I thought I was in shape but that was just an obstacle illusion

I do NOT wake up like a little ray of sunshine.

My husband, well-accustomed to my morning grouchies, sensed there was more to my mood this particular morning than just having to leave my warm blankies and face an unfriendly-to-Amy world. By "unfriendly," I mean, of course, people talking to me and expecting me to respond. Oh. And lights. Harsh, blinding fluorescent lighting more suitable for criminal interrogation than the gentle, beckoning beam necessary to re-emerge into society. 

"The elementary has an event tonight," I mumbled, still face-down in my pillow, attempting to self-smother. 

My cousin Sami would later scoff at my complaints. She had somehow gotten shanghaied into the Senior Sleep-Over. Seniors suctioned to their phones versus the five-to-nine-year-old crowd...screaming through the gym, ricocheting off rubber walls, war-paint of leopards, bats, and sparkly unicorns emblazoned on their faces? Apples and oranges, baby. Apples and oranges.

My friends and I ducked out quick as soon as the school day was over to grab dinner. As we were walking into the restaurant, I glanced at my watch and groaned. "Only five more hours to go."

But...

as my husband knew...

and Sami knew...

and my friends knew...

...the minute the event began, like a light switch going on, my energy level surged and my delight knew no bounds as I bounced happily from one familiar face to another. "Meg!" "Brittany!" "Tristan!" "Geri!" "Brenda (Take a note!)!"  

My job was relatively easy:  Make sure that both the bounce-house and inflatable obstacle course were suitably manned while encouraging, coaching, and safe-guarding the climbing wall. My friend, Allison, well-versed in the verbiage of 2025, was on-hand to guide my unintended slip-ups as a blonde mane and light-up shoes flitted effortlessly up the wall. "You go, girl!" I cheered. "Amy, that was a boy." Devastated by my mistake, I switched to safer labels. "Go, Tan Trousers!" I yelled, confusing the climbing child to the point where he tumbled backwards off the ladder. I then just stuck with "You." "You go! You!" to the point where it felt like the needle on my vinyl 45 record of the alphabet song got stuck on the final vowel. I am going to suggest name tags next year. 

7:55.

I had almost made it.

Unlike my friend Katriel, who had been spirited away from her chosen location at the book fair to go paint faces ("I didn't know you knew how to paint faces," I marveled to her later. "I don't," she answered.), my evening was pretty routine and undramatic for such a high-energy event.

Families were slowly filing out and, around the perimeter of the gym, games were being broken down and packed up. 

Suddenly, out of no where, like the proverbial bad penny, Tyler arrived with his usual misguided ideas.

Herding our friend Erin and me toward the entrance of the obstacle course, Tyler was all non-stop commentary about how fun it would be for people to see Erin and me race...how great it would be for morale, connection, community...blah, blah, blah. 

No. Terrible idea. As my 4th graders will tell you: Mrs. Mosiman does not bounce...she breaks.

And let's be real here. This was not some noble aspiration of Tyler's. This was pure retaliation. For what? I cannot tell you. Noticing his lackluster cellphone case back in January, Erin and I seized upon the opportunity to thoughtfully provide him a custom-made protective case for his birthday. Could this sweet gesture of friendship have been the catalyst for the grievous injury that I am about to share? Only you can decide that, dearest reader. 

Against our better judgment...guilted into this situation by our people-pleasing personalities...Erin and I reluctantly readied ourselves to race...

When suddenly...fate intervened.

"Stop! We unplugged the obstacle course."

Our friend, Rachel rescued us. Relieved, Erin and I bent to retrieve our shoes...

When another voice boomed, "No worries! I plugged it back in!"

Apparently, that was the equivalent of a starting pistol because Erin dove for the rabbit hole entrance. Shocked, I stood statue-still before scrambling after her.

We wiggled, worm-like, through taut tunnels intended for toddlers. Unbalanced, we wove our way through a forest of wobbly punching bags, squeezing ourselves like homemade pasta through tight rollers, and then dove out another hole to the welcoming air bag mattress below.

