Classroom Projects Plummet

Shark Week in the Mosiman classroom has been terrifying. Making to-size construction paper sharks and then hanging them for student presentations isn't as easy as one would imagine.  Sydney and I suffered paper cuts, vertigo and an acute case of "Why are we doing this? This is the stupidest thing ever!" syndrome (It wasn't even close, by the way).  Most of my creative projects end up this way.  In developing a project for my statistics and probabilites unit, I quickly became bored thinking about the rationale of collecting rainfall data for the month of May.  What if each student decorated his or her own rain gauge for at-home use?  How exciting!  I enthusiastically went to work.  I finally reached "Why am I doing this? This is the stupidest thing ever!" level when I found myself shoulders-deep in my deposit-able cans bin, digging out fifteen clear containers.  I sat in my yard, methodically ripping off labels while my dogs energetically played a raucous round of tag.  I then procured my sharpest pair of scissors and proceeded to stab each plastic bottle to laboriously  cut the funneled ends off.  Stupid...stupid...stupid.  The rottweiler got a little rough so Chlo sought shelter beneath my legs.  I screamed at Juno as she trampled my "rain gauges" with her big floppy feet while the dachshund remained safely secured, disgusted that the big dog couldn't comprehend
"time-out."  I washed each vessel and layed them out to dry.  Arriving home, Savannah, who can't be bothered to mind her own business, condescendingly asked about my plans.  Proud that I was successfully integrating science and math, I explained the procedure and then braced myself for the inevitable.  "How are you going to account for evaporation?"  What?  No, I mean, I am aware of the process of evaporation but really...did she have to rain on my parade?  Of course she did.  I vehemently defended my four hours of rain gauge container construction and then stomped off to sulk in the other room.  Forget it.  Why don't I just assign pages 342 to 350 in the textbook and then have students answer questions 1-8?  I'll further consider my teaching tactics while I get a band-aid for my shark injury.  Right now, I need to find out where to get some cheesecloth for my rain gauges to reduce evaporation.

Soup and soda

This will be my last reference to the 2013 New York State tests.  As I've mentioned before, for the necessity of the children and myself, I have had to employ some pretty creative means to survive two weeks of testing without being completely traumatized.  When some of my rather well-informed cherubs excitedly came to class one morning to tell me that they don't have to take the New York State tests, I downshifted quickly and pleasantly commiserated,  "Well...of course you don't have to take the tests, my darlings, but I would feel so sad if you missed our celebratory hot dog soup and Pepsi party that we're having on the final day."   That rather oddly-shaped carrot was all that was necessary to make the mule move.

If aroma-therapy studies hold any water, my class test scores would have shot through the ceiling as the soup simmered gently in the crock pot, waiting to "reward" hard-working students.  I know what some of you are thinking...the same thing Brad has thought through his 24 years of marriage.  For some, hot dog soup is a rewarding experience.  For others, it simply induces retching.  Fortunately, 6th graders still think stickers, pillow pets and fruit gummies shaped like cartoon characters are cool so hot dog soup was an easy sell.

My normally blissful kid-free lunch time arrived and my classroom was filled with children clamoring to sample my cooking.  This is also an unusual occurrence as past Courier articles can attest.  As we settled in with our soup and soda, I faced a dilemma.  Do I spend my brief 25 minutes having heartfelt conversations with 11-year-olds or do I distract them with entertaining Youtube videos?  It was a tough decision.  As luck would have it, I hold an educational minor in the area of "Big Bang" analysis so I quickly brought up kid-friendly song-filled segments.  To my delight, my kids showed tremendous aptitude and, before I knew it, we were singing Sheldon's sick song, "Soft Kitty."  I divided up the room and we then began singing "Soft kitty...warm kitty...little ball of fur...happy kitty, sleepy kitty...purr purr purr..." in rounds.  It was the best lunch EVER!

Painful Prom Preparations

Ahhh...the changing of the seasons:  Northern Pike, deer, ground black pepper, prom.  After weeks of preparation, Sydney was off to prom last night.  I'm not a "coordinated colors" type of mom or a "subtle shade of lipstick" sort of mom.  As I'm more of a "white socks with sneakers" mom, planning for prom was a bit challenging for Sydney.  Naturally, it all came together beautifully.  Syd ended up with a shimmery mermaid-y blue gown ("It's green, mother," my seventeen-year-old daughter gently corrected) with toweringly-tall gold glitter shoes.  Even shopping for the accessories was daunting.  My friend Sarah and Sydney plowed through "Charming Charlies" with a singular focus while I trailed along, attached to Sarah by a prom gown leash.  They'd hold coordinated or complementary jewelry up to the material while I became dizzingly distracted by the pretty colors.  I helpfully held up a diamond-studded owl pendant only to be publically ridiculed and dismissed.  I pouted and refused to offer any more opinions.  They later rewarded my behavior with a trip to "Brad's Cookie Nook."  The stop at the shoe store was also tiring.  If the dress is blue, shouldn't the shoes be blue too?  "The dress is green, Mom," Sydney reminded me.  I stood by, confused, as Sarah and Sydney debated the merits of the stratospherically-high silver or gold shoes.  Sarah handed me another cookie while Sydney shot off to purchase her pumps. 

