Amy's latest product endorsement: "Scent" straight from heaven's bakery

It disgusts Savannah to no end, but Sydney and I pack minimally when we head to Connecticut because we fully intend to mooch off all of Savannah's stuff.  No need for a hair brush, flattener, blow dryer, or toothpaste. Savannah's lucky if we bring our own toothbrushes! I didn't advertise it because I knew she'd pitch a fit but I also had no qualms about using Savannah's deodorant too.

So it was, on my last trip to the "Arsenal of the Nation," that I delved into Savannah's sundries arsenal, happily smearing on a protective and considerate layer of deodorant. "Ooooo, I smell like cookies," I sighed happily. I held up the container for closer inspection. Yup. Macaroon-scented. My time had arrived. Finally...a scent that spoke to me.

Savannah was moderately alarmed (but not all that surprised) when she walked into the room, catching me clutching her antiperspirant. "It smells like cookies," I shouted, waving it at her. Her eyes widened before suddenly slamming shut in a soul-squeezing squint. "Did you use my deodorant," she snarled. "Well, yeah," I admitted, "it smells like COOKIES!" She snatched the scented deodorant away from me. "No it doesn't. Look. There are flowers on the label." Savannah buys deodorant like her father with a questionable strategy called the Snatch & Go.  I sighed. "Savannah...what do you think a macaroon is?"  Sydney suddenly walked in and, like a blood hound, sniffed. "Do I smell cookies?" I smiled and flapped like a chicken. "That would be me," I crowed.

Despite the product name, I do NOT want this life-changing scent to be a secret. Wake up, America! There is a cookie-scented deodorant out there with YOUR name on it! Spread the word!

A word (or two) about peeing in public

When it comes to dating my daughters, I had thought that Brad and I had constructed a list of very reasonable perimeters (Note of interest that might make you giggle later:  Some of my 4th graders pronounce the term as pee-ramiters). The person of interest should insist on coming to the door, initiate parental handshakes, love the Lord, not be of a gross age, be respectful, courteous, hard-working and ambitious. Brad might add gutting deer, filleting fish, installing a steel roof as well as changing tires/oil to his criteria and I sure wouldn't slam the door in the face of a competent speller but those attributes are more negotiable. This week-end, though, really showed us how blind we truly are to the critically important traits of one's significant other. Case in point:  Where do you stand on the issue of public peeing? (Hopefully off to the side...for obvious reasons).

Sydney had joined her friend...let's call her "Pam..." for a fun night at the drive-in, along with Pam's boyfriend. When they arrived home, they pulled into the drive-way, leaving the head-beams on to illuminate their actions; allowing the girls to unload the chairs and sleeping blankets and such. Where was the boy...one might wonder. Well...let's just say that he was illuminated too. And about bursting with enthusiasm to help "unload." I watched in stupefied wonder as this young man peed feet from my bedroom window onto my tree. I experienced a stream of emotions. Should I be glad that this prize felt comfortable enough on my property to urinate with such confidence? Should I tap on my window to alert him that he wasn't alone? I didn't want to be rude. I instead tapped on my sleeping husband's shoulder. "Wha...?" he asked as I had disrupted the flow of his REM cycle. "We need to re-visit our dating perimeters," I told him firmly before asking if it would hurt my tree if I scrubbed it with bleach. "He did WHAT," Brad asked, sitting up and looking out our now darkened window. I attempted to soothe his now-frazzled nerves. "Well...it's not as bad as when that snowmobile-er took a dump in our yard three years ago." "Too bad we didn't catch his name," Brad agreed, "We could have introduced him to Pam."

A feeling of "Intrepid"-ation

 "Oh no, I forgot I have a lighter in my pocket," I said as we approached the security walk-through scanner for the USS Intrepid. "Why do you have a lighter," Savannah asked, skipping effortlessly through, "You don't smoke." I eyed up the unsmiling security guard as I gave myself a pat-down. "It's like a fishing vest," I told him, pulling out what seemed like a thousand metal implements from my jacket pockets. He handed me what looked like a dog bowl. "Huh," I stuttered as my daughters rolled their eyes. "Put your stuff in here," he repeated himself, shaking the dog bowl. "Oh, sorry," I said, "I have a Justin Bieber song trapped in my head." "Don't we all," he winked as I finally staggered through the threshold, deemed no apparent threat to our national security.

