Epic lip-sync showdown: 2015

Contrary to popular belief, I am not an attention-guzzling glory hound.

Okay...I'll wait for you to stop laughing...

Still waiting...

Now that we can speak seriously together...allow me to say that, knowing that the 4th grade "Grit" movie was going to be on debut at the end-of-year school holiday assembly, I quickly dispelled the notion that the 4th grade team would also enter the big Lip-Sync Competition. "It's too much," I said, shaking my head, "This is a time for ALL of God's little teachers to shine."

Enter Mr. King (Cue dark, foreboding music.). Remember that annoying little terrier from Looney Tunes who dances incessantly around the patient and long-suffering bulldog in the red sweater? That's Mr. King. "Hey...ya gonna enter the contest, Mrs. Mosiman...are ya? Are ya? Are ya? Are ya gonna enter...are ya? Are ya?"  Finally...just to shut him up...I relented. All in the spirit of fun and good will, mind you. Not to cuff him metaphorically into a brick wall or anything.

I assembled a team of the most creative and coordinated people in my corridor and dragged them, kicking and screaming into my classroom for what would be the first of a series of thousands of practice sessions. These jam sessions would last late into the wee hours of the afternoon and the team would come to the brink of breaking up over dance-move debates, clashes over costumes and the classic "glitter-or-no-glitter" argument that ended up busting up the Beatles. But not us...we held strong. However, rumors reached us that the 3rd grade team could not withstand the pressure. Mr. King would be performing...alone. I stoically held back hysterical bouts of laughter as the karma train made a stop at Mr. King's door.  Toot! toot!

I was almost sad as he took the stage as a solo act. Almost. He donned a wig (What a loser) and

Unlike Mr. King's wig, my hair piece was an instrumental
part of our act.

began to sing "Hello." What an uninspired choice. And then...suddenly... movement in the audience grabbed our attention as the ladies of the 3rd grade team left their seats to join their crooning colleague for a spirited Christmas mash-up. It had all been a ruse! A diabolical plot to lull us into a complacent competitive coma!

I admit it threw us a bit. But in a flurry of feathered boas, we took the stage. Possessed by the spirit of Christmas, we bounced, bopped, shimmied, shook, jitter-bugged and jazz-handed our way all over the place, leaving the audience feeling light-headed and confused. What just happened? I'll tell you what happened...4th grade team & friends just dropped the mic on you.

Amy OUT!

"Paws-ing" to celebrate in Room 24

 Ahhh...the classroom Christmas party. A reverent silence descends over each desk as the students reflect upon their many blessings. Revelers walk sedately across the room like graceful swans to carefully throw away wrappers, ribbons, and bows. "How I value and appreciate this noisy holiday trinket purchased with loving care from the Dollar Store," one grateful child said, "I think I shall store it away in my backpack for later use so as not to interrupt the festivities." Other children immediately followed this fine example.

I awoke with a start from my Pepsi-induced coma. Four boys were doing the worm across the middle of the room while the rest of the class was engaged in a wrapping paper war. Decibel levels rose to dangerous heights as I dimmed the lights and attempted to distract my darlings with a calming movie:  Nester: The Long-Eared Christmas Donkey.

"Oh no," my family groaned, "That's the worst movie ever."

 "Why would you do that to your students," my husband asked.

"They were out of control," Sydney answered, "Obviously Mom is punishing them!"

Don't listen to my family...Nester is a beautiful cartoon with a sweet message of acceptance and how everyone has something special to offer as a gift. It also serves as a reliable vocabulary lesson. The children watched attentively for several minutes. "Wait," one kid said, suddenly sitting straight up, "What did that chubby angel call herself." "Cherub...that's what Mrs. Mosiman always calls us." They all turned to look at me. "What does cherub mean," another child asked. "It means fat," his friend answered. "No, it means angel," I smiled. Ohhhh...lightbulbs appeared over every head like little stars of Bethlehem. "What did you think it meant," I wondered. "Something bad," they said. Every year...it takes them until December to discover the meaning of "cherub." Happily, it takes much less time for them to figure out the true meaning of Christmas as this year we decided to forego a customary student gift exchange and instead purchase presents for pets! Thanks to my friend, Darlene, we obtained a wish list from our local dog shelter and my little elves went to town! Cleaning supplies, homemade blankets, food, toys and treats arrived by the giftbag-full! The kids were so excited to unwrap, sort and stack our inventory! This year...no one was jealous, or disappointed, or greedy.  This year, everyone was generous and giving and kind. (And loud.)

This year, instead of the light streaming into Room 24...we re-directed it so that it shone outward.

"Like the Bat Signal, Mrs. Mosiman?"

Okay...so maybe they haven't COMPLETELY grasped the true meaning of Christmas yet but Holy Hallelujah Choir, we're getting there!

Gimme five! (sweaters)

As the worst gift-giver on the face of the planet, I thought that I had finally stumbled onto a festive formula for the perfect present. "Look at that," Brad said with some disgust, pointing over to a store rack filled with seasonal sweaters. Following his finger, I squealed with delight and rushed over for a closer look. "They're adorable!" To Brad's horror, I immediately purchased five identical Christmas sweaters in an assortment of sizes. I unveiled them at my grade level team meeting the following day. My team was, naturally, speechless, about my themed gift. "And we can all wear them on the SAME day," I explained as they stared at me, in transfixed wonder.

Monday dawned, bright and beautiful. "Today's the day," I shouted, bounding out of bed, thoughtfully texting my team a reminder to wear their sweaters today. I spotted Geri first...NOT wearing her Christmas sweater. "Don't get all ruffled," she snarled, digging through her closet of junk and digging her sweater out from the bottom. "It's right here," she said, shaking out the wrinkles. Kelly also walked in without her shirt. No...wait. I wrote that wrong. She was wearing a shirt...just not the right one. "It's right here," she said, pulling it out of the closet and snipping the tags off. Rachel saw me in the hall and dove for cover into the nearest room.

"I can't find it," she admitted, "I've searched EVERYWHERE."

"Did you check the garbage," Geri muttered.

"What," I asked.

"Nothing," Geri said, jealous of Rachel's festive blue sweater devoid of a happy reindeer.

Sondra, a shining star of responsibility, was wearing her Christmas sweater with a smile more or less plastered to her face all day, determined to make the best of this.

The school community was obviously confused by the implementation of a holiday dress-code.. "Uh, Mrs. Mosiman," the school secretary said gently, "Were you aware that Ms. Nichol is wearing the same sweater?" "Really," I said, "What a coincidence!" Each member of the 4th grade team (except Rachel) received this same message approximately fifty times each before someone eventually caught on. My gift was such a rousing success that I plan on implementing it EVERY year! To ensure that no one is left out, though, I believe that I will store next year's holiday sweaters personally and distribute them on the scheduled debut day...I have FINALLY found my role on the 4th grade team: Costume manager!

