This was "whale-y" meant to be Juno's year to shine for the Christmas card

Ahhh. The annual Mosiman Christmas card. Eagerly awaited by some. Dreaded by most. But this year, outside forces converged to make this holiday communication all the more miraculously obnoxious.

First of all, my frail attempt to turn the spotlight from our customary canine superstar, Chlo, to her sometimes overlooked understudy, Juno, failed miserably. Excited about our festive theme, A whale in the manger, I was looking for an appropriate costume way back in October. Orcas were plentiful but, as Juno was a black dog, I required a whale of colorful contrast. Countless hours were devoted to the search before I spotted it: Thar she blows! The magnificent blue whale. Without hesitation, I speared the "Send" button.

Several days later, we reeled in our catch from the mailbox and attempted to wrestle Juno into the belly of the great beast. The costume perched around her head and neck like an over-stretched turtleneck. "I thought you said you ordered a large," Brad grumbled as he floundered with the fins. "I did," I insisted, tossing him the packaging. "Large," Brad read, "for small breeds."

Well, we crossed that hurdle. We had our whale. Now all we needed was the manger. Fortunately...I knew a guy. And he owed me. So that Sunday, I had a choice to make. Stay after church to make random small-talk before finally getting around to my request or fill out the Connect Card which tried to strong-arm personal information from me such as whether I considered myself a "guest" or "regular attender." I went with the Connect Card. Carefully separating its perforated edge from the worship bulletin, I deliberated where to write my petition and settled on the area designated for "Prayer Requests." An answer arrived four days later. I'm glad my prayer request wasn't for a tourniquet as I slowly bled out.

Dear Amy,

I have here a Connect Card  wondering if I have "access to a manger that could accommodate approximately 65lbs." I shudder to think what 65lb monstrosity you might be planning to use to desecrate the holy creche. Of course I naturally assume small dogs - but what else could be running through your heathen mind? An oversized meatloaf? A baby cow? An average 4th-grader? There is no room at the inn, or in any manger I might have, for the desecrating sacrilege that you are attempting to perform.

Concernedly,

Your Spiritual Advisor

So it was, just like Mary, that I was turned away.

And like the Blessed Mother, I would have to rely on my wits. In this case...Photoshop. And while it lacked the realism that I had wished to convey, it would have to do. I was washing my hands of it, at this point.

My final obstacle before meeting Brad's postal deadline of the first week of December ("So everyone has plenty of time to enjoy it," he told me) was printing. My final printed sample was centered to perfection. It was time to "hit the press!" What I didn't bank on was the perforated edge of my cardstock throwing the printing out of alignment. I was now faced with forty-five cards from The Mosima. Was I going to meticulously fill in nearly fifty Ns and Ss? Not when I had access to a die cut machine at my disposal! I cut out fifty purple Ns, wrote the letter S on all of them, and then, laughing gleefully at my Christmas craftiness, tucked them into the cards. A good Christmas card inspires a warm fuzzy feeling. A great Christmas card encourages deep introspection, sharpens the creative thinking process, and boosts brain power. My card just confuses everyone; provoking familiar holiday feelings of rage and ridicule. If you even manage to get the card at all. Sorry, Aunt Pat.

I'll be home for Christmas (if I can get a ride) and other songs we don't know any of the words to

 It was more or less your typical family holiday gathering. "Shall we sing a Christmas carol before we eat?" I suggested. "Oh yes!" my nieces clapped as we ran through our shared repertoire of merry melodies and were shocked (and a bit embarrassed) by how truly limited we were, musically-speaking. I have a long history of being kicked out of bands so I wasn't actually all that surprised. We narrowed our selections down to three...then two...then one. When we realized that we couldn't actually remember a song past the first five words, we decided to hum. It was very moving.

Conversations with reunited loved ones were filled with deeply intimate revelations of personal growth, dreams, and aspirations. My eldest niece shared her trepidation regarding learning to SCUBA dive as she has trouble holding her breath in public restrooms for substantial lengths of time.  While it had never occurred to me to practice breathing techniques in a public restroom, I could understand her concern.

I feel that I almost rocked the gift-giving portion of the evening despite the fact that I gave my 80-year-old

parents microscopic puzzle pieces. Perhaps it would prove to be rehabilitative therapy for my Dad's macular degeneration. You could also kindly ignore the fact that the instructions for the talking animatronic hamster that I gave my great-nephew were in Chinese ("Hey! How do you get this thing to work?" my sister-in-law yelled, shaking the gangsta-outfitted rodent vigorously. "How do you get this thing to work?" the critter squeaked back. We might not be able to read Chinese but apparently the hamster can speak English.) and instead focus on this unique opportunity to expand our language base. I was a bit concerned when my toddler nephew turned my adorable (and peace-loving) Little Nutbrown Hare puppet into a post-apocalyptic vampire bunny intent on the destruction of humankind but I feel that's more on the kid than me.  I reached a true low point as I listened to my college-aged nieces sadly share their stories of readjusting their current modes of mobility from motor to moccasin. As both of their cars were now out-of-commission, it felt that presenting them with gas cards would be ironically cruel. Better to have them think that I didn't love them enough to bother to buy them a gift...yes

Overall though, I'm going to chalk it up as a win. No one was irreparably traumatized (if you don't count Little Nutbrown Hare). I'm currently making plans to trade the girls' gas cards in for pedometers.  I'm not sure that my nieces will be inspired by the idea that their journey of a 1,000 mile commute to school begins with a single step and will then be followed by many, many more steps. In retrospect though, I wish I'd brought the sheet music for Walking in a Winter Wonderland.

Going off script: Our Christmas Program

 "Congratulations, Amy! I'm sure this year's will be the greatest ever!" I was told in passing as I navigated the halls of my school. "Thanks," I answered, confused. After several more people offered their well-wishes, I fought the sick feeling in my stomach and finally summoned the wherewithal to inquire what herculean task I was apparently set to perform. "Well...according to the meeting, you are the co-lead for this year's Christmas program," I was told. "I deliberately DID NOT attend that meeting because I didn't want to be in the Christmas program," I said, stomping my foot like a not-so-merry mule.

My supposed co-lead (and arch-nemesis), Tyler appeared at my classroom door shortly after. "We can do this the hard way or the easy way," he announced, leaning back in the chair as he ignored my more-or-less school appropriate rant. "You can just simply say "yes" as we all know you will inevitably do or...," he smiled, folding his arms lazily behind his head to support the neck I was about to strangle, "I will happily visit you before school, during school, and after school EVERY day until you agree...my 3rd graders will make cards, banners, and petitions until their Christmas program has you as its leading lady." Son of a nutcracker! "Fine, I'll do it," I snapped gingerly (See what I did there...I am capable of some holiday spirit!).

