What rhymes with "zoo"?

It was The Mosiman Family Day at the zoo. We had to decide between visiting the polar bear cubs at the Buffalo Zoo or the lion cubs at the Seneca Park Zoo.  Because I had a strong hankering for crepes, I developed an intense desire to see polar bears. It's cute how, after all these years, Brad still thinks that we go to the zoo for the animals. We stopped in for a pre-zoo snack at Sweetness 7 Cafe where we split two orders of crepes. We enjoyed the Celtic Love Spell enveloped in Nutella and topped with bananas as well as the berry-slathered Bohemian Rhapsody. We then ventured over to the zoo.


There were limited viewing hours on the bears which was a problem for us because I am always immediately captivated by the Indian elephants. Today, the elephant was being fed slices of Wonder bread and I could have watched that for hours but my family eventually dragged me away. The bears were cute but I feel that they could have been spruced up a bit in anticipation of our visit.

 From there, we perused the reptile house where Sydney mortified us when she responded to the zoo docent's explanation of how a Hellbender can grow as large as two feet in length and that eighty of the giant salamanders will soon be released in Allegheny.  "That would scare the crap out of me," Sydney exclaimed. We reprimanded her for her potty mouthed language.  The Mosimans are way too classy for such behavior.

To heighten the excitement of our zoo experiences, we play a little game that hones in our observational skills. The first person who spots a pooping animal wins a dollar from each member of the group. The rules are uncompromisingly strict. Birds do not count. The act of animal defecation must be witnessed by a secondary observer. Today added a whole new dimension to the game. Hank the rhino was lounging happily in his wading hole when I noticed a series of erupting bubbles emerging from his submerged hind-quarters.  I was elated.  Clearly, I had won the contest. However, my opponents did not see the outcome quite so clearly. The consequenting conversation was rather low-brow in nature and, in the end, a new "underwater" rule was established.  My hopes for a win sunk straight to the bottom of Hank's hot tub.

We exited the zoo for our post-snack celebration.

We stopped in at Fairy Cakes Cupcakery and made our agonizing selection choices. My raspberry lemonade cupcake was refreshingly evocative while the double chocolate with almonds off-set with salted caramel was Sydney and Brad's favorite. A low moan drifted up from the back of the van. Did we have a rhino run-away riding with us?  Nope. "My cupcake overpowered me," Sydney said, stuffed full and sighing contentedly. I sighed too, as we left the zoo behind.  Visiting the animals always leaves me hungering for more.

Sydney and Savannah at the Buffalo Zoo,
 bravely tickling the Silverback Gorilla.

A dog'gone good time in Niagara Falls

Worried that the dogs were watching too much television during the week-ends, we decided to take them to Niagara Falls today. It is interesting to take note of the differing reactions to the girls. We try to be very sensitive when we take Juno out as occasionally people assign Rottweilers unwarranted personality traits. By looking at Juno, one would not realize that the Dachshund regularly beats her up and that our Rottie tries to smush herself into our laps on a daily basis. Niagara Falls is a hotbed for international sightseeing and gaudy, useless souvenir shopping combined with the fun of paying too much for parking. The dogs, naturally, loved it. Brad, Savannah and I had mixed feelings.

Having spent much of our lives in the culturally homogenized fishbowl that is Wyoming County, we work hard NOT to typecast our fellow planet-dwellers but there was no way to avoid it in this particular situation. Forget about race, religion and ethnicity.  Essentially, when it comes to dogs, all people can be divided into three categories while making some concessions for small sub-divisions.

Category one includes the dog-fanciers. They were easy to spot as their faces lit up with delight the moment they spotted our dogs. The sub-divisions of this category allow for the small-dog-lovers and the big-dog-lovers.  Chlo, obviously, was the recipient of the largest percentage of public adoration but, to her credit, she was a "big" enough dog to be happy for Juno when someone stopped to pet the Rottweiler as well. Savannah had to pause at one point for Juno to be used as a puppy prop at the request of two women who thought that our dog would accentuate their photograph of The Horseshoe Falls. One sweet little girl shyly asked permission to pet Juno and gratefully accepted a sloppy bologna-tongued kiss from our happy dog.

Category two includes the dog-haters. These are an obnoxiously passionate group of people. Sub-division A is at least forgivable. Anyone who has ever had an unpleasant experience with a dog may have developed an understandable sense of trepidation upon encountering one. Please realize that the Mosimans do not make a habit of letting their Rottweiler ran rampant in public nor do we encourage her to accost strangers. At all times, Juno is leashed tightly to our side. Sub-division B are the idiots (I do not use this term loosely) who have ignorantly preconceived notions that dogs are dirty, unfit companions. You are welcome to your personal beliefs but to let out a juvenile shriek in a public place designed for ALL to enjoy when I am simply out walking my dog and enjoying the day is ridiculous. We received two shrieks, several jumps out of our way, and one father tackled his child as he toddled towards us.

Category three are the apathetics. They could care less about us which suits the humans in our group just fine but utterly devastates Chlo.  The sub-division of this particular category includes the people who are apathetic to the point that they could consume canine without flinching. This also devastates Chlo.

It was an interesting lesson in human behavior. You know that saying...the more I know about people, the more I like my dogs? It's true more often than not. I enjoy spending time with someone who is loving, lovable and accepting. My dogs do not work to alienate others or judge without cause.  While Brad, Savannah and I were intermittently annoyed during our visit to Niagara Falls, the dogs had a delightful time.

There were bunnies and squirrels. They splashed through puddles, sat in the shade and watched the river roll by. I can learn so much about being happy from my dogs. The first lesson: spend time with those who make you happy.

Pam's cookies make my day

Every day is a gift. What's even better is when the day is accompanied by a gift.  Make that multiple gifts.  Facing Friday morning's alarm clock ring, "dee...dee...deedle...deedle...dee/

dee...dee...deedle...deedle...dee" is difficult enough without Savannah's accompanying lyrics:  "I... don't... wanna-go-to-work/I...don't...wanna-go-to-work."  Regardless of whether I wanted to go to work or not, I went.  Cursing the gray day, I slogged through the rain to the school, squeaked down the corridor, opened my classroom door and flipped on the lights. Immediately, my day brightened.   There on a desk, sat a cardboard flat filled with large frosted cookies. Each cookie was decorated with a smiley face.  My friend, Pam works as the school's "copy-ologist" and is one of the kindest, most inspiring people I know. She's one of those people who takes the greatest of personal pride in whatever she does. She is organized, meticulous, creative and can read the minds of distracted teachers who regularly fill out their copy order forms wrong.  Add to that, she is a fantastic baker.  Pam's one great flaw is that she is ungraciously unaware of the proper protocol to respond to a simple thank you note.  My sixth grade team had bought Pam a hanging plant to thank her for a full year of dedication, patience, and good-natured humor. And that is why, on this bleak and dismal day, sunshine cookies lit up my world.  I have no desire to get off this crazy cookie carousal.  I have another thank you note to Pam in the mail already. 

An hour later, I was busy transforming a Common Core module into a fourth-grade-friendly lesson when my friend Geri came strolling in with a strawberry milk for me. The perfect accompaniment to a carton of cookies!  For a moment, she re-thought her generosity, snatching the present back. "You said I had the tastebuds of a truck driver," she snapped, referring to a past blog.  I was thrilled that she'd even bothered to read it. "I wasn't insulting you," I responded defensively, "it was actually a dig at the truckers."  "Oh," she said slowly as I snatched my milk back and guzzled it down before she thought too hard about my comment.  It turned out to be wonderful day.  I also scored a box of rocks and a ream of slightly-faded purple construction paper. Could a girl even dare ask for more?

Teeny tiny toads

 June. What could be more magical than collecting fireflies in a mason jar? What about gathering teeny tiny toads in a cake pan? This time of year usually marks an epic biblical plague of miniature proportions. It is a somewhat disconcerting phenomenon. Our lawn looks like a chinook wind passing through a midwest prairie as a tornado of tiny toads ripple across the grass.  The dogs are drawn to this strange stampede running right under their noses. The Rottweiler, Juno, is at her wit's end, raring up on her rear legs like a wild mare to bring her front feet down in an ineffectual frog-flattening  stomp.  Chlo is a bit more practical, choosing to herd the teeny tiny toads across her property.  She's about as successful as an afternoon crossing guard on the last day of school.  My idea to catch twenty toads wasn't met with the unbridled enthusiasm I anticipated. Savannah was suctioned to the couch and Brad preferred to remain inside, regaling her with how I selfishly selected the McDonald's double hot fudge sundae with the most hot fudge which was a total lie since both of our ordered desserts had the same distribution of topping.  Sydney, thank goodness, was up for the challenge. We had to revise our initial harvesting strategy when Juno mistook the cake pan for a teeny tiny toad trough.  "It's like picking berries,"

I exclaimed happily, adding two tiny toads to a cup. Putting her budding archaeological skills to applicable use, Sydney quickly captured the remaining eighteen. Our photo-session was a tad exasperating as we fended off the dogs while discovering that toads don't like to sit still and say "cheese."  Auto-focus was a major failure so Sydney finally ripped the camera from my hands to snap the now-infamous "toe-d" ring shot.  Good luck getting a lightning bug to do that!

