A BIG blog about my BIG birthday

By now...most of you know me well enough to realize that I am a quiet, reserved person who tends to shy away from attention. I prefer to stay off the radar as much as humanly possible. But as my 50th birthday approached, I was a bit trepidatious. I work with, for lack of a better word, zealots. And for some reason (Not enough work to do? Lack of a life? Jealousy?), these maniacs tend to target me without the slightest provocation on my part. I communicated, VERY CLEARLY, my feelings on the matter as the count-down for my birthday began (Thank you, school-wide email...VERY helpful).

To be frank, I fully anticipated the immature shenanigans of Tyler and Erin. I'm not sure that they anticipated the consequating lawsuit that is formulating from my being crushed to death beneath a pyramid of water bottles as I tried to gain access to my classroom. And how judgmental is that little passive-aggressive maneuver, anyway? Just because I've brought the odd Pepsi or two to Zumba doesn't mean I need a so-called "better" alternative foisted on me. I would give this pesky pair a B- for their choral reading ability as they interrupted my class EVERY hour ON the hour to remind me about how lucky I am to be their friend. PLEASE, Lord, let one of those scratch-off tickets yield enough for me to move OUT of district and AWAY from them. The water bottle word scramble was a nice touch as over twenty MORE Pepsi-alternatives were delivered over the course of the day so that I could piece together a

message for even more birthday fun (By the way...forcing me to film a video promising an eternal love of positivity, glitter, and Erin is NOT fun) made learning more of an optional practice in Room 24.

Yes. I expected Erin and Tyler to be inconsiderate and cruel. But my own dear friends...

Et tu, 4th grade team?

I never saw it coming, poor simple fool.

The deception! The calculating manipulation! Lies!

In retrospect, I have to admit, if I had CHOSEN to be celebrated...I would have elected to be celebrated in just the way they did it:  MEMES!

Unsuspecting...like Bambi's mother into the meadow, I entered the elementary wing. Down the corridor, I spotted my FRIEND Aaron (not to be confused with my arch-frenemy Erin) and, immediately, I was on high-alert. A fashion-icon emulated by male school teachers district-wide, Aaron rarely dresses like Johnny Cash. Top-to-toe...black. I might have looked like a flight-risk because he slowly reversed

course...keeping his hands where I could see them at all times. When I reached him, I spotted the tell-tale signs that I was in for a LONG day...hand-colored posters, black streamers, and meme-upon-meme "celebrating my "big" day. "This one is my favorite," my 4th grader Joseph said later, pulling me over to see, "See how the guy's cake is on fire? Because he has so many candles on it? Like you?" On a positive note, reading scores at my school should sky-rocket thanks to all the kids reading my memes.

I headed towards my classroom, directly into the line of fire of an off-key chorus of educators, all

clad in black. Once I dug my way out from under the pile of water bottles, I entered my sanctuary to find it FILLED with fifty black balloons. Five minutes later, my "sanctuary" was filled with screaming nine-year-olds playing with fifty black balloons. What a delight! Five minutes after THAT, I tried to ignore the enormous amount of time and energy that went into blowing up fifty black balloons and demanded the death of fifty black balloons. Turns out, the only thing more fun than PLAYING with fifty black balloons is POPPING fifty black balloons. My classroom sounded like a war-zone.

Mini-Snickers bars began arriving as soon as the school day started...delivered by student messengers with attached notes proclaiming: I love Mrs. Mosiman because...(student-generated reason usually having to do with my giving them candy).

My voice was at least three octaves higher than normal for the ENTIRE day as I exclaimed happily over each one. "We had kids deliver them," Rachel confessed later, "because we knew you would have killed one of us if we kept interrupting your day like that." Circle time on the carpet was me just receiving present-after-present from my thoughtful and excited students...I was showered in Pepsi, Twinkies, chocolate, dachshund-related wonderfulness...musical cards, homemade cards, funny cards, loving cards. One student brought in cookies for a birthday treat. Another one brought in birthday hats for the class to wear. We were ready for a birthday bash!

