Analyzing a bovine moo-vement

I heard the restroom doors...er, uh...I mean, the gallery doors open and recognized my daughter's footsteps. "Sydney, come in here," I said, granting her access to the handi-capable stall. In this intimate enclosure, I had been reflecting upon a surprising but meaningful work of art and was delighted to now share it with Sydney. Together, we have perused the hallowed halls of the Louvre. We have spanned the United States to see art work by Matisse, Monet, Munch, Wood, Warhol, Rembrandt,  Vermeer, de Vinci, Van Gogh, and Picasso. We have learned, on our journey together, that art is everywhere.

"Am I wrong?" I asked as my daughter deliberated. Standing between painting and porcelain, tapestry and toilet, art and outhouse...an ironic threshold that  determines Gesamtkunstwerk from gastronimic distress. I will admit to feeling flushed as I waited for her opinion.

"It is compelling," she admitted, "Tell me what you like about it."

What DIDN'T I like about it?!?

"The juxtaposition of the soft, fuzzy ears and the derisive scorn emanating from the eyes first drew me in," I explained. Sydney nodded. How I wished she cradled a just-lit, intricately-carved pipe in her hand. "The metallic paint used for the fireworks of flowers exploding from the bucket..." I trailed off, over-come with feelings, "The metal bucket..." Sydney smiled gently at me, recognizing this emotional connection with my dad. I imagined her swirling a glass of brandy as we further analyzed this piece. Excitedly, I pointed out my final observation. "Look!" I exclaimed, "an intentional blob of white paint, raised from the canvas, running down the exterior of the bucket!" Incredible!

"Wow," Sydney finally said, "you really connected with this mass-produced, manufactured painting!" She asked for some private time to be able to further reflect upon it. I waited excitedly by the sinks for her to emerge from her sanguine solitude. I handed her a paper towel after she'd washed her hands."It's no Moo-na Lisa," Sydney remarked, "but this experience does prove that you never know where one will find their artistic moo-se."

 

Austin Adventures: Part 3

Y'all know I'm a country girl. Dirt roads for miles. Up-rooted railroad tracks that run wild in both directions. Fields in which to frolic...woods to ramble...all there for the taking should I ever muster the energy to get off my couch. 

My daughters have both relocated to well-known metropolitan areas where one must drive to experience a centralized-pseudo-nature planted within the pastures of parking lots and pay-toll roads of the cities they currently inhabit. 

Savannah, fortunately,  landed in a nifty little neighborhood that has gated access to a small forested area buttressed by a slowly-flowing river. She and Lisa dubbed it "The Hundred Acre Woods" and enjoy it daily with their dogs. 

Despite its reference to the gentle children's story, "The Hundred Acre Wood" is fraught with danger and peril. Savannah has been attacked by red ants.  Sydney tested (and failed) the siren's call of an alluring rope swing coil dangling like a hypnotic pendulum over the gentle water. And...most terrifying...after a rare flood of the river...Savannah and Lisa came nose-to-extended-nostril with an out-of-place alligator. While Lyle, Lyle Crocodile (also a comfortable city dweller) could, quite plausibly, fit into this "Hundred Acre Wood" setting, my girls, fleet of foot, did not stick around to find out if their new neighbor could sing or not. 

So, imagine my delight when I am dragged to this den of danger and disaster almost every day of my visit.

To their credit, my children know that I am equal parts distractible ("Look! A butterfly!") and manipulable. Lisa assigned me the "important" task of getting a cute picture of their new foster dog, sweet Anne Bonny...left, neglected and abandoned to her own devices...pregnant and frightened...did not fare well on her first crossing of a sea of traffic. She lost an eye and crushed a rear leg for her efforts but saved her puppies.

Anne's four off-spring, treasures, all...found homes easily.

Poor Anne, a beaten and battered-down vessel, is having a tougher time. Her exterior, while not warm and cuddly, does tug, like an incessant wind on the foremast of your heart. Her interior, though? Unfathomable. Anne Bonny, not surprisingly, has trust issues. She is shy and easily startled. Despite her limited vision, she misses nothing and hovers, uncertain of her welcome, in the periphery. 

So...off I tromped...to the terror-filled "The Hundred Acre Wood"... for Anne.

And it was Anne who alerted us to yet another unusual inhabitant.

I've been on the look-out for an armadillo. Savannah would, occasionally, stop-short, alert to the underbrush...sensing its possible presence. "Look for small rabbit ears," my Wyoming-County-raised daughter advised quietly as I scanned the scene. "Does it have a call?" I whispered, ready to engage. "No...it just sort of rustles," she explained. 

Well, we heard a rustle.

"That's gotta be one big armadillo," I observed.

Anne was not having the idiocy of her people and began barking.

Sydney squinted through the briars and the bramble. "There's something over there. I think it's a cow."

I did my own concentrating. Wyoming County sports more cows than people. I backed up slowly. If Anne
could have, she would have clapped. "It's a bull."

The Mosiman women all backed up...slowly.

"He must have swam the river," Savannah said. I felt that reading his resume at this time was not relevant...unless it included that one of his strengths was working with others. We appreciated our surroundings at this moment as, unlike the open fields back home, we were buttressed, every few feet by trees. 