I find your lack of Christmas tree-shape...disturbing

The photo does not do my wall "art" justice. It is actually much more hideous in person. The original idea was to have the children graph the letters in their names ("Sorry about that, by the way, Jeremiah.  And Madeleine...aren't you glad you moved before I rolled this little assignment out?" Like rats escaping a sinking ship... Ian, however, was thrilled with this little project.) and then calculate the area and perimeter of their personalized creations. Great. Colorful. Meaningful. Not a worksheet. Not Mrs. Mosiman droning on and on (and on) for hours. I would then take their completed crafts and arrange them on the wall to resemble a Christmas tree.

Uh-huh. Knowing that even the slightest hint of ingratitude or criticism will send me into a soda-sucking rage, the children regarded the finished "tree" with care. "Yeah," they said slowly, squinting their eyes and tilting their heads as though trying to locate the image in those hidden picture portraits at the mall, "it does kind of look like a tree shaped like Darth Vader's head." Stung by their harsh observations, I outlined the area (math humor) in festive holiday lights.  "That looks great," my students said excitedly, immediately taken in by the bright lights of the Darth Vader-shaped tree on their classroom wall. Visitors to the room would glance at our unusual decoration and pause as they fought for the right descriptive words. My kids inevitably would help them out. "Mrs. Mosiman made us a tree shaped like Darth Vader's head," they'd brag. I finally couldn't stand it and whipped out the green cellophane wrap and wrestled it onto the wall. I stood back to admire the effect and was immediately devastated. It didn't look any more tree-like...even with the appropriate color. I hurriedly cut out eyes and a respirator mask to attach to my "tree," slapped a light-saber on the wall and called it a day. The kids couldn't have been happier and no one questioned this decision as it coincided with the debut of the new "Star Wars" movie.

We learned a lot from this experience. That Mrs. Mosiman forcing fifteen names into a discernible shape is the path to the dark side. That Mrs. Mosiman forcing fifteen names into a discernible shape leads to anger. That Mrs. Mosiman forcing fifteen names into a discernible shape leads to fear. That Mrs. Mosiman forcing fifteen names into a discernible shape leads to suffering. We cannot unlearn what we have learned.

Does Rudolph have hemorrhoids?

Without a doubt, our intentions were good (How often have I said THAT before?). Personalized holiday cards to our veterans. Whipped up a sure-proof YouTube video on how to step-by-step draw Santa's sleigh using number and letter shapes and then, add to that, the whimsical touch of thumbprint reindeer. Sounds fabulous, doesn't it? What could be easier? Sigh.

We ended up with sleighs that made it look like Santa was flying a barcalounger, a bumpercar or one of the Jetson's space-age flying saucers along with a new species of reindeer  that I privately named Cat-a-corns (half caterpillar/half unicorn). One student adorned Rudolph with a red "nose" on both the east and west side of the deer causing me to wonder if the animal suffered from an unfortunately-placed zit or hemorrhoids. It gives the word "tail-light" new meaning, anyway.

Without (much) comment or criticism, I handed each student two picture images; (1) a cartoon saluting soldier and (2) him- or herself to cut and glue so as to look as though they are riding right along with Santa. Instructed to cut each figure at the waist for perspective, student after student hotly objected. "He's not real, Matthew," I explained for the thousandth time, "For goodness sake, I'm not asking you to cut a REAL soldier in half." Out of all the people represented in that sleigh, I never thought we'd be debating about the reality-status of the military guy! This instruction also gave us a lovely opportunity to discuss the meaning of the word sacrilegious. Letting the flag touch the ground. Yes-sacrilegious. Swearing in church (or anywhere, for that matter). Yes-sacrilegious. Cutting a paper image of a soldier in half so it looks as though he's riding in Santa's sleigh. NO! Not sacrilegious! Some students did cite religious reasons to avoid this perceived desecration of a clipart image so many cards ended up looking like the veteran and the student were dangerously clinging to the side of Santa's speeding sleigh:  Mission Impossible-style. "This is why people just buy their cards," I muttered to myself as I observed a cat-a-corn with a Quasimodo-inspired hunchback rear up on his hind-legs like a mighty stallion. Making cards with 4th graders takes too much patience and preparation. Or, in Rudolph's case...Preparation-H.

Why Brad wants brake fluid for Christmas

http://www.zazzle.com/dachshund+bumperstickers

I tend to view warning lights as helpful suggestions. The Mosimans have never owned a vehicle that didn't come with a standard "Check engine light" permanently displayed on the dashboard. A betting pool was immediately established the minute Savannah drove her new car off the dealership a few months ago but it looks as though the curse of the warning lights is partial only to Mosimans residing in New York State.

Brad recently jumped into our Titan and noted with some surprise, not one...but two warning lights illuminated. "When were you planning to mention this," he asked, immediately digging into the owner's manual. I reacted to his surprise with surprise. "Honey," I said soothingly, "no worries. I did a diagnostic check and we're fine." "What did you do," he inquired suspiciously. "Well...when the brake light came on, I pressed down on the brake pedal. The truck stopped. Good to go. I even repeated this procedure going down a hill to be safe," I said reassuringly. He looked doubtful. "What about the other light?" I admit I blushed a little. "I think it's appalling that they even have a light for that," I whispered. Confused, Brad re-checked the manual. "You mean a light for the slip differential?" "No," I said softly, glancing around to make sure no one could hear us. "The bdsm light." Brad sighed, "It's blsd." "Oh," I said, "what's that?" "Limited slip differential," Brad explained, reading from the manual, "is an arrangement that allows for some difference in angular velocity of the output shafts." I nodded wisely..."See? Same thing!"

Breaking and entering (into a photo collage)

It was a year in the planning. "You're doing what?" My daughter Savannah asked, her voice cracking with condemnation all the way from Connecticut. I kind of understood her shock. I am, normally, a law-abiding citizen although I do admit to occasionally engaging in brief rampages of rule-breaking. I've spent almost a decade overcoming my spoon-stealing fetish. I was told that when one is seeking to stop a cycle of bad behavior, you must replace it with another action. Want to stop smoking cigarettes? Chew gum. Stop stealing spoons? Filch forks instead. See? Easy!

My friend Sarah (the epitome of good behavior) and I meet several times a year for lunch. Over the years, we've noticed wonderful framed collages of vintage photographs decorating the walls of our restaurant. "Wouldn't it be fun to sneak a picture of us in one of them," someone (I'm sure it was Sarah) suggested. And the game was on.

