Stuck in traffic on the QEW on what SHOULD be a three hour journey to Toronto? Urine trouble.

 I don't have many areas of strength. I can write a passable haiku. My chocolate raspberry pie is pretty good so long as no one knows I use a store-bought crust. I have excellent taste in dachshunds. And, up until pretty recently, I had an iron bladder when it came to traveling. 

Being Brad Mosiman's wife has a whole host of advantages. First of all, he's easy on the eyes. He has a kind heart. He fusses over me when I'm sick. Listens to my endless complaining. Puts up with my helplessness when it comes to anything mechanical. Makes sure my gas tank is always full. Scrapes the ice off my windshield in the winter. And can geographically locate me without the assistance of Air Tags or Find My Friend. 

But...being Brad Mosiman's wife occasionally has its drawbacks. His insistence on being, personally, physically fit feels...judgy. His insistence on do-it-yourself projects that turn into do-it-yourself-while-yelling-at-Amy-because-of-her-incompetent "help" isn't as delightful as it sounds. And, his habit of driving seventeen hours to Iowa and only stopping for gas developed my decades-long philosophy of travel dehydration. Let's just politely say that that is a young girl's game with a brand new, just-out-of-the-box bladder. You know those tall athletic socks with the red stripes around the rim? When you first pulled them up your legs...how they lovingly hugged your lean calves and vowed never to let go? And then, after multiple uses and countless trips tumbling about in the spin cycle, suddenly your trusted friend began inching away from your lower leg to flirt with your ankles? And, eventually, frustratingly, began to hump your heel? 

I began noticing it in my forties. My impenetrable bladder began to betray me. I made adjustments.

Then, in my fifties, there was no holding back the unstoppable force of my blasphemous bladder. My trusty iron storage tank developed a severe rust problem that singing repeat renditions of the nationally anthem could not hold back. I could kegel til the cows came home to no avail. 

But a three-hour trip to Toronto? I scoffed. In my sleep (Did I mention that I wake up between 2 and 3 am to visit the restroom now?)! I immediately went into dehydration mode but Brad kindly bought me a Pepsi for the journey. I tried to resist...but it sang to me from the cup-holder...a liquid lure and, yes, I took the bait.

At two hours, I started to wiggle but my confidence was still high. There was still plenty of play in my line.

And then we hit traffic. Hookset. 

Can you call it traffic when nothing is moving (except me...wiggling, kegeling, folding myself...bodily in two)? We hit parking lot on the QEW. I began eyeing up that Pepsi bottle for alternative purposes. Noticing my mild discomfort, my thoughtful husband told me to keep an eye out for an exit with handy gas stations or fast foot establishments. As he inched by the next exit (I had lost speech capability at this point...using all the powers of self-will to stem the tide), I was stunned. "You didn't say to get off at that one," Brad told me, watching as I googled exactly HOW absorbent the brand of paper towels we keep in the track actually is. I was now holding back tears as well as pee.

He was now VERY invested.

Twenty minutes later (Are they minutes in Canada?...My bladder couldn't convert kilometers), we hit an off-ramp and began the desperate search for an oasis. But we'd entered a residential area. We were in trouble and Brad Mosiman knew it. With an eagle eye, he pulled into an after-hours construction site and parked me right in front of a porta-potty. Beggars could not be choosers. I slid carefully out of the truck, shimmied around it with my knees bowed together and my toes curled, duck-walked the two feet to the porta-potty door, grabbed that door and flung myself inside. I will not describe the interior of that receptacle. That is between me and God. I emerged, moments later, gasping for fresh air, traumatized, but grateful. 

Brad Mosiman and I continued our journey but I sensed a shift in our relationship. When we arrived at Dan and Katriel's, my husband discreetly asked if I needed to use the restroom, scoping out its location like he was scanning the horizon for deer. When we entered the stadium, the first thing he did was nod towards the closest woman's bathroom to our seats. And yes...before we left for our return journey home, he insisted that I used the facilities. I was also asked if I needed a potty break on the way home, too. 

Embarrassing...yes. Humbling...you betcha. But maybe there is a silver lining to this little incident. Is it possible that I will now be able to comfortably and confidently imbibe in a reasonable amount of beverage consumption while gallivanting about the globe? Bladder late than never.

To Boston and Beyond...to stand in the historic footsteps of both the brave and the buffoons (part 3, The Finale)

I was becoming very discriminating regarding the universally-applied fifteen dollar admission fee to cross the threshold of every self-important New England structure of random historic significance. I stormed out of a squatty lighthouse that demanded my money to extol its limited lifespan due to erosion and outdated technology. Imagine my regret when I learned later that I could have viewed Taylor Swift's house from its somewhat lofty perch as well as taken in three states at once:  Rhode Island, Connecticut, and New York. Still, a girl's gotta take a stand somewhere.

I didn't when it came to the Old North Church. I fan-girl-ed like a Swiftie as I stood in its stately shadows. I teach Longfellow's historically-inaccurate poem with glee every year, 4th graders slapping their hands on their knees in unison to maintain the cadence of the steady fall of hoofs over pavement stone and back country road. I happily gave my money to cross this threshold of history. Savannah, Lisa and I walked in and were immediately transported back in time. You HAVE TO GO. It was bright and airy and beautiful. Lisa grabbed an audio set and lost herself in the stories while I just slowly wandered and wondered over the significance and symbolism of this building. We were enthralled with the pew compartments "owned" by Boston's upper class while the upstairs gallery was available for the minorities. "When did Martin Luther nail his treatise against church indulgences to the door?" I murmured, reading about how families would decorate their stalls in an attempt of showmanship and extravagance. Apparently not much had changed since 1517. 

The stately organ was enthroned on the second level at the back of the church. I smiled at the four intricately carved wooden angels on guard around it, having just learned that a privateer, in a flash of guilt from plundering a French vessel (Remember, they provided much-needed friendship, funds, and firepower during our little altercation with England.), decided to donate these religious relics to assuage his guilt and glad-hand God. Martin Luther would not have been surprised at this at all. Hey...fun fact about our friend Martin, by the way. Did you know that he had been a monk and his wife (Yes! Gasp! His WIFE!) had been a nun? Up until now, I thought old Martin would have been pretty uptight and stodgy but now...color me interested.

