Going down (to a submarine museum)

It was the best thing that the Naval Seaman could have said to me. Yes, I did giggle immaturely as I typed that sentence. After my harrowing drive to Connecticut, Savannah decided to drag me to the submarine museum. I thought I'd managed to dodge that snooze-fest as she'd taken her father there last time. Who would want to go twice? But apparently Brad had had such a fantastic time, Savannah figured she had a sure-fire winner. So while I was tiredly trying to differentiate the difference between a nuclear-powered sub and a sub carrying nuclear power, Savannah was slowly leading me toward the USS Nautilus. While I appreciated the literary reference to the sci-fi classic 20,000 Leagues under the Sea (a copy is actually displayed on board), I wasn't thrilled with the prospect of touring the vessel. And that's when I heard those titillating, sea-farin' words, "You only have five minutes before we close." YES! Like dog years, time is an imprecise measurement for a claustrophobic. Five minutes is actually closer to fifteen but, still...manageable. I took a deep breath and hurled myself down the narrow stairwell, dove through fifty hatchways, careened around corners, paused to be totally creeped out by the dummies posing as seamen (giggle, giggle), saw the book, saw the baseball commemorating a game between the crews of the Nautilus and the USS Constitution (11/7) and stumbled, gasping for breath, back up the stairs. I did it.

Turns out I enjoyed the museum but for different reasons than Brad and Savannah. While they marveled at the complexities of submerged vehicular operations, I wondered why no one wore shirts on a submarine as I observed all the little naked figures posed on the 3-D models. I admired Jackie-O's outfit while she was christening a ship. After I shared my vast submarine knowledge with a group of tourists, "This is a replica of the Turtle," I said, "as used during the Civil War," Savannah gently guided me toward the exit after mouthing the words "Revolutionary War" to our new friends. "What's in that room," I asked as we prepared to leave. "Just a room full of buttons, switches, and levers," she said, "and a bunch of periscopes. But you can only use them to see your car." I stopped and stared at her. Was she for real? Why...this sounded like the most wonderful thing in the whole world! I raced inside and wrestled a five year old away from a periscope. Why, yes...I could see my car!

We made the obligatory stop at the gift shop. Never in a million years would I have seen myself buying something from a submarine gift shop that wasn't layered between two slices of Italian herb and cheese flatbread. I bought the cutest little submarine paper punch-out that you've ever seen! (Although I am going to guess that you've never seen a submarine paper punch-out before so your basis for comparison is probably very small but trust me...adorable!). Apparently it was "all ashore who are going ashore" time because our friendly Naval Seaman began to herd us toward our car. I told him that I knew where it was because I'd spotted it through the periscope. Did you notice that I didn't giggle at all this time when I typed "Naval Seaman?"

Hope for the geographically unaware (Spoiler alert: I actually make it to Connecticut)

I had made plans detailing my return engagement to Connecticut with a pal of mine when she called the evening before our departure to regretfully inform me that events beyond her control dictated her cancellation. I handled the news maturely, of course, throwing a great big ol' temper tantrum. My husband and daughter were also concerned. Mama Mosiman had never driven so far by herself before and has a notorious history of easily getting lost. When Brad and I first got married, stationed out at Fort Drum near Watertown, NY, he pointed me toward the main (straight-as-an-arrow) highway. "You'll want to go South," my new husband said helpfully, "if you go North, you'll end up at the Canadian border." He took note of my confused look and amended his instructions, "Turn left." The next day, I was pulled over by the cute little Canadian customs booth, crying while I explained that I didn't want to visit the Great White North. I was only looking for the mall. This would be Brad's first exposure to my severe spatial limitations. I am diagnosed geographically unaware.

"Don't go," my husband pleaded. "Re-schedule," Sydney suggested. "Dad...stop her," Savannah said from Connecticut. But I was determined. I was, after all, a grown woman. So, after crying most of the night, I grabbed my box of tissues and jumped in the truck. How hard could this be, I thought to myself as I maneuvered Titan onto the road. I thought of all the women pioneers out there, criss-crossing the map. Amelia Earhart. Wait...no. Scratch that. That ended badly. Sydney, at age 19, drove to Connecticut. My friend Sarah went to Peru. Savannah traipsed all over Alaska. My friend Geri drives all over the place by herself. I can do this, I though resolutely, Jesus, Titan and I are doing this!