With the delay (from Erin's cheating), I was able to hear but not process her shriek of pain before I had already Superman-ed out of the tunnel. The deflated air mattress that waited for my free-fall had me scrambling, like a cartoon character, to pull back on the throttle but gravity had other plans. In the distance, I could hear someone redundantly say, "There's no air," but, after my not-so-feather-soft landing, I wondered if the voice was referring to the air mattress or my lungs. The only words I could get out were "Ouch," "My elbow," and "You cheated." Erin's vocabulary was limited to "My neck." Stunned, Tyler was also rendered almost speechless. The only thing I heard him say before he disappeared was "That's a wrap."

Following the rules? It was worth a shot

I am not a voracious drinker but when I do find myself at an appropriate social event that includes sensible spirits, my go-to tends to be tequila. 

My recent excursion to Mexico was seeped in mezcal. Immediately upon arrival, Sydney and I quickly became students in the making, acquisition, discernment, and consumption of tequila. We were horrified to discover that we were abysmally behind in our studies and would require remedial intervention. 

Dessert tequila? What is this?

Throwing back shots in every gift shop you enter is a GOOD idea?

Accompanying a young teenager to a tequila tasting is NOT illegal?

When you are in Mexico, everything a young American girl learns about tequila is swiftly tossed out the window of an unregistered shuttle van that speeds with abandon down a crowded city street, taking no heed of the occasionally posted signs to "alto." We knew we were in treble when we walked in (to that first gift shop). 

Rule #1:  Don't drink with strangers. 

The loophole for this is to call everyone amigas or familia.

Rule #2:  Drinking occurs in restaurant establishments, bars, or people's homes.

Apparently, the entire country of Mexico is a drinking-approved zone. 

Sydney and I were in Cabo less than 24 hours and we were drinking with strangers in the back of a gift shop. Brad Mosiman was on the phone with the American consulate but we were already on our way to our second tequila tasting. Tracking our movement on Google Maps was more like tracking the little ball on Pong. 

Rule #3: Drinking tequila requires a lot of accessories and dramatic facial emoting.

Taking a traditional tequila shot should be very simple and straight-forward. Shouting "Woo!" is unnecessary and embarrassing. 

Sydney and I were tactfully guided in the correct technique of drinking tequila. Let's just say my Lamaze training really came in handy. What a useful (and applicable) skill! 

Rule #4:  All tequila is basically the same.

WHAT WERE WE THINKING?!?!?

"Wait. There's dessert tequila?!?!"

Along with our new friend Trudi from Detroit and her 14-year-old son, TJ, Sydney and I were wrestled into yet another back room in Mexico. Meanwhile, Brad Mosiman was going Liam-Neeson back home, ready to employ his particular set of skills to extract his family from danger. Unfortunately, his family had decided to become bffs with danger. Maybe Brad Mosiman would have better luck extracting Trudi and TJ. Okay. NOT Trudi. But TJ was BEGGING to get out of there.

Speaking of extraction, once Sydney and I were confident of our ability to extract tequila from the blue agave plant, we moved onto practicing our newly-developed tequila-tasting strategy. Imagine the counter at the bar as a fence-line of bottles set up as targets for the seasoned gunslinger. Sydney and I slowly but methodically worked our way down the picket-wire.

As impressed as TJ must have been by our skill and accuracy (it was hard to tell...he heroically refrained
from "Woo!"-ing as recommended by our visiting country's customs), he was relieved when we transitioned to the restaurant section so he could enjoy his chicken tenders. Sydney, Trudi, and I were uncharacteristically boisterous. The surrounding patrons and passing staff delighted in our animated conversation and loud laughter. TJ, for some reason, did not seem to want to join in our revelry. 

As our afternoon concluded, our server encouraged us to capture this memory at their photo station. 

Who wouldn't want to do THAT?!? (TJ)

Giggling, Sydney, Trudi, and I raced over, vying for a position next to the statue of a resting vaquero. Caught up in the moment and forgetting that I was in the presence of an impressionable young person, I, to the approval of restaurant guests, moved to dramatically straddle the statue (in the most lady-like way possible)...fortunately, good sense and bad balance prevailed.

Click!

