Birthdays: You just can't escape them

 What else would a group of highly educated, sophisticated, world-wise women do on a Sunday afternoon to celebrate the birth of a trio of water-bearing Aquarians? Discuss great literature? Solve complicated math proofs? Conduct innovated science experiments?

No.

To celebrate my, Geri, and Kelly's birthdays, we went to an Escape Room. Have you heard of these? There is one featured on an episode of "The Big Bang Theory" where the geniuses solve it and escape in, like, thirty seconds. That was NOT us.

We should have been cut from the herd out there in the waiting room. Kelly was discussing a 2011 movie that she's just seen called "Jane Eyre." Geri casually asked, "Who was Jane Eyre?" to which Kelly launched into a complicated character biography beginning with, "Have you heard of an author named Charlotte Bronte?" "I know who Jane Eyre is," Geri snapped while the rest of us howled in laughter, "Who was the ACTRESS who played Jane Eyre?"

And from such auspicious beginnings as this...naturally we were doomed to fail. "Wait!" interrupted my friend Katie, "I've successfully escaped from two rooms before this!" She's right. Apparently the qualifications of failure specifically target 4th grade teachers.

According to our very kind and patient room host (whose livelihood depends on repeat customers and word-of-mouth recommendations), our failure wasn't linked to intelligence rather than neatness. Neatness?!?!? We diligently searched every nook and cranny of the room but made sure that we replaced every item precisely as we found it. Every book on the bookshelf was removed, leafed through, and replaced. In fact, Geri, as an added bonus, might have even re-cataloged them according to the Dewey Decimal system.

I don't know, though. At one point, we were deliberating a clue and our stream of consciousness conversation led us from the letter "U" to the animal. We rushed across the room to a group of animal figurines. One of us, apparently drowning in the stream of consciousness, looked on, confused until suddenly shouting, "Oh! A ewe is a sheep!" Sigh.

So...long story short, we had to be rescued from our escape room. Fortunately, we had planned a trip

Photograph taken by sweet waitress of whom I later ripped off

to our favorite restaurant as a back up to either celebrate or commiserate.  Our success there was also limited. Taking a bite, Geri remarked, "This tastes fishy." Glancing at her friend, Rachel sought further clarification. "Do you mean fishy or suspicious," she asked.

I was handed the bill.

Oh my.

I'm going to blame the margarita but I didn't realize until the middle of the night that I'd shorted our very kind and patient waitress (whose livelihood depends on tips) by half. Hours later, I bolted up in bed, horror-stricken. My husband reassured me that he would drop off the remainder of the tip tomorrow but long I lay awake in bed afterward, composing a heartfelt apology.

Did you know that some people just celebrate their birthdays with a card? Never-mind...that didn't go so well either. So much for highly educated, sophisticated, and world-wise.

With math, sometimes you've got to dig a little deeper

Three men dig a ditch. Collectively, this activity takes them 18 hours. How much time would it take two men to dig the same ditch?

Room 24 solves a math word problem every day. I am proud to report that I am able to find (almost) every answer with relative ease prior to presenting my 4th graders with their daily math scenario.

Usually.

The problem above seemed pretty clear cut.

Until.

Until I TRIED to solve it. "Okay, Amy," (I'm a big self-talker), "3 men digging for 18 hours? So...divide. 3 into 18 is 6. So that means every man dug for 6 hours each. Wow! They must have been really tired." I checked the answer key.

Wrong.

What?!?!

Two frustrating hours of mulling (in between watching YouTube videos...have you seen the one where they're bottle-feeding a baby otter? So precious) and I still wasn't successful in finding another reasonable solution.

I posed the problem to my college-age daughter when I got home. "Wrong," I told her. "No...that HAS to be right," Sydney protested, quickly sketching her reasoning out on our refrigerator's dry erase board. I nodded. "That's what I got too," I admitted glumly. We were going to be forced to get out the big gun:  The Engineer. Unfortunately, the engineer lacks humility and was sure to rub our utter stupidity in our face.

"The answer is 9," Savannah announced over the phone before I'd barely finished reading her the problem. "How on earth can it possibly be nine," I growled, "That doesn't even REMOTELY make sense." "I'll call you back," Savannah sighed. Thirty seconds later, she had sent me a picture diagram. "First of all," I said to Sydney as we studied the illustration, "your's is cuter." "Thank you," Sydney murmured modestly. "What does this mean," I asked Sydney, Savannah's mathematical hieroglyphics were a jumble of meaningless figures.

