It's raining raspberry wings

So, Amy, you ask, what brings you to the point where you would be willing, some would say, even eager, to consume raspberry-flavored chicken wings that had fallen in the snow, which were fought viciously over by a pack of wild dogs and then thrown into the house, piece-by-piece, in a desperate but valiant rescue attempt by a handicapped girl laying prone upon the ice? But, as usual, I'm getting ahead of myself.

Daughter, Sydney responded to the announcement that all after-school activities were cancelled due to inclement weather with her usual resiliency by declaring that she will drive fifty miles with a broken ankle to get her hair cut. Of course...that makes perfect sense. When I realized that common sense was futile, I shifted over to plan B (otherwise known as the "If you can't beat 'em, then at least benefit from it" plan) by reminding Syd that the beauty salon is conveniently located next to my favorite wings place.

Eight inches of blonde hair later, Sydney was bravely hobbling on her crutches in near-white-out conditions to buy her mommy a yummy. She carefully navigated her way home, parking in front of the house before preparing to make her way across the icy driveway, shrouded in darkness when disaster struck.

According to eye witness accounts and Sydney's own blubbering blatherings, it seemed to happen in a flash. Thrilled to welcome Sydney home, the dogs charged forward with their usual fervor. Their level of enthusiasm ramped considerably when they realized that, if wasn't just Sydney...it was Sydney with raspberry wings! Apparently there was a hail storm of chicken parts that hit the pavement and Sydney, determined to rescue my wings, threw herself bodily on the tiny grenades, soldier-crawling into the house across a minefield of meat. Vowing to leave "no chicken wing behind," Sydney returned, again and again to the massacre site, salvaging what she could until it was all over.

The post-traumatic stress of the great chicken wing ruckus of 2014 was too much for my daughter. She dissolved into an impressive bout of weeping that would not abate for well over thirty minutes. While attending to her little sister, Savannah was almost too late to address the second assault as the dachshund summited the hill, getting up on the dining room table to reach the wings and discovering a half-eaten Denny's design-your-own-burger wrapped up in Sydney's backpack. Chlo was really racking up the war trophies.

Meanwhile, I'd finally arrived home from work and was, naturally, devastated by the news. After comforting Sydney ("You're eighteen, for pete's sake, get over it. Worse things are going to happen to you,"), I rushed to inspect the survivors. My criteria for consumability turns out to be VERY different from Savannah's but I still managed to argue 10 out of the 12 wings onto my plate. I know what you're thinking, out there in blog-land, I know you think you have a bone to pick with me, but anyone who has ever indulged in the 5-second rule doesn't have a leg to stand on. Yeah, I'm going to be spitting up a hair-ball filled with dog fur tomorrow but it was totally worth it. All'swell that ends well...I got my wings, Syd's hair looks terrific, and the dogs had a blast channeling their inner-wolf instincts.

Post-operative pain, Part 2

At the beginning of each school year, one of my first instructions to students is to make sure that, when they need something or have to ask me a question, I am making direct eye contact because I am probably not really listening to them. Turns out, even if I am gazing deep into your eyes, I am still probably not listening. It's not from lack of trying. I believe I may actually have a diagnosis-able condition. My Achilles' Heel is when I am confronted with an accent.

Setting: A McDonald's, located somewhere between here and Iowa, where, after hours of begging, Brad Mosiman's starved family finally convinced the man to pull over.

Characters: The star of the show (me...did you really need clarification?), Savannah, Sydney (in the restroom), Brad (refusing to leave the van and impatiently timing us) with a special guest appearance by a good-naturedly patient food service employee with a Spanish accent and a lisp. "She didn't have a lisp, Mom," Savannah protested but really, who are you going to believe? Does Savannah have a blog? No-oo-oo. Does Savannah share with you the inner most workings of her heart? No-oo-oo.