My daughters had flowers delivered to the school which were then delivered to my room by our more-than-snarky secretary who came armed with a poem: Happy Happy Birthday, to rat and rottie owner too, I wish you many more birthdays, so you can be old too! Why don't you just get a job at Hallmark already, Joanne?

My birthday twinnie, Cindy brought me a dachshund statue to add to my cubby collection and I was so excited (and some would say, self-absorbed) that I forgot to wish HER a happy birthday ("Happy Birthday, Cindy!"). Before the day was over, someone had even gotten to my dachshunds as each one was sporting a colorfully and creatively decorated party hat...thanks Michelle!

I was outraged (and a little impressed) when I learned of all the behind-the-scenes planning that went on without my knowledge. Years of paranoia FINALLY justified as it was revealed that my team does, in fact, hold SECRET meetings behind my back. The night before my birthday was apparently a bit stressful for the planners (poor dears) as I tend to work late and, for some odd reason (karma), kept forgetting things, causing me to return to my classroom which resulted in people having to duck-and-cover. I almost chased one girl who fled into the questionably-darkened library but I was hungry and wanted to go home so I ignored her odd behavior like any good educator would do.

The memes were hysterical and disconcertingly accurate. Am I this shallow? I wondered. Do I talk

about my dog(s) too much? (impossible) Could I be this bossy? Demanding? Arrogant? Maybe. But these good-humored memes (all FIFTY of them) showed that I could be all these things and more, and my friends still loved and accepted me...short-comings and all. I am so incredibly blessed.

This out-pouring of love was beyond humbling. I would have hidden in a hole if I wasn't so claustrophobic. I am surrounded by the kindest, most thoughtful, generously compassionate, hard-working, creative, and funny people on the planet (except, of course, for Erin and Tyler). Small but impactful gifts kept popping up:  a Forky figurine from ToyStory, a safe-to-use microwavable bowl to protect me from the carcinogens released from the cheap plastic containers I usually use (passive-aggressiveness noted, Roxanne), a candybar in my homework bin...smiles and well wishes EVERYWHERE...I had developed a nervous twitch by the end of the day. It was SO much. It was TOO much. I know I've forgotten key parts because it was SO much! Thank you to everyone (except Tyler and Erin) who made me feel so loved and appreciated.

At the end of the day, my team approached me like I was a frightened faun (or a belligerent buck ready to ram them). "Did you have a good day?" they asked. I did. But I didn't realize HOW good until Brad and I went out to eat and I talked NON-STOP for the 45-minute drive to the restaurant. "Wow! That's a LOT of birthday," my husband commented (once he was given a moment to speak). We had dinner and, as we waited for the bill, I leaned against the wall next to our table and took a quick catnap. "Quick?" Brad said speculatively. I somehow staggered out of the restaurant, into the parking lot and began to shiver before realizing I'd left my coat behind. "Here," my husband sighed, juggling my jacket and left-overs. He stuffed me into the van and we dialed up Savannah. At least I think we did. I vaguely remember her voice before I once again...dozed off. "Your mom had too much birthday," Brad informed her.

Thanks again, everyone. You guys really are too much.

Buck furpees, Felicia!

What is this fresh hell? I survived Zumba Session #1 which I had THOUGHT was a one-time thing only...EXCEPT the FREAKS that I "exercise" (No one would mistake what I'm doing as "exercise") with had so much FUN that they DEMANDED a second session!

Maybe I could avoid it.

But no. There is no hiding from the uncompromising glare of the group email. I remained steadfastly silent but, sure enough, my name was bandied about like a beach ball at a country music concert. Exposed and vulnerable, I was unceremoniously signed up without my consent. It was as if I were being groped on a Greyhound as it barreled down the freeway. I tried to defend myself the only way I knew how:  Grammatically.
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EXCERPT FROM GROUP TEXT:

Amy M (Not me):  Amy M's are in!

Erin:  Yes, Amy's M's! I'm in.

Amy Mosiman:  "Amy M's" is a singular contraction...NOT plural, Erin!

Erin:  The verb agreement states are, not is. That's plural, Amy!

Dang.