A penny or two toads for your thoughts.

There's no accounting for taste

As I can not get enough of it, I returned to the Glen Iris Inn just a few scant days after I'd eaten there with Brad and Savannah.  Even worse, I ordered practically the same meal.  Following an intense period of curriculum development, friends Kelly, Amanda, Geri and I headed to Letchworth Park for a relaxing lunch break. Relaxing is a relative term with this group.  The Danish brie was our first obstacle. My friend, Amanda's customary lunch consists of raw vegetables.  She'll occasionally bring a dip if she's feeling a bit saucy.  She regarded the congealed-looking mass of warm cheese encased in its resistant rind with transfixed alarm. The combined effects of peer-pressure (more like peer-ridicule) and self-respect spurred her forward, gritting her teeth as she stabbed the oddly-shaped knife into the casing, slightly flinching as the cheese bled out.  "If you hate it, pass it over," I hissed at her hopefully while Kelly and Geri stared at her like the circus spectators of a sword-swallowing act. And like the daredevil she is, Amanda downed the Danish brie and mentally prepared herself for the next course.

The selection of the entries seemed a simple enough process.  The arrival was a complicated debacle.  Geri, thrilled with the inclusion of breakfast items on her lunch menu, had ordered an omelette.  Upon seeing Kelly's beautiful Reuben sandwich, she immediately began lamenting her initial decision.  Before Geri could throw ashes on her head and don sack cloth, Kelly intervened, offering to split her meal. Meanwhile, I was happily eating my tomato-mozzarella salad.  "Excuse me," I asked Greg, our very patient waiter, "but what is this?"  I pointed to the flimsy green items decorating my plate.  "Those are salad greens, ma'am."  Responding to my confused look, Amanda leaned over to whisper, "Lettuce, Amy."

Finally, dessert.  We split the strawberry shortcake and a frozen amaretto soufflé. Geri has the highly developed palate of a cross-country truck driver.  She considered the soufflé with the air of one accustomed to yellow jello. As the creamy custard rolled over her tongue, she frowned and made her pronouncement, "It's taste is reminiscent of an indoor splashpark with vibrant chlorine undertones."  We stared in wonder, admiring her descriptive skills.  "You do paint a picture," Amanda admitted before taking a tentative bite.  She encouraged Kelly, "You like an armaretto sour."  Reminded of a happy occasion that she can only vaguely recollect, Kelly slid her spoon into the soufflé.  We somehow overcame Geri's anti-armaretto announcement and finished both of our desserts.

The arrival of the bill brought dismay and confusion.  It was a lesson in word problem development and real-world math application.  Take a $98 bill with a tax line of $6.18, subtract the $8 park entrance fee, consider that only Amy Mosiman bought a yummy adult beverage, figure in that Kelly and Geri split the appetizer but Amy ate most of it, factor in the fact that Geri only had one bite of the frozen amaretto soufflé and commence arguing for the next twenty minutes.  We are one classy lunch bunch.  

Number One in the Fourth Grade

I've spent the last few days nervously settling in with my new grade level team.  What if they don't like me?  What if they think my ideas are stupid?  What if they find me as annoying as my former grade level team did?  While not great, I'm at least off to a memorable start.

 We've been busy developing Common Core modules (thick reams of clipart-less paper dictating lessons, word by word.  Example:  Teacher says: From one to five, please raise a finger indicating your level of understanding regarding this New York State instructional experience.  Teacher observes and takes note of student responses to address future needs.  Teacher says:  In the future, to avoid confusion, please refrain from folding down your pinkie, ring and index fingers to signify a "one" rating).

Each member of my 4th grade team has been typing furiously for days, transcribing, re-interpreting, and enriching module content into interactive SMARTboard presentations.  I was born for this activity.  I can spend hours scouring the internet for an accompanying game, semi-relevant Youtube video, and an accentuating clipart picture designed to boost student interest and encourage actively enthusiastic involvement.  This ability is both my blessing and my curse.  After several hours of tirelessly typing learning objectives, I realized that what my fascinating module topic of "The Iroquois Confederacy:  Growing Food" needed was an animated illustration.  Twenty minutes later, I was rewarded with a German Shepherd sporting human arms gnawing on an ear of corn.  Perfect!  I proudly called my team over to witness this helpful illustration.  As you can imagine, they stared in silent awe at my screen.  Admiration?  Jealousy?  It was hard to tell.  I choose to inspire them even more with the additions of a spectacled kitten reading a book and a bouncy kangaroo. My friend, Geri, making a "thumbs up or down" page, accepted my help and we soon had a small animated Fonzie with his trademark "ayyyyy" smiling on the SMARTboard.

My extensive clipart research eventually led me to my first BIG 4th grade idea.  My original plan way to lay low for the first year but that plan was obliterated when I spotted the world's biggest living wampum belt on the computer!  My team listened in stunned silence again as I shared this impressive class project.  Overwhelmed?  Overjoyed?  (Outraged?).

I've also been busy mapping out the new geography of my new digs.  As my assigned classroom isn't quite ready for habitation, I am currently sharing with Geri.  I watched her exit "our" room and turn left.  Curious, I subtly trailed her.  Her excuse of "needing to use the restroom" didn't really hold water as the spacious faculty bathroom was a mere few feet away from her class, immediately to the right.  Was she looking to escape my company?  Meeting with an administrator to arrange my re-location to another team...was I a free agent?  Was she maligning my good name up and down the corridors like a warped version of Paul Revere?  To my surprise, she simply visited a restroom in a more out-of-the-way location.  "It's not out-of-the-way," Geri snapped peevishly, after I questioned her motives, "both bathrooms are equidistant."  How dare she use such highfalutin' language with me!  I metaphorically slapped her right and then left cheek with a silken white glove and declared a duel.  "What happened to laying low?" my husband asked wearily, tired of the drama that, for some inexplicable reason, surrounds me.  With a timer in hand, Geri and I set off, our syncopated steps echoing in the deserted hallway.  We made it to the out-of-the-way location in 17.84 seconds.  We returned to the classroom for trial two.  "You have to factor in distractibility," Geri explained, as we moved forward toward our goal.  "As you enter the faculty lounge, first you look to see if there's any snacks on the tables.  Then you make sure that your favorite brand of soda isn't sold out and finally you peek to see if the vending machine still has potato chips.  These factors can really slow you down."  I ignored her, watching for the timer to declare me as the victor of this combative war of wills.  Hitting "stop," we crossed the toilet paper finish line at 22.13.  What?  Impossible!  Inconceivable!  Is this incident a precursor for my life in the 4th grade?  Was this event symbolic that the relief associated with victory will always be out-of-reach; beyond my grasp?  Or should I continue to view this situation positively?  That, no matter how bad things may get, I will always have somewhere "to go."

Sharing my passion for Pepsi

This blog isn't working out the way I thought it would.  I anticipated that the public-at-large would read my witty ramblings and become immediately enraptured by my words.  Instead, I am misinterpreted at every turn; made to look selfishly narcissistic and petty.  Take today, for instance.  Suffering as I was in the sweltering summer heat of Western New York, I convinced my husband to take me for a little drive to escape the high-in-the-70s degree weather.  A mere twenty-two minutes later, I casually directed him into the grocery store parking lot. "Isn't it funny how we coincidentally made it to the nearest Pepsi distribution center," I observed in astonishment, before leaping fearlessly out of our still-moving-vehicle to race into Tops.  Some people have a knack for spying the prize pineapple, others knock confidently on their cantaloupe choices, a gentle squeeze reveals the plumpest of firm tomatoes while I exhibit the amazing ability of consistently selecting the bubbliest of Pepsis.

With my prize-winning Pepsi in hand, I returned to my chauffeur, I mean, husband, waiting patiently in the parking lot of our climate-controlled van with the radio set to my favorite station.  I have sang sonnets, authored essays and performed an intricate interpretive dance number extolling the virtues of that first sip of Pepsi from a freshly opened twenty ounce bottle.  I wish I could replicate that sound for you but it defies the limitations of the written language.  The resistant release of the twist cap, the mist rising magically from the depths of the carbonated potion, microscopic bubbles tickling your nose as the cool liquid hydrates parched lips. Your taste-buds no longer tolerate the flavor of complacency as the nectar of hope floods the desert plains of your arid mouth.  My mere words are woefully insufficient.  The experience eludes description.

