Getting to the root of the problem

As we already know, change does not come easily to me. And I do have a tendency of slightly over-reacting to it. So it was not surprising that the sudden appearance of a few white paint marks on our road had me screaming into the house to alert Brad that something outside our sphere of influence was occurring and demand that he make it stop immediately.

Imagine what the stack of impending road closure signs leaning next to the utility poles book-ending our property did to my sanity.

Oh...hello, excavator.

Why my husband hasn't returned to higher learning to pursue a medical degree simply to write me prescriptions is beyond my understanding.

So while I was curled in the fetal position, Brad was out investigating the root cause of my road rage. Apparently, our county is so flush with extra cash that they've decided that pot-holes are chump-change. The real money is in the cow tunnels. Specifically...my cow tunnel.

To be fair...it has been over thirty years since a cow has traversed the tunnel. At what point does one downgrade the status from "tunnel" to "culvert?"

More to the point, for that same thirty years, a ragtag rhubarb patch has sat atop that tunnel like a jaunty little hat...weathering
road salt, midnight thievery (Do I dare say "stalking?"), and my utter inability and complete disinterest in growing green things. 

Oh Amy...get over yourself. It's just rhubarb. Grow some more, girl.

But wait. You don't understand. This is a legacy patch. Passed down through generations.

Let me introduce you to Gramps the way I was introduced to Gramps.

Art Mosiman. Mason City, Iowa. Suspenders-wearing...master-gardener...lady-charmer...owned the dance floor.

Brad and I, newly married, met him at Perkins for breakfast.

I, of course, ordered a piece of lemon meringue pie.

Brad (early in the marriage so what did he know?) frowned at me and said that we were ordering breakfast.

Gramps intervened before I had a chance to react (because you know there was going to be one heck of a reaction). "If your girl wants pie, you get her pie," Art Mosiman scolded his grandson. Gramps then went to further school his prodigy by ordering me, not just a slice, but the ENTIRE pie. 

Yup. You guessed it. My rhubarb patch can trace its origins to Gramps' garden in the midwest. 

I was going to have to chain myself to the cow tunnel.

"Or," Brad suggested, "we could move the patch."

Thirty years and his decision-making skills have NOT improved.

In fact, they may have gotten worse.

We started by up-ending the giant flower box Brad constructed in response to my impetuous, not-well-thought-out, fleeting wish to clothe the cow tunnel in a robe of Morning Glory vines. I told him how my friend Katriel had Morning Glory blossoms as large as dinner plates. Before I knew it, we were planting flowers that failed to meet my description or expectations. Three microscopic flowers in varying shades of dull white. When I (naturally) blamed Katriel for this disaster, she claimed that we needed better fertilizer and then thoughtfully provided it for us. Great, now I had to mix up my dirt with animal excrement before planting. Then, I accidentally read the instructions on the seed packet and saw that you are supposed to soak your seeds before planting. Super! Another step. And you wonder why chaining myself to the cow tunnel seemed to be a better option?

Brad's next step was to have me sift the soil for Morning Glory seedling spouts like I was panning for gold. We (He) meticulously re-planted every single little sprout. This...after we moved the 1,000 pound flower box all over our property to find a place as perfect as a cow tunnel to showcase our floral failure.

The rhubarb didn't realize that they were renting and were quite resistant to the eviction process. Brad made the mistake of cutting off the stalks and not factoring in a wife who was unable to discern the north and south end of a rhubarb plant cutting. I was given the job of spreading soil evenly around each bundle (after Brad turned them the right way up) and then Brad re-did it after pointing out air pockets I'd left (so the roots could breathe). He also had me go retrieve the pick-ax and when the ax part slid down the handle and broke my hand, I called my mother to tattle on him as he acted like he didn't care. "You do realize that you're holding your cellphone in your broken hand, right?" he said, unearthing another series of upside-down rhubarb plants.

I changed my mind. I was going to chain Brad to the cow tunnel.

It was done. We (Brad) had salvaged what we could. Come Tuesday, the cow tunnel...our Narnian crossing...an echo chamber resonating with the screaming laughter of my little girls...would be removed. Our landscape would be forever changed.