On prom day (or is it "Prom Day?"), Sydney was off doing whatever it is that girls do to get ready for the prom.  Suddenly, I received an urgent text.  A relevant accessory had been forgotten in Sydney's bedroom and I was being called upon to retrieve said item and deliver it to the preparation center.  I was in a quandary   I wanted to be THAT mom but I didn't want to go into THAT room to do it.  Sarah wasn't available to give me a cookie so I quick-consulted Amy-Five-Years-in-the-Future to see what I should do.  The Amy-of-the-Future seemed to think that Amy-of-Today would look like a big ol' jerk if she didn't respond to Syd's prom emergency. 

Crrrrkkkk...I pushed the door open slowly with my big toe until it met with resistence from the three feet of junk on the floor.  I squeezed myself through the crack and gingerly stepped into the darkened room.  Taking a deep breath, I waded forward.  Ouch!  My bare foot was punctured and I took an uneven hop to the side before toppling over into a cesspool of teenage trash.  Successfully procuring Sydney's requested item, I crawled to safety. 

Later that day, during the picture-taking session, I marveled at my beautiful daughter.  How the dress brought out the vivid blue in her eyes.  How I feared her slender ankles were going to snap as she carefully navigated the driveway balancing on shiny stilts.  We took her picture cuddling Chlo and grasping a gosling.  Gosling...not Gosselin.  Baby goose...not "Whatever happened to that wacky reality-tv family with the eight kids?"  As she hauled herself up into the truck and crawled gracefully into the back, I realized that, like me, Sydney was crossing a threshold today.  This was no longer a little girl playing dress-up; draping herself in long beads and boas and tripping along in flimsy plastic heels. This was a young, sophisticated woman elegantly dressed for an evening out. 

I breathlessly followed her responsible texts that night with the eagerness of a zealous Bieber-fan.  I awaited her arrival with excitment.  The young woman would return home from the prom, tired but eager for the next chapter in her life.  We are entitling it:  Grounded:  Clean Your Room.  Oh...I guess I'm THAT mom.

The scene of the crime:  THAT room!

No...that is not the skin of an 80-year-old elephant...that's the
soft, fleshy instep of my now-punctured foot!

Sydney and Chlo

Where there's smoke...reflections on the hazards of hostessing

The weight of winter is finally lifting off my shoulders.  As Memorial Day and subsequent summer holidays approach, I find myself being able to breathe again.  While I personally find myself ridiculously funny, entertaining is not my skill-set.  I loved Hostess, not hostessing.  And hosting guests in my home during the cold months sends me into a flurry of frantic anxiety. When I was assigned Easter this year, my family immediately recognized a potential problem as I had the preceding seven days off to prepare for the event: lots of time to get ready.  The tops of door jams were dusted.  Heating ducts were purged.  Lightbulbs polished.  As the big day approached, things really began to heat up.

I turned my attention to the stove.  When it was dropped off at my home six years ago, the delivery man noticed my pair of cockatiels and warned me that the fumes resulting from the self-cleaning feature would be deadly to the birds.  As much as I dislike the messy, ornery creatures, I had no wish to go down in history as a bird murderer so I nobly refrained from cleaning my oven.  Ever.  But with Easter knocking on the door, all bets were off and it was every bird for himself.  Despite her exhaustion from a week’s worth of extreme cleaning, daughter, Sydney gamely helped wheel the unhappy birds to a back room and covered them before we leashed up the dogs to go for a brief walk as the stove initiated stage one of self-clean.  The red light was on.

Attaining the summit of the hill, we turned to take in the breath-taking view, gasping as we watched black smoke pour out of our little house.  Racing back, we could smell the noxious fumes well before reaching our front door.  The only one with good sense, the dachshund put on the brakes and refused to go near the deathtrap that was once our home.  Sydney and I…not so smart.  We soldier-crawled our way through the thick gray cloud that had permeated every room.  Sydney wrestled resisting birds from the cage and carried them like feathery footballs, tucked beneath each arm for the race to the end zone.  After punching the “cancel” button on the stove, I was busy opening every window before I too, escaped the poisonous prison.

Husband Brad arrived home two hours later, moderately surprised to find Syd and I sitting on our garage roof.  Cold, the dogs had taken shelter in the van. As my husband approached us, his nose wrinkled slightly and he asked, “Are they doing a control burn somewhere?”  Naturally, this insensitive comment caused me to immediately burst into tears.  Six hours later, we were able to re-enter our house without fear of instantaneous death.  The stench, however, would not subside.  We employed a multi-strategy approach to eradicate the odor:  windows open in 35 degree weather, multiple applications of Febreze, a plug-in air freshener in every outlet in the house.  Avoiding the addition of another chemical to the mix, we applied repeated warm soapy water scrubbings.  My house was super shiny but still super stinky.  And now Easter was upon us.  As I set the table, I thoughtfully tucked a clothespin in between the knife and fork.  I discreetly placed an open jar of Vapo-rub next to the butter lamb; one to spread beneath the nose, one to spread upon the warm, crusty crescent rolls.  Good-humored and gracious, my guests insisted that they could only smell the Easter ham.  I know it looks bad.  Some people will do anything to get out of entertaining for the holidays but that really wasn't my intent when I inadvertently incinerated my home while preparing for the celebratory event.  This incident only served to remind me what I had already known:  holiday hostessing stinks!

