Chlo is not a dress-up dachshund

Argue if you want to...I refuse to listen. Hands down, no doubt, I have the cutest, sweetest, kindest, and most humble dog on the planet. I'm even willing to branch out further into the solar system but I believe that you get my point. After "Dachshund Day" at school, a present came in for Chlo: an adorable feathered hair-clip. Without any training at all (because she's naturally thoughtful), Chlo graciously receives all gifts with a charming demeanor. Despite her utter disdain for generic dog biscuits (Hey! A girl has to draw the line somewhere), Chlo still wags her tail and offers kisses whenever we visit the bank drive-through window. I knew we were in trouble when a student brought me in her little gift. When I first got a dachshund, I made the mistaken assumption that I would be dressing her up in the cutest little outfits ever. NOPE! Yeah...that did not happen. I would wrestle Chlo into her little hooded suede jacket or fluffy pink sweater and she would freeze as though she's been struck with the Full-Body-Bind curse from Harry Potter. Her only concession to my fashion choices has been to agree to wear a black and white collar that matches my rubber boots. How was I going to get her to sport a little feathered bling? Well...the long and short of it was...I wasn't. In spite of some pre-planned, complicated choreography to distract my dog with attention and treats, Savannah, Sydney and I failed miserably. Shutter-speed fast, Chlo moved with the deft precision of a predatory cheetah, pouncing on her feathered prey. The only evidence that this gift even existed is this photo:

Prepare to be riveted! I have another "follower" AND successfully cared for a horse!

After several months of some pretty intense therapy following my last bout of horse-care duties ("No wonder," I hear you saying in an unnecessarily sarcastic tone as you harken back to a my traumatizing May blog article "Tractor driver...Flip that horse!"  http://amyafterthefact.blogspot.com/2013/05/tractor-driverflip-that-horse.html). "All of your blog articles are traumatizing," you remind me snarkily before snapping, "Can you just get on with it? My time is valuable." No kidding.

Side story ("Sigh," you sigh.): Ran into my friend Geri this morning who told me with delight that, after months, she has finally become a "follower."

Side note ("Sigh," you sigh.) I REALLY don't like the term "follower." I am, after-all, NOT a prophet and I don't even LIKE grape Kool-Aid. As I don't like to criticize unless I am able to offer a solution, I briefly considered replacing "follower" with "fan" but even my ego isn't that big ("Snort," you snorted.) Hence, I would like to replace "follower" with "kind, occasional reader."

Return to side story:  (You glance at the time.) Back to Geri...she had apparently been on her way to work at the school and had some sort of English muffin debacle during the ride and ended up covered in butter so had to return home to change. According to her riveting story, she had to wait 17 minutes for the clothes dryer cycle to end. "What can I do for 17 minutes," she wondered and then shouted, "A-ha! I'll read Amy's blog for the first time in months!" Then, my loyal, tech-savvy friend (we had a conversation about turning on an I-pad two weeks ago) figured out how to successfully hit the "follow" button. Yes! I now officially have three followers (including myself).  I am also introducing a companion legislation to the existing no-texting-when-driving law to include a no-eating-buttered-English-muffins-while-driving amendment.

Return to original story: ("Finally," you snarl, "Your 17 minutes are almost about up.") Any-hoo, my neighbors were heading out of town and coaxed me over with some very specific care giving instructions. I'm used to squeezing the weird medicine into the cat's ear so that was no big deal but then Nance pulled out a horrifying medieval horse-torture device right out of "The Horse in the Iron Mask." Apparently its politically-correct term is a "grazing-harness" but when applied, it transforms the poor creature into Darth Vader's horse. Its purpose is to limit the daily calorie intake so apparently I need a grazing-harness as well. I observed Nance as she deftly and competently put the harness on her horse and my stomach clenched as I realized I would not be able to gracefully duplicate this procedure. I agonized about my potential failure. "Maybe I'll just skip it," I suggested to my friend George. "You know they probably have a nanny cam," he said, already bored from listening to my litany of "problems."

As it turns out, it really WASN'T a big deal. I dragged Savannah down to the barn with me and she watched with admiration as I stuffed an apple slice into the harness and held the contraption up to the horse. Sierra eagerly stuffed her velvety nose into it and I snapped it into place. Voila! ("Wait," you interrupt indignantly, "I wasted 17 minutes of my valuable time to read a boring account of how you successfully took care of your neighbor's horse?") Ouch! Boring seems a tad harsh. But yes...yay, me! Must every story you read from my blog have to be centered around my abysmal failures and embarrassing exploits? Can you not also celebrate my small successes as well? What sort of "kind, occasional reader" are you?

A short blog for those of you who think my blogs are too long...what is wrong with you people? Do you have the attention span of moths?

