Teacher Recognition Dinner: "For one night only...your hosts...Erin and Amy!"

So there I was, last year, at the Teacher Recognition Dinner, minding my own business (after having delivered a killer parody rendition of Ricky Nelson's Garden Party with my friends as a tribute to our beloved colleague, Geri), when our traditional emcee announced that this would be his final year hosting the event. How sweetly oblivious I was in that moment...so carefree and innocent of the impending doom that was mere...Ding! Incoming text. Huh. From Erin. She's literally sitting one table away from me. What on EARTH could be so import-...Oh no...

So here I am...a year later, in the midst of my 3rd costume change of the evening (One of them sporting sparkly sequins), considering my life's choices and debating whether killing Erin immediately after the show would cast a suspicious light on me. Oh...who really cares?  No jury would convict me.

It was a year in the making. Once she wrestled me on board, the rest was pretty easy. Can we have confetti cannons? Let's incorporate a broad spectrum of staff! Do we know how to edit a moving object on video so it looks blurred? Are we allowed to sit on top of a vending machine? Do we want skits or interviews? How about both! Can Erin fit into a rolling trash can? Can Amy detonate a confetti cannon while careening across the floor on a scooter? Can Al speak with an Italian accent ("Which dialect?" he asked.)? Do you think Tyler saved the cracked windshield baseball decal that we pranked him with earlier this year? Will John agree to be our grand finale segment?

No.

OCTOBER:  

Amy:  "But John...picture this! Erin and I, hiding in your office. You walk in and BAM! Confetti EVERYWHERE!"

John:  (not even pausing as we walked...his pace was a little faster than mine...down the hall) No.

Erin (later):  How did it go?

Amy:  Great. He just needs a little more time to process the idea.

DECEMBER

Amy:  (jogging to keep up with John in the hallway) I've been thinking about our film idea...

John:  YOUR film idea.

Amy:  Po-tay-toe/Po-tot-o. Yeah...anyway...Maybe we shouldn't film it in your office...too messy...maybe we should change locations...

John:  I think you're on the right track. Change locations AND actors.

Erin (later): Is he warming up to the idea?

Amy:  Definitely!

FEBRUARY:

John (sees Amy waving excitedly at him...tries to go in opposite direction...she cuts him off at an intersection): Hello, Mrs. Mosiman.

Amy:  John! I think we've got it pretty well mapped out! We'll film in the faculty lounge by the Pepsi machine! It's the perfect location...practically the epicenter of our budding friendship! Pure poetry!

John (walks off, muttering):  I really need to start drinking more water.

Erin (later): Well?

Amy (clapping): He didn't say "No!"

March, April, and May were a whirlwind of conversations as I sought out our star (Not as easy as one might imagine) and visually walked him through his scenes. Thanks to me, John knew every nuance of his part well before his film date (That I reminded him about every day for the week leading into it).

To our utter shock, he showed up. Begrudgingly present and practically patient as I plunked my phone into his hands so he could film his own feet. "Sad, scared feet, John," I coached. "How do I walk sad and scared?" he growled, softly. "Like you're afraid that I'm going to pop out from around a corner to talk to you," I directed. He nodded. This he could do. 

Channeling his dislike of having to talk to me more than once a week (year), John mustered a nuanced masterpiece of method acting that the world had never seen before. His wary approach of the Pepsi machine...his innate sense of danger drawing his dreaded gaze upward to where Erin perched like a predatory puma...BOOM! John staggered back...caught in a cloud of confetti shrapnel...BANG! A door whipped open and Amy slid effortlessly across the floor, zeroing in on our hero...BOOM! He takes another hit!

Shaking the confetti from his flawlessly-pressed shirt, he asked, "Are we done now?" before immediately exiting the room. "But John...you didn't get your Pepsi!" I shouted. "I'll get it later," came his faint, far-off reply. "Do you think we'll ever see him again?" Erin asked wistfully. "I'm certain of it," I told her confidently, "Did you know he has a boat?"

So there we were, hosting the Teacher Recognition Dinner, with no earthly idea about how to actually host a Teacher Recognition Dinner. "Can't we just show the video?" I asked. "I think they expect us to talk, too," Erin whispered. "There's no podium," I pointed out, striding off to acquire one. I was going to need for my hands to grip something other than Erin's neck. 