As always, I graciously opened the Pepsi and, like the king's mythical taster, selflessly took the first sip to spare Brad the possibility of carbonated overflow.  I then handed the frosty beverage to my beloved spouse to quench his thirst.  "I see you took the first sip, as usual," he remarked, less than graciously, I thought, as he accepted my generous offering.  I nodded, somewhat confused. I had never heard my husband wax poetic about Pepsi.  In fact, the only time he ever drinks a Pepsi is when he shares mine.  I considered this latest quandary.  Perhaps Brad wasn't referencing that literal act of taking the first sip but was actually referring to the symbolic ritual of pure pleasure associated with the grand opening.  Enough of us have had to consume the dregs to understand that the best life has to offer resides at the top. Why should he have to ask for it to be offered?  I'm a changed woman, mark my words!  Next time, I'll get Brad a whole Pepsi of his own!

Brad Mosiman is NOT a mind-reader

My husband is so ridiculously annoying.  He seems to think that he has this great insight into my mind and he doesn't.  He always likes to cite this example to prove that he has the ability to anticipate my thoughts:

Me to Brad:  Guess what I want?
Brad to me:  Popcorn.

Yeah. Whatever. So what? What does it matter that I only eat microwavable popcorn maybe once every six months? This little scenario doesn't mean a thing. Besides, it happened over a decade ago. My mistake was in my initial reaction. "How did you know," I'd asked, incredulous. I was so naively innocent, still in my thirties. It's not like he pulled a rabbit out of a hat or made a quarter magically appear from my right nostril.

He just WILL NOT let it go.  So, a few hours ago, as we were watching television, I casually turn around in my chair to peek out the window. "What are you looking at," Savannah asked, not really caring because a new episode of "The Kardashians" was on.  "She's looking for fireflies," Brad answered. Savannah pulled her eyes away from Bruce Jenner's MRI (he's having hearing problems) long enough to look from her father to me, "Is he right?" I nodded reluctantly;  here we go again.

Thirty minutes later, it was dark enough for my field to start sparkling. I grabbed my "Tinker Bell" blanket and headed outside. "Savannah, we're going to see the fire bugs," Brad yelled, following me with the dogs. "Could you make it sound any less magical," I snapped, "lightning bugs or fire flies. Not fire bugs." Savannah waded into the waist-high weeds with Juno, surrounded by hundreds of fire bugs. She lifted a wiggling Chlo up to see the twinkling field. Our little dog barked excitedly. As the mosquitoes descended, Brad battled for half of my blanket and we enjoyed our little light show.   It was utterly magical.  He's still annoying though and he can't read my mind.

She says the stupidest things, bless her heart

Brad and I put on our fancy duds and went to a wedding last night.  We ran a youth group some ten odd years ago and one of our girls, Bethany, had graciously invited us to witness her vows of love and fidelity to Eric before God.  It was an honor and a blessing to watch as this committed couple took the first steps along Matthew 7's "narrow road."  Like so many other things in today's society, relationships have taken on a disposable quality.  Whereas once the natural end to a marriage was the inevitable death of one of its partners, the synonym for marriage today is "divorce."  Even worse...why bother to marry at all?  How courageous for a couple to pledge their loyalty, love, and lives to one another.  How humbling to know that Brad and I played a microscopically small and insignificant role in Bethany's younger years and have been afforded this amazing opportunity to see how the subsequent chapters of her story have played out.

Later, at the reception, Brad and I were delighted to have been seated at the young people's table.  Even better, we found ourselves reunited with Holly and Kristen, who had also been part of that original youth group.  Holly has been married a year to her long-time boyfriend, engineer, Phillip while Kristen is currently seeing Chris who is also an engineer.  Conversation was intelligent and lively.  "The bridesmaids' dresses are a beautiful color," someone observed which started a twenty minute argument.  "What sort of purple is that?"  "Plum," one member of our party said confidently before getting dogpiled upon.  "Plum, my rear," came one response.  "Who made you Little Jack Horner," asked another color consultant.  Then began the listing and ultimate dismissal of every shade of purple ever known to mankind.  To end the debate, I snagged a passing bridesmaid.  "The color is called sangria," she informed the table.  Shocked silence descended momentarily on our group.  We sure hadn't seen that coming.

With our colorful debate settled, we then discussed Phil and Holly's seven-toed cat until our entries arrived.  Apparently the youthful aspect of our table worked against us as management didn't trust us with knives.  Adaptable, we spread our butter with the back of our spoons but the roast beef posed an etiquette issue.  Responding to our petition, the busy waitress begrudgingly assigned our desperate group of knife-less knaves one semi-sharp serrated implement.  We shared it without complaint.

Not surprisingly, we began to reminisce a bit.  As youth group leaders, Brad and I always tried to be models of virtue.  Unfortunately, we find out, more often than not, we fell miserably short.  "Why are you throwing me under the bus here," Brad asked, "This little anecdote has nothing to do with me."  "Remember those vows you took," I reminded him, "we're a team here, buddy."  The girls were eager to share that, even after all these years,  an Amy Mosiman quote had found its way into their everyday vernacular.   On our way home from one of our youth group excursions ("The one where we were almost caught up in a tornado?" Brad asked.  "No."  "The one where someone almost drowned?" Brad asked.  "No."  "The one where a tree almost fell on our tent during a wind storm?" "No."  "The one where you made the associate pastor with one lung blow up a four-foot-tall inflatable palm tree?"  "No."  "The one where we were stalked by a mountain lion?"  "No."), the one where we defied our pastor's concerns and took the kids to the coolest haunted house EVER, I was driving the noisy girl van (as opposed to the stinky boy van) when we passed a uniquely decorated house, painted a hideous shade of purple (not plum or sangria).  Without thinking of my role-model status, I said, "That is the ugliest house I have ever seen."  As the girls suddenly quieted to look at this spectacle, I realized it was still someone's home so I quickly added, "Of course I mean that in the nicest possible way."  REALLY?  Ten years and THAT is what they remember? I must have uttered SOMETHING somewhat deep and meaningful when I was with them.  2 Timothy 2:16 warned me but did I listen?  No-oo-oo.  Avoid irreverent babble (but Tim, I am the Queen of irreverent babble.  It's my primary language!), for it will lead people into more and more ungodliness (That seems a little harsh there, Tim-bo.  Humorously negative...yes.  Ungodly?  C'mon, really?).  My table correlated my witty little observation with the Southern equivalent for immediately negating harsh observations.  "She must have cut her hair in the dark with children's safety scissors, bless her heart."   "Her cooking tastes like crap, bless her heart."  "You're ugly, bless your heart."  Well, in that light, it appears that our friend, Tim may have been onto something.  This has been a valuable life lesson for me.  I believe I will make a vow.  A vow pledging to say only pleasant, positive things.  I know what you're thinking...this will be her last blog.  Well, you're wrong, bless your hearts.

Song adaptation:
                                         Oh, be careful, big fat mouth what you say.
                                         Oh, be careful, big fat mouth what you say.
                                         Or your careless words might get repeated every day,
                                         And quoted back to you ten years later....-ay.
                                         Oh, be careful, big fat mouth what you say.

Let's Get on Board the Communication Train

There's been somewhat of a communication break-down in the Mosiman family over the years.  A bulk of the problem can definitely be attributed to my wayward attention span.  I am geographically-stinted which is not helpful with a husband who travels a lot.  "Where's Brad?" someone will ask when he's out of town.  "Colorado," I answer confidently.  One of my daughters would let out a small sigh and gently correct me.  "No, Mom, he's in Connecticut."  If I say Maryland, he'll be in Michigan.  Denver?  No...Delaware.  Once, while dropping him off at the airport, Brad repetitively provided me with meticulous driving directions to get me safely home.  Although it makes Brad nuts, I think my driving philosophy is ingeniously flawless.  Eventually, I'll get there.  With Brad's directions partially embedded in my brain, I first became hopelessly trapped in the Buffalo Airport parking lot before merging north into busy traffic.  "South!" Brad was shouting from 15,000 feet above us, "I told you a thousand times to drive south!"  Meanwhile, on the ground, I was looking for the positive side and the nearest exit to turn around.  "At least Daddy doesn't know we goofed up," I told my giggling girls, not anticipating the exasperated answering machine message that would be awaiting me at home (when we eventually got there).

Today, to celebrate the last day of school, Brad took me to the Glen Iris Inn at Letchworth Park.  Against Savannah's wishes, we sat on their beautiful outdoor stone veranda.  We were surrounded by the majestic sounds of nature:  the spring-fed fountain, the wind in the trees, the rushing waterfall, Savannah complaining that she was cold and hates eating outside....   My delicious "Ultimate Mudslide" might have contributed a little to my lack of family focus but most of the blame rests on the woodland rodents.  "Look," I said, interrupting Savannah's description of her day, "a squirrel!  Oh my goodness, he's standing on his back legs.  Can you see his little white belly?  Over there, Savannah, by the stop sign, do you see him?"  "Yes, Mom.  As I was saying..." she continued.   I squealed again.  "A chipmunk!  There!  No...there!  No...over there!"  (I named him "Zippy.").