 That week-end, I attended a card party where I was happily greeted by my friend and director of the Christmas program, Erin (who infamously was catapulted off the inflatable air-mattress in the middle of last year's program--there was no WAY that we were EVER going to top that!). I should have been suspicious but Erin is always happy which is why I actively avoid her. But suddenly, here she was, insisting on cuddling up to me on the couch. "Let's get Amy another drink," she hollered as she showered me with compliments. "We're so grateful that you agreed to write the play," she smiled, stroking my arm as Tyler, carrying a glass toward me, suddenly lurched from the room. "Wait. What?!?" I said, stunned by this new development. So, long story short, using my friend Geri's dream of a shout-out to Bing Crosby, I channeled my inner Arthur Miller and whipped up a script.

The first few practices were a little rough on my ego. "Amy...I haven't actually read your script but
can we change it?"one actor asked. I announced that my play was like the United States Constitution, a living document which embraces revisions and adaptations. Obviously, I was lying. "The way this is written doesn't fit in with our vision," another group stated. "Is this suppose to be funny?" another fan wondered.

"I was asked to fit in toy soldiers, Baby, It's Cold Outside (a romantic duet sang by Tyler, who is playing my husband, with ANOTHER woman...yeah-THAT makes perfect sense!), The Hippopotamus Song while tossing in a little dance number about sisters all occurring in Bing Crosby's living room!" I shouted (in the spirit of Christmas), I didn't realize that I was being asked to write the Pulitzer Prize of Christmas Program Plays!"

So the night before the play, after badgering my husband into coming in to cut me windows out of 3-inch thick cardboard, I was wrestling curtains onto my set. He regarded my pile of props that included a tinseled headband of icicles, a campfire version of Jiffy-Pop popcorn, and a cowbell. "This all came out of you NOT attending a meeting?" he asked (again). I nodded glumly as I tossed a deck of playing cards into the pile as my living document had received a dress rehearsal revision. He smiled. "Well, I'm sure this taught you a valuable lesson." I sighed. If only that were true.

It was the big day. So what if we didn't have a free-standing door and that the whole play HINGED on it (See what I did there? Arthur Miller...eat your heart out). So what if middle-schoolers called Tyler and I a cringey couple? It just gave me an opportunity to expand my vocabulary. I love learning new catch-phrases! Remind me, by the way, to NOT invite middle-schoolers to the play next year. I watched my friends, from the most amazing vantage point possible, cast aside their inhibitions and perform for the pure joy of bringing smiles to the faces of small children. How blessed I am to teach among these hard-working, sacrificial, and talented people.

Was it the "best Christmas program ever?" I choose to digress as anyone who saw Erin flying off of that air-mattress last year would understand. But I would agree that it was pretty special. And next year, you better believe that I'm going to attend that meeting!

Reindeer desecration

 In my mind's eye, it always looks different. Pinterest-perfect. And then you add in sixteen 9-year-olds and your expectations get adjusted quickly...sometimes...painfully. Yesterday will now forever be known as the day "G" ate a crayon. As a sweet gesture ("Sweet" as in thoughtful; NOT "sweet" as in tasty), one of my students had cranked out seventeen little stars in her crayon-melting-mold device as gifts for her classmates. It did not occur to me to make a verbal disclaimer which is something I have actually developed quite a talent for. I've even named this cultivated skill: Disclaimer improv. "Please don't unbend my large paperclips in order to stab one another." Oops...that needed immediate amending as 9-year-olds are quick to find loopholes. "Please don't unbend ANY sized paperclip-shaped objects." I once fabric-painted names on tiny stuffed elephants and spent the day repeating, "Please don't point
your elephant trunks at each other and pretend that they're guns." So I shouldn't have been surprised when "G" unceremoniously popped his star into his mouth. But I was. We are were. The entire class froze as we watched the emotions evolve across "G's" face: Surprise,

awareness, disgust, and then...determination. None of us could breathe as we saw him swallow. "Would you like some water," I asked gently, sifting through my mind's fact file that most quality crayons no longer contain lead and/or asbestos. I considered asking my star-maker if her crayons had been manufactured in China but figured it was too late now anyway. "No, I'm good," "G" gulped, his face a slight shade of gray. Or maybe ash, stone, slate, or oyster.

So if we can't handle something as simple as gift-giving, what on earth made me think that we could handle making a 3-D ornament? The decorations were simple enough. Cut. Trace. Cut again. We lost focus during the trim one-inch sections of straw section. Disclaimers were quickly made about paper-wads and students who chose to ignore my instructions lost their straw privileges.  We also learned what it means when Mrs. Mosiman yells, "This is the last straw!" Simple instructions, simple shapes, simple decorations...two eyes, a little reindeer nose, color in the hooves...BAM! You're done!

No. Instead we ended up with reindeer sporting Snidley Whiplash mustaches and grilled teeth. "Why does your reindeer look like that," I sighed. "He deals blackjack, Mrs. Mosiman," my artist explained as another deer decorator yelled across the room, "Look! Mine has a tattoo!" Choosing to ignore this reindeer desecration, I pretended it was a malformed tail. Santa accepted Rudolph with his nose so bright, why wouldn't he embrace this herd of hipster doofuses? Should the sleigh break down at a casino, they'll come in handy.

It's my penguin and I'll cry if I want to...you would cry too if you got burned by hot glue

I have a heat blister.

Today was our annual 4th Grade Craft Day. How I loathe it. I am NOT creative. I am NOT patient. And I have a heightened fear of hot glue guns which I have named hotglobophobia, loosely based on the term, hoplophobia, which is an irrational aversion of weapons. And for those of you who scoff at my categorizing a hot glue gun as a weapon, I shall challenge you to a duel. Hot glue guns at twenty paces! I assure you, once your finger has been stuck to the pointy metal nozzle end, you will laugh no more.

If it's not bad enough that 65 students and I have to attempt to wrestle 65 pipe-cleaner penguins together, I am also assigned "a helper" to witness my idiocy. In this particular case, it's my friend Kristi. Great! you say. Oh no, I moan. Kristi IS creative. Kristi IS patient. Kristi, if given the chance, could spin several glue guns around her fingertips like Wild Bill with his sharpshooters. She can calligraphy WITH PUFFY PAINT! Is calligraphy a verb? Ask Kristi...she would know.