As any respectable criminal will tell you, the first step to a successful caper is to "case the joint." A discreet peek at the back of the frames revealed layers of dust. No judgment. This just told us that no one ever really pays attention to these decorations (except us). The next step was to assemble a supplies list. A hot glue gun topped the list...Sarah and I are big fans of Pinterest so we knew that this piece of equipment was essential. A box cutter and scotch tape followed. A washcloth "borrowed" from a hotel was thrown in at the last minute so that the hot glue gun wouldn't cause a purse fire.

Sarah was the set-up man: discreetly plugging in the glue gun and dropping the purse for the second wave of the plan. Not a seasoned-stealer of spoons like me, she was a little jittery...waving me off initially like a horde of butterflies was attacking her face. I believe she may have mouthed the word "abort" to me, but it was too late. My adrenaline would not allow me to turn back at this juncture.

I quickly removed the frame from the wall and, using the blade, eased the backing off to observe, to my consternation, that wood had been nailed in place. I rummaged through the purse but realized I'd forgotten to pack a hack-saw. I grabbed another frame...losing hope. Whew! One small incision and I was through! The tabs that kept the backing in place cut into my fingers and I cursed the lack of a flat-headed screwdriver. Droplets of sweat began to form on my concentrated brow as I maneuvered our picture into place, not wanted to block anyone's beloved aunt from view. Time was ticking by rapidly as I replaced the frame on the wall, swept my supplies back into my purse (burning my hand on the glue-gun) and returning casually to Sarah who sat at out table looking like the judge had already dropped the gavel. Relieved, we casually finished our coffee and tea before walking easily from the establishment. Sarah laughed when we successfully made it to the parking lot without the accompaniment of sirens and a SWAT team. "We're like our own Ocean's Eleven," she said. Clutching our carry-out containers, we hugged good-bye, closing the door on our life of crime.

Goodnight, Rottweiler

Step 1:  Alert your sleeping friends that you
are lonely and in need of some snuggle-time.
This involves adopting the verbalization skills of
a demented owl, tapping your bedtime buddy
 "lightly" with your paw, and jumping up and down on
your rear legs like an unbalanced kangaroo or a circus
poodle

 There may be a reason that the big dog doesn't get as much screen-time as the dachshund. Please note the illustrated depictions of what has become routine rottweiler bedtime behavior. It has become a cycle of madness.

Step 2:  Your gentle awakening tactics aren't
working. Time to execute Plan B:  The Bells.
Your friends were so excited when you
learned to ring them, communicating your
need to visit Nature's Relief Station.
Incessant ringing seems to be getting
their attention.

Step 3:  Excellent progress! After giving your butt
a boost, your friend is thrilled to share her
blankets with you!

Step 4:  Boy! It's hot under those covers! You
shake them enthusiastically loose, thoughtfully
uncovering your pal who must also be a bit
over-heated. You suddenly catch a glimpse of
something out the window and spring into
action. Bark! Bark! Barky-barky-bark-bark!
"Juno," your friend yells approvingly, "It's just
your reflection!" Why...so it is! All is safe and well...
so you plop on top of your friend, rendering
her cold and immobile for the next several hours.

Safyre: A precious jewel for Christmas

Christmas...the most exasperatingly magical time of the year. Our school's holiday shop is up and running and, with fists full of dollars, students race down to buy presents for...themselves?!? Most often, the parental instruction is to purchase gifts for family members and then, if (IF) there is any money left over...to then get yourself a little something/something. Unfortunately, the laws governing proportionality are slightly askew in the 4th grade. "Let's see...$0.25 for Dad which leaves...hmmm....$3.75 for me!" That kid will eventually gain employment determining the budget for the federal government.

I admit it occasionally gets a little discouraging. I've almost adopted Lucy's perspective:  "Face it. We all know that Christmas is a big commercial racket. It's run by a big eastern syndicate, you know." But yesterday, Room 24 was able, for a moment, to stop focusing on ourselves to instead focus on a little girl who didn't want a three-foot-tall Elsa castle or the latest and greatest P2P-4000. All she wanted was Christmas cards. Safyre Terry has experienced more devastating emotional and physical pain in her 8 years than most people will ever know in a lifetime. My students stared at Safyre's image displayed on the Smartboard, speechless as they began processing what this little girl has had to endure and the difficult road that is still in front of her. And all she wants are cards. Well...we could certainly do that!

Our first obstacle was her name. I phonetically tried "Sa-fear-ee" for awhile until my little Andrew suddenly piped up, the light-bulb over his head clearly visible to the entire class. "Sapphire!" he exclaimed and the room erupted, immediately recognizing that he was correct. "That's perfect," one of my girls said, clapping her hands, "because she's as precious as a jewel." We donned coats and trounced outside to take pictures so that they could be added to the decoration of the cards. "We want it to look like we're holding hands with Linus," I said, wrestling my somewhat reluctant boys into place for their pose.

Writing the messages INSIDE the card was a lesson in sensitivity as we discussed that, in this case, what we leave OUT is almost as important as what we include. "Why?" I asked. "Because she doesn't need to be reminded of her pain," Vanessa explained. We brainstormed some and then got to work. Their cards made me want to cry.  There was no out-of-balance proportionality going on here. Only 100% love and sincerity. With her simple wish for Christmas cards, Safyre had given Room 24 a valuable gift. For one incredible moment, we had stopped focusing on what WE wanted and instead, turned our attention to the needs of someone else. And in the process, realized how incredibly blessed we are. And that's what Christmas is all about! God bless you, Safyre...and thanks.

Oh Christmas Tree, Oh Christmas Tree...your branches are so bend-y

"I didn't know that the literal meaning of "trim the tree" was to actually cut its branches," my daughter Sydney observed as I hacked at our unruly decoration with my gardening shears after Brad had spent the better part of a half hour whittling the bottom into a manageable shape to accommodate the base-holder. He didn't appreciate my helpful suggestions of carving the trunk stem into a bear or a gnome. Syd and I lassoed lights around the tree and then we wrestled it into the living room, littering the floor with flesh-penetrating pine needles.

