Memorial Day at the Museum

"Yeah...I love art," I responded enthusiastically to Savannah's suggestion that we hit a museum before she heads back to Connecticut. I ignored the way she and her father rolled their eyes. Because I do. Love art.                                                                                                                                                     For some reason, we usually partner off in places like this. Brad and Savannah sidle off, like they're some big connoisseurs of fine art or something while Syd and I are only fit to enjoy the front of cereal boxes."Mom..." Sydney whisper-shouted, "check out this Warhol on General Custard." Okay. Maybe they have a point. "I think it's Custer, honey," I whisper-shout back, "General Custard is featured on the dessert-version of Clue." We paused by some Native American art depicting daily life, included dozens of horses, painted on a hide. We were silent for a moment before one of us, probably Sydney (because she's immature), said, "I guess they didn't actually own any girl horses."                                                                                                    As we initially paid for our admission tickets, we (Sydney and I) were thrilled to discover that the third story terrace was open. We also made small-talk with the cashier who responded to Sydney's interest in the counter-side chocolate by sharing that it was made locally and was "delicious." Naturally, this chocolate will make another appearance shortly.

As we toured the third floor gallery, Sydney and I quickly divided the art into two categories. Category One: The I Could Do Thats (if we applied ourselves) and Category Two: The Nice But It's Time To Move On Nows. Blinded by the artistic vision of the third floor, we stumbled out onto the terrace for a little brain-break. We made note of the security cameras that were monitoring our possible suggestion of jumping the fence to sit on the wide roof ledge overlooking scenic Corning. Moving to the opposite side of the historic building, we had a heated exchange about whether we could successfully leap from the terrace to a neighboring building's roof. "If the fence were out of the way, I could do it," I argued. The sudden appearance of a museum security guard made us question if the cameras were equipped for sound.

Although the second floor lacked a terrace, it did sport a children's gallery. I played with a puzzle and Syd constructed art out of magnetic blocks. We caught a rare glimpse of Savannah who ducked behind a large sculpture and disappeared. Syd and I were distracted by a paper mache model of a cowboy riding a blue horse with a side-kick sheep riding behind him. "Look, Mom," my daughter said, pointing at the sheep, "he's wearing little cowboy boots too." We leaned in until Mr. I'm-Way-Too-Serious-About -My-Job Security Guard, cleared his throat like we were breathing on the Hope Diamond.

Syd and I retreated to a conference room (because our favorite museum room--after the terrace--had removed its comfy couches) to review the museum rules. "No pens...be considerate of cell phone use..." I glared at Sydney who had been engaged in an hour-long texting commentary on last night's "Game of Thrones" episode..."Oh! Here we go! Stay one foot away from the art." Well...so much for that. We were going to have to find something else to do. Enter: Gift Shop Chocolate. Asking Brad or Savannah for money was out. We were suppose to be looking at the art...from one foot away. "Making chocolate locally is kind of an art," Sydney said. True. We searched every pocket and came up with five dollars, two nickels and a penny. It was go-time.

"That'll be $5.39," our cashier friend said. Oh no. I sadly but politely explained that we lacked the necessary funding for this particular art project. "Let me help," a fellow patron stepped in. "Oh no, we couldn't," I said, clearly indicating that we could. I invited him up to the terrace for his portion of chocolate while Sydney reminded me how Daddy prefers I not date while married. As he fumbled with the unfamiliar coins, we learned that he was from Iceland...Sydney's dream destination so I pulled her away, reminding her that Daddy prefers she not date men over forty. 

On our return to the terrace, we overheard one security guard warn our security guard to be on the look-out for (mumble mumble mumble). Sydney and I glanced at each other, horror-struck. Us? Were they on the look-out for us? We'd reviewed the museum code of conduct. Yes...you aren't suppose to eat in the museum but technically, the terrace doesn't count...does it? We gobbled down our expensive, locally-made raspberry dark chocolate with furtive glances over our shoulders. "Hey look," I whisper-shouted, reading the label. "It says the First Lady, Will Ferrell and Ellen have also eaten this chocolate!" Confident that we'd made a good decision regarding our museum acquisition, we began a thorough search for Brad and Savannah for our end-of-visit picture. "What could they possibly be doing," we wondered as we looked through endless galleries of art. 

After forcing Savannah into a reluctant pose, we were ready. "Uh, Amy...you need to step forward a bit," Brad said. I glared at him. He knows nothing about setting up a creative photograph. Ignoring my glare, my husband pointed at the floor where a black rectangle corralled the sculpture that was the center of our frame. "What is that," I asked, frowning. "It keeps visitors a foot away from the art," he answered. Of course it does. 

We finally exited the museum, culturally enriched. The security guards finally relaxed, emotionally exhausted. 