One of my favorite people in the whole wide world is Sam Ratigan. Born two days before Savannah, she showed up this evening at our house, uninvited and enthusiastically welcomed, to share in Savannah's celebratory crème brûlée. Sam Ratigan arriving at your door is the equivalent to the Prize Patrol pulling up minus the balloons and giant check. The balloons and giant check are implied. 

After pretending to be interested in her life for several minutes, I eagerly asked her if she'd read any of my latest blogs. Knowing I would quiz her, she sheepishly admitted that the last blog post she's read was the one about HER. "That was four months ago," I cried, wounded by her lack of loyalty. "But they're so-oo long," she whined. "You could at least be a follower," I said, relenting a little, "You wouldn't actually have to read the blogs...just actively pretend to read them." She perked up a little. "How do you become a follower," she asked, relieved that she wasn't going to have to make a literacy commitment. I brought up the blog to show her the variety of buttons to push until you eventually stumble on the correct one. She squinted at my impressive list of current followers. "Are you your own follower," she inquired judgmentally. "Well...yeah," I admitted, "it was kindof an accident but then it ended up rocketing me up to a grand total of five followers." "Five? You only have FIVE followers? That is so sad," Sam exclaimed while I wondered who had invited her over. Oh wait...no one! Sam looked at my list of loyal followers, "Isn't your mom, at least, a follower?" I sighed, "No...she isn't all that big on the technology-front. She thinks I'm clogging." I was about done with this visit. My self-esteem had plummeting to an all-time low ("Lower than five followers," asked the birthday girl with a giggle). Sam finally left, making empty promises to immediately become a follower and to begin posting my (unread, apparently) posts to her Facebook. In return, I have just written her the shortest blog that I am capable of composing.

Finding a reason to get out of bed every morning: Can you spell p-u-d-d-i-n-g?

There's nothing better than having something to look forward to the very minute your eyes open in the morning. The last few weeks, I have met each day with a sad, guttural moan and buried my head under the pillow. What if I put a 4th grader on the wrong bus? What if I miss a pertinent step in teaching place value and the repercussions of this error haunts my students for the rest of their lives, preventing them from balancing their checkbooks to the penny or waylaying them from accurately counting back change or calculating a tip? What if I forget to get the necessary paperwork into the school office by the required 8:45 am deadline, triggering an inevitable building lock-down? While sleep may elude me, the real nightmare begins when the alarm clock rings.

But this past Friday was different. Last week, my friends, Amanda, Geri, and Kelly and I had made plans to play a power session of euchre immediately after school. And if that wasn't enough, Kelly and I, trying to pare down our two 20 ounce bottles per day Pepsi consumption, made a deal to abstain all week and then on Friday, she and I would split a bottle to celebrate our success. So finally, for the first time since this school year began, I awoke with a song in my heart, leaping out of bed to greet the day. Euchre and Pepsi! Was it really as simple as all that?

Turns out that it really is pretty simple. Recognizing how miserable I've been lately due to school insecurities and my new self-imposed, semi-rigid diet restrictions, Brad encouraged me to relax a little. "What was your goal again," he asked, as we relaxed in our living room Saturday afternoon. Actually, Brad was relaxing while I was clawing at the walls, sobbing over my snack-free existence. "It's like not living at all," I wailed, rending cloth and tossing ashes over my head. "I'm suppose to lose two pounds a week if I want to meet my stupid goal," I snapped, prowling around the room like a tigress deprived of her fudge-striped zebra snack cake. "Consider this," he said soothingly, "how about if you see if you made your goal first thing in the morning and if you did, we'll have chocolate pudding Sunday night?" I stopped pacing. This wasn't a horrible idea. Two pounds. Pudding. And a week to recover. I went to bed Saturday night, praying so energetically that I may have actually shed a 1/4 pound out of pure supplication. Again, the day dawned, bright and hopeful. I raced to the scale, checked the number and then danced jubilantly around the house. I lost points regarding my priorities but the end result was the same, only tastier. Forget the pounds. This girl was having pudding!

Obviously, this is not a consistent cure-for-all. There will be days that will require a wrecking ball to get me out of bed but perhaps a little premeditative planning would improve my morning disposition. Thursdays were a delight when Grey's was still good. I need to find another show with the power to shape my day. My friend Sarah keeps steering me toward Parks and Recreation. I have a lot to do. Find inspirational television programming. Focus on the positives of each up-coming day rather than getting bogged down and over-whelmed. Quit belly-aching and be thankful for all my blessings and pudding. Tomorrow is another day and I can't wait!

I did not have a "soup"-er day today

I am not a patient or particularly mature person. And I HATE peeling potatoes. So when I spend a large quantity of time, laboriously chopping five pounds of potatoes along with celery, scallions, and carrots in order to construct a sub-par, bland, translucently-thin potato soup, by golly, my family should be performing backflips before lifting me up above their heads and parading me around the house. But instead of erecting a soup-making monument in my honor, certain members of my family attacked my efforts.

