How do you unlock the secret of running a successful assembly on bathroom manners? With a doo-key!

 I have often been asked about some of the odd and/or outlandish activities of which I sometimes find myself engaged in at school...with people wondering why I participate in such antics. "It's my duty," I respond, with my usual humbled conviction to my craft.

But never so much as on Friday.

First and fourth grade teams have historically been yoked together to host the initial grade level character building assembly of the year. It's a LOT of pressure. Shoot too low and you are ridiculed mercilessly for your lack of effort and creativity. Aim for the stars and you are persecuted for setting the bar too high. We learned back in July that we were to be assigned the very auspicious...very dignified...classy topic of bathroom manners. After some strident and indignant arguing, it was decided (for me) that the best course of action was simply to just hold our breath and hope for the best.

It was time to get down to business.

Naturally, we were a bit down in the dumps during our first meeting. This was not the ideal topic in which we wished to showcase our talents. "You don't suppose that there is a costume..." I mused, typing doubtfully on my phone. You betcha, there was. From there, you couldn't stop the flow of ideas. 

Occasionally, we'd get stalled or there'd be a clog in the creative flow...but soon, things were running smoothly. The team threw up a real stink at one point when decided we needed ten plungers for an engaging activity for the children. "I am NOT purchasing ten plungers," one of our crew stated decisively. We briefly debated all of us buying one but I finally volunteered to take on that heavy load. "Urine good hands," I assured everyone. "I won't let you down."

The next step was getting our good-natured cleaner on board the potty train. Naturally, she was quite receptive to ANY idea that might get kids aiming to improve their bathroom behavior. I explained our idea to her.

"You know how, if you are in the clutches of a serial killer, you are supposed to personalize yourself with him...drill your name into his head...build a relationship?"

Christy nodded. Working as a school cleaner was as close to being in the clutches of a serial killer as you can get. Except she was in the clutches of hundreds of pint-sized serial killers...all intent on destroying your will to live. 

And that was how our little movie was made.

Now...I don't actually fancy myself a commode-ian, but, me, dressed up as a giant toilet paper roll, earnestly interviewing Miss Christy in the lavatory about her life-long vendetta against germs as she toils endlessly to model respectful, responsible, and safe behavior was definitely some Academy Award winning $h!}. The unnecessary but entertaining concluding montage that was triggered with the flush of a toilet, the startling appearance of a grinning kid who announced that the toilet paper had just run out, was underscored by the theme song from the old Benny Hill show as Miss Christy chased me up and down the halls. 

The day of the ASSembly arrived. There was no need to be nervous. We had everything covered.

My friend Jordan and I introduced the program. She was flawlessly professional. Comedically brilliant. Personally, I was feeling flushed. If ever there was a time to wet myself from nervousness...this would be it. I kept tripping over my toilet paper train. The first grade team held up letter tiles to spell out our mnemonic word to help students remember the steps to keeping the bathroom safe and clean:  FLUSH. We had had it planned that they would intentionally spell it wrong several times to give students a chance to guess our word. I watched as two of our teachers realized that the "f" and the "u" should not be neighbors and immediately re-positioned themselves on stage. I giggled as I watched the show. Good thing that they hadn't tried making the word "poo." They might have only ended up with "p" because they were missing some bowels!

We successfully made it to the end of the assembly. We said words into microphones that no grown women should EVER have to utter. We created visual pictures in the minds of our audience that will NEVER be erased. We made our physical education coaches and pre-schoolers laugh so we know that we were pretty much on target. And, for one brief shining moment, dressed ridiculously as a roll of toilet paper, I was the life of the potty.

Hanging on by a thread: Buy American

 Fifty-four years old and I am still struggling to develop a personal fashion flair. I may have aged out of my snarky t-shirts and jeans phase but have yet to firmly land on a signature style.  My friend Michelle gently recommended printed pants. I'm leaning more towards international attire. How I envy the swag of my sisters across the sea...the kimono, the shalwar kameez, and yes, as free-will determines...the burka. Long. Cool. Flowing. Forgiving. Comfortable. Camouflaging. 