Hating...I mean "Hiking" the park

 I am not a nature girl. The closest I come to nature is when Brad decides to torture me with the Discovery Channel. I was particularly fond of the "Eaten Alive" series. Is it any wonder that I am reluctant to leave my house? I am, unfortunately, competitive. And when friends mentioned hiking in Ithica recently and turning back on the trail, naturally I was curious if I could conquer the course.

I did some preliminary research on Taughannock Falls and learned that the state park promises a taller waterfall than Niagara. Okay...you have my interest. The gorge trail looked like a refreshing way to view this tall cup of water. Game on.

The next day and a three hour drive later, we faced a "Gorge Trail Closed" sign with the enthusiasm of Chevy Chase's disappointing encounter with an audio message from Walley World. "What else did your research reveal," Brad asked. "Well...there is a rim trail," I said with a marked lack of enthusiasm. But by golly, I came to see this waterfall and see it I WILL.

"Don't make this your Everest," Brad cautioned as we hit the fourth stages of stairs. By this time, he was managing both dogs and I was trying to manage an erratic heartbeat while hyperventilating. As I had planned a leisurely stroll along the gorge trail, I had not packed to meet the needs of a high-endurance hike. I eyed an orange Skittle nestled lightly in the dirt as I stood to the side to let an elderly couple pass me. "I like your walking stick," I gasped at the woman as she looked at me with kind concern.

"Shouldn't I hear the falls by now," I grumbled. "We can still see our van in the parking lot," Brad answered, glancing back. "I think we've still got a ways to go." There's a reason Letchworth State Park is the best state park in America. You can actually SEE stuff. "Haven't these people ever heard of a chain saw," Brad wondered as we peeked, peered, squinted and stared through the foliage for a glimpse of the gorge. I've seen bumper-stickers that read "Ithica is gorge-ous." I said to my husband, "but how do they know?"

"Is that a road," I screeched at one point, leaning forward against the gravitational pull of my sixty-five degree incline, "are you flipping kidding me?" We passed a convenient parking spot to access the trail. "Guess your research didn't mention this," Brad said as we continued our search for this so-called waterfall. Did I mention that Letchworth has THREE...two of which I can view from the comfort of my car? We passed a 2/3 long Cheetos puff. As a courtesy, we offered first dibs to the dogs but they declined.

The South Rim Trail morphed into the North Rim Trail and I morphed into a rage. "Why the hell is there EVEN a South Rim Trail," I yelled, my voice echoing from the gorge that has been hidden from my view for the past hour. A pair of perky joggers breezed by. "B@$tards," Brad muttered on my behalf. A pompous professor sporting a blazer with elbow patches passed us and nodded approvingly as we read the informational facts about Taughannock that decorated the North Rim Trail. "Yet another reason to hate the South Rim," I said, "lack of literature." Brad looked lovingly into my face. I smiled. Maybe this walk was worth it after all. "You know how they have different color codes to alert people about fire danger levels," he asked. I nodded. This wasn't as romantic as I anticipated. "I wonder if they have a similar system for over-heating because your face is ripe tomato red."

We found the falls. Uh-huh. Sigh. "Do you really think that's taller than Niagara," I asked. Brad patted his empty pockets for a tape measure. Now I was really excited about getting re-acquainted with my van. We turned a corner and I let out a screech. "Are you flipping kidding me?" I screamed again. Those may not have been my exact words at this point. There, ahead of us, was a newly-constructed overlook parking lot with an incredible view of the so-called tall falls. The Mosimans were more excited by the two...count 'em two...drinking fountains. Uninhibited, we dove in without reservation.

Refreshed and revived, we continued down the North Rim Trail. "Take it easy," Brad cautioned, "more hikers are actually lost during their ascent of Everest."  In spite of those words of comfort, we made it... finally...finished! "We did it," I gasped, victorious. Unlike our friends, we had completed the ENTIRE trail! "I've been meaning to mention something," Brad said as we headed toward the van and I began plans for our reward visit to a Dunkin Donuts. "What," I asked, already beginning the difficult decision between a powdered vanilla cream and a Boston Cream. Oh what the hiddey-hey...I'd get both! "You are aware that there are TWO parks in Ithica? Taughannock and Buttermilk? Are you sure we had the right park" I stopped and stared at my husband before screeching, "Are you flipping kidding me?"

Black Lake 2016

"Mom," Sydney said with a strange sense of urgency as she handed me a small baggie, "remember that we put these pike hooks in Savannah's tackle box for next year." WHAT?!? I shook my head. "Syd," I said gently, "I forgot to pack a toothbrush for this year's trip. Do you really think I'm going to have a handle on fish hooks a year from now?" "Wait...you forgot your toothbrush," my husband asked, momentarily taking his eyes off of the bobber in the water. "What exactly were your plans regarding dental hygiene?" This, coming from a man currently coated in fish slime. "Well...Ashton Kutcher and Mila Kunis share a toothbrush," I reported, smiling at my life partner. "Ashton who," he asked, "Never mind. I packed an extra toothbrush." Of course he did. Kill joy.