The scene opens with a disheveled yet still-beautiful Amy Mosiman squinting wearily at the over-head menu as though she had never seen it a million times before. She gracefully approaches the counter, her elegant movements belying the hours she has spent, cramped up in vehicle. She smiles at the food service worker and places her order: "I would like a hot chocolate, please." Rather than tapping the picture of a cup of hot cocoa posted on her register, the woman inexplicably feels compelled to respond to Amy's simple and humble request with a barrage of complicated questions, posed in her native language. Confused, our heroine  (that's me by the way; not the food service worker whose only goals were to a) deny me my hot chocolate in order to b) destroy me) repeated her order in a slightly louder decibel. This painful process continued until Savannah leaned over the counter and said something softly to the !@#%^ denying me my inalienable right as a loyal fast food customer to order and receive a hot cocoa.

Still shaking from my fast food altercation, I was led back to the van with hot cocoa happily in hand. "What on earth could have taken you 8 minutes and 42 seconds to accomplish in there," my husband asked, barely waiting for the van doors to slide shut before careening back onto the not-so-free-way. I regaled him with how Savannah had stepped forward and threatened the food service worker who was refusing to fill my simple and respectfully-submitted request. "What did you say to her," Brad asked, glancing at his daughter in the rear view mirror as he simultaneously crossed six lanes of bumper-to-bumper traffic at 72 mph while consuming his double cheeseburger without onions. "I said, 'Whole milk.'" Savannah answered. "What!?!" I screeched, "Was she lactose-intolerant? How did you know that these were the magic words to end that heinous encounter?" "She kept asking you if you wanted 2% or whole milk in your hot chocolate," Savannah explained. "Well...I can't speak Spanish" I protested. "She was saying it in English, Mom," Savannah said gently. "Well, she had a lisp," I argued. "No, she didn't. How's your hot chocolate?" Diverted, I returned to my drink. "Oh, it tastes good," I said, before drifting off to sleep.

According to my husband, who has learned over the years to just sit by and enjoy the show, this encounter was eerily similar to my pre-surgery screening where I misunderstood every single blessed question and ended up launching into an anecdotal episode that occurred over twenty years ago when I ingested ibuprofen or aspirin or Junior Mints and my right eyelid inexplicably blew up like a Macy's Day balloon float. The nurse dutifully chronicled my entire ordeal (I'm considering asking her to be my biographer) before scurrying off. I turned to my husband to humbly brag about how well I was handling this somewhat stressful situation and frowned when I noticed him smirking. "What?" I asked, irritated. "All she asked was HOW LONG AGO you had taken any medication," he snickered. "Instead, you took 8 minutes and 42 seconds telling her about what may or may not have been an allergic relation to Junior Mints that occurred two decades ago." I turned my back on my insensitive husband, "I think she had a lisp," I complained.

Post-operative pain, Part 1

Not wanting to worry you (I know how you are), I decided not to broadcast the news of my "weight-loss/reconstructive" surgery ahead of time. But here I am, bravely convalescing despite the dire comments and actions of my loved ones.

Geri, glancing speculatively around my classroom:  "If you don't make it, can I have your garden duck statues?

Brad grabbing the "Do not resuscitate" paperwork WAY too eagerly.

Looking back, I may have been a tad too enthusiastic when my doctor initially proposed a procedure. "Great!" I said, "let's bundle this deal!" Either my doctor doesn't watch a lot of commercials or she doesn't have a sense of humor (or she realized that what I was suggesting would, like, quadruplicate my pain level and, in that case, shouldn't she have said something...sadist) but since she was going to be rooting around in my body cavity anyway, she might as well take a few side trip excursions.

Brad was slightly annoyed about my lack of clarifying questions. The hospital helpfully called with a time of 8:15 am which I dutifully reported to my husband. "Is that our arrival time or the time of the surgery," he asked while I stared at him, dumbfounded. As it was an out-patient procedure, I was counting on going back to work the next day. Heck, maybe Brad could drop me off at the school that very afternoon! I stared at my doctor in horror (as I watched her wrestle with the copier...this was the woman who was going to cut me open in a half hour?) when she casually stated that I wouldn't be returning to work for two weeks. What?!? More medical professionals joined her at the malfunctioning copy machine for a consult. "Did you push the green button," one asked, pushing the green button. "We could just re-boot it," another offered helpfully. Another one slammed her palm against the side of the machine and I began looking for an exit as I imagined a similar conversation as I lay helplessly on the operating table.