Imagine my delight when I discovered such a gracious garment available for an outrageously affordable amount. My inclination to "Buy American" was overshadowed by the lure of low prices and misspelled promised quality. I made my purchase courtesy of the People's Republic of China and eagerly awaited its arrival.

Soon, my ankles were swimming in a smooth, silk-like material. My waist reveled within the loving embrace of an elastic waistband.  Any bulges were rendered barely noticeable. I was a nylon ninja. A synthetic fabric-ed fashionista. 

I skipped happily off to school, responding to compliments with a kick and a twirl. 

I was unhindered by my fears of flashing back fat to an unsuspecting passerby. I could crouch like a hidden tiger and out-stretch a snake.

Mid-day brought a morbid discovery.

During my lunch-time constitution, I found myself in a position to view the interior of my pants and
could not, for the life of me, understand what on earth I was looking at. Why could I see the floor through my slacks, I wondered. My breath suddenly hitched. How long had the seat of my pants been completely blown out by what looked like a cannonball?

I wormed my way to my room to collect an alternative wardrobe. During my nonchalant walk of shame back to the restroom, I, of course, ran into my friend, Tyler, who decided today was the day for an hour-long discussion on WHO KNOWS WHAT because I was just trying desperately to change my clothes. 

Later, my students barely noticed my transformation although some did express delight over my Field Day shirt depicting me as Medusa. My "I've never actually worked out in them" work-out pants were just as comfortable as my previous outfit with the one BIG advantage that there wasn't an unadvertised back-door flap.  Any pretense of looking professional had long since unraveled. Dignity had disappeared. The only thing left to cling to was modesty and my flag. 

What's my message? Buy American.

Brad Mosiman got up at the quack of dawn and STILL managed to carve our pumpkin!

 I am a holiday humbug.

Given the choice, I would avoid them ALL.

I don't know what spirit-sucking demon possesses me but the closer I come to an occasion, the deeper my desire to bury myself in blankets and ride the revelry out in silence and solitude.

Brad Mosiman adores holidays. Despite the knowledge that I am going to ruin each and every one of them, he approaches celebrations with such sincerity and sweet sentimentality that it makes me the clear villain in every televised Mosiman holiday special. 

It was the day before Halloween and our pumpkin had not yet been butchered. Oops...wrong holiday. I mean, carved. Wait. Don't you carve a turkey, too? Doesn't matter. You know what I mean. The gourd had not yet been gouged.

Brad Mosiman had left for work at 3 am. He returned home around 5:30 pm. He looked longingly to the darkening October skies and sighed. "I'm going to walk down to the pond quick to see if there are any ducks there," he told me. And that's when I rallied. I would not ruin another holiday for my poor, hard-working husband.

Grasping a large metal spoon and a knife in my fist, I plucked my pumpkin from its perch on my front porch and lugged it around to the back yard. As I staggered under the weight of my load, I was startled to meet Brad coming out of the garage. "What do you think you're doing?" he asked, frowning. "I was going to surprise you," I told him, "When you came back from the pond, you would have been greeted by the flickering smile of your carved pumpkin."

Brad Mosiman looked longingly to the darkening October skies and sighed. He lifted the pumpkin from my arms and carried it down to the field. He rolled his eyes at my carving option and broke out a high-powered gizmo, making short work of gutting our pumpkin. I stood by helpfully, should he need assistance. 

I followed him back up to the garage where he then handed me a Sharpie to draw a design. I considered my canvas. "It's got gook on it," I observed. Sighing again, Brad wiped the guts off of the pumpkin. 

My husband carefully cut out my design. "Could you please hold the pumpkin steady instead of taking pictures?" he asked, patiently. Pumpkin pieces fell to the floor and I bravely picked them up. 

We (he) carried our masterpiece to its place of honor on our front sidewalk.

It was now pitch black. Brad sighed.