Dinner (and dessert!) successfully concluded, we headed home.  Along the way, we were momentarily delayed by a passing train.  This event has always been a source of delight for my family.  "They're empty," Savannah remarked of the train cars flying by.  "They must have unloaded recently," I answered wisely because I couldn't think of anything else to say.  Fearing that I might have to add another intelligent observation again soon, I immediately launched into song.  "Down by the station, early in the morning, see the little pufferbellies all in a row."  As I came to the climatic conclusion of my little ditty, I paused generously to give Brad plenty of room to jump in.  "Puff puff, toot toot, off we go."  He missed his cue so I circled around to give him another shot.  "puff puff, toot toot...?"  What was wrong with him?  He hasn't said a word since we stopped for the train.  Maybe he wasn't in the mood for that song.  I tried another one.  "I've been working on the railroad...all my live-long days..."  He just stared straight ahead at the train.  Not a word.  Had I somehow offended him?  Perhaps he wasn't in a song-mood.  Perhaps poetry would coax him off of his silent state.  "A peanut sat on the railroad track," I recited, "its heart was all a-flutter.  Train came roaring 'round the bend, Toot-toot, peanut-butter."  In front of us, the train finally came to an end and the gates lifted, allowing us to pass.  "How many train cars were there," Brad asked, finally coming back to conversational life.  I looked at him blankly.  "Guess," he said.  "You counted them?" I inquired incredulously.  I'm sitting next to him, performing a Tony Award quality show and he's counting train cars like a "Sesame Street" puppet?  "Yes, while you two were making idiotic observations about train cars completely loaded with vehicles, singing stupid songs, and quoting crappy poetry, I was counting."  "Fifty," Savannah offered.  "Seventy-five," I predicted, in a perturbed but participatory tone.  "One hundred and two," my husband shared.

We're doomed.  I can only remember the first letter of every word Brad utters.  He prefers the tiresome monotony of inventorying concrete nouns rather than relishing my company.  The "Sesame Street" connection may not have been far off.  Perhaps Brad and I are destined to design and direct pre-school television programming.  Another insight regarding our relationship is that maybe we need to focus on our areas of strength.  My annoying tendency to put everything to song.  Brad's need to reiterate his point fifty-thousand times.  My marriage might be greatly enhanced if we combined these two characteristics in some fashion.  I'm going to suggest to Brad that we sign up for Gregorian chanting lessons.  Right now, he's busy counting the traffic traveling on our seasonal dirt road so I'll bring the subject up after I guess the consequenting result to his scenic survey.

Trust me...I can't keep a secret

                        Sarah and Jonathan are having a baby!!!

If you are at all familiar with my blog posts, you don't need to be told that I lack a filter.  I am acutely...painfully aware of my many shortcomings.  I'm not proud of them but I do own them.  I don't sweep them under the carpet.  I don't permit them to slowly decompose in a closet.  As much as possible, while keeping in mind the perimeters of TMI, I am about full disclosure.  "Can you keep a secret?" I am often asked.  "No," comes my automated response, "I am the world's most unreliable secret-keeper."  Do they think I'm kidding?  Because, almost immediately, I am entrusted with a secret that leaves me shivering like a jittery terrier.  Occasionally, I'll make it a full five minutes before I spill the news.  The term "just between you and me" doesn't exist in my world.  For me, "just between you and me" also includes you, me and a reasonably small circle of friends and family, who, fortunately, CAN keep a secret so all is not lost.

                         Sarah and Jonathan are having a baby!!!

My friend, Sarah selfishly shared a secret with me two months ago.  To the detriment of my home and professional life, I have spent the subsequent time completely focused on keeping this news to myself.  Conversations that would have been memorably enhanced by my unfettered input were stilted.  Relationships unraveled as I conscientiously worked to not reveal this interesting information.  Every day, I begged to be released from this binding trust.  "Can I tell?  Please, can I tell?"  Understanding that there was no way that I could hold out much longer, she established a deadline and today was that day:

Sarah and Jonathan are having a baby!!!

Originally, tonight's dinner out was planned as an apology gesture from my so-called friends to make up for nominating me as "Teacher-of-the-Year."   The timing perfectly coincided with Sarah's willingness to share her exciting news...further evidence of what a thoughtless friend she is...usurping my happiness, supplanting my rightful place as heir to all the attention.  To make matters worse, Kelly brought baby Jack outfitted adorably in overalls and Mickey Mouse shoes.  It's hard enough to keep everyone focused on me when they're busy "ooo-ing" and "ahh-ing" over him without the news of impending motherhood also hanging over my head.  "Can he say any words?" Sarah inquired of Kelly as we stood in line for tortellini.  "Oh yes," Kel began before I interrupted her with, "Moo-ing doesn't count."  She punished me for that little outburst by planting Jack's bib-ed body in my lap while he finger-painted my arms with spicy marinara.  

                      Sarah and Jonathan are having a baby!!!

I became increasingly agitated as the evening went by...partially because Jack and I had to clap and yell "Hey!" to two birthday songs from neighboring tables, partially because I was traumatized by the inclusion of raisin bread in an Italian restaurant, but mostly because Sarah was putting off sharing the news that would release me from my secret-keeping prison cell.  Responding to my death glares, she whispered, "I'm nervous. I'm not sure how to tell them."  First of all, know this:  Amy Mosiman does not have a single shy or inhibited bone in her brittle body. This was clearly a gift of which I was going to take full advantage.  "Hey everyone," I said loudly, trying (and failing) to get their attention off of Jack who was involved in the apparently fascinating activity of squashing green beans in his tiny fists.  "Hey!" I yelled, snapping my fingers at Kelly, "what was the purpose of this evening?"  "Oh," she said blinking, momentarily coming out of her baby-watching coma, "we're here for you."   "Yes.  And as such, I think we should take turns saying nice things about me.  Dee, you start."  With much prodding and only an occasional glance at the script I provided, my friends managed to scrape up a few non-insulting, only partially inappropriate comments to share.  My friend Amanda was the only one with the presence of mind to make up some truly heartfelt remarks. Finally it was my turn.  "My favorite thing about me," I announced grandly, "is that I have amazing friends who support me when I'm feeling frustrated or angry, worthless or alone.  I have friends who cheer me on, stand up for me, and stand by me.  I have friends that I love and trust.  I have friends that celebrate my good news and share their own."  I winked at Dee who had overheard part of mine and Sarah's whispered conversation and knew something was up.  "Speaking of good news,,," and then the room erupted in screams of delight and I was at last released from this tortuous truth-keeping trance.  

Did I mention that...

                     Sarah and Jonathan are having a baby!!!

Sharing Sarah's secret at the happiest place in Wyoming County:
The Charcoal Corral

Work smarter, not harder

End-of-school-year preparations are (insert high, sing-songy voice with a subtle treble here) CRAZY.  I want to find the person who coined the phrase "work smarter, not harder" and punch him or her in the face.  Obviously, this individual has never had to contend with the gremlin-like qualities of schoolchildren as summer approaches.  There are three rules associated with these creatures:  never expose them to direct sunlight, don't get them wet and refrain from feeding them during school hours.  Good luck keeping ANY of these rules during the final week of school.

A regimented schedule is imperative to survival and sanity.  Students believe that they have hung up their thinking caps so the first order of business each day is convincing them that the purpose of school hasn't changed just because the windows are open.  Hours and hours of planning go into developing lessons that fool them into thinking that learning is fun.  "Hey! Is this math?" exclaimed one sixth grader, feeling betrayed that his adorable 3-D g'raph-a-mal, was actually a way to discuss area and perimeter. He forgave me when I let them talk me into holding an impromptu g'raph-a-mal race.

Our teacher planning periods have been packed with the creation of over a hundred paper plate awards.  Work smarter, not harder.  Uh-huh.  We spent four days designing and glitter gluing while endlessly researching the perfect clip art as we attached googly eyes, bright pink feathers, ribbons, and stickers.  Dee even added imitation hay to our "Horse Lover" plates. It became quite competitive at one point.  Brainstorming the "Class Clown" category, I was struck by inspiration.  Racing to my classroom, I dug out a small red foam ball, cut it half and glued it to the plate for the nose.  Not to be outdone, Kelly began construction of a foil Olympic medal with accompanying ribbon for "Future Gymnast."   Before we knew it, we added a full-sized flamingo and a revolving BMX bike wheel to our collection.