Brad and I gazed at our re-planted rhubarb. They'd survived the journey from Gramps' garden to Wyoming County thirty years ago. Surely, they could survive being moved thirty feet. "We did what we could," Brad said, finally, "I hope they make it."

"Don't worry," I tried to reassure him. "Worse case scenario, they end up as vegetables."

My recent zoo experience included a lizard, a rat, an armadillo and a tortoise: It was the "bear" minimum

"I have Friday off!" I sang, as I burst into the house, twirling like Maria Von Trapp on that mountain. "That's a lot of excitement from a girl who will spend most of the day in her jammies staring blankly at the TV before lamenting all of the things that she could have accomplished," my husband observed, having experienced my days off-sloth for the past three decades. 

I glared at my husband whose definition of decompression includes hours of manual labor and the so-called betterment-of-one's-self. Ugh.

"No," I told him, recovering quickly, "I get to see my Mom."

 This...Brad Mosiman could get on board with. "That's great," he told me, "Are you going to take her to lunch?" 

"No," I exclaimed, "Even better! The Zoo-mobile is scheduled at Mom's Assisted Living Community on Friday! I'll take her to see the animals!"

Brad stared at me. "You're going to drag your poor mother out of her apartment to see some low-rent rats and reptiles? You might as well bring her here." 

Disgusted, I folded my arms and scolded him. "It will be a very enriching experience! It's good for her to get out and be engaged. Besides, our animal guy who visits the school brought a Fennic fox and a monkey wearing a diaper! Remember when I fed a binturong a banana?"

"Your mother does not need to be enriched. I swear, ever since you saw the zoo keepers give the tigers their food encased in a giant ice cube and hide treats in the monkey enclosure, you have lost your perspective. Your mom likes to go for walks, do her puzzles, play Crazy 8s, and eat meals with us," my husband declared, "But, that being said, seeing animals is always fun. Knock yourself out."

Naturally, my expectations were WAY too high.

"The ceiling seems a tad low to comfortably accommodate a camel," I spit-balled, after I'd successfully wrangled my mother from her room. One of the residents frowned at me. Over the course of the next hour, they would arrange a schedule so they could each have a turn at frowning at me. Nobody was interested in my binturong story. 

The Zoo-mobile people arrived and we (me) were all a-twitter with excitement. 

Plastic totes with air holes punched in the sides were lugged in. I was fairly certain that none of my dream animals would be contained within a plastic tote with air holes punched in it but, as I had scored my mother a prime viewing area, we were now committed ("You should be committed," Brad agreed later, "What did you think they were going to bring to an Assisted Living Facility? A baby bear? A river otter? An emu?" Yes. Yes. and...Yes.). 

We were first told that we would not be touching any of the animals. We would be permitted to touch approximations of each animal. Like what? Sand paper? A rock? A coconut? I was approximately twenty-five feet from the elevator. I glanced at my mother. If I angled her towards her walker, we might be able to make a run for it. She patted my arm and told me to be patient. I noticed one of our docents was sipping water from a plastic cup and wondered if it was an approximation. "Do you think that's actually vodka?" I asked my mother, "Or tequila?" The docent mouthed, "I wish" as my mother frowned at me. I told her that it wasn't her turn.

First animal out of a plastic tote with air holes drilled in the side was a bearded dragon. I think one of my 4th graders has one of those as a pet. The docent carried it around the room for each of us to inspect...teasingly close enough to see yet heart-breakingly too far to touch. We touched a weird rolled-up snake skin instead. "What was that?" my mother asked. I showed her the picture I had taken of the animal consistently ranked in the top two of lizard pets. "Oh...nice," she said.

Thus started a fun pattern. Animal pulled out of tote...carried around the room. My mother dutifully and politely inspecting each one and then, once it had passed, turning to ask me what the dickens we were looking at. "What a nice picture," she would say each time. Mom agreeably patted a beaver pelt and a turtle shell. Unlike many residents, she was unconcerned when the twenty pound tortoise pooped on the floor. "It had to poop somewhere," she shrugged, "Did you get a picture?" Nice.

The three-banded armadillo was a big hit. The rat was met with mixed reviews. Our volunteer did an impressive job trying to sell us on the positive attributes of her fuzzy rodent. Nice try, lady.

