The Bible: brought to you by Amy Mosiman

Everybody's a critic but seriously...in church? As usual, my bangs were absolutely refusing to cooperate and I rightfully worried about them distracting the parishioners from the message. Entrusted with the sacred responsibility of reading Psalm 13 today, I had dutifully practiced. Facing my audience, I introduced my assigned passage and, with eyes sweeping from pew to pew, solemnly read, stumbling only once, repressing a string of profanity caused by my blunder, and concluded with a demure smile before returning to my seat.

My family refrained from ripping me apart until the ride home. "You were honored to be reading pa-salm 13," I was mocked, questioningly. "Why are you so serious...that's not you," I was informed while I indignantly responded by saying that I certainly wasn't going to deliver lines like Lucille Ball. I suppose this constructive criticism is founded in love. I have read-aloud my way from New York to Iowa more times than I can count and I state proudly that one of my greatest achievements is having read aloud the Harry Potter series, in its entirety, to my children. My family takes great delight in my accents which vary from reading to reading. Hagrid, the beloved caretaker of Hogwarts, could sport a southern, British and occasionally, Jamaican accent depending on my level of ability that day. Apparently my western accent is particularly compelling as Brad delighted in my reading of Gary Paulsen's Mr. Tuckett books. "That's just it," I explained, "I am also in character when I read the bible. I can't read it like a clown." "You're not the Pope either," came the muttered response.

Brad was struck with an epiphany as we were grocery shopping. "Winston Churchill," he exclaimed. "You should read the bible like you're Winston Churchill!" I threw a box of fudge pops in the grocery cart and glared at him. I ignored any subsequent suggestions and went home to take a nap. To further prove her point, Savannah popped in "The King's Speech." I closed my eyes and hoped that my bangs hadn't interfered too much with God's word today.

A word about the New York State Tests...no, it's not THAT word

Let's just get it over with and address the elephant in the room. My students were tired. Three 70 minute tests from last week followed by two 60 minute tests this week and a 90 minute test looming in front of them will do that to a kid. I had coached, encouraged and cajoled but their little shoulders were slumped, their faces were slack-jawed and their eyes had lost their sparkle. To quote the best book in the world, Weiner Wolf:

Weiner Dog seldom wagged his tail anymore.

His toy had lost its squeak.

The constant flow of bribes had lost their appeal. "Thanks," they said, not even looking up as I passed out Twizzlers. They barely looked at their peppermint coin candies. No squeals of delight accompanied the arrival of a Hershey kiss. We'd run down a darkened hallway. We'd visited the playground. Nothing. My normally squeaky students were silent. Time to pull out the big guns.

Brad Mosiman, borrowing from some mountaintop guru somewhere, habitually encourages me with this little elephant analogy whenever I get overwhelmed (which is often). "How do you eat an elephant," he'll ask to which I want to be snarky and reply "With ketchup" or "With a knife and fork" but the wise answer is "One bite at a time." Well, if my little honeys were going to be force-fed an elephant all at once, I might as well jump on board.

Prior to administering this final 90 minute exam, I told them again how proud I was of how hard they had been working. "This test shows New York State that both you and I are doing our jobs to the very best of our abilities," I explained, "and at the end of testing today, I have a little treat for you." I showed them a picture of the elephant snack we'd be making and was rewarded with an eruption of cheers which might have been somewhat baffling to the rest of the school. Now, with something to look forward to, my square-shouldered scholars set their minds to the task at hand.

I'm just a simple little teacher...a small cog in the New York State educational system. But a famously disciplined educational reformer taught me that a little sugar helps the medicine go down. Looking around, I see that the majority of tests out there result in something bright and wonderful:  a driver's license, entry to the college of your dreams, professional certification. When my 9-year-olds take the NYS tests, all they have to look forward to is when the tests will over. Maybe I'll send New York State my directions for elephant biscuits as a culminating activity.

The mutilation of a marshmallow bunny

As has long been established, I am a simple woman with simple pleasures. The sound of a freshly-opened Pepsi...the soft rustle of a Russell Stover Marshmallow Bunny wrapper...the pliable texture of three-day-old stale yellow marshmallow Peep bunnies...it's all a girl could ask for. Yet, there are dark forces that threaten to ruin that which I hold most dear. (Like when Hostess supposedly went "out of business." We know that it was actually a secret plot to just switch over all their machinery to market a smaller Ho-Ho for the same price...you're not fooling me, Hostess people!)

