Elisha's Snips & Clips

A few month's ago, my fearless friend Elisha became the proprietor of a hair salon in Pike, New York. Today, I arrogantly thought I'd throw "Elisha's Snips & Clips" a little bit of my valuable business; you know, just to get her started. After a near-death collision on the way, I stumbled into her shop and was startled to see it was standing room only. "Amy," Elisha greeted me, "aren't you meeting Cathy for lunch today?" I stared at her in surprised silence. How on earth did she know that? Was my bra size also public knowledge? No, I reassured myself, I routinely lie about that little tidbit.

Room was made for me and, as I sank into a comfy chair, I suddenly realized that I wasn't in "Elisha's Snips & Clips" of Pike, New York. I was in "Floyd's Barber Shop," Mayberry USA. I was emotionally affirmed by the crowd of soon-to-be-clipped clients as I shared how I, as a result of my usual bad driving practices, had come upon a stop sign too quickly. Another vehicle, turning left toward me, paused next to me to glare. I immediately reciprocated with a heartfelt wave of apology before taking in (a) the fact that he had cut his turn short into my lane and (b) he had his little dog on his lap. I don't judge him for either violation as I have been routinely guilty of both but I was irked about his irritation with me. "Finally, in my forties, I've stopped caring what other people think," I concluded victoriously while my new emotional support group cheered before sharing their own traffic-related stories.

I was introduced to a colleague's grandparents-in-law who inquired about the teacher who was assigned to their grandson. I sang her virtues as both an educator and a person. "She's fearless," I bragged, "and embraces life. She rides motorcycles and took up bow hunting." Intrigued, a man in the chair asked if she was married. "Not for a lack of suitors," I informed him. "Is she a young woman," another eligible man asked. I began thinking that perhaps Elisha should start a side business here. "Yes," I answered, "she's about my age." This was met with awkward silence. "Young," I stated, unhappy to have to force them to agree with me.

I compared dachshund ramps with one client. Learned that there are people in the world, who, for some inexplicable reason, want used slabs of concrete. Lamented that the traffic lights in Batavia are frustratingly timed so that you hit every red signal. And I was warned that the road leading to the Glen Iris was being repaired and, given my driving ability, I should be extra careful. I finally made it to the chair and happily caught up on Elisha's life while she tamed my tresses. "Tell Cathy I said hey," she smiled, whipping off my little hair bib and sending me on my way. I hated to go. There's just something so warm and real about a small town salon.

The cautionary tale of why you shouldn't wear underwear to bed

As those who know me well can attest, I am very attached to my dogs. Particularly. my little dachshund. But recently, my level of attachment  tested the conventions of good taste, dignity, and decorum. A recognized trait specific to the breed, my dachshund loves to burrow. If a groundhog's hole is unavailable, Chloe happily makes do with a pile of blankets.

At bedtime, Chlo likes to be wedged comfortably between Brad and me, tucked into a warm tummy or curled into a pair of knees. We're a cozy little family. But a few nights ago, things got a little too cozy. I awoke in the darkness with a nagging feeling. I shifted but couldn't escape the sensation of being bogged down in my bed. "Brad," I murmured, poking my husband in the back, "help me." "Wha-," he groaned groggily, "what's the matter?" Despite the late hour and privacy of my bedroom, I was still embarrassed. "Chlo's collar is stuck on me." Propping himself up on one elbow, Brad sought clarification. "What?" "Her collar is attached to...my elastic waistband." I may have lost my dignity but Brad's sense of humor was firmly in place. "Are you saying," he said, chuckling as he pawed around under the covers, seeking to free our still sleeping dog, "that Chlo is caught on your underwear?" "Yes," I answered in my most solemn tone. Effortlessly, Brad unhinged this unusual umbilical cord connecting Chloe to me. Ignoring my husband's incessant giggling, I buried my head in my pillow and quickly went back to sleep.

Maybe it was just a dream, I thought to myself upon waking the next morning. Stretching, I stood up, frowning as something tickled the back of my legs. I hadn't taken more than two steps before I discovered the source of my discomfort. Brad, seeking the path of least resistance last night, had simply unlatched the collar, leaving me with a tiny tail and a rapidly reducing sense of self-esteem.