"All we need is a candle," he told me.

I stared at him. Oh. Forgot about that part. I searched my stock. Not a votive in the stack. I grabbed a pillared candle better suited for a candelabra from "The Phantom of the Opera," and used my carving knife to hack it down to size. 

Somehow, we managed to get our pumpkin lit.

"Wasn't this fun?" I asked him as he suppressed a tired yawn. He nodded, "Tons." I smiled happily. I did it. I hadn't ruined Halloween for my husband this year. I had made it magical.  "Aren't you glad we found time to carve our pumpkin?" I continued. "Oh yeah," he agreed, "I couldn't imagine a better time to do it."

Feline fine: 4th grade team's group costume was a roaring success

Halloween is not considered "child's play" in the 4th grade. 

A great deal of brain-storming and discussion is involved in costume planning along with the annual student flash mob theme and music.

One Halloween is barely over before planning for the next Halloween begins...

It's supposed to be a group effort but lately...it's been three-against-me.

I began tossing out ideas over the summer...biding my time for when inspiration truly struck. My team-mates dismissed each suggestion with casual indifference...like they had anything better to do in July than to think about which ridiculous costume they would be donning in October. 

But when our first official team meeting was scheduled in September, I was ready with an idea so iconic...so trendy...so original...that we would make Halloween history. 

"Caitlyn Clark," I announced, mentally prepared to be picked up and placed on the youthful shoulders of my team-mates and paraded around for my utter brilliance and creativity. 

Instead...I was greeted with dead silence and...I must have been mistaken...did they side-eye one another as though I were a daft idiot?

I must have been selling this wrong. They weren't getting it. "One person will be Caitlyn," I explained, "while another one of us will be a giant inflatable basketball. Another person can be the posted basketball net (I showed a helpful picture to help them visualize this amazing scene) while the last person could be a ref." 

"No, we get it, Amy," I was told just before I heard the 4th quarter buzzer go off, signaling my loss.

Before I knew it, I was re-routed off the road to the Final Four and detoured over to some new construction where they were laying some yellow bricks.

Speaking of paving stones...

I sighed. I was effortlessly tossing 3-pointers and my team was launching bricks.

But you know me...always trying to make the best of things...a true team player. So, I pivoted.

Naturally...I would be the witch. My disposition alone guaranteed it. My extensive theater background began in grade school as a flying monkey before I was bestowed the broom in my high school play. My laugh was legendary.

But before I could boast of my witchy resume, Allison shared how she was related to the original Wicked Witch of the West, the legendary Margaret Hamilton...dashing my dreams of petrifying my pupils. 

"I'll be the Swearcrow," I volunteered, again...trying to be a team player.

"You already have a lion costume," I was told, "You can be the Cowardly Lion."

It was getting harder and harder to keep a paws-itive attitude here.

So what if I simmer in that suit like a slow-roasting stew? So what if children relentlessly pull my tail and confuse me with a bear? So what if I am seen in that stupid suit every March as I prance around the bus loop with Erin to commemorate the fickle weather related to the third month of the year? I'm happy to be sweaty, bullied and redundant for the good of my team.

The big day arrived. I reluctantly stuffed myself into that suit, grabbed my mini-fan, and pranced my way along the parade route...paw-sing for high-fives, pouncing on preschoolers, posing for pictures. 

It was time for the Grande Finale:  The Annual 4th Grade Flash Mob.

We had been practicing for weeks and had all our moves down cold.

The toss the leaves into the air.

The pound your chest like a gorilla.

The door/door, floor floor move.

I slid into place and glanced around. I spotted the slew of inflatable costumes including Room 14's very own trio of dinosaurs. While I was a saturated sponge at the moment, I realized that I could be attempting the invisible arrow launch bound within the confines of an inflated basketball. Say what you will, at least the lion costume has give. And give it did...when my velcro-back blew out when the Atlas: Weight-of-the-world-on-your-shoulders move cued up. I was grateful that I hadn't followed through with my threat of going commando under the sauna suit.