Cliff-hanger:  Stay tuned to find out if I managed to break out of the hospital or if they were ever able to get that copier to work.

Mr. Owl...how many Tootsie-Rolls can you take from Mrs. Mosiman's candy jar before she hunts you down like a dog?

I keep an old-fashioned glass candy jar, currently filled with Tootsie-Roll midgees, on my desk. Former students frequently visit "me" after school recognizing the long-standing unwritten rule of "one per customer." Occasionally, this privilege is abused which has, in the past, resulted in the disappearance of the candy jar for a period of time, marked with the wearing of black arm bands, bowed heads, and great anguish.  Yesterday, one of my 8th grade boys waltzed in to my classroom and then waltzed out with a giant handful of Tootsie-Rolls, horrifying my 4th graders who reacted as though they were witnessing grand larceny (and, to be perfectly fair, perspective-wise...it WAS grand larceny!). As I was instructing a small group about the magic that is long division, I wasn't able to address the problem immediately but first thing this morning, I hunted that 8th grader down. Naturally, he denied my furious accusation that he had taken too many Tootsies. As he was a graduate of the Amy Mosiman School of Accountability, I launched into a full-sized Tootsie-Roll tirade. I concluded with a life-altering choice: "Apologize: Say 'Sorry Mrs. Mosiman...it'll never happen again' OR never darken my doorstep again!"  Relationship restored and rule re-enforced, I returned to my classroom.

That evening, as I shared my day with my family, I couldn't understand their confused expressions. "You made that big a deal over a couple of Tootsie-Rolls," my husband asked. I stared at him incredulously. That kid stole from me...that kid stole from our family. Savannah shook her head in amazement, concerned more about my 4th grade "informants." "So are you telling me," I mused slowly, "that if my 4th graders witnessed a bank robbery, they shouldn't provide the police with a detailed description of the perpetrator?" "Mom, they're Tootsie-Rolls," Savannah said, as though to an idiot. Who were these people?!? Tootsie-Rolls or rolls of cash...it doesn't matter. I provide a caring environment of honesty and trust which was violated ("Did you really just use the word violated," my husband asked in disgust.). Harmony had to be restored or, since we're talking about Tootsie-Rolls, wrapped up.

My philosophy regarding Tuesdays

I have developed a philosophy regarding the days of the week. Friday's Friday; needing no explanation. Thursday is Friday's best friend. Hump day gives everyone hope. Surprisingly, I don't dread Mondays as I kind of look forward to a fresh start. But Tuesdays? Let's look at today for further evidence regarding my philosophy about Tuesdays.

The morning began, interestingly enough, with a scream and then an awkward shuffling preceding the sound of water running. "I just stepped in dog vomit," Savannah whined, scrubbing her foot while I mentally time-lined the doggie digestive problem back to its auspicious beginning to when I discovered my shredded slipper (with genuine imitation lamb's wool lining) strewn all over my bed last night. I sighed, pushing back the covers: Tuesday had arrived in its customary fashion.

While Savannah took the dogs out for their morning constitution, I gathered up my puke-picking up supplies and encountered, not one sedentary pile but, a trail of slipper-filled slobber that had wound its way across my dining room. A silver-lining type of gal, I still managed to see the good in this situation; grinning as I spotted Savannah's bare-foot print clearly visible in one impressive puddle and then another skid mark indicating that she'd slid through another one on her desperate race through the darkened room to disinfect her foot.

Having survived the morning, Savannah departed for work while Syd and I jumped in the truck. "Do I look cute," Sydney had asked her father, looking for reassurance but never really wanting to know the full truth. Knowing this, Brad ignored the giant lump of hair protruding out of the top of her beautiful braid. Contorting her body so that she could catch a glimpse of herself in the tiny sun-visor of the truck, Sydney gasped as she recognized her resemblance to a unicorn and hurried to un-do the damage. By this time, I was in full-fledged hysteria as I realized that the irony of this entire Tuesday morning was blasting out of the radio:  American Authors singing "This is gonna be the best day of my life." Ah Tuesday...thou art Monday's bitch.

6 minutes of "exercise"- Is that what they're calling it these days?