Our memory was made.

Treasured...for some. Trauma...for one.

We said a fond farewell to our new friends. Frustrated that I wasn't able to elicit even a smidgen of a smile from TJ, I tried once more. "Hope you didn't have too terrible of a time," I said to the reticent teen, "It's just how we roll." Sydney laughed. "Mom...you got it wrong." She winked at TJ. "It's how I roll." TJ grinned at her, saluting us by tipping those beautiful browns up to the sky. 

He was going to miss us.

Comparing my enjoyment of a resort foam party to a soap bubble: One p^!(k and it's gone

 As Sydney and I researched the different resorts in Cabo, we considered safety, location, cost, and amenities. The package we ultimately decided on promoted "remote-hopping" to its neighboring properties. I was excited about this because one of the resorts advertised "foam parties" which sounded like delightful fun. I love bubbles!

Little did I know, that while I was batting soap bubbles in the air like a curious kitten playing with a ball of yarn, other people were also batting balls...beneath the foamy surface of the pool.

Who knows what terrors lurk beneath the water?

Jaws made me not want to enter the ocean. Human debauchery made me not want to enter the pool at a foam party.

Don't get me wrong. The pulsating music was great. The drinks were delicious. The energy was insane. I squealed with childlike joy as foam bubbles cascaded down from the steel pavilion bars above us. Sydney and I danced happily in the knee-high water. We had impulsively positive interactions with party-goers. Standing in line for drinks, I was indecisive until I spotted the girl ahead of us receive a beautiful purple drink. She turned to exit and I shouted to her, over the thump of the music, asking her what it was.

Without hesitation, she handed it to me to try. Having tracked the drink through the construction process to her hand, I took and tasted it, also without hesitation. 

I also appreciated the cleanliness and safety of the facility as staff members were in a constant flurry of discrete movement, cleaning and drying the floors...circling the area endlessly, on the hunt for discarded or unattended cups. Lifeguards were on alert vigil.

It took me awhile to realize that there was a mathematical equation to the event. Frenzied dancers on platforms. Foam. Drinks. Hypnotic music. Super-fun. 

But slowly, like the unsuspecting frog in the warming pot of water, things began to amp up. They kept adding more and more...

Super-soakers filled with alcohol first.

Then, giant bottles of champagne were carried out and shaken on stage as the occupants of the pool roared their approval. Braver than me, Sydney faced the onslaught while I, like Lot fleeing from Sodom, turned, refusing to look back until...

"My eye!" Sydney cried out, "My eye!" Blinded, with out-stretched arms, Sydney groped for me in the over-populated pool. I grabbed my daughter, tugging her to safety until her vision cleared.

It was then that my eyes were opened as well.

When the foam wasn't flowing, Sydney and I avoided the bulk of the crowd, hugging the edge of the pool. While we were there, I noticed that one half of the couple that had been stationed next to us had disappeared beneath the bubbles. Alarmed, I scanned the surface, waiting for her to reappear. Her male companion did not seem upset about this situation. Frightened, my eyes sought out a lifeguard. To my relief, he was already headed towards us. A quick blast on his whistle and a casually disgusted "up" gesture of his hand resulted in my drowning victim's immediate reappearance. Her friend stood to adjust himself ...making something else disappear as well. 

Apparently, this magic trick was catchy because, with a wave of that wand, Sydney and I (clutching my pearls) also disappeared from the pool.

We sought refuge on the upper-deck seating platforms, watching the party continue to ramp up with the addition of balloons and then giant inflatable balls.

You know what I'm going to say.

Yup. You guessed it.

Those were not the only balls we could see from our vantage point. 

I was in the wrong place.

The math here had gotten too complex.

It's easy to see how numbers can get away from you. 

I loved the bubbles. The music and dancing. Laughing with my daughter. It's just that my math is VERY simple. For me, this party didn't add up. When it really started hopping, I lost my algorithm. It was time to go.

I just thought I would be spending the afternoon, hanging out at the pool. I didn't realize everyone would be hanging out at the pool.

I was in over my head. I ended up leaving the bubble party feeling a bit deflated. Apparently, I just wasn't able to rise to the occasion.