So much for mane-taining my dignity.

I wish I was lion.

 

Thistle be the best day ever: What a knit-wit!

 It is difficult to ignore the changing landscape behind my house. Trees that my family planted twenty-five years ago--plucked from the ground like carrots from a garden. The stream where we once waded is now being re-routed. Hills are smoothed flat like a wrinkled blanket. My once-busy bird feeders stood empty while their confused occupants rapidly filled out FEMA forms. Deer, fox, and pheasants filed their own Forward Mail slips before dashing off. Bulldozers and excavators packing thousands of years of eroded evolution into mere months. Mankind and machinery molding mountains into mole-hills. 

Brad returned from a walk to enlist my services for a rescue mission. The pond has been cut off from its connecting stream and a fish had been left stranded. Grabbing his fishing net, Brad invited me along as he started up the 4-wheeler. Assuming that this was a Point A to Point B mission, I ignored Brad's suggestion to change my clothes. My soft knit sweater and comfy romper were perfect for this mild Autumn day.

I was surprised when we roared past our usual route to the far end of the pond...a wild, thorny-roped entrance...a dark,  dangerous, jungle path slanted at an alarming angle. Naturally, I leaped off the 4-wheeler while Brad attempted to ram through the obstacle like a mad bull. Seeing my husband caught in the clutches of sharp, splintered branches, I waded in, using my back and shoulders to free him to inch forward. We were stabbed repeatedly on this painful journey, the trees trying to wrestle my net away from me, blood running down my calves.

Finally, we broke free. Now we had to traverse the war-torn terrain, abandoning our 4-wheeler to slide  down ditches and stumble over cratered soil to find this floundering fish. He was in poor shape...caught easily in our net. As I watched Brad release him back into the safety of the pond, I realized my vision of a "Free Willy" moment...a shiny, silvery body breaking the water's surface to leap clear of its unjust prison into sweet freedom...was not going to happen. Our musical accompaniment would not be a swelling crescendo of triumph but a melancholy melody of resigned relief. I hope he recovered.

We are all the sum of our decisions. 

Leave the pond to brave a stream to an unknown destination? 

Not a great choice. 

When given the option to ride the 4-wheeler back up that insane incline or hoof it home myself, I chose my own two able feet. 

Also, not a great choice. 

My soft knits were a welcoming magnet to every bramble, thistle, sticker and pricker in the area. My soft flesh was a canvas of cuts, scratches, and welts. I finally tossed caution to the side and fully committed myself to escape. The music...muted, beleaguered...started to increase in tempo...harmony and a hallelujah choir began as an opening appeared. Imprisoned in prickers, Amy Mosiman, human porcupine, leaped free of this prisonous field of fiendish floral and fauna to be greeted by my stunned husband, waiting for me at the top of the hill.

Naturally, I blamed Brad.

My cozy sweater and roomy romper were ruined.

Fixer-of-all-things, Brad Mosiman is refusing to accept defeat. Cue musical accompaniment as we spend the next few WEEKS plucking thistles from a knit sweater. "Thank you for helping me," I told him, not really wanting to trash my cute cardigan. Gripping the tweezers, Brad squinted at my sweater as he relentlessly plucked prickers from the fabric. He glanced up to look at me. "You're wool-come."

The term "high-functioning" should only be applied to appliances

 "Reason for visit?" asked the in-processing nurse, squinting at her screen.

"Because Michelle ******** is an over-involved bitch," I answered.

Admittedly, it had been a while...just a little over a decade.

The nurse tried valiantly to maintain a poker face as the gaping holes in my medical records grew to crater-sized. 

"Primary care physician?"

"I don't have one," I replied, watching her fight the frown from her face.

"When is the last time you've seen a doctor?"

"About a decade."

A small sigh filled the tiny room.

"Family history?"

"Adopted."

"I'm guessing we can rule out prescription meds?"

I shifted in my paper robe, feeling somewhat exposed.

"Alcohol?"