In a sadly pro-active maneuver to adjust my current weekly meal plan (Monday-cereal, Tuesday-cereal, Wednesday-left-overs, Thursday-toast because we ran out of milk, Friday-mooch off friends) by brainstorming a list of recipes that could be stretched over a series of days. Hence, today I found myself (actually I'm still searching for myself...who am I? What am I all about?) frantically multi-tasking in the most-despised room (after the creepy basement) in my house:  the kitchen. By the end of a grueling two and a half hour stretch, I had put together a lackluster potato soup, chocolate pudding, and the mildly-controversial  hot dog soup in recognition of Savannah's birthday week. What was Mr. Brainstorm doing during my culinary campaign, you ask? Well, while I was selflessly slaving away over the stove, Brad was lazily repairing a light switch (how hard could THAT be?) and putting additional insulation in the attic so that he would be warm this winter.

Savannah conveniently arrived home after all the work was done. She squinted into the steaming pot of soup and said, "We're having that for dinner?"  I stared at her in disbelief before looking around the kitchen for the source of her confusion. Nope. I didn't see a platter of prime rib on the counter. Sydney came skipping in as I was about to stir some cheddar cheese into my concoction while Savannah grumbled about how much she hates cheese. Sydney, fresh from a shift at Charcoal Corral, eyed the watery brew and then asked if I had any cream. "What do you want cream for, " I asked. "At the Corral, they use it to thicken their soup base," she replied haughtily. This...coming from the girl who pours chocolate syrup on microwave popcorn. As we settled in for supper, Sydney bravely took a bite of my soup before returning to the kitchen. Fascinated, her father followed her, providing me with a running commentary of the action. "How many spoonfuls of flour are you going to put in there," he asked while I sat, steaming in my chair. Upon her return, I glared at my daughter before snarling, "I am going to watch you eat every bite of that bowl." To her credit, she pretended to enjoy each flour-filled spoonful. See? This is why I keep my menu-planning unpretentiously simple. Cereal...here we come.

It was a super moon

I entitled it: A Picture Without Chlo

Knowing what a big fan of nature I am, Savannah persistently and enthusiastically coaxed me outside this morning at an unreasonable 6:50 am to view the Super Moon. At the time, I was spending some quality time with my TV-best-friend, HLN host, Robin Meade while slowly snarfing down 180 calories worth of Kellogg's Corn Pops. "Mom, come out," Savannah yelled from the dining room. I applied all my concentrated powers of ignoring as I admired Robin's outfit until Savannah's grating voice eeked its way across the blackboard of my subconscious. "Shut up," I shrieked, hoping that she would translate my small fit of temper to mean, "Love you, honey. Have a successful day at school." Undaunted by my ferociousness, Savannah tugged at the blanket that was securely cocooning me. Justifiably provoked, I lunged at her. She sprang deftly away and the chase was on with our front sidewalk as the finish-line. I stopped short at the sight of the Super Moon.

I paused to take in the morning (and catch my failing breath). I savored this precious time with my daughter as we could just make out a small deer family in the distance. I thought of my friend, Cassie, who habitually shares beautiful landscape shots on The Facebook and, inspired, retrieved my camera from the house. My initial picture of Savannah was too conflicting with multiple subjects vying for top billing. I was pleased with this photograph as the deer had paused in their travels to live in the moment and admire me as I stood on my sidewalk in my fuzzy red robe and slippers.  I turned my back on this winding road as the moon scraped the surface of the horizon soon to disappear from view. It was time to face the day.

Deer don't like diet dog food but for eight bucks, you can feed a whale

I love love love my country. However, there are very few places in the continental United States that will allow a girl to waltz through the admissions turn-style with a bulging bag of diet dog food, eight apples and a package of large marshmallows. Clearly, this chick has the makings of a bear buffet in her bag and yet, in Canada, no one blinks an eye. The Mosimans love Marineland. We tend to visit in September when the weather is pleasantly mild and the crowds have diminished considerably. On this particular day, the park was occupied by Mennonites and a strange cult of people notable for wearing bright red pants. When we first arrived, Sydney charmed the ticket-taker and humiliated us when she squealed with delight over the colorful Canadian money. Concerned that idiots were about to enter the park, the woman then handed us arcade tokens and warned us in a loud, clear voice, "These are NOT money." And even with that, we trusted Sydney with the park map. "Turn left at Hungry Bear Restaurant," she guided us confidently. That was the last correct direction she offered us for the day.