I didn't actually screw up until well into the third hour of my travels. I was enthusiastically singing "Sympathy for the Devil," with the Stones when I belatedly noticed a flash of pink on Syd's GPS but it was too late. I'd missed my exit. I drove twenty miles out of my way and punished myself by listening to a string quartet for the next thirty minutes.

Pausing at a rest-stop, I refueled with gas and a Snickers and was surprised to learn something new about myself. I do NOT like a king-sized Snickers. The proper proportion of chocolate, caramel, nougat, and peanuts tastes off to me plus the bar is too big. And while this discovery was shocking, I felt that I would eventually emerge as a better, stronger person armed with this new knowledge about myself.

"Cecilia and the Satellite" got me off-track in Hartford, Connecticut's capital city. Fortunately, Connecticut's capital city is comprised of perhaps four blocks so I was able to get back on track pretty easily but still, imposed a self-punishment of listening to thirty minutes of vintage bluegrass which sounds eerily similar to 1970s Hawaii.

Feeling victorious, I successfully pulled into Savannah's parking lot approximately seven hours after having departed to see her waiting at her third story apartment window. Calls and texts had apparently been flying fast and furious between New York and Connecticut as my family tried to casually track my progress. "The eagle has landed," Savannah typed to her father before racing down the stairs to greet me. I made it, I thought smiling, patting Titan's warm hood. I sighed, Thank you, Jesus.

50 meteors an hour and I spotted one

It is a treasured memory of my daughters' childhood. Our family, lying beneath a summer blanket of stars, entranced for hours by a meteor shower.  This magical evening was the artistic muse for a priceless painting that has graced my walls for well over a decade.

Interpretation, of course, is crucial.  One might initially mistake the prone figures as victims of carnage beneath blasting bombs. But closer inspection reveals a loving family in alarming stages of undress, lying upon the grass. When this artwork came home from school, my husband protested the integrity of its depiction. "I'm pretty sure I was wearing a shirt," he claimed, "for the mosquitos alone!" The sweet misspellings serve as earnest evidence of age although I must confess that the artist never did completely master the skill of orthography.

So it was with bittersweet excitement that I learned of the recent Perseid Meteor showers. The stars were beckoning. I took a lingering look at the painting before heading out into the darkness. The cast of canine characters had changed.  My daughters, Savannah and Sydney, were in Connecticut. It would be Brad and I who would seek these August skies for renewed inspiration.

I didn't blink as I stared at that sky. Airplanes never failed to fool me. I grew annoyed as Brad pointed out satelites. I grew more annoyed as he spotted first one, then two, then three meteors while I saw nothing. Delighted by the show, he called Connecticut. Sydney apparently got up off the couch, walked out to Savannah's little balcony, looked up and immediately saw a meteor. I stomped my feet in frustration.  Pleased with her sighting, Sydney rushed off to wake her sister and dragged her out to the balcony where, you guessed it, Savannah immediately saw a meteor.  I stared and stared, my heart leaping with the sight of each airplane. After what seemed like a lifetime, I glimpsed my shooting star. We all had. It had been an inspiring evening.

Going to the chapel (part II)...What happens at Haley's wedding, STAYS at Haley's wedding

I was so excited to get my picture with
my two great-nephews that I didn't
care about my rumpled and disheveled
appearance.

Having successfully avoided a grade four misdemeanor (commonly known as a DWD-dressing while driving), Sydney and I breathlessly arrived in time for Haley's wedding. In fact, we even had time to contemplate the consumption of a serving dish of ranch dressing as the last thing we'd eaten was a Connecticut doughnut well on the northwest side of noon. Unfortunately, we were distracted by my equally hungry nephew Talen as he slowly reached into a bowl of unwrapped butter squares. Horrified, Sydney and I watched him pop one into his mouth. As he bit down, his whole face convulsed. "I thought it was cheese," he wailed through his bite of butter. I smiled in satisfaction. "Yeah...that kid is related to me," I thought proudly.

We turned our attention to the reason for our unintentionally long drive to Pennsylvania as a smiling Haley was escorted across the room to embark on her own journey. She was everything a bride should be: bright and beautiful. A new (to me) wedding tradition was introduced, The Love Box. A lovely and sentimental concept which was immediately corrupted because my daughter and I are gutter-trash. The Love Box is where the bride and groom write heart-felt letters to one another to be opened upon the occasion of their first anniversary. Sydney and I instead thought of the Andy Sanberg/Justin Timberlake SNL skit of "D!^k in a Box." I know...but I already told you...gutter-trash. Then somehow we incorporated Jimmy Fallon's "Thank You Notes" bit into it...Haley wetting the end of her pen before earnestly writing to her beloved...her voice-over sharing her thoughts..."Dear Joey of the Future, The thought of being your wife is swell. I can't wait to begin walking down long sandy beaches with you as soon as we find one here in Southern Pennsylvania." Sigh. To take something so pure and pollute it...I'm ashamed.