After giving the children gentle directions ("Stab your penguins with the sharp pointy end of the white pipe-cleaner," I instructed encouraging. "Mrs. Mosiman, I can't," one cherub admitted reluctantly. "Oh yes you can," I shrieked, turning on him, "Stab it! Stab it!" I made helpful gestures to accompany my reasonable request. In the profession, this is called differentiated teaching.), I took my post alongside Kristi to begin the task of hot-gluing penguins to circles that were cut too small ("Cut them bigger," I shouted, "This gun is searing my skin." "What does sear mean, Mrs. Mosiman?" This is what those in the business call a teachable moment. We added the word sear to our Word Wall so that my scholars would be sure to never spell it correctly on any of their future finely-crafted written responses. "Use your resources," I will remind them. "What resource?" they will ask. "Our Word Wall," I will repeat for the thousandth time. They will glance at our Word Wall, utterly flummoxed. "When did we get a Word Wall?" I will then be asked before I begin screaming.), then gluing the too small circles to the clear cups, before attaching a sparkly pipe-cleaning finish around the circumference.

Calm, cool, and collected, Kristi worked with robotic precision while I cried and complained. Heat blisters erupted from my skin and I resembled Spiderman with webbing erupting from my fingertips. "Can I have the bigger googly eyes?" one student asked as I sat frozen, paralyzed with pain in my chair, with the glue gun stuck to my hand. "How can you be so selfish?" I seethed, "You'll take the puny-penguin-sized pupils and be grateful." Kristi disappeared briefly after I had clearly stated that one should NOT poke anything other than a penguin with our toothpicks. I snatched a toothpick away from a pupil-poking perpetrator and immediately poked him with the pointy end before heartlessly snapping it in two. "There! How do YOU like it?!?" I thought she'd gone to report me but she instead had just gone to get me a Pepsi. I used it to ice my wounds and salve my spirit.

My 4th grade colleagues came in at the end of the day to admire our handiwork. My friend Geri had conned us all into painting our own popsicle sticks for her craft, a decorative frame. During her forty-minute rotations, children would occasionally ask her for help because they couldn't get the adhesive backing off their decorative stickers for their pre-painted frames. That must have been really rough on Geri. I'm glad we assigned her a helper, too."I thought these were going to be snow-globes,"  Geri said, picking up my craft and shaking one dramatically. "Where's the snow?" She then also felt compelled to comment on the message inscribed on the tiny flags stabbed gently into the side of each pipe-cleaner penguin. "Welcome to the North Pole," Geri read. "You do know that penguins don't live in the North Pole, don't you?" It was time to challenge her to a duel. Hot glue guns at twenty paces!

I'm so helpful that it's scary

We long ago established on this blog how much I enjoy helping others. We also know how good I am at helping others. I have been gently and not-so-gently kicked off of more church committees than I can count and have been booted out of the band (twice).  Helping others is NOT my gift.

My husband, however, is very good at helping others and actually has skills that are very much in demand. Turns out that my gift of endlessly scouring the inter-web for the perfect clip-art isn't a particularly helpful skill. But I am (mostly) always happy to tag along for moral support which usually (always) turns into a platform for my making annoyingly sarcastic and utterly unhelpful remarks and observations. It is both a blessing and a curse.

Brad was recently helping our pastor with his breaker box prior to the family moving into their new
house. I more-or-less happily sat in the scary basement to lend my support while Brad tackled the easy job of figuring out which wire powered what. Brad needed to determine which breaker (?) powered the fourth floor. I excitedly came up with a plan. "Pastor can go up to the top floor, I'll man the middle floor, and while you hit switches, I'll shout to you when the right light comes on." I was going old-school-colonial-America-bucket-brigade-style and I couldn't be happier. Plus it would get me out of the scary basement. "That sounds great," my pastor said, validating my incredible idea before eviscerating my vision, "or...we could just use our cellphones to communicate the same thing." Off he skipped to the 4th floor, leaving me in the scary basement. At least Brad was there. "I need a crucially important tool from my van," my husband said before scurrying off. I was all alone in the scary basement. Drip. Drip. Creak. Creak. Ghastly silence. Lurking shadows.

If you squint while crossing your eyes, you will
notice that this paranormal photo captured the
moment where I was being haunted by
R2D2. I know that it looks like a dehumidifier.
Squint a bit more.

And what is with a dirt floor? Unless your name is Laura Ingalls Wilder and you're hanging out in a sod hut while Almonzo is busy building you a one-room cabin in between plagues of locusts, dust storms and tornado sightings, you should have a REAL floor. Lay some cement people! There is no way that you can spend more then five minutes in a scary basement with a dirt floor before you begin wondering how many bodies are buried down there.

Eventually, it was determined that the five-minute fix was going to expand into five hours of fishing wire, ripping into walls, and handing Brad the "right" screwdriver. It was also determined that, while we may not have substantiated proof that the basement is haunted, we do know this: It made Amy Mosiman disappear.

My lunch with Sarah was hard to swallow

 My friend Sarah and I apparently have differing opinions about what it means to "go out for lunch." We're going somewhere healthy!" she squealed excitedly, hoping to sweep me up in her mood. Forget a broom. This would require a bulldozer. Having eaten the odd salad or two in my time, I resigned myself to a lackluster lunch. This isn't about the food, I said to myself, it's about the fellowship. Good thing, too, since there wasn't anything at this restaurant that actually resembled food. Sadly situated close to another eating establishment named "Smash Burger," Sarah quickly dashed my hopes that the delectable smells of the parking lot were not even remotely associated to the he11-h*le I was about the enter.

I fearfully approached the sorta-resembles-food bar. I was a foreigner in this strange land. I scanned

the menu, desperate to find something that I recognized as edible. "Jonathan didn't mind the food," Sarah said encouragingly, "He was just sad that he left still feeling hungry." I spun to face her. "Jonathan knew about this place and didn't WARN me?" I said, momentarily forgetting to use my indoor voice. The vegans, hippies, and people from California all frowned at me. I have never felt more betrayed. Years ago, after hearing Sarah's diabolical plan to establish a television-free home with her new husband, I stealthily and without remorse, based her entire bridal shower around garnering enough funds for a large-screen TV for Jonathan. And this is how he thanks me?

"What are those," I asked, pointing at what I hoped was pasta. "Rice noodles," my meal assembler told me. "Will I like those?" I asked Sarah hopefully. She looked doubtful. I spotted mushrooms on the menu and went for it. I knew I was in trouble when the assembler first apologized for being out of whatever weird type of lettuce goes with my "steamed bowl." "My what?" I asked. "You ordered a steamed bowl," she told me as the people from California rolled their eyes. She asked me to make a substitution from the selection of fifty lettuces they had. I didn't think I had any strong feelings about lettuce until she moved toward the arugula. No! I hate arugula!