Force-feeding deer

We eagerly entered the deer enclosure, fumbling for the diet dog food and preparing ourselves for the inevitable physical assault that was sure to follow. Turns out deer and dachshunds share an equal disdain for diet dog food. They sniffed politely, stuck up their velvety noses and then turned hoof and ran. Hurt, we beat a hasty retreat. The bears were next. Concerned with their teeth, Brad adamantly refused to feed them marshmallows so the girls and I ate them while tossing diet dog food into the watery moat. The bears weren't quite as discriminating as the deer but clearly showed a preference for peanuts-in-the-shell and Captain Crunch. Sydney's snack distribution math was a little cloudy as her division calculations assigned Savannah one apple, her mother one apple, her father no apples with the remainder left for herself. I could watch bears bob for apples all day.

This is how they looked BEFORE the roller-coaster!

The roller-coaster at Dragon Mountain is an exciting ride that plunges you into deep, dark tunnels before launching you upside down into the air several times. My stomach was still spinning as we began the mountainous climb up to the Sky Screamer. "Is the pavement changing colors," I panted with concern, hyperventilating a bit. After assuring me that it was simply the pattern of the roadway, my family branched out, ready to catch me should I topple over. Brad and Sydney rode the Sky Screamer while I lay breathless on a picnic bench, deafened by my own heartbeat. Obviously, I was done with rides for the day.

Sky Screamer

Turns out giant carp, seagulls, and Canada geese have no qualms with diet dog food so we spent a great deal of time feeding them before moving onto the Beluga whales. For eight dollars, you can feed a Beluga three sardines and pet it for twelve seconds. TOTALLY WORTH IT!!! They feel like high-end mozzarella, smile sweetly and tweet like my cockatiel.  "You know," I shared knowledgeably with my family, "Belugas are known as the canaries of the sea." Sydney flat out chose not to believe me and Brad wanted to know who was walking around out there, calling Belugas canaries.

We spent our arcade tokens battling one another on a rousing game of "Catch a flying bee in a net and pour it into a plastic hive." I emerged as the no-holds-barred victor. Then we watched the seal and dolphin show, the giant walrus blowing us a kiss as we headed for the exit. It was just like the song!

            We took our family for the day.
      We watched the whales and dolphins play.
                  They jumped in the air,
           didn't splash ANY waves in our hair
           (because Brad Mosiman insisted
            on sitting beyond the splash zone),
         
The Mosimans love...Marineland!

Let the chocolate chips fall where they may

The world has ceased to exist as I know it. I have recently experienced a paradigm shift of incredibly epic proportions. My entire life has been based on a pre-adolescent conversation that I had with a young man who may have had other motives as he assured me that I was perfectly proportioned. "How many tall fat woman have you seen," he asked, inexplicably trying to wrap up our exchange of dialog. I have clung to this reasoning for decades but a cloud of doubt has always hovered nearby. Occasionally, I sought spiritual council. I once called the church secretary to ask her opinion regarding my intent to consume an entire package of apple flavored Pillsbury Toaster Strudels. Reasoning that at least I was receiving a modicum of nutrition from the fake fruit filling, Amy T was happy that I wasn't just sucking the icing out of the eight individual packets. A year later, she provided additional support by saying that everyone had to eat a box of Hostess Ho-Hos once in awhile. She did not foresee me, spiraling out of control, parked on a side-street in Warsaw, secretly snarfing down those tasty creme-filled snack cakes. She didn't see my shame as a school colleague jogged by, pausing as she recognized my vehicle. "Amy?" Tess said, tapping on the window. I couldn't speak as I rolled it down, my puffy hamster cheeks filled to capacity, chocolate smeared on my face and the tell-tale white wrappers littering my truck. I haven't been able to look her in the eye since.

There have been interventions over the years. Brad has valiantly tried to keep canned chocolate frosting out of the house because I view cake as an annoying middle man. During the Easter season, my friend Sarah strictly doles out my Russell Stover marshmallow bunnies with the calculated precision of Nurse Ratched. In an attempt of healthier eating, I once intentionally switched from regular Raisinets to dark chocolate Raisinets but I lacked long-term resolve.

Today was an all-time low. I was unable to concentrate on my reality TV viewing as my mind was fixated on chocolate. To combat my lack of self-control, I had stripped my house of chocolate snacks. I even bought 1% milk so that, should I panic and try to make chocolate pudding, it wouldn't set properly. But there was a bag of chocolate chips. Chocolate torment. "Would you like a plum," Brad asked before fleeing the house as my head began spinning around. "Just eat the chocolate chips," Savannah said unsupportively. After childishly thrashing about, I lost the battle and retrieved the bag of chocolate crack from the hidden recess of the cupboard. Normally, I would have ripped the bag open and poured it directly into my mouth until the chips were gone. My approach today was deliberately different. First, I shuffled through the measuring cups. replacing my initial impulse with a 1/2 cup container. Pleased with my restraint, I approached the bag of chocolate chips and then made the mistake of reading the serving size. Apparently, thirty chocolate chips is a serving size in someone's warped, unrealistic world. Morbidly curious, I counted that amount into my 1/2 cup and, with sadness verging on despair, noticed that they didn't even completely cover the bottom of the cup. I returned to my seat with my "snack," slowly eating each tiny chip. It was not a pleasant experience. I didn't savor the treat; instead, each chip was just a painful reminder that I was one chip closer to the end. Is this a metaphor for my life? That, when I look at the 1/2 a cup, I don't see it as 1/4-filled or even 1/8-filled. I have obviously been pushed to the limit if I'm using fractions to make my point. I need to shift my thinking. To live life to the fullest, perhaps I need to revisit the idea of dark chocolate Raisinets again. And this time, I will show great restraint in NOT reading the serving size immediately prior to consumption. It's enough to make you lose your appetite.

