Sporting a paper broccoli necklace around my neck, I was reading How to be Perfect in Just Three Days to the children when..."Wait," you say, rudely interrupting what is certain to be a riveting and perhaps, life-changing story, "why were you wearing broccoli-based accessories?" "My friend Chelsea, who is apparently hard of hearing, also asked me that question but she misheard broccoli as bra which got me thinking about vegetable-themed ladies undergarments. That's the big trend, right? Corn into fuel. Soy into milk. Carrots into carrot sticks and dip. Broccoli bras could be huge!
Anyhoo, I had just gotten to the part where the main character is about to eat a creme-filled Twinkle which, of course, sparked a lengthy conversation about what real-life snack the author might have been suggesting. A lot was revealed during the course of this conversation. Number 1: Mrs. Mosiman knows a LOT about Hostess Twinkies, so much so that I might be eligible for an honorary PhD on the subject. Number 2: Mrs. Mosiman could easily pen an emotionally-charged, earth-shaking poem about Twinkies infused with an infinite number of adjectives. Number 3: Some of the children admitted to never having tasted a Hostess Twinkie. After first checking their citizenship statuses, I then jotted down their names to share with Social Services. This was the saddest thing I've ever heard of...forget about the commercials featuring snow white seal pups being threatened by giant clubs...ignore the one-eyed kitten reaching for you through cage bars...the whales, oh, the whales...the rain forest. How could it be that there are children in America...in my own backyard...that have gone their entire lives without having sampled this scrumptious snack? I vowed, right then and there, to make this MY issue. Twinkies would become my snow white seal pup. I told Brad that he could drive me into town to pick up a few boxes of Twinkies if he bought me a double hot fudge sundae at McDonald's first. He was so grateful to be invited to take part in such a worthy cause.
"Wait," you protest, "is that it? You didn't explain why you were wearing a piece of broccoli around your neck. Garlic fends off vampires. What does broccoli do?" DO?!? Broccoli doesn't DO anything! I thought that, at first, broccoli made an agonizingly nose-curdling urine smell but that's asparagus and it would be just plain stupid to wear an asparagus necklace. For goodness sake, would you just please read the book?
Wednesday, July 30, 2014
Tuesday, July 29, 2014
The story of a man and a mouse: How Brad is intentionally trying to ruin my up-coming Disney vacation
I gritted my teeth in frustration as I watched Brad laboriously click each link as we began customizing our up-coming vacation to the happiest place on earth. Not only did he have to read ALL the information on each page, he also waited until the animated circle-timer-thingy finished before clicking on. I mentally screamed, the echo reverberating off the Grand Canyon walls of my brain.
Guiding him to the restaurant listings, I suggested a particular place to make a reservation. "Do you plan on being in that park then," Brad asked. Quelling the urge to say "duh" during this quality-time together moment, I nodded, tilting my head inquisitively and widening my eyes in an adorable fashion. Brad said later that he had thought I'd needed to use the restroom. "Why do you ask," I said. "Well," he responded, "that's not one of the parks that we most frequent so I was just surprised that you'd choose a restaurant there." I sighed softly. Brad said later that it sounded like a steam engine pulling into the station. When did he get so dramatic? "Let me show you the restaurant," I said, nonchalantly reaching for the mouse. Before my hand could grasp the life-line of infinite on-line power (and no, that wasn't a sexual innuendo), Brad elbowed me out of the way and clicked the picture. We sat for what seemed like hours before the animated circle-timer-thingy finished so Brad could expand the "click here to read more" link.
"Look," I exclaimed, "the restaurant booths are replicas of classic convertibles situated at a drive-in theatre!" Brad nodded, furrowing his brow in concentration. I wondered if he had a head-ache. "What sort of food do they serve," he wondered callously. I stared at him. Didn't he see the picture? I pointed at it and repeated the description slowly, "Class-ic con-vert-i-bles...drive-in the-a-ter." "So you want to make reservations at the one park that we really don't go to, to eat who-knows-what kind of food, at a restaurant that is set up just like the restaurant where we eat on a weekly basis all summer long?" What is his problem? Is he intentionally trying to ruin my...I mean, our...vacation? I decided to wait to mention replacing one of our evening meals with a dessert buffet. Besides, it would take hours to navigate over to that link on the computer with Brad manning the mouse.
Guiding him to the restaurant listings, I suggested a particular place to make a reservation. "Do you plan on being in that park then," Brad asked. Quelling the urge to say "duh" during this quality-time together moment, I nodded, tilting my head inquisitively and widening my eyes in an adorable fashion. Brad said later that he had thought I'd needed to use the restroom. "Why do you ask," I said. "Well," he responded, "that's not one of the parks that we most frequent so I was just surprised that you'd choose a restaurant there." I sighed softly. Brad said later that it sounded like a steam engine pulling into the station. When did he get so dramatic? "Let me show you the restaurant," I said, nonchalantly reaching for the mouse. Before my hand could grasp the life-line of infinite on-line power (and no, that wasn't a sexual innuendo), Brad elbowed me out of the way and clicked the picture. We sat for what seemed like hours before the animated circle-timer-thingy finished so Brad could expand the "click here to read more" link.
"Look," I exclaimed, "the restaurant booths are replicas of classic convertibles situated at a drive-in theatre!" Brad nodded, furrowing his brow in concentration. I wondered if he had a head-ache. "What sort of food do they serve," he wondered callously. I stared at him. Didn't he see the picture? I pointed at it and repeated the description slowly, "Class-ic con-vert-i-bles...drive-in the-a-ter." "So you want to make reservations at the one park that we really don't go to, to eat who-knows-what kind of food, at a restaurant that is set up just like the restaurant where we eat on a weekly basis all summer long?" What is his problem? Is he intentionally trying to ruin my...I mean, our...vacation? I decided to wait to mention replacing one of our evening meals with a dessert buffet. Besides, it would take hours to navigate over to that link on the computer with Brad manning the mouse.
Saturday, July 26, 2014
Let's back up a second...another failed Geri and Amy adventure
As long as there is nothing good on TV, Geri and I are always up for an adventure. "So...where are we headed," I asked, hopping into her climate-controlled car. "Conesus Lake," she said, gripping the steering wheel as we backed up. I held my breath and my tongue during the remainder of this process as "reverse" is not exactly Geri's best direction. I've been witness to her clipping Mark Twain's gravestone as well as taking out a tree in Chincoteague. Straightened out and headed in a mostly forward fashion, she explained that our cool friend Katie recommended a hip hang-out located at the lake. Well...by golly...if Katie thinks it's cool then it must really be the cat's pajamas. Let's go!