The only things that I recognized in my steamed bowl were the mushrooms and slivered almonds. The assembler energetically grated things into the mixture, added something called lemongrass and tipped in squares of tofu which I unfortunately kept confusing with the mushrooms as I alternated between eating with a fork and a spoon. Neither utensil provided adequate coverage. "Tell the truth," I asked the assembler, "you guys have a secret Pepsi machine in the back room, don't you?" Neither she nor the vegans were amused but, at this point, I was desperate. I ordered beet lemonade and courageously took a sip. "Mmmm...beety," I said to Sarah as she dug into her dung-colored/textured soup with vigor.

To get my mind off my "meal," I looked around the restaurant, horrified to see that parents brought children here. There are no chicken fingers on this menu. Trust me. I looked. Then I noticed the sizable line of people waiting to spend a LOT of money on food that looks as though it has been regurgitated. I choked on my beet lemonade as I fell into uncontrollable fits of laughter. Sarah paused in her consumption of her taupe...or maybe gray...colored slop...er, I mean soup and told me that after three bites, I could be done. We then skipped over to the recycling center to sort our garbage (and yes...I am making a clear reference to my steamed bowl) because part of the fun of spending a ridiculous amount of money on our meal is the pleasure we derive in cleaning up after ourselves while simultaneously saving the planet. Actually, Sarah spent a ridiculous amount of money because I threw a rather immature fit and refused to buy my own meal. We exited the restaurant, refreshed and renewed, having treated our tummies like the temples they are. I then proceeded to desecrate my temple by heading to the nearest convenient mart to buy the biggest Pepsi that I could find.

If trees could kill you, they wood

 "Stick your face in there," I ordered, "if it doesn't pierce the skin then we're good to go." Apparently, that is NOT the typical conversation one hears whilst traipsing about the magical Christmas tree forest. If one were to take cues from those around you, one would be led to believe that you must squeal with delight, clap your hands enthusiastically, and good-naturedly argue over who has the privilege of cutting down the deciduous conifer. One bite-sized, blue-booted belly-scratcher even skipped by, shouting "They're so BIG!"

The Mosimans were never ones for the typical triangular-shaped tree. Sydney fell in love with a perfectly round tree but the twenty minute lesson we received about over-sized trunk circumference turned us off. "Math isn't very merry," Sydney grumbled while I continued my desperate search for soft needles. "Soft needles don't bear up under the weight of the ornaments," Brad explained, beginning an impromptu lesson about mass. "Merry kiss-my-mass," I snarled, cutting him off as it suddenly dawned on me that I actually had no say in this matter. Yup. Within minutes, I was the proud owner of the porcupine equivalent of Christmas trees: the sturdy (and razor-sharp) Blue Spruce whose herculean branches can staunchly bear the weight of the heaviest of ornaments. How big does Brad think my ornaments actually are?

We tried to Facetime Savannah so that she could share in this priceless family endeavor but she was mysteriously unavailable. She does have a pretty big apartment. It might have been difficult to hear the phone when you live in a 300 foot space. After Brad amused himself by criticizing Sydney's admittedly lame sawing technique...what DO they teach those kids in school these days?...he, himself, crawled beneath the Tree of Tears. "Mom, stand by the tree," Sydney instructed, taking a selfie to share with Savannah (who would obviously be DEVASTATED that she missed this). The two-foot berth that I gave myself was not enough as, of course, Brad toppled the tree toward me whereupon I was impaled. An assault had been perpetrated with a pine but police are stumped. "You are so knotty," I yelled at my husband.

"And THAT'S why I don't answer my phone," Savannah said.

Have a "creepy", "gross" Christmas (Sing to the tune of Holly-Jolly Christmas)

My brother-in-law was thrilled. "You need a dart for your classroom?" he boomed, "We will leave no bar untended in our quest to acquire one!"

My father was concerned. "You need a dart for your classroom?" he asked, "Shouldn't you be worried about impending litigation?"

My husband, as usual, didn't give it a second thought. "Aren't you going to ASK me why I want a dart for my classroom," I demanded, feeling hurt and neglected. "No," he answered with a sigh, "I'm just going to get you a dart and hope for the best."

Usually, my Advent bulletin board is comprised of gift boxes that are revealed, one by one, with that day's surprise activity. This year, however, I decided to change things up with a giant Santa sporting a beard of balloons. What was I thinking?

I came into my classroom on Saturday and began the process of drawing a giant Santa to fill up my bulletin board. That was the easy part. Now I had to color him. Fortunately, planning ahead for our up-coming Colonial Days, I had purchased poster markers. An hour later, I was flying high from the fumes. Eyes watering and head pounding, I then cut out my monster Saint Nick and wrestled him onto the board.

Step One: I should have stopped here. Or cut out a red circle and
 said it was Rudolph on a pitch dark Christmas Eve.

The next day, Sydney and I blew up sixteen balloons. Actually, Sydney blew up balloons while I hyperventilated. Eyes watering, head pounding, I stuffed them into plastic trash bags to transport them to school early Monday morning so that the children could be delighted by the magic of the holiday as soon as they walked in the door.

It turned out that "magical" was not the primary adjective employed when describing my bulletin board. The first adjective of the day was "creepy" which inspired a creative lesson in how you do not necessarily have to say the first thing that pops into your head (aka: If you don't have something nice to say...).

Step Two: Not to full "creepy" and "gross" status yet

The second adjective was an excellent example of how words can hit harder than a fist or strike sharper than the pointy end of a dart. "That's gross," one of my angelic little honeys declared, noticing that the natural static of the balloons, raised to supernatural status when combined with the natural static of the plastic trash bags, collected every spare human and canine hair within a fifty feet radius. With a Hulk-like rage, I stomped over to the dry erase board and wrote these vividly descriptive adjectives on the board, heroically resisting the impulse to smash every balloon in Santa's beard. "Creepy and gross," I yelled, "Are these the words that I was going for when I spent hours drawing, coloring, cutting, and inflating this display?"

Eyes watering and head pounding, I paused as I listened to myself. Who inflates a bulletin board display? And who inflates a display that inadvertently collects random hair samples? Maybe my advent bulletin board was creepy and gross. That wasn't what was important though. What was important was that, when my students looked at their creepy, gross bulletin board, they knew that their teacher thinks about them ALL THE TIME. On Saturday mornings. At 7 am on a Monday morning. On a Thursday night at Stuff-mart searching for white balloons. Every night as she recites their names alphabetically in her prayers.

Student A was drawn on this first day of Advent. He held the dart, balanced with precision between his fingertips and, with a practiced eye, let fly. POP! We cheered. The first activity was fitting: We sang Spongebob Squarepants' classic holiday hit:  Don't Be a Jerk: It's Christmas.

H2-Oh! That's NOT Pepsi!