"What should we name him," I asked as we watched only the red lights blink on and off. I noticed that a majority of the branches appeared to point upwards almost as though our tree was..."Flip," I yelled, "We'll call him Flip!" Declaring it sacrilegious to christian a conifer with a cuss word, Brad stormed off. "Well," I mused, "Flip could stand for flippant." "What does flippant mean," Sydney asked.  After she managed to survive my withering gaze for her vocabulary short-comings, I explained that flippant meant irreverent. "That is NOT a word," Sydney protested. I sighed. We perform variations of this word waltz once every other month or so where EVERY time I am proven right regarding the definition of a term. And yet, I am still routinely accused of making up words. "You mean irrelevant," Sydney corrected. "No," I replied firmly, "irreverent." "You sound like Scooby-Doo," she accused. Irreverent IS hard to say, I thought to myself. Irregardless (of whether irregardless is actually a word), my college-age daughter should still be finding ways to widen her vocabulary. And, as with all things, one sure-fire method is to always ask your mother.

How to pick a Christmas tree in less than 15 steps (away from your vehicle)

 The Mosimans have never had much trouble selecting a Christmas tree as the end-goal of the majority of family members is to spend the least time as possible tramping through the wilderness in this holiday hunt. "What about over there," Brad would say, scanning the far horizon for the perfect specimen. The girls and I would have already marked out our pine tree perimeter to encompass approximately an eighth of an acre of pristine property from which to take a tannenbaum.  This year, two more Mosimans joined our annual outing...rugged, hearty Alaskans with a love of the great outdoors. My nieces, Morgan and Briana quickly learned the rules of the game as we systematically nixed every pick as being "too symmetrical" or "too perfectly formed" or "too Christmas tree-y." "How 'bout this half dead one," Morgan asked sarcastically, surprised when we cheered her keen eye. "This one looks like it has a shelf on top," Briana observed. I immediately deemed it "The Hand of God". Any tree that is given a title automatically reaches finalist status.


And then suddenly, not more than fifteen feet from my truck...there it was...the dysfunctional tree to end all dysfunctional trees. "Where would the star go," Sydney asked, observing its array of ascending corkscrew branches. "Why...anywhere we want," I said with delight. Naturally, we sent the one allergic to pine tree sap in to saw our selection down while Syd and I took time out for a selfie. When it was time to carry our tree to the truck, Morgan, Briana and I decided that it would take the three of us to return the saw and pay for our acquisition. "We'll take the dogs with us," we said sacrificially as Sydney and Savannah were repeatedly stabbed with pine needles and Savannah's hands puffed up to three times their natural size. Meanwhile, Brad was staring wistfully off into the distance. "We didn't even look over there," he whispered sadly before he went to wrestle this year's "tree" into his truck. I smiled as I fondly wove my arm through his...the Mosiman girls definitely know how to pick 'em.

Small Business Saturday: Buying local from Zeches

The non-black dog who is actually allowed on the new couch.

My daughter, Sydney and I swung into Zeches Appliance and Furniture Store on West Buffalo Street in Warsaw the minute they opened on Wednesday, November 12, intent on one goal: quickly purchasing a sofa to help accommodate our anticipated onslaught of holiday guests. "We can just drag our dining room chairs into the living room," my husband said, attempting to alleviate my concerns and protect his "emergency funds" account. I paused as he offered other suggestions on how to pack a dozen people into my teeny-tiny living room. "Bean bag chairs are fun," he exclaimed. "So was the World Series," I answered, glancing at his souvenir Kansas City Royals cap. He wordlessly handed over the credit card.

As Sydney had a college mid-term, we were under a bit of a time-crunch so we basically hopped from one couch to another down the entire length of the vast furniture gallery. Bounce, Bounce. "What about this one," Sydney said, sprawled on an over-stuffed model. "Too fluffy," I answered. Bounce, bounce. "What about this one," Sydney called from a couch with two working recliners and cup holders. "Too souped-up," I stated. "Well, what exactly ARE you looking for then, Goldilocks," Vanessa McCormick asked, laughing as she overheard our conversation. After hearing my life history spelled out to her in sixty seconds, the business professional accompanied me to my choice: a light blue couch with a built-in chaise lounge. She asked a few standard couch-buying questions before we began the paperwork process. "Do you have a dog?" (Yes.) "What color is this dog?" (Black.) "Are you aware that you are buying a light blue couch?" (Yes.) Assured that I was of sound mind and body to buy my couch, we proceeded with the sale and, twenty-two minutes after walking into Zeches, Syd and I were off to her exam. We paused at the door to high-five our sofa-selection and as I looked over my shoulder to say good-bye, I yelled, "Buy local!" Unfortunately, the door closed on my final syllable and I think that all Vanessa may have heard was, "Buy loco!" 

Small Business Saturday takes place on November 28th. To my way of thinking, when it comes to personal, caring service, knowledge and quality, EVERY day should be Small Business Saturday. You'd have to be "crazy" NOT to buy local!

170 degrees of separation (before I ripped that turkey to shreds)

"Don't forget to cut off the plastic wrap from your ham," my friend Lee reminded me as I stopped by his house to pick up a pumpkin pie and cookies that his wife, Cathy had made for me. Ha ha. "Mom, Grandma and Grandpa left you a message," Sydney hollered as I listened to my father's voice reminding me to remove the giblet bag from the turkey. Hmmmm...it seems I have established an unwanted culinary reputation for myself. Perhaps deservedly so, I thought to myself later as I debated which angle of the bird would be considered "breast-side up."


"What's wrong," my husband asked later as I realized that my carefully orchestrated meal was out-of-tune and out-of-whack. My side-dishes were ready to go while the star of the show stubbornly refused to hit 170 degrees. Meanwhile, out on the table, my molded butter turkey was beginning to sweat. "I know how you feel," I hissed as my house-full of guests patiently waited for me to conduct this meal to its grand finale. "It's going to be fine," Brad said encouragingly as I debated cranking the oven up to broil, "Every holiday has its little glitches." "No, you don't get it," I glared back at him, "I plan to Norman Rockwell the hell out of this meal." He stopped me before I could take a propane torch to the turkey.

It finally did come all together. Soon all the guests were gathered around our celebratory table and thanks were given. "I don't know how you did this," one of my visitors remarked. I thoughtfully considered this statement, testing it for sarcasm or irony before declaring it sincere. I smiled as I watched my husband gleefully lob the head off my butter turkey before answering. "It was no sweat."