Fortunately, I wasn't the only one to corrupt a nice nuptial tradition. My sister-in-law Jen, a statuesque Greek goddess gowned in shimmering blue, had been absent from the table when the shallow champagne glasses were being filled. As we were instructed to raise our glasses for the best man's toast, Jen frowned and said, "But they haven't filled our glasses yet" before jerking the glass in annoyed emphasis, surprised as liquid splashed over her shoulder. "It's good luck," I assured her, "like tossing salt over your shoulder to ward off bad luck."

Fallanne's photo evidence of Colby's hole in one

My nephew Colby also decided to modify a tradition. Meant to symbolize the destruction of the Temple of Jerusalem, the new husband stomps on a glass at the end of the wedding ceremony. Colby, armed with a $5 golfball, was making a valient attempt to get his toddler son's attention for a photo op but ended up getting everybody's attention when the ball tumbled into his unhappy wife's water glass, sending shards of glass all over her dinner. She pulled one piece out of her baked potato and I complimented her on her topping choice and told Colby that, had we been instead attending a carnival, he'd have won a prize.

We ruined the most reverent of all wedding traditions and traumatized Sydney for the rest of her life, beginning when I turned to my daughter as the first strains of "Unchained Melody" began, to ask, "What movie does this make you think of?"  Everyone at Table One stared at her in horrified disbelief when she admitted she didn't know. Then it was Sydney's turn to be horrified as Colby moved behind his wife's chair and they began pantomiming the iconic sculpting scene of "Ghost". Not to be outdone, Jen bent over my uncooperative brother and moved his arms robotically to also simulate sculpting. You just can't pay for that sort of entertainment.

Despite our best efforts, we failed to ruin Haley's wedding. In fact, no one there even noticed the immature exploits of Table One because they were so captivated by the bride. It was an honor to be a part of my niece's very special day. It was so worth the trip.

"Going to the chapel..." eventually

Who is this Rand McNally guy and what makes my husband feel that he needs to consult with this so-called geographical guru whenever I feel the compulsion to wander more than twenty miles from my house? "What route are you going to take to get to the wedding," Brad asked as we were visiting our daughter, Savannah in Connecticut. Younger daughter, Sydney and I planned to depart the next day for my niece, Haley's wedding in Pennsylvania. I shrugged noncommittally. I should have known better...that's the equivalent of waving a red flag in front of the bull. Out came the Rand McNally. "Your GPS might take you right through NYC," my husband cautioned but you can avoid that by..." Charlie Brown's teacher's voice droned in my ears while I daydreamed about wedding cake. "What time are you leaving," Brad asked, frowning because apparently he'd had to repeat his question several times before getting my attention. "Well, it's suppose to take six hours and the wedding is at 5:30," I mused, calculating on my fingers. "Leaving around 10 am should give us ample time." Brad smiled doubtfully, gently advising an earlier departure in case of "traffic." I fought my eyeroll and condenscendingly thought, "What a worrywart."

As Sydney and I loaded our suitcases in the car (at 10:15 am), Brad called out from his 3rd story window, "Here comes Little Buddy." Savannah's apartment complex was home to a friendly black cat with a collar emblazoned with his name. We waited as he trotted across the parking lot to see us off on our journey, even pausing (ha ha) for a selfie.  Sydney and I would later recognize that this would be a prophetic moment for all that came later.

Initially, it seemed like luck was in our favor. We made a brief stop at a Dunkin Donuts and when our order had mistakenly been overlooked, Sydney was rewarded with a Coolata upgrade...handed a cup that required two hands to lift. This too, would later play a somewhat pivotal role in our adventure.

