Fraught with Peril: The Road to Connecticut

 So Sydney and I set off to visit Savannah in Connecticut over the long Memorial Day week-end. We jumped into the Titan and left the house at a respectable 3 pm. "You don't mind stopping to get me a KFC potato bowl, do you?" asked my daughter, lounging comfortably in the passenger seat, "You can just scoot through the drive-thru." When I mentioned getting a Dunkin' Donut, she waved her hand dismissively, "Oh, there's a ton on the freeway." Except there WASN'T. When we would stop later for gas, at 9 o'clock, Sydney would then accuse me of waiting deliberately until Starbucks was closed. WHAT?!?! Me?!?! Deliberately cause her to miss a snacking opportunity?!?

She also expressed her displeasure regarding my parking strategy. "Why are we parked so far away," she complained as I worked to regain feeling in my numb bum. "This isn't safe at all," she said, "Look at that murder van." "It has a large infant painted on it," I observed. "Identifying its target," Sydney nodded. As we returned to the van, Sydney complained about my long strides. "If you're looking to stretch," she said, "you should raise your knees." I followed her suggestion until she begged me to stop. "You look like a Tennessee Walking Horse."

We headed over to fuel up and ended up parked behind the murder van. Obviously inspired, the driver was stretching...arms up to the sky...waist twists...and then he launched himself into a cartwheel. Clearly, this was a murderer-in-the-making. A high-stepping gal such as myself would normally NOT label others but...when the murderer-in-the-making suddenly sprinted off into the darkness, leaving the fuel pump inserted into his baby murder van, I went into Code Plaid. "Get in the truck," I yelled to Sydney and we immediately launched into hyper-drive, waiting for the explosive blast to illuminate our interior. You can never be too careful about a man who cartwheels. They are on EVERY watch-list out there.

Sydney's ONLY job was to alert me to GPS changes. Unfortunately, she was very busy texting the riot act to a young man who foolishly addressed her with the following message:  "How's my big girl Sydney who is thick in all the right places?" Oh dear. And he'd been doing so well...plying her with clementine oranges over the last few weeks, worming his way into her heart with citrus. So she was explaining how he was also thick...in the head... while we careened past our exit and landed in a place called Coxsackie. Translated from the Native American, it means "owl's hoot" but we had just survived a terrorist attack and were tired,hungry and immature so we spent way too much time phonetically pronouncing the name and laughing hysterically. It was only the karmatic timing of Bon Jovi's "Living on a Prayer" that jolted us out of our spurt of juvenile humor. "Oh...we're half-way there..." we howled. "I feel like we're going too fast," I told Sydney as she slid toward me as we rode with two wheels on the round-about to get us back on the freeway. "That posted sign says 45 mph," Sydney said, the g-forces pulling the words from her lips, "How fast are we going?" Oh.

We pulled into Savannah's parking lot to discover that half of her apartment complex had burned to the ground. "Well...when was someone going to get around to telling me this," I grumbled, stomping up the stairs. "There was no sense worrying you," Sydney explained, "It wasn't SAVANNAH'S apartment." "It COULD have been," I answered. "See...that's why we didn't tell you," she said, wrestling the door open. I couldn't have been more delighted...more heartened...by the sight that met my eyes. There on Savannah's coffee table was a box of Oliver's chocolate coconut clusters. I'd been through so much...oh, never mind. You know how this ends. I didn't have a prayer of getting a coconut cluster.

A Siren's Song at Black Lake

"You know that your brother is going to buy enough to feed an army of fishermen," I grumbled as Brad and I wheeled his heavily-laden grocery cart through the store as he prepared for his annual trip to Black Lake. He hefted a case of thirty bottled waters into the cart before facing me, "No...I told him to just pick up some small snacks." I snorted but then just limited my opinion to eye rolls as a vat of salsa and half the beer in the store were added to our stash. The bottom of Brad's van practically scraped the driveway as he pulled out, tossing me a jaunty wave as he departed for the cabin.