Lisa and I tumbled into the compartment where Teddy Roosevelt sat when he attended a religious service at the Old North Church. Savannah and I stood in the same spot at Lafayette in 1824 as he gazed upon a bust of his friend George Washington. A bust, I might add excitedly, that was once housed in the right front alcove of the church but, during renovations, a window was discovered and then, ceremoniously restored as, presumably, the hurried exit point of the young man who bravely lit the lanterns before British regulars were dispatched to stop him. STOP IT! Why on earth had I not given more thought to that part of the story? Spies and spy communications were rampant in Boston and lit lanterns were a common tool to signal information. Of course the British would be alert for such shenanigans.

Old North Church: Surpassed expectations.

Our final day in Boston was a trip to Bunker Hill. Lisa heard "hill" and decided that an extra hour in bed in an air-conditioned hotel sounded much more interesting. She graciously encouraged us to go and bring her back a coffee when we concluded our adventure. Fortunately for Savannah and I, the early morning was a pleasant temperature and our Uber dropped us off at the base of the monument so we only had to climb stairs instead of a hill. Years of directing the 6th grade Boston research projects had already alerted me that the bulk of the fighting had occurred on nearby Breed's Hill but, standing atop the incline, looking at the steady slope extending down into Boston, it was humbling to consider the bravery of the men who fought their way up for a fleeting chance of freedom. And, what luck, a bakery was located a block away!

We concluded our New England exploration with a stop at Groton/New London...where Savannah had
moved upon graduating college to work on submarines:  The vessels, NOT the sandwich. We visited Mystic, Connecticut where Lisa enjoyed the shops and I enjoyed watching the bridge lift. We visited the little park and beach area that Savannah remembered fondly. "Dad and I parked the moving van here and ate Pad Thai," she told Lisa as I painfully remembered how the rest of that story played out with them returning home, loading up Sydney's stuff, and then driving my daughters to begin a new life, 3,000 miles away from their mother, to California. Speaking of traitors and having your heart painfully pierced, the girls later climbed the 166 steps of the Groton Monument where a healthy hatred of Benedict Arnold is inscribed deeply into stone:  "When the British, under the command of the traitor, Benedict Arnold, burnt the towns of Groton and New London." This was after the American commander had surrendered, handed over his sword, and then was swiftly, brutally, and dishonorably run through with it. 

That evening was fireworks on a 45-degree-incline overlooking the Thames River. Magical but muscularly-paralyzing. Turns out I can try defying gravity but will inevitably fail. The walk back to the vehicle was embarrassing as I shuffled painfully along like Quasimodo. I dropped the girls off at the airport early the next morning before my six hour, back-seizing, solo journey home. How I treasured re-visiting these memories of Savannah's time in Connecticut. I reflected on the path she took that would eventually lead her to Lisa and the amazing life that she has now. And how grateful I am to be a part of it. 

Beyond grateful.

 

To Boston and beyond...to brave the heat, the crowds, the closed in spaces, and my own innate clumsiness (Part 2)

Hyped as a historic mall food court, Quincy Market calls to me, for some unfathomable reason, like a siren's song. And why not? Who wouldn't want to battle teeming crowds of overly-seasoned tourists in July through narrow passageways to bellow your order to dismissive employees who view their clients as cattle for you to then fight to the death for the rights to a sticky table?

This girl.

Who is claustrophobic, agoraphobic, enochlophobic, and menopausal? 

This girl.

All for lobster bisque in a bread bowl.

Lisa was understandably baffled. Savannah was heroically determined.

Survived it. Was worth it. Would do it again (in another five years).

In addition to the Swan Boats, my other request on this trip (besides torturing myself with Quincy Market) was to tour the U.S.S. Constitution, famously named "Old Ironsides." Up to this point, I had only viewed this famous vessel through the smudged windows of a tour bus or a quick "fly by" on a Duck. A key player in the War of 1812, this frigate is the oldest Navy warship still in service. She never lost a battle....unlike me who began wilting under the unrelenting rays of the scorching sun the minute we got dropped off at the harbor. The journey across the parking lot had me ready to wave the white flag of surrender.

To put it quite simply, she is splendid. The woodwork gleamed, ropes were woven magically into tight spirals and tucked to the side. She rocked gently as I walked, in awe, across her deck...a history book brought to life. The U.S.S. Constitution is the equivalent of a four-story building and I braved the ladder down to her second level, fighting my anxiety as I stood, stooped, before a gallery of long cannons. A patient and knowledgeable young man gave a brief presentation about the vessel, blowing my mind by dispelling the long-held myth that the warship was nicknamed "Old Ironsides" because enemy cannonballs would bounce off her hull which were constructed of resiliently sturdy live oak. "Bounce would not have been an adequate verb to describe how The U.S.S. Constitution withstood the bombardment," the sailor explained. He had me at "verb." Any member of the armed services who effortlessly whips out their parts of speech is a credit to our great nation. "Simple physics can explain the phenomenon," he continued while I swooned, either from the heat, the closed quarters, or his academic prose. He then dropped the phrase "kinetic energy" and my knees buckled. Apparently, the live oak had the ability to absorb the impact of the incoming cannon balls, creating a ripple effect that dissipated the destructive force of the armament. How I wished for an accordion fan. Oh my beating heart.

Lisa and Savannah braved the decks below while I returned topside to fry in the afternoon sun. Savannah returned and, alarmed, rushed me into the museum. Best air conditioning EVER. Highly recommend. 

Our Uber driver arrived soon after. We were separated from her by a low chain fence which Savannah and Lisa skipped nimbly over. Not to be out-done, I followed...immediately tripping and performing an awkward and near-catastrophic stumble dance that was mere seconds from a painful face-plant (had I not been so graceful and dexterous). Applauding my success, the driver waited until I got settled into her backseat before commenting on the hot weather. "Maybe next time," she said, winking at me in the rear view mirror, "you should skip the Constitution."

To Boston and beyond...as long as there is air conditioning, limited walking, lots of snacks, and not too much history (Part 1)

 Poor Savannah.