And thus concludes the cautionary tale of why you shouldn't wear underwear to bed.

Goldilocks buys a bed and Amy gets bruised

There is a saying that those who cannot remember the past are destined to repeat it. My life is basically a movie trailer of Bill Murray's "Groundhog's Day" except, unlike him, I don't eventually catch on and learn how to improve my situation. The softball-sized bruise on my leg and the newly-installed 8-foot dog ramp in my bedroom are a testament to that.

Once upon a time, a newly married Amy Mosiman went out into the world to buy a bed. Waterbeds were to the 80s what memory foam is to the (20)10s. So this gullible Goldilocks wanders into a waterbed store and learns that all sizes are the same price. SCORE! As "Emperor" or "Czar" didn't exist, Goldilocks purchased a "King." The king of her castle, away on military maneuvers, was not too thrilled to discover, upon his arrival home, that his dresser now resided in the hall, the doors on his closet had been removed, and that there was no workable floor space at all in his bedroom. "We'll never have to vacuum in there," his blushing bride pointed out optimistically as she watched her husband balance on the stormy seas of their bed, trying to access his freshly-ironed (from a helpful shop off-base) uniform.

Fast-forward twenty years. Goldilocks-with-a-hint-of-gray is again in need of a bed. Bearing in mind (hee hee) that her bedroom is small, she was only looking to replace, not up-grade, her existing queen-sized bed. After flopping around on a dozen or so models, she made her decision and hurried home, excited about the anticipated delivery. Removing the old bedding, the workmen stood by patiently while Goldilocks frantically vacuumed the vacated spot. Untouched for twenty years, it was an archaeological landmine of lost socks and dog toys. Construction began until, soon enough, Goldilocks was called in for inspection. "Beautiful," she said, admiring the tasteful sleigh-bed frame she'd selected. But then she frowned. "How am I suppose to close the bathroom door," she asked, noticing it trapped against the wall by the bed that now filled her bedroom. "You're not," her heroes informed her before heading off to fulfill some other maiden's furniture fantasy.

"Oh no," groaned Goldilocks-with-a-hint-of-gray, "what am I going to tell Brad. Brad, now known as Papa Bear, was again away, this time on a SCUBA diving excursion with Sydney to celebrate her recent graduation. "Help me with this," Goldilocks said desperately, squeezing between the bed and the wall in a futile effort to free up the door. With an engineer's calculated eye, her daughter Savannah informed her mother that it was a lost cause whereupon Goldilocks flopped down on the bed in a fit on uncontrolled weeping.

So Papa Bear came home and was surprisingly silent as he viewed his bedroom and weighed his options. Moving out was crossed off the list because he couldn't access his clothes. "It's not so bad once you get used to it," his blushing bride said optimistically, demonstrating the ease of squeezing herself out the door by promptly banging her leg for the millionth time on the bedpost. He spotted the dog sitting on the floor. "Why isn't Chloe on the bed," he asked tiredly. "It's too tall for her so I just lift her up," Goldilocks said cheerfully.

The period of re-construction began (oops, sorry...I changed literary genres. We've transitioned from fairy tale to historical fiction. Who am I now...Scarlett Gray-in-the-Hara?). Brad effortlessly removed the door from its hinges while I swooned. "Why I declare," I trilled softly, fanning myself, "I didn't know a door could removed like that." Because there isn't a single right angle in this house, several hours were dedicated to sanding and "shimming" to re-set the door on the opposite side. To be helpful and supportive, I begged Brad to explain the process of "shimming" to me until he finally asked me to just please be quiet. Door in place, Brad cancelled my planned christening. "Put away the bottle of champagne," he ordered as I choked up on the neck and prepared to swing.

Debates about the dog ramp lasted well into the night. To minimize space, Brad's original design used less wood but would require the dachshund to have a running start of at least an eighth of a mile. "She's not trained in parkour," I argued, inadvertently transitioning to realistic fiction (sorry Readers). Brad sighed with resignation but went to work.Voilà! With some coaxing and strategically-placed doggie treats, Chlo was soon trotting confidently up her 8-foot long ramp and jumping on the bed.