UFO: An Unidentified female object

My friend Amanda warned me that this particular blog post doesn't just tentatively poke its toe over the line...it doesn't just step over it...it backs up, revs up, roars forward and leaps across the line of decency and lands squarely in the TMI sandpit. So those of you with a sensitivity to delicate female issues or those of you who just have high moral character should venture over to an educational blog about the Venezuelan Poodle Moth. For the rest of you...just get ready to dust yourselves off.

On Monday, I received some unexpected news during my annual well-woman visit to the doctor. So, there I was, lounging awkwardly back while my doctor was engaged in some investigative research. Disjointed, her voice rose upwards like a small kite, the tail wavering with uncertainty. "Hmmmm...this is interesting." Not words that a woman in my vulnerable position wants to hear. I immediately went into denial-mode, refusing to even acknowledge her observation.

"You can stop here," Amanda said, breaking into my story, "it's not too late."

My doctor insisted on sharing her rare discovery with me; a discovery that would teach me (again) that being mature and responsible never pays. Five years ago, I had decided to install an upgrade to my current contraceptive system. On Monday, it was time to reboot but apparently there was a program error flashing the message, "Location unknown." Do I need to spell it out for you?

"No!" shouted Amanda, "don't do it!"

My IUD was MIA. I stared at my doctor who shared this troubling news with relative calm as she sprinkled the words ultrasound, cervix, and tipped uterus throughout our remaining one-sided conversation; one-sided because I was rendered mute as she described the knitting needle instrument with a hooked end that would be used during the retrieval process. That Venezuelan Poodle Moth is looking pretty good about now, isn't it? Should "conventional retrieval" prove unsuccessful, out-patient surgery would be necessary. I perked up, wondering if we could bundle procedures. I've always wanted LASIK surgery and I'd love to have the grotesque mole on my back shaved off. Might as well permanently tattoo eyeliner on while we're at it.

Somewhat shaken, I left the office to return to a waiting Sydney. My daughter sat in shocked silence as I answered her rhetorical, "Well, how'd it go?" She was incapable of coherent speech for several minutes as we drove to complete some shopping errands.

 "You're like a warped version of Ms. Frizzle and the Magic School Bus," Sydney finally said in amazement as she watched me hop across the Walmart parking lot. "What are you doing?" she asked.

"I'm trying to shake it loose," I panted, panicking as I thought about that described demented device. I had to abandon the miraculous healing power of gravity when I accidentally pulled a muscle in my gluteus maximus. I began doing a mental inventory of my recent physical ailments, cursing that technology had not yet thought to attach a GPS to an IUD. AWOL, my IUD could be anywhere. Perhaps my kickball knee wasn't kickball knee at all but was, in fact, IUD knee. I stared at Brad as he flexed his sore wrist last night. Obviously, my IUD didn't follow a SOP. What is the MO of an IUD? Could it change hosts? Obviously, sleep has been elusive as I wait for this mystery to unravel. I will be skipping the customary Q & A regarding my missing mechanism. Obviously, enough has already been said on the subject. I just hope that my experience might somehow better humanity on this important issue of womens' reproductive health.

"So now you're trying to sell this as a public service announcement?" Amanda snorted in disgust. "You didn't just cross a line; you obliterated it."

"Whining" at Belhurst Castle

As the "Event Coordinator" for my small group of friends...soon to grow smaller, if I have anything to say about it...I laboriously planned a fun-filled, culturally-rich sophisticated evening of dining and music for us last night at Belhurst Castle overlooking Seneca Lake. So it was, that my "friends" (Deb, Joan, and Barb) and I set off on our little excursion to celebrate Deb's birthday. Manning the wheel, or should I say, womaning the wheel, I confidently steered the van in what I imagined was the right direction with Barb's voice from the back quietly correcting me as I made only 2.5 wrong turns along the way; one occurring four feet from the Castle entryway. Deb had insisted that the plans be kept secret from her so we pulled into practically every fast-food chain restaurant between here and Geneva to throw her off the track. Thinking that Belhurst Castle would be much to swanky for billboards, Barb, Joan and I maintained impassive poker faces as Deb read aloud the forty-kazillion roadside advertisements promoting the palace and its features. "A wine-tour would be fun some time," she mused before squealing with delight as we (tried to) pulled into Belhurst.