Arriving from the airport a day later, Virgil and Jeff met me at a central location to pick up Sydney and Chlo so they could all travel up to the lake together. As usual, I heard them before I could actually see them. They spotted Sydney and it sounded like the store intercom had gone off, "Syd!" and she was off...racing down the aisle like she was twelve rather than twenty-one to throw herself into their arms. I approached more warily, eyeing the grocery cart that took two grown men to push. The way it looked, Sydney was going to have to help too. "Brad brought up plenty of water," I told them, "You can put your two cases back. I don't think you're going to drink one hundred bottles of water in a week." Naturally, they scoffed at me, citing the imminent dangers of dehydration. With the amount of beer they had...I wasn't worried about them wasting away none too soon. I tried again. "Brad bought salsa." Apparently, I am the funniest person Virgil and Jeff have EVER met because everyone knows that you can never have TOO much salsa. By checkout, we ended up with a bucket of Amish potato salad, enough yellow onions to last me a year, a bushel of heirloom tomatoes (because they travel so well), so much ice that we might have created a global shortage, and GIANT blocks of cheese that no one bothered to re-wrap and were coated in dog hair by the time we returned home. These guys do not shop small.



On Friday, I headed up with the Rottweiler. We arrived around dusk and I was faced with that age-old dilemma that has plagued mankind since the flood: Should I kick back and watch TV or make a show of waiting for my family? Juno voted for couch time but we leashed up and headed down to the dock. "How long could they possibly be," I told her and we settled in on some boulders. Boat after boat quietly slipped into our little harbor as the sky slowly drew its gray down comforter across the lake. "I'm like a sea captain's wife," I told Juno, swinging my bare feet over the boulder's edge, squinting across the water for any sign of our vessel. Another boat quietly approached the dock...its crew acknowledging me with a silent salute. "I'm a siren," I whispered to the now-shivering dog as the boulder began to sap the warmth from our bodies, "luring fisherman from the deep into the dangers of the rock-strewn shallows." The gray sky seeped to black and we were now robbed of our sight. I banged my bare feet against the rock in a vain attempt to restore some feeling to my now-numb toes. The dog and I clung together in this moment of hardship. "Chrisley Knows Best is on," I whispered between chattering teeth. "and I'm an electrician's wife with hypothermia."

As usual, we heard them before we saw them. The evoked mood rippling off the water was less "Deadliest Catch" and more upbeat country music video. Juno and I, now frozen boulder barnacles, watched as the boat bumper-car-ed its way into its assigned parking spot. A rod snapped as someone stepped on it. Arms windmilled, barely preventing someone's inevitable spill into the water. Inventory was addressed regarding the re-stocking of beverages for tomorrow's journey. Still...I remained invisible. Stomp...stomp...stomp. The parade crossed the pier. Like Rose, clinging to the door that clearly could have held both her and Jack if she hadn't been so incredibly selfish, I tried to call out for help. My voice croaked. My siren's song was gone. There wasn't a dead corpse nearby to rip a handy whistle from his frozen lips so I would have to muster my last remaining strength before the loud rescue party turned away from this sinking ship.

Sensing his beloved was near at hand, Brad Mosiman suddenly turned toward the shadowy recesses of the boulders. Like Hercules freeing Prometheus from his eternal punishment, Brad pried me from the rock-face. I received a (loud) hero's welcome and we returned to our cabin to regale one another with the day's adventures. In the end...Mosimans do not shop small, talk small, or love small. Which is why I am so grateful to be part of their family.

"Tyler's" plan

"Amy, I have a suggestion," my friend Tyler said, strolling into my classroom about a week before the state tests. He's like Dean Martin, reincarnated. All that's missing is the martini. I glanced up. Nothing good has ever come out of conversation with Tyler. The last time he had a "suggestion," I ended up lopsidedly hopping across a stage wearing a neon pink wig.