EXCERPT FROM GROUP TEXT OVER
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And if that wasn't bad enough, when Felicia arrived to collect the nominal Zumba fee, I had to hand over my Girl Scout cookie money. I have never felt so victimized.

Well...until I actually got to Zumba. First of all, there was no warm, welcoming speech gently introducing us to the wonders of Zumba. Instead, Felicia launched us immediately into a frenzied pace suitable only for the Solid Gold Dancers. Remember them? Weren't they fabulous? I was already feeling light-headed when Felicia cued up The Police. At this point, everything gets a bit blurry. Every time Sting growled out Roxanne's name, we were supposed to touch the ground. Turns out, he says her name a LOT. By mid-song, my friend Erica had had it with Roxanne. "That whore," she muttered, bitch-slapping the floor.

Erin took pity on us by scrambling up like a little monkey to open the windows. I was kind enough to spot her ("Spot? Is that what they're calling it these days?" Erin asked, as she filed a restraining order against me.). In hindsight, I think she had some insider information...knowing what would soon be in store for us.

"Sangria Wine" was next. Graciously responding to great public demand, I was moved to the front to inspire the group. I writhed about accordingly. My thighs shook as I pulsated in place. Taking note of my palm raised heavenward, Erica smiled warmly. "I see you were thanking the Lord while you were up there," she said after I gratefully returned to my spot next to her. "That wasn't gratitude," I told her, aching all over, "that was supplication."

And that was BEFORE the burpees. I was confused. Aren't burpees just a cute name for oral gas? You know, when you're out to eat with a cute fella and the carbonation gets away from you so you giggle, your adorably high pony tail bobbing, and charmingly say, "Ooopsie! I had a little burpee!" But no. This wasn't THAT. I should have known. Rachel ran away like a rat from a sweaty, er, I mean sinking ship. The front row (aka The people we dream of smothering in their sleep) had more than just a spring in their step...they were a bunch of bouncing bionic bunnies. Meanwhile, the sloths in the second row were slugging it out...opting to "modify" their moves to make it more manageable for mere mortals.

With her impeccable sense of timing, Felicia decided it was now time for her introductory speech where she thanked us for sharing her love of Zumba. I looked around, confused. I, for one, was not here because of a shared love of Zumba. I had been hood-winked and bamboozled, misappropriated and maligned, my cookie money...kidnapped. I'd had enough. "I have to go," I announced, heading for the door. "But where are you going?" a plaintive voice asked, probably hoping that I'd invite her along. I paused dramatically (Is there any OTHER way to pause?). "I'm going to a better place," I told my friends, "a place that does not burden me with unrealistic expectations. A place of warmth and welcome. A place that just wants me to be happy." I swept dramatically out the door. "But where is she going?" the voice asked again. Rachel sighed. "She's renewing her license at the DMV."

Erin: All that she is (and more)

 Erin and I have, what some would call, a tumultuous relationship. An ever-evolving exchange of excitement and evasion. An up-and-down discourse...with Erin, of course, being the "up." But I am starting to come to terms with the role I have come to play in our little partnership. Sweet needs to be balanced with sour (or bitter, depending on my mood). I am the gray cloud to her perpetual sunshine...occasionally filtering her unrelenting rays so as not to permanently blind or burn those who can't deal with her level of positivity (I can't be the ONLY one...can I?).

I was recently DISGUSTED to learn that we share both a birth month and astrological sign. Ugh. I've spent WEEKS, discreetly...gently, explaining to Erin that she does not fill the necessary criteria to be a full-blown Aquarian. She is far too empathetic, caring, and happy to be a water sign. But in the spirit of being "birthday buddies," I got her a small token of my affection that poetically captures my true, under-lying feelings. Feelings that, up to now, I have kept buried down, deep inside. Thanks to my blossoming friendship with Erin, I am getting better about expressing myself. Thanks Erin!

Exercising: I really whaled it

Could it get ANY worse? I know I shouldn't ask that question because, without a doubt, the answer is always a resounding YES!!! But I am beginning to seriously question if there is ANYONE on this planet WORSE at exercising than me. Alright...I better come clean. I've questioned it all along.

