope...chunks of turkey chuckling at our mistake. Brad tried the o' I found it (but really didn't) maneuver on me but I made him open his clenched fist to reveal a meat-based wood replica.

Forty-five minutes later...a miracle. With a wild whoop, I retrieved that wayward wooden refugee from the turkey soup.

I sent that soup off on Brad's hunting trip with a clear conscience. "Thank goodness," my husband said, "I would have hated to have you stewing about it all week-end."

 

The World's Biggest Shovel? Can you dig it!

When one thinks about tourist attractions, more often than not, Niagara Falls, The Mona Lisa, or Machu Picchu come to mind. But what about those hidden treasures tucked along the roadsides of rural America? Take the World's Biggest Office Chair in Alabama or the World's Largest Paper Cup in California for instance. Or head over to Wisconsin to see the ten-story-tall hammer.

"Or perhaps you don't want to see the second largest ball of twine on the face of the earth, which is only four short hours away?" ~Clark Griswold, National Lampoon's Vacation

Michael, John Travolta's character from the movie of the same name, was a temporarily earth-bound angel also intent on taking in the "big" sights

Similar to these two fictional fellows, the Mosimans are also fond of visiting road-side oddities. If it's weird...we want to see it. So it wasn't surprising that we were willing to forego the unwritten Austin/San Diego directive that dictates that one must never travel, by car, beyond a fifteen minute distance when Sydney discovered that we were within the Wyoming County-approved driving distance to what was, arguably, the World's Biggest Shovel. 

The Mosiman women were beyond delighted over the prospect of seeing this wonder. For some reason, Douglas wasn't quite as thrilled but eventually he threw in the trowel and agreed to go. 

Let's just say:  It does NOT disappoint. You want to see a giant shovel. This is...a giant shovel.

"Why?" Douglas wondered, scratching his head as his three companions raced to the shovel like Dorothy and her pals skipping through the poppy fields to Oz. 

He just didn't get it. One does not ask, "Why." One should instead be asking, "Why did it take so long for us to discover it?"

The next hour was spent on a groundbreaking photo session. We were pretty pleased with the perspective shots that tricked (no-one) viewers into believing we were holding a standard-sized shovel. "I could have stayed home and done this with an actual shovel," muttered Douglas.

It was all going well until the camera was handed to me...

"A little to the left," I instructed as my daughters staggered beneath the weight of my son-in-law's airborne, horizontal side-plank.

"Closer. A smidge to the right," I gestured, squinting into the camera. 

"Mom! YOU'RE the one who's supposed to move!" Savannah yelled before gravity won the tug-of-war contest for Douglas. "Are you all right, honey?" I said, rushing over to help dust him off. "You look a little pale."

"That gives me an idea!" Sydney announced, immediately Googling another road-side oddity.

"Can we go home now?" Douglas asked, tiredly. "Sure!" his wife said, smiling, "but...can we stop for a scoop of ice cream on the way?"

 

It's hard to B-positive around Erin

 "Amy, c'm--oo-n," Erin whined, stomping her foot in my doorway. I looked up from my TEACHING to glare at her. "I'm sorry...what part of me educating the future leaders of tomorrow do you not understand?" I scowled. "Amy!" (Did she stamp her foot at me AGAIN? Oh no, she d'nt!) "We have to go! Our appointment is at 3:30." She flounced off in a huff as I completed a long division problem with my little mathematicians. 

"I have to walk my guy down to the buses," I yelled after her, "Drive around and pick me up there." "Fine," she shouted back, muttering about weather conditions and my lack of time management awareness.

She didn't even wait for me to reach the car as I made my way carefully across the icy parking lot; backing out and heading for the exit as I clung to the door handle and swung myself into her departing vehicle. "You know," I said, fumbling for my seatbelt, "I didn't volunteer for this. YOU signed me up." "Stop your grumbling," Erin sang cheerfully, happy now that she was getting her way, "We're doing God's work and saving the world."

A few minutes later (I rolled my eyes as we parked), we arrived at our appointment. "Walk like a penguin! Walk like a penguin!" we chanted, arms linked together as we skated, shakily, down the uneven sidewalk. When she wasn't fighting to stay upright, she was busy criticizing me for my choice of footwear. "Those aren't even winter boots," she observed, gritting her teeth, core engaged in the act of just trying to stand, "There is no tread." "You. Have. Your. School. Shoes. On." I gasped, trying to use her tiny little body as leverage against gravity. 