 Preparations for Field Day is no less monumental.  We held classroom try-outs for the student pyramid.  Some 10th graders came in as impartial judges as we sought to find the strongest and most level backs.  We schemed and strategized, planning for the big day.  Designing and making the t-shirts took over a week.  We embedded a witty mathematical pun, "Mosiman's Not-So-Mean Mongrols" with the symbol for "mean" on the back.  I methodically fabric-painted the front, back and side sleeve of each shirt.  Work smarter, not harder.  Sigh.

Smarter...not harder.  Huh.  We spent several hours plugging a year's worth of endearing photos into the end-of-year slideshow.  "Let's add funny captions," one genius among us suggested (It may have been me).  "We need music too," Another misguided fool added (Was that me, too?).  "What about animation?" (Shut up, would ya?).  I decided that, for my end-of-year gift for the kids, I would make them a memory book.  They'd write a letter to me, describing our year together and I would respond.  Fifteen uniquely meaningful messages accompanied by pictures and, of course, the perfect clipart.  As you can imagine, that took no time at all.  

Work smarter, not harder.  It's a stupid saying anyway.  I need a saying that better reflects my interests and my drive.  I quote my friend and colleague, Kelly, often.  In response to my complaints about my weight, she (kind of) encouraged me by saying, "Would you rather be fat and happy or thin and miserable?"  It was a moment of clarity.  I wanted to be happy!  I immediately embroidered her saying into a pillow and hit the vending machines.  Let me be clear here, I'm not saying I want to work "stupider."  I'm just saying that I'm not willing to replace my g'raph-a-mal races with worksheets.  I'm not at the point of perpetual kickball games yet.  I want the final week of school to be memorably meaningful and I'm willing to work hard too make it happen.  

The trick to teaching 6th grade

Tomorrow the 6th grade is running four 30-minute switches which means I'm teaching the same lesson to revolving groups for the entire afternoon.  I love that.  It feels like I'm performing on Broadway (or off-Broadway or off-off-Broadway or way-off-Broadway),  I began preparations over a week ago and just started getting nervous that perhaps I couldn't pull it off.  My lesson theme is "Tricks to Survive 7th Grade."  I researched a slew of magic tricks that I could connect to the ideals of hard work, staying focused, working cooperatively, paying attention, ect.  My SMARTboard presentation featured mind-boggling optical illusions.  I interspersed science-based activities with slight of hand and memory tricks.  I encountered my first problem last week when I shockingly thought to practice one of my magic tricks ahead of time.  I tied a ring onto a circle of yarn, looped the ends to each of Savannah's thumbs and abracadabra, presto-fail-o.  Houdini himself could not have pulled off this difficult stunt.

Back to the drawing board.  I found another escape trick that came with helpful illustrations so I thought that surely I was good to go.  Purchased some rope (not enough, as it turns out...see Grocery Store Saga), and waited for the arrival of my helpful assistant.  Unaware of what awaited her, Savannah arrived at my classroom window.  Seeing the lengths of rope stretched out on my kidney table, she refused to come in.  No problem.  I tied a two foot piece of rope to both her wrists and then waited patiently while she tied mine.  Problem:  the rope length was too short, making manipulations difficult.  So, tied together through a window, Savannah and I struggled to release ourselves from our self-imposed prison.  We bippity-boppity-bungled our way free and Savannah handed in her magic hat.

Undaunted, I cut two three-foot lengths of rope and took my act on the road.  Brad Mosiman hasn't met a diagrammed illustration that could get the better of him.  Husband and wife tied the knot and immediately began bickering.  "This isn't a mind-reading trick," I complained in response to his exasperated expectations that I would automatically know that I should not cross the rope.  "This isn't Ghostbusters," I snarled, "crossing the streams isn't going to get us killed."  "You're right, it won't get us killed," Brad agreed, jerking my wrist sharply to the left, "but why don't you try calling someone else if you're not going to at least try to follow these stupid directions."  We discovered that the three-foot lengths were also difficult, although not impossible to manipulate.  Brad figured out the trick in two minutes and then spent forty minutes teaching it to me.

Next on the list was my outfit.  Somewhere between the Darth Vadar mask and the inflatable pink flamingo, I misplaced the regulation magician's hat and accompanying wand.  I dug through witch wigs, taffeta hula skirts, and clown noses and only managed to unearth a vampire's cloak with a blood red lining and five-inch collar.  What was I thinking? Forget alacazam...my lesson was going to look like alacashit.  But fear not, I still have a little something up my sleeve and on my side.  With my magical ability to see into the future and my gift for reading the minds of 6th graders, my intuition told me that an entertaining and enlightening lesson designed to provide some reassuring and humorous illuminations about their next year would off-set my lack of any technical skill.  Best case scenario?  I flawlessly execute my magic tricks, wow and inspire my captivated audience and instill in them some sense of what they need to be successful in 7th grade.  Worse case?  We laugh a lot. I find a better use for my vampire's cape next year and find a better excuse for tying up my husband.

Grocery Store Saga

There's so much drama involved in household shopping.  Our limited, Brad Mosiman-imposed budget forces us to make some agonizing sacrifices each week.  Our visit to Walmart began, as usual, in the dog food section.  I have recently switched to a lower calorie brand but mix in Chloe's favorite generic kibbles and bits and bits and bits.  She enjoys the bits and bits and bits while generously leaving the kibble for Juno.  Brad insists that Chlo's preferred "bit" in the white tootsie-roll shaped one while I contend that her first choice is the cheesy bit.  This argument resulted in a non-biased taste test when we got home.  Two trials were conducted.  Chlo, realizing that I am the more emotionally-balanced of her two owners, thoughtfully threw the contest in Brad's favor.  Savannah argued that a fifty pound bag of bits and bits and bits was unnecessary as she explained the ratio of "bits" in proportion to the rate of consumption of our slightly more-than-ten-pound-dachshund so we loaded the tiny three pound bag in our cart and headed to the doggie snack section.  Savannah would just grab anything that cost less than three dollars but I tend to weigh the importance of taste, texture, shape and potential ability to delight my dog.  It can be a somewhat time-consuming process but it's totally worth the investment.

We headed to the rope aisle next.  I have a lesson plan this week that involves my 6th graders tying each other up.  I'm sure that I'll write about that later.  Anxious that her grocery money had already taken a serious hit without any people food having been purchased yet, Savannah was unhappy about this particular item.  I had no idea that rope came in such an assortment of cool colors.  Savannah noticed that the mark-up on colors was pretty significant and steered me toward the very boring clothesline.  I grabbed a hundred feet and then had to endure a ridiculous math lesson.  "How many 6th graders do you have?"  Fifteen.  "Will each kids be equipped with a length of rope?" Yes.  "How long will each length be?"  Two feet.  Sigh of exasperation..."Mom, you don't need a hundred feet."

Next, we headed to the greeting card aisle.  What?  Greeting cards?  Savannah was growing a little belligerent but nonetheless enthusiastically threw herself into the process of finding the cheapest cards possible while simultaneously removing sound cards, velvety cards, cards with movable parts and card sporting some pretty funny profanity from my hands.  We bought Daddy some Father's Day athletic socks and were ready to go.  "What the heck," Savannah complained, "we just spent sixty bucks and haven't actually bought any food yet."

The grocery store saga started with the selection of the cart.  This choice is always the center of great debate.  The idea that you buy less with a smaller cart is a proven fallacy yet I continue to fall for this consumer lie time after time.  I grabbed a cart with two working wheels and slid my way down the first aisle.  My first important purchase included eight boxes of "Gushers" fruit bursts (four for four dollars!).  Savannah's argument about this selection was cut short when she discovered lobster-shaped gummies in the bulk candy section.  We had a brief mother-daughter spat in aisle four when Savannah accused me of being "dramatic" as I employed my technique of getting the cart around each corner by slamming my body into it.  "You do it then," I yelled, abandoning my three-quarters filled cart.  I watched as Savannah's legs braced while she leaned her body weight against the resistant force of this contraption.

I graciously accepted her sincere apology and resumed the helm, sliding and slamming my way to the olive section where we interviewed fellow customers about the meaning of the word, "pitted."  Does "pitted" mean that the olives' pits had been forcibly removed or does "pitted" mean that the olive had not been violated?  And then, philosophically-speaking, why would anyone voluntarily buy an olive with a pit?  For the challenge?  Are they a sadist?  Is it an organic thing?  We exited the aisle with more questions than answers but placed a container of pitted kalamatra olives carefully at the top of our filled-to-capacity cart.