Brad almost ruined this year's trip to Black Lake when he forgot to buy me worms. Bait is very important to me. "C'mon,,,just try a minnow," he coaxed. I felt like a barbarian as I lowered little Nemo into the depths of the Pike-filled waters, the Jaws theme echoing in my brain. After I caught my fiftieth crappie though, I was hooked. "And on the plus side, we don't have to cut up the worms," I said, shivering at the thought. "Did she just say 'we'," Sydney whispered at her sister. "Mom hasn't touched bait in my lifetime."

 Brad's never satisfied with the little guys so, before too long, he had his eyes on the bigger prize:  Pike. There is a certain finesse that I lack when fishing for Pike. Like truly caring if I actually catch one or not. But even I can't ignore the rush of adrenaline when one hits. I am TERRIBLE when it comes to setting the hook. But this year, I may have come up with a sure-fire strategy based on "Legally Blonde's" Bend-and-Snap maneuver called the Set-and-Hold. I was in the groove, half-listening as Brad yelled out warnings about anchor ropes, pointing the tip of the fishing pole at the Pike (which I could never actually see, by the way) and then screaming, "Bring it towards me...down...down...DOWN!" And then, ZING! Up snaps an empty line and Brad, with an empty net and befuddled expression, saying, "What part about 'down' did you not understand? It is not a Jesus fish. It does NOT walk on water." Okay...time to revise my strategy. Crappie, sunnies and blue gill can be ejected from the water. Pike must be extracted. As you can see from the picture, I did manage to snag one and then completely humiliated myself by screaming hysterically, dancing around and then did an awful Yeah...This Girl Just Caught a Pike pose. Even worse, my shenanigans drew every fisherman in a five mile radius to our "quiet" little cove so that by the time I (Brad) had wrestled my prize onto the boat, I had an impressive audience.
All that I had left to accomplish was the Dogfish. Sydney had caught a state record-sized Dogfish several years ago and now the Mosimans proudly sport a Dogfish picture gallery in our home. Yeah...I know. Some people showcase Thomas Kinkaide, Precious Memories or Willow Tree collectibles. No...not the Mosimans. Dogfish pictures. I was content with Brad, Savannah and Sydney being featured on the wall but when cousin Jeff from Iowa appeared holding what could be better described, not as a Dogfish but as a Puppyfish, it was time to get serious.

"I think it's a Dogsfish," Brad said softly, as my line rapidly disappeared beneath the water. "How do you know," I asked between gritted teeth. "Where a Pike will rise to the water, a Dogfish will disappear," Brad told me. "Oh, like a Great White," I said. Of course, I'd lost my fish by now but was interested in the theory behind how a hooked fish reacts. Brad, for some reason, thought I was making fun of him and refused to expound on his fishing knowledge until I explained how Jaws defied logic when he (she) submerged even when harpooned. Taking not one...not two...but three barrels down beneath the surface. Like a Dogfish! He rolled his eyes but I think my husband was able to grasp the connection. It's tough because he isn't as well-versed with the movie Jaws as I am.

Farewell and adieu to you, fair Mosiman ladies. Farewell and adieu to you, daughters of mine. For our week's reservations are done and we're leaving...and so until next year, will we fish here again.

"Wait...you call THAT an ending," Savannah said in disgust. "Yeah," I replied defensively, "It's classic. I'm going out with a parodied version of Quint's song from Jaws." "No, I get that," Savannah answered dismissively, "but as conclusions go, this isn't your greatest work." Wow! "It's true, Mom," Sydney added gently, "You didn't even mention how you made Daddy buy you fat shorts from Stuff-Mart because your capris were too tight after you stopped at Charcoal Corral for a hot dog and fries." "Yeah...that was funny," Savannah agreed. "And then you got back out to the van and realized that you had a whole suitcase of clothes to change into. Now that's classic." "How is that classic," I argued, "It has nothing to do with fishing." "Our fishing trips have NEVER been about you actually fishing," she concluded triumphantly. Wow.

A Universal Experience: Part Four-Amy (Appendix C) The Last One (I swear)

I am not particularly fond of costumed characters. I am thrilled to spot them from afar but get rather flushed and fearful when approached. Which may make a visit to Universal Studios in Orlando seem like a bad choice for me. But for the most part...I was fine. I happily waved to Lucy Ricardo as she pedaled her way down Rodeo Drive. I exchanged pleasantries with Betty Boop when she ducked into Schwab's Pharmacy to enjoy the air conditioning with us for a moment. I performed an action pose with my favorite Transformer, Bumblebee. "Do you know any other Transformers," Savannah asked. "That's not the point," I snapped. The point was that Bumblebee gallantly resisted the urge to talk or touch me...unlike a certain little monkey who was all hands (or should I say...paws).