Flag on the field: Unsportsmanlike euchre play

Naturally, the best part of a euchre party is the food. "Amy, would you bring your Cowboy Caviar?"

my friend and party hostess, Rachel asked. Offended, I was immediately overwhelmed with profound feelings of rejection. Doesn't Rachel like my chocolate-raspberry pie? Does she think that I am incapable of any culinary skill outside of opening cans? I considered canceling the scheduled Mosiman appearance at this engagement but feared the devastating social ramifications that would inevitably result from the great vacuum caused by my absence. Plus, as I alluded to earlier, there was a LOT of food there. The spectrum of snack selections offered by educators are as varied as their teaching styles. Perfectly shaped cookies generously crammed with an equal distribution of mini chocolate chips. Marinated mushrooms accompanied by tiny blue-tipped toothpicks. Homemade canned pickles. Brownies nestling a peanut butter cup. We heard long dissertations about the scientific methodology of making peach wine, the extolations of purchasing pretentious olive oils (I just recently learned that EVOO wasn't a naughty acronym), and was lectured about the length of the perfect pickling cucumber. "This is good," Rachel's husband Paul politely told me as he sampled my bean dip, "How do you make it?" I explained the complicated process of opening several cans to him. Noticing that her husband was beginning to glaze over with boredom, Rachel decided it was time to start the card tournament.

The trick to any social occasion is establishing that there is at least one person there more obnoxious than yourself. Unfortunately, I hit "obnoxious-level" right at the starting gate. Normally a demure and modest card player with little interest in actually winning, I got caught up in the excitement of game play (and my second cup of pineapple juice with just a sprinkling of coconut rum). My opponent called hearts alone and, seeing that I had the top two cards in my hand, I slammed them down and yelled, "Ha!" The condemning silence was deafening as I realized that I had made an unsportsmanlike social blunder plus we still had to play out the hand so my opponent could get his point.

Fortunately, the adorability factor of our friend Michelle's baby was able to quickly distract everyone's attention away from me as Emma spent her time lifting baby weights and helpfully unpacking the baby bag every time her mother carefully re-packed it. An enthusiastic card player, Ashley coined the evening's popular catch-phrase when she excitedly yelled, "I'm going alone by myself!" Rachel, who had been an eager student of the peach wine-making process, raced around playing "Silent Night" (kind of) on the piano, trying to kick off a karaoke tournament, and exhausted herself adding the long lists of final euchre scores. In the finale, Geri found someone who table talks more than she does and was stunned when her partner first called her up and then reassured her by saying that he was counting on her to take all the tricks. I'm not even going to mention that Kelly won for the second year running. "We are partners for euchre every Tuesday," I hissed at her as she pulled on her winning t-shirt declaring her love of Doritos, "How is it that we never seem to win like this?" With one eyebrow quizzically raised, my friend looked at me for a long moment before laughing, "Ha!"

 



4th Grade Grit

"My administrator wants us to film a video about grit," I told my husband, already envisioning how cute I would look in fringed buckskins and a cowboy hat. I wondered if I could talk my neighbor into loaning us her horse for an hour. My husband frowned at me. "Why do you always go to the obvious," he asked. "Just because the theme is grit, doesn't mean that you have to do a re-make of True Grit. Lots of movies use that same theme." "Oh yeah..." I snarled at Brad, "Like what?

Which is how, several weeks later found my grade level team dressed like rejects from the pre-pre-pre-Olympic Squad, exhausting ourselves by "pretending" to race up the football bleachers to resemble that iconic moment in "Rocky." Prior to shooting, Rachel, adorable in a bouncy ponytail, commented, "Wow, being dressed in work-out clothes almost makes me feel like working out!" Following our third take, she gasped, "Never mind." Meanwhile, our friend Kelly bounded up the stairs like a bunny. When it was time to punch someone in the face with a boxing glove, we were more than happy to take aim at Kel.

"This won't take any more than twelve minutes to film," I promised several times over the course of the three hours it took us to tape our footage. "What's my motivation," my friend Geri asked as we were set to begin our inspirational dialogue scene. "To get done so we can go home and eat dinner," I told her. "Good enough," she replied.

Depicted as our motivational coach, our friend Sondra was the only one professional enough to remain in character as we stumbled up steps, bounced off padded walls, and flopped over onto the floor...all in our quest to develop grit. "This won't take any more than twelve minutes," I kept repeating, "If you bozos would stop giggling."

Too late, I realized that a behind-the-scenes documentary would have revealed the real story:  The grit it took to film a movie about grit. Ideally, it would be about twelve minutes in length.

Come to the dark side...we have (Cathy's) cookies

My friend Cathy had made my family some delicious Halloween cookies and I wanted to find a way to thank her so I asked Sydney to take a picture of me enjoying the treat to post on Facebook. "Here, let me get your good side," Sydney said, expertly angling the camera and snapping the shot. She made a face as she inspected the result. "Here," she suggested, "let's try a frontal." "Sydney!" I gasped, appalled, "We're not taking THOSE types of pictures!" "No, no, no, Mom," she explained, "just face forward." Oh.

Apparently the front of my face isn't any more attractive than the side of my face. I wonder how the back of my head would appear in photographs? Coughing during a shot certainly didn't boost my self-esteem any. Even the sure-proof  "Look away from the camera and turn fast on the photographer's 1...2...3" didn't work. Refusing to give up, Sydney tilted her head speculatively. "Maybe it's the lighting." She dragged me into the bathroom and took another shot. "Nope...not the lighting." Apparently, I don't have a "good side."  ""Don't worry, Mom," Sydney said to cheer me up, "I think you're beautiful on the outside AND the inside." "Well, my insides are feeling pretty good right now," I admitted, "because they're full of Cathy's cookies." Just don't let me get started on my man-hands.

Having a root-tootin' good time at the World Series: Game Four

 "So...do you want to see a World Series game with me?" Brad asked his daughter. There was a long silence from her end of the phone. "What's the catch?" she answered warily. "Well," Brad responded, "your going is contingent on your willingness to don moose antlers at my whim." "It's a deal," Savannah said, without hesitation which is how, one day later would find her grinning outside Citi Field with quite the conspicuous cap on her head.

Obviously, being left behind was a big blow. I've been a Kansas City Royals fan for days now so it was upsetting that Brad wasn't willing to mortgage the house so that his ENTIRE family could attend what could possibly be a once-in-a-lifetime event. "But don't they play baseball EVERY year?" I whispered to Sydney, confused, "Why is this such a big deal?" "And that is why you've just been cut from the roster," Brad explained. Sydney, though, still had a shot until...

Watching Escobar bat, Sydney excitedly asked, "Does he get two points for that?" Incredulous, her father sought clarification. "Two points for what?" "Two points for hitting the ball," she said uncertainly. The only thing for certain was that her chances for attending a World Series game were starting to fade. "Syd," I hissed helpfully across the living room, "I believe the correct term isn't points...it's runs." And suddenly...Syd was O-U-T.