"As soon as I leave here," I told her.

"Any surgeries?"

I tried to explain about my bundled surgery but it sounds idiotic and implausible, even to me.

UFO: An Unidentified female object

Post-operative pain, Part 1

Post-Operative Pain: Part 4-The Final Installment

The nurse finally gave up and sent in the doctor...all four foot nothin' of her. I tried not to stare as I speculated about her age. Fourteen? Her feet didn't reach the floor as she settled on her spinning stool. I tried to reassure myself that this also meant that she had teeny-tiny little squirrel hands when it came time to root around in my woman parts. 

She, too, looked at the computer screen with some resignation before spinning toward me and smiled broadly.  I silently inventoried my bag, wondering if I had a lollipop hidden in its depths. 

The doctor asked some clarifying questions about my disturbing lack of medical history and then gently asked...not WHY I was here (Michelle was now their office mascot...signs and t-shirts were being printed while I was still in the examination room.) but WHAT had kept me from coming here. I sputtered out my usual self-deprecating excuses:  Negligent. Lazy. Irresponsible. She frowned, shaking her head, and then, softly, asked me again. Tears clouded my vision. I gasped out some indecipherable answers. My new friend, Gidget, sat quietly, her large, empathetic eyes concentrated on me.

Once I had exhausted myself, my doctor immediately transformed into a cheerleader. "I am so glad you're here," she proclaimed. I wish I could say the same. I just sat there...hating Michelle. "Let me tell you what we're going to accomplish today and then set some manageable goals." 

Oh, no. I knew this language. I've sat in on those meetings where we worked to build up the academic or social skills of struggling students.

"You have already accomplished the hardest part...getting here," she smiled, clapping. 

Actually, Michelle and Brad Mosiman (parked outside the door to block me in case my flight response kicked in) did that.

"You are obviously high-functioning," Gidget continued, pretending not to notice how that term made me visibly flinch, "but that must completely drain you. You shouldn't have to power through a UTI. You shouldn't have to attempt to abbreviate surgical procedures. You should feel safe and comfortable as you go about your life. Let's make a plan!"

So Gidget made a plan.

I also made a plan. To kill Michelle.

After the examination, Gidget told me how lucky she felt to have me as a patient. This was AFTER she threatened to check up on me that I would follow up on my (her) goals to make a mammogram appointment and reached out to the primary provider that she recommended. Before I knew it, we were hugging.

I was hugging my gynecologist.

I'm going to KILL Michelle.

The office had erected a balloon arch to commemorate Michelle's success in getting me to go to the doctor. The staff had gathered like the Munchkins to see Dorothy off. "Good-bye! Good-bye," they sang as I ran out the door and to my parked car. Brad Mosiman immediately drove me to Dunkin' Donuts where I proceeded to have a melt-down when I learned that they had discontinued the Dunka-chino.

"How did it go?" my friend, Marissa texted.

"I'm supposed to schedule a mammogram," I said, concluding my essay-long text-rant on my Team 4 group chat, "I'll get around to that in the next twenty years."

"I vote Team 4 mammogram field trip!" Marissa shot back.

When on earth did we all become breast friends?

And if all this isn't bad enough, in addition to all my other neuroses, I also suffer from test anxiety.

How do I cram for a breast exam?

Thanks to my LETRS training, this is funny: What do you call a pink bird with a sore throat: A phlegmingo

 I am not at my best on a Superintendent's Conference Day. 

I am in an environment where every fiber of my being is either sharply in-tuned to (A) creating lesson plans, hopelessly re-arranging my learning environment to find that perfect equation to minimize chatter and distractions to best focus attention, and grading assignments OR (B) shenanigans. 

I swear that I read the obituary...I mean...itinerary.

"This isn't a death sentence OR a vacation, Amy," I was informed by a wary administrator as I stumbled, blearily, into the auditorium at 7:30 a.m. "If you'd read the AGENDA, you would know that coffee would be available after the Morning Meeting."  I gasped. How was I going to manage the next 45 minute caffeine-free, pastry-less existence? Fortunately, another administrator wandered by with a comfort animal. Cocker Spaniel kisses make everything better. 