originally published on the on-line edition of "The Warsaw Country Courier"

http://www.mywnynews.com/arcade_warsaw/premium/columns/article_cf3cc536-b365-11e2-b92d-001a4bcf887a.html

Please Read the Following Directions

Administrating the New York State tests are as interesting as you can imagine.  For each of the six days, I read the long list of unacceptable electronic devices to a group of enthralled children and then, to our delight, New York State instructs me to read the bulleted list again.  6th graders have a delightful sense of humor.  Combine that with their extraordinary listening comprehension skills and that spells "t-r-o-u-b-l-e."  Actually, it spells "h-e-l-l-o" upside down on a calculator.  "Does this count as a communication device," one of my cherubs inquired in the specific space of time New York State allots us for questions.  Sigh.  I envy a lion tamer during state testing season.  A three-legged stool and a bull whip are effective tools in directing the king of the jungle to act against every natural instinct and leap through hoops.  The state does not equip me so well.  I can assure you that the natural instinct of an eleven-year-old is NOT to sit quietly for ninety-minute stretches, carefully reading and responding to ambiguously-written questions using complete, reflective sentences.  The required preliminary instructions are repeated each morning to the children who slump lower and lower in their seats with each progressive day. Anticipating that my kids would resemble bath mats if I didn't act fast, I realized that it was time to pull out the stool and bull whip.  As they braced themselves for the re-run of the previously-viewed version of the syndicated New York State testing directions show, I dug deep and without warning, launched into my "Cheerleader-style" rendition of the instructions:  "Read-y?  OK!  Be sure to...read your questions...care-ful-ly (arms extend to dramatically spell out the "L" and the "Y")!"  Clap clap.  The next day, a pirate arrived to warn test-takers that they'd be forced to walk the plank if they didn't neatly write their full name by the line marked NAME.  Requests soon came pouring in.  "I say," my British accent exclaimed, "it would be jolly good of you to check your work at the end."  My attempt to read directions "underwater" was a disaster but I recovered by magically morphing into Mr. T.  We would pity the fool who went on when they encountered the word "Stop" on their test.  I certainly wouldn't win any points for professionalism and Rich Little would revoke my celebrity impersonator card but student shoulders stopped sagging and I was rewarded with some smiles rather than the constant "let's-get-through-this" grim attitude.  I'm sure that soon enough, New York State will revise their instructions to accommodate this discovery.  Instead of writing, Say..., they'll write, Say (in a serious tone...please refer to the monotonous voice used by the boring teacher in "Ferris Bueller's Day Off")...  Until then though, I will continue to crack that whip while leaping through the great New York State testing hoopla.

My Brush With Fame: Was that Alec Baldwin?

Our semi-annual sightseeing visits to Manhattan are usually dictated by pop culture.  The Museum of Natural History speaks for itself.  The trip to the Empire State Building...King Kong, of course but Sleepless in Seattle inspires our lap around the top in search of romantic rendez-vous.  We hop the bridge to Hoboken  to cheerfully stand in line for Carlo's Bakery to buy a cannoli.  We've eaten at Bobby Flay's restaurant, walked by Central Park's boat house featured in 27 Dresses and ice skated at Rockefeller Center.  Times Square has been featured in more television, movie and Mosiman family photos then there are LED lights on the New Year's Eve Ball (32,256). Our most-recent pop culture acquisition was Washington Square.  Modeled after the Arc de Triomphe in Paris,  the Washington Arch straddled 5th Avenue until 1964.  The Square boasts an impressive history.  For example, Washington Square hosted the first public demonstration against dangerous and intrusive mass communication as Samuel Morse attempted to revolutionize the world with his little invention.  But who cares about that?  The

Washington Arch was featured predominantly in When Harry Met Sally as well as making a memorable appearance at the introduction of each episode of Friends as Rachel, Ross, Monica, Chandler, Phoebe, and Joey frolicked happily in the fountain.  This fountain was bone dry during our visit but we were undeterred by this unimportant detail.  

Washington Square is a marvelous place.  We entered through the arch like Dorothy entered Munchkinland.  A baby grand on wheels sat before the fountain, its soft music providing us with a soundtrack to accompany our magical experience.  The park is a dog haven and as I sat and watched, a pair of elderly dachshunds slowly made their way towards me, terrorizing the larger dogs in their path.  As I waited patiently for their arrival, another pair of fru-fru dogs appeared behind me, outfitted in splendid sweaters and quite eager to make my acquaintance.  Savannah and I returned their greeting with enthusiasm so their owner agreeably brought them over,  "Who's so beautiful....who's so pretty in the sweater...ooooo....look at the teeny little paws!"  Uninhibited, Savannah and I do not hold back during doggie discourse.  I glanced up at the owner, a somewhat familiar-looking older guy (when I say "older", by the way, I now mean "older than me") dressed in loose grey sweatpants and a sweatshirt.  Social convention dictates that I must also engage him in some conversation so I asked about the dogs.  He first provided us with their Italian names and then helpfully translated them for us before launching into their personality traits.  "Little Lady," he explained, "is rather sluttish in her need for attention."  That got my attention.  I took a closer look and thought to myself, "This man looks like Alec Baldwin."  Not 30 Rock Alec Baldwin.  Not Capital One Alec Baldwin but still Alec Baldwin.  I glanced at my teen-age companions,  No one was reacting.  Maybe I was wrong.  It has happened on one or two different occasions.  In between smooching the pooches, I looked again.  He met my gaze with intense blue eyes.  I was pretty sure this guy was Alec Baldwin and I could tell that this guy was also pretty sure he was Alec Baldwin.  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that the dachshunds had almost arrived so I thanked "Alec Baldwin" for letting us pet his dogs and sent him on his paparazzi-free path.