I am VERY specific about my desires. I LOVE yellow marshmallow Peep bunnies. Nothing else will do. Not pink, blue or, gasp, bubblegum. Not chick-shaped. Yellow. Bunnies. They MUST be exposed to air for a minimum of three days to attain peak staleness before consumption. And then I like to violently tear their ears off with my teeth like a hungry lioness ripping into the side of a zebra. But...for the past three years, an anonymous member of my household has secretly been de-flowering my yellow rabbit roses. Amputated ears litter my kitchen counter tops. WHY?!? Why would someone be so intentionally cruel? What have I done to provoke such maliciousness against my marshmallow-y deliciousness? Is it a subliminal message about my inattentiveness? My lack of listening skills? There are healthier ways of expressing displeasure. Writing me a heartfelt letter...therapy...killing me in my sleep...anything but the bunny.

We're only telling close friends and family...is there a 12-Step-Program in Sydney's Future?

Had Vegas laid odds...Vegas would have lost. When asked the question, which Mosiman woman would most likely be given a Breathalyzer?, a clarifying question would inevitably be introduced. "Did you mean a Breath Saver," you might inquire. No...Breathalyzer.  "Oh." you might respond, thinking hard, "Well, I guess if I had to guess, it would be Amy although she tends to enjoy licking the salt off the rim of the glass rather than actually drinking the contents." HA! Then you, my friend, would be WRONG! Ha ha ha ha ha!

A little background first. Adorably clad in skin tone-accentuating orange, Sydney Mosiman works behind the grill as a self-described "Sandwich Artisan."  She was recently complimented with additional duties and now also mans the fryer which has the side benefit of aerating skin pores. When, after a long shift of tirelessly feeding the masses, Sydney arrives at home, she is welcomed with loving greetings from her family. "Ewww...you stink!" "Sydney...go take a shower!" "My goodness, do you chop onions for a living or roll in them?"

With that in mind, Sydney was driving home late the other night at Sunday-Going-to-Church-Grandma-Speed (because if she gets a speeding ticket, she's off her parent's insurance policy) when she noticed flashing lights signaling her to pull over. Oh no! As the police officer approached her car, Sydney rolled down her window and the scent emitting from her car nearly bowled him over. Apparently the combined concoction of condiments had congealed. My "Sandwich Artisan" was now an "Alcoholic Aficionado." I guess this makes sense. Can't you make potatoes into vodka? Perhaps the aromatic mixture of ketchup, french fry grease and onions emulates tequila? To her horror, Sydney was administered a Breathalyzer. Shockingly, the reading was conclusively negative. Whew! Exonerated of inebriation, Sydney prepared to leave and was then shocked when she was handed not one, but two tickets. The officer tried to explain that one of her front headlights was out but it was difficult to hear him over the sound of her exhaust. And on that (very) loud note, Sydney went home...exhausted.

An epic odyssey of home improvement

I am a simple, satisfied gal. I don't long for plush carpets, sky lights or sink-in tubs. All I ask is an unhindered view of my dusty television and unblocked access to the refrigerator. My definition of a clean house is my bed mostly made and that at least 10% of my kitchen counter-space is free of dirty dishes. And that number is actually compromise-able.

These tendencies make me a pretty sizable anchor (I'm still battling my winter-weight gain) for a husband who enjoys the occasional home-improvement project. Our attic has been the equivalent of Penelope's tapestry for the last two decades. Just as Odysseus's wife looked to be making progress on her little rug, she'd go and tear out all the threads and begin again. Insulation in (after a LOT of complaining:  "My arms are itchy! How much longer? This is stupid...I'll just wear layers!)...dry wall up (after a LOT of complaining: "This is too heavy! I can't hold it! I can't hold it! Oops...sorry.)...Brad suddenly decided spray foam insulation is the way to go. "Great," I said encouragingly, watching Two Broke Girls. "Wait! What? Did you just say we had to take DOWN all that dry wall and take OUT all that insulation? No way, buddy!"