Don't get me wrong. It's not all doom-and-gloom here. Despite the apathy...the cynicism...the laziness...the lack of rhythm...the startling inability to perform any cross-lateral movement...the lack of motivation...despite all those impediments...I am still, more or less, showing up and flailing about...all in a vain attempt to fit back into my wedding ring and to be able to get up from a seated position off the floor without the heroic help of anywhere between two to six fourth graders (depending on size (Their's...not mine).

In the vacuous void left by the sad conclusion of Zumba...how I wept...my friend, Amy attempted to provide a more reasonable alternative until the next torture session could be scheduled. Apparently, I was going to walk my way to fitness! How delightful. The video, led by a woman who doesn't blink with high hair from the mid-80s, is surrounded by stick people who apparently were drum majorettes in college because their knees practically touch the ceiling as they walk their way to fitness. Oh...except for the old lady in the back of whom we were to make an emotional connection and "be inspired." "Amy," Geri snarled, trying to lift her leg at least six inches off the ground, "Just so you know...I'm older than that woman you keep calling an old lady."

We then transitioned into what No-Blinky High Hair called The Slide. As I smoothly (like Frankenstein) slid my legs from side-to-side like a speed skater, harsh laughter alerted me to an apparent transgression. "What?" I demanded, cursing myself for my front-of-room position. "We just like how you hold your hands during this move," Rachel told me gently, noting the rigid palms and splayed fingers common to tight-rope walkers and balance beam enthusiasts. I'm still working on mastering the bridge. I feel, on a cerebral level, that I am arched magnificently...that beneath my curved body, toddlers could race with ample head-space clearing. Until...once again...as my shaking thighs fought to create a crescent, a voice called out helpfully, "Amy, you have to lift your bottom UP." "It is UP, Sarah," I gritted out. "Oh," she said, bewildered.

My response to Erin's "supportive email"
expressing how proud she was of us for
continuing our exercise expedition.

It may not sound it...but I am trying. The fact that I joined (only after Amy reassured me that Erin was banned) another class should be testimony to that. An evolution is happening...a metamorphosis. Six months ago, I would NOT have stomped jauntily down the after-school corridors, swinging my sports-bra like a stripper. Now, instead of racing AWAY from Erin, I am now actually racing Erin to beat her to a changing room (I may have had a hallway's head start).

There are still some set-backs. Wrestling into my exercise clothes continues to be a mortifying experience. I can only liken it to trying to put on a wet swim suit as you walk into a spider web. Almost strangling myself first with my sports-bra, I finally maneuvered it into place before realizing something was terribly wrong...traumatizingly wrong. The back of the garment was a series of fun, frivolous laces...sort of corset-style. Except, as I battled the forces of stiff shoulders, limited mobility, near-sightedness, and just plain ineptitude, I had put on the supportive wear BACKWARDS. Oh my. I was shocked speechless. Stunned. Imagine a poor beluga whale caught in a fishing net. Fortunately, I am a huge advocate of catch and release. I spun that sucker around, took a deep breath and realized, I have no where to go but up.

Villain and victim: When Shanna went rogue

I am not sure what I ever did to provoke such venomous animosity.  I admit that I am SHAKEN TO THE CORE in the wake of this unwarranted, spiteful attack on my character.  All I have ever done is try to be kind to THAT woman and THIS...THIS is how I am repaid?

I was still buzzing from the excitement of last night's charity basketball game when my friend Felicia walked into my classroom this morning with a somber look on her face. "Have you been on Facebook?" she asked solemnly. I froze. "No," I replied, fearing the worst, "what happened?" She brought up my former friend, Shanna's hateful post that absolutely demonized me. My 4th graders were appalled. "Surely, this cannot be!" they howled, "Mrs. Mosiman is, unarguably,  a convivial, constructive, and generous individual. Why...oh why would someone disparage our beloved teacher in such a manner?" We've really been working hard on building our vocabulary in Room 24. I'm glad that it shows.