My camel cried (with relief) when I left: She let out a humpback-wail

 "You're doing WHAT when you go to Mexico?" my husband asked.

"What are you doing when you go to Cabo?" asked Savannah.

You know who didn't question me? You know who didn't scoff? You know who didn't demean my dream?

Sydney. That's who. WITHOUT question, she simply booked the excursion while I spent a month defending my choice.

"Camels are not indigenous to Mexico," Savannah (now a naturalist, apparently) pointed out.

"How exactly are you planning on getting on and off said camel?" Brad wondered, trying to plant a seed
a doubt in my mind, "You have trouble getting out of bed in the morning."

But I'd read the literature. Watched the informational video. Discovered and then latched onto a Bucket List activity that I'd never even ONCE in my life considered but was now going to accomplish. I, Amy Mosiman, was going to spot whales while perched majestically atop a stately ship of the desert.

Brad and Savannah laughed their heads off.

When Sydney and I arrived at our resort, I admit to feeling that I might have fallen for the hype. I might have been a bit naive.

Naive? Me?

We'd unintentionally but happily landed in Cabo at the height of whale season. Unfortunately, we soon learned that any whale sightings that we might have indulged in occurred at sunrise before the arrival of the daily migrations of cruise ships anchoring in the Sea of Cortez that herds them down the shoreline. A 6:30 am whale wake-up call was NOT in the cards for Syd and me.

So, as we drove to our excursion, I tried to ready my heart for, as my more skeptical family members described it, "a low-rent, back-alley, camel carnival ride." 

I was worried.

I wasn't wearing closed-toed shoes. "They don't care about what's on your feet," my husband tried to assure me (too late there now, buddy), "They only care what's in your wallet." What if my camel didn't like me? What if, like my stunt airplane debacle, there was an undisclosed weight limit? And, of course, the same worry that plagued me throughout the entire trip...what if I'm sex-trafficked? 

These worries, etched in the sand by my own anxious hand, were quickly dispelled by the first warmly enthusiastic wave of our new friend, Pepe. "Mi familia!" he shouted, gathering us together like a mother hen and shoo-ing us out of the heat to a shadowed pavilion. As we eagerly waited for our fun photo-shoot with a Bactrian camel, Pepe entertained us with camel-related trivia. Sydney and I, raised in a rural county boasting more cows than people, were more than ready to apply our bovine knowledge to this new environment. Four-chambered stomachs? Please. Cloven hooves? Child's play. We didn't even blink when Pepe, asked about a camel's retirement, teased his familia by telling us we'd find out at lunch after our ride.

Our photo shoot was magical. Our camel, the lovely Lolita with eyelashes for miles, graciously accepted our admiration while we posed for pictures while the camel train was being assembled. I let out a sigh of relief when I spotted the staired-platform that would put me camel-high in order to straddle and then sit in the saddle. Many of our familia were allowed to pair up on their camels. As Sydney and I climbed the stairs, Pepe smiled broadly at me, clasping his hands. "Senorita! It would give me such pleasure if you would ride Pepe's favorite camel!" He yelled in Spanish to the compound and a young man quickly added a sturdy addition to the train. A quick review of Google translate revealed Pepe's shouted request: "Hey! We need a load-bearing camel out here!"

My hurt feelings were quickly out-weighed by the pain of my suddenly over-extended pelvis. I glanced back at Sydney, trotting along on her little dromedary named Natalie whose pronouns were nice/nasty. "Not gonna lie, I'm not sure my hips can handle this," I told her when, finally, to my great relief, they disengaged and I could settle comfortably in the saddle. I quickly fulfilled another Bucket List item by singing "Sally the Camel" while RIDING a camel. I was disappointed that others didn't join in. I'm sure they would regret that later. 

Weaving around cacti and nettles, we were soon at the beach. I heard Sydney gasp and looked back to see my daughter, atop a camel, arm outstretched,pointing...at an oasis? A middle eastern market? A band of desert raiders? 

No.

A whale.