After admiring a lizard, a rat, and armadillo, and a tortoise, Mom and I retired back to her apartment for some ice cream. "This is delicious," Mom sighed, "I'm so glad you came today!" 

Next time, I'll try hiding her ice cream somewhere in her living quarters. Or maybe freeze it in a block of ice. "Ice cream is already frozen," Mom told me, frowning. 

"So the Zoo-mobile didn't quite meet your expectations?" Brad asked (already knowing the answer). "No, it was good," I replied. "Hey! Did you know that tortoises have nerves in their shell?" I described how the zoo keeper demonstrated this by scratching the shell and the tortoise responded in a way similar to how a dog does when you hit the sweet spot. "Did your mom enjoy it?" my husband asked. "She didn't hate it," I told him. "I think I'm on the right track. Hey...maybe next time...less zoo and more Zumba!"

Brad laughed. "Make sure you take pictures."

 
 

Field trips are not my forte

This particular field trip never gets old for me, no pun intended. I adore Old Fort Niagara. You know you've hit rock bottom for being a New York State history nerd when you can rattle off your top three things to see at the 300-year-old military installation and accidentally list four, get frustrated because you can't decide between the ranking of three and four, and then passionately declare them a tie. 

I prep my kids HARD. "If the water is running, it's a river," I scold, "If it's wide and wavy, you're looking at a Great Lake." I threaten that if I hear the words Mississippi or Hudson escape anyone's lips when the guide asks which river runs along the fort, I will shake them like a maraca. "Lake ON-tario is ON TOP OF Lake Erie," I shout, "Do NOT be fooled." I warn, knowing that they'll be asked about the body of water behind the fort.  My nine-year-olds can rattle off the tribes of the Iroquois Confederacy with the easy familiarity of their Pokemon characters, list all of the Great Lakes, and place a solemn hand over their hearts in response to the question, "Why were the waterways important during the French & Indian War and the Revolutionary War?" before replying, "He who controlled the water, controlled the war." Don't even TRY to test them when asking about the critter that triggered the French & Indian War. Only a "dam" fool "wood" miss that! Is the question still "gnawing" at you? "Stick" with it, you'll figure it out.

Katriel and I arrived at the fort before the buses. We checked in, finalized counts, and met with the guides. We were down one tour guide so we quickly divided my class into thirds to distribute into the other established groups. All this was smoothly and successfully accomplished so that when the buses parked, students disembarked to immediately begin their tours.

We normally are able to enjoy this field trip a little longer but, this year, we ran into a host of problems that forced us to make some tough decisions:  Nix it or abbreviate it. We still delighted in the fort but I was devastated that we had to miss a lot of my favorite spots. Our leisurely lunch along the shore of Lake Ontario had to be sacrificed so that the kids could purchase rock candy, stuffies, and key chains. "You don't drive," I pointed out to one customer as I helped bag souvenirs. He shrugged, pragmatically. "Whatever I don't spend, I have to give back to my mom." Government finance at work, folks. I pointed out the Pepsi cooler to him but he'd spotted the assortment of fabricated gems to finish off his twenty buck allotment. Except he (like EVERY 4th grader in line) forgot to factor in tax. SLOWEST LINE EVER.

Time to go.

Katriel and I stayed with the buses until we hit the main highway and then, as usual, planned to go ahead to be able to meet them as they arrive back at the school. I typically jump whenever the radio or one of our phones go off because I'm certain that one of my biggest fears is being realized: We left a student behind.

Distress call #1 came in:  A bag had accidentally been swept out the bus window.

We considered ignoring that one until we learned that there was money in the bag as well.

We turned around just as Distress call #2 came in:  A cell phone had been left at the fort.

Fortunately, we weren't an unreasonable distance from Old Fort Niagara.

We hit Lost & Found. 

Nope.

Katriel searched the bathroom. I revisited the souvenir shop...I spent extra time around the Pepsi cooler.

Nope.

We headed to our little picnic area. Katriel called the number, hoping we'd hear it ring amidst the grass and picnic tables. Imagine her surprise when a familiar voice answered her call. How fun! The missing cell phone had been hidden in a secret pocket all along!

Okay. On to our next quest.

