What teachers do during break...are you game?

Game Night with teachers is always an interesting occasion. Game Night that includes three distinct generations of teachers is amusing. Game Night that combines three distinct generations of teachers and several bottles of "Kool-Aid" is hysterical. "I didn't know teachers drank "Kool-Aid," my recently-graduated daughter had whispered to me several years ago as she watched her former elementary teachers file in the door, double-fisting containers of "Kool-Aid." The veil had been lifted. "Only the good ones," I whispered back, before deftly tipping back a "Kool-Aid" bomber.

Were our Game Nights recorded and released to the public, there might be an immediate investigation to verify our certifications as educators. First, we busted out our bunions. Feet were freely disrobed and put on display for sympathetic inspection until a clear winner was determined. Points were awarded to a second big toe that was unable (or maybe just unwilling?) to bend and one braggart described a relative's toe that could rotate 360 degrees but this tall-toe-tale was given the boot.

Prior to actually beginning a game, a time-keeping device had to be chosen. This is, surprisingly, a rather lengthy process. A set of five or more small sand-glasses were lined up and two I-phones were brought out to time their accuracy. Personally, I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it myself. I switched to water after this little episode.

We decided on "Time's Up." This is a terrible game that limits your vocabulary and emphasizes the importance of memory and gestures. A teacher's nightmare. What youth lacked in classic movie entertainment and show tunes, they made up for in recall and rock.  The span of generations was irrelevant. We were all bad at this game. To survive, we resorted to occasionally questionable and controversial motions. I gave a memorable performance as I laboriously re-enacted mankind's glorious entrance into this world  to represent "Born Free." Good luck trying to get your team to guess "Man of La Mancha" without using words. The hand signals used for this one was enough to cause those of us with any decency left to blush. We learned that the tunes to "New York, New York" and "Life is a Cabaret" sound eerily similar when hummed. We moaned when we realized the extent that the arts (and geography apparently) are now being neglected when one of our own mistook "Washington Crossing the Delaware" for the state rather than the man. It is also important to actually know the term that you're communicating as my partner yelled out, It's a movie...about a girl in the hills...she spins..." "Sound of Music," I shouted confidently, confused when she glared at me. Turns out I missed the scene where Scarlett O'Hara dances in circles on top of a mountain in the Alps. It was my turn to glare when my partner couldn't understand when I kept prodding her with my finger. "Pokemon," I snarled. How could she NOT get that?

We learned a lot. A finger-mustache always made someone yell, "Hitler!", pointing to the color black was never helpful, and the gestures for "bird" and "Pac-Man" were interchangeable. It was a silly, fun-filled evening where a group of teachers could spend time together without exchanging educational jargon, offering behavior management tips, or commiserating about work-related issues. It was just a wonderful evening with friends. A passer-by, wandering past the house, would have never guessed that the occupants of the living-room, shrieking with laughter and gesturing madly, were teachers. Game Night is enough to curl your toes...if you could actually bend them, that is.

Sydney: A "Wonder"-ful Waitress

Working in the food service industry is no walk in the park. Having done brief stints at fast food restaurants along with a memorable experience doling out purple slushies across from "The Big Wheel" when I wasn't busy chucking chicken by "The Boomerang," I wasn't too altogether thrilled when Sydney's winter employment turned out to be waitressing. This is a girl who is confused by the complexities of a bread tie. Her secret recipe for making chocolate milk is equal parts chocolate syrup to milk. Her life motto is "My way or the microwave." On a plus note, no one is cuter in an apron than my kid. So off she went, to learn the trade that will keep her from the brink of poverty in between archaeological digs.

 After letting her settle in for a few weeks, Brad and I finally decided to go out for lunch at Sydney's place of employment. First of all, and with absolutely no prejudice on my part, Sydney looked adorable. My baseline of waitressing begins and ends with "Flo" from the 80's sitcom Alice so the first thing I noticed was that Sydney was going to have to start working on her one-liner wise-cracks. She'll also have to start chewing gum like a cow. I proudly watched as she seamlessly wove her way through tables to get to us. "Mom," she whispered urgently, apparently in the midst of a waitressing crisis. I made a discreet nod to my husband, acknowledging that, of course, Sydney would seek council from me with my vast food service background. "Yeah," Brad interjected, ".remember how you were reprimanded for filling up sundae container lids with hot fudge and dipped cookies in it in between customers?" I frowned, remembering how I lost my lucrative drive-in window position with the cool spy-wear head-set for that little exploit. Back to Syd. "Mom, do you have a hair-band?" I didn't even have to think about it. Sacrificially, I ripped my carefully-coiffed ponytail free to save Sydney from the brink of disaster. Smiling gratefully, she immediately turned and handed it to the woman at the table behind us who was horrified that her waitress had plucked a hair-band from a stranger to accommodate a customer request. "Oh no, it's okay," Sydney reassured her, "That's my mom." Now it was my turn to be horrified as the woman tried not to look disgusted as she plucked my hair strands from the tie.

Syd wrestling with the idea that the customer is always right.