She definitely got stuck with the wrong travelling companions. 

If there is a peak...Savannah will want to summit it.

If there is a bridge...Savannah will want to cross it.

If there is a river...Savannah will strap on her floaties and start swimming.

For Savannah, there exist no obstacles to impede her journey...only challenges for her to overcome.

She should have known she was in trouble when the only way she could wrestle Lisa and I into the line for "The Freedom Trail" tour was to buy us large lemonades and shift us strategically from shady spot to shady spot. She ignored Lisa repeatedly calling this excursion "The Oregon Trail" and distracted me by pointing out the thousands of squirrels cavorting about the Boston Commons. "How long is this tour?" Lisa and I wondered, wilting in the heat and thinking wistfully of our Duck Tour from the day before. "Forty-five minutes," Savannah said gently, thinking this would reassure us. She missed the look of alarm that passed between Lisa and me. 

We made it as far as Paul Revere's grave (I searched frantically for a shovel, "Move over, buddy.") before Lisa had renamed "The Freedom Trail," "The Trail of Tears." "We have literally walked two blocks," Savannah hissed as the tour guy, dressed in period clothes MADE OUT OF WOOL, droned on about a bunch of historical nonsense. Pausing to ask if there were any questions, someone (I swear, NOT ME) inquired about the remaining length of the tour. "About two more hours," he said, not comprehending the bomb he had just dropped on Boston. Savannah, fearing a mutiny, admitted immediate defeat and we withdrew subtly from our party and retreated. The battle was lost. Savannah surrendered. 

We headed over to fulfill my wish to ride Boston's famed Swan Boats. Delightful. A shockingly low $4.75 ticket price. I was getting sick of paying fifteen dollars for each site only to see a plaque bragging that so-and-so  had slept there. I would like to suggest an alternative option where I would happily relinquish my fifteen dollars to sleep there myself for the duration of the ten minute tour. Throw in a specialized guest book that you could sign under the heading "________ slept in Paul Revere's House" and you have a recipe to rack in those rates on a ninety degree day. I had already (inadvertently) begun the tradition of visiting the restroom facilities of historic and notable places. Sleeping isn't that much more of a stretch on my list of life's goals.

While Lisa and I were intent on wheedling our way to lunch, Savannah was still busy pointing out the thousands of other historical sites we could go visit. "Could we go to a museum?" I asked, ignoring Lisa's glare as I knew there would at least be air conditioning and a snack bar there. Savannah brightened and checked out the options on her phone. "Were you thinking science, history, or art?" I winked at Lisa. "Art," I said decisively before whispering to my tired and hungry friend, "We can take the Monet and run."

To Boston...and beyond: The Culinary Capers of Savannah, Lisa, & Amy

Who, as an adult, wouldn't want to vacation with their mom?

Much like the ostrich with her head buried deep in the sand, I, too, am occasionally oblivious to the obvious. Doesn't everyone love vacationing with their mom? I fancy myself quite the delightful traveling companion: Flexible and easy-going, adaptable and fun. I just naturally take it for granted that my daughters would want me to accompany them to historical excursions, natural landmarks, and exotic locales. 

But now there are spouses involved.

My husband attempted to gently break it to me that there may be (brief) times that my presence might not necessarily be welcomed. 

What an utterly ridiculous notion.

So I didn't think twice about stuffing myself in the back cab of my Titan to join Savannah and Lisa on their post-July 4th Semiquincentennial jaunt of Boston and surrounding areas. 

I knew things were going to go well immediately when Lisa broke the long-standing (Brad) Mosiman rule

by foraging to eat before we had even left Wyoming County. Two hours on the road warranted a rest-stop pickle purchase. Barely an hour after that, we were eating fried green tomatoes in Troy. I would not go hungry on this trip. Once fed, Lisa was more than accommodating with the Mosiman tendency of researching, learning, endlessly discussing, and then immediately dismissing the fun facts about the places we visit. Troy is the birthplace of Uncle Sam, originating with a meat-packer named Sam Wilson during the War of 1812 when he stamped the meat barrels with "U.S.". We also delved into the history of the Shakers, which was an off-shoot of the Quakers with one of the significant differences being that Shakers practiced celibacy...which explains their near-extinct population today.

Our trip was successful largely because I am well-versed on 4th grade level poetry, prose, and American history while Lisa speaks fluent food. Savannah, thank goodness, is bilingual, expertly translating when needed. My mundane appetite appeals to the consistent menu of McDonald's while Savannah and Lisa's tastes are Michelin-rated. Silly me...I thought Michelin was a tire.

My girls are acutely aware that my anxiety can appear under any number of circumstances:  Crowds, strange places, close quarters, too many choices, any entree that costs more than $19.99, loud, sudden noises, and accents. Savannah and Lisa were strong advocates of secluded seating locations, limiting my menu-viewing, and narrowing down my choices to a more relatable three options. Lisa orders food with a confidence that I find inspiring and intimidating. While she was rattling off ingredients that I had never heard of, I was complaining to my server that Savannah had stolen my gummy candy ring garnish off my fancy drink. A new gummy candy ring was rushed out to me on its own small plate. 

I was more confident in Quincy Market, home to the best lobster bisque bread bowl in the world. Unfortunately, it was as crowded and as hot as you can imagine the week following July 4th while the World Cup was currently going on. Empty-handed, I took to high ground, perching like a vulture on a railing, waiting for a table to open up on the second level while Savannah and Lisa fought the masses for the soup that was my sole reason for driving seven hours. WHY? WHY? WHY? do I not bring my own cutlery? My bread bowl deserves a table cloth (or at least a clean table) and an actual metal spoon. But...no matter. Like my patriotic forefathers, I, too, could endure the hardship of screaming toddlers, obnoxious tourists, plastic silverware, and the appalling sight of people eating chicken fingers in a seafood city as I soaked in the historic atmosphere beneath the Great Dome that had been designed in 1826 by Alexander Parris. 