"Mom," Savannah said, poking me, "I think Curious George is trying to get your attention." "I know, Savannah," I muttered out of the corner of my mouth, looking everywhere EXCEPT at the me-sized monkey who was urgently waving me over. I sighed. I was being rude. Taking a deep breath, I cautiously approached Curious George who latched onto me like a spider monkey. "I'm a big fan of your books," I told him as he motioned a delighted Savannah to take pictures. Several times I tried to unsuccessfully remove my arm from his prehensile grip but apparently he was confusing my limbs for leaves. I was starting to get nervous. Would I be the first human in history to rip the face from a chimpanzee? "Uh...it's time for me to go now," I said awkwardly. George responded by graciously lifting my hand to his monkey lips for a primate pucker. Suddenly, his fingers began to massage my hand. Ew. Definitely time to go. I tried to pull my hand away but George held on like he was holding on to the string of his runaway bouquet of zoo balloons. Suddenly, I realized what was happening. This was more than monkey shenanigans. Curious George was a primate pick-pocket! "Curious George is trying to steal my wedding ring," I hollered as Savannah happily took more pictures (which would later become known as Exhibit A). I looked around for help but, for some reason, no one was taking me seriously. Though emotionally battered, I managed to escape with my ring intact. I know what you're thinking. You were raised, like me, brain-washed by the books. But I can tell you, with all certainty, that George is NOT a good little monkey!

A Universal Experience: Part 4- Amy (Appendix B)

For my entire married life, my husband has been keen on offering me advice that I staunchly REFUSE to take initially but later on learn, upon reflection, that he was, in fact, a genius. Obviously, I will be taking great pains to ensure that he never reads this particular post.

For years, I chaperoned what I lovingly refer to as a nightmare on the high seas during the annual Whale Watch. When someone yelled, "Thar she blows," though, they weren't referring to a whale. Year after year, I would get knee-shakingly sick and become the unwillingly star of some 6th grader's home video. I methodically tried every remedy known to humankind. Eyes on the horizon, variations of ginger products, magnets, bracelets, patches, medicine that could drop an elephant but not prevent an esophageal eruption. Naturally, this was an event I eagerly looked forward to, year after year.

To my dismay, I found that I also began to show similar symptoms on amusement park rides. There would be no keeping me off the Harry Potter Castle Ride during my first visit to Universal but the consequential nausea made riding a sidewalk bench the only attraction that I could stomach for the rest of the day. "I can help you," my husband said as I expressed worry about my up-coming trip to Universal with friends. "Antiemetics don't work for me," I snapped, "I just end up slightly sleepy while I throw up."

A day or so before departure, I was swinging during recess (Don't judge me) when my very being quaked with queasiness.  "What am I going to do," I wailed, "I'll probably get sick on the shuttle taking me to Universal!" "Now will you let me help you," sighed Brad. According to him (and yes, I rolled my eyes and thought. What does he know?), a person should start the antiemetic regiment the night before and take it consistently throughout the day. Of course I doubted him. But I was desperate.

Obstacle number one was actually being able to successfully swallow the practically microscopic pill. Mind you...I have a life history of successful pill-swallowing under my belt. I even swallowed those horse pills prescribed to pregnant women to just make their lives THAT much more miserable. Why you would offer a pregnant woman an anti-pooping pill is beyond me. Sorry fellas:  TMI. Anyhoo, I valiantly tried getting that chalky little sucker down but it jammed mid-throat and yes...DISSOLVED. I hacked for an hour like a windblown Persian pussycat. "You are such a child," complained Savannah, beating against my back.

The next day, I stood nervously in line for The Castle Ride. I was either going to get my life back or ruin the lives of my friends for the next three days. "Oh, you wouldn't have ruined my life," Katie said consolingly, "I'd have ridden without you without a second thought." Did I mention that Katie requires empathy training? Moments later I was racing with Ron and Harry on my broomstick, dodging the Whomping Willow, almost getting fried to a crisp by a dragon before performing a Woolongong Shimmy maneuver and punting a Quaffle through a scoring hoop. I stumbled off the ride to face my daughter, whose face was etched with concern. Breathless but grinning, I yelled, "Let's do it again!" We high-fived and I proceeded to shut down the park with my riding prowess. The only time during the trip that I even came close to throwing up was when it was time to swallow that darn pill accompanied by the obligatory hour of hacking. But I blame Brad for that.

A Universal Experience: Part 4- Amy (Appendix A)

It was my intention, during our vacation at Universal Studios in Orlando, to REALLY live in the moment. Turns out...REALLY living in the moment is kind of expensive. I couldn't afford to wear the wizard's cloak while waving a forty dollar wand and still eat so I had to dial my REALLY back a bit. Walking around Hogsmeade and drinking a butterbeer was pretty close to living in the moment. Until I tried balancing my beverage with some other tasty snacks and ended up spilling it. Naturally...I was devastated. "You didn't even like it," Katie consoled me in disgust as I loudly lamented my loss for the next several hours. Katie obviously needs empathy training. "That's not the point, Katie," I snapped, reminiscing about the good times I'd had while sipping my butterbeer. Plus, Savannah, who normally I have to BEG to take a picture, snapped a shot of me desperately and sadly cleaning up my mess. Except it looks like I was discreetly vomiting behind a garbage can. Nice.