Suddenly, she stopped, spotting her friend's parked car. "Wait here," she told me, now as fleet-of-foot as a gazelle, sprinting back to her vehicle to grab a ribbon. I watched her stretch out to tie it to the antennae on top of his car...vindictively refusing to help her as she used our precious getting-to-our-appointment-on-time minutes for shenanigans. Me teaching after school? Waste of time. Erin annoying a hard-working member of society? Important activity worthy of delay.

With our Red Cross "fast passes"happily in hand, Erin and I arrived (on time). I fell into the welcoming arms of Erin's twin and Red Cross ambassador, Elisha who thanked me for coming and complimented my boots. Most of our school family was in the building...either being siphoned (We waved to Miss Debbie) or reveling in their good deed-doing with a juice box and gummies (Hi, Al!)

Now...the race was on.

My in-take hostess was a bit of a talker so Erin made it to the donor lounge first. I was assured that, even if the needle insertions did not occur simultaneously, they were still time-recorded. 

I hopped up on my lounge and was handed a foam rectangle to squeeze. This was an area where I shine! We located my vein and I was off to the races. I ignored the "Squeeze every thirty seconds" suggestion and pumped that parallelogram like a porn star. 

"Amy!" Erin interrupted, horrified. "Be a lady!" "This isn't Colonial America," I told her flatly. "Would you want me to say I clutched the rectangle like a woman manning the handle of ye olde water pump?" "No," Erin admitted, primly. She suddenly brightened. "What about those people-powered little railroad cars?" "I think the action is actually more attuned to churning butter," I argued, "but I believe my readers got the point from my first example." "You mean were traumatized," Erin corrected. 

Belatedly, I realized, that in all the rushing, Erin had made me forget my phone at work. All I had to look at was a plastic plant and a dead moose. This was a nightmare. Alone with my thoughts, mad at Erin, squeezing a sponge...a girl learns a lot. "It was six minutes," Erin interrupted, "You were alone with your thoughts for SIX minutes."  Now untethered, I couldn't focus because I was being made to raise my arm up into the air for an unreasonable amount of time. "It was about twenty seconds," Erin scoffed, reveling in her win of bleeding faster than me. In retrospect, I fear that I may have squeezed to the point of suffocation. Duly noted, I thought, filing that little gem away. 

We penguin-walked our way back to Erin's car. I went to grasp my friend's arm, shying away as she yelped. "That's my bad arm." She moved to my opposite side so she could grab my arm. Nope. I swatted her away. 

Who knew that donating blood would be the easiest part of my day?

It's being around Erin that's draining.

What the Dickens! My evening at the theater

I would like to fancy myself a literary aficionado...a lady of letters...a "candide" countess of the classics. But I must confess, dearest friends, that I am a freud. In fact, when it comes to literature, I have no idea what I'm tolkein about.

So when I discovered that we'd be going to the theater to see a performance of "A Dickens Christmas Carol" in an auspicious Austin venue, I was understandably intimidated. Fortunately, I have an extensive background in the Muppet version and can quote most of the movie so I was hopeful that I wouldn't thoreau-ly embarrass my family by riding out on my short biblio-pony.

Thank you, Brian Henson, because most of Gonzo's narration is taken verbatim from Dickens! That blue-beaked bard saved my life!

I can say, with 100% authenticity, that Austin's ZACH theater's performance of "A Christmas Carol" is my second favorite version of the timeless classic...following, of course, The Muppets, but edging out that outdated version originally penned by Charles Dickens.

And it's not because they gave me a fancy foam light-up wand to wave around during the multiple audience interaction scenes.

And it's not because of the revolving circular stage in-set, a-la Hamilton...I do love a staged Lazy-Susan!

Speaking of stage theatrics, it's also not because of Marley-the-miser, rising, amid scream and smoke, chains a'rattling, before our eyes from his mausoleum...Lisa and I were terrified until our toes started  tapping to time to Marley's version of "The Man in the Mirror."

Wait. What?

This was a MUSICAL? With songs we KNEW?

Oh, yes.

Who would have ever predicted that Whitney's "I Wanna Dance With Somebody" could bring an audience to their knees as a wistfully, mournful ballad as Belle regretfully (but rightly) kicks Scrooge to the curb? And, following the predicted death of little Tiny Tina, one of Bob Cratchit's kids cranks out Beyonce's "Halo" with such heartbreaking soul that the Queen B herself would have bestowed a royal title upon the talented performer.

I was delighted!