Less than an hour later, we pulled into the sparsely-populated parking lot and sat silently for a moment. "Is this what I think this is," Geri asked. "Yes. This is a bait shop," I answered, realizing that I've been a lot cooler than I thought was for a long time, having frequented bait shops regularly since the mid-80s. Now, to give the place credit, it was sporting quite a bit of personality, starting with its palisade of skis. We saved the train car hot dog stand for the grand finale, venturing into the store first. In lieu of rocking chairs, the front porch housed an army of inviting barber chairs. Naturally, I regret not having taken Geri's picture in one but, at that point, I was trying to maintain an aura of cool in case Katie was still right. A stuffed jack-a-lope greeted us upon entering the establishment so I still had hope in Katie's cool-meter. The dominating display of souvenir t-shirts made a valiant attempt to convince us that this was the place to be but our spirits sagged as we fought our way through the narrow aisles of fishing nets, mosquito repellent, and sparklers to admire their mounted license plate collection.
We headed over to the hot dog shack housed in a quaint caboose that seemed a bit out of place parked by a lake but Geri and I were really wrestling with the definition of "cool" by this point so we went with it. I was super excited by the menu selection that included fried macaroni and cheese balls. Had I had Katie's phone number, I would have reached out and touched her (In Facebook terminology, I would have "poked" her) when I received my requested hot dog. They'd vertically cut my hot dog down the middle and splayed its little carcass face-down on a toasted bun. Monsters. This isn't cool at all. I sought solace by stuffing myself full of deep-fried mac-n-cheese balls.
Disappointed, more in ourselves than in this hot-spot of coolness, we drove away, ironically and symbolically, in the wrong direction. "I might have turned right," I mentioned as we drove along the length of the lake shore. "Is it possible that we don't know what is cool anymore," Geri lamented. "This is the wrong way," I said. "Wrong in that, as mature, responsible women, we shouldn't live our lives dictated by what is cool and what isn't? Or wrong in that associating the word cool with that place is just wrong? Or wrong in that we shouldn't be influenced by another person's version of cool?" We'd, literally, reached the end of the road. "This isn't right," Geri observed, looking at the road signs. "I know," I told her, "we went the wrong way." "Why didn't you tell me," Geri replied, backing up while I sat beside her, holding my breath and my tongue.
Less than an hour later, we pulled into the sparsely-populated parking lot and sat silently for a moment. "Is this what I think this is," Geri asked. "Yes. This is a bait shop," I answered, realizing that I've been a lot cooler than I thought was for a long time, having frequented bait shops regularly since the mid-80s. Now, to give the place credit, it was sporting quite a bit of personality, starting with its palisade of skis. We saved the train car hot dog stand for the grand finale, venturing into the store first. In lieu of rocking chairs, the front porch housed an army of inviting barber chairs. Naturally, I regret not having taken Geri's picture in one but, at that point, I was trying to maintain an aura of cool in case Katie was still right. A stuffed jack-a-lope greeted us upon entering the establishment so I still had hope in Katie's cool-meter. The dominating display of souvenir t-shirts made a valiant attempt to convince us that this was the place to be but our spirits sagged as we fought our way through the narrow aisles of fishing nets, mosquito repellent, and sparklers to admire their mounted license plate collection.
We headed over to the hot dog shack housed in a quaint caboose that seemed a bit out of place parked by a lake but Geri and I were really wrestling with the definition of "cool" by this point so we went with it. I was super excited by the menu selection that included fried macaroni and cheese balls. Had I had Katie's phone number, I would have reached out and touched her (In Facebook terminology, I would have "poked" her) when I received my requested hot dog. They'd vertically cut my hot dog down the middle and splayed its little carcass face-down on a toasted bun. Monsters. This isn't cool at all. I sought solace by stuffing myself full of deep-fried mac-n-cheese balls.
Disappointed, more in ourselves than in this hot-spot of coolness, we drove away, ironically and symbolically, in the wrong direction. "I might have turned right," I mentioned as we drove along the length of the lake shore. "Is it possible that we don't know what is cool anymore," Geri lamented. "This is the wrong way," I said. "Wrong in that, as mature, responsible women, we shouldn't live our lives dictated by what is cool and what isn't? Or wrong in that associating the word cool with that place is just wrong? Or wrong in that we shouldn't be influenced by another person's version of cool?" We'd, literally, reached the end of the road. "This isn't right," Geri observed, looking at the road signs. "I know," I told her, "we went the wrong way." "Why didn't you tell me," Geri replied, backing up while I sat beside her, holding my breath and my tongue.
Friday, July 25, 2014
What did you REALLY mean by that?
Sometimes your closest friends can also be your greatest enemies (case-in-point: my blog about my friend Sarah's television viewing habits). My friend and fellow teacher, Geri has a biting sense of humor of which I am often a primary target. Today, I wandered in on the conclusion of her whole-group math lesson. "Now remember what Mrs. Mosiman taught you yesterday," she said. I stiffened in my seat, shocked that she would ridicule me this way in front of the children. "What are you talking about," she replied later, defensive as I confronted her about her unprofessional conduct. "I can't believe that you would say that about me," I choked, holding back indignant tears. "What? What did I say," she asked, as if she didn't know. I scowled at her before repeating her hateful words. "You said, 'Remember what Mrs. Mosiman (insert air quotes) taught you yesterday,'" I shouted. Geri looked down and didn't say anything for a long minute as she considered her thoughtless and hurtful behavior. "You're right," she said finally, "I should never have inferred that you had imparted meaningful knowledge to the children in the process of educating them. Please forgive me." I smiled, relieved that she had seen the error of her ways. "Wait," I said, stopping her as she went to leave the room. "Did you mean 'Please forgive me'" or 'Please (insert air quotes) forgive me?'" Geri sighed, closing the door behind her. What did THAT mean?
Thursday, July 24, 2014
Adopted into the Nielsen TV Family
This was one of the biggest things that has ever happened to me. A dream fulfilled. I wanted to share this news with my friend Sarah but I didn't want it to seem like I was bragging. But I also wanted to offer her some fresh perspective as she seems to think that the source of all happiness derives from the diapered body of her baby. Will is cute, don't get me wrong, even when Sarah paints him in peas but compared to my news...c'mon.