I had conducted hours of research prior to the trip to be able to REALLY live in the moment. Armed with the "secrets" of Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley, my little group caught a rare glimpse of Kreacher, made a call to the Ministry of Magic, was surprised by what happened when we turned a doorknob in Knockturn Alley and heard Moaning Myrtle in the restroom. At least, I hope that was Moaning Myrtle. I moonwalked backwards through the magic wall of Platform 9 3/4 and timed my arrival in the castle so that Hermione made it snow on me (twice!). As my own group completely took my efforts for granted, I decided to hold a dissertation on the shuttle for a more appreciative audience who, in fact, TOOK NOTES!

My research also revealed that those who purchase theme park tickets through the resort are also privy to a coupon booklet! Of course, I demanded mine and then spent the rest of the trip determined to save twenty cents at Cinnabon if I made a purchase after 2 pm. I'm embarrassed to say that I failed in this mission. We did score a free appetizer at the Hardrock Hotel's restaurant though!

We discovered, upon checking into our resort, that they had mistakenly booked our poolside view room (that overlooked the desolate desert of a construction site) to a view-of-the-parking-lot room. To appease us ("I didn't know we'd booked a poolside room," Geri muttered as we stood there confused as the concierge apologized to us), the resort promised to personally move our belongings the following day while we were out enjoying the park AND gave us four meal tickets to be used at the hotel. Fantastic!

What they didn't tell us is that some insane cleaning person would walk off with Katie's air mattress and that our 7th story room would have the water pressure of a broken grocery store squirt gun. Katie gave a whole new meaning to the word, "bubble head" when she was unable to rinse the soap suds out of her hair. Jim, the maintenance guy showed up, adjusted the shower head and then shrugged, saying, "Best you're gonna get on the 7th floor." With our vast knowledge of the plumbing world, we all nodded with keen understanding. "I wonder what people do who live in high-rise buildings,"  we wondered later. Subsequent research revealed that there exists a no-rinse body wash. And there's always hygienic wipes. Between the missing air mattress and the missing water pressure, we scored four more meal tickets and felt like we'd won the lottery.

One meal ticket was used on a snack run. "Going down," stated the robotic elevator voice. "I'm yelling timber," I sang (without fail. I am an utter DELIGHT to vacation with). We hit the commissary and stocked up on chocolate and chips and ice cream. Arms full, we re-entered the elevator and shared the ride up with a man and his son. Let me amend that. A physical trainer and his son. One more time. A well-conditioned, muscular physical trainer and his son. AWKWARD. To break the uncomfortable silence, Geri joked to the little boy, "We're on vacation...don't eat like us." The man and his son stepped off the elevator and as the doors closed, the man said, "Don't worry. He knows better." We drowned our shame in snack food. Living in the moment really takes some hard-core discipline.

A Universal Experience: Part 3-Savannah

"Why do I have to be a part of this Universal Experience," complained Savannah. "I'm the only normal one in this group. Nothing interesting happened to me. I just rode rides," she claimed. Oh Sa-vann-ah (drawled in Stacy Flint's characteristically sarcastic and supercilious manner).

"Where is your layover flight," Savannah asked a week before our planned trip to Universal in Orlando. I hemmed and hawed because I had been trying to hide that my Buffalo flight and her Connecticut flight meet up in Charlotte. She finally weaseled it out of me by threatening to check my email confirmation from the airline. "Why couldn't you just tell me," she asked in exasperation. "Geri and I were going to hide and jump out at you," I explained, "We were discussing wearing scary masks." There was a long pause on the phone as my daughter considered this scheme before slowly saying, "I'm not sure that would have been a great idea to do at an airport, Mom."

"That's not a story about me," Savannah said, interrupting my blog, "it's a story about you trying to get arrested and ruining our trip."

So...we're at the Charlotte airport (without masks...sad face) and check in with our gate. "Are you traveling with anyone else," the gate agent asked. We were...but Savannah had booked her ticket separately AND was coming in on a different flight so we didn't mention her. As we walked away, he called out..."What about this Savannah (mispronounce) Mosiman?" We returned to the counter, I explained she was my daughter and he HANDED OVER HER TICKET TO ME. What?!?!? What happened to the twenty forms of ID, DNA testing, character witnesses, and retina scan? Twenty minutes ago I had to take off my shoes and get my naked insides X-rayed but now the airport trusts me to take a batch of plane tickets and find suitable homes for them?