I was in familiar territory. I knew this place. I was well-acquainted with these people and their problems. But this time...I was a part of the story and the solution. Poor Scrooge was never going to be redeemed without a wave of my magical wand. Tiny Tina would not live to see another Christmas without my voice added to the heavenly choir of adapted pop hits. To the naysayers who claimed that this adaptation lacked depth? Well...cue up "Shallow" and let's sing! I admit that I went to the theater with low expectations. I was wrong. It was great. And you didn't have to be a literary genius to recognize it.

 

I almost had a capy-tivating encounter

Long ago, when my girls were little, we encountered a little pop-up "zoo" in the middle of a desolate parking lot. My delighted little girls excitedly filled a metal cup with Fruit Loops and watched, dancing in place, as little monkeys used a pulley system to carry the cup to their enclosure. My family, for years, looked forward, each fall, to feeding the bears in Marineland... finally resorting to smuggling in apples as our conscience couldn't handle tossing mini-marshmallows into the toothless maws of these mammals. It wasn't that long ago that I myself wrestled an elephant for a jumbo marshmallow in my own village park.

In America, we have the sometimes-arrogant luxury of demanding five-star accommodations for every creature from caterpillar to cow. My experience in being a public school teacher as well as my more recent in-the-trenches education regarding elder care have done much to open my eyes to realistic expectations. Are they being fed consistently? Do they have access to clean water? Adequate shelter? Room to move? Routine medical care? I have been mortified, more than once, unfortunately, to have encountered children and senior citizens who were not provided these most basic of needs. I have also been greatly saddened by having witnessed children and senior citizens who have ONLY received these...the most basic of needs. 

Rule #1 in my classroom is "Life is not fair." Not every child... not every senior citizen...not every animal is going to receive the Cadillac of care. Life may not be fair...but it should be just. And "just" is basic needs:  food, water, shelter, medical care, and safety. Not everyone can afford a Cadillac. Sometimes a Corolla will do.

So, yes, I was a bit uncomfortable walking into an Austin shopping plaza aquarium last week. This was not the snooty, specialty zoos with their gourmet kitchens, in-house veterinary care, nail/claw/talon salons and their now-booming ka-zillion dollar revenue of animal experiences where you take out a second mortgage on your house to spend five minutes with your dream penguin only to be ruthlessly ripped apart after falling hopelessly in love. Nature can be cruel. I can't imagine anyone being stupid enough to fall for that gimmick.

Your senses come alive the moment you enter the facility. Punched in the face with the pungent odor of a thousand defecating animals, you are immediately rendered, blissfully, nose-blind. You are first greeted by the Madagascar black-and-white-ruffled lemurs. Apparently, of the 10,000 remaining on the planet, 9,999 are housed in a shopping plaza aquarium in Austin. And ruffled is right. Their piercing screams communicated just how happy they were to see us. They are the world's largest pollinator (that also explained the aroma) and they boast TWO tongues...neither of which would stop wagging indignantly at us. "Look, Mom," Savannah said, pointing at a sign, "You can schedule an animal experience with a lemur." I shook my head, no, suspecting that this experience would have something to do with a lemur ripping my face off of my body.

I was much more comfortable feeding the prehistorically large fish, letting sting rays vacu-hose food pellets off my palm, and inviting spindly-legged shrimp to race up and down my arm. Turns out the "Keep six inches above the water" rule was more of a suggestion as everyone was shoulder-deep in each exhibit but no one was going hungry in this environment.  The tanks lacked decor (NOT a basic need) but were not horrifyingly dirty. The eels...reason enough to NEVER venture into the ocean...were thriving. I happily hit the trifecta in the giant koi tank...coaxing fish, ducks, and a turtle over to my offering. "Careful, he bites," warned my neighbor, a blonde eight-year-old with the life experience of a gnat. I hope the camera didn't catch me tapping the turtle on the head with my cup to get him to release my finger.

Now it was time to decide with whom to spend my animal encounter. The sloth seemed like a good idea except he was a bit pricey (for a shopping plaza aquarium in Austin) and he was, shockingly, asleep. The two little penguins were molting...shivering together by their enclosure door. They had, like Savannah, apparently acclimated to the triple-digit-Texas temperatures and did not appreciate the 70 degree day. So the Capybara it was. We handed over our tokens. Received an hour's worth of instructions and then waited breathlessly as the keeper entered the enclosure to see if the Capybara was up for visitors. I was transported, back in time, to the Roman Colosseum, nervously awaiting the life-or-death decision based on the unpredictable whims of the emperor. Unfortunately, it was not to be:  It was four-webbed-toes down (each boasting their one hoof-like claw), dismissing our desire for a date with destiny. It was probably for the best. I
couldn't remember all the directions. We considered the wallabies but I had just watched a video of a man and his dog getting beaten up by a kangaroo so I was a little jumpy about that possible interaction. The red ruffled lemurs seemed pretty nice but, according to staff, they were on a break. I don't know how I missed the cigarettes and cocktails in their cage. And then, suddenly, without solicitation or warning, we were being briskly escorted back to the entrance so that we could have a feeding encounter with the Madagascar black-and-white-ruffled lemurs.