Some may call me a hero but, really, all I did was what any other intuitively perceptive, courageous, take-action-no-matter-what-the-personal-cost individual would have done. And if my keen observational skills and quick intervention resulted in my single-handedly saving the school, well...all I can humbly say is that I am glad that I was able to help.

It was a Saturday. While many may have spent that morning sleeping in or eating waffles or actually having a life, I was in my classroom developing a differentiated lesson on the life cycle of the Four-Spotted Sap Beetle and rearranging student desks into the classic herringbone pattern to economize traffic flow while simultaneously increasing visibility and minimizing distractions. I had just stumbled onto an idea that surely would place me in contention for the Nobel Peace Prize for Classroom Desk Arrangement (Think Whack-a-Mole with desks) when I noticed some discolored liquid seeping from beneath my bookcase. Naturally, I investigated. With great strength and effort, I moved the case which housed such epic tomes as Colony Leader James Edward Oglethorpe and A Historic Album of Nebraska. To my horror, when the dust cleared, a large lake of discolored water lurked beneath the bookcase. "It must be Pepsi," I inferred, grabbing the school-supplied paper towels which serve to repel rather than actually absorb liquid. I chased the puddle around my room for some time before successfully corralling it.

Imagine my surprise on Monday when I discovered that my puddle of Pepsi had regenerated. Was I dealing with the supernatural? I sought on-line assistance as I filled out the complicated form necessary to request a mop. A member of the maintenance crew arrived to oversee my problem. He didn't have a lot to say as I bedazzled him with my adventure other than "That's not Pepsi." He disappeared...returning with a consultant. By this time, we had constructed a taped barrier as children tend to translate the verbal warning of "Stay out of the puddle" to "Wouldn't it be fun to hydroplane through the puddle?" After a silent appraisal of my flooded floor, the two members of my maintenance staff again disappeared. Soon, with a third man in tow (See what I did there...hee hee), the verdict was in:  It definitely was NOT Pepsi.

Apparently, my heater was leaking. Wait! I cleaned that up without the protection of rubber gloves or a haz-mat suit. "Is that toxic," I whispered, momentarily forgetting about my 9-year-olds who had recently bathed in it and worried instead about my own delicate skin and fair complexion. "No, no," I was reassured, "It's harmless. In fact, you could drink it. I wouldn't. But you could." Was the maintenance staff out to get me? I wondered.  Suddenly, the compliments began flowing like discolored water over a classroom floor.

It was a good thing you spotted that when you did, Amy.

 I blushed. Aw shucks, boys. I was just doing my job.

Good work catching that problem before it could turn into something bigger.

Well...I am a team player, fellas.

Oh...did we mention that you'll have to move your classroom down to the kindergarten wing with their teeny-tiny little chairs and barely-functioning SMARTboard tomorrow because we'll need to rip apart your heater and weld/solder/bulldoze and hot glue? 

My students cheered. They loved teeny-tiny chairs and a barely-functioning SMARTboard which translated into a barely-functioning teacher. They stopped cheering as I began piling textbooks onto my rolling table. "What are those?" they asked confused as they are the products of learning in the year 2017. I grabbed a leaf of filler paper. "What is that?" they inquired worriedly as they have grown up writing primarily with their thumbs. I tossed a dollar bill and two quarters on top of my barely-balancing pile of traveling tutelage. "What are those for?" my kids asked warily.

Fortunately, by the time I arrived the next morning, the job was done. Unwilling to allow the education of my students to suffer for even a minute, maintenance had arrived well before the break of dawn to fix the flood, plug the puddle, waylay the discolored water, stem the tide, ebb the flow...you get the idea. Many tools were used. Heat was restored. Teeny-tiny chairs were avoided. Textbooks were returned to the bookshelf. No one may ever know who James Edward Oglethorpe was. To celebrate, I bought a Pepsi. It's harmless.

I "chews" atrophy: NOT "a trophy"

In-service days are tricky. No matter what is scheduled, teachers are going to complain. Packed with special speakers and professional development meetings? I wish they'd just give us time in our classrooms. A more open-ended day results in I wish they'd tell us what they expect of us. Introducing an auditorium full of grumpy educators to the latest craze in teaching wrapped in a fanciful acronym induces an impressive eye-roll wave while refresher courses injure delicate egos: I already know this... Why are they wasting my time? 

This latest in-service day was a doozy. The preceding e-mail instructing us to wear athletic gear for a Health & Wellness seminar set the building to buzzing. Teachers who would give their eye-teeth to wear sneakers to school were now grousing about appearing unprofessional on Superintendent's Day. The only one to appear truly happy was my friend Traci who once famously spit out her mouthful of sub-par brownie. "I'm not going to waste calories on that," she declared, stomping away from the wastebasket.

"I'm all for Health & Wellness," I told my husband later as I worked my way through a container of French onion chip dip, "but I don't need it foisted upon me." He paused on his way out of the living room to help hoist me out of my chair so I could get some more chips. "So what are you going to do?" he sighed, fearing the inevitable. "I don't know," I said wistfully, "but I'll think of something."

In a show of support (sadly lacking from my husband), my brother-in-law contributed the foundation of my packed with peanuts peaceful protest picketing plan. Wielding a yard of Snickers with back-to-back sassy slogan signs, I marched into the gymnasium. Turns out marching in sneakers doesn't have quite the same emotional impact as heavy boots. Plus my sassy slogans turned out to be a little too sophisticated for this crowd. Many mis-read my "atrophy" for "apathy" which I let go because it kind of worked. Others thought I meant "a trophy" which seemed humorously ironic. "Amy has problems with word spacing," a middle school colleague shared. How I miss middle school.

An administrator stopped by to peruse my protest signs. "I would take a knee," I told him, "but I can't get up out of that position." "Of course," he said, "hence your aversion to Health & Wellness." I tried to talk my friend Carl into being my designated runner in the case of burpees but he refused to take one for the team. Eventually, as all great protests go, concessions had to be made. I finally relinquished my picket sign in favor of a badminton racket. Except for taking a birdie to the nose, I decided that the Health & Wellness seminar wasn't so bad. Thank goodness I'm always so receptive to new ideas.

Amy's "Choose-Your-Own-Adventure" Story: The Car Accident

 So...there I am on a peaceful Sunday morning, lounging in my chair beneath my cozy electric blanket...fresh from a hot, soapy shower, clad in my comfy wine-colored robe when...BAM! The dogs erupt and I lunge from my chair. Out the window, in the middle of my now-destroyed lawn, sat a midnight blue Jeep 4 X 4. A blonde woman with a high ponytail was busy mouthing the words of what appeared to be the ingredients to a batch of dark chocolate fudge as she punched at her steering wheel.