We successfully made it to check-out, having to bodily lift the cart to maneuver it into position.  I watched as a rather nice looking man got into line behind us with a basket full of single-guy purchases. "Savannah," I said sweetly, "Why don't you put the dividing bar up so that nice man can unload his items?"  Savannah did as directed, somehow missing my subliminal direction to flip her hair beguilingly over her shoulder and bat her eyelashes at this handsome soon-to-be-not-a-stranger.  I sighed before noticing his Ben & Jerry's "Phish Food."  "That's our family's favorite flavor," I said to my future-son-in-law.  Unlike my clueless daughter, this guy had his relationship radar on.  "It's difficult to find," he said, clearly referring to the problems associated with finding a meaningful soul mate.  "There's another one back there."  What?  Was he actually saying that there are plenty of fish, or in this case, Phish, in the sea?  Loser!  Or, if he was in fact saying that he knew there was another container of Ben & Jerry's in the ice-cream aisle, wouldn't a gentleman offer to get it for me?  This guy clearly was not for us.

It took our combined forces to roll our wobbly, rickety cart out to the van.  It was, as always, an emotionally draining event.  The divisiveness and anger. The heartbreak and loss.  Yet, every week, we hunger for more.  Every week, our appetites compel us to make difficult choices.  To determine which to feed...the wants or the needs.  To fill a sometimes aching emptiness.  My advice?  Choose the bigger cart.

Brooks's Birthday: Rated R for violence and language

Brad and I spent an enjoyable Saturday afternoon attending a two-year-old's birthday party.  We were lucky enough to score ring-side seats for the gift unveiling. My great nephew, Brooks, regarded his mountainous pile of presents with a practiced nonchalance and blue-tinged lips.  He'd spent the bulk of his time, thus far, taking systematic sips from abandoned half-filled Hugs.  Those barrel-shaped juice containers are a sure hit at any social function.  When he wasn't sucking on second-hand straws, Brooks was busy taking swan dives into the chip bowl.  With some parental navigation, Brooks approached the tower of teetering toys accompanied by a tribe of tots.

For those of you with limited experience with pint-sized people, they can be very entertaining when viewed from a safe distance.  Why no one has developed a soap opera drama based on this demographic is beyond me...oh wait...I forgot "Toddlers & Tiaras" and that "Honey Boo Boo" kid.  All the emotions lurk right on the surface.  Jealousy.  Selfishness.  Territorial rage.  A milk-carton shaped box of goldfish crackers was wielded as a weapon.  A three-foot tall Superman figure was hijacked and then, to our horror, molested.  Insincere apologies were forced from these four-and-under felons while misdemeanors were handled via distraction and re-direction.

As closed captioning was not provided during this particular program, Brad and I took it upon ourselves to add our own subtitles.  Brooks apparently bridled a bit when his friend from babysitting showed up in an out-of-context fashion.  Brooks's worlds were colliding and he was having none of it.  Brooks to "friend":  "Back off, Bee-otch!  Don't let the door hit ya on the way out."  One poor kid was unintentionally taunted throughout the unwrapping by a soothing adult, "I know, honey. You like Batman, don't you? But that's Brooks's," and "You like Superman, I know, but that's Brooks's."  His subtitled response:  "If you want to be helpful, how about you shut up and help me load some of this s*%t into the trunk of our car. Brooks is hyped-up on the Hugs...he'll never know."  Brooks himself would have won the award for best subtitled quote when he opened up a box of clothes.  The adults broke into spontaneous applause while Brooks just looked bewildered and thought, "Clothes?  Really?This is bulls*%t."  I had no idea that preschoolers were so potty-mouthed.

We left the party reluctantly.  But fearing for our safety, Brad wanted to put some distance between us and the scheduled pinata bashing.  Compared to the stash of deadly weapons that Brooks received in the form of hockey sticks, golf clubs and plastic baseball bats, our put-it-together musical flugal horn seemed relatively harmless but we'd seen too many episodes of MacGyver to trust that it wouldn't be mis-used.  Just as Oppenheimer didn't intend to set out to become "the destroyer of worlds" with his little do-it-yourself project, I never intended for the flugal horn to become a weapon of mass destruction.  Brad was also alarmed at the introduction of chemical warfare as bubble guns unleashed a horde of  ground-to-air eye-stinging missiles. We could only save ourselves at this point.  Breathing a sigh of relief as we pulled away from the the battle zone, Brad turned to me and suggested, "Maybe next year, we can just send a card."

"C" students

The end of the school year brings with it an entirely new set of challenges.  Creative time management is a crucially important element in surviving the final few days of  athletic programs, award assemblies, presentations, and service projects.  On this particular half day of school, county inmates were given the day off so that my students could spend the morning laying mulch and grooming trails at Letchworth State Park.  They returned shortly before 11 am, layered in dirt and grime and sweat, full of stories of slinging snakes and dancing deer.  Their departure buses were scheduled to arrive in about a half hour.  Thirty minutes, I thought.  Plenty of time to review the subtraction of fractions with unlike denominators.  Perhaps we could conduct a scientific time-lapse simulation modeling the depletion of the earth's non-renewable resources.  At the very least, we could journal each student's individual account of their life-altering conservation experience.  As you can imagine, the children were quite eager to settle calmly into their seats and begin a regimented lesson.

What was a poor 6th grade teacher to do?  Well, to record this auspicious moment in education, we trooped our students out to the track and arranged the approximately sixty sixth graders on the bleachers  for a picture-taking session.  Eight minutes down.  One kid, who will ultimately rise to the status of valedictorian or end up embezzling stock-holders in a ponzi scheme (or both),  suggested that we spell out the letters "LCS."  Brilliant.

A minute's deliberation resulted in the consensus that sixty sitting students would make flimsy, frail letters.  It was decided that all the students would be incorporated in each "L," "C," and "S."  To foster independence, cooperation, and critical thinking skills as well as afford us time to chat while laughing at them, we encouraged our students to use their spacial intelligence to arrange themselves.  The "L" took only five minutes of debate.  The "C" and the "S" required some adult mediation.  We snapped our shots but our satisfaction fell short as the letters were difficult to distinguish from ground-level.  An aerial view would have been ideal but time was growing short.  Before I knew it, mindful of my bad knee (see 6/1/2013 Kickball: The agony of "de-feet), I was gingerly climbing a shaky ladder to the field house roof. Students were then required to embark in an impromptu geometry lesson as they had to apply their knowledge of transformations to flip their original letter shapes upside down for the next photo session.

Time was now running short.  Pictures were taken in haste and then the race to the waiting buses was on.  We enthusiastically waved good-bye to our picturesque cherubs and then hurried in to download our masterpieces as the introduction to our end-of-year slideshow.  Disaster struck.  Somehow, in our hurry, the aerial (not to be confused with the font, arial) "C" wasn't recorded.  Arguments ensued.  What should we do?  Use a wordart "C" in between our student-spelled letters?  Insert the ground-version?  Wait for a Monday re-take?  An hour of carefully calculated cropping resulted in a newly-crafted "C."  We chopped the top off the "S" and with meticulous precision, moved it atop the "L," solving our problem.  What a learning experience!  In the world of education, one must make the most of every moment.

My McDonald's Miracle

I had a spiritual revelation today beneath the Golden Arches.  Savannah and I ran into town to run a few errands and stopped for a quick grab-and-go meal at McDonald's.  I ordered with a conscientious attentiveness in regards to the nutritional content of my selections.  For example, to ensure dairy representation, I had pre-purchased a Nestle strawberry milk from Tops to accompany my tasty meal.  Just in case though, I upgraded my entree choice to a cheeseburger.  After an agonizing moment, I settled for a small fry to compensate for my double hot fudge sundae dessert.  Having been burned in the past regarding this particular area, I have perfected my ordering strategy to ensure the ideal ice cream composition.  Savannah stands far enough away from me so to appear as though she's never met me before yet close enough to hear every word.  "I would like a delicious double hot fudge sundae," I announce happily, "with the fudge on the bottom as well as the top."  As I verbally describe my dream dessert, I take my left hand and hold it palm flat out and use my right hand as a cupped umbrella over the top.  Then I pantomime an enthusiastic vertical accordion concert.  "That'll be $4.38, please."  I dug in my pockets and pulled out four singles before fishing for some change.  In my hand was a quarter, a dime and three pennies.  Excitedly, I turned to the "stranger" next to me and showed her.  "Savannah, look!  God must have wanted me to order a double hot fudge sundae!"  While my daughter rolled her eyes, I shared this monetary miracle with the counter girl.  "I think maybe it's because I showed some restraint by ordering the small french fries. Jesus must be really pleased with my order."  I could tell that this experience was a true inspiration for her as I watched how she was super-generous with my hot fudge portion.  My fellow fast-food consumers stared in awe as I shared my delight in this sign from God.  My order was processed extra-ordinarily fast and Savannah and I were soon on our way.  "What an amazing experience," I gushed as Savannah put her little blue Accent in gear.  I was lifting my strawberry milk up to my lips, relishing this perfect moment sent by God when another car unexpectedly pulled in front of Savannah causing her to downshift with a jerk.  Consequently, I was bathed in strawberry milk.  What does this mean, I wondered as Savannah laughed hysterically.  I considered the plight of our Old Testament friend, Job who was initially so blessed by God and then, appeared to be cursed.  Job's love for the Lord was not contingent on the gifts that God provided.  Yeah, it was awesome that I was rewarded with the gift of perfect change AND an extra amount of fudge-y goodness.  God is good.  But I'm certainly not going to turn my back on my Creator because of my unexpected milk baptism.  As I mopped milk from my nose and neck, I took time to digest what I'd just learned.  Rejoice in the good...celebrate each special moment.  When you hit the occasional bump in the road, turn toward...not away from God.  I also recognize that it may be altogether possible that my strawberry milk shower was God's gift to Savannah.  If so, she certainly enjoyed it.