 This is it, right? What are the odds that, twenty years from now, I will be buying yet another bed too big for my bedroom? I've got the "doomed to repeat it" part down to a sick science. I've got to learn to apply the Goldilocks principle and, armed with a measuring tape, find a bed that is "just right." Until then, I will just have to live with the consequences of my decision. "Brad," I said forlornly, "I can't make the bed easily with that 8-foot dog ramp in the way." He looked at me quietly with one eyebrow raised. "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn."

The Cable Guy

I spent the bulk of my afternoon with Dan the cable man. I know it sounds quite elicit but allow me to reassure you that it was quite innocent. As the cable was scheduled to be installed at Savannah's apartment between noon and one pm, I was apparently the only person available without anything meaningful to do. So off I journeyed with a purple Power Puff Girl comforter and a framed family portrait for Savannah's new bedroom. I admired my daughter's chic, sophisticated home. Just like Seinfeld, you get to buzz visitors in! This unfamiliar feature is daunting though, when confronted with the arrival of a service technician. I decided that I should just wait outside so I loaded up with water and cookies before searching for some reading material. I quickly discovered that, unless I was interested in learning how to train for a marathon, books were in short supply in this apartment. I guess Savannah hasn't had time to build up her library yet. Fortunately, there was a take one/leave one reading rack in the building so I perused my options:

*The Complete Book of Vitamins

*How to Use America Online

*I Don't Want to Be Alone

*How to Spell It

and my favorite...

*History of the Lithographers Union

As you can see, it was a tough choice. I finally settled on From the Pew to the Pulpit: My Walk with the Antichrist. As luck would have it, Dan the cable man arrived promptly and set straight to work. While he wrestled with wires, he explained the death roll maneuver of the American alligator and I sat there politely pretending I didn't already know about the death roll maneuver of the American alligator because otherwise I would have to take a walk with the Antichrist. Suddenly "Days of Our Lives" appeared on the TV. "You are the first thing I think of each morning," the angst-ridden female character cried out to the handsome but heartless man in front of her, "and the last thing I think about before I fall asleep." I laughed. "The last thing I think about before falling asleep," I shared with Dan the cable man, "is that I don't want to go to work in the morning." He laughed too. "I know...right?" he agreed before contemplating, "why don't they make a soap opera about poor people?" "That's a great idea," I said excitedly, "with plots like The Tornado Took My House...to Texas."   "How about My Skirting Blew Away and Now You Can See My Junk." "Oh...that's a good one! We can also do Perhaps Powerball Will Pay My Rent." Dan and I also collaborated on I'd Like to Move But My Hitch is Broken and My Welfare Check Ran Dry. Before he left, we changed the opening of "Days of Our Lives" to fit our new poverty-theme. We replaced "Like sands through the hourglass..." with "like ants in the sugar bowl..." These are the days of our lives. When Dan walked into the apartment, he was just a cable guy. He walked out of the apartment, a soap opera script writer. I anticipate an angry phone call from his company, forced to paraphrase Seinfeld. "What have you done to my little cable boy?"

Take-Your-Mom-to-College-Day

It was Take-Your-Mom-to-College-Day at the University of Buffalo. Or so I had Sydney fooled into thinking as I handed her a Lunchable as we headed out the door this morning. My big plan was to discreetly find a little cubby hole and lie low during her day just so she would have a friendly, familiar face on campus. I didn't want her to feel alone and afraid.

First thing on the agenda was to re-adjust her schedule. Despite our arriving almost an hour before admissions officially opened, our new, fashionably dressed friend "Bernadette" ushered us into her office with a welcoming smile and managed to not outwardly judge us at all. "Don't worry," I hissed at Sydney, "everyone will just think that I'm an adult learner." "Yeah Mom," Sydney replied, walking faster, "your gi-normous camera bag doesn't give you away at all." As Sydney's first class was across campus, I inquired about the handy shuttle system. Bernadette waved a slender, muscled arm gracefully and dismissively in the air. "You don't need the shuttle," she poo-pooed, "the class is but a brisk 7-minute walk from here."