I'm pretty sure I can out-scream a Madagascar black-and-white-ruffled lemur if the situation were warranted. I reluctantly handed over my tokens and thought, longingly, of the peacefully unreceptive Capybara. I watched a small black paw punch the mail slot of his metal cage open. The staff member placed some ripe raspberries in my palm. I swear the little lemur tapped a forefinger against his wrist, impatiently indicating that time was a-wasting. I ventured warily closer...close enough for one small hand to explode out of the slot to grip mine, pulling my open palm towards him while the other paw moved with lightning speed to make that raspberry disappear with the slick slight of hand maneuver used by seasoned magicians. I was given another raspberry (Thank you?) and the little lemur stuffed his snout through the narrow opening. But I'd learned my lesson with the turtle. We would be handling this exchange like Olympic runners passing the torch or an illicit drug exchange like the ones I suspect occurred daily behind a little shopping plaza in Austin. 

I had fun.

Not virtuous fun like when 10 percent of your overpriced fancy drink purchase goes to charity.

More like tawdry fun...like when you stumble into a somewhat seedy but reasonably safe bar whose already cheap drinks are now half off. 

I observed fresh shavings being laid down. I saw an employee chase down and rescue an errant gecko. Animals were fed. The water was passably clean, especially by Michigan standards. The inhabitants were given breaks and space if they weren't in the mood for an interactive experience. This wasn't a deluxe organic dog food in the refrigerator enterprise...this was a sack of Old Roy slung over your shoulder. Most of us have been there so we don't judge.

At least, out loud.

I feel a little dirty saying it...but, I had a blast. 

And, maybe, the next time I go, Caesar Augustus Capybarus will vote four-webbed-toes up.

If a tree is recognized by its fruit (Matthew 12:33), what happens if you are a tree that produces nuts?

 Forgive my whining as I am acutely aware that I am abundantly blessed...I communicate with my daughters via text, phone, and/or Facetime practically EVERY day. Sydney and I exchange Instagram reels with the speed and on-theme accuracy of dueling Western outlaws. But not being physically with them for long periods of time can feel emotionally crippling. I haven't been with my girls since the summer. I know. I can hear my military moms out there laughing hysterically. But how do I confess, when each day was packed with meaningful, memorable activities, that my very favorite moment of this past visit was when, one by one, each girl slid into my quiet bedroom as I took a quick break to rest...snuggling in on both sides of me...succumbing to sleep as I lay there...enraptured by their synchronized breaths...transported back in time by the ancient drumbeats of their hearts? These two incredible women...independent, resourceful, strong, kind...once harbored within me. Each exit, I reflected, as I refrained from movement so as not to wake them, was painful but necessary for growth. My daughters...shield and shelter...reside permanently in my mind, my memory, my heart, and my soul.

Being a mom is a huge part of my identity.

I am the daughter of the King. I am Brad Mosiman's wife. I am Savannah and Sydney's mother. I am my mother's daughter and advocate. I am a teacher. A writer.

Cities, I have discovered, have identities as well. New York's skyline, sadly notable for its missing Twin Towers, is renowned for the Empire State Building. Chicago has the Sear's Tower. Boston boasts the John Hancock Tower, and, of course, Fenway Park's famed Citgo sign. Your eyes cannot help but scan a city's skyscape...seeking the familiar...the comforting...a beacon...a grounding force.

Austin has the Owl.

The Frost Bank Tower sits comfortably upon its perch, nestled within the city of Austin. More wry than wise, the story surrounding this structure pleases me as one of sardonic comeuppance. Architectual audacity. Its designer simply not giving a hoot...swooping in silently to stamp its unblinking identity over Austin. 

My family surprised me with an afternoon and evening of unrestricted "bird"-watching as we enjoyed warm beverages and holiday cocktails while roasting s'mores on a decorated rooftop neighboring the Owl. The rented cabana provided privacy and invited us to linger comfortably as I watched, entranced, as the sky became the constantly-changing painted backdrop for this architectual piece of art...manipulating the mood by curtaining with clouds and leveraging the light. What a range of feelings...foreboding, suspicious, mysterious, anticipatory, watchful, protective, predatory...all at a safe distance, surrounded by my family...my beacons...my grounding force. 

