Wild about skorts

As my personal stylist ran away to East Rochester, I've been set adrift in a sea of clothing catastrophes. I'm never sure whether stripes should run east to west or north to south. I have been singularly devoted to the re-introduction of the pleated skort and desire nothing more than a closet full of culottes. Since the last time I was pointed on a plane toward Florida was when I was dressed identically in the same florescent pink as my traveling companion, this time I was determined to travel south in style.

Watching me shuffle uncertainly through racks of shorts that would resemble sausage casings once I managed to successfully wiggle into them, Sydney pointed to a dress. "Mom, you would look just like Joan Wilder in that." I perked up. I loved Romancing the Stone and immediately pictured Brad and I salsa dancing with Goofy, Pluto and pals. We'd really give Michael Douglas and Kathleen Turner a run for their money. We'd knock their socks right off.

I excitedly rushed into the dressing room. After a disturbing length of time, Sydney sought me out. "Mom," she called, "let me see." "No," I said forlornly. "C'mon," she coaxed, "I bet you're beautiful." Her smile froze as I stepped out into the hallway. "See, I told you," I accused, "I look more like Chandler's dad on Friends than Joan Wilder." My daughter did not dispute this statement. "Why on earth wouldn't you have taken off your shoes and socks," she asked, bewildered by my time-saving tactic. My full skirt nearly knocked her over as I swung back into the dressing room. "See if you can find some knee-length beige skorts," I shouted, wrestling my way out of my high-waisted Joan Wilder dress. I wondered if I could talk Savannah into wearing identical outfits for our upcoming flight. Sydney breathed a sigh of relief that she was driving down.

My Brush With Fame: Was that Alec Baldwin?

Our semi-annual sightseeing visits to Manhattan are usually dictated by pop culture.  The Museum of Natural History speaks for itself.  The trip to the Empire State Building...King Kong, of course but Sleepless in Seattle inspires our lap around the top in search of romantic rendez-vous.  We hop the bridge to Hoboken  to cheerfully stand in line for Carlo's Bakery to buy a cannoli.  We've eaten at Bobby Flay's restaurant, walked by Central Park's boat house featured in 27 Dresses and ice skated at Rockefeller Center.  Times Square has been featured in more television, movie and Mosiman family photos then there are LED lights on the New Year's Eve Ball (32,256). Our most-recent pop culture acquisition was Washington Square.  Modeled after the Arc de Triomphe in Paris,  the Washington Arch straddled 5th Avenue until 1964.  The Square boasts an impressive history.  For example, Washington Square hosted the first public demonstration against dangerous and intrusive mass communication as Samuel Morse attempted to revolutionize the world with his little invention.  But who cares about that?  The

Washington Arch was featured predominantly in When Harry Met Sally as well as making a memorable appearance at the introduction of each episode of Friends as Rachel, Ross, Monica, Chandler, Phoebe, and Joey frolicked happily in the fountain.  This fountain was bone dry during our visit but we were undeterred by this unimportant detail.  

Washington Square is a marvelous place.  We entered through the arch like Dorothy entered Munchkinland.  A baby grand on wheels sat before the fountain, its soft music providing us with a soundtrack to accompany our magical experience.  The park is a dog haven and as I sat and watched, a pair of elderly dachshunds slowly made their way towards me, terrorizing the larger dogs in their path.  As I waited patiently for their arrival, another pair of fru-fru dogs appeared behind me, outfitted in splendid sweaters and quite eager to make my acquaintance.  Savannah and I returned their greeting with enthusiasm so their owner agreeably brought them over,  "Who's so beautiful....who's so pretty in the sweater...ooooo....look at the teeny little paws!"  Uninhibited, Savannah and I do not hold back during doggie discourse.  I glanced up at the owner, a somewhat familiar-looking older guy (when I say "older", by the way, I now mean "older than me") dressed in loose grey sweatpants and a sweatshirt.  Social convention dictates that I must also engage him in some conversation so I asked about the dogs.  He first provided us with their Italian names and then helpfully translated them for us before launching into their personality traits.  "Little Lady," he explained, "is rather sluttish in her need for attention."  That got my attention.  I took a closer look and thought to myself, "This man looks like Alec Baldwin."  Not 30 Rock Alec Baldwin.  Not Capital One Alec Baldwin but still Alec Baldwin.  I glanced at my teen-age companions,  No one was reacting.  Maybe I was wrong.  It has happened on one or two different occasions.  In between smooching the pooches, I looked again.  He met my gaze with intense blue eyes.  I was pretty sure this guy was Alec Baldwin and I could tell that this guy was also pretty sure he was Alec Baldwin.  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that the dachshunds had almost arrived so I thanked "Alec Baldwin" for letting us pet his dogs and sent him on his paparazzi-free path.