Mission accomplished, Sydney and I began our journey after receiving more encouraging advice from a helpful crossing guard with awesome day-glo yellow sneakers that looked like she was wearing tennis balls on her feet. After accepting our many compliments about her fashionable footwear, she wrinkled her face in horror when she heard our plan for the brisk 7-minute walk. "You should take a leisurely 5-minute stroll down this sidewalk to the shuttle," she suggested but we really felt that we owed it to Bernadette to make an effort.

We arrived, sweating and exhausted, nearly 12 minutes later. Sydney found me a little cubby hole where I felt alone and afraid until her class was over. She kept me in the loop via text message prior to her class beginning:

Sydney:  Have succeeded...now a pretend TA (teacher's assistant).

Mom: (eating her first pack of fruit gummies) Have you been mistaken for a collegiate professional?(Sydney learned to "dress for success" from my friend Sarah who gave her Grandma Glo's opinions about the repercussions of wearing pajamas to the SATs or the benefits of dressing professionally.)

Sydney:  One person in here with me. Currently choosing to pretend I'm not here.

Mom:  (eating reserved pack of gummies that was to be saved for emergencies) Be friendly...bubbly and chatty...."So...oo...where're ya from (toss toss)" (Reference to Ga-linda from "Wicked")

Sydney:  I already did my best "thank God I'm not the only one in here!" (blink blink)

Mom:  (Nibbling string cheese) Smile encouragingly and point out the interesting achicetual points of the building. Did he notice the Greek columned entrance to the department offices? Couldn't figure out how to spell "architectural" until just now (flip, flip, toss, toss) (Accidentally combining "Wicked" reference with "Elle's" bend and snap from Legally Blonde).

Sydney:  I would sound so cool! Now a friendly person has entered. Will try again...

Mom: (searching for food and panicking upon discovery that camera bag now only contains a camera):  Turn off that awful door-knocking text feature and you might have a shot. Remember that you are a fascinating person with a lot to offer but humble enough to be interested in the lives of the common folk.  

As I didn't sleep well last night (imagining Sydney, alone and afraid), I was a little loopy which lends itself to uncontrollable fits of laughter. Bout of giggling #1 occurred during my first photo of Syd against a wall where I walked closer and closer to her to frame her in the shot. She was practically nose to lens when she gently commented, "You do realize, don't you mother, that your camera has zoom." Bout #2 coincided with our ordering of another over-$6-beverage (...and you scoffed at the Lunchable, didn't you?). While I don't remember what set off my round of guffawing, I can tell you that it ended abruptly when I inadvertently elbowed a fellow Jamba Juice fan in the face while wrestling for my completed order. I didn't get to the public pee-er, the one-legged seagull or what I now like to call "The Fiasco at the Library," but it was a long day and I am emotionally wrought. The first day of school is so draining.

Alphabet Slop: Peaches, peas and where is the pudding?

As a mother reluctantly wrestling second-hand furniture out of her rapidly emptying nest, the challenges associated with raising an infant have somewhat faded from my memory. Sandwiching a lunch-date with my friend Sarah in between college errands and delivering a desk to Savannah's new apartment, I arrived at the restaurant first and put the waiting staff on full-alert that Baby William was on his way. "Could we eat outside so that we can just pull up his stroller," I asked, quickly assessing the situation. Delighted to accommodate Will, the hostess ushered me outside to peruse perambulator parking spots. Full sun was obviously out so we wrestled a metal table into the shade. All that was left was to roll out the red carpet.

Sarah and William arrived with proper fanfare. A group of waiters and waitresses gathered around to admire Will while Sarah admired their menu selection. William quickly assigned me an important job and I reveled in my position as CEO of toy retrieval. I withheld judgement concerning the quality of William's play things. Sarah was indignant that I confused Sophie la girafe with a dog toy. Developed in 1961, Sophie la girafe is an example of French infant toy manufacturing. Need I say more. "It's rubber and it squeaks," I said, "my dachshund would love it." Apparently this rubber wonder giraffe is made from the sap of the magical Hevea tree, its construction is a national secret and it costs more than two admission tickets to Cirque du Soleil.