As I often tend to do when faced with constructive criticism, I labored long and hard as I considered my own culpability in the situation. Was it possible that I was TOO helpful in offering Shanna advice as she gathered notes for the event that would eventually transform (God willing) into a somewhat lackluster but marginally accurate reporting of the basketball game; especially given Shanna's limited vocabulary and her over-reliance on one-syllable words? Perhaps my predilection for reporting actual FACTS intimidated her.  The adult organizer of the event spoke words, racked with meaning, for the suddenly silent gymnasium. Panic-stricken, pen poised over her mostly empty paper (there was a corner missing that Shanna had used to wrap up her used gum), Shanna reached desperately back for me, seated behind her on the bleachers, comfortingly close. "How much did she say the event raised?" she whimpered, realizing that she was in WAY OVER HER HEAD but not having the guts or humility necessary to hand the reins over to a REAL reporter. I sighed, quelling the impulse to roll my eyes. Shanna was my friend. I needed to support her. "Over $6,000," I discreetly murmured so as not to draw the attention of others to Shanna's outright incompetence. Maybe I shouldn't have pushed Shanna to work outside her comfort zone. Spotting our co-worker Brenna's basketball-related black-eye, I encouraged my budding reporter...my protege, if you will...to snag an exclusive with the beleaguered player. But apparently Shanna was only interested in making unnecessary commentary about my dietary habits. And I'll have you know, I requested a flexi-straw for my Pepsi but they didn't have one in concessions. I can't help that I slurp...my lower incisors overlap the uppers. Way to make fun of the denti-capable, Shanna. Really sensitive to the plight of the under-bite, aren't you?

I have to admit, after hours of soul-searching and reflective prayer, I came away...flummoxed (Shanna, sweetie..that word means confused). I do not understand why Shanna would have released an unwarranted whirlwind of words at me...a loyal and trusted friend who has only ever wanted the best for her. In her...for lack of a better description...writing, Shanna conjured up a farcical (Shanna, darling...I know you're giggling immaturely right now as you sounded out that big word and it reminded you of fart-sicle. You know that you're better than that. The word, if you're truly intentional about becoming a RESPECTED writer, means absurd...oops, that probably didn't help you...it means ridiculous.) analogy comparing the two of us to animal hierarchies in the wild (Shanna, precious...feel free to look up hierarchy...I don't want to enable you by providing ALL the answers.). But as an evolved species, I refused to settle for a pack mentality. Humanity (cue stirring theme crescendo (Look it up, Shanna)), in all its wondrous complexities,  wars within itself daily in its choice of cruelty and compassion. Instruct or inspire. Kick or care. While I was seeking to be the wind beneath Shanna's wings, she let loose a little wind of her own. And it stinks. It really does.

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Some of you, with the morbid fascination of being unable to look away from a car accident, may feel compelled to read Shanna's putrid post. With full-disclosure, I have graciously included it in my scholarly blog. Just be warned, it will turn your stomach. And not just because of her writing. The content is nauseating as well.

It was my first reporter stand off.

We faced each other, both with notepads in hand at the same event.

Me, being the kind hearted, sensitive soul attempted to acquiesce the event to the taller, more intimidating alpha female.

I wondered to myself why wasn’t this domineering, very tall woman out there as a staff member playing basketball to support this worthy cause?

Instead, she was obviously standing her ground as a more seasoned (and MUCH older) reporter ready to create magic with her words regarding Hoops for a Cause 🏀

Alas! Alpha stepped down and allowed her less intimidating and meek reporter counterpart to cover the thrilling Letchworth vs Warsaw staff basketball game.

As I sat perched at the edge of the bleacher, pen in hand ready to capture every moment of the game, Alpha starts in with:

“Did you catch that? You should really write that down. How about that? That’s a good point cover.”

I began madly scribbling everything and anything, hoping to prove myself to Alpha that I was a competent reporter. Trying to nod my head and pretend I was listening while also attempting to enjoy the game.

I was so grateful when Micah’s kindhearted teacher rescued me by pointing her finger at Alpha and exclaiming:

“Shanna, I have enjoyed the socks you gave me for Christmas! I was wondering...do you want to borrow one now to stuff in her mouth?”