I endured all that drama just so I could get in line to pay. I spotted a guy wearing a "Geneseo" sweatshirt and lamented that I had worn mine yesterday. "We could get a picture together," I said as we hamster-walked our way through a passage of complicated mazes. "You refused to stop at Wegmans in Geneseo yesterday because you had that sweatshirt on," Sydney observed, praying we wouldn't get within earshot of my soon-to-be-friend. "That's from the bible," I told her, "a sweatshirt is accepted everywhere but its hometown."

We made it to the front of the line. "Are you paying with a credit card," the red-shirted staff-person asked me. "Of course not," I sniffed, offended. She directed us to stand to the side to let plastic people proceed past us. Then a  parade of plastic people plowed ahead of us. "What happened to cash is king," I shouted over the crowd. We were finally allowed to pay. "Is there a cash discount," I asked. Nope. "Educator discount?" Nope. Sydney and Savannah flashed their college ids and received the student rate. "You know," I sneered bitterly, "without me, they'd be nothing."

Okay. We made it. First we toured the bathrooms. Lovely. Then we thought it would be fun to have

the claustrophobic woman tour a tiny submarine. Great. "Is that the Concorde," I squealed like a twelve-year-old at a Justin Bieber concert. It was! "We have to get a picture," I clapped. My 4th graders are currently learning their state capitals and they use mnemonic pictures to help them. Concord, New Hampshire is a nude hamster riding the Concorde! Savannah splayed herself on the ground and took a zillion different angle shots to try to get it right while Sydney tried desperately to look as though she's never met us as I straddled a picnic-table-sized dock hitch. It wasn't as sexy as it sounds. We abandoned that idea and instead went with the "holding onto the landing gear" angle.

Aside from the over-priced M & Ms, the Intrepid was awesome. We explored bow to stern, scrambling up every set of stairs we could find until we made it to flight deck. There were a million buttons that we were repeatedly told NOT to push. Not to mention the slew of dials and flip-switches. We admired the cup-holders in the navigator's station. "What's that," Sydney asked, pointing at a silver cylinder mounted nearby. I laughed. Sure, a twenty-year-old in the year 2016 may have never seen such a thing. "It's an ashtray. Good thing I have my lighter!"

Several hours of nautical exploration later, we were ready to see what else New York City had to offer for the day. Turns out it was tater tots topped with chili! The quintessential New York City experience. Okay...maybe not.

Breaking up is hard to do: Kicked out of the pew

 The phone rang on a Thursday night. I checked the caller number and glanced with alarm at my husband across the room. "This can't be good," I said with trepidation before answering. "Hello Pastor Andhobbs, what can I do for you?" There was a long pause on the other end before he bravely broke the bad news. Saturday night church was going to be cancelled. I stared with horror at Brad and Sydney as they sat on the couch. We had been asked to be an anchor family for this pilot program. What had we done wrong? Was it my late lunch two Birthday margaritas that had put us over the edge? Was it that Sydney always looked like she was going to toss her Communion offering into the air and catch it like a grape? Was it that Brad sometimes "forgot" his reading glasses so he couldn't be forced to "volunteer?"

"Are you breaking up with us," I asked in a trembling voice. Again...there was a silence on the other end. "No," he finally said, "It's not you...it's me." I couldn't believe this was happening. I thought back to all the good times. Two-year-old Silas's drum solo during the sermon. Infant Roland biting his father's shoulder during the benediction. "How did you know," Brad asked later. "My suspicions were confirmed when Pastor Andhobbs finally used his benediction paper to rub Roland's face off of him." The breathing contest when the five of us trooped outside to "see" our breath. Unfortunately, the 40 degree weather didn't cooperate for that particular little object lesson gem although somehow Suzie was declared the winner. Suzie. My nemesis. Suzie with her purse full of pens. Always ready when Pastor Andhobbs requires us to take notes. "I'll just use my crayon," I'd sniff haughtily. And if Suzie isn't bad enough...then there's Becca. Becca with the voice of an angel. Our worship song list always included two we'd know and two I swear that Pastor Andhobbs made up that morning. So the four or five or three of us would stumble through but if Becca was there, I'd lip-sync, using my crayon as a microphone. Who needs this type of intimidation?