The feeding of William is a painful process; a lesson in meal-time torture. Sarah started him out with peaches which he consumed with great gusto. "You might want to sit back," Sarah warned, "his peas are next." Savannah and I stared at Sarah in horror. She knows that William hates peas but deliberately feeds them to him anyway? If this isn't a clear case of child abuse, I don't know what is. We tried to subtly point out the error of her thinking. "If the theme of this meal is food beginning with the letter P," I remarked, watching William vigorously flail his little head side-to-side like an orca shaking a seal (or a dachshund shaking a rubber giraffe), "then you're missing the most important one...pudding." Sarah frowned and persistently followed Will's moving mouth with the spoon. Savannah gave it a try. "Couldn't you at  least alternate spoonfuls? You know, one spoon of peaches then one of those awful peas." Sarah insisted that would be like lying to Will. Savannah and I exchanged quick glances. What's worse...lying or cramming creamed peas into poor Will? By this point, we felt helpless. What could we do to save baby William?

Turns out William didn't need us at all (except perhaps as witnesses when his mother is eventually brought up on charges of forcible pea distribution on unwilling victims). Adaptation is a remarkable trait. To combat his mother's penchant for peas, Will has developed an allergy of sorts. Each time his little mouth is stuffed full of peas, he inexplicable feels the need to sneeze. Before I knew it, I had creamed peas coating my hair, green freckles spotted my skin and, as it turns out, peas work rather effectively as under-arm antiperspirant. Shocked (and a little disgusted), I looked at Sarah, certain now that she would recognize the error of her ways and alter William's meal plan accordingly. Taking in my pea-covered appearance, Sarah shrugged before heartlessly continuing to shovel that slop into her beautiful baby's mouth. "I warned you," she said.

Wyoming County Fair: Security Detail

I don't like to brag about my selfless volunteer efforts but today I really went above and beyond so, in the hopes that this little anecdote might inspire others, I will momentarily shine the spotlight on myself. Of all the attractions at Wyoming County Fair such as the Win-a-Temporarily-Alive-Goldfish game, the Rupture-Your-Eardrums-While-Choking-on-Smoke-and-Dust tractor pulls, figuring out how the magic Culligan water faucet works opportunity all while consuming every ingenious product made from maple syrup, perhaps the most popular is the School Projects Exhibition Building. The resulting high traffic and public demand makes it necessary to put specially-trained personnel in place to ensure maximum enjoyment.

That's where my friend Geri and I come in. Initially, we'd signed up for the daunting task of set-up. This involves a LOT of upper body strength as well as super-gripping power while one endlessly staples thousands of priceless student art to gnarly wood walls for hours. Sadly, a scheduling conflict prevented us from fulfilling this obligation but we quickly switched over to the security detail which demands a keen eye and diplomatic demeanor. Guarding "Van Goes" is not as easy as you might think. Aside from maple sugar sticky fingers, the school project security team must fend off over-eager moms who would think nothing of ripping their little darlings' art projects right out of the gnarly wall. Vandalism is a constant concern...mostly from competing schools. Sharpies, silly string, spray paint and temporary tattoos are immediately confiscated.

Toward the end of our grueling two hour shift, Geri and I planted ourselves at the entrance to the School Projects Exhibition Building to provide an intimidating presence. Pulled by a pug, fellow fair-goers sat on the neighboring bench. In the spirit of "the grass is always greener," the pug decided to take a lap...mine. While he wheezed at me, I explained that he was ruining my fierce fair "cred." Fortunately, our friend MJ was approaching to relieve us. "Hey, nice tattoos, girls," she said as I pulled the pug from my pants and prepared to depart for the french fry stand (the second most popular attraction at the fair). We were just handing MJ an up-dated computer read-out of recent school project viewing activities as well as police sketches of several questionable characters when a voice cried out from the core of the School Projects Exhibition Building. "Help! Someone drew Sharpie mustaches on the Mona Lisa portraits from Pioneer Central!"  Unfortunately, Geri and I had been swept up into the crowd so were unable to lend MJ support  in solving this perplexing problem. French fries and hot dog in hand, Geri and I congratulated ourselves on a job well done. Volunteering is so rewarding.

Grey's Anatomy (Seasons 1-4) Addiction

Monday marked my first official day of "summer vacation."  The term "summer vacation," as it applies to teachers, is a misnomer anyway as most of my colleagues pick up additional employment or spend a great deal of time up-dating or creating lesson plans for the next school year. Very few are lying around, popping bon-bons, getting massages or riding the Man of Steel roller coaster fifty times.