The phone rang. "So...now do you understand," Savannah asked triumphantly.  "No," we shouted. "You have to SPLIT the hours of the third guy," Savannah explained slowly, as if to idiots. "We're not stupid, Savannah...your picture is," I spat. "I'll call you back," she sighed.

Thirty seconds later, we received another picture. "Your's is still cuter," I assured Sydney as we studied this up-dated version. "Ohhhh-hhhh..." we said, suddenly enlightened.

The phone rang. "Now do you get it," Savannah asked fearfully. "How did you know how to do that," I said, filled with wonderment. We could practically hear Savannah shrugging in Connecticut.

There was no WAY that my poor 4th graders were going to be able to solve this problem. I tried to skip it on my agenda board but they made me go back. A little challenge never hurt anyone, I reasoned. I watched them huddled over their little dry erase boards, shoulder hunched, markers flying. "We'll reveal on 3...2...1" I directed, facing sixteen solutions. "9," they shouted. Maybe I should dig ditches for a living.

Here's a tip for you: Actually, here's 10,000 tips for you

"I'm 96% sure we're coming," I assured my daughter on Monday, regarding our intended week-end visit. By Wednesday, my confidence level had risen to 97.5%. "When will you know for SURE," Savannah asked carefully. "If you have other plans, Savannah..." I snapped, "you only have to let us know."

"What could POSSIBLY more exciting than having her parents come to visit," I wondered to my husband. ("Oh...I don't know..." thought Savannah to herself, gritting her teeth while her mother waffled indecisively about her plans, "...hiking in New Hampshire with my friends maybe?")

By Thursday, it was a lock. "Barring a zombie apocalypse..." (and, by the way, were we to be over-run by fictional creatures, why couldn't we be over-run by something a bit more cheerful...like unicorns or jack-a-lopes?) "or planet-jarring asteroid collision, Daddy and I will be visiting this week-end. We are at a solid 99.3%,"  I cheerfully told my daughter. "Great," she sighed, texting her friends to go have fun hiking without her.

Obviously...it was a sign. "You should have known all along," I scolded Savannah as I straightened her already-straightened apartment. "Look!" I pointed to her piled up mail where a cryptic message was revealed: (See illuminating picture)

I helpfully sorted her mail..."Mom," Savannah complained, "the last time you helpfully sorted my mail, you threw away my insurance cards." I dismissed this hurtful accusation with a wave of my hand. "Savannah, you do NOT have to keep the Christmas card from your apartment complex manager..." I fished my Christmas card out from beneath another pile of...what's this?...junk mail!?! "This, on the other hand,..." I moved our card to proud prominence upon the refrigerator door. I glimpsed her empty flower pot on the counter. "Savannah," I asked, clearly devastated, "why is your kitchen utensil pot devoid of kitchen utensils?" "It's too shallow, Mom," she explained carefully, silently cursing herself for not thinking to hide the offending container, "They fall out." I sulked for over an hour until I wandered into her bathroom. "Savannah," I gasped, "why did you purchase q-tips in bulk?" "I didn't buy them, Mom," Savannah sighed, kicking herself for not thinking to hid this crime-against-humanity, "Brittany did." "Single people do not require 10,000 q-tips," I stated, "unless you have some sort of master craft planned. Do you have a master craft planned?" "No," admitted Savannah, suddenly afraid as I immediately googled: q-tip crafts.

But it would be several hours later when true inspiration struck. We were in the middle of an episode of "Lucky Dog" where we realized, ashamed, that our dachshund neither knows nor obeys the seven crucial training commands when I suddenly had my chocolate-meets-peanut-butter moment. I rushed into the kitchen and grabbed the empty flower pot, formally known as the decorative kitchen utensil holder, and spent an hour carefully stuffing 10,000 q-tips into it like a strange floral arrangement to transform the container into a decorative q-tip holder. "It was almost like a sign," I told Savannah, "it was too shallow for your kitchen utensils because it was destined for greater things." Savannah nodded, watching as the "Lucky Dog" guy installed nanny cams to test for separation anxiety in a terrier mix. "Do you love it," I asked Savannah, holding it up for her inspection. "I'm about 96% sure that I love it," she answered.

Side-tracked by Side-burns

As stated before, I have issues with my bangs. We can even expand that concept out to say that I have trouble with my hair as a whole. I bring it on myself but would PLEASE appreciate someone feeling sorry for me. I will even accept pity at this point.

Forgive me, Hair-Stylist, but it has been two years since my last hair cut.