Fortunately for me, I had be-friended the staff early in the evening when I insisted on helping serve the salads...using the UFO-sized serving tray to decapitate many familiar diners along the way ("Duck, Dee!"). "Yeah," said Katriel, observing my skills, "The wait-staff LOVES it when customers help." The staff was more than happy to roll a thousand-pound high-top table into place to accommodate my need for a podium to hide my hips. "Oh yeah," Katriel agreed, frowning, "I'm sure they loved interrupting buffet clean-up to re-arrange the dining room for you." I had one more request. I sidled up to the bar (I LOVE sidling up to the bar!). "Can I help you?" the friendly bartender asked. "I need a drink that looks like a drink but isn't really a drink," I explained, as I was attempting to channel my inner Dean Martin-esque hosting style.  "A drink that looks like a drink but isn't really a drink?" she asked, confused. How could she be confused? I was so clear. I teach English, for goodness sake! "I want to look like I'm drinking but it'll really be water." Oh! And...I asked if a waitress could keep delivering fresh drinks to the podium throughout the event. "But that's rude," I was told. "No, that's comedy," I answered. "Yeah," Katriel confirmed, "They LOVED you."

Suffice to say, our ship wrecked but didn't completely sink.

We gamely dog-paddled our way through the show and then declared at the end, to no one's surprise or disappointment, that we would never do this again.

As the evening drew to a close, everyone gathered comfortingly around us to thank and congratulate us on a job well
done. Well, almost everyone. There was one poor guy who had unfortunately sat in the front-middle and looked so utterly miserable (perfectly understandable given the evening's entertainment) that I could not stop commenting on it from the comfort of my hip-hiding podium. I couldn't tease a smile out of this guy to save my life and he quickly turned down my offer to buy him a consolatory drink afterwards. He may be the subject of my and Erin's next movie. Erin and I disregarded every affectionate and well-intended compliment. They're our friends. They have to like us. When we set out, we imagined ourselves like Tina Fey and Amy Poehler. Instead, we were more like the Swedish Chef and Beaker. Well, now we know.

"Whew, I'm glad that's over," I sighed, driving home. "I bet the restaurant staff is saying the same thing," Katriel said. 

Ding.

Huh.

From Erin.

She's literally one car behind me.

What could be so import-...

Oh no.

 

This blog is long...wish my hair still was

"Mrs. Mosiman, can you please put expensive batteries into this expensive toy that you graciously purchased as a classroom prize as incentive for students who are so lazy at this time of year that they would rather gnaw their pencils to a point rather than get up and actually sharpen them themselves?" a loving cherub requested politely. Ah...you say appreciatively...a work of fiction. Settle back, friend, and enjoy.

Turns out that the topic of this particular blog isn't about the marked lack of 4th grade gratitude in the face of the hundreds and hundreds of dollars that Brad Mosiman reluctantly spends all year stocking the classroom candy jar, stocking up on stickers, and purchasing prizes. "I should have bought stock in Five Below," he grumbles as I excitedly show off the three basketball-sized disco balls I just bought. 

No, this is about how, from September to June, I consciously avoid any and all changes to my appearance as elementary students, just beginning their journey of learning the art of subtle diplomacy, are brutal in their forthright commentary. But they're just being honest, some might argue. No, they are being rude, I shoot back, handing the head-in-the clouds clown my therapy bill. Outta the mouths of babes, others might say, following this idiotic idiom up by telling me that I'm being too sensitive. It's more like Into the mouths of brats (should go a bar of soap).

But I'm a teacher (or so says the diploma that I extracted from a box of Cracker Jacks) so, if the first line of defense fails (home), then my job is to bring out the big guns and play sweep. Apparently the adage "If you don't have anything nice to say..." is all talk and no action. Let's return to me attempting to remove a microscopic screw to install expensive batteries that could have bought me a burger, fries, and a hot fudge sundae from a certain fast food joint that, lately, has been really skimpy on the fudge.  First I squinted. I attempted better lighting. Better angles. I finally took off my glasses, squinted and, under the light of a 1,000 watt bulb, extracted the small screw at a 45 degree angle. "Mrs. Mosiman," my sweet student said, admiring the level of commitment I was devoting to this project of love, "You look creepy without your glasses." 

Thus began a 45-minute impromptu lesson on adjectives.

Another time, as my honeys and I were curled up on the read-aloud rug, a student with a sudden interest in fashion for women over fifty, interrupted our story with a probing question. "Why would you wear those shoes?" the student asked me incredulously, calling everyone's attention away from the battle waging in Narnia to the current battle of blisters forming on Mrs. Mosiman's bunioned feet. As this cherub has a history of unsolicited commentary regarding my teaching, fashion, and philosophic leanings, I unceremoniously kicked him out of the classroom. It was embarrassing to have to admit WHY I tossed him out to the office staff and his dad, but I stood (uncomfortably...you know, because of the blisters) behind my decision. 