The "rear view" of Belhurst Castle

I had chosen the more casual of the two restaurants as my ball gown is currently at the cleaners so we put in our name and then wandered the grounds. The only reason that photographic evidence of our friendship exists is because of me; yet I have to wrestle uncooperative people into position in order to record our adventures for posterity. Or in this case, posterior, as my companions thought it would be cute and NOT totally exasperating to offer my camera a "behind-the-scenes" view of the castle.


Having been told that there was an estimated hour wait-time for the table, Barb and Joan plunked themselves down on the elegant furniture in the lobby while I accompanied Deb to the wine store. It's amazing what one can learn about oneself under trying circumstances. For example, who knew that I could occupy myself for twenty minutes sniffing scented candles?

Dim-lighting diminishes the beauty of my asparagus sandwich.

As I made our arrangements last week, I had been so excited to see that a blues band would be playing Saturday night. I was even more excited as we were given the table right next to the band. Then the very-talented band started and I spent the rest of the evening yelling "WHAT?" to my friends and impressing my waiter with my sign language ability, "Orange giraffe boy." I don't know any punctuation in sign language so, depending on the comma placement, my sentence could be interpreted as a description or a rude demand. I cursed my lack of pre-planning, realizing that communication would have been much-improved if all of us had had texting devices with us. Consequently, we smiled at one another a lot and tried not to stare at the couple gyrating in an intimate corner as they REALLY enjoyed the music. They obviously had no trouble communicating. I somehow successfully ordered an appetizer to discover I'm a big fan of Gouda and my asparagus panini was a culinary wonder to behold but challenging to consume politely.

We put dessert in Deb's hands. I love looking at plastic models of dessert...so classy. "Double chocolate raspberry cake, double chocolate raspberry cake..." I chanted in my head, sending mental transmissions to the birthday girl. Apparently, Deb's mental abilities aren't what they should be (maybe it's the age??? ;) so I was initially horrified when she selected something smathered in mushed bananas. I soon stood corrected as I battled three other spoons for my portion of a triple-layered chocolate mousse creation with flavor-heightening caramelized bananas.

The long ride home was the usual nightmare where everyone dog-piled on me. They are a jealous, petty, self-serving bunch and frankly, I deserve MUCH better. Fortunately, I had been deafened by the band so I was able to avoid much of the cruel, hurtful banter. Before we went our separate ways, plans were introduced to perhaps take a mini vacation together to Mackinaw Island. Have they lost their minds? Trapped on an island with this bunch...I'd go bananas!

Chitty-chitty bangs bangs: My first week of school did not go off with a "bang"

I am going on record to say that this has been my worst first-week-of-school EVER! Not because of my work environment. I work at the most amazing school in the world with the hardest-working, most caring and positive people in the world. It's not because of the children. They have been precociously adorable. And it's not because of a lack of home support. The transition from middle school to elementary DID NOT prepare me for the onslaught of presents ranging from collected sea shells to home-made jam to hand-picked gourds to flowers, candy, Twinkies and Pepsi. Oh, I left out the penny flattened by a train! No. My worst first-week-of-school is in direct proportion to my hair; my bangs specifically. Obviously, I am not a high maintenance kind of gal when it comes to my physical appearance. I thought Brad was going to cry in Kohl's when I squealed in delight before a display of elastic-waist dress pants (no, that is not an oxymoron). I committed a felony-level fashion faux pas when I confused Vera Wang and Vera Bradley the other day. I famously and ignorantly wore a homemade wooden bead necklace strung on fishing line that attractively spelled out "Mrs. Mosiman" to either a Sophia Lee or Lia Sophia party. I will reluctantly re-pierce my ears if a student makes me earrings as a holiday gift. While I may not pay a great deal of attention to my overall personal appearance, I do like my hair to look somewhat presentable and this week has been nothing less that a nightmare.

My friend Sarah changed my life several years when she introduced me to a hair flattener. My bangs have been semi-fabulous ever since. I made the unfortunate decision to trim my own bangs the week prior to school. I was feeling somewhat confident about it until I went to lunch with Sarah whereupon she set about undermining my self-esteem and crushing my spirit. As she pulled the chair up to our table, she glanced at me, did a double-take and then tilted her head to squint at my hair. She sighed. "You cut your bangs yourself, didn't you," she said accusingly. I raised my hand to shield my bangs from view and she softened a bit. "They're not awful," she comforted, "just wispy." Apparently "wispy" is synonymous with "Hulk hair." The count-down to school was on and I went into full-frontal-hair-attack mode. I gel-ed, I moussed, I blew-dried, air-dried, towel-dried, curled and cried.