I sat, periscope-straight, eyes locked on the Pacific. "Another one! Mom! Look!" Sydney bellowed. Our Wyoming County roots rose to the surface. So many whales...like counting cows in a field. The excursion photographer had quite a time with us. "Look at me!" he shouted again and again, "The whales will still be there!"

Too soon, we were back to the staired-platform and Pepe was watching me mentally work out my strategy for dismounting. He was ready. I swung my far leg over, planted both feet firmly on the platform, prayed that my load-bearing camel didn't sway, and pushed off his furry side. Pepe met me with a firm handshake, helping to hoist me up. Score! I waddled  off with dignity like a bow-legged, derriere-dragging duck.

"Mi familia!" Pepe shouted, ushering us over to the little open-aired pavilion that housed the restaurant and bar. He wowed us with his tamale-making skills and then conducted a tequila-tasting seminar. By this time, Sydney and I were well-versed on this process and did the Mosiman family name proud. 

We were, of course, heart-broken to say good-bye to Pepe and our camel friends. "Let's make this quick and not milk it out," I whispered to Sydney as we waited to hug Pepe as he helped us board the truck to take us back. "We don't want this to become a drama-dairy."

Out of my depth at the swim-up pool

It is awkward, at best, to dramatically storm away from a swim-up bar. To ride away upon one's high-horse when you must first slide off a slippery stool. Righteous indignation is not best communicated when you are clumsily dog-paddling away.

Sigh.

I admit to perhaps being, a bit, naive going into this situation. When Sydney and I booked an all-inclusive, adults-only resort, we just thought we wouldn't have to deal with kids crowding our hot tub. We didn't know that, for some, "adults-only" means something else entirely.

We just thought we were making new friends.

On our first encounter (We got MUCH smarter after this experience), we met childhood buddies from Texas and Oregon who had spent the previous day in the noble pursuit of game fishing. They made casual references to their wives as we enjoyed the weather and the water. I watched as our bartender battled bees from his buffet of limes while monitoring the tide lines of our beverages. 

Without warning, Oregon declared his disbelief in a deity.

I waded in.

Surreptitiously, I texted my stalwart Christian support group:

Amy to group:  Hypothetical question:  Is a swim-up bar the ideal place to evangelize? And...discuss.

Allison:  Anything can happen at the swim-up bar!

Marissa:  I believe it is a perfectly acceptable place because many non-Christians view Christians as people who aren't allowed to have any fun or as prudes.  But if you can get to their level while shining His light then BOOM. You've got a success in the making! This is doing exactly what Jesus would have done. He could have stayed on His throne, all mighty, but no, He came down and became a dirt-poor homeless person to relate to us.

Katriel:  Amazing! (Not helpful at all)

Amy to group:  Amy Mosiman (downing a shot of tequila) listening to a skeevy predator telling me he doesn't believe in God. Amy slams down her shot, winks, and slurs, "No worries, baby, He believes in you."

I was briefly considering the ludicrousness of the sprinkling versus immersion debate as I would, if given the opportunity, transform this resort swim-up bar into a baptism pool for one of the Lord's lost lambs.

Silly...simple...stupid me.

What a naive nincompoop. 

I failed to recognize the wolf in a sheep's bathing suit.

Seated next to me, with Texas on her other side, Sydney slightly shifted so I glanced down the bar to where I thought Dallas was regaling my daughter with pictures of Marlin on his phone. The bartender and I exchanged glances as we both realized that there was something really fishy about what Texas was sharing.

Sydney's plan to subtly and discreetly remove us from this torrid situation was thwarted by my abruptly standing and loudly announcing that it was time to go. The bartender hid his smile while Texas laughed uncomfortably (HE was uncomfortable? Please.) and whispered to Sydney, "I hope we didn't offend your mother." She muttered something about my aversion to bees and followed me away from the bar. 

There was no graceful way to make my dramatic exit. Sloughing through the just over-knee-high water looked like I was battling a snow drift. High-stepping had me looking like I was lost from my marching band. Any type of swim maneuver would be misconstrued by those two idiots:  Breast stroke...Freestyle...Back stroke...Dog paddle. If ever was a time for me to be able to walk on water...