I admired Syd's shorthand as she wrote down our order, noticing her little "w/" to indicate "with lemon." Peering over her shoulder, I wondered why she didn't abbreviate water as h2o. When the water arrived, I wondered why the straw was significantly shorter than the glass. When I almost flipped backwards from my stool about a thousand times, I wondered why there weren't the required-by-law four rubber stoppers protecting the bottom of each leg. As she flawlessly carried my dirty dishes away, I wondered why she couldn't apply that same technique to our household. I complimented her chic Vera Wang boots and then wondered why she wasn't wearing orthopedic shoes with proper arch support. Shuffling through his wallet, Brad weighed his options, wondering if he should tip her the pile of available ones or the fifty. Watching her parents leave the restaurant, Sydney smoothed out the crumpled ones and wondered why she hadn't bothered to invite them to work before.

Fa...a long, long way to walk through blinding snow to get to Durwin's house to lose at cards

My friend Kathy is the consummate hostess. Guests are always warmly welcomed to her Good Housekeeping home. Savannah and I made a friendly, unannounced visit tonight in response to her husband's recent Facebook invitation:

"Amy, stop in soon to see our tree," Durwin had written beguilingly.

"Durwin, I saw your tree. You posted a picture," I typed back.

"It's not the same as in person," he insisted.

So it was that we made the long trek from Joan's house, shielding our faces from the whipping wind, piles of snow barricading our forward movement as we finally approached her sister's home. "Durwin, I'm here," I called, interrupting his evening. He was right. The tree surpassed pictorial representation. It was breath-taking. We quickly settled in at the dining room table, exchanging cards and conversation. In less than five minutes time, Kathy had set up an impressive snack buffet. Christmas cookies, two varieties of fudge, cheese and crackers, pretzels and dip along with a vast assortment of beverage choices. When I wasn't busy singing a "Sound of Music" duet with Durwin, I was considering my own lackluster hostessing abilities. Should someone appear out-of-the-blue upon the Mosiman household, it would look very different. "Well hello," I would heartily exclaim, discreetly slamming doors shut to conceal the views to disheveled rooms. "Can I interest you in some stale generic saltine crackers? If you're in luck, I might be able to dig up some tasty saturated fat to spread on them."

Continuing the "Sound of Music" theme, Durwin and I transitioned to a friendly debate comparing the performances of Julie Andrews and Carrie Underwood. Savannah and I, riding a wave of naive confidence brought on by an extreme sugar-high, obnoxiously won the first two games. Well, one of us was obnoxious. Determined not to let that happen again and hurt that I asserted that Julie Andrews could spin circles around Miss Underwood, Durwin implemented a devious cheating scheme. Every time I even got close to winning, another cookie was offered or more cheese suddenly appeared on the platter. "Tell me more," Kathy would say, pretending to be interested as I mapped out my plan to use a pretzel stub to spread Dijon mustard on a cracker and then adding cheese for a deliciously delightful combination. "What's trump," I would ask to only have Durwin inquire about my snack-construction outcome. Fighting the sudden sugar slump, I focused intently on my cards. "Kath...bring Amy one of those chocolate Santas," Durwin offered selflessly (and unnecessarily, he and Joan were ahead six points). Furious, I tore Santa's fudge-y face off and lost the game. I left, bloated and betrayed. As I slogged through the snow, I reconsidered my lackluster hostessing abilities and felt a little bit better. Sure, Kathy could transform crockpot potatoes into heavenly carb clouds but is this a feature to be admired when she clearly uses her powers for evil? The decapitated Santa in my pocket wasn't the only victim of her plot to destroy the world. How do you solve a problem like Kathy?

Dr. Ang

So sad to hear of the passing of pediatrician, Dr. Anita Ang. This column ran in "The Warsaw Country Courier"upon her retirement in 2010 but still reflects my gratitude for her compassionate care of my children and her patience with me.

In this season of reflective thanksgiving, I am grateful for the many blessings of my life.  I have a husband who is admittedly annoyed with me less than 50% of the time, children who occasionally acknowledge my presence in public, and loving friends who actively seek my companionship because, when compared to me, they appear smarter, thinner, and prettier.  Upon the news that pediatrician, Dr. Anita Ang and her amazing administrative assistant, Nancy will soon be closing their practice doors on Main Street of Warsaw, I began to think about the gift of good health that is accompanied by a competent and caring physician.

                At this juncture, it is necessary to introduce Courier readers to my fictional third child, Susquehanna, in order to comply with strict HIPPO guidelines which prohibit the exploitation of my non-fictional children’s medical stories for entertainment purposes.  Susquehanna has been a mostly reluctant patient of Dr. Ang’s for her entire life.  I bear the burden of responsibility of her resistant attitude.  Learning from the past, I have adjusted my approach to medical treatment with our new little dog, Chloe.  I take her on friendly, treat-laden visits to the vet to balance the memories associated with the inevitable shots that accompany her well-baby appointments.  As a new mom, I didn’t consider this approach and then wondered why I had to stuff a screaming child through Dr. Ang’s door.  “Blow out the candle,” Dr. Ang would say soothingly, quickly administering the shot.  Tearing off her “I got a shot today” sticker, three-year-old Susquehanna said, betrayed, “There is no candle.” 