Sydney and I were watching the Golden Globes (which you KNOW is just a euphemism...Not judging, by the way. If mine were still perpendicular to my body, I'd wear shirts with a neckline down to my naval as well.). Interview after interview, starlets and singers admitted that their "looks" took three to six hours to create. "Well, there's the first problem," I told Sydney as I shoveled potato chips into my mouth. My "look" can take anywhere from three to six minutes to create.

Enough was enough. We made a resolution to get our hair cut. I was first on the chopping block. I came clean immediately. "My bangs are pretty messed up," I admitted. "I'm sure they're not that b-..." my stylist reassured me before smothering a repressed gasp. I gripped the chair handrails in a panic. "No...no...we can fix this," she said, circling around me like I was a bad traffic accident. She wanted to look away but couldn't.

She snipped in silence before quietly asking, "Did you WANT sideburns?"  I jumped. What?!?! NO!?!? "Well, when you cut your bangs (the condemnation in her voice was barely veiled), you gave yourself sideburns." "Cut them off," I pleaded shakily, a boat with barnacles. "That's the problem...you did," she explained as tears filled my eyes. From the waiting area, my daughters were wailing in commisery.  "Women (usually) let their natural sideburns grow out to flow seamlessly with their hair." The final blow fell as she added, "You cut your own sideburns." My girls were now hysterical. How does one prepare their children for that inevitable moment when they learn their mothers have sideburns? There's no Lifetime movie...no Judy Blume book...not even an upbeat Schoolhouse Rock song. Squinting in the mirror, I asked, "How long do I have?" before learning that it'll take three to six months for my sideburns to grow out enough to distinguish me from Wolverine. Meanwhile, Savannah and Sydney were howling. I slunk from the hair stylist's chair with my tail between my legs, my sideburns sadly hugging my face...the metaphorical toilet tissue stuck to a shoe. Only the shoe was my face.

Would someone PLEASE feel sorry for me?

The Breakfast Mystery (AKA: "I'll just have 2nd breakfast now")

To say the least, I am VERY distractible. It is just one among many of my very charming characteristics. I have driven a stick shift for years as it tends to keep my attention on my driving rather than the...squirrel! Sunset! Oddly-shaped tree! Pooping dog!

Speaking of digestion...it turns out that my lack of focus can occasionally plague the enjoyment of my mealtime. "Your enjoyment?" Savannah stressed bitterly, "What about OUR enjoyment?"

I was recently partaking of a lovely breakfast with my daughters, Savannah and Sydney, as well as my niece, Brianna at a popular little hometown diner in Connecticut. The walls were strewn with nostalgic memorabilia to occupy the wait-time of the many hungry customers that filled the booths and tables of the restaurant. I took note of an old-fashioned sled, some tin canisters, and antique signs advertising still-popular products. And then my eye caught sight of a slightly-hideous hand-painted ceramic statue. When I was little, my mother would go to "Ceramics" with my Aunt Sally. No...that is NOT code for "going to the bar." With a keen eye for fine detail and a strong sense of perfectionism, my mother meticulously painted items for her family members. I still have my ceramic lamp shaped like a little girl holding a dog. I was green with envy when my mom painted my brother a glossy black and white pinto statue. These were treasures. What I was looking at in the restaurant was NOT.

"Are those cats," I asked, squinting, stirring two...nope, make that three, generous spoonfuls of sugar into my coffee while Brianna wrestled with her meal selection process. Used to this, Savannah and Sydney barely looked before emphatically answering, "Yes." "I really like sausage biscuits and gravy," Brianna said, scanning her menu for the umpteeth time, "but the French toast looks really good too." "Order what you want," I said helpfully, still staring at the art atrocity sitting on a shelf above me. "They have the colorization of papillons," I remarked. "What's a pap-OW!" Sydney asked, before her sister kicked her under the table. "Don't encourage her," Savannah hissed before telling Bree that the sausage biscuits and gravy came served as a very generous portion. "But they both look so good," Brianna agonized as I waved the waitress over for her opinion. "Order them both," I told my niece before grilling the waitress:

Me:  What is that a statue of?   

Confused waitress:  I don't know. (Squints) Cats?

Me:  Do you think that it could be a pair of papillons?

Confused waitress: What's a papillon?

Savannah: (moans) Oh no...here we go.

Bree:  I'd like to place my order now.

Sydney: (mutters to herself): Wouldn't we all.

Me:  (to Brianna) Hold on a second. (to quickly-losing-patience waitress): A papillon is a small spaniel with feathery ears that resemble the wingspan of a butterfly. It is also notable for a colored mask that settles over its eyes...very similarly to the creatures in THAT statue (I point dramatically...my girls sink lower in their seats...Bree waits impatiently to order her breakfast(s)...the waitress realizes that this conversation is definitely NOT worth the tip)!