My head held high, I made it to the stairs and dared a glance back to glare at the men who had infringed on our innocent good time...They, of course, were nonplussed. It was funny to them and they would just move onto their next poolside prey. I was grateful for the small salute from the bartender as we left and grateful, too, for the valuable lesson. When one approaches a swim-up bar (which we avoided for the remainder of the trip), one must arm herself with environmental-friendly armor. First, of course, wear your goggles of godliness. Strap on the fins of fidelity. Put on your swim suit of self-control and self-respect. Don't forget your hat of humor...because once you've gotten over your initial shock of the immature audacity of idiots, you just have to laugh.

I pulled a mussel laughing at the all-you-can-eat buffet

"Why aren't you blogging about your trip?" my husband asked, frowning at me. I shrugged. "There really wasn't all that much to write about," I admitted, "It was just a nice, ordinary vacation." Brad stared at me. He paused, taking a deep breath before addressing me. "I think," he said slowly, "that you have gotten in the mind-set of believing a story is not worth telling unless something humiliating, odd, or catastrophic occurs." 

I considered this.

"Cabo is a revolving destination door for thousands of people a day," I explained. "For the shops, the restaurants, the resorts and the expeditions...every day is Ground Hog's Day." Brad sighed. "Trust me," he encouraged, "Your version and perspective is less Ground Hog's Day and more National Lampoon." 

He quickly organized a spreadsheet of his favorite topics:  Amy on a camel. Amy giggling immaturely at the buffet. Amy appalled at a swim-up bar. Amy appalled at the foam party. Amy foregoing her plan to tackle the Big Five each day (margarita: no repeat flavors, daiquiri: no repeat flavors, Pina colada, mimosa, and a specialty cocktail: no repeats) to switch exclusively to tequila. 

The common denominator across all the categories was the giggling. Admittedly, Sydney and I are the least mature members of our family. We are easily amused and impressed. "Complimentary" beer during the shuttle ride to the resort could not be passed up. We grabbed our cans and cackled like naughty hens. I began a stimulating conversation with a man from Saskatchewan about their abundant soybean harvest while Sydney fretted that one beer tended to make her sleepy. I dismissed her worries before resuming my Canadian conversation by bragging about Wyoming County's plethora of potatoes. I'm not sure if it was the beer or the boasting, but we began to lose Sydney. Fortunately, we'd arrived at the resort. "Wow! Time really fries when you're having fun," I smiled at my neighbor to the north before nudging Sydney awake. "We'll ketchup with you later!" I waved as we exited the shuttle.

The second round of giggles occurred the minute we walked into our state room. 

The predominant feature of the room was...a bathtub.

We giggled at the tub, the generously-stocked-with complimentary-beverages mini-fridge, the mini bar, the rain shower, and the weirdly-shaped but well-intended towel sculpture perched on our bed.

We pulled ourselves together enough to go down to dinner.

We were sophisticated. "Thank you, sir, for pulling out my chair for me." Elegant. "Yes, a drink would be lovely." Poised. "Let me spread this fine linen napkin demurely across my lap." Cultured. And reserved. A credit to the good Mosiman name.

Until we weren't.

One step into the "buffet" and we were done.

Wide eyed. One might say bulging...like in a cartoon.

Giggling to the point of guffawing.

There was some pointing. Gesturing (like a Price is Right model motioning to A BRAND NEW CAR!).

Hissing. Shouting. Gasps of delight. A lengthy photo shoot.

We finally came to our senses when Sydney dipped her hand into the two-story chocolate fountain like she was going to baptize herself with Holy Water. 

Time to go.

To giggle another day.

Cabo-yes? Cabo-no? Too late now...time to go.

 I'm not sure how it happened. Jack Frost had hit the snooze alarm on the sunrise for, far, too many days. I was groggy. Ornery. Short-tempered. Impatient. Simmering. "You know what you need?" Sydney asked as I listed my litany of complaints to her over the phone. "What?" I growled, my inner-hibernating bear waiting to explode out of her cramped den. "Cabo," Sydney said, simply.

Cabo.