Random conversation marginally. but not really, related to the topic:
Amy (watching Sarah shovel pale green pea pudding into poor Will's resistant mouth): Did he do something wrong? Is he being punished?
Sarah (glancing over at Amy while pile-driving peas up the poor kid's nose): What? He loves peas.
Amy: Sigh
Amy and Will watch in alarm as Sarah switches to a gunky apple puree to add a second coat to Will's face.
Will (mouths the words "Help me" to Amy)
Amy: Isn't it time for dessert?
Sarah (holding up the baby food jar): This is dessert.
Amy (exchanging horrified looks with Will): Fruit?!? As a dessert?!?!
Will and Amy immediately begin devising a baby-break-out to escape this health-food hell-hole.
Additional note: I try...seriously. I didn't even complain when Sarah made me a grilled cheese on...get ready for it...whole wheat bread.
Anyhoo, back to my story...
I took a deep breath and plunged in. "Guess what," I said, bouncing on the couch beside her after we finished an episode of "Parks and Recreation." I didn't give her time to answer because the most exciting thing that she can envision is the arrival of one of Will's teeth (upon which he will immediately bite his mother for stuffing peas up his nose). "I was chosen for one of the highest honors imaginable," I said, "I have been invited to be part of the Nielsen Viewing Family." We stared each other over the gulf of stunned silence.
"Uh," Sarah said, shifting uncomfortably, "me too." What?!?!? This couldn't be happening. She didn't even really watch tv. I had bullied a big screen television on her as a wedding shower group gift as a pity present for her poor husband. Why would Nielsen want her? I asked clarifying questions. Magical postcard arriving in mail? Yup. Filled out subsequent survey questions? Yup. Prayed to be chosen? Nope. Received week-long television diary that would shape the future viewing habits of our nation and maybe even the world? Yup. Meticulously filled out said diary with agonizing accuracy? Nope. What?!?!? "Sarah," I scolded, trying to distract her from picking Will's pea-filled nose, "you need to take this responsibility seriously." She shrugged. Yes, you read that right. She SHRUGGED. "When the week is up, I'm just going to write that I watched Hulu." I made a hasty exit after this, trying to ignore Will's plaintive look for me to not leave him behind. Obviously I was going to have to re-evaluate this relationship. Fortunately, I have the support of my Nielsen Family to get me through this turbulent time.
Random conversation marginally. but not really, related to the topic:
Amy (watching Sarah shovel pale green pea pudding into poor Will's resistant mouth): Did he do something wrong? Is he being punished?
Sarah (glancing over at Amy while pile-driving peas up the poor kid's nose): What? He loves peas.
Amy: Sigh
Amy and Will watch in alarm as Sarah switches to a gunky apple puree to add a second coat to Will's face.
Will (mouths the words "Help me" to Amy)
Amy: Isn't it time for dessert?
Sarah (holding up the baby food jar): This is dessert.
Amy (exchanging horrified looks with Will): Fruit?!? As a dessert?!?!
Will and Amy immediately begin devising a baby-break-out to escape this health-food hell-hole.
Additional note: I try...seriously. I didn't even complain when Sarah made me a grilled cheese on...get ready for it...whole wheat bread.
Anyhoo, back to my story...
I took a deep breath and plunged in. "Guess what," I said, bouncing on the couch beside her after we finished an episode of "Parks and Recreation." I didn't give her time to answer because the most exciting thing that she can envision is the arrival of one of Will's teeth (upon which he will immediately bite his mother for stuffing peas up his nose). "I was chosen for one of the highest honors imaginable," I said, "I have been invited to be part of the Nielsen Viewing Family." We stared each other over the gulf of stunned silence.
"Uh," Sarah said, shifting uncomfortably, "me too." What?!?!? This couldn't be happening. She didn't even really watch tv. I had bullied a big screen television on her as a wedding shower group gift as a pity present for her poor husband. Why would Nielsen want her? I asked clarifying questions. Magical postcard arriving in mail? Yup. Filled out subsequent survey questions? Yup. Prayed to be chosen? Nope. Received week-long television diary that would shape the future viewing habits of our nation and maybe even the world? Yup. Meticulously filled out said diary with agonizing accuracy? Nope. What?!?!? "Sarah," I scolded, trying to distract her from picking Will's pea-filled nose, "you need to take this responsibility seriously." She shrugged. Yes, you read that right. She SHRUGGED. "When the week is up, I'm just going to write that I watched Hulu." I made a hasty exit after this, trying to ignore Will's plaintive look for me to not leave him behind. Obviously I was going to have to re-evaluate this relationship. Fortunately, I have the support of my Nielsen Family to get me through this turbulent time.
Wednesday, July 16, 2014
Dental Drama
I swing through the doors of my dentist's office as though entering everyone's favorite Boston bar. Instead of yelling "Norm," my name elicits a cheer as I arrive for my scheduled appointment at my second home. "How was your day, Amy," the effervescent receptionist asks. I scowl at her. "Just great, Rach. I leaped out of bed this morning, thrilled to be getting a root canal. Even better, I got to work before coming here" Staff and clients cracked up, laughing while I looked around, confused, not realizing that this office came equipped with its own laugh track. "How's teaching going," the dental assistant inquired after I showed her an article from one of their outdated magazines about the new trend in yogurt flavors such as pumpkin, beet and butternut squash. "It's like baby food for adults," I explained in disgust before answering her question. "Turns out, I may not be meant for the teaching profession," I told her, "I held up a picture of The Mona Lisa and asked my third graders to share their first impressions." She nodded approvingly, thinking about yogurt. "That sounds meaningful. What was wrong with that?" I stared off into space, remembering, watching my career flash in front of my face. "Well, one of my little art historians raised her hand and asked me if it was a picture of Halle Berry." Cue laugh track.