I enjoyed so many amazing meals on this trip. I should have kept a food diary but I'm not diligent enough to do it justice. We sampled pastries, Mediterranean, Mystic pizza, and more Michelin-rated restaurants. I had a funnel cake-type dessert delicately shredded into a filled bird nest bowl, a crispy-coated Caribbean shrimp that I was obsessed with, a hummus flight, and ham-hock croquettes. We enjoyed a pleasant evening overlooking the Boston Harbor where the Mayflower was docked in preparation for the weekend's upcoming Tall Ship Parade, bay bunnies bouncing out of the bushes at dusk.

And, of course, Dunkin.

My indecisiveness practically paralyzed me as Savannah and I stood patiently in line for Lisa's coffee. I spotted a Dunkalatte on the menu and, befuddled, immediately researched it. I landed on an article brilliantly written by Nick O'Malley, laughing hysterically (to the point of snorting) and reading parts of it to my fellow customers. Thank you, Nick, you had me at "melty milkshake." You were an instrumental part of my seven hour solo drive home after dropping Savannah and Lisa off at the Hartford Airport.

We'd determined which of Rhode Island's magnificent mansions to tour based on food. The Marble House sported a Chinese Tea House atop the sea cliff out back. Of course it did. 

Alva Vanderbilt had the Tea House built to host women's suffrage rallies. In 1911, the Chinese Revolution provided a brief window of advancement for women's rights. Brave women soldiers helped smuggle in the weapons that would put a substantial dent in the armor of the Qing Dynasty. One of their leaders, Qiu Jin, protested vehemently against the painful and permanently-disfiguring practice of foot-binding before she was executed. Alva arranged for some of these women to come to her home to be honored. I was excited to experience the Tea House (#1) because Sydney loves to partake in the custom of "High Tea" and (#2) my friend Katriel was in China at that exact moment. Unfortunately, it turns out another trigger for my anxiety is obscene opulence. 

Savannah and I were eager to re-visit Carson's Store in Noank from her tenure as an engineer at Electric Boat in New London. We stuffed Lisa into the tiny booths and happily ordered their generously portioned breakfasts. "Did you text me from the bathroom?" Savannah asked as I returned from the back of the restaurant. I nodded. "I wanted you to see the teeny-tiny sink," I explained.

There was more...so much more. A never-ending smorgasbord of deliciousness. I am so blessed that Savannah and Lisa invited me along, welcomed my company, and kindly tolerated and accommodated my anxiety issues. I admired how comfortable and effortless they were in the more upscale culinary environments of which we found ourselves. Me? When it comes to a Michelin-rated restaurant, I just feel like I'm in the wrong attire.

7

Sole searching: Taking steps to walk like Jesus is tough when you're duck-footed ( I quack myself up sometimes)

Did it begin several months ago when my friend Allison indignantly reminded me that she's never been to my house (To be fair, I have also never been to HER house either.)? 

Did it begin yesterday when my work colleagues discovered that Brad and I had added another canine companion to our family and provided me with ALL the emotions that feed my soul:  Outrage, indignation, delight, and demands to meet Charlie? I immediately invited them to come to my house after work today to meet her which then spurred my usual frantic inventory of my messy little house which led to my meticulous dusting of my Dad's decorative stein and the straightening of my two adopt-a-puffin stuffies which adorn my dry pantry. I made an angel food cake (from a box mix...remember, it's me, y'all) and worried that I didn't have enough drink selections in the fridge. I lay awake at 2 am and wondered if I'd have time to scrub out and clean the boot trays before I left for work.

Did it begin early this morning during a meditative walk around my field following a rare but definitely Jesus-led call-to-Scripture where I read and was convicted by 1 John 2:6 "Whoever (Amy) says (s)he abides in Him ought to walk in the same way in which He walked."? I mentally brought my family with me on this short journey, praying for them and my dear colleagues with whom I would be meeting with shortly. I snapped pictures along the way, making a collage to share with everyone. I know...completely obnoxious. I should have been scrubbing boot trays.

Did it begin when I picked up Katriel for our long work commute where I passionately vowed that today...TODAY...I would curb my obnoxiousness. I would tone down my aggressive tendencies and impulsivity. I would think before speaking or acting...

Or did it begin as we pulled into the school parking lot two minutes later and I spotted Spencer's vehicle parked oddly...in the front, stretched across three parking spots. I didn't even hesitate to mess with him. Except it wasn't Spencer. It was his husband, Stephen, with whom I have had very minimal interaction (thus far). "Don't do it," Katriel warned and then immediately began slinking down in her seat because, oh yes, I was doing it. I positioned my truck perpendicular to Stephen who, disappointingly, didn't even look over at me. He just backed up. Oh no, this would NOT do. I turned Titan to face Stephen but he then just maneuvered his car AROUND me to begin exiting the parking lot. No-no! I was now in hot pursuit...lights flashing, horn sounding, Katriel in a ball on Titan's floor. FINALLY, contact was made with the happy end result which would be Stephan completing his errands in town before returning to the school with my medium Dunkalatte order.

Or maybe it began when I hijacked a hallway display case?

Did it begin when I was driving to my house with Katriel, my team (and poor Stephen) in tow, having an internal anxiety attack of epic proportions that Charlie, so very new to us and demonstrating her own internal anxiety attacks by stress-pooing when left alone, might have decorated my bathroom in doggie diarrhea? Well, at least no one would notice my dirty boot trays then. And, thank you Lord, that my anxiety does not present in the form of stress-pooing.

Did it begin when I, in high-speed monologue, provided the most convoluted house tour known to mankind? "This is the dining room...where we dine," I gestured grandly while my husband sighed. I pointed out, in detail, all of the deficits of my internet-purchased convertible love seat (which my guests insisted on sitting upon before declaring it "comfy," bless their hearts). Drink distribution was a disaster. I should have put the choices on a lovely silver tray for ease of selection. Stephen, intent on never being invited back, performed a nifty 180 to get me back for the parking lot pandemonium, traded his Shanty for a Modelo at the last second. Spencer created a crisis by insisting on tap water.

Did it begin when I decided to pray over the box mix Angel food cake, my husband looking at me like I was touched. Yeah. By the spirit of the LORD.

Was it when we decided to further torture Stephen by forcing him to play a complicated game he'd never heard of? (I am worried that I may never see Stephen again after this day.)