So now it's back to getting up early on Sunday mornings. So long, personalized-to-us-sermons. Now when Pastor Andhobbs talks about sinning and hypocrites during his sermon, I'll have to assume that he's talking to the people in the pew behind me. So long, Pastor Andhobbs standing one and a half feet away from me while offering Communion and I don't know where to look or what to do with my face. Solemn? Rejoiceful? Hungry? So long, guilt when I'm going to an R-rated movie immediately following Saturday night church ("The Revenant" was gripping, by the way).

Reviewing my crayon-ridden sermon notes, I realized that Pastor Andhobbs had been laying the groundwork for my disappointment for some time. Case-in-point, his sermon on Psalm 112 mere months ago:  "Surely the Mosimans will only be slightly shaken; no one will remember them anyway; They will live in fear of bad news." (Bluetape Version). Anchor family? That ship has sunk!

The condition of my hair

"You know what the favorite part of my day was," Sydney gasped, between breaths, "this."

This.

This was me trying to proactively keep up with my appearance. "My hair's been feeling rather dry lately," I shared with my husband as we wheeled a "Stuff-mart" cart about the store. "Uh-huh," he answered, obviously fascinated. I led him into the hair products aisle where I began the laboriously important process of uncorking every bottle for the "Sniff Test." Brad had disappeared before I had even made it to the third shelf. No endurance, that man. He buys deodorant based on price. Animal.

I eventually narrowed my choices to three. I read and then re-read each label's heart-felt pledge to hydrate my hair to new heights...to flood each follicle to a flourishing finish. My Sahara Desert scalp would become an oasis of lush locks. Choice made! Life changed!

A week later...

"I don't know what's wrong with my hair lately," I told Brad as we watched television, "it's so greasy." "Is that so," Brad answered before shouting at the screen, "What are the sebaceous glands!" I sighed. "I really thought my new shampoo would do the trick." Sydney glanced up from her Kindle. "What new shampoo?" "The new shampoo that I just bou-..." I suddenly narrowed my eyes at her, my hand reaching up to slide fingers too easily though the oil slick that was now residing on my skull. Sydney's eyes were suspicious slits. "Mother...you bought CONDITIONER. Have you been shampooing your hair all week with CONDITIONER?" I covered my face in embarrassment as Sydney howled. "Did you ever stop to wonder why it didn't suds up," she laughed. "It was an expensive brand," I said, defending myself, "I thought maybe expensive brands didn't bubble." Brad just sat there smiling with his bargain-basement deodorant and assured me that we'd go shopping again soon (for reading glasses).

Jamie and the Giant Chocolate Marshmallow Bunny

It is a delight when former students become present friends. It was nearing Easter which meant, of course, that I was on my annual mad hunt for Russell Stover Chocolate Marshmallow Bunnies. In case you didn't know...I heart Russell Stover  Chocolate Marshmallow Bunnies. This bunny hunt would take me on a three-county systematic store search where I would scour every shelf, interview every employee and request corporate headquarter's direct contact line to gently demand an immediate order placement.

I recently walked into a local store when...

"Mrs. Mosiman!"

"Jamie!"

We threw ourselves in each other's arms. "You look beautiful!" my former 6th grader exclaimed. I smiled. It had taken months of training to get her to do that. We caught up on our lives and reminisced a bit. "Remember when you kicked me out of class," she giggled. "Yes, I do," I answered. "And I remember you skipping down the hall while I yelled after you that I was calling your mother as well." She sighed happily. "Good times, Mrs. Mosiman...good times." I considered showing her the surgical scar from my ulcer surgery which we lovingly had named "Jamie" but was distracted when she asked if she could help me with anything. I described, in detail, my target item and she expertly led me to the Easter candy aisle. Jelly beans, Peeps, chocolate eggs...but no Russell Stover Chocolate Marshmallow Bunny.

"They might still come in," she offered hopefully, "I could call you." I brightened. Finally...I had access to an inside job! Jamie sat through a 45-minute powerpoint presentation detailing the differences, subtle though they might be, between a Russell Stover Chocolate Marshmallow Bunny in the BLUE foil wrapper and the Russell Stover Chocolate Chocolate Marshmallow Bunny in the PINK wrapper. "Don't be fooled," I warned a wide-eyed Jamie who was taking furtive notes. She nodded, determined. We hugged good-bye and parted, lifelong pals.

Weeks went by, with no word. Had Jamie forgotten me? Did she no longer care? Was she secretly harboring a grudge for being sent to the principal's office for being a goof-ball in class?