"What?" I sighed. He leaned against my desk with the effortless elegance of a Rat Packer. Well, he's got the rat part right, I thought to myself. "To build morale for the students during the state tests, we should plan small daily events." I squinted at him suspiciously. Sure...he had the whole school convinced that his prime motivation for living was for the betterment of the children but I knew better. All of his altruistic after-school programs, his coaching, his so-called "team-spirit", his desire to be shaved bald for a good cause? He even makes it a point to wear a suit on School t-shirt Fridays. All just a front to make me look bad.

"What sort of small event," I asked. His slim shoulders shrugged and with a small smile on his face, he said, "I don't know. Let's think about it and meet again later." I seethed as he disappeared out the door. You guessed it. There WAS no follow-up meeting. There was just me, spending hours designing a logo, printing and laminating the poster, wrestling a giant graph up onto the wall, concocting the most complicated color-coded schedule EVER, repeating directions to seven teachers over and over again when I was asked, "Wait. You want me to do WHAT!?!?"

We determined a time..."We have special then"...scribble, scribble, scratch, scratch...we re-determined a time..."That's our reading group time"...scribble, scribble, scratch, scratch...and arrived LATE to our determined times. "Amy, not to criticize," Tyler said critically, "but your schedule said we'd begin at 11:50." The next day's schedule was printed with the start time at 11:51. Tyler really brought a lot to "our" little morale-building program. And why on earth did I even PRINT a schedule...EVERY day?!?  Either no one read it at all or they would rush down to point out my errors. Team-building, my @$$.

I proceeded delicately when it was time to collect everyone's five dollar contribution to the winning class's pizza party. Rather than point an accusing finger at those derelict in their donations, I chose to shine a congratulatory spotlight upon the responsible parties who promptly paid up. And of course I sang their praises on the daily color-coded schedule. My donation-defaulters attacked. "Ohhhh...you'll GET your money," my friend Michelle hissed, "in pennies!"

I arranged an end-of-program photo shoot (as a way to get everyone to help me wrestle DOWN the giant graph and laminated logo) where I was subjected to a litany of complaints. Tyler mostly stood there smiling as my ideas, intellect, wardrobe, and personality were assaulted. "Maybe you can come up with a better plan next year," he commiserated before sidling off down the hallway, whistling. His diabolical plan had worked again.

Stacy's Shower

 "Where should we sit," Sydney whispered as we walked into the bridal shower party. I glanced around. The bride's mother was surrounded by friends and family so it would look a little weird if we weaseled in at that table. My friend Donna was also very popular so we ruled her table out as well. "We could sit with Stacy," Sydney suggested. "Savannah would kill us," I told her, wincing as I recalled the last conversation that I had with my eldest daughter who had yelled at me about attending the shower. "But Stacy and I ARE friends," I argued, "Remember how she used to leave me secret notes when you guys were in school? We had to have a secret friendship because you were (are) so mean." "You are just going to Stacy's shower to be a jerk to me because I CAN'T go," Savannah accused. "I am going," I stated firmly, "for several reasons. One:  I know and like Stacy and her family and was honored to be invited. Two: I was planning to represent you in your absence. And Three: Sydney and I are well on our way towards crossing "Tour every Masonic Temple in Wyoming County" off our Bucket Lists."

The view Wild Bill warned us about

We scrambled unobtrusively to a table in the back. "Thank goodness for Wild Bill Hickok," Sydney said, relieved. "Why," I asked. "If it weren't for Daddy's story about how Wild Bill always sat with his back to the wall, look what we'd be facing," she explained, pointing. I laughed at the thought of the two of us, seated at an empty table set for twelve, facing AWAY from the party towards the wall. "Remember...Wild Bill still got shot," I reminded her before squealing happily, "Oooo...a mini marshmallow!" and plucking it up from the snack cup and tossing it in my mouth. "Not a marshmallow, was it," Sydney grinned. Buttercream hard mint. Sigh. Wish I liked buttercream hard mints.