Naturally, Geri and I began hatching a diabolical plot. "Let's not tell Savannah we have her ticket and hide so the gate guy can't see us," Geri giggled. Oops...check that. Geri doesn't actually giggle. It's more of a villainous chuckle. Also, it occurs to me that most of my diabolical plots involve me hiding. Nevertheless, I completely ruined our scheme because I was so excited to see Savannah that I immediately told her what happened. She was thrilled that the airport tried to raffle her plane ticket away.

"Also, NOT a story about me," Savannah said, interrupting again, "It's a story of the break-down in security of one of our nation's chief means of mass travel."

After a full day of fun and frolic at Universal, we returned to our hotel, exhausted. "Let's play cards down at the pool," Geri said. I glanced at the clock. It was after midnight (cue Eric Clapton song). "Okay," I moaned. We made it down to a table and Geri brought out her euchre deck. Or shall we call it her anti-euchre deck. Full of fours and fives and sixes and sevens and eights. Really? Bright side...we'd have to call it a night! "If only we had another deck," someone said. If only. And then, out of the darkness, an idiot said, "I have a deck of cards in my suitcase." Yes...that idiot would be me. 

Okay...back in business. Katie, of course, couldn't care less about my feelings and refused to be my partner so I was stuck with Geri. And, despite Geri and the fact that it was 1:30 in the flipping morning, I was kicking twenty-year-old euchre a$$. Excuse the language but as you can see...it's late.
I made some sort of move and, despite Geri, earned a trick when Savannah and Katie decided to dissect my move and explain, in excruciating detail, how I could have earned two tricks had I been a better euchre player. WHAT!?!?!? I nodded patiently, waiting for the lecture to be over so I could soundly whoop their a$$es and go to bed...but no-oo-oo-oo...they sensed I was placating them and were insistent that I fully understand the error of my ways. A Sunday School feltboard was dragged out and they re-diagrammed our last hand until I exploded...poolside.

"Kind of about me," Savannah admitted, "but could have easily fit into Part 2: Katie. And also, we were just trying to help you be a better card player."

AAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The next night we were at the Hardrock Hotel's restaurant as recommended to us by our Lyft driver, James. Geri, developing a case of alligator arms, excused herself as the bill was delivered. Delivered to me with an accompanying souvenir pen as I had blatantly told the waitress about my diabolical plan to steal one of the restaurant's pens as I kind of have a penchant for stealing pens. I am currently in a support group. Again...long day. Hot sun. Exhausted. Now midnight. Math...not my favorite subject. Dividing up a bill by flickering lantern light. Two young woman with me who EXCEL at math (little math humor there), refusing to help and enjoying my struggle. Add to that (second mathematical joke...BAM!), varying forms of payment being used. "Put my portion on my room card," Geri had instructed before breezing away. Savannah and I had cash. I added...I subtracted...I multiplied...divided...threw in a fraction or two...cross-multiplied because that's what I always do when I encounter a fraction and then gave my very understanding waitress and pen-stealing accomplice a pile of cash and a card. She walked away while Savannah and Katie berated me for undercutting our server's tipping method. I forget if I was suppose to tell her to use the card first and then add in the cash or the cash first and then use the card but whatever I did...DESTROYED the life of my waitress. I still don't understand it...even when they pulled out the feltboard.

"Another story about how you don't listen and can't take constructive criticism," Savannah remarked. "Not about me."

Wait! I've got one! Hundred percent Savannah!

Searching for a souvenir t-shirt to appease Sydney who could not get the time off between school and work to go to one of her FAVORITE places on earth, I stumbled onto a fantastic idea suitable for this year's Christmas card. I would get every member of our family their own Hogwart House t-shirts. We'd taken the quiz. And re-taken the quiz because 3/4 members of the family were furious with the results. We had all been sorted. So I selected two adorable yellow Hufflepuff shirts for Sydney and myself before reaching for a Slytherin. And Savannah threw a complete temper tantrum. "I will NOT wear a Slytherin shirt," she glared, in a very Voldemort-y fashion. "But the whole family will be wearing their House shirts," I wheedled. In typical Slytherin fashion, Savannah selfishly refused to let me buy her a shirt. Christmas was, obviously, ruined.

"Temper tantrum is a bit of an exaggeration as applied to me," Savannah pointed out, "I simply said no and you threw a fit."

"But it's still a story about YOU," I declared, again...victorious.

"Kind of," Savannah shrugged.

"No...not kind of," I insisted, dragging out a feltboard. "Here...let me prove it to you."

A Universal Experience- Part 2: Katie

One of my greatest regrets from our recent trip to Universal in Orlando (Other than not buying a $7 clapperboard for classroom Reader's Theater productions or tackling the guy sporting an "I think we're gonna need a bigger boat" quote from Jaws which sent me on a relentless but unsuccessful three-day search through the parks to buy one for Brad...oh! And NOT buying fudge. Wow...I have a LOT of regrets!) was that I didn't capture a photographic image of Katie's toes.