We soon left Ferdinand behind.

Breathing a sigh of relief, I remarked that things couldn't get much worse than that. "Well, there's always the possibility of a feral pig," Savannah mused, ignoring her sister's pointed glare, "If a bull could swim across the river..." 

I scanned the brush...immediately transported to some other well-loved children's classics like "Where the Red Fern Grows" and "Old Yeller." Sydney linked her arm in mine and said, "I doubt Wilbur would have the energy to get off the couch." 

Speaking of couch, it was time to get back to my natural habitat.

Populated with bulls, alligators, and ants, walking in "The Hundred Acre Woods" is no picnic. After this encounter, I was practically a basket-case.

 

Never a doll moment: Living the dream

 "I cannot believe I turned down Savannah's offer to swim with a water buffalo," I grumbled as I stuffed my sausage thighs into skin-tight fluorescent pink floral disco pants. Sydney and I had spent an hour detangling my fringed velvet vest. We were meeting our friend Kendall and her sister Leena at a pop-up Barbie experience in San Diego. 

Yeah. You read that right.

Amy, did you even own a Barbie when you were a little girl?

No. But I DID own her horse. 

Did Sydney have a Barbie growing up?

No. Although we did get her a knock-off Mermaid Barbie. She was more of a Poly-Pocket girl.

So...

Wow. Judge much? Sydney and I do love our memorable experiences. Be it whale-watching atop camels, driving six hours to try out for the Star Wars movie, or dressing like Marilyn at the hotel from Some Like It Hot, Sydney and I enjoy moderately-safe, physically-limited, costume-encouraged, contained adventure. 

So...

Here we were. Plastered in pink...my slightly nervous, somewhat self-conscious but very excited group approached the doors to Barbie's playhouse...

...and were immediately greeted by a warm, slightly animatronic voice which sang out:  Hello, Barbie! to every single one of us. Hostess Barbie met us with a welcoming smile as she waited. I shook my head...feeling momentarily disoriented in this dream-like state...I was rudimentarily familiar with this world and the language of this land floated, just out of reach, at the back of my mind. Still she waited while I searched for a suitable response. Oh! Of course!

Hello, Barbie!

She laughed happily and led us immediately to our table as we stared in wonder at the walls, the floor, the ceiling...had we been miniaturized and molded to fit into Barbie's universe?  Was that a roller skating rink? 

Food Server Barbie approached.

"Hello, Barbies," she smiled, handing us all menus. 

"Hello, Barbie," we responded dutifully.

We sat in stunned silence as we studied our menus. Was that candied bacon? There was a design-your-own-dream-cupcake option? We could order a cupcake BOAT? Oh my goodness, my orange ice cream float came in its own Barbie car! I was NEVER-EVER going to leave Barbie's Dream House.

But even as Bartender Barbie effortlessly kept 'em comin' ("Hello, Barbies," she yelled over the blender. "Hello, Barbie," we yelled back.), I was plagued with the idea that something just wasn't right. Not with Barbie's Dream House. Barbie's Dream House was PERFECT. Me. There was something wrong with me. It may have been that my low-waisted disco pants had crept down, inviting my very-practical-panties to play peek-a-boo. It may have been that the fringe along the back of my velvet vest daringly dipped down to double as an uninvited thong. 

This wasn't me, I thought, as I was smilingly stuffed into the Barbie packaging box. I wasn't pink and poofy and plastic. I grimace when people call me by my actual name...let alone a happy name. And I rarely respond. I don't swoosh or swirl or swoon. As the camera clicked, I pretended (for a moment) that I was a girl who posed, pouted, and pirouetted. "Hello, Barbies!" Photographer Barbie smiled. "Hello, Barbie!" we answered, blowing kisses at her camera.

Finally...the dream was over.

We stepped out, onto the sidewalk and stared at each other.

What do we do now?

"Should we go to a bar?" Kendall suggested.

Now we're talking!

So...four former Barbies skipped happily up the sidewalk, stalwartly avoiding the pointed stares of the establishment's patrons and ordered alcohol. Raising our glasses for a toast, we celebrated our day, reveled in our companionable communion, and congratulated our non-conformity. We had busted out of the box.

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.

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

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

And it is magical.

Every time.

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

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

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

We stood, an ovation to dusk's denouement.

Never anticipating an encore.

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

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

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

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

Oh, puh-leeze. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We loved it.

There were a plethora of penguins. 

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

And then it happened.

Just like in the story books. The movies.

Their eyes met across the crowded glacier...

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

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

Time stopped.

The music swelled.

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

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

He would not be deterred. 

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

Ralphie.

Oh, Ralphie.

My little Chin-Strap soul-mate.

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

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

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

Too soon...it was time to go.

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

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

Brad, Virgil, & Jeff: Paving the way by laying the foundation and raising the roof

Weddings are a wonderful combination of tradition and personal flair. Timeless but fleeting...the architecture constantly evolving while the sturdy foundation remains resolutely the same. 