Was it when I concluded the visit with a Meadow Walk? Brad was certain, at this point, that I was out of my gourd.

I pointed out the key features of the walk including the dangerous but magnetically-compelling Pine Cone
Hole, stuffed to the brim with 32 pine cones but still ready to snap an unsuspecting ankle. Allison was my shining star on this journey, exclaiming with interest and excitement about the deer-nibbled milkweed and was just in awe about a weed pod that I thought resembled a miniature purple pineapple. "Will there be berries?" she wondered, moved by the utter magic of our Meadow Walk. Even Brad was caught up in the spell. "Did you show them the patch of horseradish?" he asked, as Allison raced back for a peek. Spencer gained some points, raving about the blueberries. Katriel complimented the Morning Glories. Stephen...let's just say he'll need a Meadow Walk re-do. As my brain fumbled for the word for the critter I see every day in my pond, I mistakenly said "Musk Ox" until Allison gently provided the word "muskrat." "You' d have a whole other situation if it were a Musk Ox," Stephen cracked, ruining the tone of the Meadow Walk COMPLETELY (I'm kidding Stephen, you were such a good sport).

It probably began when the Lord gifted me with a husband and friends who see ME...not my house. Who hear ME...not my nonsensical ramblings...who know ME...and that I want to walk in the same way as Jesus walks but they (God, my husband, my friends) know that I am going to be magnetically drawn, again and again, to Pine Cone Hole, and stumble...again and again and again. They know this and continue to walk with me anyway.

What makes a FASFA World Cup watch party at the Mosiman's so lit?!? (A soccer match)

I adore my son-in-law, Douglas.

We do struggle, thought, to find points of common interest.

For example, as most of you know, I'm a bit of a gym rat...an exercise fiend...if an occasion arises for me to work up a sweat...this girl is there. Douglas, however, is somewhat sedentary. Let's just say Douglas owns several pairs of Velcro pants to secure him to his couch. I am also very mindful of what I eat. I have enough empty protein powder barrels to accommodate my entire 4th grade's adventurous passage over Niagara Falls. Douglas, on the other hand, is one of the rare humans on the planet who has unlocked the secret to always successfully opening a Welch's fruit gummy packet (Start at the 's). I was presented with the coveted Golden Apple Teacher-of-the-Stratosphere award while Douglas has been denied (on multiple occasions despite his three-hour dissertation outlining all of the reasons why he was the ideal candidate for such an honor) access to his school's rarely-used balcony space. 

I just re-read that paragraph. I may have mixed up a few of the examples but I'm sure you got the point. To deepen our budding relationship, Douglas and I would need to bond over a shared experience.

Case-in-point: The World Cup. An event of which I am very comfortable thanks to my extensive background reading Harry Potter. Douglas, I am certain, was delighted to be at my house over the course of two very critically-important games (I forget who) rather than being back at home with his friends at the pub. I was ready to drop a LOT of pertinent talking points on my son-in-law while we enjoyed the games involving two teams from two different countries. "Like what?" my husband asked, fascinated (and equal parts sympathetic and gleeful for Douglas to be the recipient of all this attention). "Well," I drawled out, thinking, "There's David Beckham...." "Who is retired and you only know him from commercials and that he's married to a Spice Girl," Brad added unnecessarily. "Victoria," I stressed, glaring at him, "is the 19th richest woman in England, is a fashion designer who advocated for no-furs, and was appointed Officer of the Order of the British Empire." My husband grinned. "I bet Doug will love learning about that!" he exclaimed, "but you should probably wait for a lull in the game. Like during a penalty kick." I nodded. Duly noted. 

"What else?" Brad was practically on the edge of his seat. I bloomed beneath this rare light of attention.

"Was it Mia Hamm who made history by ripping off her shirt during a game against somebody?" "No, that was Brandi Chastain," Brad corrected gently, "but that is a key soccer-playing maneuver. Anything else?"

I clapped my hands. "I watched the first two seasons of Ted Lasso!"

"Outstanding!" my husband cheered, "You are well on your way to becoming Doug's new best friend."

"Not only that," I continued, "Dai Rojas, a character from the show, just got appointed to a team here in America!"

Brad frowned. "The character or the actor?"

"Uhhh...the actor?" I answered, unsure.

"Which team?"

"America?"

My husband took a deep breath and leaned towards me, "Amy, America has LOTS of soccer teams."

"Really?"

This conversation was the reason Brad didn't even question helping me when I landed on my "Big Plan" for making sure Douglas enjoyed watching The World Cup at my house. "Are ALL of the games called The World Cup or just the final one?" I asked as I showed Brad the soccer-vocabulary-themed BINGO boards I had purchased and downloaded for the occasion. "THE World Cup? or A World Cup?" I inquired, not wanting to look uninformed in front of my future best friend. "So...tell me about your plan," Brad suggested, slightly horrified that the BINGO cards weren't The Big Plan.

I beamed under the intensity of my husband's attention.

I showed him a picture.

He was rendered speechless with delight.

He didn't say a WORD as I spent the equivalent of a small, third world nation's GNP on the ingredients. He was fully invested and compassionately understanding as I agonized over what might be a suitable substitution for cucumber. "I imagine this is what a soccer coach feels," he said soothingly. He vowed that we would NOT exit the store until we found Slim Jims. He hugged me compassionately as I wept tears of joy when we unexpectedly discovered tiny chocolate soccer balls in the bulk section.

Without complaint, he sprayed my nine dollar piece of two-inch thick white rectangular styrofoam green. He heroically refrained from telling me that he had approximately fifteen pieces of two-inch thick white rectangular stryrofoam pieces already stored in the garage. Douglas, once he noticed my commitment, personally oversaw the painting of white lines onto my nine dollar two-inch thick rectangular styrofoam soccer field. Armed with a ruler and circle template, I meticulously recreated a FASFA-sanctioned soccer field under Douglas's watchful eye. 