Two syllables of sunshine. A wave of relief washed over me. Yes. That was EXACTLY what I needed.

But...

Cabo...go?

Or...

Cabo...no?

Impulsively, I agreed and Sydney locked it in before my fears could gain ground.

Pictures and suggestions were sent to me daily...captivating carrots for Sydney's stubborn mule of a mother who began to obsessively worry. "What if I forget my passport?" I'd ask. Sydney would counter by offering me a choice between riding a camel or a horse on the beach. I debated those options for days. TSA is enough of a struggle for me, anxiety-wise. How on earth would I handle Customs? Sydney shared ten suggestions for swimsuits for my perusal and I agonized over skirt or shorts. 

I kept oddly quiet about my decision. What if I chickened out at the last minute and canceled my plans?

The week before break, my grade level team was playing cards at lunch when conversation turned, naturally, to our vacation. I merely shuffled the deck, remaining silent. Whew. Made it. Except I missed the devilish twinkle in my friend Katriel's eyes as she maneuvered the conversation back to me. "Will you be able to squeeze in a visit to your mom's before your flight?" she asked, eyes innocently wide as I glared at her. "Where are you going?" my friends said excitedly, turning to look at me expectantly. I was bubbling like a little volcano and could not staunch the sudden lava flow:  "Cabo, baby!" I shouted and the table erupted.

The next few days were filled with happy chatter so that I only had to contend with sleepless dread at
night. Who could possibly understand how I wanted to stay home, curled under a blanket on my chair, staring at re-runs rather than to bask in the warm sun, blinded by diamonds dancing off the water, a cold drink attached permanently to my hand?

For good or for bad, I made it out, right ahead of the weather.

Navigating carefully, Brad got me to the airport with ample time to spare. He cheerfully extracted me from the car and bustled away quickly.

I took a deep breath and headed to a kiosk. I could do this. Thousands of people do this every day.

Confirmation number. Blurred through the frightened tears in my eyes. I punched the buttons. Printed my ticket and then waited patiently for the luggage stickers.

And waited.

I hate those stupid luggage stickers. I can never seem to follow the directions correctly and end up completely enveloped in them.

I tried the kiosk panel again. No sticker.

I went to another kiosk. Nope.

Got in a line.

The wrong line.

Got waved over to the correct line and then babbled on and on about luggage to the poor man who could only stare at my tear-stained face as I lamented my utter failure in regards to the successful printing of luggage stickers. 

He effortlessly produced them for me and then asked if I was traveling alone. I could only nod as I thought about TSA and Customs ahead of me. Not to mention my intentionally going to a country where I do not speak the language or understand the currency exchange. I'm hard of hearing as it is and let's just throw an accent on top of that. Plus I am spatially unaware, am terrible at listening to AND following directions, get overwhelmed by my environment, and get motion sick.

"What?" I asked the ticket agent. He'd been talking for some time.

"I don't like your small window between Buffalo and Phoenix," he repeated (probably for the twelfth time), "I'm switching you over to Vegas." He took the tickets I had successfully pulled from the kiosk and gave me new ones. "Look," he said, "I marked your tickets so you can board without worry." He circled something on my ticket. "When the agent says this (insert Charlie Brown's teacher's voice here), I want you to board the plane. Do you understand?" I nodded. I did not understand. "You're going to do great," he said with a thumbs up as I shuffled sadly off.

I sniffled my way through TSA and found my gate. Inspecting my tickets, I was horrified to discover predominantly circled red ink declaring me eligible to board ahead of my fellow able-bodied passengers. I work in education. I knew what this was. I was given the airline equivalent of an IEP accommodation. The plane began the boarding process and, mortified, I hid behind a post until I was spotted by my kind benefactor who had apparently followed me to make sure I safely made it to my seat. Like a sheep dog, he herded me into the waiting line of wheelchairs. "I do not deserve special treatment," I hissed in my phone to Sydney. "You wear glasses," she sang cheerfully, "think of them as wheelchairs for your face." I dove for the first available seat which was located in the first row. The flight attendant wrestled my backpack away to store it in the overhead compartment...taking with it...my snacks. Leg room but no M&Ms. 