My "Was that Alec Baldwin" was met with a series of infuriating "Who?"s.  His credit card commercials triggered some memory recognition and now the I-phone investigation was on.  His pretty Hollywood photo inspired a "well...kind of"shaky confidence that wasn't quite enough to pick him out of a police line-up.  A genius in our group (I stand by the argument that it was me) thought to search for his dogs and sure enough, up sprang a picture!  We squealed with immature delight.  I will admit to some hopping about in circles while the squealing was happening.  Then the lamenting that no one on this earth was going to believe us.  Then the accusations.  "Why didn't you SAY something?"  I did...I said, "Who's so beautiful....who's so pretty in the sweater...ooooo....look at the teeny little paws!"  This would not be my first brush with fame...ask me sometime about Hillary Clinton in a cow barn.  Were I to rate this experience, I'd give it a K-9 out of 10 :) . Minus one point because those snotty little dachshunds  shunned us as they toured the park.  I'll take the slut any day.

The cost of lettuce

Naturally, I approached the buffet-style presentation of salads trepidatiously.  The women in the group responded naturally to the array of vegetative color, flitting about like happy little birds in a berry bush.  The men were more wary but were quickly baited by the mounds of meat topping the taco salad.  From  a very young age, I have been taught to not be fooled by appearances.  I only accepted candy from strangers driving vans that had untinted windows.  No apples at Halloween for me, no sir!  It gets trickier as you get older.  Now I must be informed of the nutritional value of everything I eat.  I am well-aware that there is absolutely NO nutritional value in a circus peanut (if, at this point of the conversation you are asking yourself, "What is a circus peanut?" then you may as well pop over to eatingwell.com.  I took their assessment tool and noted that I am well on my way to self-preservation...I'm practically pickled!)  but am lacking the motivation and care to completely abstain.  Any hoo...there wasn't a brownie in sight and my administrator had already tricked me this morning with a baked treat jam-packed with blueberries, pineapple and giant exotic nuts.  "They were Brazil nuts, Amy," she said in disgust, "honestly, you teach children!"  I immaturely spent the next half hour inviting everyone to look in my muffin.

Back to the bar.  I've never actually intentionally chosen lettuce as the center piece of my meal but, being a good sport (and starving), I loaded up with wholesome goodness and hoped that this wasn't going to mark a significant lifestyle change in the world of Amy Mosiman.  I observed the small containers of assorted salad dressings and decided to support the French culture.  We just recently got back from New York City and their generous gift of Lady Liberty still resonates with me...it says so much more than a gift card.  My first timid bite of salad adorned with French dressing was rewarded with a blast of heat that had me rocketing out of my seat.  I felt like a cartoon character who has steam exploding from her ears.  The French dressing turned out to be hot Buffalo wing dip dressing.  My attractive and very-pregnant colleague, daintily eating her own plate of rabbit food also coated in Satan's salad sauce, politely inquired about my dietary sensitivity.  I explained to her that 40 is the new 80.  This little foray into the land of healthy eating was going to cost me dearly in stomach pain and sleep.  Such is the cost of consuming lettuce.

The problem of prophylactics

Surprisingly, there are not a slew of sophisticated synonyms available for the word "prophylactic."  That being said, my mind went completely blank when I spotted the limp little guy, laying deflated and dispirited in the empty school corridor.  I circled our rejected friend several times, unsure of the correct protocol for this particular situation.  I solved my dilemma by applying my new adopted life principle:  What would the teacher-of-the-year do?  This little motto is now the guiding force of my life, helping me to decide what to eat for breakfast, how to choose between two brands of toilet tissue, and even to determine whether to watch TV or exercise.  Amy Mosiman, ordinary-every-day educator might have employed her tried-and-true "planned ignoring" strategy and simply walked by, refusing to live up to her responsibilities to future generations.  Amy Mosiman, teacher-of-the-year, wouldn't even conceive of running off.  Stalwart and unshakable, I mapped out a method.  An unplanned approach with a prophylactic could result in a mistake that could ruin my reputation or traumatize any future children who happened along.  Fortunately, I had, in my possession, a thoughtful teacher-of-the-year congratulatory card written by the high school principal.  Using the durably-constructed cardstock to wiggle underneath the prone object, I  successfully removed the prophylactic with one hand before rushing off without even so much as a backwards glance.  Apparently my teacher-of-the-year sensibilities are still evolving because I'm embarrassed about my subsequent lack of discretion.  Instead of just washing my hands of the affair and moving on...I just moved on...moving from classroom to classroom, laughing about my latest conquest.  Afterwards, I just felt dirty and, like the prophylactic...empty.