SCENARIO #1:

After quickly trading her slippers for muck boots, Amy dashes out the door wearing her wine-colored robe. "Are you okay?" she gently asks the driver. Grasping her elbow with a steadying hand, Amy guides the shaken woman into the house and makes her a soothing cup of hot cocoa. She leaves out the marshmallows as this is a serious occasion. "I'm so sorry about your lawn and mailbox," the woman sniffles, calming as she sips her cup of serious hot chocolate. Amy waves her hand dismissively. "It's nothing at all to worry about. Easily replaced. I'm just glad that you're okay." The two woman exchange a warm look and immediately become lifelong friends.

SCENARIO #2:

After quickly trading her slippers for muck boots, Amy dashes out the door wearing her wine-colored

Checking my neighbor's mail. It was
 delivered  "ground."

robe just in time to see this high-tailed terrain terrorist take out more of the lawn as she fled the scene. Stunned, Amy stood in the middle of the road as the Jeep wobbled away. After Amy shouted some words regarding the parental lineage of the perpetrator, she raced into the house for the keys to her brother-in-law's car. Still wearing her wine-colored robe and muck boots, Amy pursued this grass gangster. Hunched over the steering wheel, squinting through the windshield, Amy scoured the road ahead, intent on apprehending this ne'er-do-well and bring her to justice. But she reached the metaphoric end-of-the-road (which she'd traveled at a safe and legally-recommended speed) with no success. "That high-tailer sustained significant body damage to the driver's side of the vehicle," Amy mused thoughtfully, "and busted out her windshield. She couldn't have gotten far." Realizing that her quarry had a better understanding of the region than Amy had been led to believe
(due to her total ignorance of how to keep a car successfully on a road combined with a deplorable lack of morals when it comes to squishing someone's mailbox beyond recognition), Amy raced (at a safe and legally-recommended speed) around the country block to the seasonal road that intersected the area. A-ha! There she was! Amy beeped and flashed her lights at the on-coming Jeep. Nothing. Amy spun around (at a at a safe and legally-recommended speed) and followed, taking note of the make and model of the vehicle and beginning a tribal chant of the license plate number as she'd forgotten her cell phone and neglected to keep a pen and paper in the pocket of her wine-colored robe. After several miles, Amy decided to call off the chase as:
(a) she didn't wish to be viewed screaming at high ponytail alongside a busy highway and,
(b) running High Ponytail off the road, while emotionally satisfying, didn't seem responsible. Moral highroad and all that.

Returning home, Amy called the police and reported her findings. The dispatcher was understandably impressed with Amy's keen observational skills until Amy finally admitted that she went vigilante on High Ponytail. "We don't normally recommend that, ma'am," Amy was told. Amy was ashamed. When the dispatcher explained that a police unit would be sent to the house, Amy requested a postponement. "This isn't court," the woman said patiently. "I know that I might not appear to be the best Christian in the world on the basis of this phone call but..." Amy paused at what seemed to be a stifled snort on the other end of the phone, "Normally I would cancel going to church," Amy continued apologetically, "but I'm doing the first reading and I have some REALLY big words that I'm responsible for so can we meet later in the day?"

Appointment made, Amy then just had to deal with "Dukes of Hazards" jokes from her husband and brother-in-law for the remainder of the day. When they arrived back from a morning of hunting, they stood looking at the destroyed lawn. "What on earth happened?" Brad asked as he came in the door. Amy sighed, disappointed. She had envisioned a Prince Humperdinck-moment from The Princess Bride. He could track a falcon on a cloudy day...hmmm...Car parked askew? Lawn dug up? Mail boxes obliterated? Amy's slippers in the middle of dining room? A-ha! A blond driver of a midnight blue Jeep 4 X 4 with a high ponytail fled the scene with my wife in her wine-colored robe in pursuit! No. Instead Amy got: "What on earth happened?" "Why didn't you keep following her?" "Do you see yourself more in the role of one of the Duke boys or Roscoe P. Coltrane?"

Me in the police truck. I think.

Later that afternoon, the police arrived. Amy rushed out, eager to provide her testimony. "Don't forget to get a picture of me sitting in the police car," she yelled before slamming the door behind her. She waited patiently in the cold for the officer to exit the vehicle to examine the scene. Her neighbor had arrived earlier and Amy insisted that he leave his crushed mail in the box so as to not contaminate the evidence. The officer waved at her to get in his truck so she "wouldn't be cold." Amy began rattling off her critical information. He wasn't interested. Eyeballing the craters in my lawn, he spit-balled, "What do you think...about $100 worth of damage?" Amy waited for him to conduct a paint-chip analysis, put out those adorable little numbered signs before taking numerous photos from every possible angle...or at least GET OUT OF THE TRUCK! "Do you need me to sign anything," she asked hopefully as he concluded the interview. Amy glanced out the passenger window to offer Brad a wide grin as he took a close-up picture of her as an official police witness. "No," the officer said, "Stop by headquarters if you want the report to submit for your homeowner's insurance." Let down, Amy sighed as he drove away. Police work isn't always pretty. Neither is the lawn.

Who starts a car with a prison shank?

"It's all very simple," my husband explained. "Until Sydney's car is fixed, she'll drive the Titan, I'll take my van, and you can have Virgil's rental." I frowned. This didn't seem simple at all. "Remember that car is under my name," my brother-in-law joked. I glared at him as my family headed out the door to their respective destinations. I only had four miles to go. How hard could it possibly be?

Minutes later, I was sitting in the rental, wrestling Virgil's key-chain, which strongly resembled a jack-knife. I finally stumbled upon a secret button. Snap! A prison shank erupted from the housing. What was I suppose to do with this?

After moments of deliberation (I ruled out a stabbing spree as my brother-in-law was safely ensconced in a tree stand somewhere as he fearlessly hunted herbivores in the forest), I inserted the shank into the ignition and hoped for the best. Yes! Despacito was on! But no! The car wasn't. Hmmm. The car was in park. Tried it again. Nope. I pushed on the gas. Nope. Hit the brake. Nope.

I listened to the rest of Despacito before reviewing my options. Riding my bike was out. I called my fellow 4th grade friend Kelly but she didn't answer. Tried neighbor Sondra. Same. The bus thundered by. I considered flinging myself in front of it on its way back. They'd HAVE to pick me up, wouldn't they? I called my friend Shanna with some trepidation as I had written somewhat mean-spirited blogs about her in the past. She answered mid-second ring with a gravelly voice. Oh no! I woke her up. Nope, she just sounds like a sexy lounge singer in the morning. "Wow. You answered so quickly," I marveled. "When you call," she admitted, "I fear it's the 2nd Apocalypse."