                Dr. Ang loves her patients (and their mothers) even when they are at their absolute worst.  Susquehanna associated Dr. Ang with chronic ear pain, vomiting, and chicken pox.  It was Dr. Ang who talked me through my hysteria when, as I washed little Susquehanna’s hair in the tub, I noticed a rice krispie attached to her scalp.  Finding food in the hair of most of the Mosiman family members is not necessarily an unusual situation, however, this food particle put up remarkable resistance as I attempted to pluck it out.  When the rice krispie dug in its feet (yes, feet), I sprang to my own and ran screaming to the phone.  Dr. Ang talked me through the extraction of a New York State-record-breaking woodchuck tick which was whisked away for immediate lab analysis while I was given months of psychiatric treatment. 

                The trauma doesn't stop there.  As Susquehanna blossomed into a thriving young woman, she experienced accompanying growing pains.  Convinced that my child had some sort of Asiatic cantankerous growth, I immediately took her to Dr. Ang who regarded me in utter disgust as she calmed my fears by explaining the maturation process of the eleven-year-old female.

                Big on homeopathic remedies, Dr. Ang sometimes combined conventional approaches to Susquehanna’s plaguing ear problems with sweet oil and ear candling.  After I almost set Susquehanna’s hair ablaze, Dr. Ang began legislative measures to force adults to pass a competency test to become parents.  Thank goodness I’ve been grandfathered through.

                Our family and community are going to desperately miss Dr. Ang and Nancy.  My daughters were always fascinated by Dr. Ang’s exotic (and comfy) footwear.  Nancy always took time to comfort and empathize over every ridiculous Mosiman medical mishap and malady.  Allergic to roofing (and manual labor, in general), Susquehanna and I blew up like oompa loompas this summer—begging relief at the toe-socked feet of our doctor.  Unable to look at our swelled-beyond-recognition faces, Nancy stifled her giggles and told me that she looked forward to one day reading about this incident in the Courier.  Well, here it is, Nancy.

                We appreciated everything Dr. Ang and Nancy did for our families over the years. Thank you for the positive impact you’ve had on your grateful patients.  Most of all, thank you for not using my real name in your medical journal exposé about unfit mothers and surreal medical abnormalities.  

Go with God, Dr. Ang. We'll miss you.

A Christmas Eve fashion trend: Merry Muffintop

Rarely, is it my intent to look like a doofus. Especially around the holidays. But really, what would you expect from a woman whose deepest desire was to receive dachshund socks for Christmas? I have to resign myself to my true nature. I am the girl who hot glues stickers to her sneakers. I'm the woman who wears a handmade wooden beaded necklace to a jewelry party. But still...

The Christmas Eve Candlelight Service is my yearly shot at glory (religious pun). This year, I was NOT going to screw this up. I bided my time, waiting for a glimpse of Brad Mosiman, who does Christmas right. Each year, Savannah and I respond to his attire with tired disappointment, "You're going to wear that?" We can't go to church sporting festive jeans with him in a dark suit and tie. Pretty sure that the shepherds didn't have time to stop by the local Men's Wearhouse before dropping in on the Holy Family. So this year, I took special note of Brad's sapphire dress shirt before sifting through my wardrobe for a complementary outfit. We were going to be the Brad and Angelina of Wyoming County. I unearthed a rich plum blouse and rubbed most of the wrinkles out of it. I added my sparkly dachshund necklace to add a discreet touch of class. Game on! Adequately attired, we headed out the door.

Upon entering the church, Savannah looked me over from head-to-toe approvingly...actually, her approval was suddenly cut short at the knees. "What'cha got going on down there," she inquired, with a discreet nod at my feet. I glanced down in horror to realize that I had neglected to change my socks, choosing instead, to stuff warm woolen hunting socks into my dress shoes resulting in some serious spill-over. Scandalous. To his credit, Brad didn't even flinch as he stood semi-proudly next to a wife with a massive muffin-top problem. I assume that he figured that the situation could have been much worse. Turns out, no one noticed my socks because the congregation was so caught up with The Mosiman Family wrestling match that occurred minutes later when I lost my candle. "Where is it," I whispered frantically, as the candle-lighting process began at the front of the sanctuary, freight-training its way back towards us. Distraught, I ducked down so I could soldier-crawl beneath the pews in desperate search of my lost light. Always the kill-joy, Brad would have none of that, holding me firmly in place with a tight grasp on my elbow. "Here, take mine," he hissed trying to thrust the candle into the hands that I held out of his reach behind my back. "No, I don't want it," I whispered unconvincingly as we played hot potato with an unlit candle. We had to pause to pretend to be a normal family when the flame arrived. We sang "Silent Night" knowing full-well that the ride home would be anything but silent. Brad and Angelina don't seem to have these sorts of problems.

Okay, this year was a bust (again). But I feel that I took a solid step in the right direction. Sure, that step was stuffed like a portabella mushroom into a teeny tiny shoe but nonetheless, I wasn't a complete embarrassment. So my goals for next year will to avoid being (unintentionally) bulgy and to avoid incidences of physical assault within the framework of the church. That seems reasonable.