So, there I was yesterday, reveling in my first day of freedom. What should I do to celebrate? After rummaging through my mostly bare cupboards, I scratched "bon-bons" off my list. And while a massage sounds delightful, I have deeply rooted fears of my body's involuntary reaction to complete relaxation. It's also the reason I avoid yoga and refried beans. And roller coasters.

I knew I was in need of additional employment by Monday afternoon during my Grey's Anatomy first season marathon on TV. Midway through the second hour, I was simultaneously immersed in Youtube clips of my favorite Grey's Anatomy moments. Elevator scenes. Best kisses. Alex scooping up Izzy after Denny's death. Dancing. Icicle stabbing. I knew it was wrong but I couldn't stop. My secret shame. Help wanted...here I come. Seriously.

Wild about skorts

As my personal stylist ran away to East Rochester, I've been set adrift in a sea of clothing catastrophes. I'm never sure whether stripes should run east to west or north to south. I have been singularly devoted to the re-introduction of the pleated skort and desire nothing more than a closet full of culottes. Since the last time I was pointed on a plane toward Florida was when I was dressed identically in the same florescent pink as my traveling companion, this time I was determined to travel south in style.

Watching me shuffle uncertainly through racks of shorts that would resemble sausage casings once I managed to successfully wiggle into them, Sydney pointed to a dress. "Mom, you would look just like Joan Wilder in that." I perked up. I loved Romancing the Stone and immediately pictured Brad and I salsa dancing with Goofy, Pluto and pals. We'd really give Michael Douglas and Kathleen Turner a run for their money. We'd knock their socks right off.

I excitedly rushed into the dressing room. After a disturbing length of time, Sydney sought me out. "Mom," she called, "let me see." "No," I said forlornly. "C'mon," she coaxed, "I bet you're beautiful." Her smile froze as I stepped out into the hallway. "See, I told you," I accused, "I look more like Chandler's dad on Friends than Joan Wilder." My daughter did not dispute this statement. "Why on earth wouldn't you have taken off your shoes and socks," she asked, bewildered by my time-saving tactic. My full skirt nearly knocked her over as I swung back into the dressing room. "See if you can find some knee-length beige skorts," I shouted, wrestling my way out of my high-waisted Joan Wilder dress. I wondered if I could talk Savannah into wearing identical outfits for our upcoming flight. Sydney breathed a sigh of relief that she was driving down.

A Parisian adventure in Perry

Surprisingly, my Parisian-themed visit to the local farmer's market in Perry, New York did not go as planned. First of all, I was the only one appropriately attired while everyone else in our group was out-fitted as Seattle-based hobos. When Savannah and I arrived at Geri's house, I was thrilled to see her daughter Katie was here from Boston. "Savannah, take my picture in front of Katie's sports car," I squealed in delight. "How does having your picture taken in front of a Honda make you feel French," Savannah replied in disgust, walking away so that Geri had to begrudgingly take my picture.

Before acquiring a street-side table at what was quoted as "the smallest farmer's market in the world," we ordered drinks at Burlingham Books. "Watch the store," said the barista to the girl stocking shelves, "there's a slew of people coming in for drinks." Slew? I've never been part of a slew before. A bushel and a peck...yeah. But not a slew. "You know, I said conversationally while the poor guy who ended up just wanting a Mountain Dew waited patiently behind us while we invented unique and whimsical drink concoctions and then changed our minds a million times, "a jiffy is an actual unit of time equaling 1/100th of a second." The busy barista nodded, not caring.

Equipped with nifty drinks, we settled in for some serious people and dog watching while we were regaled by live musical entertainment. "That's Poncho and Lefty," I gasped, recognizing the beloved Willie Nelson song. "Yeah, just like in Paris," mumbled Savannah as she snacked on a sweet bun. Picking through the bag of blueberries, Katie came across a miraculously mammoth berry which spurred a slew of snapshots. "I wish our table had flowers," I sighed wistfully. "It has a rock," Savannah observed, "how could you possibly want more?" But I DO want more. Katie had a friend stop by at our table (presumably to admire the decorative rock) and, after we showed her a zillion pictures of the giant blueberry, she invited Katie tubing on Silver Lake. Intuitively sensing my disappointment (perhaps from hearing me say, "I'm disappointed.), Katie reassured me that perhaps tubing wasn't for me. "If you do it right," she warned, "your arms hurt." I was skeptical but trusted that Katie just wants me to be safe.