Since the government feels like enacting laws dictating every little facet of my existence, shouldn't they impose legislation requiring all dental and gynecological offices to install flat-screen televisions onto every ceiling? Instead, I'm trapped in a reclining 70 degree angle, blinded by bright lights with sharp instruments tunneling through my tooth to the gum line for two and a half hours while my dentist regales me with childhood stories of his neighbor, Mr. Martin who pioneered anti-bullying programs by rounding up a posse of nine-year-old boys to retaliate the recent ambush of a gang of unruly 6th graders. "In the car, boys," roared Mr. Martin, giving the group a pep talk the likes to rival that of Knute Rockne before unleashing them upon the older boys (with predictably disastrous consequences). I stared up at the blank ceiling, listening. Nearly three hours later, he finally removed the sharp dental implements and stared at me. "You can close your mouth now, Amy," he said at last. Easy for him to say as my jaw was practically locked in position.
My head throbbing, I made my way toward the exit to hear, "How will you be paying today?" I waved my arms wild, taking in the whole room, "Put it on my tab," I said grandly, "in fact, all dental procedures today are on me!" The room cheered as I disappeared through the door. "See you next week, Amy" yelled Carla (I mean, Rachel). I'm not sure I like having everyone at the dentist office know my name.
Tuesday, July 15, 2014
All-American Mosimans
Savannah and I pulled ourselves away from the television long enough today to experience a rare Made-in-America moment. While Brad was busy roasting wienies on the grill, Savannah was baking a batch of chocolate chip cookies. Not to be outdone, I threw together potato salad before wandering outside to...get this...pick blackberries. Meanwhile, Sydney was out living the American dream by working 60 hours a week, slinging hash. Norman Rockwell...watch out.
Monday, July 14, 2014
Genetic idiocy
Sydney comes by it naturally. I watched as the woman at the university help desk requested my daughter's identification and Sydney responded by enthusiastically digging through her bag to hand her a quarter-filled container of strawberries. "Seriously," I said, frowning as the woman continued to patiently wait for Syd's license, "I was going to make strawberry shortcake with those." Successfully locating her identification, Sydney exchanged her license for the strawberries and raised an eyebrow at me. "Let me spell it out for you, Mother," she said slowly, popping a berry in her mouth. "M...R...I...." Incredulous, I stared at her. "How dare you," I sputtered, "you know I was high when that happened." The woman at the help desk was now fully invested in our conversation.
As I am slightly claustrophobic, my doctor had thought it prudent to prescribe Vicodin prior to the procedure. "Well," my husband asked as we waited in the hospital parking lot, waiting for the drug to take effect. "Well," I answered, "I'm seeing three of you so I think we're good to go." He led me into the hospital and stood silently behind me during in-processing, only stepping in once to wrestle the Harry Potter movie gift card from my hand as I insistently tried to hand it to the receptionist in place of the requested insurance card. I then sobbed inconsolably through the MRI..."Do you want us to stop," the technician asked with growing concern through the intercom system. "No," I cried, "keep going." Another kind technician, gripping my thick wool-socked foot as it protruded from the machine, said accusingly, "The doctor really should have given you something."
I sighed as Sydney stuffed her license and the remaining strawberries back in her bag. I shrugged at the woman who looked vaguely disappointed as we left, hoping, perhaps for a container of whipped cream to accompany the appearance of the berries. "Do you have a pen," Sydney asked, pausing at a tall table to fill out her form. "Yeah, hold...on...a...sec," I said, pawing through my bag. Hotel soap from Paris? Nope. Slightly melted Dove chocolate? Nope (but remember that for later). Safety pin...paper clips...clothes pin...broken protractor...wait! There! A pen! With a long look, Syd took the pen from me. "Want a strawberry," she asked, bending over her form. "Sure," I said and began digging through her bag.
As I am slightly claustrophobic, my doctor had thought it prudent to prescribe Vicodin prior to the procedure. "Well," my husband asked as we waited in the hospital parking lot, waiting for the drug to take effect. "Well," I answered, "I'm seeing three of you so I think we're good to go." He led me into the hospital and stood silently behind me during in-processing, only stepping in once to wrestle the Harry Potter movie gift card from my hand as I insistently tried to hand it to the receptionist in place of the requested insurance card. I then sobbed inconsolably through the MRI..."Do you want us to stop," the technician asked with growing concern through the intercom system. "No," I cried, "keep going." Another kind technician, gripping my thick wool-socked foot as it protruded from the machine, said accusingly, "The doctor really should have given you something."
I sighed as Sydney stuffed her license and the remaining strawberries back in her bag. I shrugged at the woman who looked vaguely disappointed as we left, hoping, perhaps for a container of whipped cream to accompany the appearance of the berries. "Do you have a pen," Sydney asked, pausing at a tall table to fill out her form. "Yeah, hold...on...a...sec," I said, pawing through my bag. Hotel soap from Paris? Nope. Slightly melted Dove chocolate? Nope (but remember that for later). Safety pin...paper clips...clothes pin...broken protractor...wait! There! A pen! With a long look, Syd took the pen from me. "Want a strawberry," she asked, bending over her form. "Sure," I said and began digging through her bag.
Sunday, July 13, 2014
Life, liberty and the pursuit of Arctic pops
My daughter Savannah and I are quite passionate about food and take our grocery shopping activities very seriously. Our mantra is "Only losers use lists" and we free-style our way, up and down aisles, in the hope that we eventually emerge from the store with enough ingredients to comprise at least one or two meals for the week. Yeah, we realize that it's a reckless way to live. I almost lost Savannah today when she dove into a chest freezer for the buy two/get three free Arctic pops. It was eerily similar to the ending scene in "Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade" where Indy, just barely gaining a grip on his scheming girlfriend as she dangled inches from a religious relic over a deep crevasse, begs her to "let it go" before he inadvertently lets her go. I grabbed Savannah's flailing feet and pulled, her muffled voice insisting that she almost had it. "Savannah," I said softly, Sean Connery-style, "just let it go," before releasing her feet to dodge five boxes of Arctic pops as they flew from the freezer followed by my victorious daughter with only a smidge of frost burn for her trouble. "The cold never bothered me anyway," Savannah said shivering.
Leaning our shoulders against the now over-loaded grocery cart, we heaved and ho-ed our way toward check-out, passing our friend, Kathy from work. One of my guilty indulgences is peeking into other people's carts. The giant bag of brown rice, laying lonely in Kathy's cart, baffled me. What does one do with brown rice, I wondered, gripping my box of Hostess Cupcakes for comfort. Misinterpreting my reaction, Kathy reassured me that she has recently begun a purchasing pilgrimage of only buying American-made products. I scowled, realizing that my only criteria for grocery grabbing is based on my internal yummy-meter. Bad enough that I'm not reading labels to determine sodium levels, fat content and calories. Now it turns out that I'm not even a patriotic purchaser. Savannah said a pleasant farewell to Kathy and led me off, muttering to myself.