The Keith Hernandez Philosophy of Moving

I can connect practically every one of the events in my life to a "Seinfeld"episode.  Savannah developed her love of the black & white cookie because of the show.  The Mosimans giggle whenever we buy a marble rye.  During an evening horse and buggy ride in Saint Augustine, we immediately re-named our equine companion "Rusty."  Our vocabulary is sprinkled with Seinfeld-isms...I don't want to be a pirate...the seas were angry that day, my friends...not that there's anything wrong with that...I can't spare a square.... When asked several weeks ago to help move a friend, I immediately flashed back to the episode where Jerry spawns the "bro-mance" craze with his new friendship with Mets first baseman Keith Hernandez.  Jerry's crush was crushed when Keith asked for help moving and Jerry, disgusted, complained it was too much, too soon.  Asking a friend to move was the equivalent of "going all the way" or in baseball lingo, scoring a homerun.  Apparently Jerry was only comfortable with the bunt to first! (I'm trying to impress the sport nuts out there who knew that it was challenging to bunt off of Hernandez).  So, with the moving date quickly  approaching, I wrestled with my level of commitment to this friend.  How much do I value Amy White, famed school librarian and choreographer?  Apparently a lot.  To somewhat stifle my whining and complaining, Savannah promised to buy me a caramel hot cocoa and an egg-a-muffin.  Amy met us at her door with such gratitude and appreciation that I almost felt ashamed for about breaking up with her.

Colleagues and co-movers, Kelly and Amanda soon joined us along with Kelly's smiling-at-everybody-but-me baby, Jack.  Sporting matching red Boston Whale Watch sweatshirts, Kelly and I sprang into action, lugging heavy couches through the door.  Well, my role was actually more supervisory in nature but the couch did get out under Kel's superhuman steam.  Several times, she was spotted carrying Jack and two boxes while checking her messages and sipping a Pepsi.  Kel's a powerhouse.  My skills are more subtle and specialized.  Mr. White, wrestling with unimportant items such as removing door hinges and backing up the moving van, didn't care too much about Amy's decorative lantern star hanging high from a curtain rod.  Fortunately, this activity fell right in my skill-set.  After coordinating the effort, "Do you jump up at 3 or at go?" "Okay...1...2...3...wait...what did we agree on?"  Okay...1...2...3...sorry...let's try that again," I found myself standing full-length, squashed against the window, wrestling that stupid star down, while neighbors walked by outside, gawking as though I were on display at a freak museum.

Several truckloads later, we were at the new house.  Amy wanted everything placed in the basement, so I positioned myself at the bottom of the five stairs in the dark  narrow passage.  Graceful and coordinated, I quickly fell backwards within the first five minutes.  I shook it off and was back in position only to crack my head on the duct work attached to the low basement ceiling.  Apparently I was the only one sustaining any injuries in this game but, as I was the most valuable player, I stuck it out.  The second time I toppled down the stairs, I took the pencil sharpener attached to the wall with me.  Bang!  There's the heating duct again!  The third time...I was pushed.  Like Kramer and Newman's spitting indictment against Keith Hernandez, I can provide a blow-by-blow of the incident along with motive (she's jealous of me).  Kelly didn't even apologize...just shoved past me and laughed.

Four hours later, Amy and her husband were successfully moved into their lovely new home.  Four hours later, I was sporting several bumps on my head and bruises on my butt.  Four hours later, I had consumed my fill of hot pizza, Buffalo wings, and scintillating conversation.  "Moooo-oooo," said Amy's dad a retired military general, as he crouched by Jack squeezing a rubber farm animal and making the baby giggle.  Four hours later, Jack and I were ready for our nap.  We took our commemorative group photo in front of the house and then departed, my friendship with Amy safely rounding second base and sprinting toward third.  Personally, I think the friendship "homerun" would have to involve organ donation.  Our friends on "Seinfeld" had some serious quandaries with the emotional well-being of those around them on a medical level.  George's fiancee is killed from licking wedding invitation glue adhesive, the Bubbleboy's plastic dome is stabbed and depressurized and rather than donating blood, Kramer hoards it.  If Amy White needs me to donate some blood, I plan to step up to the plate without hesitation.

A Wicked Evening

I was bubbling over with excitement and anticipation regarding last night's performance of "Wicked" at the Rochester Auditorium Theatre.  This would be my fourth time seeing the play and I was still on pins and needles, counting down the days and then the tick tocks on the Time Dragon Clock until I would be smushed into a too-tight-for-Amy-Mosiman cushioned seat and transported back to Oz.  The only cloud in my over-the-rainbow horizon was a passing remark by an acquaintance who indicated that the play wasn't Christian.  My standard response for "religious" judgment (after the rolling of the eyes...which, by the way, never remedies the situation) is to explain that #1:  adults can usually determine fiction from nonfiction, #2: adults can enjoy mainstream entertainment without being swayed to renounce their Savior and immediately begin a life of debasement and debauchery, and #3:  Did I ask for your opinion? (that response usually doesn't help either).  I have fought for the positive themes of the "Harry Potter" series for years using C.S. Lewis's "Narnia" books as evidence that the use of witches and wizardry are literary tools to entertain not ensnare.  "Wicked's" themes of friendship, loyalty and sacrifice have been utterly ignored by some individuals who only hear Elphaba murmuring her magic spells.  For people like my acquaintance, Elphaba is still being cast in her one-dimensional role as the wicked witch.