Reconstruction: A major shift in blog format

I've finally free! Today I broke the bonds that tied me to my tyrannical older daughter. This day I was released from an oppressive straitjacket that limited my creativity and curtailed my ability to exercise my 1st Amendment right of exploiting my family for personal gain and my own sick amusement.  Today, my husband presented me with my very own blog machine. So here I am, friends, Amy unfettered! All of the restraint that I've exhibited up to this point (also known as censorship, by the way) can be viewed with sad admiration as I spread my writer's wings to soar uninhibited, over the canyon, breaking free of the valley floor. I'm no longer a low-rent writer, squatting on Savannah's computer. Let's take a brief pause for those of you who immaturely giggled over my use of the verb
"squat." First of all, grow up. This is now a blog on level with The New Yorker, jam-packed with literary nuggets. You're snickering about the word "nugget" now, aren't you?  To clarify my original statement, because now I feel like it's totally necessary for the betterment of mankind (and because I'm too lazy to go back and erase it), please take the time to enrich and expand your vocabulary by reading my researched definitions from The Google. Feel free to use your context clues to determine which definition best fits my sentence. Please try not to fixate on the word "buttocks" although if you hesitated over my insertion of "jam-packed" then there's no help for you. Oh no! "Insertion?" Really? C'mon! It's a brand new day! A brand new me! A brand new blog! Watch out world!

 squatting

1. 1.

   crouch or sit with one's knees bent and one's heels close to or touching one's buttocks or the back of one's thighs.

    
2. 2.

   unlawfully occupy an uninhabited building or settle on a piece of land.

    

The Great Underwear Fire of 'ought 8

This particular blog has been the source of great household discord as SOME members of the family claim that the embarrassment would be too great. Well...duh. Yeah. After administering a lengthy silent treatment and coordinating an indignant phone conference with a legal consultant, a compromise was eventually reached. The injured party, who, if she cleaned her room once in a while, wouldn't be in this situation, will, henceforth, in this blog submission, be referred to as "Anna Martin."

It wasn't my finest moment but, bear in mind, everyone has a breaking point. When faced with a depletion of household resources, I generally address the issue in the same manner. While in my 30s, I was a full-time student at SUNY Geneseo, working part-time, running a youth group program with my husband, and trying to keep my kids off the streets. We were faced with an alarming spoon shortage. Sure, the easy fix would be to do the dishes but it turns out that the easier fix was to just go out and buy more spoons.

Never in a million years did I anticipate that karma would boomerang back a decade later. Having shared a small bedroom their entire lives, Sydney and "Anna Martin," enjoyed a semi-harmonious existence. Keeping the room clean was a losing battle that was detrimental to our health and well-being (see blog submission: http://amyafterthefact.blogspot.com/2013/04/painful-prom-preparations.html for photographic evidence). Consequently, the room became a black hole for underwear and a catalyst for physical altercations and shocking verbal abuse...not all of it administered by me. A woman can only be pushed so far. I'd employed every strategy I could think of...yes, I bought more underwear. And then I went out and bought even MORE underwear. We could have covered the bottoms of entire third world countries. Then I insisted that the underwear be labeled. Sharpied marker initials emblazoned the back of each garment: SM and AM. My girls were the object of locker room ridicule for years but still the problem persisted.

And then one day, the fevered pitch of their squabbling caused me to temporarily go insane. I'm not proud of my actions but I was at my wit's end. I grabbed up armfuls of underwear and stormed out of the house. I was headed to the backyard when Sydney and "Anna Martin" suddenly realized that my fiery temper was out-of-control. They raced after me, following the trail of underpants that littered the lawn like a sick version of Hansel and Gretel's's breadcrumbs. But it was too late. The lighter fluid had been applied and the match flung. Manically, I danced around the flames shouting some insanity about "burned buns" while my daughters stared in sick wonder. We'd hit rock bottom.

We rose from the embers like smoldering Fruit-of-the-Loom Phoenixes. We shook the ash from our feathers, bigger and better women. I thought. Yesterday proved that you can take the underwear from the girl but you can't always make her cover her own "assets." Rather than hording treasure, Sydney and "Anna Martin" have taken to squirreling away underwear. Yesterday, screamed threats of death were dispensed as "Anna Martin" ordered Sydney to unearth some undergarments. Always happy to please, Sydney handed her sister the requested item. "These are Sam's," "Anna Martin" shouted. How did she know, I wondered, does Sydney's friend Sam label her underwear too? Sam's underwear was thrown at Sydney and the sounds of a ruckus echoed through the house. Ass-ault with a deadly weapon, I thought to myself, idly wondering where the matches were currently located. Brad was currently keeping them out of the reach of Amy Mosiman.

"Napalese" is NOT a naughty word

"You'll never guess what I did," I said excitedly while Geri dealt the next hand of cards for our customary Wednesday euchre match. When it became uncomfortably clear that no one cared what miraculous feat I had accomplished, my friend Rachel finally took some pity on me. "What did you do, Amy," she asked in the soft voice reserved for growling dogs and simpletons. "I went to the mall yesterday," I boasted, "and I got a discount!" There. Finally. The reaction that I expected. Stunned silence and stares. "Oooo...you got a discount at the mall," Geri gushed, "You really need to get out of the house more." I couldn't understand the sarcasm at first. "No, no no...not like a sale discount," I sought to clarify, "I bargained with a guy selling Nepalese knit-wear." I'd come a long way from kicking tires at a used car lot. My friend Deb used to haggle for chickens in Sierra Leone and apparently the secret to bargaining is being able to walk away without your feathered friend. Well, I didn't want to walk away without my chicken but I sauntered up to the kiosk with casual indifference.