Game 4. Brad reported that Mets fans were surprisingly gracious compared to our Play-Off experience in Toronto (where I was afraid to go to the restroom unchaperoned)...until the 8th inning where their 3-2 lead took an alarming turn and Brad became the focus of unrestrained wrath. "KC is a fly-over zone," one irate Mets fan yelled at my family. "What does that mean?" Sydney asked, steeling herself to be offended. Her father sighed, "Why are we sending you to college?" When Brad responded by extolling the virtues of Kansas City's world-renowned barbecue, he was told that the sauce tasted like @$$. "How would he know that?" I shouted into the cellphone as Brad gave us a play-by-play of the stadium shenanigans.

Don't get me wrong...I was happy for Brad and Savannah. I didn't want to see Tim McGraw throw out the first pitch. Who cares that Demi Lovato sang the National Anthem. I could care less that they watched John Cena organize and lead a chant for the Mets. Who needs to see Jerry Seinfeld? Not me! Who has wanted to take the subway out to Coney Island to enjoy a Nathan's hotdog for her entire adult life and it turns out they were selling Nathan's hotdogs at Citi Field and I wasn't there? Not me! (sniffle, sniffle) But did Brad have to go and catch a bag of Cracker Jacks for Savannah to snarf down without any thought whatsoever of her poor left-behind mother during the 7th inning stretch?

Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jacks...I don't care if I never get back! Let me root...toot...toot for the home team...

"It isn't root...toot...toot," Brad said in disgust, "You're not a little tugboat. It's root...root...root. And now you know why we left you at home." Fuming, I shouted at my husband, "Your daughter wears cardboard moose antlers!" He grinned, "Darn straight, she does."

Who ya gonna call...on Halloween? Count the Ghostbuster quotes challenge

As always...it involved an epic battle of biblical proportions but the 4th grade team finally got their act together enough to embody the finest supernatural comedy created for audiences of 1984. I won't lie to ya...it was a little funky. Slimer sprouted legs and the Staypuff Marshmallow Man danced a mean "Stanky Leg" but we pulled it off.

"What do you mean, We pulled it off," growled Geri who had labored for weeks on making an authentic Ghostbusters uniform while the remainder of the team opted to save time by taking the Amazon route. "You didn't produce anything!" Geri fumed, "You've never been out of classroom! You don't know what it's like out there! I've worked in the private sector. They expect results." Naturally, we ignored her. The costumes had already been ordered. The was no sense in worrying about it now. Why worry, anyway? Just because each one of us was carrying an unlicensed nuclear accelerator on her back?

"Mrs. Mosiman, I don't believe that your costume is appropriate for school," one of my little cherubs dressed as an American Assassin character, proclaimed. I decided to save my lessons on "irony" and "hypocrisy" for later. "The school handbook says that you can't have weapons and your proton pack is technically a weapon." I scowled at him. "Actually, when it comes to teachers," I told him, "it's more of a guideline than a rule." But my little guy wasn't the only one to pass unnecessary criticism regarding my outfit. As I was walking down the hall, my friend Pat caught a glimpse of me, brightened immediately, and then exclaimed to her companion, "Did you see Geri's costume? It was amazing!" Her companion whispered, "I think she can hear you, Pat." I breezed by this former friend, in my nearly see-thru, flimsy Ghostbusters outfit and said, "I don't have to take this abuse from you. I've got hundreds of people dying to abuse me."

Our fourth grade flashmob was a success. We were a little nervous as we entered the gym for the costume parade. I took a deep breath. "See ya on the other side, Kel," I said to my cardboard-carrying friend dressed as the Ghostbusters-mobile. "It was nice working with you, Mrs. Mosiman," she answered as we took our places.  Accustomed to leaving as soon as the parade concluded, some audience members began to get up. But the fourth grade thought, Maybe if we start dancing, other people will join in. And before you knew it, the entire gymnasium was pulsating like they were participants in the biggest interdimensional cross rip since the Tunguska blast of 1909. Two pairs of girls cartwheeled and did splits in a photo-finish finale as I screamed, "Don't cross the streams!" "How did I do," I gasped, passing Geri. "You were the best one in your row," she admitted before adding, "but I had the best outfit."

Is it "Stanky Leg" or "Skanky Leg?"

http://www.kappit.com/tag/short-old-jokes/

So it was...that four good friends gathered on the veranda of a fine old inn nestled in the forest to enjoy one of the last few precious evenings of Fall. Hot toddies were ordered and the women settled in for an enjoyable hour or so of intellectual discourse rivaling the sophistication of the great literary salons of the seventeenth century. Let's take a moment and join them...shall we?

"So there I was, riding my unsaddled donkey, when he takes off like a shot," shared Pat, "Naturally, I realized there was only one thing for me to do." "What," her friends asked, transfixed. "I leaped off and hoped I wouldn't break my ass," she concluded, shuddering at the memory.

Bruised tail-bones weren't the only injuries incurred...cerebral bullying caused one member to experience soul-sapping damage to her ego when she was the only one NOT to have heard the miraculous tale of the swallows of Capistrano. "Of course you've heard about it," Geri snapped, sipping her toddy, "EVERYBODY has heard of it." "Yes...yes," Sandy and Pat agreed demurely. I...er, uh...Amy just sat silently, stirring her toddy, convinced that all the amaretto had simply sunk to the bottom.

"You know how to get healthy hydrangeas to grow in this area," intoned Sandy as the four friends admired the inn's finally-fading flowers. I rolled my eyes...oops...Amy rolled her eyes but was unable to close her ears to hear, "You plant nails in the soil." Great, Amy thought, signaling the waiter for another dose of butterscotch schnapps to strengthen her toddy, there's another piece of useless knowledge that's permanently gummed up in my brain...next to the stupid swallows.

After listening to Geri drone on for fifteen minutes about her profound relationship with her sitting room spider, Pat broke in with another helpful tidbit about the healing properties of spider webs. "What," I said, staring glumly at my now empty glass, leaving the obvious TF off my question. Pat eagerly clarified. "Well, occasionally, when I trim my goat's hoof too close, I'll simply grab some webbing from around the barn and attach it to the wound." I stared at her dumbly...Well, aren't you just a regular flippin'' Martha Stewart of the barnyard. Startled, I looked around quickly. Did I say that out-loud?

We concluded our elegant evening of witty repartee discussing our grade level's Halloween "flash mob" to be performed on Friday. Eager to learn some of the moves, the women coaxed me...uh...Amy to demonstrate. As our portico was empty, I complied...showing them the complicated maneuvering of the Duff...the Bop...the Whip with its accompanying Nae Nae...the Break-Your-Leg and finally...the Stanky Leg. "Stanky Leg," Geri yelled, hitting palm to forehead, "I've been calling it the Skanky Leg." Suddenly, in mid-Stank, the porch fell silent. "What's wrong," I...nope, make that...Amy asked, slowly following her friends's frozen stares into the window of the inn where guests had been enjoying an unexpected dinner show. It was time for our four good friends to finally depart...and so we shall say, farewell.