Later, as my little van skipped merrily down the yellow-barrel-lined 390 with Sydney at the wheel (oh my!), I thought about "Wicked" and wondered if Jesus was unhappy about my decision to see it for the fourth time.      
Pulling into the parking lot, the attendant directed us to a specific spot, positioned perpendicular to a school bus from Savannah-Clyde.  We parked right in front of our own "reserved" sign!  Hmmm.  Exiting the lot, I pointed out to the girl who took our money that she'd parked us right in front of my daughter's name.  Startled, she then smiled and shared that her 6-year-old daughter's name was Savannah too!!!  Hmmmm.  The show, of course was spectacular.  I am adopting Fiyero's line when he answer's Elphaba's disgusted inventory of his character with utmost sincerity that "I am genuinely self-absorbed and deeply...shallow."  (WARNING:  sarcastic tone ahead)  I can totally understand how someone would mistake Elphaba's standing up for the rights of those with no voice as unChristian.  I see now that the slowly blossoming friendship between two unlike characters who learn to see past and then eventually value one another's differences could be damaging to my spiritual walk.  I must have been BLIND not to realize....never mind.  (You have just exited the sarcastic zone...please resume normal reading speed.).

At the curtain call, the talented actors (who successfully thrilled my senses but sadly, did not wrestle my soul from Jesus's capable hands...sorry, I'll let it go now) made a petition for donations on behalf of "Broadway Cares" to fund HIV/AIDS research as well as breast cancer treatment.  $200 would make you feel GREAT as a sacrificial and generous donor with the side benefit of getting you a ride in Glinda's (the "Ga-" is silent) magic bubble!  Ahhhhhh!!!!!  It was more than obvious (to everyone EXCEPT Brad Mosiman) that I would cheerfully yank out an eyetooth to saddle up and ride a bubble.  Now, I have written half a million scripts for my husband regarding how to handle and respond to almost every scenario...we can't buy those jeans, your rear looks MUCH too small...the predominant lack of salt in this meal makes the flavors REALLY stand out...the way you never use a turn signal really helps keep other driver's on their toes!  Sadly, I had not prepared him for this.  While Amy Mosiman heard "bubble," Brad Mosiman heard "$200."  When Amy Mosiman said with longing and insincere sacrifice in her voice, "I couldn't possible ride in the bubble if Savannah and Sydney didn't do it too," Brad Mosiman was suppose to say, "Pish posh, they would be happy for you!  You must simply ride in Glinda's (the "Ga-" is silent) bubble!  I can't wait to see how beautiful you look as you float across the stage."   Instead, he said, "You sure?" and shrugged, moving to exit the theatre.  Can you believe it?  He SHRUGGED!  Talk about insensitive and uncaring.  He NEVER listens!!

As I shuffled along the darkened sidewalk to our reserved parking space, my mind was filled with many things.  The phenomenal musical.  Misconceptions.  My mean ol' husband.  Suddenly I was lifted, as though I were in Glinda's (the "Ga-" is silent) magical bubble, and as suddenly as I was lifted, I was hurling through time and space onto the concrete in what my family best describes as the "prehistoric raptor" pose.  I   (As Yukon Cornelius would say, "Bumbles...and Amy Mosiman...bounce!") bounced dramatically on the ground, took a shuddering, self-assessing breath, snapped at my caring family to leave me alone, was handed my lost shoe, staggered back to my feet, shot a "thumbs up" to the line of cars staring at the spectacle I was making, dashed directly into traffic before being herded off by same said family to my van where I cried like a child.  Naturally, I blame Brad.  Had he ponied up the two hundred bucks, I would have been having a life-changing magical experience instead of being transformed into a human pothole with bruised knees and ego.  My opinionated and judgment-casting acquaintance, of course, should assume some responsibility for "my fall" (hee hee...really, I honestly did try to "let it go").  My "family" tried to tell me that my innate clumsiness and lack of orthopedic shoes were primarily responsible for the incident but we all know better, don't we?

As I watched the yellow-barreled-construction barriers that line 390S fly by, I realized (you thought I was going to say, "There's no place like home", didn't you...Am I really that predictable?  Please don't answer that...refer to the script I gave you) I had a wicked headache and just wanted to go home and go to bed.  But I also know that the next time "Wicked" is back in town, I'll be the first in line!

Teacher-of-the-Year?

