I'm with the band...no, I'm not. I'm with the band...no, I'm not

Just like the return of the seven-year-locusts, I couldn't resist the siren's call to fulfill my fantasy of becoming an integral part of a band. Seven years ago, I was asked to be part of our school's rocking-cool band as a back-up singer and I leaped at the chance. I knew the words. I had the moves. But all the practice in the world couldn't provide me with the one thing I needed most:  singing ability...and talent. Exasperated and somewhat dumbfounded in the face of such an extreme lack of musicality, my administrator didn't have it in him to break my heart so he just cut the sound feed to my microphone. I can't sing but I'm not stupid. Thus ended my auspicious aspirations.

Or so I thought. Fate finds it way in the least likely of places. Last week, as I was wrestling 4th graders onto their buses, I heard my administrator seeking help with his end-of-year show. Still stinging from that painful slap-in-the-face of seven years ago, I didn't even pause long enough to consider his question; averting my face and flinging out a French hand for my curt and dismissive, "No!" But dreams die hard and when another band member came to seek me out, I relented. What could I do? The needed me.

Forget about fifteen minutes of fame. This was more like five. Five of the longest, most excruciatingly humiliating moments of my life. Planting me reluctantly behind a kettle drum, my fellow band members addressed my concerns with curt reassurance. "Have you ever played an instrument," I was asked by way of audition. Ashamed, I admitted to a brief stint with the clarinet where I made it as far as "Ma-ry had a lit-tle...squeak." They nodded, glancing with barely concealed concern at one another but desperation drove them forward. "It's just a five-beat count, for goodness sake," said my administrator, thrusting a pair of sticks with marshmallows on the ends at me. My confidence soared. I've had plenty of experience holding s'more sticks AND I could count to five. Maybe I could do this.

No, I couldn't. Turns out that I can't count to five. Even when I tried (and failed) to synchronize it with the tapping of one foot. Even when someone clapped it out for me. Even when I closed my eyes and squinched up my face. Only when the music wasn't playing was I able to produce a five-beat rhythm on that drum and apparently that wasn't a scenario that the band was willing to consider. Again, I slunk off the stage and into utter and abject obscurity. Underground...like the locusts...biding my time until an opportunity arrives for me to emerge again.

pafarri: trust me...you want to know

So there I was, crammed on a bench near the public toilets in Pittsford with an assortment of 4th grade boys, trying valiantly to pretend that I was ANYWHERE else. I was busy coating my throat with Pepsi as it was throbbing from constantly repeating myself. "Stop pulling leaves off the tree." "Don't touch the expensive racing bike parked under the tree." "Get out of the way of people on the sidewalk." "Don't throw mulch." Lost in my favorite daydream of alternative career possibilities, I was rudely interrupted by yet another loud and ridiculous argument about "pafarries" (Helpful pronunciation guide:  pa-far-ees). Cost. Speed. Style. What??? "What are you guys talking about," I said, hating myself before the question had even left my mouth. "Pafarries," one of my bench companions answered before I interrupted him to yell at some kid to quit touching the expensive Pittsford leaves. "What's a pafarrie," I asked, not really caring but as I couldn't take my Snickers bar out of my bag without detection, my options were limited. "Touch that bike and you'll never experience recess again," I yelled before returning my already sporadic attention to Webster. "Definition, please," I said tiredly. "Mrs. Mosiman," another benchmate said helpfully, elbowing me gently, "There are only four days of school left...I'm not sure your no recess threat really holds much weight." "Really," I scowled, gripping him in the tractor-beam of my glare, "you better watch it, mister, or you're next." While he wept inconsolably, I listened with distracted fascination to the definition of "pfarrie." "It's one of the fastest cars in the world," one automobile aficionado enthused. "They come in red," another genius added. They had my undivided attention now...nope...hold on a sec..."Get out of the mulch," I screamed before returning to what became the best conversation of my entire day. "Do you mean Ferrari," I prompted gently, making a mental note to cover the color issue later. "See," crowed some of the crowd with a firm hold on their phonics and a concerning disdain of silent letters, "We told ya!" My pfarrie people refused to fold however so I resorted to the ubiquitous response that we'd look it up on the Google later; thus concluding the conversation. "You've just earned the title of Naughtiest Boy on the Field Trip," I bellowed, bolting from the bench to pull a boy out of an expensive Pittsford tree. His punishment was to sit and watch me eat my Snickers bar.