Avoiding the obstacle run

My friend, Darlene, has been pestering me for weeks to join her for a 5K inflatable obstacle course run of which I had energetically been avoiding for an equal amount of time. I believe I may have dropped several calories by simply dodging Darlene. But Darlene was determined and would not be thwarted by my exhaustive list of excuses. I carefully chronicled my injuries:
1.  40 pound Greek and Latin workbook box shoulder injury. "That happened when you were still teaching 6th grade," Darlene countered, "plus you described your miraculous recovery despite months of atrophy."
2.  Kickball knee. "Again...6th grade."
3.  Monkey arm. "You need to let that one go," Darlene sighed, "getting scared at the movies while simultaneously reaching for popcorn would immediately be rejected by even the most compassionate workman's comp claim."
4. I knew I had her with this one...Blueberry foot. "Okay... that one WAS actually pretty recent," Darlene admitted. But I could still see the gleam of secret hope in her eyes.

And then, of all people, Brad Mosiman saved me. "Hey, I'm going to need the truck Saturday," he told me. "What for," I stupidly wondered. Note-to-self:  Rarely is a real truck used for "fun." "I'm hauling and unloading three tons of pellets," he explained.

Oh.

All right. This was a tough one. Could I get away with sitting on the couch, watching television, while this activity occurred right outside my living room window? I could close the drapes maybe. And turn up the volume. Was it too late to call Darlene and participate in a 5K inflatable obstacle course run? How much could three tons of pellets possibly weigh? (Yeah...I know) I mentally brainstormed every expletive in my repertoire before engaging in the ridiculous conversation where I show a somewhat sincere intent to help while Brad insists that he is glad to do it himself.  From the picture, you might notice that, somewhere along the line, Sydney must have had a similar conversation with her father. So I whiled away the morning moving massive bags of pellets thinking, "All this and I don't even get a free t-shirt." "There was also games, music and food," Darlene described later. Dagnabbit. All I got for my trouble was a case of Pellet pelvis.

Game 3

Never have I fallen so short of my not-so-secret desire to be the most beloved person on the planet. I had my first inkling that my popularity ranking had slipped a bit as we approached the line to enter the Toronto Blue Jays stadium and were decisively boo-ed. Really...all because of a t-shirt? It turns out that there is a BIG difference between royal blue and blue jay blue. Clearing security didn't make me feel secure at all as the lady handing out free Blue Jay "swing-in-the-air" towels snatched the box away from me as though I had a communicable disease. New to the art of sports fandom, ("Go Bills!" My friend Zach gives me a new Buffalo Bills player name every other day or so to build up my communication roster. The problem is, though, that players seem to get traded faster than I can memorize them.) I was surprised by the politely passionate hatred expressed by Canadians--a people who couldn't come up with anything better than a leaf to slap on their flag (Shhh...don't tell our neighbors to the North, but we have maple trees here too!) and whose national anthem has to include some nifty French phrases to jazz it up. Yeah...French.  So 50,000 Blue Jays fans (because they have no one else to root for) and three brave Kansas City Royals fans settled in to watch Game 3 of the 2015 ALCS Playoffs. It was rough...I won't lie to you. But I believe that the Royals realized that, if they had won the game (like they surely would have), the Mosiman family would have been ceremoniously thrown from their level 500 seating.

Two particularly rowdy Jays fans (No foam finger here...big blue foam "J"...Sesame Street would be proud:  "Tonight's game...brought to you by the letter J") imaginatively chanted "Let's go, Blue Jays" (clap, clap, clap-clap-clap), shouted "You suck," to no one in particular, and occasionally hissed at us...all while dressed in man-sized uniform pajamas. Adorable.

Even more adorable was the 7th inning stretch song...it could have been performed by Robin Sparkles! Those of you who just missed my "How I Met Your Mother" reference, IMMEDIATELY stop reading and binge watch all nine seasons. Instead of "Let's go to the mall," we have "Let's play ball!" Sydney and I, of course, tinkered a bit to make it fit..."Let's go play some ball!" "How I Met Your Mother" fans are already singing...you're welcome.
 I was really looking forward to a cute picture of Brad and I at the game. He is remarkably resistant to dressing like my twin so I had to strike while the iron was hot. My friend, Josh is always posting sweet photos of himself with his girlfriend, Sam, wearing sportswear so I thought...this is my time. Sydney aimed the camera...I put on a sultry pout and struck a pose. Reviewing the result on the 3 1/2 hour ride home, I asked Brad if he thought I was coming down with Bell's palsy as my sultry pout looked more like left-side-of-the-face paralysis. And forget the 7th inning stretch...I looked more like 9-month-old stretch marks as obviously an unexpected breeze must have come out of nowhere to blow up my shirt to make me look like a pregnant platypus (remember my sultry pout...duck-billed). A quick review of Sydney's pictures reveals that she looks fantastic in every one. I just can't win.

Connecticut road-trip with Joan: Celebrating "Fun"-tober

 My friend, Joan and I have traveled quite a bit together and, as a result, have been through a lot. We have committed bizarre children's audio stories to memory... "It's a very good game"..."Play it again, Mom!"...have been yelled at by a pastor for being too loud at bedtime and consequently almost decapitated a big toe as we attempted to stifle our giggles over being yelled at by a pastor and, have been irrevocably scarred during the great string cheese carsick caper of ought two.  So naturally, I was looking forward to our week-end roadtrip to Connecticut to visit my oldest daughter, Savannah.

"Amy, would you like some cheese," Joan asked, rummaging through her magical cooler of snacks as we hit the open road. Would I? I lit up like a Christmas tree. "Oh," said Joan, after a moment of searching, "I must have forgotten to pack it." We might as well have turned the truck around right there...I was devastated.

I managed to soldier on...past the gas station where I inadvertently tried to put fifty dollars into someone else's gas tank..."No," I yelled, racing back into the store, "Not pump 5...pump 3!"...past the murky mist of Witch Meadow..."Forget looking for Connecticut deer--they're the size of cats...watch out for witches," I told Joan as she peered diligently into the darkness...until we finally reached the safe harbor of Savannah's apartment.

The highlight of the trip (other than seeing Savannah, of course) was witnessing the christening of the USS Illinois so what were we going to do after that? My impromptu purchase of a children's book answered that question as we raced around Connecticut, visiting the places mentioned in the story.