Teacher-of-the-Year?!? Oh my goodness...someone has made a terrible error.  Go back and tabulate those figures, people!  Informed of the news this morning, the messenger took one look at my stricken face and reassured me soothingly that "It'll take a bit for it to sink in."  Sink in?  Metaphorically, it feels like a giant sink hole opened up in front of me on the great freeway of life and I drove my little blue Ranger right into it.  It's a joke, right?  Like when you nickname a chunky guy "Slim" or call a bald guy "Curly."  So, throughout the day, my face remained in a perpetual grimace that reflected my inner doubts and turmoil.  My colleagues were annoyingly ecstatic to the point of my wanting to slap them.  Every congratulatory remark was met with a disgusted grunt while I pointed out my regular failings as a human being.  Graciousness is NOT in my vocabulary.  I do not know what to do with adult accolades.  Do I respond with a ducked head, lowered lashes, and an "ah shucks, ma'am" or will the demur Queen Mum backhand wave work?  I dove under my desk as, at the end of the day, my virtues were extolled on the afternoon announcements.  This must surely be the lowest day of my educational career, I thought.  Then suddenly, my classroom door flew open and students began to swarm in.  An 8th grader catapulted himself fifteen feet into my arms.  I found myself on the receiving line of smiling kids who couldn't wait to share in my good news.  And it WAS good news.  Because they had ACTUALLY been there...in my classroom...under my often-unconventional tutelage...and they didn't have any doubts about this honor as it applied to me.  I am so proud to have been named their teacher-of-the-year. 

Rise and Shine?

Your first waking thought of the morning is a pretty good indicator of the general tone of the day.  Immediately moaning "oh-hh no-oo-oo..." is not a precursor for success.  Wondering if there is enough loose change in the truck to underwrite a vending machine Pepsi sets a pretty low bar expectations-wise.  Setting all your Thursday morning hopes on a new episode of "Grey's Anatomy" has resulted in devastating consequences.  But this morning, my first coherent though, after hitting "snooze" fifty times and kicking my human snooze button (aka an obnoxiously cheerful daughter, Savannah) in the stomach, was to yearn for tomorrow's lunch.  Huh?  Yeah...that's right.  The thought of tomorrow's lunch pushed me off my pillows and put a happy spring in my slippered steps.  "Dinner," as we like to call them in the Mosiman household, usually consist of a hearty  vitamin & mineral fortified meal of sugar-coated cereal.  The Christmas-time arrival of a panini-maker rocked our world...I direct the deli to thick-cut my mozzarella at a setting of fifteen and will petulantly sulk if my request is ignored.  But last night, I wearily watched as Brad had Savannah set several containers of frozen fish to thaw in the sink.  The implications of this seemingly small event most have seeped into my subconscious throughout the night because I woke with a song in my heart and a hankering for fried fish sweeping through my soul (overly-obvious pun...sorry).  But for some reason, I skipped right over the main event to tomorrow's tupperware-encased  twelve o'clock tidbits!  So here I sit, having just enjoyed an incredible meal of Brad's fried fish, fried potatoes with onions, fried zucchini, and corn slathered in butter  (We haven't figured out how to successfully fry corn yet...no, corndogs don't count...they're not nutritiously relevant).  My tupperware container is jam-packed full of yumminess and I anticipate that tomorrow I will awaken with gladness, anticipating the day before me.  I can't wait!  TGI (almost)F!

A Salute to "Survivor"

I'm not proud, but the best part of my day may have been the hour I spent staring at the television watching an EPIC (yes, I know that word has been adulterated beyond recognition but...) episode of "Survivor."  A loyal fan from its Richard Hatch-i-ish beginning when unshaved, stinking, starving contestants seined "fresh" water from an elephant dung hole to its now-evolved state of white-toothed, discreetly tattooed tribe members who make clitchy jungle-themed furniture inspired by Ikea, I am inspired by the show's commitment to keep things interesting.  Horrible ideas are abandoned (Exile Island was a doozy), atrocious sanitation issues were addressed, health standards directly proportional to viewer tolerance were implemented (we can only watch malnourished players vomit x number of times before irretrievably connecting the show to the original version of The Exorcist) and, most importantly, the show either includes pretty-to-look-at people or the-freakishly-behaving-so-their-looks-don't-matter people.  I refuse to write too much more regarding my devotion to this show but I love, love, love that it still has the ability to surprise. With three good-looking guys in serious jeopardy at Tribal Council, all hope appeared lost.  But one of the
"Three Amigos" (a label they mockingly assigned to themselves), doggedly won the Immunity Challenge, Malcolm (the Mosiman-family-female favorite) harbored a hidden Immunity necklace, and then in a dramatically public fashion, found ANOTHER Immunity necklace so Tribal was jaw-dropping to the smug alliance of seven who thought they had this vote in the bag...NOT!  Now, with our heroes safely immune and smiling happily, the shuffling seven scrambled to strategize.  "The Three Amigos are voting for Phillip," Malcolm announced, clearly enjoying himself while we, at home, laughed out loud. It is moments like these that keep us watching.  No laugh track...gorgeous, exotic settings (a fresh water lake harboring giant non-stinging jellyfish...right out of a dream)...the utter unpredictability of human nature...a sometimes (ok...often) perverse anthropologic experiment of the annoying, the sickeningly sweet, schemers, betrayers, and the completely clueless.  Just like real life.  I refuse to allow myself to ponder too deeply where I would fall in the   social stew that is "Survivor."  Although now that I think about it, every episode includes a nut or two.