In his 80s, my dad is one of the smartest men I know but, fortunately for me, his strong stubborn streak refuses to bow to the conventions of modern technology in the form of wireless devices. Which means...my dad has no idea what the heck I'm writing in "my blog machine." My niece casually informed my mom about my extracurricular activities which later resulted in a very confusing conversation when my mother congratulated me on taking up "clogging." So it was today that, while sitting at their kitchen table, I couldn't wait to go home and document our conversation for posterity.

Having once endured an ankle injury similar to Sydney's, my dad was offering her some advice which she would be wise to consider given how healthy my parents are. "Why, your grandmother and I begin each day with six minutes of exercise before we even get out of bed in the morning," my dad boasted. Sydney, to her credit, barely flinched, keeping a straight face although her eyes did flick over to me for the briefest of seconds, fearing the worse. I wrestled with this picture painted by my father for a moment before jumping in. "Six minutes, huh," I remarked speculatively, "I'm impressed. We're still working on building up our time." My dad nodded encouragingly, "It doesn't happen over-night. You'll get there." Sydney sat next to me, mortified.

Things went from bad-to-worse (For Sydney. I was having a delightful time.). My parents host a variety of birds in their backyard feeders so we were regaled with the exploits of their latest visitor: a woodpecker with a red head getting fatter and fatter by the day. For some reason, today, neither of my parents felt like enunciating their final consonants which really wasn't noticeable until they started discussing how the squirrels like to steal their peanuts. Our five minute conversation about how the squirrels really like their peanuts tortured Sydney and had us both erupting into small bouts of giggles that we attempted to camouflage as coughing. We also talked about world events, advances in medicine (My dad says that they're pulling gall bladders out through patients's mouths now...wow!) and taxes but those topics didn't seem particularly blog-worthy so instead, you get to hear about the genitalia of squirrels. I have to go now or I'll be late for my clogging lessons.

Birthday cupcakes: Why I became a teacher

Jonelle's Gourmet Birthday Cupcakes for Mrs. Mosiman

It has been said that some go into the teaching profession for the summers off. Others claim that they want to make a positive impact on the world through the educational enlightenment of children. Well...I won't be shy about it. I became a teacher for the inexhaustible supply of snacks.



My friend and fellow teacher, Nancy, impressed me most with two aspects of teaching that I will never forget. One:  I watched this 30-year veteran teacher put everything into observation lessons. On a daily basis, Nancy would develop creative ways to reach kids in order to sink sometimes baffling mathematical concepts into their heads but, for observation lessons, she would pull out all the stops. That a teacher with that much seniority, draped in the practically-impenetrable cloak of invisibility that is the New York tenure system, still cared so much what an observer to her classroom thought about her lesson was very impactful for me as I began my own journey as an educator.  Because of Nancy, I never phone in a lesson.

Two: Nancy shared her belief that it was important for teachers to share their birthdays with children as it gives students, who occasionally tend to be a bit myopic, a chance to focus on someone other than themselves. That made sense to me so, every year, as we become acquainted with our agendas during the first week, we turn to January 30th and write:  Mrs. Mosiman's birthday. They know how old I am and have been trained to look shocked each time it's mentioned. "Really?!?" someone will gasp, "You look SO much younger!" They have 20 weeks to learn my simple interests and on my birthday, the gifts and homemade cards come pouring in. I pulled a 20 ounce Pepsi from a colorful gift bag and squealed, "It's the perfect size!" A student walked in with a large container of cookies and I frowned at him. "Nik," I admitted, "You know I love cookies but, honey, I'm not sure I can eat that many." Glancing around to make sure no one was near by, he gently corrected me, "Uh, Mrs. Mosiman? I think my mom sent these for you to share with the class too." Oh-hh!