              ("Which resembled chronic indigestion," Brad added.

              "Hey! I saved us money," I protested, "Why don't you try supporting me in this little                      story?"

              "Don't get me wrong," my husband reassured me, "I appreciate the three dollar savings                   but you just ended up spending it on a celebratory McDonald's double hot-fudge sundae                 less than an hour later."

              "Just let me tell the story, would ya?" I snapped.)

I fingered the Nepalese knit-wear indifferently, staring off into space as though my mind were filled with a thousand more important thoughts ("Like an impending gas bubble," Brad interjected.). The salesmen glanced up fearfully from his phone and contemplated getting up off his stool to approach me. Who was the predator and who was the prey? He stifled a yawn before asking, "Did you want one?" Not a fan of the hard-sell approach, I danced away skittishly to consult with my partner. "Get one if you want," Brad had shrugged before throwing me back into the ring. I smiled beguilingly at the salesman who was trying to act as though he was utterly bored ("Kind of like us," Geri observed, as my card-playing pals continued to be held captive by my amazing story.). "Do you offer a discount if someone buys more than one," I asked assertively ("What, exactly, is your definition of assertive," Brad commented.). "Yeah, sure, whatever," the guy shrugged, clearly beaten down in this battle of wits. I beamed ungraciously, clutching my bag filled with Nepalese knit-wear. "On this day, my friends," I proudly proclaimed, victoriously slamming down a black Jack on the card pile, "Amy Mosiman was NOT willing to walk away without her chicken!" "That's great, Amy," Rachel said in her soothing voice as she pulled the pile of cards in,

My niece, Alea, sporting her discount Nepalese knit-wear chicken!
 Bonus:  there was an interior pouch for her cellphone!

"What a nice story. But trump is diamonds."

The DeLong Family Christmas where we took a poll on who preferred room temperature cheese

It was THAT time of year again. The much anticipated DeLong Family Christmas. Famed in song and story with its revolving tree, couponed pizza and the festive hum of football on the television as we open our presents.

It was the usual cast of characters. My sister-in-law, Jen who is utterly obnoxious in her fabulousness. I spent an hour picking out a sweater to combat her and realized, when I received two compliments, that my family was patronizing me. Pretty, smart, and practical, she is a wonderful mother, single-handedly rips out walls and can build her own cupboards with her bare hands. My nieces, Alexis and Alea, long the recipients of horrendous gifts from their clueless Aunt Amy, have developed quite the acting ability. They opened up their hat-scarf-glove combos made in Nepal and reacted as though I had given them front row tickets to a hip, cool band that's so popular with the kids these days, like Boys 2 Men. Sure, it was a bit confusing that Alea's chicken hands were sporting paw prints but we assumed that they don't have chickens in Nepal and just did the best they could.

My gift to nephew, Talon, was, for once, kind of a winner. I have given that kid a record-breaking number of broken toys so I owed him big. Once we were able to wrestle the hover-craft away from my niece, Fallanne's, husband, Talon thoroughly enjoyed his gift. Actually, Colby (the man, not the cheese), was grounded from the hover-craft. "Talon, don't hit the ceiling with that toy," my brother yelled, unaware that his own son was the victim of a gift-jacking while his son-in-law was busy wrecking Grandma and Grandpa's house.

In a shameless attempt to drum up more followers, I led a lively self-promoting discussion about my blog. "You know what you need," my nephew Colby said as we played cards. "Yes," I answered, glaring at him, "I need you to remember what trump is." "You need an app," he persisted. "You need to learn to float so you won't drown when you go to Mexico next month," I responded, honing in on his Achilles heel. "How hard could it be," he mused, whipping out his fancy phone and did a search for how to make a app. "An app," I snapped before turning on my niece, "How hard is it to hit the follow button?"

The evening concluded with a wonderful group photo. As an elementary school teacher, I cannot NOT do a silly photo at the end. "Isn't that a double-negative?" Colby interjected, "You're going to correct my grammar while you go around using double-negatives?" Any-hoo...please take another gander at the family picture. My mom and dad clearly win first prize but this year's boobie prize goes to Sydney with her super-model pose.  We yelled at her for the entire drive home, leaving early so we could all get back in plenty of time to catch Justin Timberlake and Jimmy Fallon on SNL tonight. Cuz that's what Christmas is all about.

Getting a leg up on Christmas

Non-hunting enthusiasts may, at first, have difficulty relating to this topic when they discover that, instead of waving a wand to instill some magic into my children’s holiday, I once had my husband use a deer leg to stamp mysterious hoof prints into the snow. Understand, please, that I am one of you. I sob when that frail one-eyed kitten reaches through the bars on my television screen while Celine Dion sings a fresh wave of angst into my heart. Every year, for the past twenty-five years,  when my husband Brad “harvests” (When is the last time, by the way, that Disney produced an animated film about an orphaned string bean left to fend for himself in the rugged outdoors after his mother is gunned down by ruthless hunters? “Run Canned-Beans! Run!”) a deer, I dutifully document the occasion, instilling my own brand of justice by routinely decapitating Brad’s head (and sadly and somewhat ironically, the deer’s) because my eyes are shut. I am incapable of facing fresh meat.  It must be packaged, frozen and then thawed before I will even consider cooking it. That being said, however, I will turn hypocrite in the wink of an eye and a nod of a head when cynical school children and a diabolical home-schooler, bent on crushing the hopes and dreams of my daughters, decide to instill their wild-west brand of belief (or, in this case, non-belief) systems upon my girls. 