A Teachable Moment for the Teacher

     Controversy aside, my 6th graders have worked hard preparing for the New York State tests and I (mostly) welcome this opportunity to gauge their acquisition of knowledge over the course of their time with me.  I generally don't get too rev-ed up about the tests but with all the hype, it's impossible not to feel some trepidation regarding student performance and what it reflects about my teaching abilities.  That being said, I refuse to make the state tests a black cloud of despair that looms threateningly over my classroom day after day.  I reassure, I encourage, I cajole, I bribe, and I reward.  I inspire them with videos:  (based on Taio Cruz's song Dynamite) "This test goes on-and-on-and-on...it goes on-and-and-on...oh yeah...gon' prove my learning to myself this time...saying ay-oh, gonna let go" ( https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mIdhw1R4xys).  I provide semi-nutritional sustenance during the 90-minute test.  This particular practice drives our office's administrative assistant insane.  "What is this?" she asked one year, holding a student's test carefully by a corner, "Is this pudding?" I plan what I perceive to be fun yet meaningful lessons for the afternoon.  That's where the trouble began today.
     Knowing that my students will be using a calculator for part of next week's New York State math test, I taped 15-20 riddle cards around the classroom.  You know how you can cleverly spell the word "hello" upside down on the calculator...that's the gist of this activity except you have to input a series of given operations to eventually get to the answer.  Enter the date that the Declaration of Independence was signed/subtract the year that Columbus sailed to America/divide by the number of legs of a tripod...and so on.  Last week, I sat down in the calm atmosphere of my empty classroom, a cool bottle of Pepsi by my side, and systematically and successfully solved each card.  Today, I handed each 6th grader a calculator and a worksheet, yelled, "Go forth and calculate!" and prepared to put up my feet and relax, enjoying the sight of my students scurrying happily (and quietly) about the room while solving each riddle card with confidence and ease.  Instead, student at card #4 scrunched up his face and raised his hand for help.  Naturally, I ignored him...obviously he hadn't tried hard enough yet.  Student at card #12 was suffering from a similar symptom.  I sighed.  Suddenly I was besieged by begging, whining, and ...did someone just poke me?  Did someone ELSE just poke me?  Again?  I was frustrated.  They were frustrated.  My attempt to help one was nullified by the line of confused 6th graders behind me.  Did someone just POKE me again!  My blood pressure, heart rate and voice level went through the roof.  I sought intervention from across the hall and soon, math specialist, Mrs. Harris had us on the right track.
     Re-scheduling the revised lesson for tomorrow, I  sat in the front of the now-quiet classroom and apologized to my students.  They certainly didn't do anything wrong.  I made an assumption regarding their comfort level with calculator application and should have first modeled the correct way to solve a card and then had us practice a couple as a group before sending them off on their own.  In the beginning of the year, I give a big speech about the importance of  "accountability."   Easy to say...sometimes difficult to do.  Although humbling, I appreciated the chance to demonstrate this character trait in an authentic setting.  I apologized to my students and they graciously forgave me.  Because of today's-not-so-great lesson, tomorrow's modified lesson will be much more successful.

Quitting Before I Get Started...

This all began with the greatest of intentions...family and friends lured into liking my writing so much that I was given the "gift" of a blog.  Very complimentary but, like a sweater I have no intention of ever pulling over my head, not likely to be used.  So, for my 43rd birthday this January, my daughter Savannah presented me with my own domain name.  "Just what I always wanted," I said, already plotting how long I could put this off.  My eager fan base of two kept pestering me regarding the latest updates of my "blog."  By April, I knew I couldn't put it off any longer and with a great deal of technical support, managed to successfully post a picture of my dachshund Chloe.  "There," I thought with smug satisfaction, "that should fend them off for awhile."  Nope.  The haranguing intensified.  Making an appointment with my technical support team (aka Amy White, world's best school librarian), we began the maddening process of getting my blog up and running.  My job was to sit next to Mrs. White and tell her how pretty she is.  Mrs. White's job was to do all the work and make comforting sounds each time I began to sob, curl up in the fetal position or shout, "Just pull the plug!  Shut 'er down!"  We discovered that a web designer can make, on the conservative side, $150 an hour and that it typically takes 12-20 hours to build a website.  "Shut 'er down," I screamed.  "Shhhhhh," comforted my librarian.  Research (on Mrs. White's part...I was busy cramming a giant bag of Lays Salt & Vinegar chips in my mouth) revealed that we could create our own blog for free.  Fantastic.  Amy White went right to work  I opened up a package of Nabisco Pinwheel cookies.  The first step, naturally, was to get a picture of Chlo up immediately.  That done, I was ready to go home but Amy White felt that perhaps we could surpass our original effort.  She quickly added several of my newspaper articles while I sucked down the last bit of the day's Pepsi.  "Can we be done now," I begged, exhausted.  Recognizing that I had hit my emotional wall, Mrs. White graciously relented, knowing that I had worked hard creating an on-line "masterpiece."  "How can I repay you," I asked my friend, thinking that a $5 gift card might not quite reflect her creative technical efforts and extraordinary patience level.  A fern is a lovely symbol of gratitude.  Instead, my non-materialistic friend made a simple request, asking me to be her work-out buddy for a bit.  Ugh.  This blog may be the worst idea EVER.