One math learning objective of elementary students includes the ability to measure according to non-standard units. Like, how many bananas tall is Mrs. Mosiman? Similar to George Costanza being "discovered" as a hand model on an episode of Seinfeld, Katie could one day be swept up by a State Educational System as the ideal example of unconventional measurement because of her perfectly-proportioned toes. "You could draw a line with them," she said proudly when I admired the gentle 25 degree slope of her foot fingers. She admitted to being somewhat self-conscious about her big toe (The "captain" if you're interested in relevant and timely Seinfeld references) but the suggestion that we could put a paper bag over that appendage appeased her fears of impending footdom fame.

Vacationing with Katie is always a treat. We were once driving to Ocean City with a car-load of young people when Eminem's duet with Rihanna came on the radio. I was assigned the complicated six-lined chorus of "Love the Way You Lie" while Katie tackled the easier-to-handle rap section. She did okay.

Katie arrived dressed as though she were escaping Nazi Germany. "What's in her bag then," I asked as. like an onion, she peeled layer upon layer of her travel clothes from her body at the hotel. "Her air mattress," Geri replied. Ah yes...the air mattress. This item will be making another appearance in this series but for now...we'll focus on Katie's unique set of priorities. "What are you doing," I asked as she began the complication steps of deflating Geri's float tube that she'd purchased for fifteen dollars at the hotel for the privilege of floating down the hotel's Lazy River. "I'm taking this home," she answered. "How will that fit in your bag with your air mattress," I wondered. Kate then explained that she would be ditching the air mattress in lieu of the float tube to accommodate her plans of drifting down the Genesee River. There was then a brief conversation about whether the hotel would let her lay on the air mattress in the Lazy River. "They did let some kid with an inflatable alligator in there," I conceded. I admit, these are NOT conversations that I have at home.

Miss Kate moves at her own speed and isn't as susceptible to feeling guilty if she misses her mother's 6:30 am wake-up calls so we would often meet her at the park. Occasionally, when we'd arrived at a destination by shuttle, then escalator, then people-mover, and finally boat, our group could be difficult to locate as evidenced by Kate's haunting haiku that she texted to me en-route:

At Universal
Getting on this big a$$ bus
Might be getting lost

 I enjoy re-capping the events of the day as evening closes and had shared that Katie's lunch duck was one of my favorite moments. Confused, as she is vigilant about her strict diet, Katie said, "Wait! I didn't eat duck for lunch!" No...Katie had eaten lunch WITH a duck! One of her go-to snacks on the trip was "Moon Cheese." I LOVE cheese! LOVE it! Warning to the human population:  THIS IS NOT CHEESE! (sirens....flashing lights...blaring horns)...repeat...THIS IS NOT CHEESE! Okay...technically it is cheese but the manufacturers sucked every ounce of cheese-like goodness out of it. And, technically, the advertising is basically honest:  Made into "the tastiest snack possible." Possible. Uh huh...did you catch that?

It was hot in Florida (go figure) and Katie's favorite rides were, not surprisingly, water-related. "How wet could we possibly get," as we studied Popeye and Bluto's Bilge-Rat Barge. All through the line, Katie kept reassuring us that this would just be a refreshing ride. I got soaked just sitting down on the seat. I've come out of showers (Universal Resort, 7th floor, Continental, Room #7534) drier than I was getting off that ride. We waddled our way through the park to return to our room to change. The only thing that made me feel better was watching Katie clutch the waistband of her water-logged shorts or she'd have lost them for sure. The remainder of our park visit was spent ignoring Katie when she suggested a water ride.

Turns out, Katie and I communicate on a multitude of levels. With the television's volume having been turned down to an almost-indistinguishable level, I fell into an exhaustive slumber at the end of the day. The flashing of the screen, however, interrupted any hope of a deep sleep cycle and I would wake, again and again...hour after hour, burying my face under piles of pillows and blankets until I feared I would self-smother, emerging out of that claustrophobic cocoon, gasping for air. Finally, by 4 am, I couldn't take it anymore. Felt up the TV like a physician of a sport's team but couldn't locate the power button. Irrationally hysterical, I began pulling plugs from the wall with Superhuman force. Coffee maker. Lamps. Cell phone chargers. Geri's iron. Arrrggggg!!! Where was the plug for the TV? Katie suddenly bolted straight up from her air mattress and a projectile came hurtling at me across the room. The remote! I pushed the power button and collapsed back onto my bed, hearing Katie hit at the same time. This, folks, is what good communication can accomplish!

A Universal Experience: Part One-Geri

Vacationing with others is always interesting. Vacationing with my friend Geri tips toward the freak show-side of interesting. And not just because she irons the shirt she plans to wear the next day to a theme park at 2 o'clock in the morning while we watch with equal parts horror, disbelief, mockery, and fascination. "Call Virginia! Call Bev," she growled defensively, forearm muscles bulging as she determinedly pressed wrinkles out of her blue blouse, "They'll tell you that normal people iron." We nodded dutifully and then rolled our eyes at her as she aimed the hot appliance toward her short-sleeves.