"This is a one way street," Katriel told me as we attempted to exit the fort's grounds. By now, I had had it. "It'll be fine," I told her as we crawled slowly along, carefully maneuvering the empty lane before encountering a closed gate at the end. Katriel sighed as I shoo-ed her out. "Think of it like a cattle gate," I yelled at her as she unlocked it before swinging it open for me to pass through.

We returned to the Robert Moses Parkway, scanning both sides of the two lane road carefully. Those litter laws really need to be enforced more. Holy smokes, people are pigs. After several false alarms, we thought we had it. Again, Katriel was shoo-ed from the vehicle. Like an adorable version of "Frogger," she scurried across the highway and then began meticulously searching the meridian. No dice. Just road-kill, cans, and clutter. 

We arrived back to school, slightly defeated.

"It was still a nice day," Katriel reflected, "No one got sick or hurt. The biggest inconvenience was a lost bag. I'm going to call it a win."

We'd just turned onto the road leading to the school, passing a strange line-up at the stop sign. "Why is that truck so close to the bus in front of it?" Katriel wondered. "Why is the front of the truck wedged up UNDER the bus in front of it?" I asked. "Isn't that one of our chaperones?" Katriel said, worriedly, as we watched students exiting the bus and the poor driver of the truck slouched down in his seat to avoid all of their interested stares. 

We successfully pulled into our parking spot. "Maybe not a win," I amended. "Let's call it a draw."

We started unloading the vehicle. "Ya know," I said, "based on this trip, we've chosen the wrong fort. Instead of Old Fort Niagara, we should have gone to Fort Knox."

Katriel scowled at me. "The only job I ever see Old Fort Niagara giving you in retirement would be manning the cannons. And then you would get fired."

 

Oh, What a Knight: Part I: Fowl play: Terns out toucan direct if they coop-erate. They just can't wing it.

I swear...this time I really WAS minding my own business. 

Show business, that is.

Our renowned elementary school director, Bev, had retired. The woman had wrestled a two-story version of Pride Rock onto the stage as part of her swan song, for Pete's sake. 

Her esteemed apprentice was waiting in the wings, ready to take flight, when she got sidelined by the stork.

So naturally (after asking EVERYONE in the school who wisely said NO!), my administrator asked me to take on the coveted role of director for this year's play. I thought she was cuckoo. I laughed. Adamantly refused. Walked away...free as a bird.

She struck again when I was at my weakest. 

Game night at Geri's. A few adult beverages...vulnerable and embarrassed because this was an environment where I was exposed as an utter idiot in whatever game we were playing. My boss teamed up with our famed director as they painted a dismal portrait of an elementary world without theater. Trust me, there is PLENTY of drama in the 4th grade without it having to be staged. They strategically targeted my savior complex. The narcissist prevailed. I exited, stage left, out the door and into the darkness. Before I'd gotten to my truck, Bev intervened one last time. Spot-lighted by passing traffic, she delivered a Shakespearean soliloquy of epic proportions. Applying to my ego, attempting to elicit my empathy (That's a hard sell), encouraging me, and then, finally, extorting me. 

I said I'd think about it.

Turns out, unbeknownst to me, my friend Erin had been undergoing a similar shake-down process.

"I'll do it if you do it," I said, begrudgingly, the next day.

"I'll do it if you do it," she sighed with resignation.

"Do you know anything about directing a play of this magnitude?" I asked hopefully.

"No," Erin answered. "We're going to have to fly by the seat of our pants."

 

A brush with disaster...Mother's Day craft 2024

 What is it with me and months that begin with the letter M? I turn into a short-tempered, moody monster in March AND May. I blame Seasonal Affect for March but May should be lovely. Flowers blooming. Spring peepers singing their nightly chorus. Fresh air and sunshine. But no...May...with its soul-crushing avalanche of looming deadlines... over-tired, over-stimulated children now busy with after-school sports activities...the season of strep...and allergies...and sinus infections. Field trips, fair prep, assemblies, concerts, plays...and we just finished the last of our state testing. 

"Yes, Susie-Q, you still have material that you are responsible to learn. Yes, Johnny-Jake, Mrs. Mosiman is still assigning homework."

And Mother's Day.