Everyone must eventually face doubt; in fact, this refining process often serves to strengthen our faith. However, I would not abide the idea of some mean-spirited mini monsters stripping my children of the fun associated with our family traditions. How to confront this problem? Lengthy explanations would not help. This called for some serious action. Naturally, I grabbed the glitter.  After adding some sparkle to the snow, I stole some carrots from our guinea pigs and threw them outside as well (The carrots, not the guinea pigs…remember, I heart animals.).  It was a lackluster display that even a preschooler could see through. I needed more…but what?  And then in a twinkling, what did I hear but Brad in the basement butchering his deer. More rapid than eagles, down cellar steps I sped, calling out to my husband to “Quick, grab a leg!” Without even questioning me, which should tell you something about Brad, he carefully stamped dainty hoof prints across our lawn, pausing beside the nibbled carrot stumps before suddenly and magically disappearing.  The next morning was met with clapped hands, gasps of surprise and delight, and a renewed sense of wonder. Despite the cruel world’s best efforts, we had managed to delay reality a bit by welcoming flying reindeer for a while.

Boldly go...please

It's been a week of bold statements. Brad and I were discussing art the other evening (He got tired of hearing about last night's re-run episode of "The Kardashians"). It was the age-old question: Why are reproduced prints of paintings so expensive? Isn't a print just a fancy-shmancy poster?  I was growing tired of this conversation as Brad mentioned his mother's Thomas Kinkade collection. I paused in the middle of a crowded mall parking lot and screamed at the top of my lungs, "Thomas Kinkade is the Nicholas Sparks of the art world!" Brad felt that my philosophic observation brought this particular conversation topic to a close.

It was Brad's turn for a bold statement. Entire sonnets could be composed on his chosen topic: Chlo, the cutest little dog on the planet. "Come look at Chlo," Brad called yesterday morning. Naturally, the entire family scrambled to rank the adorability scale of our little dachshund. Brad beamed as she sat on the floor beside her empty foot bowl. "See," he exclaimed, "it looks like Chlo fell out of the cute tree and hit every branch on the way down." He was right. She did look pretty cute.

The next bold statement caused quite a ruckus. Having slept with my hair braided back, I awoke with the wild tresses attributed to beach models. Pleased, I trekked off to school accompanied, as usual, by Sydney. A small band of 4th graders greeted us at the classroom door. I have a strict policy of NEVER altering my physical appearance during the school year as my self-esteem cannot handle the "out of the mouths of babes" utterances. Today could have served as the poster child for that habit. One of my little darlings, lacking a censor button, tipped her head up at me sympathetically to say, "Oh, Mrs. Mosiman...bad hair day?" I gently chided her rudeness while I wrestled with my key. Sydney, however, stared at my 4th grader in angry horror. I hustled us in the room and then realized that a bigger problem was approaching. The new arrival had committed my entire wardrobe to memory (Don't be too impressed, that actually didn't take a great deal of effort.) "Mrs. Mosiman!" she squealed last week, "You wore that sweater at Open House in October!" "Yes, thank you, darling," I responded grimly. With my wild, windblown hair, I knew that today, I was going to be in trouble. But with Syd on the defensive edge, I worried that my 4th grader would be in MORE trouble. Here it comes...I took a breath. "Mrs. Mosiman, your hair is so big today." I glanced at my squinting senior, who was gritting her teeth. The reference to the Big Bad Wolf was not lost on me as Sydney began to huff and puff. I escorted Sydney to the door, the better for her NOT to hear the next five commentaries regarding her mother's hair. I grabbed an elastic band for a quick ponytail so as not to distract from the rest of the day's studies; having again learned another valuable lesson. Don't ever get between a daughter and her mother's hair.

It takes more than a few flakes to make a snowman

My transition from middle school to elementary school teacher has been a little rough.  Elementary school teachers intimidate the living daylights out of me.  The rigor and challenges presented by Common Core do not faze elementary teachers. During the last Superintendent’s Day, I observed my colleagues diligently developing Core lesson plans and then, as soon as the work day was over, begin transforming their classrooms into holiday wonderlands. I stomped up and down the hallways, disgusted. Twinkly trees triggered my temper. Who were these happy people? What inspired them? I rechecked my contract to see if I was legally obligated to decorate my elementary classroom.

Later, my husband stared at me in some disgust as I described my dilemma to him. Fortunately, I was used to that expression. “When did you become the Grinch,” he asked. “You teach little kids,” he said, stating the obvious, “get on board the happy train.” Tormented by trees tagged with an expiration date of less than three weeks, I finally stumbled on a solution: an indoor snowman.  Brad moaned.

With some helpful internet instructions clutched in my hands, I was headed into the store when I bumped into my friend, Letchworth copy-ologist, Pam Gabauer. I excitedly showed Pam and her sister my plans to construct a snowman out of boxes. They stared at me in disgust. Fortunately, I was used to that expression. They immediately revised my plans, promising to provide me with appropriately-sized exercise balls before sending me into the store for the rest of my supplies.