"I'll have the sausage biscuits and gravy AND the french toast, please," my petite niece jumped in. "Two orders?" the waitress asked, surprised, glancing at me for confirmation. Still mesmerized by the unknown identity of the statue, I nodded dismissively. I was in a trance for the next ten minutes until I was pulled from my stupor by the arrival of a LOT of plates. I scooched down to the end of the table to make room for Bree's breakfast. "How did THAT happen?" I asked Savannah. Glancing back at the ceramic statue, Savannah said, "I don't know. Guess you have another mystery to solve."

Tunic Tuesday as Described in a Texting Conversation

Savannah's text message to Sarah:

Mom is currently not talking to me because I won't let her buy a "tunic" from the grocery store.


Sarah's reply:

Hold the line, Savannah! All soldiers struggle in a battle. This is an important victory to win.


Savannah: 

She said I was ruining Tunic-Tuesday. And, if you saw a picture, you would want it too.


Sarah:

Please tell her that's not a thing. Alliteration is a bad fashion guide, Amy. While she is giving you the silent treatment, tell her that she owes me a book club email! I sent my reflections on chapters 1-4 on Thursday and haven't heard her thoughts back yet!

Sarah (again):

Wait. She wanted to buy clothes at a grocery store?!?!

Good heavens! Buying clothes in Warsaw in questionable anyway.  Tell her that she may not buy clothing in a grocery store ANYWHERE  (except maybe New York City).

Savannah:

I had to rip the tunic out of her hands and put it back. It was a close call.
Also there was a brown stripe on the tunic that matched her pants and that's why she was very excited about it.


Sarah:

*Sigh* That's a dramatic scene. You are a hero today.

There are lots of brown clothes in the world. Also, everything matches brown except black. It's not exactly hard to find something to match brown pants

Amy (stealing Savannah's phone):

I can't be in book-club until Tuesday when I have a reliable inter-web source. Amy out.

Sarah:

Oh dear lord. You guys have to move. It's 2017. People in 3rd world countries have better wifi than Wyoming County.

A day later...

Sarah's text message to Amy:

Are you glad now that you didn't buy the tunic? Sometimes time gives perspective.

Amy: 

 No...I am still upset. You never support me.

Sarah:

You didn't have a strong case for the brown tunic other than it matched your brown pants, which is hardly a fashion feat.

Amy:

How about bragging rights that it came from a grocery store? Imagine THAT delightful conversation! Fashion plate, Traci admires my trend-setting top. "Oh this," I say demurely, "I got this while picking up sandwich pickles and Spaghetti-Os."

Sarah:  When you put it that way, it does sound totally reasonable. And EXACTLY how that would have played out.

Bam! Bam! Bam! The sounds of the season

 "For Christmas, I would like a $9 AM radio so that I have something to listen to when I butcher the deer in the garage," Brad announced. I stared at him in disbelief. Talk about selfish. First, consider the words NOT said. The implication that he's suffering in lonely silence down there because I refuse to go anywhere near the basement during hunting season. And second...who asks for their own present? My goodness!

That being said, like a precocious little elf, I immediately set to work up-grading his requested gift to make him feel especially selfish. Isn't that what Christmas is all about? Many IT calls were put into Connecticut to ensure I was ordering the correct radio satellite system to surpass my husband's needs.

Christmas Day arrived and Brad was graciously pleased with his present. "I can't believe you went to so much trouble," he said, "When you asked me what I wanted for Christmas, I just said a cheap radio but this...?!?" He was at a loss for words...but not for long.

Turns out that everywhere else in the world, you simply plug your little antennae gizmo in and, BAM! you have satellite radio. But at our house, you have to use a four foot long drill bit to bore a hole into your house. So Christmas afternoon had Savannah straddling our garage roof, manning the drill while her father pounded on the wall in the kitchen to locate the correct spot. Magical.

Bam! Bam! Bam! "Can you hear it," Brad would yell and in the distance, we could hear Savannah's muffled yet distinctly annoyed reply. Bam! Bam! Bam! Brad would yell. Savannah would reply. I would snuggle further into my blanket with my new tangerine-colored Kindle Fire. Bam! Bam! Bam! Yell. Reply. "Some hot chocolate sounds good, doesn't it," I asked Sydney who was sleepily reading her new book over on the couch. "AMY!" I jumped. He never says my name. EVER. This would not be good.