Silenced by her wise seat mate, Alpha grunted and began chomping loudly on her chips and slurping her Pepsi while grumbling about how perfect Michelle Bergmann was in her bouncy pony tail and making every shot.

I was able to FINALLY ignore Alpha and concentrate on the amazing effort the Letchworth Leadership kids did on setting up this fun event.

Sydney and Amy's journey of art appreciation

 The Mosiman women aren't renowned for their art appreciation. Enthusiasm...yes. Appreciation...no. Savannah will try to extract herself culturally from Sydney and I at this juncture but we are always quick to remind her of our erupt removal from a Smithsonian museum following her immature case of giggling hurt-y hiccups. Brad staunchly stands by his decision of heartlessly evicting his family. "Laughter has no place in Lincoln's assassination exhibit," he stated firmly.

I'd like to say that this was the only time we'd been kicked out of a museum. Sigh.

Bruised and battered from being bucked off (again and again), we always get back on our haughty-high horses and trot right back in those hallowed halls of high-falutin handicrafts.

Having watched a marathon-amount of television, I shook the spider-webs from my transfixed-by-Netflix brain and googled Famous Art in San Diego. Nobody familiar to me popped up. I was well-versed in concentric circles. Pointillism made sense if I crossed my eyes a little. I could handle a water-color as long as it depicted a pond. But my google search kept pointing me to a sculpture. "Remember, we didn't think all that much about The Thinker," Sydney reminded me. "That was because we were hungry and there was a little cafe behind him," I said. She nodded. "You're right, we were thinking with our stomachs. Let's go."

In addition to our questionable sense of art appreciation, Sydney and I also possess a marked lack of navigational ability. Combine this with unrelenting optimism and we can be cheerfully lost for hours...until we get hungry. "This feels like when we were searching for Balto's statue," Sydney commented as we scoured Balboa Park for the famed Sculpture Garden. We made a brief restroom stop to perform an acoustic version of "Fine by me," re-enacted the renowned legacy landscape scene from"The Lion King" as we crossed a bridge overlooking the San Diego hillsides, "Look, Simba! Everything the sun touches will one day be your's!", and tired, stopped at a bar, admitting that we'd given up looking for the famed Sculpture Garden. "But you're here!" the hostess exclaimed, directing us to the back of the restaurant. We looked longingly at the liqueur but didn't want to disappoint the hostess so we stomped back to look at the art. Ugh.

"It's supposed to be the figure of a woman reclining," I whispered to my unimpressed daughter. "Is that her boob?" Sydney wondered. "I think it's supposed to be her elbow but the space between her torso and leg is meant to conjure up a mountainous landscape. With that in mind, it IS probably a boob," I admitted. We looked around at our fellow art-lovers. Most of them were laying on the littered ground, drinking. Kids were running and shrieking delightfully. No one was looking at the art. except a white French bulldog wearing a sophisticated red sweater. We named him Reggie...short for Reginald.

Sydney and I walked to another piece...a combination windmill/antennae thing constructed of seven-foot silver length-ed bobby pins. Sydney carefully inspected the surrounding fence while I stared, entranced at the bobby pins. "They're moving," I murmured. "I think my head could fit through there," Sydney speculated. "They're both idiots," Reggie observed. "Look!" I exclaimed, illuminated, "the bobby pins transform into shapes...parallelogram....now, wait for it...wait for it...RHOMBUS!" It was a revelation. "I could twist my shoulders just so..." Sydney said speculatively, "but my hips...what about my hips?" Reggie glanced back at the mountainous landscape and didn't have the heart to tell her that she'd be halted well before her hips. "For some reason, it won't quite complete the final triangle..." I obsessed. "What is the triangle with the one long side and the two short sides...acute/obtuse/acute/obtuse...OBTUSE! It's OBTUSE!" Reggie agreed. One would be hard-pressed to find a finer art analysis delivered in this crowd. I beamed, interrupted Sydney's impending escape from the fence, and with heads held high, we left the Sculpture Garden. "How did you like it?" our hostess asked. "Which one is your favorite?" I countered, curious. She paused before stuttering out, "The red one." I laughed. Never discount enthusiasm when it comes to art.