So we called up our new friend, Warren, and I led him on a fun tour of our house to get an estimate. Brad, who was working at the time, later realized that this was a colossal mistake on his part. "Warren," I wheedled, "do you really think this is necessary?" We examined the attic and I helpfully held the measuring tape when asked. "Hold it to the post," Warren instructed, striding to the opposite side of the room. He looked back. "More to the middle," he gestured. I made an adjustment while Warren regarded me silently. He returned to me and pointed to the area he needed. I smiled. "Warren," I asked sweetly, "Are you married?" "Uh-huh." Warren was a man of few words. And none of those words were screaming at me that I was too inept to hold a measuring tape properly. Warren was a treasure. "Do you really think that we should re-insulate the ceiling and walls," I asked, holding back what could have been perceived as real tears. "That does seem to be a lot of work," Warren agreed.

When I later reported Warren's findings to Brad along with my intent to leave him for another man, my husband's response was to immediately set up another estimate so he could meet with Warren personally. And the next thing I knew, it was time to unravel the tapestry.

Suddenly, I was crouched outside a cubby hole in the attic (I didn't even know we HAD a cubby hole in the attic), waiting for Brad to hand me out bags of debris that had been there since the house had first been built in the mid-1800s. Occasionally, I'd stick my head in this small, dark enclosure to see how Brad was faring but this was an exercise in futility because it was like looking into a sand-filled snowglobe. I could only guess my husband's whereabouts by the sound of his incessant hacking. Meanwhile, I was suffering without measure, sitting on bare boards for three and a half hours, waiting for bag after bag to get stuffed through the hole to me. To alleviate these tortuous conditions, I would stand once in a while to peer longingly out the window (to pretend it was a television). "Look," I exclaimed once through my dirt-clogged respirator, "a pileated woodpecker!" I watched his compulsive search for sustenance, rapidly hitting his head against the wood, again and again. I nodded. It was an apt analogy. I sighed and sat back down, resisting the urge to nail a board over the cubby hole and call it a day. When I confessed this compulsion to Brad, he reassured me that he had never been concerned. "You don't know how to hold a measuring tape properly. What makes you think that you could successfully handle a hammer and nails?" Just give me a chance.

Word slip appeal

Forget slipping on a banana peel. You want comedy? Word slips are where it's at. Unintentionally screwing up song lyrics is always entertaining. One member of my family, who insists on remaining anonymous, loves Fun's "Some Nights." "I found a marble in my bed tonight," she sang when it first came out. "What did you say," I asked, listening carefully as she repeated the compelling lyric. "I believe the word is martyr, not marble," I corrected gently. "I guess that makes more sense," she agreed.

Several years ago, I had a 6th grade student scold me for playing an inappropriate song during a recreational period. Confused, I asked him what was wrong with the song. "There," he shouted, as we listened carefully to Of Monsters and Men's song "Little Talks." "...though the truth may vary, this ship will carry our bodies safe to shore." "What," I asked, completely bewildered. I tried not to laugh when he finally whispered the naughty word to me. "Elijah," I explained, "the word is ship."

Yesterday, I encountered two word slip situations that had me looking at my world in different ways. As I was walking in the bus loop, one of my 4th graders was rattling away about her fabulous trip to an indoor water park. I admit I was only half listening until she got to this part. "You'd be amazed how affordable it actually is, Mrs. Mosiman, once you pay the trolls." I stopped. "What," I asked her. "You know," she said impatiently, "When you leave New York." See what I mean? Who needs a pie-in-the-face gag when you have 9-year-olds delivering slapstick on the sidewalk?

Still giggling from that amusingly visual metaphor, I then was launched into a somewhat disturbing conversation about a beloved acquaintance of mine whose medical needs recently required a temporary catheter. Unfortunately, the term alluded my friend, lingering, as they say, on the tip of her tongue. No worries though. She found a suitable replacement, telling me that that somewhat sensitive male area would need to be cauterized. Same thing, I guess. I'll take a word slip over a word smith any day!

Is there a fine for snarkiness?