We cheerfully endured the first two traffic jams, keeping a casual eye on our GPS's estimated arrival time of 3:20 pm. Plenty of time to get there, find a hotel, get changed and breeze in at 5:15 ("Are you sure you don't want to make a hotel reservation," Brad  had asked fifty times.).  During the third traffic jam, we began to notice that the arrival time on our GPS began to adjust alarmingly.  "Did that sign say 'The Bronx",  Sydney asked in one of the rare moments when our car was actually allowed to move. I finally had to face reality that yes, I was in New York City after having spent more than an hour on the George Washington Bridge.  Sydney and I were finishing up our tribute to Kenny Chesney:

"Man, I don't know, where the time goes
but it sure goes fast, just like that.
We were wannabe rebels who didn't have a clue..."       RING!  RING!

Brad had been kindly calling intermittently throughout the trip to lend support. He, of course, choose this moment to call while I idled in neutral in the middle of the bridge. I picked a black cat hair off my blouse and listened while Sydney assured him that we had things well in hand, wiggling in her seat as the view of the Hudson and the effects of the upgraded Coolatta began to take effect.

GPS arrival time:  4:42

Our plan of getting a hotel room was scraped. "Let's call Fallanne and use her hotel room to change," I suggested, knowing my niece was smart enough to have reserved a room. Why hadn't I reserved a room? Oh yeah...I'd called last week and was told they only had one room left-a king suite with a fireplace and jacuzzi for $350. I thanked him and said I'd sleep in my truck first. Yet another prophetic moment.

We passed Queens, skirted by Manhattan and finally made it out of second gear as we crossed into New Jersey before coming to another long standstill.

GPS arrival time:  4:59

I sighed. "Okay...forget Fal. Get dressed now." Tilting the passenger seat back, Sydney discreetly began a wardrobe change in the close confines of her car. I winced as a tour bus pulled up alongside us.

GPS arrival time: 5:13

We were close but no gas station or fast food joint appeared as a changing room. We were on single stretches of country road and ridiculously, hit a final traffic jam within a half mile of the wedding venue. My turn. We mapped out and enacted a closely choreographed wardobe change in record speed. We pulled in, parked and were seated by 5:20 (after a lightning-fast trip to the restroom). Sydney typed out a quick text to her father letting him know we'd arrived successfully. Relieved but puzzled, he texted back, "But what are you and your mother wearing?"

There's no "we" in home improvement

American Rotteweiler with paint-tipped ears

When we ("we" meaning Brad) decided to forego our annual fun-filled vacation to focus, instead, on home improvement projects, we ("we" meaning Brad) thought it sounded like an economically feasible and responsible thing to do. What Brad didn't factor into this plan was that we ("we" meaning Amy) don't actually get motivated to do anything other than stare at the TV and eat Toaster Studels until 11 am every day during this so-called "vacation" period.

Working together as a productive couple ("A couple of what," I would quip while Brad, not appreciating my wit, wrestled with a fist-full of live-wires) takes a lot of patience and understanding. Two characterisitics of which both Brad and I severely lack. My husband has the tendency to self-talk his way through the problem-solving process which has allowed me to ignore about 80% of what comes out of his mouth. I just have trouble discerning the 20% that suddenly shifts to me, requiring my immediate attention. This leads to approximately twenty minutes of arguing about one another's pitfalls with me thinking "We could just as well be having this debate in line at Space Mountain."

Another problem in cooperative DIY projects is when apathy (Amy) meets perfectionism (Brad). A disinterested shrug and an "uh" response drives Brad nuts while looking at 500 different types of near-identical molding makes me want to scream. "What do you think of this one," Brad asked, holding up the thirty-second piece of molding that looked exactly like the first thirty. I shrugged and said "uh." It took a store-lift operator and the application of some well-placed two-by-fours to separate us.

We have another full week of "vacation" left. Help me ("Me" meaning me).

A woman's work is never done

After three days of Alaska-time home improvement, I was sick of it. I couldn't hear the TV...what, with the sounds of electric saws, air compressors, and men working until 2 am (10 pm in Virgil's world), I was finding it impossible to enjoy my time off. Don't get me wrong, I was doing my part. I would wander upstairs occasionally to "ooooo" and "ahhhh." I pretended to understand the differences in dry wall application techniques. "This one will save us hours in sanding," Brad explained. Sold. I valiently tried to resist rolling my eyes when I was asked to run errands. But this was too much.

"Amy," my husband said softly as I stared at the screen, "I hate to bother you but we have a bit of a time-crunch on our hands here." Apparently, my brother-in-law would selfishly have to return to Alaska in just a few short hours, flying to the North Slope (which, by the way, I believe is a fabricated destination located just to the right of the North Pole) to work for three weeks before he could go home to Kenai and they weren't done with their project yet. I blinked. How was this possible? They'd worked non-stop for 72 hours while I had worked hard to stay out of their way.