Five candy-less hours later, I made it to Vegas. A night-time flight over that city does NOT disappoint. The terminal is a nightmare for someone with sensory issues but once I was squirreled away in a safe little corner, I enjoyed watching the action

Vegas to San Diego...this time clutching my M&M container (aka: My backpack).

I made it! I stood outside, taking in the towering silhouettes of the swaying palm trees and reveling in the lack of snow when a voice cried out in the darkness, rising over the hundreds of conversations swirling around me, weaving through the traffic crawling along, waiting to gobble up passengers. "Mom!" It didn't occur to me and it certainly didn't register to Sydney Lynn...as Douglas turned to his wife as they raced toward me from a block away and he said, laughing, "Half of this crowd is made up of mothers. She's not going to respond to your voice." Sydney didn't bother answering him because I had already turned, waved my arms, and exclaimed joyously, "Sydney!"

"Icy" what you did there: Losing my cool and having a melt down just trying to walk to my truck

 It was a disastrous blend of chilling winds, frozen temperatures, sleet and snow that transformed my lawn into a lake of sheer ice. Brad had left for work, pausing to start my truck for me while I reveled in my last fifteen minutes sitting, stove-side, sipping coffee and rolling reels. I was startled when I spotted, out of the corner of my eye, my husband, driving the truck around to the front of the house. My heart melted at his thoughtfulness.

I peered out the window at him as he made his way carefully from the truck for the perilous journey back to his van. He paused to make loving gestures to me...two-fingers-to-eyes then pointing to the ground. The Brad Mosiman equivalent of blowing kisses. 

I sighed. He can be so-oo dramatic.

I returned to my beverage and brainless browsing.

Too soon, it was time to go.

I stepped out my front door, surprised to find another vehicle parked on the road.

Brad Mosiman.

Lovingly, he rolled down the window to yell at me to put on my mittens. His version of a Shakespearean soliloquy. 

I rolled my eyes at him, stepped down onto the slightly-sloped sidewalk and shrieked as I slid, out-of-control, arms flailing, back contorting, all the way to the truck. Actually...all the way INTO the truck. I slammed right into the side of my warming vehicle and hugged it like a lifeboat as I fought the frozen current beneath my feet. I felt like a cartoon character. I risked a glance at Brad who sat, stone-faced and impatient, as I inched my way around Titan to get to the driver's side door. To his credit...were I he...I would have been video-taping this ridiculous episode and laughing hysterically.

Once he saw me safely behind the wheel, my husband tossed me a wave and drove away.

I thought about Brad Mosiman's love languages as I made my own way, carefully, to work. Care-taking. Acts of service. Worry. The unravel-ler of knots. Cleaner-upper of messes. The anticipator of all the trouble of which I am going to find myself. 

EXAMPLE:  I had declared that we would go grocery shopping after work on Thursday. I came home and made the mistake of sitting down. An hour later, Brad brought me a piece of take-out lemon meringue pie that he'd picked up earlier that day. I looked at him with surprise. He shrugged. "I knew you wouldn't feel like shopping but also knew that you would want a snack."

Brad and I left, after school. to go visit my mom. Arriving back, after dark, the icy ground waited for me...a mirrored menace...shining beneath the moon...a rippling rib-cracker. Brad's voice guided me in the darkness as I shivered with cold and fear. He was wrestling shopping bags while I fought gravity and inertia.I shuffle-stepped over to "help" Brad who was simply setting bags on the ground and letting the ice do the transporting for him. I was, of course, just getting in the way of progress. Brad attempted to guide my route which I promptly ignored and screamingly went my own idiotic way.  Somehow (Later referred to as "The Miracle on Ice"), Brad managed to get both the groceries AND his wife into the house (all while balancing a bag of wood pellets on his shoulder).

So Brad Mosiman's love languages might not necessarily be comprised of endearments and sappy compliments (I REALLY do like those, though)...instead, he valiantly tries to take care of a stubborn woman who insists she can do things her own way...it's a slippery slope. But I'll take the occasional cold shoulder or icy glare over a broken hip any day.

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?"