As I stood waiting by the road for Shanna to pick me up, Sondra and her family roared past. I discovered later that I was the main topic of conversation on their ride to school. "Mrs. Mosiman is standing by the road," high school student Natalie observed, "Do you think she needs a ride?" Her mother shrugged, intent on tearing up the road between her house and the school. "Don't worry. I'm sure someone is picking her up."

I was eventually delivered, along with Shanna's brood of children, safely to school. I haven't been dropped off at school by a loving mother in some time. I miss that. I wouldn't hear from Shanna again until 6:30 the following morning:

Shanna: Was it an easy fix for the rental car? Or was something really wrong with it? Do you need a ride this morning?

Amy:  I was suppose to depress the brake pedal. The only thing depressed in that car was me.

Which actually wasn't true at all because who could be depressed when Despacito is playing? The beginning lyrics were somewhat ironic though, given my situation:

Comin' over in my direction

So thankful for that, it's such a blessin', yeah

Thank you, Shanna!

Disclaimer: I don't REALLY think Jesus is a vampire

I've been having a lot of trouble lately communicating clearly; particularly on the subject of vampires. It's surprising how often they come up in casual conversation.

Case in point: There I was, one unseasonably warm Autumn day in the bus loop, admiring a colleague as she approached me with her super-sparkly bedazzled shirt. "You look like one of those shimmery-bright twinkly vampires from Twilight," I raved. I was not prepared when she pulled up short and glared at me. "I prefer the radiant light of Christ," she snapped. I was stunned. It was like taking a pan-full of ice cold Holy Water to the face. Well...yeah. Me too. Shimmery vampire in one hand/Jesus in the other? I'm going for my Lord and Savior every time...but still...a compliment is a compliment. Well, no sense dwelling...

Until...

There I was, keeping scrupulous sermon notes in my journal last Sunday when the topic turned to Revelation 3:20. Jesus is knocking at the door but cannot gain admission unless He is invited. I was suddenly startled into alertness. Wait. A vampire cannot gain entry into a home unless invited! Interesting. There are some other comparisons as well. Blood, for instance. Blood of the Lamb. I vant to suck your blood. Immortality. If you ignore the eternal damnation part and the fact that one is a fictional literary character, then you see that I am clearly onto something! Seated next to the pastor's wife, I began to establish my case after church during the potluck dinner housed in the basement. Shuddering as though she'd taken a stake to the heart, she glanced surreptitiously around the room as she tried to shush me. "That sort of talk could get you excommunicated," she whispered. "I'm not saying that Jesus was a vampire," I tried clarifying, "but...." Desperate, she tried changing the subject. "Have you tried the soup?" she cheerfully asked the table. "It was a bit garlic-y for me," smiled my daughter, Sydney, winking at me. I grinned. "This basement could really use some renovations," I commented, to the relief of our pastor's wife. "With its low ceiling and lack of natural light, it's kind of like a coffin down here."

You had me at "blanket of bacon"

Let's just say that the recipe had me at "wrapped in a blanket of bacon." I do not enjoy cooking but am not particularly fond of starving. I am not independently wealthy enough to eat out every night and cereal only goes so far. So...occasionally, I find myself dabbling in the culinary arts.

"You have an entire repertoire of meals that I like," Brad repeated miserably as the week-long build-up of my bacon-wrapped meatloaf began. "Your chili is outstanding. Venison strudel...stuffed shells...breaded porkchops...we love those meals." He watched unhappily as I darted around the grocery store, rooting out my ingredients. I couldn't blame his trepidation. I'd once baked his holiday ham in its shrink-wrapped plastic. Giving oven-baked chicken wings a try, they'd congealed into an inedible poultry-geist. My last batch of potato soup had morphed into a solid accessible only by the sturdiest of wooden spoons to ratchet it out of the pan. Brad Mosiman had real reason to fear. But not THIS time!

As usual, part of the problem was the build-up. Expectations were WAY too high (Mine...NOT my family's). I sauteed peppers and onions. Yum! With baggies protecting my hands from actually having to touch raw meat, I squeezed the ground beef, venison, and pork sausage into a rectangular-ish shape. I layed out the vegetables, a ton of mozzarella and then began the process of rolling this monstrosity into a loaf. "It's time for the blanket of bacon," I called out. My reluctant audience watched as I wrestled our precious bacon around a loaf of meat. Doesn't it sound appetizing already?!? "Such a waste," Sydney muttered, "Like a concert pianist playing Happy Birthday at a rest-stop Burger King."

I set my timer for the required twenty minutes. Ding! I rushed to remove its protective covering of foil and set the timer again for the required thirty minutes. Ding! Hmmmm....the bacon didn't seem quite done yet. "Is the oven on?" Brad asked helpfully, peering over my shoulder at what was supposed to be his dinner. I set the timer for an extra twenty minutes. Ding. The bacon was a bit browner but still pretty floppy. "Maybe it browned from age," Sydney suggested. I boosted the heat. Added another ten minutes to the timer. Ding. "Don't say a word, " I warned, glaring down at the brown noodle-like stripes blanketing my loaf of meat. I yanked the dial up to broil. Set the timer...again. Ding. The bacon was burnt on top and still practically raw underneath. I didn't care. I cut into the loaf and almost cried as I looked at the uncooked middle of my meat. I set the timer for thirty minutes. Ding.

"What do you think," Brad asked as, with hand shaking, I lifted my fork to my mouth. I fought back my gag reflex and choked out, "This is the best meatloaf I have ever eaten." Brad carefully sorted the burned bacon into one pile and raw bacon into another before beginning the delicate process of separating the cooked parts of his meal from the sections that had the potential of killing him. I glared at his dramatics. "Some people are just glad to have food," I snapped at him. "I'll just be glad if I don't get Salmonella," he replied. I was done (even if the meatloaf wasn't). I stomped off, crawling into bed to wrap myself in a blanket of...blankets. I didn't come out until the following morning. Ding.

Will's Fourth-Favorite-Friend, Amy

Early October:

Text from Sarah:  What are you doing all morning on Saturday Oct. 28? Feel like hanging with me and the kids?

Text from Amy: Did you know that Saturday, October 28th is Pitbull Awareness Day? I'll send you a card. Nope. Never mind. I'll be seeing you so I'll bring it directly TO you!

Text from Sarah: What should we do Saturday???? Home Depot has trick or treating? Playground? Strong Museum????

Text from Amy: (agreeable as always) You decide...I'll just happily tag along.

Text from Sarah: I think we're going to Strong Museum because it's amazing and fun.

Plans determined, Amy proceeds to tell everyone she knows about how she is going to the Strong Museum of Play with her friend Sarah and her two adorable children. "I'm going to get a group picture of us in Big Bird's nest," Amy shared enthusiastically. 