On the web at the library

I was avoiding human interaction today, hiding in the library when an associate called me over for a consult.  She was staring off into space, carefully collecting her thoughts so I waited patiently for her to address me.  After a few moments of companionable silence, she finally said, "Well?"  "Well...what?" I responded somewhat testy about being interrupted from my important work of hiding from 6th grade students.  "Isn't it remarkable," Laurie asked, gesturing grandly. A big fan of oxygen for as far back as I can remember, I agreed, eager to return to my low-profile, under-trafficked position in the corner of the library.  "Don't you see it," she said prompting me to take a closer look.  Oh!  A tiny brown spider dangled delicately at eye level from a single invisible thread.  Tipping our heads back in wonder, we followed the course of its silken trail up to the high vaulted ceiling some twenty-five feet or so above us.  It was a solemn moment as we considered the complexities of the universe.  It was the kind of moment that would lead one to consider the presence of an ultimate creator, a grand designer.  I wasn't surprised when my colleague knelt down in humble supplication.  I was shocked when she stood, armed with a shoe and went to lunge at our friendly little spider.  I threw myself bodily between them.  "Laurie! What are you doing," I shrieked, breaking the second of the cardinal rules of the library.  The first rule is to refrain from using the library as a clandestine hangout for absentee educators.  "I'm killing the spider," she explained as though this was the most common of occurrences.  "Can't we just take him outside," I pleaded as the tiny arachnid's life literally hung in the balance while Laurie weighed this idea.  After she replaced her shoe, I grabbed a sheet of paper and brought it up beneath his furry little legs before he could reach the end of the line. Laurie and I sprang into synchronized action.  She raced to the door, allowing me open access while I heebie-jeebied my way across the room, emitting courageous little sounds, "uh....uh....uh...eeiiiii!" as I sent him spiraling through the air into the great outdoors.  The excitement of our inter-library catch-and-release program concluded, I returned to my alcove and momentarily watched the students at the nearby computer stations ironically researching on the world wide web.  I made the obvious connections between the solitary nature of a spider and my own need to briefly withdraw from the constant buzz of conversation, the drone of incessant chitter-chatter, the hum of the humdrum.  Sure, people bug me now and again but generally speaking, I rarely feel the need to squash them with my shoe.  I'm not adamantly opposed to flinging a person or two out the door once in awhile though.  And yes, I recall the lesson from the country song.  "Sometimes I'm the windshield.  Sometimes I'm the bug."  Sometimes I'm the small brown spider.  Sometimes I'm the lady with the paper.  Sometimes I'm a crazed lunatic wielding a shoe.  Put down the shoe, people!  Set that spider free!

Women of a certain age

Women of a certain age...exhibit grace and style and confidence.  Women of a certain age...inspire while eliciting admiration and envy.  Woman of a certain age...are showered with compliments. Women of a certain age...sprinkle their conversations with witty, relevant words such as neanimorphi, esprit d’escalier, lexiphanicism, leighster, and bladder control.  

The young women with whom I work regularly look to me for advice on fashion, relationships, and physical fitness.  I was recently the talk of the 5th and 6th grade when I turned the school corridor into an impromptu catwalk featuring my new sandals with the sporty big toe holsters.  I strengthen my friendships by taking note of every little thing they say...seriously, I take notes, have witnesses date and initial the unrealistic bold proclamations uttered by the bozos I work with (sorry Kelly) and then, a year later, pull them out with a flourish and lord it over them.  EXAMPLE #1:  "I will resume date night with my husband within three weeks of giving birth" (One year later...). EXAMPLE #2:  "My newborn baby will never share my bed..." (One year later...). Thank goodness I never record my own bozo-like bold proclamations.

Physical fitness becomes a matter of determined imagination and the employment of a creative regiment.  Women of a certain age such as the three Jens (Aniston, Garner and McCarthy) and Amy Mosiman learn to work in harmony with the human form, surpassing the limitations of the physical dimension.  Intuition takes precedence over societal expectations.  Is that a sneeze coming on? With the precision and subtlety of a prima ballerina, a leg is gracefully lifted and assumes the highly technical dance position of croisé to accommodate the rising rush of the feminine tide. An anticipated cough is addressed by swiftly assuming a seated position; a regal bearing offsetting the waves of conflicting emotion surging within.  After age 40, unbridled laughter erupts from the waist.  The term, "sidesplitting laughter" was derived by discreet women of a certain age.  Bent over in laughter as we are, appearing to clutch at our sides when, in fact, those particular muscles are not being utilized at all.  Women of a certain age exercise their minds and muscles in a much more mature fashion when they are finally freed from the natural laws of gravity and elasticity. They learn to truly "go with the flow."

Napping on a feather bed

Ours is a household constantly at odds.  Brad delights in a meal completely manufactured by Mosiman means.  The girls and I adore the convenience of paper plates that can handle the weight of pre-packaged foods laden with preservatives.   Brad revels in laundry drying outdoors on the line while we are content to leave completed clothes stored in the dryer for days.  During the bitterly cold Western New York winters, Brad harkens back to heartier pioneer days and sets the thermostat at a frosty 58 degrees so blanket use is at a premium, driving them quickly to a thread-bare state.  Brad refuses to throw them away despite gaping holes.  It appears to snow indoors throughout the year as the dogs dig comforter stuffing out and scatter it attractively about the house.  Hanging outside, these beaten-down blankets look like they've reached the end of the line from a Mosiman-imposed death sentence.

Yesterday, I was curled under one of these magical blankets taking a Saturday nap when Brad came in the room to torment me.  After he had the dogs perform a series of back-flips and tricks on the bed, my husband's attention became fixated on an object hidden within the recesses of my blanket.  "Did you lose a squeaker toy," he asked Chlo, beginning an enthusiastic search of the comforter.  Brad's arm disappeared into one of the many holes in the blanket that was once, sort of covering me during my nap.  "It seems to have lost it's squeak," he told Chlo as first my feet, then leg became exposed to the cold afternoon air of June.  My husband's nose wrinkled slightly as he paused in his search for Chlo's lost toy, "Did you do something," he asked me.  "No," came my muffled and disgusted reply from where my head was buried in my goose-down pillow.  Despite the odor, Brad continued his ceaseless search for the squeak-less toy.  Chlo was, at this point, all a-twitter.  I couldn't wait for my husband to get the heck out of my bedroom.

Shoulder-deep, Brad's hand successfully clamped down on his goal.  My entire body was shivering from exposure as he removed the object victoriously from the comforter.  Brad and Chlo were both shocked by the big reveal.  The toy, lost deep within the depths of the blanket that had been tucked under was, in fact, a dead bird.  Brad, whose grandfather is 1/8th Blackfoot Indian (making Brad...what? 1/16th?), involuntarily began the intricate steps of a death dance ritual to ensure this animal's safe journey to the afterworld.  As he danced around my room in complete disgust and revulsion, Brad found himself trapped like a....like a...like a bird that had gotten into a hole in a ratty ol' blanket hanging outside on a line to dry.  As he fought his way out the door with a fist full of feathers, Brad began the next series of his ritualistic dance, flapping his hands and letting out a small series of screams before projecting the bird heavenward.

As my nap cycle had not yet reached completion, I took this moment of silence to tug the blanket back up to grab a few more zs.  Please don't judge me too harshly, I didn't tuck it up under my chin.  I harkened back to Star Wars:  The Empire Strikes Back when Hans Solo kills his Tauntaun and stuffs a freezing Luke inside its body cavity for survival.  After he gets over his heebie-jeebies, I'm sure Brad will simply liken this comforter to the feather beds from days of old.  The best I can hope for at this point, is for a misguided raccoon or opossum to wander in and become lost in the labyrinth of my laundry if I ever want to get a new blanket.  Until then, "tweet" dreams!

This is the story of a grill who volunteered to feed the whole world

I love to volunteer. One of my favorite aspects of volunteering is the part when I get to complain about volunteering.  I could win an award.  Two years ago, I was somehow coerced, against my will, to assist each Sunday in counting the offering.  My friend, Sandy who can actually count with a measure of accuracy and has amazing nails, trained me and retrained me, week after week, tirelessly showing me which columns to fill out, how to subtract what from what, patiently demonstrating how to point dollar bills in the same direction.  After a sufficient amount of time had elapsed, she finally gave up and I became a glorified accounting cheerleader.