Sydney with her fun fork. Also...our view of the party.

We joined the throngs of happy people at the appetizer buffet. I admired the crockpot of meatballs. "Are these plastic cups set here to fill with meatballs," I whispered to Sydney. The bride's mother, Teresa, was quick to answer, "Oops...they were accidentally set there because they have holes in the bottom." "Second disaster averted," Sydney tallied before squealing happily, "Look fun forks!" "You don't need a fun fork," I scolded, trying to marginalize our embarrassing behavior before the report was sent to Savannah. "Sydney...you can take a fun fork," Teresa said, glaring at me as she twirled a lock of her hair around her finger, "take two if you want." "Remind me to buy Stacy's first-born a drum-set to keep at Grandma's house," I hissed at my daughter who proceeded to poke me with her fun fork.

"Wow...someone worked really hard on the decorations," Sydney said as I contemplated blowing into our conch shell centerpiece to announce gift-opening time. Maid-of-honor, Brooke paused amidst her many important responsibilities to show us her multiple hot glue gun injuries. "The Save-the-Date cards were the wrong color," she explained, "so I had to paint them." WHAT?!?! This was in addition to tying the little knot decorations to attach with the sea shell accessories. "It was nothing," she said modestly as Sydney and I raved about the amount of work that she put into this endeavor, "Once I figured out how to glue the sand on, it sped right up." WHAT?!?!!? She glued sand!?!?!?

It was gift opening time. "Did someone blow the conch?" I asked.

"No one really found me all that funny at this party," I told Savannah later. "I could have predicted that, Mom," Savannah sighed.

A gift was opened. "It's a dutch oven," Brooke announced to the room. There was a brief moment of silence while we digested this news. "With a lid!" Stacy added with excitement. Sydney and I exploded into thunderous applause. When everyone was done staring at us, I whispered, "Okay...it's not a clapping crowd." We responded to the unveiling of the next gift (exciting beige towels..."Mom, I think those might be taupe," Sydney corrected gently) with an enthusiastic "Woo!" "Boo to the woo," I whispered, "What are we suppose to do?" We quickly discovered that Sydney and I are incapable of sitting in silence during the gift-opening process. "Maybe if they had background music," I suggested. Sydney and I immediately began to hum the Battle Hymn of the Republic until Teresa glared at us, a lock of her hair practically cutting off circulation to her finger. "She's right," I agreed, "we need a more event-appropriate song." We segued over to T-Swizzle's Love Story, managing to hit a couple of the notes properly. Teresa's finger was practically purple by this time and I was afraid that she was going to rip that perfectly-formed curl right out of her head. It was at this time that Stacy elected to open our slightly-inappropriate card. Fearing for her mother's health and my safety, I reminded Stacy that not everything is meant to be read out loud.

It was time to go. "So soon?" Teresa asked, clearly devastated. "What time does the party bus leave?" I asked Stacy's friend Lindsey. Her drink matched her dress. She quickly took a sip to avoid answering.

"You DID not try to get invited to the Bachelorette Party, DID you?" Savannah yelled. "I was kidding," I protested.

 We exited the building. "This is definitely on my top three of Masonic Temples in Wyoming County," Sydney said, shielding her eyes with the Save-the-Date card to take in the architecture. "When is the wedding again?" I asked her. "I wonder where we'll sit," Sydney mused as I glanced at the card. We both sighed. Based on our behavior today, it didn't look promising.

Game Night: The right to (and injustice of) bare arms

WARNING: Names are changed to reduce the chance of my being run down like a mangy dog with arm fat in the street by my overly-sensitive friends who haven't yet learned to censor their conversations around me. 

"I'm going to host a Game Night," my friend Sunrise announced. "Knock your socks off," I said encouragingly. She scurried off and was soon back with my invitation. Have I mentioned that we are WELL over forty? While I did appreciate the clipart, I resented the level of commitment that this little slip of paper represented. "Can you come," she asked. "I might be able to..." I hedged (as though TONS of better offers might come flooding in). Days later, Sunrise was back with a clipboard and a checklist. "Will I be seeing you tomorrow," she questioned, pen poised to scratch off the appropriate YES or NO box. "And what tasty snack will you be bringing?" Wow. This was intense.