I was assigned the fun job of pounding on the wall. To introduce some much-needed levity to what was becoming a somewhat stressful situation, I pounded to the fun tune of "Jingle Bells." I heard a muffled cry from outside. "What," I asked helpfully, racing to the window. "Pound some more," I was instructed. "Jin-gle bells...jin-gle bells...jin-gle...all...the...w-" Sydney wandered into the kitchen to make some hot cocoa. I heard a muffled cry. I raced to the window. "What?" "Pound some more." "JIN-GLE BELLS...JIN-GLE BELLS...JIN..." Muffled cry. "SYDNEY!" Sydney dropped her spoon in the pan, startled. She, too, was enlisted. I was re-assigned window duty as Brad was not-so-secretly fed up with my holiday-inspired percussion arrangement. So Sydney manned the stick and I manned the window and Savannah shivered on the roof.

Tensions outside were also getting high. "You threw a hammer at me," Savannah accused her father. "No I didn't," he yelled defensively, "I just can't slide it down the roof...it might scratch the steel." "You're worried about scratching the roof but you're not worried about hitting your daughter in the head with an airborne hammer," she screeched. I pulled on my coat. A changing of the guard was required.

After the thirtieth time that I squinted helpfully at him up there, hunched on the roof in twenty degree weather, and asked, "How's it going up there?" Brad decided to call it a day. Loaded with tools, we trekked back to the front of the house. Naturally, I hit a slick patch of ice and performed a cartoonish gymnastic stunt, my feet flying up high over my head, the drill I was carrying...flying even higher. My head and hind-quarters (although with all the eating I've done over the holidays, I should say hind-thirds or even hind-half) landed at the same time. The drill, thank goodness, landed without injury.

Brad is a model of compassion when I fall. "Are you okay," he shouted in my winded face. "Shhhh..." I whispered. "Is anything broken," he hovered over me as I again whispered, "Shhhh." I'm no stranger to falling as you may remember from an earlier blog: A Wicked Evening. I just need a minute. Or in this case...a month. To recover from bruised ribs. Otherwise known as the cost of a $9 AM radio.

If "naked" were a verb and other car-trip discussions

My friend, Sarah is loathe to admit her distant kinship to noted poet Ralph Waldo Emerson. Who wouldn't want to be related to such a talented lyricist, I've always wondered. Until now. I am now fully behind Sarah. The man who celebrates the notion that life is a journey, not a destination, has never traveled over on hour (let alone seven) in a car full of young people.

Case in point:  Passing a Toyota in Massachusetts with the license plate proclaiming "Eat lamb" sparked a heated discussion about whether lambs are raised on a farm or a ranch. "A farm is where you grow crops," I asserted confidently, "A ranch is where you raise animals." "I see," Sydney responded thoughtfully, "and you live across from a dairy...?" "Farm," I admitted glumly, metaphorical tail between my legs.

To my niece, Brianna's delight, we sang along to the radio for much of the ride. That's how we discovered that Sydney learned to perform CPR to the tune of "Another One Bites the Dust." I'm not sure that would instill a great sense of reassurance for a watching friend or relative and I'm not sure that I would be thrilled to be brought back from Death's Door to that particular song but I guess beggar's can't be choosers. "Take My Breath Away" is too slow, after all.

We lingered an hour or more on Taylor Swift's "Shake It Off," which, in my humble opinion, sounds like it should be sung by a man if you stay true to the title. We explored word families at length. "There's a lot of leaves so we have to rake, rake, rake!" I sang. "I'm scared because there's a snake, snake, snake!" Sydney chanted. "I'm hungry so let's eat a steak, steak, steak!" I suggested. "Oh! A homophone opportunity," Sydney Mosiman, daughter of an English teacher shrieked happily. "There's a vampire so we need a wooden stake, stake, stake!" "Wait a second," I pondered philosophically, "what's the root word for naked?" "Is it nake?" Sydney wondered. So...wonderful Readers, is naked the past tense of the present form of nake? If so, then "Don't come in because I'm nake, nake, nake!"

We attempted a political discussion which failed miserably because of my (understandable) confusion over the possible appointment of General Grievous. "General Grievous," Savannah asked, "you mean the Star Wars Separatist military strategist?" "No," I answered, "the Army general under consideration for Secretary of State." "Mom," Savannah sighed, "his name is Petraeus." Later, to redeem myself (which only ever results in making myself appear even MORE ignorant...if that's possible), I was discussing our relationship with Russia and mentioned its president, Voldemort Putin. Thus ended our three-minute attempt to appear mature by discussing politics.

The journey was over. No group was ever happier to have reached their destination.