When it was time for the assembly process, I realized that I had chosen the perfect player for my team. I am the creative force but lack the drive, organization, long-term interest and follow-through to complete any project. Brad does the math. He quickly set up an assembly line that would have driven Henry Ford nuts. My husband meticulously snapped toothpicks in half to accommodate the Slim-Jim arms and legs. He carefully cut muenster and mild cheddar torsos. He designated one team to olive heads while the other sported artisanal cherry tomato heads. The cucumber soccer shorts were replaced with smoked sausage. I suppressed an immature giggle at the unintentional innuendo so as not to distract my husband from his appointed task. I admit that I almost threw in the towel when Brad informed me that a soccer team includes eleven players. "You mean we have to make twenty-two of these things?" I gasped. Brad nodded. The man was committed to accuracy.

Obviously, my family was stunned. 

I cannot imagine that Douglas anticipated the fun he would have, watching a pivotal FASFA World Cup game at his mother-in-law's house. BINGO became much more interesting when there was $100 on the line. Less so when Brad Mosiman won his own money back. Thank goodness. That would cover a bit of what we spent on the cleated kebobs.

Douglas wrestled another soccer player out of the nine dollar, two-inch thick styrofoam field and, after dodging countless wooden stakes, commented, "They must be playing for Argentina." "Why do you think that?" I asked, deftly decapitating a soccer player. My son-in-law smiled at me. "Because they're so Messi."

*Lionel Messi is a famous soccer player who was named the world's best player by FASFA eight times and was the recipient of the European Golden Shoes. "Just like your Golden Apple, Douglas!"

We'll cross that bridge (and that bridge) when we get to it

Occasionally, someone will ask me where I get the ideas for my blogs. I will inevitably fight the accompanying eye roll and repress the sigh before answering, honestly, "The blog writes itself."  I will simply be walking around, minding my own business, when suddenly I find myself in the middle of a blog. Believe me, I don't look for idiocy. Idiocy finds me. 

I was delighted to discover that our hotel overlooked Boston's serene Charles River. That morning, I watched from my window as slender shells sliced through the water as individually captained crew members maneuvered their oars like the long legs of water bugs. Annoyingly athletic people jogged parallel, caught up in a concrete current.  Ducks and geese hugged the shore. The Charles was calling. 

But Boston was waiting so it would be hours before I could return to the water. 

"What are you doing?" my daughter Savannah asked after we had returned from a day of exploring Boston's historic places. I was sitting outside the hotel, trying to be brave enough to cross several lanes of city traffic to get to the river. "I'll go with you," Savannah generously offered. 

My destination was a bench I'd spotted on the opposite side of the Charles as we'd departed that morning. Even though it was getting close to dark, Boston was still sweltering. No need for a marathon here. 

We enjoyed the view from our bench...a quiet breath in a bustling city. Happy, I rose, ready to return. 

Wait. I just realized. This was all Savannah's fault. Whew! Usually, I'm the one to blame for these little fiascos.

Savannah wasn't ready to walk back yet. There was a boat house further down that she wanted to see. Yeah. I guess. Okay.

Then there were some pretty yellow flowers that lured me further down the river.

I stood, transfixed, before a baffling tree that boasted two different-shaped leaves. Surely, this couldn't be. I unraveled branches to determine if two trees had grown together. Was one a vine? Savannah could have cared less. I held up the two distinctly different leaves for her inspection and almost screamed with frustration when she shrugged. Thank goodness I now know how to

Google circle and search. It was a mulberry tree which is polymorphic, meaning that it naturally grows two distinct leaves on the same branch. There was no stopping me now. The mulberry tree was introduced to America in the 1700s to promote the silkworm industry that flourished in its boughs given the right climate. The mulberry tree produces leaves and berries that can be consumed along with a mildly hallucinogenic sap. Their sprawling root systems are not ideal for city-scapes. Male mulberry trees also produce high amounts of airborne pollen. "Wait," Savannah interrupted after she had desperately tried to ignore my excited sidewalk education of the mulberry tree, "are you telling me that there are girl trees and boy trees?" I decided to refrain from telling her that pollen is essentially tree semen. I changed the subject to the children's rhyme. The mulberry bush may have been used because of its central location in a 19th century English prison. Female inmates and their children would get their daily exercise by walking around this bush and the woman invented rhymes about daily chores to entertain the kids. "All around the mulberry bush" and "Pop

goes the weasel" eventually meld together over the years. More fun symbolism: "Pop" was another word for "pawn" while "weasel" referred to a coat. Poor folk would pawn their Sunday best on Monday and then buy them back on payday. This reflected the never-ending cycle of poverty. My own interpretation, not even remotely based on fact, has the monkey representing addiction. "You cannot foist your own interpretations into a children's rhyme," Savannah argued.

We were, at this point, very far from the bridge that got us here.

"It appears that we are equidistantly-placed between two bridges," Savannah observed as I exclaimed happily over some discovered mushrooms.

"I don't talk like that," Savannah interrupted. "I just said we should go back."

The magical appearance of a bedtime bunny at a little park led us further on into Wonderland.

"As in I wonder if we'll ever make it back to our hotel again," Savannah muttered.

We were now closer to the second bridge so I decided that we might as well complete the rectangle way rather than retreat.

Savannah sighed in resignation, looked back wistfully, like Lot's wife, and reluctantly followed me. 

She did not turn into a pillar of salt.

She did, however, keep us from being assaulted.

It was now dark.

I was tired.

To access the trail leading to the river path, we would have to descend into a densely wooded area, along some tracks that were now bracketed by hastily put-up tents and lean-to's, punctuated by small fires. Shadowy figures eagerly awaited our arrival. They looked friendly enough.

I had read about the Hoovervilles that had sprung up during the Great Depression and I knew the hobo-code. Savannah and I would surely be welcomed to a communal burning barrel and offered a refreshing beverage in a small tin cup. We would sing some songs together. Exchange life stories. And then we would be sent on our way with canned chili and Vienna sausages wrapped in cloth and attached to a stick to be slung jauntily over our shoulders.

For some reason, Savannah was a real party-pooper about this life-changing experience.

"You mean life-ending," muttered Savannah as we, instead, crossed the bridge, maneuvered our way across several lanes of traffic and entered a comforting zone of capitalism. Hello, CVS!