The phone rang as I wandered hopelessly around the craft section. “Amy, are you at the batting yet?” I explained to Pam that I was in the craft section, not the sports section. After a long pause, Pam patiently defined “batting” as quilting fluff, aka indoor snowman-making stuff. Oh. She ground-guided me to the batting display and soon enough, I was victoriously headed out the automated double-doors.

The next day, while I was wrestling a Pepsi from the vending machine, Pam was busy wrestling three exercise balls out of her car and into the school. While I was trying to talk eight-year-olds into doing their math, Pam was trying to talk physical education teacher, Tim Eustace into inflating our snowman. While I was directing students to construct life cycle wheels, Pam was asking the director of maintenance and custodial services, Rocky Roberts, into constructing a wooden frame to support our frozen friend. While I was considering the legality of taping some mouths shut, Pam was getting Joe Sherman, also a part of the maintenance and custodial staff, to securely tape the snowman in place.

Pam arrived after school to watch me put the batting on. She complimented my effort and then removed it all so that she could put it on right. Turns out my strong suit was hot-gluing on the button eyes (Everyone has a gift).  A perfectionist, Pam kept breaking into my classroom to add finishing touches including “snow” around the base of our smirking snowman.

It was all worth it the next day when my students walked in to a magical holiday wonderland. Worth the headache. The lack of sleep. Worth the combined effort of the behind-the-scenes elves who selflessly work to bring happiness to children (or because they are afraid of Pam Gabauer).  It was worth everything just to see their little faces when they saw their snowman. Worth it when one cherub looked at me in disgust to say, “Why doesn’t it have any arms?” Fortunately, I was used to that expression.

published in "The Warsaw Country Courier," December 12, 2013

http://www.mywnynews.com/arcade_warsaw/

Snow Fight, Part 2

After another foot of snow had fallen, Brad braved the outdoors once again. Knowing that I was busy watching television, he quietly motioned for Savannah to move the vehicles out of his way. While I was rummaging through the refrigerator and briefly considering eating leftover frosting from the container, Savannah came storming in, "Mom, the car's stuck. Dad said we need you." My heart swelled with joy and I strode purposefully for my coat (after grabbing a quick spoonful of chocolate frosting) and headed out to address this critical problem. Naturally, I was assigned the driver's seat position. Brad was exhibiting his customary calm demeanor when faced with an immobile vehicle buried in the snow with its posterior end jutting out dangerously into the road aided by two enthusiastically helpful family members who can read and anticipate his every thought. The remaining family member, the smartest of us all, hid in the house until it was all over.

Brad had spent the bulk of his profanity allowance on Savannah before my arrival so I didn't get too caught up in his sense of urgency and impending doom. With Brad and Savannah doing the light work, I shifted into first gear and eased the Hyundai forward, gently touching the brakes while my husband and daughter scrambled to the front of the car, positioning their shoulders against the hood to prepare for my smooth reversal. "Show some finesse, would ya?" my husband yelled rudely as the snow refused to relinquish its hold on the little car. Indignant, I moved the car forward again, braking just short of a massive wall of ice. "What are you doing," Brad hollered without the proper level of appreciation regarding my sweet driving skills. "I'm finessing," I screamed. Savannah stopped briefly at my window on her way back to the front of the car to hiss, "You are NOT helping."

After extensive labor on my part (as usual), the car was successfully expelled from its snowy womb. And, as usual, the father was there on the sidelines, practically useless, yelling "Go...go...go! Don't stop now!" What would that man do without me?

Snow Fight, Part 1

During commercials, I peered out the dark window to sympathetically watch my husband battle several feet of snow out of our driveway. "Poor dear," I murmured before turning my attention back to a classic re-run adventure of "How I Met Your Mother" and contemplated getting a snack. A little while later, Brad, bedecked in snow, rudely tromped into the living room, insensitively interrupting the pivotal final moments of my show. "Could you move the vehicles so I can clear the snow out of that area," he asked. I sighed...what else would be demanded of me on this cold winter's night?

After we were bundled up, Savannah handed me the keys to the van. I scooped up little Chlo and fearlessly headed into the darkness. With adept skill, we rotated the first round of vehicles to then move onto the next set. I reached into my pocket for the van keys to encounter instead a space filled with crumpled tissues, candy wrappers and sticky coins. I froze in terror, realizing immediately that the keys had slipped from my pocket and were now, at this very moment, out there, buried in the snow. More pragmatic, Savannah backtracked, starting at the house, searching the truck's interior before joining my already frenzied search. Unable to ignore the magical glow of flashlights, Brad soon became caught up in the activity. We re-traced my footsteps, easy to distinguish as I tend to walk like a duck. Like desperate gold miners, we sifted snow in our shovels for hours. Tears froze to my face as I realized that the probability for success diminished exponentially for each of the tens times that the county snow plow lumbered by our house.