My not-so-Lucky Charms: How Brad ruined my breakfast

Going into this, you should first know that, in certain areas, I have a heightened sense of taste. Put a rainbow of Marshmallow Peeps in front of me for a blind taste-test and I'll point you to yellow every time. Under the same set of circumstances, I can pick a blue M & M from the bag over half the time. Don't even TRY to pass off generic sliced yellow cheese. I'd been crazy about Kraft American cheese long before I discovered the delights of non-processed cheese.

The  next thing that you should know is that, on occasion, I can be wasteful. I'm sorry about this lapse in my character. I have developed the unfortunate habit of giving up on a box of cereal at the 3/4s empty mark. It might be my short-attention span...boredom...a yearning for something better...fresher. It's inexcusable and I'm ashamed.

My husband, in an attempt to improve our lives economically because heaven knows how many millions of dollars I've wasted squandering cereal, recently deployed his secret plan to bolster our budget while simultaneously improving my chances of eventually getting postponed at the Pearly Gates. On Sunday, I had gleefully grabbed a fresh family-sized box of "Lucky Charms." You can tell when it's at optimum freshness when the marshmallows don't stick together should they inadvertently bump up against each other in the bowl. Like Lot's family exiting Sodom, I refused to look back at that the quarter-filled box of "Honey Smacks" growing staler-by-the-minute in my dry pantry. I had made the rookie cereal-buyer's mistake of confusing "Honey Smacks" (sporting a frog wearing a hat on the box) with the preferable "Golden Crisps" that has a box decorated with a bear in a blue t-shirt. It's an understandable error as both of their cereal pieces are shaped like a pair of elongated human buttocks but the taste is world's apart. Brad apparently had no fear of being turned into a pillar of salt or, in this particular case, a pile of processed sugar, grabbed the almost-empty "Honey Smacks" and poured it heartlessly into my brand new, family-sized box of "Lucky Charms."                        I know.

Just like you shouldn't cross a frog with a bear, despite their charming sense of fashion, it is equally unacceptable to mix a frog with a leprechaun. It's an abomination. The taste of "Honey Smacks" permeated my "Lucky Charms." I felt a flurry of irrepressible emotions. Initial confusion; like finding an onion ring buried in your order of French fries only not happy. Hope, in that maybe this was just a fluke. I once ate an entire box of Hostess Cupcakes where not a single one of my cream-filled cakes were actually filled with cream. I worked my way through that package, fed only by hope; left to digest on disappointment. Then murderous rage set in. I grew even angrier when I realized that not a single person on the planet would be on my side. Even worse, I knew that some insensitive people would even find this situation mildly amusing. But it's NOT funny. What am I going to do? An entire box of "Lucky Charms"...wasted. Nothing magical about that.

Only the coolest kids (and chaperones) attend band trips

What better way to spend a Saturday than to stuff oneself on a packed-full-of-7th-and-8th-grade students bus for an all-day trip to the local amusement park? I can't think of anything else I'd rather do (especially given that I've spent the bulk of two pain-filled weeks getting poked, prodded and patched by a dentist with a penchant for medieval orthodontia appliances). Actually, the kids were amazing. I won't count having to listen to an extremely monosyllabic version of the "Frozen" soundtrack behind me on the ride home..."Is musicality a requirement to be a member of the band," I asked Jason, our stalwart and apparently hard-of-hearing band director. "Huh?" he muttered, eyes glued to the road, willing himself home.

Friends and fellow chaperones, Amy White and Amanda hit the ground running the minute we reached the park, heading for the roller coaster with the most-death-defying vertical drop known to mankind  (as long as mankind doesn't venture too far left of Wyoming County). With nerves of steel, I fearlessly boarded this spine-chilling death device and we rattled our way to the top. I endured this experience with silent grace and dignity while Amanda emitted enough shrieks and gasps to realistically resemble a blue movie production. I felt sorry for her...her lack of self-control, self-respect. I thought she was going to hyperventilate as we neared the climatic ending of the ride. The photographic evidence must be humiliating for her.