Identity is an interesting term. A fly-over definition speaks more of the individual:  behavior, personality, character traits. But a deep-dive may reveal more: What draws others to you? What are the features on your cityscape that invites (or repels) attention? What parts of your personality act as a lightning rod or a guiding lighthouse? Are you a cozy bungalow? A dilapidated duplex? A haunted house? A split-level or skid row? What message is printed on your "Welcome" mat? When someone knocks...do you remain silent or do you call out, "Who's there?"

Louis Sullivan was an American architect and pioneer of city skyscrapers. One of his collaborative works, the Prudential Building, remains a jewel in the crown of the Buffalo skyline. He is quoted as saying that a "building's identity resided in the ornament." I know that he probably meant windows and such...oh my goodness! Gargoyles! But, as it's the holiday season, I immediately related the quote to a Christmas tree. The tree, alone, does not identify as a Christmas tree. It is when the shiny bulbs, the twinkling lights, and the star rests upon lofty boughs and nestle into branches that the tree transforms..."becomes." The ornaments of a structure are the residents whose lives and stories then reside within the stories of the structure. My ornaments:  Brad Mosiman, Savannah, Sydney, Lisa, Douglas, my mom, my dear friends, my students, people kind enough to read my words, and my Star and Savior, guiding it all...transforming me into the kind of tree I was meant to be.

Just a reminder, to me, to begin this new year by not asking "Who am I?" but "Whose am I?"

Thank you, God for decorating my life with the most spectacular ornaments imaginable. 

Learning to lighten up when I travel

How I envy the fluent flyers...those who are able to effortlessly navigate airport terminals without flinching in fear; or, like me, attempting, desperately, not to engage their flight or fight response.  

That I am separated from my daughters by time and distance is bad enough...but that my most efficient means of reaching them is to dart, from crowded gate to gate, like a frightened rabbit racing across a war-torn no-man's-land, is embarrassing. I feel weak...vulnerable...and exposed. 

But, as an odd sort of comfort, these feelings are similar to seasickness.

Poseidon and I do not play. Over the years, I have thrown everything I have at him...from Saltine crackers to ginger to bracelets. My eye is on the horizon but my stomach  is in hell. And, in a last ditch effort, as I lay in the fetal position in the bow of the boat, an empty vessel that has purged my very soul to the sea, my only thought is that, as unbelievable as it seems in the moment, as soon as my feet hit land, I will immediately feel better.

As soon as I exit that airport...I will immediately feel better.

Having wrestled my two bulging suitcases, laden with horseradish, Poly-O string cheese, venison and Christmas presents, from baggage claim, I wrangled my way out to a mild Texas evening. 

Finally. I inhaled deeply, appreciating the luxury.

I called Savannah, who was surprised that I was alone. "Sydney, Doug, and Lisa went in to help you," she said as she drove the obligatory laps around the airport. Lisa found me first...I abandoned my luggage and raced fearlessly down the sidewalk to her and then...Sydney. My heart and arms were full. Only Douglas had the good sense to retrieve the bags.

It had been a long day but SO WORTH IT!

"I know you're tired," Savannah said as we all stuffed ourselves into Lisa's car. I was handed a water and a fistful of chocolate, "but do you think you're up for a little adventure before going home?" 

Let's just say that I am now completely spoiled when it comes to being picked up from the airport as we drove through the Peppermint Parkway. 

What a day! First I had to pass through the seven levels of hell that is airport travel:  Rudeness. Impatience. Bad manners. Narcissism. Poor customer service. Aggressiveness. Marginalization. Then I searched through a sea of kiosks and stores for a head-ache remedy sold by an actual human being before finally walking out the doors of the Austin International Airport. 

Safe in our little car, I had a front row seat to a spectacular holiday light show. Festive music, dazzling lights, and animated characters filled our slow, mile-long drive of delight as I peeked out the moon roof, doing a reverse-Santa maneuver. We sang. We wassailed. We waved to the Grinch and a roller skating snowflake. It was magical.

It was like I had stepped off a battered ship after a storm. The events of my long day blurred...becoming more tale than trauma. The waves gentled...the sea had calmed. The churning was over. 

As we left the Peppermint Parkway, I reflected that, like the lights, our moments and memories are strung together in a similar fashion. Occasionally, there are moments of darkness. There are also flashes of intermittent brilliance. But mostly there is a long, steady illumination...dependable and comforting. And, if sometimes you lose your way...it will help guide you home.