This year, the count-down was for reading class because it was rumored that my student, Jonelle, had brought in birthday cupcakes. Now, I was already FULLY aware of the wonder that is a cupcake created by Jonelle and her family as I had the privilege of spending last summer with Jonelle and her sister at school. They had shared a cupcake with me that defied description...kind of like a banana split sundae with a kick. Too pretty to eat (I managed), these cupcakes should have been featured on the cover of Bon Appetit magazine. To think that a cupcake such as this had been designed with my birthday in mind was exhilarating. Did you look at the picture? Don't look at it...it doesn't do it justice. Moist chocolate cake with creamy mint frosting topped with a jumbo marshmallow cookie dipped in chocolate with an artistic smattering of sprinkles. Mere words do not suffice the poetry of this wondrous cupcake. What my friend Nancy knew (but didn't tell me because she knew that I would eventually experience it for myself) was how humbling and gratifying it is to be the object of celebration as delivered by the honest and unbridled enthusiasm of children. I may have gotten into the profession of teaching for the snacks...but I'm staying for the kids. They're incredible.

Fine dining in a small town

As part of the week-long celebration of my forty-fourth birthday, a group of us decided to treat ourselves to lunch at the culinary jewel of Wyoming County, The Valley Inn. Three of the four members of my grade level team sport birthdays within a week of one another so they insisted on horning in on my good time. I was in the midst of inviting my middle school friends, who had stopped by my classroom on my birthday birthday, to The Valley Inn event only to be accused by my fellow Aquarian Geri that I was narcissistically hogging all the attention. "As much as Amy would like to petition the government to enact National Amy Day," Geri sought to clarify while I mouthed the word "week" to my friends behind her back, "this luncheon is to recognize the birthdays of three people," she glared at me while I looked confused, "not just one."

Having made reservations for 2 pm, I was surprised to see the hostess removing the "Open" flag from the front porch as we approached. When questioned, she cheerfully responded, "Oh, we stop serving at 2." She was quick to reassure our stricken faces that they were still delighted to accommodate us. She ushered us in and situated us at a round, roomy table. As we agonized over the delectable menu selections, I observed the unusually empty restaurant which created a more intimate setting for our gathering. Our meals efficiently arrived, artistically presented and scrumptious. We ate and chatted and ate and laughed and ate and argued and ate some more. If choosing a meal was tough, picking a dessert was torture. We ended up splitting two amongst the table. As we enjoyed our treat, chef/owner Buzz Bailey came out to see us. Glad that we'd enjoyed our experience at his establishment, he informed us that the server had gone home and, if we didn't mind, he was going to go upstairs to his apartment to do some work. We sat there, stunned as he said, "Stay as long as you want. I love listening to you girls giggle. Thanks for coming. Have fun." And with that, he waved to us and disappeared, leaving us all alone in an empty restaurant. Geri thought too late to ask for the key to the alcohol cabinet.

This is fine dining in a small town.

Forget 9-1-1...I'm the one to call in an emergency

I am not one to look to in an emergency situation. Florence Nightingale, I am not. I have to look up "antihistamine" in the dictionary at least once a year (Not really related but Brad gets frustrated because I think the terms "antiperspirant" and "deodorant" are interchangeable). I consider the expiration dates of medication to be a diabolical manufacturer's plot to coerce me into unnecessarily spending more money. Many years ago, after receiving intensive infant first aid certification, I reacted to infant daughter, Savannah, choking on a Cheerio and completely forgot what to do, instead grabbing her by the ankles and tipping her upside down, walker and all, to dislodge the multi-grain blockage. Following another ironic bout of first aid training, I found myself in another medical crisis as I faced  the problem my unconscious father. I sprang into action, leaping over his prone form. I dramatically ripped open his shirt, buttons flying everywhere (The first aid class didn't teach me that, by the way...I improvised) as I hovered over his chest, struggling to remember the ratio of compressions to breaths...10:2? No...that was where my hands are suppose to be positioned on the steering wheel. I was just about to administer CPR when a soft but persistent voice broke through my cloud of panic. "Amy? Amy? Amy." I looked up to see my husband next to me, crouched like a Bengal tiger if I had attempted to follow through on my idiotic plan. "What?" I snapped at him. Couldn't he see this was a crisis? "Amy," he said gently as though to a crazed lunatic, "Your dad is breathing." Oh. Oops.