My "Was that Alec Baldwin" was met with a series of infuriating "Who?"s.  His credit card commercials triggered some memory recognition and now the I-phone investigation was on.  His pretty Hollywood photo inspired a "well...kind of"shaky confidence that wasn't quite enough to pick him out of a police line-up.  A genius in our group (I stand by the argument that it was me) thought to search for his dogs and sure enough, up sprang a picture!  We squealed with immature delight.  I will admit to some hopping about in circles while the squealing was happening.  Then the lamenting that no one on this earth was going to believe us.  Then the accusations.  "Why didn't you SAY something?"  I did...I said, "Who's so beautiful....who's so pretty in the sweater...ooooo....look at the teeny little paws!"  This would not be my first brush with fame...ask me sometime about Hillary Clinton in a cow barn.  Were I to rate this experience, I'd give it a K-9 out of 10 :) . Minus one point because those snotty little dachshunds  shunned us as they toured the park.  I'll take the slut any day.

The Keith Hernandez Philosophy of Moving

I can connect practically every one of the events in my life to a "Seinfeld"episode.  Savannah developed her love of the black & white cookie because of the show.  The Mosimans giggle whenever we buy a marble rye.  During an evening horse and buggy ride in Saint Augustine, we immediately re-named our equine companion "Rusty."  Our vocabulary is sprinkled with Seinfeld-isms...I don't want to be a pirate...the seas were angry that day, my friends...not that there's anything wrong with that...I can't spare a square.... When asked several weeks ago to help move a friend, I immediately flashed back to the episode where Jerry spawns the "bro-mance" craze with his new friendship with Mets first baseman Keith Hernandez.  Jerry's crush was crushed when Keith asked for help moving and Jerry, disgusted, complained it was too much, too soon.  Asking a friend to move was the equivalent of "going all the way" or in baseball lingo, scoring a homerun.  Apparently Jerry was only comfortable with the bunt to first! (I'm trying to impress the sport nuts out there who knew that it was challenging to bunt off of Hernandez).  So, with the moving date quickly  approaching, I wrestled with my level of commitment to this friend.  How much do I value Amy White, famed school librarian and choreographer?  Apparently a lot.  To somewhat stifle my whining and complaining, Savannah promised to buy me a caramel hot cocoa and an egg-a-muffin.  Amy met us at her door with such gratitude and appreciation that I almost felt ashamed for about breaking up with her.

Colleagues and co-movers, Kelly and Amanda soon joined us along with Kelly's smiling-at-everybody-but-me baby, Jack.  Sporting matching red Boston Whale Watch sweatshirts, Kelly and I sprang into action, lugging heavy couches through the door.  Well, my role was actually more supervisory in nature but the couch did get out under Kel's superhuman steam.  Several times, she was spotted carrying Jack and two boxes while checking her messages and sipping a Pepsi.  Kel's a powerhouse.  My skills are more subtle and specialized.  Mr. White, wrestling with unimportant items such as removing door hinges and backing up the moving van, didn't care too much about Amy's decorative lantern star hanging high from a curtain rod.  Fortunately, this activity fell right in my skill-set.  After coordinating the effort, "Do you jump up at 3 or at go?" "Okay...1...2...3...wait...what did we agree on?"  Okay...1...2...3...sorry...let's try that again," I found myself standing full-length, squashed against the window, wrestling that stupid star down, while neighbors walked by outside, gawking as though I were on display at a freak museum.

Several truckloads later, we were at the new house.  Amy wanted everything placed in the basement, so I positioned myself at the bottom of the five stairs in the dark  narrow passage.  Graceful and coordinated, I quickly fell backwards within the first five minutes.  I shook it off and was back in position only to crack my head on the duct work attached to the low basement ceiling.  Apparently I was the only one sustaining any injuries in this game but, as I was the most valuable player, I stuck it out.  The second time I toppled down the stairs, I took the pencil sharpener attached to the wall with me.  Bang!  There's the heating duct again!  The third time...I was pushed.  Like Kramer and Newman's spitting indictment against Keith Hernandez, I can provide a blow-by-blow of the incident along with motive (she's jealous of me).  Kelly didn't even apologize...just shoved past me and laughed.