"She's unconscionable," I raged, slamming my Raisinettes on the conveyor belt behind my salt and vinegar potato chips. "Actually, she sounds overly conscientious," Savannah corrected, lining her boxes of Arctic pops up like dominoes behind her frozen popcorn chicken and corn dogs. "Did I tell you that she petitioned to change out our faculty room snack machine out for a HEALTH food vending machine," I fumed, adding fruit-flavored gummies and chocolate pudding to the line. I paused, lost in the nightmare memory. My friend Bryan and I sitting, in stunned silence as the brochures were explained to us. "This...is...NOT...happening," he'd muttered in monotone as I gripped his wrist in terror, inadvertently twisting his arm hair as I thought about the possible future fate of my peanut M & Ms. Of one mind, we rose, the spirit of Norma Rae goading us to action. "Hell no! Our vending machine won't go!" we bellowed, fist pumping the air. Chairs emptied, tables were over-turned and Kathy's potentially life-altering flyers were turned into profane origami sculptures. It had been close, but in the end, my Snickers bars were safe.
I glanced over at Savannah as she reached into the cart for the choco-tacos and vowed then, as difficult as it was, to keep up the fight for snacking freedom. For my daughter. For snackers...everywhere. As long as there is life in my body and my blood glucose levels hover between 80 and 140 and my cholesterol rating comes in under 162 mg, I will battle for a person's inalienable right to consume a can of chocolate frosting with a spoon. It is, after all, the American way.
Leaning our shoulders against the now over-loaded grocery cart, we heaved and ho-ed our way toward check-out, passing our friend, Kathy from work. One of my guilty indulgences is peeking into other people's carts. The giant bag of brown rice, laying lonely in Kathy's cart, baffled me. What does one do with brown rice, I wondered, gripping my box of Hostess Cupcakes for comfort. Misinterpreting my reaction, Kathy reassured me that she has recently begun a purchasing pilgrimage of only buying American-made products. I scowled, realizing that my only criteria for grocery grabbing is based on my internal yummy-meter. Bad enough that I'm not reading labels to determine sodium levels, fat content and calories. Now it turns out that I'm not even a patriotic purchaser. Savannah said a pleasant farewell to Kathy and led me off, muttering to myself.
"She's unconscionable," I raged, slamming my Raisinettes on the conveyor belt behind my salt and vinegar potato chips. "Actually, she sounds overly conscientious," Savannah corrected, lining her boxes of Arctic pops up like dominoes behind her frozen popcorn chicken and corn dogs. "Did I tell you that she petitioned to change out our faculty room snack machine out for a HEALTH food vending machine," I fumed, adding fruit-flavored gummies and chocolate pudding to the line. I paused, lost in the nightmare memory. My friend Bryan and I sitting, in stunned silence as the brochures were explained to us. "This...is...NOT...happening," he'd muttered in monotone as I gripped his wrist in terror, inadvertently twisting his arm hair as I thought about the possible future fate of my peanut M & Ms. Of one mind, we rose, the spirit of Norma Rae goading us to action. "Hell no! Our vending machine won't go!" we bellowed, fist pumping the air. Chairs emptied, tables were over-turned and Kathy's potentially life-altering flyers were turned into profane origami sculptures. It had been close, but in the end, my Snickers bars were safe.
I glanced over at Savannah as she reached into the cart for the choco-tacos and vowed then, as difficult as it was, to keep up the fight for snacking freedom. For my daughter. For snackers...everywhere. As long as there is life in my body and my blood glucose levels hover between 80 and 140 and my cholesterol rating comes in under 162 mg, I will battle for a person's inalienable right to consume a can of chocolate frosting with a spoon. It is, after all, the American way.
Thursday, July 10, 2014
"Oil" be seeing you at summer school
Do NOT tell Brad but, more often than not, teaching summer school is fun. Planning my lessons prior to start-up, I sighed as I looked at my appropriately differentiated and lexiled level readers based on oil spills. Oil spills...really? But my 3rd graders proved that the quality of education is directly proportional to the level of enthusiasm. We dug around a bit on a prior knowledge exhibition. We stabilized our sensibilities before being exposed to the heart-wrenching one-legged, blind kitten reaching through crusty cage bars video on oil spills. "Oil...good," we chanted, giving one another a hearty thumbs up. "Oil spills...bad," we boo-ed with our thumbs down. We brainstormed a list of alternative energy sources and then faced those leveled readers with as unbiased an approach as possible.
To keep (my) excitement level and interest high, we did a series of mini-science investigations. I poured water into a clear glass cake pan and then dramatically added 1/4 cup of vegetable oil. Reactions rocketed through the roof. I stared at my small gang of scientists, stunned. I immediately began planning my next lesson of having them watch paint dry.Anyway, we spent thirty minutes in meaningful dialogue about this complicated little NON-mixture. We tried some rigged up variations of text-based clean-up efforts on our in-class oil spill, trying to sop it up with sponges and attempting to corral it with pipe-cleaner "booms." Later, immersed in their books, a couple of my 3rd graders who weren't just pretending to read hurried over to share related clean-up attempts.
The next day was even better. Using colorful craft feathers, we did a series of scientific trials. I learned quickly that I can immediately capture an 8-year-old's attention if I use the word "naked" in a sentence. First, we set up a three-columned scientific note-taking page. For the first heading, we wrote "naked" feather with an accompanying, school-appropriate diagram. The second heading used the scientific term for water, H2O, which inexplicably thrilled us, also with an accompanying, school-appropriate diagram (a feather with water droplets) and the final column was oil feather with the feather scribbled in. I tried to tease my students by saying that we would be dropping each feather from their seats but they were so deliriously happy and excited that I was almost afraid to tell them we'd be dropping the feathers from a second-story window for fear they'd explode. Turns out that the thought of even going UPSTAIRS had them jumping up and down. We talked about gravity and made predictions before setting out on our elevated journey of scientific discovery.