But it got me thinking. You know, because I'm a teacher (as determined by my sticky, caramel-coated diploma). In addition to reading, writing, and math, perhaps I needed to intentionally add recognizing and reacting to polite social cues to my classroom curriculum. There is a LOT we expect children (and some pretty idiotic adults) to inherently know in regards to reading facial expressions, body language, and interpreting tone. 

I'd like to say that I got a haircut as part of a lesson plan. But, no. I am an emotional cutter (hair cutter). With the recent painful passing of our beloved dog, Juno, I immediately hacked away at my hair. Yes. I know better. Sydney Lynn, from 2,500 miles away, knew something was up. My phone rang. "What'ya doing?" Sydney asked, fearing the worst. Long pause. "Mom?" I took a deep swig of my Pepsi as I sat on the grassy meridian of a shopping plaza, a share-sized bag of M&Ms snuggled against my side. "I'm waiting for my appointment," I admitted. "To where?" Sydney demanded, quickly checking departure flights to see if she could get to me in time to schedule an intervention. "It's a hair place," I said around a mouthful of candy. "What's it's name?" my daughter, the queen of checking Yelp reviews continued. "The Hair Pit," I whispered, "I have to go...it's time." "NO-OO-OO..." I could hear her howl as I hung up, turning off my phone to face the music.

It was my own fault. "You paid $25 for a hair cut," Savannah told me, "so, yeah, it WAS your own fault." She had gotten her hair cut that same day...within minutes of me. My girls and I are so in sync that it sometimes scares me. "You may have paid more for your haircut," I argued, "but you said it didn't turn out the way you wanted it to." "That's because I'm in Texas," she admitted, "by Texas standards, it looks good. It's just BIG." 

Again. Totally my fault. My stylist was wonderful. She was playing on-line euchre when I walked in which I, of course, took as a sign from God ("Then why couldn't she have scheduled you earlier so you didn't have to sit in the parking lot meridian looking like a hobo?" Sydney countered. Away from me, Satan.). "How do we want it?" she asked, surreptitiously looking at (but not commenting on) my ravaged bangs. Mental note:  Ask her to be a guest speaker for my new curriculum on recognizing and reacting to polite social cues. "Past the shoulders, please," I responded. Fifteen minutes later, I lied (as I always do) about loving my new do, paid for the pain of now looking like fuzzy dandelion puffball and left. I wanted to hate my stylist but she's done EXACTLY as I'd asked. "Past my shoulders." I'd meant past my shoulders LONG. She'd interpreted it as past my shoulders SHORT. I hadn't communicated clearly enough. 

Now that the damage was done, Sydney immediately shifted from intervention to support. "It's adorable!" she coo-ed. Savannah tried to make me feel better by comparison. "It's not that bad. Remember when you got the hair cut where you ended up looking like the Little Dutch Boy from the paint cans?" Brad Mosiman employed the ostrich-head-in-the-sand approach. It's been over a week and he STILL hasn't mentioned my hair. 

I could avoid mirrors but I wasn't going to be able to avoid my class. 

Time to employ my first official lesson for my new curriculum. I made a poster for the door before my students arrived, sat down, folded my arms (body language), and waited. 

My early bird showed up first. I could see him reading the poster before he blew into the room. He stopped short and stared at me. Obviously, his mind went blank in shock at my alarming appearance. "Well?" I growled at him like Josey Wales ("Are you gonna pull those pistols or whistle Dixie?"). "I'll be right back," he stammered, stumbling back out of the room. He quickly made a selection from the menu of possible choices and returned confidently. "Nice haircut, Mrs. Mosiman!" "Why, thank you," I smiled back.

The rest of my honeys slowly ebbed in...most of them making acceptable choices...saving both my ego and their recess minutes. There were, naturally, a few outliers that I had to make adjustments for...adding to the the menu board. "It's not so bad," a Room 24 veteran observed, tilting his head. He watched, confused as I immediately stomped over to the poster and added his comment to the negative side. "But that was a compliment!" he protested. I explained, in detail, how his remark was NOT a compliment. Finally, Mr. Foot Fetish arrived. He stood a LONG time in front of the poster, agonizing over the choices. My colleague wandered over to join him. "What do you think?" she asked him. "I'm going to go with this one," he said, pointing. She nodded reassuringly. Like a deer entering a dawn-shrouded meadow, he inched into the room, sidling slowly over to me. I refrained from quick movements or making any loud sounds. I raised one quizzical eyebrow at him as he took a deep breath. "You look ten years younger, Mrs. Mosiman!" I smiled broadly at him as he sighed with relief. We're all still learning.

At first I didn't like how my hair looked but as least now its growing on me.