As we trod tiredly along the sidewalk, we could see the silhouette of our hotel...shining like a beacon in the distance. But this was the Washington Monument Conundrum all over again. No matter how far or how long we walked, we never seemed to get any closer. The towering structure mockingly beckoned us.

Savannah kept tapping her phone like it was the Star Trek walkie-talkie that Spock used. I was fine with it. I was ready to be "beamed up" or rendered immobile by the Vulcan neck grip at this point.

"There is no safe way to get to our hotel this way," my daughter informed me, "We're going to have to Uber." 

No. 

Amy Mosiman does not "Uber" home from a walk. We were simply going to have to walk the long way back.

Savannah sighed. "A: Walking will take another hour. B: Dad will kill me if I walk you to death. and C: An Uber costs five bucks."

Sold.

Putting two fingers in my mouth, I whistled shrilly. Lifting my arm above my head, I faced on-coming traffic and yelled, "Taxi!" 

Savannah yanked my arm down, waving her Star Trek communicator in my face. "Mom, I called an Uber."

"I hope it comes soon," I sighed, sinking down onto a bench. "I'm not fare-ing" well."

Here lies my father, a soldier

I was very comfortable in this cemetery. My parents maintained the grave sites of family members with clockwork precision; bringing geranium-filled crocks in the Spring, stopping by monthly to spruce up around the stones, weeding, watering, and then bringing the crocks home in the Fall. There was a hand-pump from where, as a little girl, I would wrestle water to fill the sprinkling can. Mom would hand me fistfuls of dead blooms, twigs, and weeds to toss into an enormous gorge which I now realize was just a mild embankment of composting debris. I explored the cemetery, drawn to the solemn mausoleums. I read names, chilled by the children. My mother would quietly re-introduce me to these strangers; members of a family tree that I was forever cut off from.

Years ago, my parents took me and my daughters to see their stone and I wish that day was more etched in my memory than these names now carved in granite. My parents are not here. I do not feel the need to hover over a rock, bequeathing blossoms to a boulder.

My husband, of course, is much wiser than me. 

He patiently waited a couple of months before finally nudging me towards the cemetery.

I turned off my mind (and my heart) as we made another long drive to visit my mother. Or rather, a stone
upon which her name was inscribed.

I was quiet for most of the drive but as we drew close, I asked my husband, my voice quivering, "Will there be grass?" 

"No, baby," he answered, now worried that we'd come too soon. "Are you still okay?"

No.

But I nodded.

We'd brought a bird seed bell to hang in the tree next to my parents.

We pulled up but I found myself paralyzed. I couldn't look. 

Brad got out of the vehicle to place the bell but was soon knocking on my window, urging me to come out. "You have to see," he called through the glass. I approached reluctantly, wincing at the scarred soil but Brad was pointing to the tree, exploding with white and pink buds. My parents' song? Cherry Pink and Apple Blossom White.

Beautiful.

Brad gave me another couple of months and nudged me again. July. My parents' anniversary. 

The ground was now blanketed in green.

But Brad frowned.

The cemetery swam with small flags, a testament to all who had served.

"Where is your dad's flag?" my husband asked.

A naive civilian, I did not understand the weight of this question. I scanned the area and noticed a nearby grave with two flags. I didn't even have time to take a step before the soldier who was now firmly entrenched with me growled. "Don't even think about it." He walked the perimeter of the area surrounding my parents' grave, finding three more veterans unrecognized. 

The son-in-law was now a sentinel. 

And this over-sight would be corrected.

We had hand-held flags at home but decided to stop at a nearby store to fix the problem immediately. I went in and asked. The clerk accompanied me to the area and we stood before the empty display in shock. "I can't believe that we're sold out," she said apologetically. "But isn't that wonderful?" I replied and we both grinned, heartened by this unique representation of patriotism. 

I wasn't grinning as much, three stores later when we still came up empty.

"Our little flag will have to do," Brad said glumly.

Discouraged, we stopped at our own grocery store on the way home and I made one final attempt. 

BINGO.

"Why do you have two?" Brad asked as I danced across the parking lot to him, waving the flags like I was getting ready to start the Indy 500. "Just in case," I replied.

We returned the next day, adorning my Dad's stone along with another nearby service member's stone with the flags we'd purchased and setting our own, smaller, flags with the other unadorned graves. 

We tidied up my parents' stone and left.

They are not there.

But Brad demonstrated that I can still serve them, honor them, and love them by the small, simple act of visiting a stone. 

Deuteronomy 27: 2-3

...you shall set up for yourselves large stones and coat them with lime and write on them all the words of this law, when you cross over, so that you may enter the land which the Lord your God gives you...

Raising the brow (bar) of our friendship

My friend Deb texted me out of the blue to see if I was interested in a little outing. She offered me the choice of steps or snacks. Wow. Tough choice.

Armed with my five-year-old Vertical gift card, we headed out on our quest for a fun, themed beverage and an alarmingly-oversized pastry. God bless America.

I cringed the moment we walked in the door as we were immediately welcomed by the warm smile and exuberant greeting of our friend, Shanna who is the human equivalent of a golden retriever. After first feeding us emotionally by sweeping us up in her fiercely-determined hug (I cannot outrun her) and forcing us to provide detailed updates of our lives, Shanna then turned her attention to feeding us physically. As I feared, Shanna refused to accept the gift card (that she had given me), sliding it back with a grin. "You'll just have to come back," she teased, shoo-ing us to a pair of comfortable chairs as she prepared our order.

I asked Deb if we could enjoy our treat in the newly-renovated niche tucked next to the building. "You mean the alley?" Deb asked, balancing a cinnamon roll that could double as a beret. "No, no," I corrected, "Imagine an intimate Parisian passageway, tucked between two book-ended buildings like a love letter to be discovered, centuries later, by two wandering woman ready to embark upon a great adventure." We sat happily on rustic metal chairs, surrounded by bricks and a wild jungle of greenery, beneath magical strings of lights. It was a feast for the senses. 