So it was, that on the morning of the first day of school, I awoke with a desperate prayer in my heart. Surely Jesus didn't have anything better to do at 5:45am EST than to perform a small miracle on my wayward bangs. Well, apparently the ka-zillions of teen-agers with end-of-nose pimples out-prayed me that morning. Or perhaps my Lord and Savior thought my cardboard bangs were character-building. I thought about trying to convert a bridal veil into everyday wear but the school handbook dictates no hats, sunglasses or wedding accessories. I attacked my unruly hair with the flattener, determined to scorch it into submission. By the time I was through, it was the texture of corn husks.

On day three, I had an epiphany as I stood before the mirror, threatening to set my bangs on fire. My expertise with a hair straightener is limited and I am always excited to learn new techniques. For instance, several months ago, I discovered that there is a "top" and a "bottom" to this hair styling tool! I had been using both sides interchangeably with varying results. The morning of my revelation, I noticed something unusual about my flattener. I could touch one of the inner plates without instantly melting my skin. My flattener was faulty! Could this have been the source of my troubles? Maybe my bangs weren't as atrocious as I feared (somewhere out there, I can sense Sarah rolling her eyes). Top of my "to-do" list for this week-end (right behind "sleep for fifteen consecutive hours unless there's a "How I Met Your Mother" marathon on") is to "purchase a high-quality flattener with a rock-solid money-back guarantee. Next week will be much better, God willing.

Feeling a little "flushed" on the first day

I decided to make an interactive attendance bulletin board. I am an idiot. The creation of said bulletin board was ridiculously labor-intensive. I took a picture of each student, front view and back view. "This is creepy, Mrs. Mosiman," one 4th grader gently told me as he waited in line. "Just never mind," I snapped peevishly, "it's going to be wonderful." Later that day, I spent an hour re-formatting and cropping each photo, cutting them to size before heading off to the laminator. I had positioned the two views back-to-back with the idea that, when a student arrived in the morning, he would push-pin his picture front view out, indicating he was in class. At the end of the day, the child then flips the picture to signal his departure from the school. Brighter-minds-than-mine might say, "Mrs. Mosiman, we know that you have six years of quality teaching experience and a big ol' fancy degree but isn't the physical presence of the student in your classroom a pretty good indicator that the child is there? And, should the child not go to school on some particular day, might you not notice from the vacated desk alone?" Yeah...well, shows what you all know! Children benefit greatly by being actively involved in the attendance-rendering process and your better-than-the-average-bear educator will go to great lengths to waste an enormous amount of time and energy to create an interactive bulletin board that might be used for maybe two or three days. So there! Anyhoo, as I frantically laminated forty-two photographs, using all my strength to pull the heated plastic from the resistant rollers, a reoccurring and disturbing image began to materialize. In the midst of my photographing fervor, I failed to notice that boys tend to stand a certain way. As the rear-view photos emerged from the laminator, I looked and then looked again. Oh no. Let's just say that the boys looked as though, after an extended visit to the water fountain, they were "relieved" to be going home. Now what? I had enthusiastically shared this idea with the children and had explained that the board would be operational tomorrow when they arrived in the morning. Oh no! What about Open House! I guess we could rename it "Out House." I titled this award-winning bulletin board with ironic yellow lettering spelling out: "Attendance" but maybe I should subtitle it: "Sometimes urine and sometimes you're out."

Half-Marathon Day: Almost blew out my knee (again) because of a mutinous shoe

Marathon Day is grueling.  We were scheduled to get up at the crack of dawn but Chlo had other ideas when, with her canine super-sight, she zeroed in on a Midnight Antelope outside our bedroom window.  Her natural instinct is, of course, to protect the family at all costs.  My natural instinct is to drop kick the dachshund across the room but, with her furry little feet, she outmaneuvered me with ease. So it was that, with very little sleep, I blearily looked ahead to the up-coming race. 

“Mom,” Savannah said, “anyone reading this would think that you’re the one running the half marathon.”   

“I feel that I’m the one most invested in this activity,” I responded defensively. “You may be the one strapping on the sneakers and running 13.1 miles but it’s my pounding heart, my exploding lungs, and my sweaty brow engaged in getting you across the finished line.”

“Brittany and I have been training for months,” Savannah pointed out, “while you sat on the couch, watching tv.  Is this the investment you’re talking about?”

“Look how little you notice,” I said, hurt. I then broke my long-held biblical commitment of not letting my left hand know what my right hand is doing so that I could reveal the behind-the-scenes-half-marathon-training of Amy Mosiman.