Four hours later, Amy and her husband were successfully moved into their lovely new home.  Four hours later, I was sporting several bumps on my head and bruises on my butt.  Four hours later, I had consumed my fill of hot pizza, Buffalo wings, and scintillating conversation.  "Moooo-oooo," said Amy's dad a retired military general, as he crouched by Jack squeezing a rubber farm animal and making the baby giggle.  Four hours later, Jack and I were ready for our nap.  We took our commemorative group photo in front of the house and then departed, my friendship with Amy safely rounding second base and sprinting toward third.  Personally, I think the friendship "homerun" would have to involve organ donation.  Our friends on "Seinfeld" had some serious quandaries with the emotional well-being of those around them on a medical level.  George's fiancee is killed from licking wedding invitation glue adhesive, the Bubbleboy's plastic dome is stabbed and depressurized and rather than donating blood, Kramer hoards it.  If Amy White needs me to donate some blood, I plan to step up to the plate without hesitation.

A Cape Cod Vacation

To protect the anonymity of my patient but long-suffering traveling companions, I have assigned noms de plum (a super-fancified version of “fake names”) to ensure that I can say whatever I want about them without having to share the royalties from my lucrative writing empire.   My daughters are currently in similar negotiations to shield their identities but, as of the printing of this particular publication, legal proceedings have stalled as we debate what constitutes room and board, wage garnishment, and home confinement parameters. Personally, I would consider a trip to Cape Cod fair compensation for over-sensationalized, highly exaggerated media coverage but it is just so difficult reasoning with teenagers these days.

            Savannah, Sydney, and I joined my friends Jőaŋ and Ĝerį on a relaxing one week adventure to “The Cape.”  The first red flag that I might be a serious impediment to this trip, geographically-speaking, showed up early when I kept telling everyone within earshot that I was going to Maine.  I had conscientiously printed out the step-by-step directions from the computer and couldn’t understand Ĝerį’s frustration when, in the midst of four lanes of rubbernecked traffic, I’d inform her to turn left.  “Is that east or west,” she growled, hands that were clenched around the steering wheel itching to wrap themselves around my neck.  What did east or west have to do with anything, I wondered, as I pretended to consult my paper, knowing I’d deleted that information so my directions would fit onto one sheet.  “Check the atlas,” she snapped; sounding exactly like my husband did when we first got married (he has since committed all maps to memory).  I thought her head was going to pop off her neck when she saw me turn the page to Maine.  With Jőaŋ now effectively in place as co-pilot, we made it to Massachusetts. 

            More than just a limerick, Nantucket was warm and welcoming and wonderful.  We stayed at a lovely bed and breakfast Victorian inn with a deep front porch.  We quickly became acquainted with our fellow lodgers, bonding quickly with the lively and precocious young Michael and his beaten-down older brother Josh.  Unknowingly, we became entangled in a crime scenario with a cast of characters straight from the board game “Clue.”   The setting:  the downstairs parlor set for a breakfast of hardboiled eggs, thin-sliced watermelon, gourmet breads to be toasted, and crocks filled with creamy butter and a selection of homemade preserves.  As our party enjoyed our morning meal on the porch, we heard a commotion as young Michael discovered that his bread had been removed from the toaster.  Young Michael’s mother quickly intervened and offered him her bagel but the young man would not be deterred from his quest for justice.  Interviews were conducted, witnesses sought, furniture overturned, and inevitably, poor Josh was brought up on charges to placate Michael’s inability to cope with his loss of toast along with young Michael’s mother’s inability to administer her own brand of sunny side up justice.  You guessed it, the thief sat among us.  Savannah nibbled young Michael’s abandoned toast, savoring each bite as his indignant howls grew louder, confident that the statue of limitations on bread would apply to her. 

            Naturally, one must bike when one visits Nantucket.  When faced with physical exertion, I will employ any device necessary to thwart unnecessary activity.  Even math.  It was a tough call.  Pay one dollar a person to ride the bus or twenty-five dollars a person to bicycle fourteen miles to the farthest possible beach on the island?  Uh-huh.  I did, on this particular journey, have an enlightening experience.  Pedaling along, I noticed a moth fluttering along beside me.  I could distinguish its every feature; see its wizened little face.  Enthralled, I marveled at how fast it flew as we traveled the path harmoniously together.  Until the light bulb finally illuminated the reality of how ridiculously slow I go on a bike.  Amy Mosiman…so slow she can be easily outdistanced by a moth. 

            I had to realign my life philosophies quite a bit on this particular vacation.  For instance, modesty was no longer a chief priority as, while boogie-boarding in the churning Atlantic, I inadvertently turned one of Nantucket’s prime recreational hotspots into a nude beach.  To make matters worse, my “friends” assured me that no one noticed.   A great white shark sighting in the harbor where we were in the middle of enjoying a seal cruise cost me my lifetime memberships in humane animal rights organizations.  Learning that the shark had taken two bites out of a helpless seal, we were quickly reassured that the victim had been rescued.  Indignant, I demanded that the shark be given satisfaction…what were they thinking, leaving a hungry man (woman)-eater out there?  Feed him the seal for goodness sake! 