It didn't get much better as we attempted a somewhat tamer ride:  The Big Wheel. "Amy, take a selfie of us," I demanded while Amanda questioned the grammatical correctness of the term. It is an interesting conundrum. Self is singular. Should it be selvies? Either way, Amy White enthusiastically threw herself down onto the floor of our ferris wheel car and then froze in fear and disgust as Amanda began listing all of the probable items that have been spilled and smeared into the iron grill on this day alone. "Remember the little girl and the stream of pee who passed us while we were waiting in line," Amanda reminded us helpfully.

 Obviously, we needed to take it down a notch. "Look," Jason exclaimed, "this one is rated as mildly thrilling." Well, you can't get much better than that! Amanda took one look at our target ride and ran away. Our administrator claimed that he was contractually obligated to avoid bouncy, single-rider cartoon moose rides and the chorus director immediately volunteered to be our photographer. Our almost-hour-long wait gave us plenty of time to determine our poses. Do we go with the bull-riding arm fling? The hat-backwards gansta-moose? Hands-free? We debated whether or not the hoof clopping noise that each moose emitted detracted from the reality of the experience. We dabbled with the idea of "borrowing" a child to add an air of credibility to our presence in line but decided that even temporary-kidnapping is probably not sanctioned in our own contracts...I should really read my contract, by the way.

I'm not even remotely embarrassed by the fact that we had a bigger audience that most of our pint-sized moose-riding counterparts. I don't regret for a minute that I forced my red-faced colleagues to return my enthusiastic waving as I spotted them from my moose-saddled vantage point. The ride rating is inaccurate. Moose-on-the-Loose is not just mildly thrilling; it's not just moderately thrilling. Moose-on-the-Loose provides maximum thrills and encourages you to yell, at the top of your lungs throughout the ENTIRE ride: Moose...Moose...Moose-on-the-Loose! Further evidence that only the coolest people attend band trips. Amy Mosiman: Continuing to break down stereotypes. Some talk the talk but this girl walks the walk...while riding a cartoon animatronic moose.

A simple, understated yet sophisticated time at the mall

With graduation looming on the horizon, Sydney was able to guilt me into going to the mall for a new dress. "Simple, understated yet sophisticated" was the order of the day and obviously, I was the girl for the job. "Look a pig!" I shouted excitedly, pointing into a store and then, horrified, I rushed in to reassure shoppers that I was not referring to them but an adorable printed tee with a sparkly swine on the front. Sydney didn't find it simple, understated or sophisticated so we moved on.

Rule #1 in trying on dresses is to remove one's socks as it seems to improve perspective. Only Gidget and Annette Funicello can successfully pull off the ankle socks with dress combo. Socks on the rest of us only seem to emphasize our tree trunk calves, wrinkly elephant knees and cankles. Sydney ignored my helpful advice as I tried to pair up an elephant tank top with an adorable pachyderm pendent to complete the theme but Syd found it easier to just take off the socks.

Styles these days are a little shocking. Every time Sydney held up a dress for my approval, I would be convinced we'd accidentally wandered into the little girls' section. "It's so short," I observed, "not that there's anything wrong with that." My daughter would then frown and stuff the garment back on the rack. "What if you drop your diploma as you walk across the stage," I shouted after her as she hurried off in search of a simple, understated yet sophisticated monk's cowl.

We shifted this fun mother-daughter experience to some neutral ground: the food court. I wandered past the Japanese place and sampled an offering from the woman who would become, in Sydney's opinion, my spiritual guide. "What is this," I asked her as she kindly took my elbow and guided me to the register. "You have chicken yum yum," she told me and I didn't disagree. "Number 2," she told the food service worker behind the counter who asked me if I wanted white rice or fried rice. My spiritual guru saved me the trouble of even considering that mind-boggling choice. "You have fried rice." O-kay. When asked what beverage I'd like, I decided to treat myself to a rare Pepsi. Given my choice of cup sizes, my new friend insisted that I be given a bottle. Clutching my chicken yum yum, I begged my spiritual guide to accompany us dress shopping but alas, she had others to assist in determining their menu selections. It wouldn't be fair to selfishly monopolize her gifts.