Brad finally forced his frozen family into the house, silently blaming himself for stupidly asking his wife to complete what appeared to be a relatively simple task. Once my fingers had unthawed, I quickly researched the process of replacing the key. With an additional chill in my heart, I gasped at the estimated cost of between $150 to $300. Tucked beneath my electric blanket, I stared sadly out the darkened window as my husband finished clearing the driveway, his head swinging from side-to-side as he continued to scan hopefully for a glimpse of his lost keys. I tore my eyes away from this dismal sight and refocused my attention on the television. Lucky for me, it was a "How I Met Your Mother" marathon. Brad came in about a half hour later. "Can you bring me in a snack while you're out there," I shouted. Turns out "snow" isn't the only four-letter word that my husband knows how to throw around.

A cheesy apology

Our trip to Paris still months away, Sydney expressed a moment of concern this evening as we bustled about the kitchen. "Mom, I don't know how to say I'm sorry in French." Pushing away my impulse to ask my daughter why she thought we'd be apologizing our way across Europe (because we probably would be), I instead wrinkled my brow in concentration as I quickly scanned my memory files, sifting through color and animal names, in search of the right word. "Fromage!" I yelled, "Tres fromage!" Sydney frowned. "That doesn't seem quite right," she said, reaching for the Kindle. She immediately began giggling about my "very cheesy" apology. I wasn't too far off, by the way, as I was probably thinking about the phase, "C'est dommage," which isn't exactly an apology but is closer than liberally sprinkling Parmesan into a social wound. I feel sorry for Paris already and the Mosiman women aren't even there yet. So...before I pack a single unfashionable garment into my suitcase...before I disrupt an entire planeload of people while I endure a painful case of "crawly toe"...before I offend the European continent as a whole by referring to their magnificent museum as the Loover...let me just say this:  Je suis désolée.

A public service announcement on how to avoid "Monkey Arm"

So, there I was, happily watching the latest theatrical installment of "The Hunger Games" series, blissfully unaware that my life was about to be forever altered.  I was staring unblinkingly at the big screen, my mouth filled with super-extra buttered buttery popcorn, on the edge of my seat as driver's side mirror character Peeta is about to be dog-piled by a band of vicious monkeys. I've read Catching Fire. Multiple times, in fact. I know about the monkeys. There are no surprises here yet I was still startled when, teeth bared, the baboon burst into view. I jerked back, popcorn flying everywhere while the monkey and I howled in unison. Later, when the pain subsided and the movie was over, I was able to piece together what had happened. Obviously, the rapid withdrawal of my arm from the popcorn box, accelerated by the slick sheen of lubrication resulting from the massive layers of artificial butter, triggered by the sudden and terrifying presence of a mad monkey caused the brachial plexus to fail to "flexus" properly. This condition, now known as "Monkey Arm," has greatly reduced my ability to make wide-sweeping grand gestures. Three minutes of extensive internet research has revealed that my upper arm pain may be indicative of more serious problems such as gall bladder issues, acid reflux or the diabetes. To address the situation, I am avoiding smoking, getting plenty of rest and encouraging Brad to massage my arm hourly. To avoid this situation in the future (preventative maintenance), I am considering altering my popcorn order from super-extra buttered buttery popcorn to just extra buttered buttery popcorn. It's a sacrifice, true, but this is about my health.

My tantrum over turkey hash

As always, it was my husband's fault. There we were, having fought our packed cart to the final aisle in the busy grocery store when Brad sighed resignedly and said, "Might as well get some eggs to make some turkey hash. I don't think we're going to have a chance to put together turkey soup." Thoughtless monster. There ensued a ridiculous wrestling match where Brad dragged me and our equally-resistent cart over to the dairy section. I pleaded for him not to do this terrible thing but his heart was hardened and he carefully balanced the eggs near the top of our heaping cart. Naturally, I dissolved into tears right there in the middle of frozen foods. Fearing that the tears would affix to my face, Brad hurried me out of the store and into our van. Worried, confused (and publicly humiliated), my husband asked me what was wrong. Jerk. Couldn't he tell what was wrong? Apparently NOT.

So in between gulping sobs and unattractive hiccuping, I pointed out how I was trying to be everything to everybody and failing miserably in the process. I cried harder when he didn't disagree; instead deciding to take the route that it was an impossible-to-achieve aspiration.  After a year of being served breakfast cereal for supper, Brad is thrilled about Thanksgiving. And the thought of Thanksgiving leftovers makes him positively giddy. All he could talk about was turkey potpie and turkey with wild rice soup. "You didn't even like the potpie I made," I howled in the van. "Well..." he paused, trying not to look disgusted as I used my mitten as a tissue. "Savannah didn't talk to me for days because I put cheese in the mashed potatoes," I wailed, searching for the other mitten while Brad discreetly stuffed his own gloves deep into his pocket. "You can't please everyone," he said consolingly. "That's my point," I screamed.

We drove in silence for a bit (if you don't count that awful "augh-augh-augh" sound that I kept making). I didn't want to hear about how fortunate I was and how there are countless others out there struggling much much more than me. I was ashamed because I know how blessed I am but all I wanted at that moment was for someone to validate my feelings. Brad pulled into a gas station and I watched him walk into the building.  Brad Mosiman, whose only crime was giving up his hope of turkey soup and was then willing to make his own turkey hash, emerged moments later with a 20 ounce Pepsi. Without a word, he handed it to me and we silently continued our journey together (if you don't count the blissful "gulp, gulp gulp" sound that I was making).