So do snacks.

My 4th grade team knows that my ratio of whining resistance to reluctant productivity is greatly impacted by the availability of snacks. Superintendent Day conferences have been much more palatable with a table decorated with desserts. Allison worried that her kind offering of a colorful veggie tray might cause me to spiral. Not at all. Instead, I stomped all over the building, announcing that Allison had included nine cherry tomatoes in her colorful cornucopia and I had claimed all of them. "I do have a mild allergy to tomatoes," I warned my somewhat alarmed team. "What happens?" they asked as I popped two cherry tomatoes in my mouth. I waved my hand dismissively. "My throat scratches a bit accompanied by a little swelling."  Allison looked horrified. "I would be the one responsible for killing Amy Mosiman." Katriel shrugged before attempting to reassure her. "You could be hailed as a hero...depending on the day." 

She wasn't wrong.

I had already denied personnel access to the building as I gallantly stood in during the school secretary's momentary absence. "Amy," my administrator snapped, intervening as I interrogated this questionable visitor, "Betty has worked at our school for eight years. And why aren't you on your Zoom call meeting?" 

Oops.

"I'm meeting with the head of maintenance," I explained, disappearing before she could ask why.

My OCD had triggered early this morning when I noticed a heating duct cover mounted on the wall was crooked. Surely, someone needed to be alerted.

Then I noticed that ALL of the remaining trees in the courtyard (minus, of course, the one they'd heartlessly cut down the minute I'd left the building at the end of last school year because they KNEW I'd chain myself to it) were devoid of leaves. Strange for Fall? No. But WHERE WERE ALL OF THE
FALLEN LEAVES??? Not a single leaf littered the ground. I was in that courtyard EVERY day...reluctantly feeding the Welfare birds and poking my decomposing puffball.  I had not witnessed the appearance of a single rake or heard the racket of a leaf blower. This mystery obviously trumped a Zoom meeting.

During my hunt for the head of maintenance (pausing at the drinking fountain to soothe my scratchy throat), I found TWO secret doors. One led me to a secret passage to the cafeteria where I helpfully oversaw Tony's work repairing the industrial stove. He pointed out another secret door that he was certain would lead me to Todd...imagine my surprise when I found myself outside the building. And then my administrator refused to buzz me back in until I promised to return to my Zoom meeting.

I returned to my room full of snacks...inventoried my cherry tomatoes...and then collapsed back into my cushioned chair to sulk (after grappling a throat lozenge).

It was here...at this moment in time...that I would later discover that I had ultimately been betrayed by my team.

Stay with me.

Our computer Shared Drive folders can be decoratively enhanced...with either a boring prefabricated background or you can...if you have the patience of Job and endless time on your hands...personalize the folder with a photo.

I had discovered this option years ago and happily devoted hours of my life to putting meaningful snapshots of my team-mates on the covers. It was an exasperating business. Using an infuriatingly inaccurate crop-box as your guide, it would take ten to ten-thousand tries to capture the fraction of the photo allotted for the folder. This process would inevitably be accompanied by frustrated screaming and the occasional flinging of technology upon the floor or against the wall. But persistence pays off. My latest artistic endeavor had Katriel's image, captured for months, as she raced along a highway meridian, searching for an item that had been sucked out a school bus window.

Then, imagine my surprise...my horror...and then my delight, when I discovered the Shared Drive folder had been updated with my own petulant pose. I immediately changed it (of course) but spent the remainder of the day smiling...reveling in the compliment attached to such an utter waste-of-time action. I spent needless hours trying to capture Marissa flipping her hair but it surpassed my skill level so I had to settle for a far-too-attractive picture of Allison lounging by Lake Ontario. Trust me...it's only a temporary filler. Leaving a lovely photo up on a Google Drive Folder is just too hard to swallow.