We observed friend and fellow Amy gracefully balancing small children and pecks of peaches. When we accused her of child abuse as her daughters staggered beneath the weight of her produce, we watched as Amy ingeniously attempted to transport her tomatoes via her girls's scooters. A caring friend would have helped as Amy's peaches and tomatoes tumbled into traffic but a real friend photo-documents the incident to exploit it on her blog. You're welcome, Amy.

Back to Geri's to celebrate Katie's birthday with a classy layer cake. Geri's husband Gregg was assigned the job of selecting said classy layer cake. "Wow," Katie remarked, admiring her classy layer cake, "Look at all that furry frosting!" "Is it a dog or a cat," Geri said, squinting at what was clearly a cute culinary canine before she began cutting slices. "Don't give the birthday girl a piece from THAT end of the cake," I protested. Symbolically speaking, that marked the end of my faux Parisian adventure in Perry. "Thank goodness," sighed Savannah.

Where in the world is the 4th grade team?

After a lovely lunch overlooking the scenic Erie Canal, the 4th grade team requisitioned a vessel to row scull along the historic waterway. Well, that's halfway right. While we may not have been involved in coordinated crew maneuvers, we still had an afternoon filled with adventure.

Lunch lacked controversy but we made up for it during dessert as we mulled over the handwritten list of tempting treats and pretended to be familiar with tortes. Coyingly polite rather than cut-throat, we tried to mutually decide on a shared dessert via process of elimination. Geri and I immediately kicked out the

peanut-butter based selections which may have caused some pain among the group. Game on. It was now every girl for herself as I manipulated my way towards the chocolate raspberry ganache cake and Rachel tried to subtly guilt-trip her way to a  torte without even knowing what a torte actually is. Clearly the list wasn't cutting it so I grabbed the camera to take some undercover surveillance photos which only made us expand our shared dessert of one to two...so Rachel and I both won.

After lunch, we took a little walk where Kelly regaled us with her bird-song identification prowess. When I demonstrated doubt about her skills (by making fun of her behind her back), Geri pointed out that Kelly had read the Common Core-recommended literature to accompany ELA Module One, Eagle Song, which clearly made her the expert and I should just shut up. Then Kelly squealed with delight as we passed a bead shop so I felt justified in my opinion, raising an eyebrow at Geri to say, "See?"

Be sure to stay tuned for the next exciting installment of "Where in the world is the 4th grade team." Rumor has it that some members might be getting coffee on Main Street in Perry this Saturday morning and pretending they're in Paris as they watch people buy fruit at the Farm Market.

Playground pilferage

In teaching, anticipation is everything. It is also my downfall. "We are going on an academic field trip to master the marvelous world of money," I announced to my semi-interested students. "We will be heading out to the playground," I continued. That got their interest. "You will NOT have fun," I said sternly. "Should you need to use the slides during the course of this scavenger hunt, you will NOT giggle with joy or even smile. Do you understand?" One scared, tentative hand slowly rose into the air. "Mrs. Mosiman, what about the parallel bars?" I frowned, confused by his terminology. "If you mean the monkey bars," I corrected, ignoring their baffled looks, "then, yes, you may traverse your way across the playground by means of this accredited gymnastic implement but under no circumstances should you experience any euphoric delight. Understood?" Solemn heads nodded. Serious scholarly minds prepared for this academic adventure. Little did we know of the drama about to swing in our direction.