Always a struggle for me because I detest crafting but I want my students to conscientiously create a quality project to demonstrate their reflective appreciation for the adults in their lives who selflessly sacrifice their own wants/needs for the betterment of their children. 

The flowering tree in the courtyard beckoned (and bullied...my poor congested nasal passages). "No duck lips," I ordered. "What is that? A gang sign? Stop it!" I wrestled eighteen 4th graders in front of the most beautiful tree in the world and took their pictures, texting my poor husband to swing by the drugstore to pick up the processed photographs on his way home.

I had purchased frames for them to paint.

I hated painting.

Day One:  Paint them (and the table and the floor and their rolled up sleeves and me) white.

Day Two: Using a slender brush, carefully paint branches (and the table and the floor and their rolled up sleeves and me) brown.

Day Three: We were all a-twitter. A whole-group painting session as opposed to the carefully controlled (but still chaotic) small group where I would, in a fit of frustration and disgust, without warning, snatch a paint brush from a struggling artist's hand to yell, "How hard is it to paint a stick, for Pete's sake?" The best gifts are the ones that have some trauma attached to them. On Day Three, each artist was in charge of their own destiny. Heaven help us all.

"Let me demonstrate," I stated firmly as they all wiggled with unrestrained excitement in their chairs. "Commit to ONE finger to apply your petals," I ordered. "Select it now. If any other fingers get marked up with paint, there WILL be consequences." Recess was now on the line. The best gifts are the ones that have an element of danger and risk attached to them.

"You will be receiving three colors," I announced loudly over the cheers that erupted. Did I mention that I hate crafting? These poor honeys are lucky if I let them hold a crayon...let alone a paintbrush. "If you prove yourself responsible (Not likely), you may also (but probably not) receive my special purple metallic paint." They were stunned. Mrs. Mosiman has special purple metallic paint? What next, will she start drinking diet Pepsi or, gulp, water? Who is this woman?

"You will dip your chosen finger-tip into your first paint color," I maintained intense eye contact with my messy little maniacs. "You will test-tap it on your paper plate." They nodded, soaking in every word. "Then you will dot your branches...ping! Ping! Ping-ping-ping." Purple metallic paint was a tantalizing orange carrot. My baby burros were hanging on my every word. "Wipe your committed finger off with a tissue and repeat with the next color. Wipe. Wipe. Ping. Ping. Ping-ping-ping. No swoosh-swoosh. No rub-rub. Do NOT mix your paints UNTIL you've used all three colors. Ping. Ping. Ping-ping-ping." 

"You may begin."

I should have video-taped it.

Apparently, I've got to brush up on my reward system. Forget Dum-Dum pops...purple metallic paint has me covered, incentive-wise.

Eighteen 4th graders, dipping their pinkie fingers daintily in paint like fancy British ladies taking tea,
gave Georges Seurat a run for his money as they applied blossom dots to their branches. What I didn't anticipate was their sound effects: Ping. Ping. Ping-ping-ping. Eighteen 9 year-olds ping-pinging their way across their framed canvases while I tried to suppress my surprised laughter. Ping. Ping. Ping-ping-ping.

I loved them.

The artists AND their creations.

The next day was a different story. I needed to tape the backs of each frame so I gave my honeys an independent activity so that we could have their projects ready to go home.

"Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman..Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman..."

"AAAAAAARRRRGGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!"

I do not say "shut up" very often.

"Shut up. Shut up. Shut up! Shut up! SHUT up! SHUT up! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP!"

The best gifts are gently wrapped in kind and loving words. The biggest mouths should be covered in tape.

There's nothing like a little painting craft when you're feeling blue.

Beauty may be in the eye of the beholder, but paint splatters in the eye of the teacher guiding the lesson.

June can't come too soon.

Off-script: The side effects of not following the prescribed itinerary

 It may be the elementary teacher in me. It might be the remnants of being a mom to two young daughters. It might be the anxiety-induced OCD that drives me to hyper-plan, to the minute, events~even for a whirlwind family trip to Kansas City where the bulk of our intended time would be spent watching the Royals play. 

In the classroom, my lesson plans are divided into twenty minutes of instruction and activities to accommodate the fleeting attention spans of nine-year-old 4th graders (and their 54-year-old teacher). For my family, I spaced our events according to meals and in-between-snack entertainment.