So yeah...part of my job description is tossing feathers out a second-story window and laughing in surprise when they're swept up onto the roof (We're also doing a friendly letter lesson by writing letters of apology to our custodial staff). Naked feathers...gone. H2O feathers...gone. Oil feathers...WHOA! Plummeted to the ground! The one-legged, blind, homeless kitten made a quick re-appearance as we connected the feathers to birds effected by oil spills but we closed with our "Oil...good" (thumbs up) and "Oil spills...bad" (thumbs down) strategy before writing descriptive paragraphs detailing our observations and the results of our experiment. Then, with excitement, we returned to our differentiated, lexiled books. Summer school is fun. Remember...don't tell Brad.
Wednesday, July 9, 2014
Summer school safety lesson
Participated in another summer school collegiate meeting today that would forever alter the course of humanity as it currently exists. On today's docket was the most important of all subjects pertaining to children: safety and security. I was glad that I had been aligned with this theme all day, exchanging self-assured nods of self-congratulations with fellow educator Mrs. Sherman, as we both mentally recalled our safety review lesson with our 3rd graders before dangling them out of a second story window for our science experiment about the effects of oil on feathers. "Remember our safety rule," I yelled down to Xavier as I firmly gripped his ankles, "no wiggling."
Whether a valued item had actually been lost, misplaced, or pilfered has yet to be determined but our summer school team has raced into offensive action. When empty, classrooms are to be locked. With a sigh of relief, I realized that the only sticky fingers now able to access my 4.5 pound bag of plain M&Ms would be mine. I would certainly sleep better with that knowledge. "What was stolen," asked my husband. "Remember...innocent before being proved guilty," I chided before sharing that the owner had identified the object as a possible meteorite. Brad stared at me for a moment. "You had a meeting because some kid lost his rock," he asked, digging out the receipt for last year's school taxes and waving it in my face. He does this several times a week so it no longer has the desired impact...I just enjoy the breeze. "One man's rock is another man's ruby," I replied. Brad rolled his eyes in exasperation. "A ruby is NOT a rock; it's a gem." "GemSTONE," I emphasized, "hence, a rock." My husband wandering away, muttering something about "rocks for brains" but I was glad to have been able to teach him a little bit about the proper classification of rocks, minerals and gems.
This quick and decisive directive re-enforced my own feelings about the safety and security of all children. Sometimes I worry that I'm "too safe" but now I realize that there is no such thing. Whew. I was afraid I'd gone a bit overboard this morning when, fearing that my 3rd graders would trip and fall down the stairs wearing their flip-flops, I instead just had them slide down the banister railing. Safety first.
Whether a valued item had actually been lost, misplaced, or pilfered has yet to be determined but our summer school team has raced into offensive action. When empty, classrooms are to be locked. With a sigh of relief, I realized that the only sticky fingers now able to access my 4.5 pound bag of plain M&Ms would be mine. I would certainly sleep better with that knowledge. "What was stolen," asked my husband. "Remember...innocent before being proved guilty," I chided before sharing that the owner had identified the object as a possible meteorite. Brad stared at me for a moment. "You had a meeting because some kid lost his rock," he asked, digging out the receipt for last year's school taxes and waving it in my face. He does this several times a week so it no longer has the desired impact...I just enjoy the breeze. "One man's rock is another man's ruby," I replied. Brad rolled his eyes in exasperation. "A ruby is NOT a rock; it's a gem." "GemSTONE," I emphasized, "hence, a rock." My husband wandering away, muttering something about "rocks for brains" but I was glad to have been able to teach him a little bit about the proper classification of rocks, minerals and gems.
This quick and decisive directive re-enforced my own feelings about the safety and security of all children. Sometimes I worry that I'm "too safe" but now I realize that there is no such thing. Whew. I was afraid I'd gone a bit overboard this morning when, fearing that my 3rd graders would trip and fall down the stairs wearing their flip-flops, I instead just had them slide down the banister railing. Safety first.
Tuesday, July 8, 2014
The Lady Mosiman goes Ga Ga
To commemorate Sydney's recent graduation, Savannah thoughtfully got her sister tickets to see Lady Gaga. "Wouldn't it be super-extra special if you took Daddy and me with you as well," I suggested, knowing that having us along would add the necessary glamour-cool cred that the girls are still lacking. "You didn't even know who Lady Gaga was until Mrs. Harris sang Alejandro non-stop to you for a week," Savannah accused. She was right, I recalled fondly. "Mrs. Harris also taught me how to properly pronounce Costa Rica," I said, "Are you saying I don't have any right to visit Costa Rica too?" "Show me where Costa Ricca is located on a map," Savannah replied smugly, rolling her r's expertly, "and then we'll talk."
Anyhoo, I successfully weaseled my way into scoring some sweet Lady Gaga tickets. The show was last night. Poor Brad had to work so we invited Sydney's friend Sam to join us at the last minute. I was so happy for her, all day long. "Just imagine," I told Savannah, "when Sam woke up this morning, she had no idea that she was going to see The Lady Gaga." Our prompt 7:30 arrival was awarded by two hours of pre-show entertainment where we sat and stared in confusion as the 5-girl Korean band, Crayon Pop, armed with giant glow sticks, danced in synchronized precision like a human piston engine. Wearing helmets (I looked up at the auditorium's ceiling with concern but it appeared stable), the girls enthusiastically encouraged audience participation so I passionately yelled my vowels while Savannah pouted. A disc jockey wearing professional office attire who enjoyed flapping her hands was next. "Shouldn't she be wearing some sort of gothie-looking outfit," I asked, wondering if she was hot as she continued fanning her face frantically. "You have completely invalidated the entire concept of goth by calling it gothie," Sydney explained as the sound of a submarine inexplicably joined the kidney-jarring bass, "plus this show is all about not typecasting people." I sighed, eyeing up the stage curtain. "Do you smell french fries with ketchup," I asked, elbowing Savannah who had repeatedly told me that we shouldn't arrive promptly to scheduled concerts. She perked up like a gopher and we scanned the crowd that I was valiantly trying NOT to typecast. "There," I squealed, "between the middle-aged muffin-tops wearing bandannas and the row of drunk twenty-year-olds who keep lifting their left legs up over their heads for what I presume will eventually become their Christmas card portrait." Savannah squinted, "No, those are chicken tenders." During the subsequent forty-five minute interval where I alternately flapped like a floundering chicken and sniffed out french fries, I realized that The Lady Gaga was a marketing genius. At this point, I would have paid ANY amount for french fries with ketchup. Unfortunately, I was practically paralyzed by my fear that I would miss the beginning of the concert.