Sydney and Douglas put a lot of time into planning their wedding; carefully sifting through what was essential and what was just expected. Opinions were sought as our family, as obnoxious as we may appear, rarely offers suggestions unsolicited (We just ruthlessly criticize them later). Sydney honored me greatly by asking if I would accompany Brad and her down the aisle on her journey to her betrothed. What a privilege...to be included in those final steps where Syd was still just "ours." My narcissistic nature of course wanted to share that limelight but my oddly sentimental side immediately declined...wanting, so much, to watch my husband escort his little girl down the aisle. And, boy, that scene did not disappoint. Thirty-six years of marriage and I still see stars.

The Father/Daughter Dance was another matter.

Sydney Lynn circled the wagons and summoned the three men in her life that hailed her as a princess, held her feet to the fire, would have walked through hell for her, and would hire on as hit-men for her. 

The dance began, of course, with her father, her cornerstone...sappy, sweet, and sentimental before taking a crazy and comedic turn. With a wild whoop of recognition, Virgil caught his cue as effortlessly as any bridesmaid catching the bouquet. Naturally, his walk-on music would be Grateful Dead-themed and the dance floor and the crowd enthusiastically sang back-up as Virgil grabbed his girl for a spin. And then the beat dropped, and it was Jeff's turn to be recognized and honored for his valued place in the foundation of her formative years. We yowled like alley cats as he circled the floor..."She's a brick...how-se..."

It couldn't have been better. 

Pure, uninhibited joy.

Loud. Obnoxious. Loving.

Us.

These three men...brothers...architecturally different but foundationally...crafted from the same mason. The jokes and teasing are cut-throat. Geographically split but spiritually-centered. The polarized push and pull that defines the relationships of men...cast adrift for months...sometimes years...and then, suddenly, the homing signal inexplicably kicks in and the great continental trek begins...reuniting a fellowship forged in infancy, surviving the tumultuous teen years, and enduring well into adulthood. 

Such a blessing.

Not everyone is fortunate enough to have even one stable male role model in their lives.

In attendance at Syd's wedding, twirling her around the dance floor, my daughters have three.

There's no raisin to feel awkward when Putin on the Ritz

Sydney's beautiful wedding venue provided her with a spacious, sprawling, comfortable space for her bridesmaids to gather, giggle, and get ready. So naturally, they all crowded together into the one stalled bathroom.

What a pleasure...to watch women fussing over one another...straightening straps, smoothing hair, plucking lint from satin fabric. My heart filled to bursting as I saw the sisters...my daughters...caught up in this ageless ritual of women. Where once they were constantly AT one another's throats, I now saw Sydney, squinting, as she fought with the dainty necklace clasp adorning Savannah's neck. Where once pleasure was derived from knocking one another down, Savannah was now crouching, to help Sydney with her shoes. 

And I, an apparition, floating around, through, and above this timeless tableau. 

I did not speak this language or understand this culture. My currency is sarcasm and inappropriate innuendo. Sophistication, for me, is when a restaurant provides a pre-packaged wet-nap. Fine dining is when the flight attendant gives you the dry-as-dust, nut-free, pretzel mix AND a package of teeth-breaking, nut-free, brownie bites during the SAME flight. I don't know how to have intelligent exchanges. I nodded wisely and then quickly removed myself from a conversation about the uncertain political climate in Laos. "They're in talks with Putin, you know," I was told. "That b@st@rd," I commiserated before jumping up to open the door. "Oh, look! The cheese is here!"

The artisan charcuterie board that arrived could have been featured in a museum. "Is this brie?" I asked, carefully, trying not to give away my utter lack of class. "It's goat cheese. You will detect a subtle note of citrus," the server told me. Is he serious? I couldn't detect a hammer to the head. Even the crackers were above my pay-grade and comfort-level. Preparing to leave after adjusting a minute mis-alignment of a plump, juicy craisin (In my world, craisins are dry and shriveled...just raisin's cousins...putting on airs), the server mis-over-heard my muttered comment lamenting my cracker crisis and smiled. "Yes, many people have compared our facilities to the Ritz." I shook my head. We are so not the same.

So, I was mostly an observer of the festivities...winging in a wry comment, here and there. Lurking awkwardly in the background. Feeling like a fraud as I sampled sophisticated cheeses while longing for Poly-O. But I am also a chronicler...making mental notes and sifting feverishly through each special moment to file away forever as a part of our family history. Which is why, as everyone was crammed in the dressing room, vying for mirror space and admiring Sydney, I thought it would be a good idea to hoist my gargantuan-sized body up onto the closed toilet lid and straddle the stall to capture this moment for posterity. 

It was as classy a moment as you are imagining.

Especially the part where I cracked the lid.

Later that evening, in a quiet nook, watching as guests sipped their wine, chatted, and danced, I gently nudged the event planner who had helped us throughout the day. "It was just beautiful," I told her. "Did it bring back memories of your own wedding day?" she asked me. I smiled at her. "Oh my gosh, yes. Did I tell you that our reception was in a fire hall?" She laughed before quickly covering her mouth with her hands. "That does not surprise me," she answered before hustling over to straighten a crooked craisin. 

We are so not the same.