I acquired a much-coveted window seat and, while waiting patiently for Sydney to finally receive her fast food burger order (no mystical spiritual guide there, apparently), I watched with fascination as people randomly appeared from a secret door built into the side wall of the mall. Long-time fans of the Narnia series, Sydney and I observed, with rapt attention, as the occasional person would walk down the long corridor leading to the restroom but, instead of returning like the majority of visitors, would emerge outside, popping out of this magical portal like a bunny from a burrow. Naturally, we had to try this.

Rule #1 in trespassing is confidence. Chins squared, shoulders straight, we strode strongly forward. Passing the restrooms, I breezed through swinging double doors like a cowboy, passing a man pushing a cleaning cart. Sydney nodded at him with a "what's up" attitude as we caught a glimpse of Room 21 before exiting. Adrenaline still pumping, we wiped the sweat from our brows, high-fived and returned to the mall.

Eventually, when I couldn't stand the mall any longer, Syd and I braved parking lot traffic to hike to Target as we still had 45 minutes before Brad was scheduled to pick us up. The Mosimans can amuse themselves endlessly in the dog supply department before getting kicked out for being obnoxious. Waiting on a bench outside the store, we were engaged in conversation by a woman with a stuffed giraffe who will be hosting a bridal shower tomorrow. All of the items she purchased would serve as an object lesson for marriage, she explained. "Oh," I exclaimed prematurely, "you chose the giraffe because it has such a long tongue." Sydney hid her face while the woman stared at me in confusion before correcting me. "No. The giraffe is a quiet animal and the lesson is that sometimes you need to listen." It was my turn to be confused. Fortunately, Brad pulled up so we bid our new friend farewell before jumping in the van. An hour later, we arrived home, victorious, with two simple, understated yet sophisticated dresses for Sydney and a kooky vulture squeak toy for Chlo. In the end, everyone was happy. Sydney was satisfied with her selections. Chlo loved her squeaky toy. And I'm reasonably confident that, if Syd should drop her diploma, she's covered...no if, ands, or buts.

4th Grade Field Trip: "Made NOT to be Missed" (pun on "Maid of the Mist" for those of you with limited imagination)

Went on a 4th grade field trip to Niagara Falls today. My bus buddy was my friend Geri who, unfortunately, does not help me make good decisions. We hadn't crossed out of the school district boundaries when she yelled out, above the reasonable roar of the children, "Are we there yet?" Ten minutes into the journey, she was complaining that she was certain to perish from starvation and began eyeing up my bologna sandwich. Apparently bologna sandwiches make her hot, so Geri then wrestled open her window which, of course, caused a domino effect throughout the packed vehicle. As I sat on her broken umbrella and braced her purse between my feet for the hour and a half journey, I reflected deeply about our friendship and, upon arrival, demanded to be put into another group.

The Maid of the Mist was awe-inspiring despite the fact that the company, to satisfy some sick, demonic inner-compulsion, insists on dressing its clientele like great blue bananas. These plastic prophylactic pajamas, in no way, offer any protection at all from getting soaked. Viewing the famous falls from the bottom was edge-of-your-seat thrilling and the kids had a ball.

As Niagara Falls beckons people from all over the world, it also allows for some on-the-spot cultural sensitivity training. "There are a lot of Chinese here," one cherub announced in a teeth-clenchingly loud voice as we waited in line. "Astute observation," I responded softly, "but one that should be seen with the eyes and not said with your mouth." "Why," he asked, perplexed. "How would you like to have someone point at you and remark upon the undersized white boy in the blue banana suit?" He stared at me for a moment and then said, "Rude." "Exactly."