A day later, my friend Geri and I  arrived, more or less on time. "Welcome to Game Night," Sunrise shouted from her porch, "Did you bring any board games?" Oh no.

As no one else also knew that it was a BYOBG night, Sunrise had to pull out ancient games that no one had ever heard of. One was a version of "Would you rather..." that REALLY shed an illuminating light on our friends. "Would you rather give up...for the rest of your life...alcohol or dairy?" I shuddered at the very thought of a world without cheese. But two of our members staunchly refused to give up the bottle. Game Night quickly shifted to Intervention Night. "But dairy doesn't agree with me," protested our friend Katrina, who then went on to over-share. "To test the effect dairy had on my body, I abstained for over a month and then tried slowly to re-introduce it." I will spare you further details of Katrina's re-introduction to dairy as I respect you too much and fear that you might be eating as you read my blog.

Although we try to use Game Night as a break from work; inevitably, it always manages to slip in. Katrina, a seasoned educator, has seen it all and heard it all. Or has she? Recently, one of her sweet students was eager to share his new language acquisition skills. Apparently, this talented little sprite was learning Chinese. "Sum tings tong!" he told Katrina enthusiastically. She gasped, shocked by his utter brilliance. "Is it Mandarin," she inquired, listening as he repeated, "Sum tings tong!" She clapped with delight as he taught her his new phrase. Eventually though, Katrina caught on that perhaps his language mastery wasn't quite as advanced as it appeared. "Something's wrong," she thought to herself. Perhaps our little linguist had been getting his language lessons from Bonanza's Hop Sing

My friend Geri is always fun to be with at a party. When I'm surrounded by intelligent and talented women with rich backgrounds of travel and experience, I am sometimes shyly hesitant to add my unremarkable little conversational nuggets to the scintillating conversations. But Geri is always there to support me. "Oh, are you being serious," she asked me the one time I dared open my mouth, "I thought you were just being stupid."

At one point, Geri reached over to emphasize a point to Katrina who immediately stiffened. "Allow me to digress," she said.

See what I mean? How am I suppose to appear even half-way intelligent around people who say things like "Allow me to digress?"

Katrina took a deep breath before eyeing the table. "You can grab my a$$. You can grab my breast. But DO NOT...DO NOT...DO NOT grab the fleshy underpart of my upper arm!" she announced resolutely. Thus began the nightmare stories of when some of the members of Game Night first became aware of the roly-poly pendulums of paunchy skin that had replaced their once sleek, toned upper arms. "I won't wave good-bye to the children in the bus loop at the end of the year," one attender announced, sniffling at the thought of not being able to join in on one of our school's most beloved end-of-year traditions. Speculations swirled about the origination of the Princess Wave. "It really reduces tremors," one member of Game Night shared helpfully.

"Oh my! Look at the time," our friend Diana yelped. We swung around to look at the clock. 9 pm! That magical moment when your rear-end grows to the size of a pumpkin and the glass slipper won't fit because of your corns, over-grown bunions, and fallen arches. Bippity-boppity boo-hoo! These Dairy Princesses had to hightail it home! Game Night had reached its inevitable end.

"Did we even end up actually playing a game," I asked Geri on our way out. Sunrise stood, illuminated on her porch, offering us a graceful Princess Wave. "Are you being serious," Geri snapped, as we made our way across the darkened lawn to the truck, "or are you just being stupid?" I watched as she hoisted herself up into my big Titan. "What did you say?" she asked me as I climbed in. "Nothing," I shrugged. "Huh..." Geri mused, wrestling her seat-belt on, "I could have sworn you said something about a fairy godmother trucker. But that doesn't make sense." I smiled in the dark. It sort of made sense.