During another volunteering opportunity, I found myself in a bleak, mold-encrusted room which needed to be cleaned with its cement-block walls re-painted.  My enthusiastic bleach-to-water ratio resulted in immediate asphyxiation but, as this was a church function, did not cause us to be evacuated.  Using the air purification abilities provided by the Holy Spirit, we soldiered on.  Discriminated against, as usual, because of my height, I was assigned to paint the area closest to the ceiling but my arms quickly fatigued plus I wanted to use a roller.  Begrudgingly reassigned, I soon tired of the roller and switched over to the paint-by-number brush so I could sit comfortably to perform the painstaking trim work.  Someone in the hall had a nifty electric tool that removed grout so I hurried over to supervise and then, take over that task.  Must I do everything?  

A recent middle school social event required the use of a grill.  A petitioning email was quickly dispatched to the entire staff.  Apparently no one actually checks their email at my school so it was then remembered that I had volunteered the use of my grill three years ago.  I did? Oh...ok.  I brought up the fact that, while I was more than happy to share the use of my grill, transportation was a sensitive issue as the bed of my little Ford Ranger sports more holes than a slice of Swiss cheese. No problem, I was told, transportation would be arranged.  Super!

Super?!?  My husband stared at me as I shared the news of our benevolent spirit.  I couldn't understand his reaction.  "Let me put this in a way that maybe you'll understand," he growled, "if I lent out your stove to a bunch of people at work, how would you feel?"  Oh.  "I would be cleaning my stove like crazy," I responded meekly, recalling what happened the last time I cleaned my stove (see the 4/28 blog entitled "Where there's smoke...reflections on the hazards of hostessing").  I felt just horrible, sitting there with my feet up, watching television, while Brad spend an hour preparing our grill for its service to our school.

The next day, three administrative elves arrived at my house in the afternoon to pick up the waiting grill.  Despite its battered appearance and broken burner, it proudly grilled roasted wienies to over a hundred hungry children.  Never had it felt so validated and purposeful.

My husband, obviously not as service-minded and generous as me, thoughtlessly wondered when he was going to get his grill back.  "For goodness sake, Brad, you can't wait one...oops, two days?"  "Well," he countered (somewhat vindictively, I felt), "what do you have planned for dinner?"  Oh.  We went down to the school on Saturday and searched the building to no avail.  Let's just say that tuna noodle casserole pales in comparison to grilled tuna steaks.

A brief consulting session with an administrator resulted in miscommunication about when, where, and how my grill would make its victorious return home. Take two:  Tuesday.  Apparently no one in the school has a grill of their own OR a truck so my friend Kelly borrowed her husband's work vehicle.  My little grill was scheduled to make its much-anticipated arrival to our wing and when it, shockingly did not, we had it tracked down to the far side of the building and made an appointment with a brawny administrator to help us load up.  Voila! The grill showed up so Kel and I drove the truck over to load it. Uh...yeah.  The two of us sized up the situation and made ready to lift the propane grill up to shoulder-level to slide it into the waiting truck bed.  Metal edges bit into our hands, the awkwardly proportioned unit dangerously shifted, I may have squealed in fear, despair, or anticipated pain.  After several attempts, it was decided to get some additional muscle.  "Preferably someone with a fully functional shoulder who can walk in an upright position without a noticeable limp," Kelly said, hinting that perhaps I wasn't pulling my fair weight.  Our muscle arrived, in the form of 5th grade teacher Amanda, who I outweigh three times over.  I glared at Kelly.  We lifted the grill from the bottom, groaning as it leaned alarmingly, causing us to stagger back while we failed desperately in our noble attempt to tip it toward the truck. The Israelites hauling that Ark around had nothing on us. "How did you get it here," Amanda asked in disgust.  We described how three muscular men effortlessly made the initial delivery so naturally three intelligently competent women should be able to duplicate the task.

As no knight-in-shining-armor seemed to be on hand, these three damsels in distress finally wrestled the fiery dragon into its cage.  Bruised, smudged but victorious, we returned the grill to its rightful kingdom.  "You should have seen it," Brad told Savannah when she came home, "the grill arrived in about thirty different pieces."  "Your father is exaggerating, as usual," I said scornfully.  "Your friend said we should take a picture of it," he responded.  Later, while he restored the leaning-tower-of-grilling to its original state of magnificence, my husband graciously reassured me that he would support any future decisions to lend out our grill for the betterment of humankind.  I, however, have decided to stick with the "is it smaller than a breadbox" rule-of-thumb.  I vow to only lend objects that I can personally transport easily even with a semi-functioning shoulder and a minor limp.  "No you won't," Brad said, "we're going to end up in the same situation before you know it."  "Whatever," I snapped, "I don't know what you think you have to complain about."

Disclaimer: Article title does not refer to flatulence: "What's a little rip?"

The Mosimans take great consumer pride in getting our money's worth from our purchases.  Don't get me wrong, I slip up occasionally.  Brad is still receiving therapeutic treatment from one such slip-up:  "Hello...my name is Brad Mosiman and my wife once threw away a burnt frying pan because days and days of soaking didn't succeed in getting grease out of her way."  

We drive a 1998 Ford Ranger (original color: blue/ current color: rust) that we have babied along for years despite the public scorn and ridicule. Depreciation, defined as a loss in value because of age or wear, is a despicable concept.  Besides being the butt of countless jokes, Ranger would be considered worthless to many people.  To us, Ranger represents a decade or more of living without the burden of a vehicle payment.  Determinating depreciation, 
V = P(1-R)^n,  requires a rather mind-boggling formula featuring the following variables: V= future value, P= present value, R=  depreciation rate, and n= # of years.  What is not factored in, however, is the most important part of the equation: personal worth.  I remember being infuriated when watching litigation cases involving pets on "Judge Wapner." Someone's negligence would result in the death of a beloved four-legged friend and, should said creature lack pedigree papers, would be deemed worthless in the eyes of the law.  How much that pet meant to you personally, the value that it brought to your life, is not factored in.

Sometimes, though, depreciation helps to counteract the sometimes emotional imbalance created when one assigns too much worth to an object.  When I was hired as a middle school teacher six years ago, my husband and I went shopping for a high stool at Zeches furniture store.  Kevin Zeches graciously congratulated me on my new employment, listened carefully to what I wanted, and laughed as he led the way upstairs.  "With some imagination," he said, "I may have the perfect thing."  We walked through a forest of boring three-legged wooden stools with the customary swivel round seat.  "Ta da..." Kevin gestured toward his contribution to higher education.  Brad was immediately sold but I was rather dubious.  "You need a taller stool than most people," Kevin continued, "and look, there's a backrest."  I walked slowly around what may have been the most tricked-out bar stool that I'd ever seen.  "There's a deep-seated cup-holder for your...Pepsi," Keven coaxed.  "What about this?" I asked, gesturing to the area designated for pool-stick placement.    Kevin furrowed his brow and then immediately brightened, "Don't teachers need a yard stick!"  I was now the proud owner of a more than reasonably-priced highly-accessorized teacher stool.

It has been a perfect accompaniment to my room.  The black faux leather swivel seat and backrest is comfortable.  Hundreds of Pepsis have been nestled safely in the arms of a secure cup-holder.  The height accommodates my 5'10" form and gives me a great view of every student's paper in every phase of completion.  And yes, occasionally a yard stick finds its way to an upright position in the stool's side holster.  Students love to spin on it.  Fellow educators who find themselves in my room delight in their crow's nest view from my friendly teaching platform.  Even Chlo has had a chance to perch upon it once or twice.  Today I found a small rip in the seat.  Not an intentional dig like the one I found in the foam-filled cushioned school-bought chair situated at my back kidney-table where a bored student repetitively stabbed the lackluster, albeit innocent, seat to death.  It was almost indecipherable except to the discerning eye.  Made perhaps, from a pencil parked in a student pocket.  It doesn't matter except that it did.  I fought my temper and my disappointment.  It's just a chair.  I stewed about it all day.  All the cliches swam to the surface.  "This is why we can't have nice things."  It's just a chair.  Amy, get over it.  It's just a chair.  I finally did the math.  My sixty-five dollars divided by six years accounts to just a bit over ten dollars a year.  That's about six cents per school day.  Well-worth every swivel, every sip, every sight of an off-task doodle or exemplary paper.  It was so much more than a chair...but in the end, it's just a six cent chair that shouldn't cause me to rage or whine over a little rip.  "Hello, my name is Amy Mosiman and I don't give a rip about a little rip."  If I say my new mantra every day, it will eventually become true.