   

Saturday, I selflessly accompanied Savannah to pick up her race day packet. Race packets are usually magical, filled with fun items. I knew we were in trouble when I pulled out a cartoon raccoon tattoo (check out all the double “oo”s there) and liquefied organic peanut butter.  “I suppose the peanut-butter-loving-public could pour it over ice cream,” I remarked doubtfully, shaking the jar in complete fascination.  Since we were in the area, I had Savannah take us to Wal-Mart and Wegman’s so we could watch the store clerk count our fifteen file folders twenty times.  Savannah got disgusted with me when I insisted on buying slider-sized baby burgers with accompanying rolls because I thought they looked adorable even though they cost 1/3 more than regular-sized burgers.  Then, out of the pure goodness of my heart, I drove Savannah’s little 5-speed home to give her aching knee a rest despite the fact that she constantly corrects my shifting.

Later that night, after Savannah had gone to bed, I set about selflessly creating the traditional race day banner. I was devastated during our first half marathon when I discovered that each runner does not experience the breaking of the finish line tape. Fortunately and inexplicably, I had a roll of toilet paper in my bag so we improvised to re-create that magical moment.  Anyhoo…I was ready to selflessly print the banner when Brad intervened, dramatically flipping out over the amount of yellow I was using. “This is NOT an industrial printer, you know,” he shouted.  After flinging the five printed pages at me, he then began to micro-manage my efforts in taping them together. “How many banners have you made in YOUR lifetime,” roared the Queen of All Banner-Makers.  My expertise in this area was eventually verified by an outside consultant when Sarah finally texted back:  “I’d estimate an average of 15-23 per year.”

I admit to faltering a bit, race day morning (see Midnight Antelope). Groceries were a tad scarce and we were out of bread so I was unable to produce Savannah’s requested race day toast.  I forgive me though because I made her first-day-of-college toast and that is way over-the-top super mom mothering. Never-mind...Savannah reminded me that I didn't make her first-day-of-college toast. It was, in fact, Saturday-for-no-reason toast. But that's still thoughtful, right? I offered to make her sliders instead but she grumpily said no.

Savannah’s friend and running partner, Brittany had ordered them cutely inappropriate shirts that asked, Why do you run? on the front and answered, I run to look good naked on the back.  I would have preferred to have Savannah run in a giant banana costume for easy spotting but appreciated her memorable attire.  After meeting Brittany and her family at the site, we began making our way towards the start line. I kept catching false-glimpses of my friend and marathon-maniac, Liz, believing everyone sporting a skirt was her. For her part, Liz automatically thinks anyone accompanied by a dachshund is me. We did, eventually, successfully find one another.

Banner printed from our "non-industrial" printer.

Our runners got off to a bit of a shaky start-off because Brittany’s mom and boyfriend were on one side of the road while Brad and Sydney had a spot further up on the opposite side of the road. Three minutes prior to the race, I sprinted up to the girls and re-established their initial route to a graceful drunken weave pattern to accommodate their personal paparazzi.  The next two hours were a nightmare of suffering.  Extreme weather conditions ranged from hot-hot to cold-cold. We were starving and on the verge of collapse due to dehydration. Sydney and I accidentally stood on a nest inhabited by African fire ants. What was taking the girls so long, we wondered? They are so selfish, making us wait like this.  Apparently they were busy lollygagging up a supposedly mile-and-a-half long hill. Puh-leeze.  They finally finished the race so we could go home.  Brittany’s boyfriend Brandon made her get him a bagel from the participant’s tent. I glared at Savannah as she guzzled her ice cold, refreshing water. She didn't even offer me a sip.

The mutinous shoe

I almost blew out my Lost-in-the-woods-on-the-day-my-husband-tried-to –kill-me knee (formerly known as Kickball knee) on the walk back to the vehicle. I thought that the cause must have been a dangerous divot in the ground but the true cause was revealed in Wegman’s as I selflessly scoured the bakery aisle for a post-race treat for Savannah. An irregularity in my pace alerted me to a problem and then a disturbing noise caused further investigation. Just as I about plummeted into the doughnut selections (involuntarily), I realized that my six-year-old sneaker was transforming into a flip-flop as the bottom tread declared mutiny and tried to jump ship. I tried to shift my limp to my other leg to compensate for my mutinous shoe but it’s not as easy as you would think.  I shuffled along like the Hunchback of Notre Dame while slinging my arm emphatically to the side like a gorilla.

I took a two hour nap as soon as I got home but, nonetheless, was exhausted for the remainder of the day.  A half marathon just strips all the energy right out of you. But even then, I still selflessly tried to support Savannah, who lay on the couch, incessantly moaning about a teeny-tiny blister.  Good gravy! I finally stopped watching tv long enough to grab a needle and go in there. (Warning: faint-of-heart…skip the next part). Next thing I knew, there was blister water erupting all over us. I couldn't hear over the screaming. “Mom, stop screaming and wipe my foot off,” Savannah directed selfishly, not even caring that her blister water was dripping all over me.  Preparing for, participating in, and recovering from a half marathon is physically and emotionally draining. It is such a selfless investment of time and energy and support but in the end, it's totally worth it.