And then...a coded message that only the most intelligent of encryptor's could have unraveled. "They're here."

"They're here" and I was there. Thank you, Jamie!

A day late...and short-tempered

In spite of my influence, my daughters are INCREDIBLY thoughtful people. As my friend Cathy would say, "They get it from their dad." They really out-did themselves this year in the present department. Sydney personalized my classroom wall with hand-painted letters spelling out "Room 24"...each letter carefully customized with a sea shell border. Savannah spent an entire year crafting together a calendar featuring my dogs in monthly-theme specific settings. Loved it...loved it...loved it!

Until one day...

"Uh, Mom," Sydney's voice drifted out from the kitchen, with a  curiously questioning lilt. "Yeah?" I didn't actually move from my chair as this curiously questioning lilt is often reacting to something spilled, broken or gross.  Fool me once...

"Did you notice anything strange about Savannah's calendar," she asked. I perked up. Savannah's a huge fan of the hidden Mickeys at Disney World so maybe she constructed some sort of secret puzzle for me to discover within the calendar. I walked into the kitchen where Syd was pointing at January. "What," I asked, not getting it. "2015. Mom...what year is this?" "I'm not a coma victim," I snapped, reddening with embarrassment and then dismay.

Oh no. Savannah spent a lot of time on this. How was I going to fix it without her knowing? I called up the company that published it:  Click and then Engage in Small Talk and had an infuriating conversation with the customer service representative who refused to sell me another copy with the corrected dates because I wasn't associated with Savannah's account. "I'm not asking for access to the nuclear launch codes," I snapped, "I'm just trying to get a new calendar." I may have also pointed out that professionally-speaking, Click and then Engage in Small Talk might have figured out that someone ordering an 2015 calendar in October of 2015 might have been making an error and have gently intervened. By the end of the conversation, Click and then Engage in Small Talk had lost a customer. I don't think they really cared (Which also tells you something about the company).

So...with fine-point Sharpie marker in hand, I set to work...righting that which had been done wrong.

"Uh, Mom," Sydney's voice drifted out from the kitchen, with a  curiously questioning lilt. "Yeah?" I didn't actually move from my chair because I DIDN'T WANT TO KNOW. "You do realize that 2016 is a Leap Year?" "Sydney," I snapped, "stop treating me like I've recently suffered a brain injury." And then I gasped.

So...with fine-point Sharpie in hand (and Sydney's White-Out), I set to work. Talk about your personalized calendars!

Bumper-to-bumper traffic on our seasonal road

Naturally, we were thrilled that Savannah was coming home for a visit from Connecticut. However, rather than leave early in the morning the next day, she elected to tackle the seven-hour drive as soon as she got out of work...right toward a Wyoming County travel advisory. "She's not going to get here until around 2 in the morning," my husband said as I glanced anxiously out our dark window, listening to ice pelt the glass, "We have to work tomorrow so we might as well go to bed.  Worrying won't get her here faster." So Syd stayed on sister duty, keeping Savannah company on the phone.

"I see the house," Savannah finally reported. Sydney hung up, expecting Savannah to walk in within minutes. Instead, a loud "bang" sound had her hurrying into her coat and boots to rush outside. "I just killed your car," Savannah's voice wailed through the darkness. As she backed up to park in front of Sydney's car, Savannah hit a slippery patch that did not welcome the application of brakes. Apparently the resulting bumper explosion rivaled a wineglass's reaction to an opera singer's well-placed pitch. Savannah's car? Not a scratch. Welcome home, Savannah.

The next day, on the drive to Grandma's house, Sydney quizzed her father about a home fix. We were all a bit surprised about her enthusiastic initiative in the area of car maintenance. "That banged-up bumper," she said, glancing at her sister, "could really cost me in regards to the re-sale value of my car." We sat quietly for a moment, considering her words, before breaking up into hysterical laughter. "Sydney," her father howled, wiping away tears, "forget about anyone paying you. You'll be lucky if you don't end up paying someone else to take your car away!"

In spite of his derision, Brad braved the chilly weather to address the bumper issue. We gathered up all the broken pieces and jig-sawed it all back together before an extension cord snaked out of the house to power a hair dryer that would defy the glue's bonding warning regarding ideal temperature settings. "Good as new," Brad finally declared while Sydney frowned skeptically. "So much for Blue Book value," she muttered, "Thanks to Savannah, it's now a red-tag special."