And then...there she was and I temporarily forgot about french fries with ketchup. I've discovered that it's NOT a Lady Gaga concert if you are not completely confused the entire time. "Do you think she had to pay George Lucas royalty rights for using his set design for Tatooine," I screamed, tossing an imaginary lasso up over my head. It wasn't until I had tired myself out that I noticed the phallic nature of the structure. "Is that a giant nipple on the front of her bodysuit," I asked, giving my own behind a mighty whack while galloping in place. Savannah inched away from me, giving me more room to flail about. The wardrobe changes were impressive although I'm not sure that changing into varying degrees of thong-coverage actually constitutes as a wardrobe change. I loved the wigs, especially the sexy brown Barbarella one. At one point, Lady Gaga burst forth,
outfitted within her own specially-fitted balloon sculpture. "Is she making some sort of commentary about latex," I bellowed, now shadow-boxing tiredly while Savannah wrestled with Sydney in an attempt to change places with her. The final wardrobe change quickly quieted the audience as the singer faced into the stage and was stripped naked (in a very tasteful way) with her quirky crew maneuvering her into her final fabulous outfit. Abandoning my fist-pump technique until my upper-arm toning regiment kicked in, I paused to reflect upon The Lady Gaga's unique way of communicating with her fans. Call me old-fashioned (if you actually call me "old-fashioned," I'll resurrect the fist-pump technique in a hurry), but I have become accustomed to hearing the f-word used in mostly negative circumstances. You know, when the bank heartlessly comes to take your family farm after a plague of locusts destroyed the crop that had miraculously survived a hail storm that lamed one of your plowing oxen. But The Lady Gaga transformed the f-word into a complimentary adjective that was almost (when I could keep from twitching) pleasing to the ear. I'm thinking about the application of this trend in the classroom setting. "Susie-Q, that is the finest f-ing paragraph that I have ever seen. Good f-ing job!" For the finale, I had switched over to my stand-by "Peanuts" move: arms stretched down the length of the body, palms extended out perpendicular, left shoulder up then right then left while hopping from foot-to-foot with my neck tilting attractively from side-to-side. I noticed that the girls were checking out my routine with admiration. "I think it's time to go," Savannah said, grabbing my arm. I glanced back for a last glimpse of Lady Gaga. "C'mon Mom, we'll get you some french fries."
Anyhoo, I successfully weaseled my way into scoring some sweet Lady Gaga tickets. The show was last night. Poor Brad had to work so we invited Sydney's friend Sam to join us at the last minute. I was so happy for her, all day long. "Just imagine," I told Savannah, "when Sam woke up this morning, she had no idea that she was going to see The Lady Gaga." Our prompt 7:30 arrival was awarded by two hours of pre-show entertainment where we sat and stared in confusion as the 5-girl Korean band, Crayon Pop, armed with giant glow sticks, danced in synchronized precision like a human piston engine. Wearing helmets (I looked up at the auditorium's ceiling with concern but it appeared stable), the girls enthusiastically encouraged audience participation so I passionately yelled my vowels while Savannah pouted. A disc jockey wearing professional office attire who enjoyed flapping her hands was next. "Shouldn't she be wearing some sort of gothie-looking outfit," I asked, wondering if she was hot as she continued fanning her face frantically. "You have completely invalidated the entire concept of goth by calling it gothie," Sydney explained as the sound of a submarine inexplicably joined the kidney-jarring bass, "plus this show is all about not typecasting people." I sighed, eyeing up the stage curtain. "Do you smell french fries with ketchup," I asked, elbowing Savannah who had repeatedly told me that we shouldn't arrive promptly to scheduled concerts. She perked up like a gopher and we scanned the crowd that I was valiantly trying NOT to typecast. "There," I squealed, "between the middle-aged muffin-tops wearing bandannas and the row of drunk twenty-year-olds who keep lifting their left legs up over their heads for what I presume will eventually become their Christmas card portrait." Savannah squinted, "No, those are chicken tenders." During the subsequent forty-five minute interval where I alternately flapped like a floundering chicken and sniffed out french fries, I realized that The Lady Gaga was a marketing genius. At this point, I would have paid ANY amount for french fries with ketchup. Unfortunately, I was practically paralyzed by my fear that I would miss the beginning of the concert.
outfitted within her own specially-fitted balloon sculpture. "Is she making some sort of commentary about latex," I bellowed, now shadow-boxing tiredly while Savannah wrestled with Sydney in an attempt to change places with her. The final wardrobe change quickly quieted the audience as the singer faced into the stage and was stripped naked (in a very tasteful way) with her quirky crew maneuvering her into her final fabulous outfit. Abandoning my fist-pump technique until my upper-arm toning regiment kicked in, I paused to reflect upon The Lady Gaga's unique way of communicating with her fans. Call me old-fashioned (if you actually call me "old-fashioned," I'll resurrect the fist-pump technique in a hurry), but I have become accustomed to hearing the f-word used in mostly negative circumstances. You know, when the bank heartlessly comes to take your family farm after a plague of locusts destroyed the crop that had miraculously survived a hail storm that lamed one of your plowing oxen. But The Lady Gaga transformed the f-word into a complimentary adjective that was almost (when I could keep from twitching) pleasing to the ear. I'm thinking about the application of this trend in the classroom setting. "Susie-Q, that is the finest f-ing paragraph that I have ever seen. Good f-ing job!" For the finale, I had switched over to my stand-by "Peanuts" move: arms stretched down the length of the body, palms extended out perpendicular, left shoulder up then right then left while hopping from foot-to-foot with my neck tilting attractively from side-to-side. I noticed that the girls were checking out my routine with admiration. "I think it's time to go," Savannah said, grabbing my arm. I glanced back for a last glimpse of Lady Gaga. "C'mon Mom, we'll get you some french fries."
Sunday, July 6, 2014
Everything's coming up rainbows
Saturday, July 5, 2014
An "elegant" dinner with the Mosimans
There is a reason that people do not generally come to my house. Case-in-point: We had invited our friend Joan for a lovely Independence Day dinner and, as we had napped up until 4:30, were frantically rushing around, involved in complicated food preparations, when she walked in the door. Observing the chaos and trying not to look shocked by the off-balanced menu of three meats with two potatoes, Joan leaned casually against the counter and gave the polite prerequisite offer of "Can I do anything to help?" "Here," I yelled, tossing three giant-sized Idaho taters at her, "peel and wedge these." Juggling the spuds, Joan insisted on clarification regarding the process of "wedging" potatoes. I sighed, showing her a diagram. It's impossible to get good sous-chef service anymore.