When did I start getting so snarky? (Thanks, by the way, for NOT answering that). My first hint that I was getting a tad bit out of control was when I recently received a notice from an express delivery company that they couldn't locate my residence. Huh? I received this notification from them IN THE MAIL! They asked if I could please call their toll-free number to rectify this confusion. Dave the delivery man couldn't have been kinder. Amy the irate customer couldn't have been snarkier. "Dave," I asked innocently," "You are aware that your company managed to write my address down correctly on the postcard you mailed to me, right?" Dave attempted to illuminate the complexities of global delivery for me. I, in turn, expressed my sympathies that his company obviously lacked the financial and technological wherewithal to purchase themselves a GPS gadget or two. I helpfully offered to stand out in front of my house with giant yellow flags to ground-guide the delivery truck to my address but Dave didn't think that would be necessary.

Then, the other day, as I was traveling through a local small town with my hands at the suggested 10 and 2 o'clock positions, I was pulled over by a member of one of the thousand branches of police organizations that occupy our area. I lowered my window and placed my hands again at the 10 and 2 o'clock positions to reassure my law enforcement friend that I wasn't packing heat. He approached my window and then startled me by reaching into my van to remove my permission slip from my mechanic which more or less read, "Please forgive Amy for driving this vehicle without the New York State approved inspection sticker. She suffers from CHECK ENGINE LIGHT-itis and needs to drive it for reasons that she will never understand so we have stopped trying to explain it to her. She will be bringing in this hunk of junk again in a couple of days so we can try to bring this death-trap up to code."" The officer read my Get-Out-of -a-Traffic-Ticket free card and grunted with annoyance. "Technically, this should be taped up to the window," he stated. I was still confused whether or not he should have been reaching into my vehicle without cause or explanation in the first place and now I considered this new scenario where I have an 8" by 12" slip of paper taped to my front windshield. Seriously? He then glanced over at my passenger seat and spotted my cell phone laying there alongside a take-out box, a wrapped Russell Stover marshmallow bunny and a Russell Stover marshmallow bunny wrapper. "You are aware of the new imposed regulations concerning cell phone usage while driving," he inquired helpfully. "Is there a similar law pertaining to the consumption of egg salad sandwiches," I asked back, "because there's one of those in my seat as well." I am well versed on the philosophy that, just because it's in a garage, it doesn't necessarily mean it's a car. Just because I threw my cell phone (and egg salad sandwich) in my front passenger seat, it doesn't necessarily mean I plan on interacting with them as I'm driving. Thanks for not asking about the Russell Stover marshmallow bunny wrapper. I would have been forced to invoke the 5th.

A canine report card

"Stuck in a hot, stuffy room for a half hour," I texted my husband, "how much longer before I can throw a great big ol' American fit?" Swaddled in my warm winter coat ("Why didn't you take it off," I was asked later by someone who has never been trapped in a spider web of dog leashes. I always study THAT scene with Jennifer Beals in Flashdance to see how she does it but I am not limber enough to manage leashes or lingerie in such a beguiling manner), I observed my anxiously panting dogs and considered obnoxiously calling the reception desk but then realized that, if an emergency surgery was being conducted, they could justifiably add another "bitch" to their occupancy.

And so we waited, until one of my favorite vets...oops...veterinarians (Clarification:  Brad's my favorite vet) walked in. Years ago, when we first got Chlo, he made an observation that is quoted daily in our home. "You know the only thing better than having a dachshund," he asked before quickly answering his own question, "Two dachshunds."

Juno shines in this environment. Literally. She emits a heavenly aura or an alien-like tractor beam that draws admirers for miles while Chlo attempts to climb my legs like a lumberjack to seek shelter in my hair, balancing on my shoulders like a puppy-parrot. From the moment she steps over the threshold, everything is against her. First obstacle...taking her weight. Let's just say the scale is NOT Chlo's friend. Her hair is VERY heavy! And no amount of coddling or peanut butter bribery will detract Chlo from that 3 inch needle coming her way. But, for me, this day was different. On this day, the girls each got a glowing report card! That's right! A report card! So exciting and validating! We were praised for our excellent teeth care (I may have blushed a bit). When my veterinarian considered which box to check determining "attitude" (normal, abnormal and not evident), his pen never wavered. I held my breath as we approached the spirit-crushing matter of Chlo's weight  before launching into a detailed explanation regarding the heft of her hair, theories about winter-weight, and promises that she'll run it off during summer soccer. "She's not overweight," I was told as the pen itched to create a new category between "ideal" and "overweight."  To my delight, "ideal" was circled. "She's well-loved," I was told, finally escaping the tiny room. I couldn't wait to get home to put their report cards on the refrigerator!