The day before, Amy responsibly texts her friend: What time would you like me to be there?

Text from Sarah:  How about 9:30/10?

Morning of the much-anticipated visit: Amy dresses semi-professionally as befitting a museum where she will be sitting in a nest. She responsibly texts her departure time to her friend Sarah, whom Amy knows is anxiously awaiting her arrival.

Text from Amy:  Leaving house now.

Text from Sarah: Terrific. You can watch Elmo with the kids while I get dressed.

Wait...what?!?!

When I walk into Sarah's house, a little bird (still dressed comfortably in pajamas) told me

that my dreams of a group picture in an over-sized muppet's nest had gone the way of the dodo. Pouting, I settled in to do a puzzle with Will. "Who's your favorite friend, Will?" I asked, smiling at him pointedly. "I have three favorite friends," he reported, promptly rattling off three names that were clearly NOT mine. He and I were clearly at an impasse. I turned to Nora. She was clutching sticky Honey-Nut Cheerios but I would not be deterred. "Nora..." I sang, "Who's your favorite friend?" She handed me her sticky cereal. "I'll take that as a yes," I said. Realizing food was the crucial component necessary for cementing my now-burgeoning relationship with Will (who charmingly wondered how much longer I was going to be at his house), I offered him a potato chip for every three bites that he took of his peanut-butter sandwich. 

"Will, come down and watch Elmo with your fourth-favorite-friend, Amy," I said after lunch. "Who?" he asked, but the lure of Elmo was too much and soon we were snuggled up together under a blanket, a cozy four feet apart. Sarah snapped a picture, "It's almost like you're in Big Bird's nest," she exclaimed. "Why don't you go get dressed," I snapped, watching Elmo teach about kindness. Sometimes she just really ruffles my feathers.

Is that a rainbow bursting from your belly (or are you just happy to see me)?

 It was some three odd years ago that a certain obnoxious member of the 4th Grade Team came up with the innovative idea to have sixty-five to seventy 9-year-olds perform an ingeniously complicated flash mob dance routine following the school's annual Halloween costume parade. The other team members were, naturally, thrilled to participate.

For some reason, this past month has been overly-packed with such mundane activities as teaching seed dispersal, European Exploration (hmmm...maybe those two subjects could somehow relate...oh never-mind. We're not a charter school, ya know), subtracting across zeros, and plural possessives. Who has time to dance? Apparently...only me.

An emergency team meeting was called at Zero Hour. Could we cancel this year's dance? No. Could we shorten the dance? No. Could we modify it to make it easier? No.

All eyes turned to me. Most of them were glaring, off-set with the pleading look of a soon-to-be-butchered baby seal pup. "What?!?" I said, indignantly, "I practiced. Why should I be punished?" But then my beleaguered hero complex kicked in. "I could make an instructional poster," I sighed resignedly.

Like the Shoemaker's not-even-making-union-wages elf, I set to work, casting my computer net for the perfect clip-art to capture each dance movement. My friend Kelly came in to help. "What is THAT?" she asked, pointing at my policewoman. "That's stop traffic coming from both directions," I explained, demonstrating the move fluidly. She nodded slowly. "And the pillow?" she wondered. "Stretch your arms up and out," I instructed, "and pretend you're grabbing a pillow upon which to rest your head." I glanced quickly at the door window, hoping no one would catch a peek at Kelly and I 'sleeping" on our imaginary floating pillows. This dance was, after all, top secret.

Kelly was now enthusiastically on board. Too enthusiastic, if you ask me, as we fell to quarreling. "I don't think they should be called belly circles," she argued, "Think of it more as a rainbow coming out of the belly button, Care Bear-style." Fuming silently for a moment, I considered telling her that I had originally named the move "groin-circles" but the resulting google search left me in need of therapy so I raised the hands upward to a less controversial body area. It altered the move slightly to

less pelvic thrust to a more hula-hoop-y action but that was a price I was willing to pay. In the spirit of cooperation (and not being willing to spend all night making instructional posters for a two minute dance), I relented and Kelly got her colorful exploding belly button. When you are caught up in the debate that teacher's do not get paid enough, please reference this blog.

Kelly may have won a battle but I, obviously, won the war. "What do you mean bass fiddle?" she frowned.  I bass-fiddled to the right and then I bass-fiddled to the left. "See?" I said. "What's a bass fiddle," she asked. I rolled my eyes but in the spirit of cooperation, offered an explanation. "Like a cello?" "Oh," she said, " I know it as the German Kontrabass." Of course you do, Kelly.

Ten instructional posters later, we were ready to go. Sixty-five 9-year-olds sat criss-cross applesauce, listening intently as we explained the pictures and modeled the moves. "Those posters are indecipherable," my friend Geri complained (in the spirit of cooperation). Yet, somehow, a gymnasium filled with 4th graders managed to nail the moves, bass-fiddling expertly across the floor. Oh...excuse me. I meant German Kontrabass-ing across the floor.

Let she who is without snack chips throw the first Frito

At 47, I feel that I should no longer have to defend my dietary habits. If I decide to plow through sixteen Russell Stover chocolate marshmallow bunnies in one sitting...so be it. I am an adult. If I sprinkle a smidgen of sugar over my peaches, that is my right as a tax-paying citizen of this, the United States of America. If I get unreasonably excited when Boo-Berry cereal is released each October...again...I am a contributing member of society and it should be of no one else's business what I chose to consume.

Yet...others still feel the need to comment.

"Amy, what is the definition of oxymoron," my "friend" Kathy said as I entered the room to eat lunch. I paused, reflecting deeply to provide her with an educated answer. "It's a contradictory term of figurative speech," I answered, "like jumbo shrimp." She giggled. "Or like your lunch," she said, pointing. "Fritos and yogurt are definitely an example of an oxymoron."

Silence descended on the room as the occupants waited with bated breath for my reaction. Would I knock Kathy from her chair? No...she's speedy-quick and pretty wily. Would I attack her character? Her morals? Her car-buying prowess? No. Her unnecessary and unprovoked attack on my lunch spoke for itself. "Aren't you going to say something?" someone whispered in my ear. "I'm thinking about sprinkling my Fritos DIRECTLY into my yogurt to prove a point," I whispered back. I don't believe in vindictive revenge. Like say, spending hours scrolling through my blog to find the time where I encountered Kathy at the grocery store foisting her ridiculous purchasing ideals on unsolicited shoppers (Click blog link here).

To change the subject, our friend Kelly laughingly lamented that she had apparently bought four bags of chips from students as part of a fundraiser. "Four bags?" Kathy said, "I bought four cases!" I see. Hypocrisy...thy name is Kathy. Let she who is without snack chips throw the first Frito.