Despite my history of medical incompetence, I was determined to be a help during Sydney's recent trial. Although I couldn't understand her infatuation with applying an Ace bandage to her sprained ankle, I did intensive research to meet her ridiculous request. I stared unblinkingly during my first viewing of a Youtube instructional video. I took detailed notes during the second viewing before approaching Sydney's giant tree-stumped sized ankle. With great care and concentration, I gently wrapped my daughter's injured foot before sending her on her wobbly way to apparently bad mouth me to all our friends and family.

"The first time she wrapped my ankle," she told her father later, "it sagged like a a great loose sock. The second time, my foot bulged inside it like it was stuffed in a sausage casing." Oh how they laughed. Well laugh away, family o' mine! Guess who my 4th graders go to for quality medical care? Guess who has a desk drawer full of animal-print themed band-aids (sorry PETA)? There are people out there who have faith in my abilities to handle emergency situations. Sure they're all under 10 but nonetheless, they believe in me. And I believe in myself. Just look at my record...I haven't lost a patient yet.

Compassion: The biggest crutch of all

You might be surprised to learn that I am a chronic complainer. I have a tendency to exaggerate a bit. And on top of that, I suffer from hypochondria. Naturally, I assume that everyone is like me because, let's face it, who wouldn't want to be EXACTLY like me? So when my daughters come to me with some little ailment or the other, I tend to ignore their described degree of suffering. Suffice to say...I do NOT look good in this following story.

A more-than-competent snowboarder, Sydney had hit the slopes last week with some friends. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that the slopes hit Sydney. Stranded mid-mountain, Sydney realized that she couldn't bear weight on either foot and was considering her options. Butt-boarding was quickly ruled out by ski patrol who wrestled her onto a snow sled and whisked her away to the first aid station. A text alerted me to the situation as Syd was being driven home, Sprained both ankles. Evie is driving me home. Her dad will follow with our truck. Of course I panicked. What good mother wouldn't? I frantically texted back, Leave the truck there. DO NOT have Evie's dad drive it! Sydney knows that no one outside the family should EVER be granted access to the truck. Despite my daily threats, the interior of the truck remains condemnably filthy. Empty Yoberry containers, paper plates, forks, and assorted wrappers carpet the floor. The last time I drove Ranger, I ended up with pulverized Pop-Tarts ground into the bottom of my boots. So when Evie pulled up in front of the house with the aforementioned injured party, I was mortified to see her dad pull in right after with the garbage truck. I did not greet my prodigal daughter with open arms as she was carried through my door.

After graciously thanking her good Samaritans and then unceremoniously shoving them out the door, I ripped Sydney's layers of winter wear off of her while battling my inner demons. Could she be ANY more inconsiderate? My birthday is a mere day away! Was I going to have to make sub-plans for this ingrate?  And what about her waitressing job? So much for earning money for college! What is she going to do now? Mooch off her mom? I watched as she attempted to stand using her borrowed crutches. Why did the Mehlenbachers give those to her, I wondered. Way to enable her, I thought as she flopped over.

Savannah and I dragged her into the living room, propped up her legs and generously applied two bags of frozen mixed vegetables to her swollen ankles. Sydney whined when I was unable to accommodate her requests for an Ace bandage or medication. "This isn't a hospital dispensary," I snarled, pouring her some OJ and mixing in a liberal dose of "Kool-Aid" to soothe her pain and shut her up. To make it festive, I added a drink umbrella. She soon dozed off in a Kool-Aid-induced stupor so I stationed myself at the onpposite end of the couch for the night in case she needed anything (I'm not a complete monster). She awoke needing to use the facilities and unable to stand on either leg. "Here," I said heroically, "climb on my back." Let's just say that that didn't work out very well. Plan B made clever utilization of a wheeled office chair.

The pain did not magically disappear in the morning as I'd hoped. I decided what to do in my customary fashion by screaming accusations at my husband for approximately twenty minutes. Once I'd exhausted myself, he told me to go to work and he'd take Syd to the emergency room. Great, I thought, the medical community would explain to my daughter that she'd simply twisted her foot a bit, wrap her ankles in magical Ace bandages and our lives would go back to normal and I'd make Sydney clean out the truck immediately. Two hours later, I received another text:  Left foot sprained, two bones broken in right foot. Oh no, I thought, there's no way I'm coming out of this one looking good.