"Consider it a living document," I encouraged everyone as we met during our initial orientation meeting, ignoring the sighs and eye-rolls as they perused my multi-page itinerary. "Like the Constitution, we can easily make amendments or changes." I heard someone snort "easy." We moved onto the question and answer portion of my presentation. "What is this about a Civil-War-era pickle?" my passionate-about-pickles daughter-in-law asked as everyone glared at her. Apparently, my family had held a secret pre-meeting meeting and had agreed not to indulge me by asking questions. Lisa had gone off script...such was the compelling power of my itinerary.

In addition to a really old pickle, we were also on the look-out for a giant shuttlecock the size of a mini-van, the baseball card collection of Geddy Lee (I had some Rush fans in the group), restaurants featured on television shows, locations used in movie scenes, and bullet holes from a train station ambush. I sprinkled in art, history, sports, music, ice cream, crepes, and tons of barbeque. I researched free parking, anticipated line lengths, and recommended entrees. 

Time and time again, I was thwarted. Holes were routinely punched in my flawless itinerary. East Coast snobbery turned up their noses at the famed KC lobster bisque (with 40 top secret ingredients!). "What are you doing?" Savannah asked, spying the bag of forks and spoons that I'd brought from home. "I read that the only problem with the lobster bisque was that the restaurant used plastic cutlery," I told her. Happily, the place must have read the same article so, to Savannah's relief, I didn't have to wield my silverware. I completely short-changed the shopping section of my itinerary. The siren call of Costco temporarily depleted our numbers. Caitlin Clark had several members of our party glued to the TV while the rest of us happily gave the Ferris Wheel a whirl. 

I made notes so that I could adjust my next itinerary. Sydney daringly performed a cartwheel in front of the shuttlecock sculpture. I realized that I would have to better research the rules and regulations portion of my document after Douglas was soundly scolded for perching on the wall at the World War I museum. "You'd think they'd put up a sign," he muttered while Sydney and I debated pointing out the large-font warnings posted at twenty foot intervals all along the wall. My annual argument with my brother-in-law resulted, as usual, with an abundance of food at our Airbnb. "I already got a case of water," I told him, attempting to intercept his addition of another case. "We need to hydrate," he insisted, tossing it on the cart like the rack of ribs on the Flintstone car. But I had a math teacher in the family now. "Douglas," I said, as he attempted to blend in with a beverage display, "We have nine people and two cases of water each containing forty bottles. How many bottles of water will EACH of us have to consume in under three days?"  "Approximately eight," he answered quickly before disappearing in search of a box of dino-nuggies. Yaba-daba, thanks a lot, Doug.

Still. When all was said and done, I'd call it a pretty successful trip. Nine people arrived safely to Kansas City from Alaska, New York, Texas, Iowa, and California. And nine people left, more or less, emotionally unscathed. As far as I know, we're all still pretty much talking to one another. "You have to be realistic," my husband said, "you can't please everyone. Nine people coming together in the space of three days? There are always going to be moments." I nodded, knowing he was right...but still wanting to go back in time to buy Sydney that $300 souvenir pen with a floating speck of stick in it from the Civil-war era paddle-boat pickle wreck. Brad poked me. "You know what they call a traveler who never loses their temper, don't ya?" I frowned at him. "A nomad!"

I'm halfway to becoming a stand up comic: Get on your feet and head over to the Museum of Comedy!

 "You know where we should go..." my friend Geri mused one day. I immediately stopped what I was doing. Geri always chooses the best places to go. "Where?" I asked, already picturing my home calendar to start setting a date. "The Museum of Comedy," Geri said. 

Cue up trombone sound effect.

Wah-wah-waaahhhh..... 

Epic fail, Ger. Drive ALL the way to Jamestown to look at hand buzzers and rubber noses? Puh-leeze.

But, a week later, I found myself strapping on my clown shoes and heading off to Lucille Ball's hometown with Geri and Katriel. If The Museum of Comedy was a bust, maybe we could head over to the Lucy Museum. I know for a fact that it's a grape-stomping good time over there. We didn't have to drive too far for laughs. Geri's "Caravan of comedy" provided plenty of entertainment as I admired her moon roof. "Oh," she exclaimed, looking up, "I didn't know that was there." Not a fan of GPS, Geri pulled out an artifact that none of our 4th graders would have been able to recognize:  A road atlas. We were on the wrong page but, fortunately, we were on the right road.