"Can I get a drink," Joan asked upon completion of her chore. "After you cut up and dice these three melons," Savannah told her. "That's a lot of melon," Joan replied doubtfully, "do you have more people coming?" "We're making salsa," Savannah told her, "so get chopping." "Can you help me wrap bacon around the potato wedges first," I asked, pulling Joan away so we could address the first of her three-meat menu selections. "Can't we just buy salsa from the store," Joan mumbled as she mummified each potato wedge in bacon.
During the twenty-five minute period it took to cut up the melons, Joan staved off impending dehydration by occasionally indulging in a bite or two of honeydew when Savannah wasn't looking. "How's this," she asked Savannah, tipping the vat of cut-up melon for her inspection. "Well, they're a little big," Savannah said. "Well maybe you should have shown me a diagram like your mother did," Joan snapped, feint with hunger.
After Joan set the table, we enjoyed our delicious 4th of July meal of barbecue short ribs, grilled tenderloin medallions with melon salsa, potato salad (with bacon) and bacon-wrapped potato wedgies. After Joan cleared the table and did the dishes, she made homemade peach ice cream before, inexplicably, she hurried away. We gathered at the door to say good-bye, graciously accepting her thanks for inviting her to dinner. We waved good-bye at her retreating figure in the darkness, the shadows obscuring four of her five fingers as she waved back. "Isn't it nice to be able to offer someone a fine meal once in awhile," I said, smiling over the sound of squealing tires. "Yeah," Savannah agreed, "we really need to invite Joan over more."
"Can I get a drink," Joan asked upon completion of her chore. "After you cut up and dice these three melons," Savannah told her. "That's a lot of melon," Joan replied doubtfully, "do you have more people coming?" "We're making salsa," Savannah told her, "so get chopping." "Can you help me wrap bacon around the potato wedges first," I asked, pulling Joan away so we could address the first of her three-meat menu selections. "Can't we just buy salsa from the store," Joan mumbled as she mummified each potato wedge in bacon.
During the twenty-five minute period it took to cut up the melons, Joan staved off impending dehydration by occasionally indulging in a bite or two of honeydew when Savannah wasn't looking. "How's this," she asked Savannah, tipping the vat of cut-up melon for her inspection. "Well, they're a little big," Savannah said. "Well maybe you should have shown me a diagram like your mother did," Joan snapped, feint with hunger.
After Joan set the table, we enjoyed our delicious 4th of July meal of barbecue short ribs, grilled tenderloin medallions with melon salsa, potato salad (with bacon) and bacon-wrapped potato wedgies. After Joan cleared the table and did the dishes, she made homemade peach ice cream before, inexplicably, she hurried away. We gathered at the door to say good-bye, graciously accepting her thanks for inviting her to dinner. We waved good-bye at her retreating figure in the darkness, the shadows obscuring four of her five fingers as she waved back. "Isn't it nice to be able to offer someone a fine meal once in awhile," I said, smiling over the sound of squealing tires. "Yeah," Savannah agreed, "we really need to invite Joan over more."
Thursday, July 3, 2014
Welcome Tiny Little Tenley
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| Tiny little Tenley (helping me peek at Rachel's euchre hand) |
Wednesday, July 2, 2014
Smooth sailing for summer school
The fifteen minutes following the dismissal of summer school has morphed into a quasi-meeting of the minds. It is within this impromptu "circle of trust" that educational precedence is established, academic expectations surpassed, and collegiate discussion rivals the discourse of the great Socratic philosophers of old.
Today's topic was reflective of our typical high-quality conversations. "When taking attendance on the computer," our esteemed leader announced, "please mark present students with an x and absent students with the letters AB." This pronouncement was met with stunned silence before we broke out into spontaneous applause. Our scholastic schooner is sailing straight and true under the keen navigational leadership of our trusty captain. A hesitant hand interrupted our celebration of this important educational edict. "My wire-less keyboard is a little tricky and unreliable," one teacher said apologetically, "would it be possible to just leave the box for present students blank?"
Well, needless to say, we were shocked. After taking a reflective breath, our administrator squared his shoulders and addressed this pressing issue head-on. "In light of these extenuating circumstances," he told her, "you may leave boxes empty for present students." Chaos ensued. "Why is okay for her to be able to skip the important process of entering x-es for present students and the rest of us have to spend our valuable time inputting letters into tiny boxes...that is, when we actually REMEMBER to take attendance." Realizing that he was facing what may be his fiftieth mutiny of summer school (this is day two, after all), our administrator quickly made an executive decision and declared, from this day forward, that a student's presence is school would be indicated, ironically, by an empty box. And the crowd went wild. "Anything else that I can do for you," our exhausted leader asked. After he denied our daily requests for doughnuts, the circle of trust was dismissed. Sleep well, citizens, the education of your children is in capable hands.
Today's topic was reflective of our typical high-quality conversations. "When taking attendance on the computer," our esteemed leader announced, "please mark present students with an x and absent students with the letters AB." This pronouncement was met with stunned silence before we broke out into spontaneous applause. Our scholastic schooner is sailing straight and true under the keen navigational leadership of our trusty captain. A hesitant hand interrupted our celebration of this important educational edict. "My wire-less keyboard is a little tricky and unreliable," one teacher said apologetically, "would it be possible to just leave the box for present students blank?"
Well, needless to say, we were shocked. After taking a reflective breath, our administrator squared his shoulders and addressed this pressing issue head-on. "In light of these extenuating circumstances," he told her, "you may leave boxes empty for present students." Chaos ensued. "Why is okay for her to be able to skip the important process of entering x-es for present students and the rest of us have to spend our valuable time inputting letters into tiny boxes...that is, when we actually REMEMBER to take attendance." Realizing that he was facing what may be his fiftieth mutiny of summer school (this is day two, after all), our administrator quickly made an executive decision and declared, from this day forward, that a student's presence is school would be indicated, ironically, by an empty box. And the crowd went wild. "Anything else that I can do for you," our exhausted leader asked. After he denied our daily requests for doughnuts, the circle of trust was dismissed. Sleep well, citizens, the education of your children is in capable hands.
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