            Visiting Plimoth Plantation was an exercise in sensitivity training.  Before entering the Wampanoag village, one first encounters a large sign outlining suitable language to employ to avoid offending the culture.  After reading it respectfully, Savannah stepped forward to lead the way, offering us all a fabulous view of the back of her “Letchworth Big Red” shirt.  Well, at that moment, we felt it was necessary to “hide that Indian pride.”  Savannah, arguing that plenty of sports teams are still named after Native People in what is meant to be a complimentary nature, was nevertheless wrestled back to the van to exchange shirts.  She still had plenty of spirit left though, because when she returned, she was sporting a blazing red Mason City, Iowa Mohawks t-shirt.  Point taken.  Shirt exchanged…again. 

            I don’t know why people cringe in horror to think that they might show up in one of my harmless little stories.  As you can see, Jőaŋ and Ĝerį were portrayed in a most flattering light.  This article answers that ages-old, much-anticipated school essay question:  What did you do over summer vacation?  And in writing the essay, you tend to discover that it’s not what you did but who you spent it with that really mattered.  Sure, Maine was beautiful but the best part was spending time with Jőaŋ, Ĝerį, and my daughters.  Hope you had a great summer vacation too.

as published in Warsaw's Country Courier

http://www.mywnynews.com/arcade_warsaw/

Sacrifice of the Sole

I was contemplating the concept of sacrifice the other day as I trudged up West Buffalo Hill Road last Sunday toting two pizzas, a camcorder, and a digital camera housing over two hundred 6^th grade Boston Whale Watch pictures.  The only thing that I’d neglected to pack was my pride. 

            It’s interesting how the desire to meet the needs of others can inspire great effort.  Had this errand been simply for me, I most certainly would have scraped the idea of summiting such an incline wearing three inch heels in 80 degree heat.  However, I had an appointment, a deadline, a truck that had suddenly gone ka-put, and two pizzas cooling rapidly so I had to act fast.  The four quarter pay phone calls I made in lieu of my forgotten cell phone were quickly consumed by answering machines.  It looked as though I would need to take the high road.

            I’m sure by now that you’ve figured out that I never actually intended to walk the ENTIRE way.  Outwardly, I was all about sacrifice.  Inwardly, I was scheming.  Sporting a brave smile, an angelic glow, and slightly quivering ankles, I began the ascent, certain that someone:  a beloved friend, a vague acquaintance, or an ax murderer would quickly spot me and offer me a ride.  Instead, I received broad grins, beeping horns, and enthusiastic waves as I tight roped along the mostly shoulderless edge, gritting my teeth, bathed in sweat, and practically snapping my ankles off every other step or so.

It was, as I mentioned, a time of great reflection.  I realized that I had obviously neglected to cultivate enough deep and meaningful relationships with others as the thousandth car zipped by.  I thought about my talented video editor, housed at the top of Buffalo Hill Road liked a warped Rapunzel, sacrificing his Father’s Day for the 3^rd year in a row to produce an amazing movie of our school trip for the enjoyment of my 6^th graders.  Isn't he concerned regarding my unexplained absence?  Shouldn't he have contacted the local authorities, the FBI, or hired search dogs by now?  If not for me, at least for his late lunch?  His long-suffering patience was part of my undoing. 

            Going into this project, I had no idea regarding the level of commitment it would take to produce a worthwhile, enjoyable film.  Who knew of the blood, sweat, and tears that were to be extended to bring this movie to an appreciative audience?  For when the ending credits rolled, it would be the behind-the-scenes heroes who needed to be commended.  Todd and Sarah Sutay for magically transforming hours of potentially boring video into Oscar-worthy cinematography (and listening to me gripe about my tender throbbing ankles during the six hours it took to do it).  Than Mehlenbacher and Steve Ott taught me how to pop a clutch and refrained from criticizing me about my unfortunate choice of footwear. 

            After the climb, I vowed never to strap on those shoes again.  Those cute brown wedge sandals with the endearing peek-a-boo toe feature became demonic instruments of torture, leaving behind bloody heels, blistered baby toes, and weak ankles.  It is said that you should never judge someone until you’ve walked a mile in her shoes.  Well?  Having gone the distance with me, what are your thoughts?  Was it worth the sacrifice?  The smiles on the faces of my 6^th graders lead me to say yes. As for the shoes, who could stay mad at them?  They’re such a pair of uplifting soles.

as published in Warsaw's Country Courier 
http://www.mywnynews.com/arcade_warsaw/