Getting to Gillette Castle turned out to be almost as much fun as the actual castle as we had to be ferried across the imaginatively-named "Deep River." I was immediately transported to the epic ferry scene in "The Outlaw Josey Wales" and began to whistle "Dixie." We leaf-peeped and frog-spotted as we toured the park grounds, defying the laws of probability by eventually finding sixteen acorns with intact lids for my 4th graders.

We awoke each morning, bright-eyes and bushy-tailed (Thanks to my cell phone alarm that I kept forgetting to turn off so a happy little song blared out of it at 6 am), ready to take on new adventures. Our children's book mentioned the Mark Twain House, so we headed over to Hartford. "Hartford," Joan shivered, remembering our perilous ride through Connecticut's capital where I kept repeating, "Hartford is bad," as we waited for a sudden left exit that would appear out of nowhere. "There!  There!  There!" Joan yelled as I screamingly careened across two lanes of traffic to enter an exit with a 90 degree turn.

We ate ice-cream (with candied pecans) at a sidewalk cafe, collected sixteen sea shells, visited Mystic Pizza (again) and were horrified that Savannah has never actually seen the movie and tortured my daughter by forcing her to Google every little wonderment that popped into our heads. "Savannah...look that up" became our catchphrase. She was horrified when she fell asleep, leaving us to watch Judy Garland in "A Star is Born," as we quickly filled up her search history with movie-related trivia questions that we simply had to know.

Our time with Savannah went by, as usual, too quickly and it was time to go. We said a fond farewell to her and her "wish-you-would-just-get-it-over-with-and-adopt-me" cat, Little Buddy and started for home. "Would you like some cheese," Joan asked, rummaging through her cooler. I glared at her suspiciously before she brandished a cheese stick at me like a magic wand. I was entertained for several minutes as I watched her futile attempts to wrestle it open. "Like you're counting money," I finally advised. She handed me my snack..."Remember the cheese string carsick caper of ought two," she smiled evilly. We recounted the ruined remnants of Savannah's poor pillow and how it took our combined efforts to get the regurgitated remains of Sydney's cheese string out of her hair. "That memory just gets better with time," I thought, swallowing my last, delicious bite of cheese, "Just like my friendship with Joan."

The Christening of the USS Illinois

I've never attended the christening of an ocean-going vessel before so I wasn't sure what to expect. Add to that, the fact that the First Lady would be wielding the bottle of champagne and I was at a total loss regarding perfunctory protocol. Savannah, of course, was a BIG help. "Wear closed-toe shoes," her informative text directed. Does the First Lady have something against my piggies, I wondered. I could assure her that, given a popularity poll, her toes would certainly outshine mine. I could practically hear Savannah sighing from Connecticut. "You're walking through construction spaces and over docks," she clarified impatiently, already beginning to regret her decision of inviting me to this prestigious event. But it was too late now...my friend, Joan and I had already made the seven hour journey to Connecticut, closed-toe shoes firmly in hand.

To Savannah's relief, we made it through the first wave of security without too much fuss although I did pause to point out that I had just that morning chopped my bangs so any discrepancy between my current appearance and my passport photo could be attributed to that. The Secret Service thanked me for my forthright honesty and patriotism before asking me to move on. The second wave of security also went relatively smooth except I involuntarily adopted the dramatic Charlie's Angels pose during the pat-down. "She's clean," the Secret Service Man reported and I beamed proudly. "Mom," Savannah interjected, interrupting the chronicling of this national event, "You do realize that those men were just regular security guys...not Secret Service agents, don't you?" I smiled gently at my daughter...she's so naive.

We walked through the submarine hangar in our closed-toe shoes, marveling at the larger-than-life ships. A woman handed us an event program and a pair of sunglasses with their own little cloth case emblazoned with the date and the name of the submarine, the USS Illinois. This was the pivotal moment where we realized that we weren't attending just any ol' christening. No one just GIVES you glasses. Even in Disney, you have to hand back your bright yellow 3-D glasses after Mickey's

Philharmagic. And then we hit the food. We stared in wondered confusion at the lines and lines of Chicago-style sandwiches being prepared before our very eyes. Disbelieving, we searched for a cashier but no...it was free. Savannah and Joan immediately grabbed a barbecue brisket-style sandwich on artisan bread stuffed with colorful peppers. Knowing that I'm not really a beef type of gal, Savannah pointed to a foil-wrapped grilled chicken sandwich. There were bags of chips, fruit, Ben and Jerry's ice cream, soda, and "christening" water. This was, obviously, the most thrilling moment of our lives.

We procured the perfect seats across from the podium and settled in for the three hour wait. Savannah and Joan wolfed down their sandwiches like it was lunchtime rather than 8 am. The unveiling of my chicken sandwich was a bit of a let-down and I spent the better part of the next hour expressing my displeasure while daintily tipping potato chip crumbs out of the bag directly into my waiting mouth. A Blues Brothers tribute band kept the crowd entertained as we eagerly awaited the arrival of Michelle Obama as well as an impressive number of governors, senators, and congressmen. Joan and

Savannah waited until the stadium seating was filled to capacity before deciding to crawl over thousands of spectators for a second helping of christening cuisine. As this trip benefited me, I withheld judgment.

Soon enough, the one hundred thirty-three membered crew of the USS Illinois assembled on top of the sub and stood at attention for the next hour and a half as each programmed guest made remarks. Any illusions that I would be plucked from obscurity out of the crowd to join Michelle Obama as she prepared to break a bottle over the bow were quickly cast aside. This was not Marineland. I would not be kissing a whale or holding Michelle Obama's purse. I was, however, completely swept up in the patriotism of the moment. Aware of the dedicated service and sacrifice of the one hundred thirty-three men assembled aboard that vessel. I was aware of the blue sky, the rustling of the giant flag, the gentle movement of the water and the one hundred thirty-three motionless men who stood, at attention, for over an hour, on the ship that would be their home for

an indeterminate amount of time. The speakers were gracious and appreciative. The spectators were attentive and respectful. The food was fabulous. But finally, the moment that everyone was waiting for arrived. Michelle Obama earned a collective chuckle from the crowd as she adopted a batter's stance and choked up on the stem of the bottle, offering a practice swing. What's that saying? If it were easy...everyone would do it? One...two...three times the charm and the USS Illinois was officially christened.  The crowd cheered. The First Lady beamed and turned victoriously to her admiring fans to wave where I captured my favorite photo of the day as my friend Joan delightedly waved back.

We ALL waved back and I realized that this wasn't about politics and policies; it was about patriotic pride and national service. I love my country EVERY day but I especially loved it today. God bless the travels of the USS Illinois and God bless this incredible country of ours.