It always comes down to this, doesn't it? A woman's work is never done. Without complaint, I went upstairs and began taping off designated areas, getting a well-established lead on Brad and Virgil so that they could follow, uninterrupted. Several hours later, I smiled, looking at the finished project, feeling the pride of a well-completed job. They couldn't have done it without me.

Cait Dobbin...read this one. Your mom is in it.

My friend Geri's pool is an oasis on a hot summer day in Wyoming County and this year, surprisingly, we actually experienced more than one hot summer day. So a troupe of teachers, snacks and sunglasses in hand, headed for Geri's.

Once refreshed, we busied ourselves with the business of boardgames. The consummate hostess, Geri cleared the picnic tables. Our friend, Kathy, watching with wry amusement as Geri made repeated round trips from house to pool to picnic tables, suggested we harass our hostess some more.  Whispered plans were made and immediately put into operation. Kathy, "cold," was brought a blanket. I waved away imaginary mosquitoes and requested a match for the repellent candle. Teen conspirator, Taylor was plagued by a fit of coughing and required water. Soft-hearted Virginia intervened, though, before our grand finale where Judy would feign heart pains, collapsing to the ground as we screamed at Geri to locate her household defibrillator.

The addition of young people to our game play was a welcome curtailment of the inevitable debauchery that accompanies such events. But even so, we somehow managed to careen out-of-control. Taylor's sister, Sarah read her card and was then utterly confused by the wide-range of screwed-up responses.

Response #1: "Of course someone loves you" (Written in response to "Things a psychologist might say")

Response #2:  "Tonto...get my horse" (Written in response to "Things one might say to a sidekick")

Sarah (re-reading the card aloud for clarification): "Things a psychic might say."

Was it a problem of enunciation or a hearing problem? We may never know (nor do we want to know). But I do know that, whether we heard the cards correctly or not, we had a lovely time beneath the towering pines of Geri's backyard.

Armidillos getting it on...and on...and on...

My husband insists that I'm immature but I challenge any of you (living outside the Continental SouthWest) to walk from your front door and poll the first twenty people you encounter to determine if any of them had ever witnessed an armorous encounter between two enthusiastic armidillos. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine, upon waking yesterday morning, that I would witness something like that as I joined Brad for his workday, culminating in a trip to the Syracuse Zoo.

After poking at an octopus ("Did you read the sign," Brad sighed, pointing to the Please Do Not Tap On The Glass notice. I nodded, attempting to prod a tentacle off the window), unsuccessfully trying to convice an adament six-year-old that the Madagascan Fossa was not, in fact, a rat, and marveling at the curiously large herd of white-lipped deer, we'd worked up a ravenous appetite, ending up at an "eating" establishment that Brad later dubbed "The Brown Barn."

We joined the horde of hungry humans in line with our little lunch trays before being herded over to the bountiful buffets. Overwhelmed with the abundance of mediocre meals awaiting my inspection, I wove my way around my fellow feasters. Balancing a plate of mashed potatoes topped with gravy and leseur baby peas, macaroni and cheese, a slice of bacon, a rice krispie treat and some sesame chicken, I arrived at my booth to re-join my husband. "How is it," he asked, enjoying his uninterrupted view of the serengeti of side dishes. "This bacon is a wonder," I remarked, brandishing it like a wand, "Its outside is coated with a thick layer of grease while inside it is cooked to the point of immediate disintegration." I began to construct a laundry list of complaints. "But aren't leseur baby peas suppose to be mealy," Brad interrupted before I found out that the chocolate fountain had been dismantled. Fortunately, my attention was distracted by a rat-tailed eight-year-old who had forgone anything that even remotely resembled a vegetable and was busy eating his way through the dessert buffet station. This chocolate-covered child was almost as traumatized as me when he learned that "The Brown Barn" was out of pink cotton candy but he maturely settled for blue. Apparently, it also makes a great facial mask. If the food wasn't enough to make me lose my appetite, my fuzzy-faced friend made certain to seal the deal.

It's just funny that, when you wake up in the morning, you have no idea how your day is going to play out.  Can it be considered a good day when the highpoint was a pair of armorous armidillos? Or should you just call it a wrap when you decline to eat your twelve dollars worth of food and instead decide to revel in the realization that pre-packaged snacks await you at home? Either way, though, I look forward to what tomorrow brings.