A red light suddenly went off...signaling the river of traffic flowing perpendicularly before us to stop and the diesel tractor trailer idling in front of us flooded our narrow channel with a mystical gray mist...a fumigated fog embraced us. "I think I've had enough of my taste of Paris," Deb rasped as we raced back to Shanna in the clean, climate-controlled, cinnamon-scented coffee shop.

Returning to the vehicle, we noticed a beauty salon with an impressive and baffling list of services. As educated, world-wise women, we could figure most of the terms out but the "lash lift" and "brow lamination" occupied most of our conversation as we headed to our next destination. For a moment, we understandably confused "lamination" with "Lamentations" but as no other books of the Bible were represented on the narrow door, we dismissed that possibility. "I've seen those ladies that string your eyebrows at the mall," I had argued.  Plenty of opportunity for lamentation as they rip out those small, delicate hairs. 

We arrived just at the close of Vacation Bible School, approaching the registration table quietly as students were singing and dancing in the sanctuary. "Who are you here for?" the kind woman asked us. "My daughter, Linsey," Deb said, failing to keep a straight face as we jokingly signed out her 27-year-old offspring who had volunteered as VBS staff. We sat in the back as the program drew to an end, waiting with delight as Linsey, crowded into a group picture, finally spotted us and we waved like proud moms at a t-ball game.

We whisked Lins away for yet another themed beverage and tasty baked good. She translated brow lamination for us; describing it as an eyebrow perm...rendering Deb and me silent as we considered how on earth one perms one's eyebrows. The shoppe had a colorful display of macaroons so, to extend our  metaphorical Parisian trip, I selected one for each of us...we toasted our time together (lamenting the carbs). We were really on a roll!

"We'll go heavy on the protein next time," I promised as Deb dropped me off. an hour later "You butter believe it," she yelled. I went into the house and called up the salon to schedule brow lamination appointments for Deb and me for our next big adventure. The receptionist immediately penciled us in.

We made it by a hair

"Didn't you check Google before we decided to come here?" my husband asked glumly after we'd paid the ten dollars for parking from the machine that ignores his Veteran status. He ignored the Rumplestitskian-sized temper-tantrum I was currently throwing in front of the "detour" sign that was barring my way from the gorge trail AND the life-altering shuttle bus that would be waiting for me at the top of said gorge. 

I paused to glare at him. "No, I did not think to ask the interweb if a state park was open in JUNE."

We weighed our options. We could skip the park altogether (forfeiting our ten dollar parking fee) or attempt the dreaded rim trail. I watched a pair of elderly ladies carefully maneuver their walkers up the steps to the first landing. The delightful Belgium waffle I had enjoyed moments ago ("Whipped cream?" the waitress had asked. I had been confused. Was that even UP for debate?) weighed heavy in my belly. I remember clearly, Brad asking me if I wanted him to grab a water as I skipped happily across the ten-dollars-to-park parking lot. "Water's for suckers," I'd yelled. A woman with a stroller walked confidently toward the rim trail entrance. She was wearing flip-flops.

"What the hell, Katriel?" (I like this particular phrasing because it rhymes.)

As I staggered up the second set of stairs ascending to the rim trail, I began cursing my friend who had visited this park weeks ago and, to my admittedly absentminded recollection, had not said A WORD about not being able to access the gorge trail to this jewel of a state park. The gorge trail is the ONLY reason anyone would visit this state park. The parade of people lining up behind my snail pace of "progress" forced me into a theatrical pose of nonchalance as I assumed the character of "woman in shape." I quietly ("Quietly?" Brad asked.) bemoaned the lack of handrails, gripping the rock walls like I was scaling Half Dome. My orthopedic shoes were no match for the Olympic pool-sized puddles of which I was considering as a hydration source at this point. A three-year-old lad scampered by me sporting Crocs. 

By the third landing, I had added another to my blame list:

"How's it farin', Erin?" (See what I did there?)

Had it not been for Erin, I would not be on this death march (A contingency of tourists nudged past me, wearing sandals with socks. Their grandmother was bringing up the rear.). Instead, I would be at her house, seated on a counter stool, snarfing down ice cream for her annual First-Day-Out-of-School celebration. But...no-oo-oo. She had to cancel. Like driving one's mother to a doctor's appointment is SO much more important than feedng Amy Mosiman ice cream at 9:45 in the morning.

We'd been hiking ("Hiking?" Brad asked.) for hours ("Minutes," Brad clarified.) There was more sweat pouring off of me than water running through the gorge that I could hear but not see. According to Brad's report, I had turned an alarming shade of tomato red.

"How far do you plan on walking?" Brad asked. To be fair, the lack of oxygen to my head had caused any reasoning skills that I may have once had to completely shut down. I honestly didn't know. The grannies with walkers were still ahead of us. "There was a sign about a meeting at the suspension bridge for a tour," I muttered madly. "The suspension bridge is a mile ahead," Brad informed me as I sank to a plank bench, prone...immobile...defeated. 

No one else was turning back. They scampered happily along in their inappropriate footwear, lugging their
weight in water.

"A little further," I whispered hoarsely through my chapped lips and parched throat. My waffle was threatening to make a reappearance. Brad sighed as he hoisted me from the bench. 

Hours later ("It felt like hours," Brad remarked.), I stood, victorious, in the shadow of the suspension bridge. "Do you want to go up?" my husband asked. I looked at him like he was suddenly sporting socks with sandals. Why on earth would I want to do that? 

We made our way, slowly and carefully, ("That's accurate," Brad agreed.) back down the trail. My new goal was a container of close-to-boiling water locked in our van located in a ten-dollars-to-park parking lot.

Brad had larger aspirations for his waning wife. After escaping this hellhole, he pulled our vehicle into a roadside stop for some ginger ale (That waffle) and cheese curds. 

"What's wrong?" he asked.

I had gotten suddenly quiet.

Glancing at me, his eyes grew wide with alarm as I held up a rectangular piece of cheese curds for his inspection. Wrapped around it...coiled like a little snake...was a long brown hair. Brad rolled my window down for me so I could send it flying.

We sat in silence for a moment...reflecting on our day. Brad watched with some surprise as I reached into the container for another cheese curd. Noting his expression, I shrugged. I was going to drink out of a puddle today. A hair is hardly cause for concern.