I was a tad trepidatious when, upon purchasing our tickets, staff members wrestled us into interactive wristbands and then ushered us over to computer kiosks to determine our comedic profiles. I alternated bending at the waist and semi-squatting as I reluctantly made my screen selections. "What...do they think we're all three feet tall?" I hissed at Katriel who, of course, flew through the survey and was now trying to help me. "You chose a handi-capable kiosk," Katriel informed me, grabbing my wristband in some sort of mystical judo move to log me out. According to the analysis, I have the humor of a nine-year-old boy. What a shock.

We entered the museum and I squealed with happiness. "The Puffy Shirt!" I yelled, racing to the display and demanding that my picture IMMEDIATELY be taken with this iconic Seinfeld artifact.

I read, with delight, Andy Kaufman's quirky formal letter to Elvis expressing his desire to chauffeur the King of Rock & Roll around town. I lounged on sofas to watch a myriad of comedic movies, interviews, and memorable moments. I made memes. I performed comedic karaoke. I was transported back in time to "Charlie the Unicorn," my laughter at the inappropriate but hysterical viral sensation proving my comedy profile more than accurate. With a green screen at our backs, we took turns leaping into TV shows and movies. Geri and I sat at the fast-moving chocolate conveyer belt to desperately make our quota. Katriel side-dove away from an explosion.

But all that paled in comparison to "The Blue Room."

Warning signs...everywhere.

A separate elevator.

A fobbed entrance linked to your wristband.

Now...y'all know I love the salty language. But when those doors slid open, I encountered a wall of profanity of which I was NOT emotionally prepared. I may have fanned myself like one of those sweet old ladies with their lace hankies in a sweltering hot Southern church. Oh dear. 

Well...we were in it now. 

We were adults, for goodness sakes. We could handle this.

I appreciate the idea of "pushing the boundaries of language." I support taking control of derogatory labels to direct the narrative away from hatred and ignorance. I am grateful for the First Amendment.

But, oh my. 

Geri was ensconced at a little display, headphones on, giggling at a Celebrity Roast. Katriel was in the vicinity trying to look like she regularly dropped four-letter words (and failing miserably). I was inspecting the wall. With dozens of hinged shutters arranged like framed pieces of art. Hmmmm. No sign said "Drink me." No sign read "Eat me." But still...like Alice, I felt compelled to open a portal INTO THE FILTHIEST QUOTED COMMENT THAT I HAVE EVER READ IN MY WHOLE LIFE. I slammed the little door shut and shouted at Katriel, "DO NOT OPEN THAT DOOR!" Startled, she looked at me. I could read her mind as she reached forward in slow motion..."How bad could it possibly be?" SLAM! She whirled around and shouted at Geri, "DO NOT OPEN THAT DOOR!"

Sigh.

Geri and Katriel had to drag me away from Lenny Bruce's display of extensive writings. I am not a big fan...he is too cerebral for me (I think). But boy, did that man possess incredible self-editing skills. He was ruthless with his own words...heartlessly chopping out pages and paragraphs of his own material. Cutting away the gristle and fat...getting right to the bone. I do not possess such self-discriminating skills.

As we moved towards the exit, we encountered the reverse side of the entrance wall and were horrified to see that, like many amusement park rides, a bank of monitors displaying photographs had captured us at "just the right moment," chronicling our horror at the expletives that adorned the partition. We immediately marched back out the automated doors for a second, third, and fourth take to make up for the initial "stick up our asses" experience. I'm not sure we caught the cool vibe we were trying to throw down as we were giggling too hard but at least we attempted to un-prude our reactions to the rude language. Truth be told, that Blue Room sure made my face turn red.

Long story not-so-short, the Museum of Comedy was delightful! 

Not a giant fan of naughty jokes, I will, nonetheless, share two...only because they made me giggle.

Why can't you hear rabbits making love?

Because they have cotton balls.

Why did the squirrel swim on his back?

To keep his nuts dry.