FLASHBACK SEQUENCE:  The airport shuttle arrived as we found a place in Economy Parking. "Do we need ALL the doors open," I asked Geri as she scurried around her sedan, gathering her tote, her carry-on and her tiny red purse with a million pockets. I slammed half of them shut and began to walk to the waiting shuttle, pausing as I heard her say, "What are my car keys doing in the back seat?" I hurried back to verify their secure placement in a zippered compartment of her luggage. Confident that we would eventually be able to drive home when we returned from Florida, I boarded the bus. Geri was still shutting doors. "I'll pay you ten bucks to leave her," I whispered to the driver. She headed toward us, glanced back to realize that she'd left the trunk open, and reversed direction. "Twenty," I hissed.

"What time should we get up tomorrow," Geri asked for the millionth time that first night at our resort. We had successfully evaded establishment of a determined time but Geri was determined to establish it. So it was that Savannah and I, because we were not related to Geri and therefore could not ignore her tortuous demands, were up at 6:30 am ON OUR VACATION. "The commercials do say Vacation like you mean it," Savannah said comfortingly to me as I stood blearily in line for another shuttle. Early hours began at 8 and I was ensconced in a castle, throwing out my arms in delight and shouting, "It's snowing!" by 8:45. I would call that a magical success. Geri called it an outright failure and pushed for an earlier departure time the next day.

Geri also has her own interpretation of "Please secure all loose articles" during a ride as she shakily disembarked from The Amazing Adventures of Spider-Man Ride. "Drat it," she said, giving her pockets a perfunctory pat-down, "I lost my cell-phone." She immediately reversed direction and salmon-streamed her way through the rapid river of riders to talk to the operators. Savannah and I empathetically shook our heads, grieving the technological loss of one of our own. But no...Geri was back. "They'll find it on the tracks tonight after they shut down and then take it to lost and found," she told us before shepherding our group to the next attraction. Poor thing. Didn't she know that the Spiderman Ride takes up 1 1/2 acres of mayhem which includes destructive environmental elements such as wind, water, heat and fog? We experienced a 400-foot sensory drop, for pete's sake! Touringplan.com called the ride "frenetic." IF she got her phone back...IF...NO WAY would it work! Well...she did and it did. And then proceeded to lecture me about my definition of "luck." AND was upset that she'd also lost her pocket comb. Thank goodness she had a spare.

Occasionally, Geri and I find that we need an interpreter when Western-New-York-Born meets Raised-On-Long-Island. "Here Savannah, I'll hold your bag," Geri said graciously, to allow the rest of our group to jump in the ever-growing line at Transformers. That was so sweet, I thought, I'll stay back and keep her company. Startled when I caught up to her, Geri said, "Oh, are you not going to ride? Here take Savannah's bag," before rushing off. Leaving me...holding...the...bag. I was reminded of this clash of cultures: The "subtly polite" versus the "Just say it already" mentality at the end of our trip after we'd successfully gathered up our luggage. "Do you need to use the restroom before we go," I asked, dancing around a bit. "Yes," she replied, again...leaving me...holding....the ...bags (and my almost bursting bladder) as she rushed off. "Why didn't you just say so," she said impatiently when I told her what had happened. I sighed. I don't know.

And, to top it all off, there's Geri's "I love to relax" speech. We get to hear it EVERY time we go on vacation with her. All Geri wants, she claims, is a chance to lay by the pool/ocean/puddle of water and read. We've been through this little experience a million times. She settles in for five minutes and then leaps up and sets out for a six-mile hike. This is a woman who got me kicked off a private beach. We famously had a knock-down, drag-out fight that even incorporated the (really) bad word because she once accused me of not using a rental bicycle enough. Relax, shma-lax.

So we're headed home and the Orlando to Philly flight is REALLY booked (as opposed to just booked) and they're requesting volunteers to check their carry-ons, free-of-charge. "We should do it," Geri said, sort of suggestive-but-more-demanding like. "Well...okay," I answered, doing a mental inventory of what I should grab out of my bag, just in case. Just in case there's mechanical problems when we switched flights in Philadelphia and we get onto a third plane meaning my bag had to follow us successfully from Plane 1 to planned Plane 2 to surprise Plane 3. ID...check. Journal that could get me sued for libel...check. Secret stash of money...check. Good to go! I watched as the man attached the helpful identification tag to Geri's luggage. "Ger..." I timidly suggested, "Do you think that maybe we should get your car keys out of there?" Check!

You know it and I know it. If that had been MY bag with MY car keys in it...that bag would have ended up in Tupelo instead of Buffalo. But because it was Geri's, my worries appeared both ridiculous and unwarranted. Just like her cell phone, her bag showed up, riding that luggage carousel like a kid at an amusement park.