Earlier in the day, I was busy traipsing across precariously swinging bridges, crawling through claustrophobic tunnels, careening down slides and inching my way across balance beams, hiding plastic eggs filled with pre-determined assortments of coins. To my surprise, Mrs. Mantelli's tribe of first graders came screaming across the lawn toward me and swarmed the playground. I calmly and rationally addressed this troubling issue. "Stop, hoodlums," I screamed, chasing the pint-sized pip-squeaks up a narrow ladder but they cleverly evaded capture as they deftly escaped down a fireman's pole. Mrs. Mantelli apologized for thoughtlessly using my school playground and, while I attempted to be gracious, it took all of my self-control to resist stuffing her into the spinner of insanity. Where does she get off, bringing children to the playground?

When my academic athletes arrived later, I gritted my teeth in frustration as I caught sight of Mrs. Mantelli's students still occupying "my" playground. My scholars immediately began their studied inventory of the setting. "Mrs. Mosiman," one mathlete bellowed, shaking a plastic egg in my direction, "this egg is empty." Another voice drifted down from the tower, "This egg is empty too." Complaints came from all corners of the playground. Had I been robbed? Mugged by munchkins? Apparently Mrs. Mantelli's extended playground stay was precipitated by this dastardly deed as she systematically shook down the usual band of suspects. I tried to act casually unconcerned that several anticipated trips to the Pepsi vending machine may have just gone down the drain. I doubted Mrs. Mantelli's interrogation technique as she earnestly cajoled her criminals to "do the right thing." Where were the hot, blinding lights? The thumb-screws? Why wasn't she threatening to unstuff their teddy bears? But in the end, goodness prevailed. By goodness, I mean me. My money returned, the marauders were unceremoniously marched off for hard labor which resulted in some pretty impressive letters of apology. It was here that the true genius of Mrs. Mantelli was revealed. Technical writing is one thing but these letters were fraught with feeling while infused with a compelling undertone of  conviction as exemplified by the included sample:  I'm sorry about taking your money (bottom disclaimer: but Gavin did it). That is sophisticated writing.

Bold statements going where no intelligent woman has gone before

I am the queen of inviting myself places. "Geri," I texted yesterday morning, "Sydney needs to test her SCUBA equipment in your pool so if Greg is home, we should play some euchre." To friends we haven't seen for a few months, I locked in our evening plans, typing, "The Mosimans want to see goats, chickens, puppies and the Kelleys (not necessarily in that order)."

When raising animals for meat, I believe that the
subject of their inevitable ends should NOT be
discussed in front of them.

 Visiting the Kelleys is tricky business as my intelligence level tends to plummet around my friend Jon. I am also the queen of the bold statements and most polite people tend to ignore them if they sense an discrepancy. Not Jon. He is a relentless bloodhound on the trail. Early on in our relationship, I was showing off our local area and announced that, translated from its original Native American dialect, Oatka means "Valley of the Black Squirrel." After rudely laughing for far longer than necessary, Mr. Kelley then forced me to admit that I couldn't even identify the supposed tribe from which this word originated. He had a field day when I naively repeated the urban legend that Mr. Rogers wore his signature sweaters to conceal his Navy Seal tattoos.

Ditto for chickens. As Jon has constructed the Fort Knox
of chicken coops, his birds have a warped sense of well-being.

Yesterday was par for the course. My family watched, horror-stricken but not surprised, as I spiraled out of control. Admitting my disappearing ink science experiment failure wasn't a brilliant way to start. Jon's son tried to reassure me that it wasn't actually a complete failure as I had succeeded in getting the lemon juice ink to disappear. I just couldn't get it to reappear again. He couldn't redeem my utter ignorance about anything pertaining to World War I and he finally gave up and left the room when I couldn't remember the term "prostate" so began doing word association and, at one point, mimed my meaning, inaccurately and inappropriately, with two fingers. Mrs. Kelley won this sick version of charades, hopping up and down in her chair and yelling "prostate" while Mr. Kelley hurriedly adjusted my fingers from two to one.

Seeing the puppies almost made up for appearing foolish.

"Well, that was fun," my husband said, driving me home. "You certainly didn't show any bias. You equally insulted every group out there regardless of race, religion, culture, gender or sexual affiliation." I sighed in the darkness. "Why do you even let me talk," I moaned, leaning my forehead against the window, "I look like a total idiot whenever I'm around that man." The silence in the van was chilling as I waited for comforting words. My daughter's voice finally floated up from the rear. "How does one confuse probate with prostate," she asked.