Fort Niagara was also educationally enjoyable. Our tour guide was quite adept at walking backwards. We liked him but secretly liked the fort's cat, Leopold, the most. Of all the toured areas: ye olde blacksmith shoppe, ye olde armory, ye olde quartermaster's supply station with freaky-looking beaver pelt hat, we most relished our visit to ye old souvenir shoppe. So while children were busy purchasing (if they could circumvent the geriatric gendarme at the door who sternly upheld the principles of the posted sign forbidding children access without a reputable adult, forbidding children the privilege of looking at, breathing upon, touching or even thinking about touching anything in the shop)...opps sorry, got off track there. As I was saying...as the children were busy spending enough money to keep that shop going into the next fiscal quarter by purchasing such delightful items as Revolutionary War-era dream-catchers, plastic bows with suction cup arrows, imitation pewter cannon pencil sharpeners and slingshots with raccoon-shaped handles, I spotted my own dream-come-true souvenir that perfectly capped up the day for me. As I was assigned to watch the "children deemed unacceptable for shop entry" duty, I had a responsible adult runner go in for me. With my nose pressed up against the glass (earning a glare from the door troll), I gestured (first to the troll who was conveniently yelling at some poor kid who just wanted to buy an over-priced broken peppermint stick) to my souvenir-buying representative. A little to the left...no, no...a little to the right...up a shelf...reach to the back...THERE! That's the perfect one! My Old Fort Niagara Pepsi was the perfect size and the soul-quenching rush of caffeine was all I needed to endure Geri's broken umbrella stabbing me in the side for the long bus ride home.

Women's restrooms, re-invented...you can thank me later

Turns out, to the surprise of no one, that I possess no talent for engineering or interior design. Anything that requires even a smidge of spacial intelligence is beyond my ken. Nevertheless, I keep trying. I repeatedly return to an innovative re-evaluation of the customary public restroom blueprint only to run into the fatal flaw, again and again.

My tendency to enjoy conversation does not pause upon the threshold of a public restroom.  It is my private shame. Several years ago, while returning from a mission trip, I was chatting it up with my bathroom buddy, Evelyn, when I had a revelation. "Evie," I yelled, "I have an idea!" "I'm right next to you, Mrs. Mosiman," Evie muttered, not wanting to linger in this particular area longer than necessary. I used the bottom of my fist to pound on the narrow wall between us. "Check it out, Evie," I continued, not interrupting the flow of conversation. "Imagine if the separation walls were cut in half. Tall enough to provide privacy but low enough to communicate face-to-face." I paused to allow her to digest this information. Turns out Evie didn't have as much to say on the subject as Sydney did when I re-visited my plan recently. "What a crappy idea, Mom," she said with disgust after trying to ignore my incessant pounding during our visit to a Niagara Falls restroom facility.

That was unnecessarily harsh considering that I realize that my plan doesn't hold water each time my restroom visit reaches its inevitable end. When I am forced to stand and face the music, so to speak, I see that my envisioned face-to-face conversation gives new meaning to cheek-to-cheek. Apparently, there are no comrades in the commode. Each is a queen upon her throne with no need to hold court. But I still think the jury's out on this one.

One potato, two potato, three potato, four?!?

Stopped at Laurie's Restaurant before church. Our family loves going there because it's more like going to our friend Naomi's house for breakfast than actually going to a restaurant. Smiling, she practically greets us at the door with coffee and orange juice in hand. A regular red-haired font of knowledge, Naomi became the focus of my informal survey to prove that I am not as stupid as I've been seeming lately.

Some background. Last week, an over-sized mosquito swooped into my classroom causing all sorts of distraction. "Leave it alone," I said, off-handedly casual, "it's a female. They don't bite." My 4th graders paused, in awed wonder of my knowledge. "How do you know," they asked me. "You can tell by the size." When some doubted, one student defended me vigorously. "Mrs. Mosiman knows everything," he declared. Case closed. Until I got home and Brad explained what an idiot I am. "The females bite because they need the blood to produce their eggs," he informed me...confirmed by an angry trip to the Google.

Several days ago, my 4th graders and I attended our school's "Food Across America" program. As we suffered through the educational presentation on potatoes before being allowed to gobble down the hot, homemade fries, I happened to hear an eye-opening fact. "One seed potato can produce up to ten potatoes," recited the program director, valiantly trying to keep the attention of her starving audience. WHAT?!? But wait...of course this makes sense. I had never understood why someone would plant a potato to grow a potato. "Yeah," Savannah, my 4.0 RIT engineering student agreed empathetically, "I figured, eventually, potatoes would just go extinct." Disgusted, my husband had (a little) difficulty believing that his family, born and raised in Wyoming County, could not accurately describe the planting process of the potato.

Today, as we walked the dogs, I regaled my family about how goats work as a preventative measure against ringworm in cattle. Brad paused to look at me. "You are officially banned from attending 'Food Across America,'" he said, although he couldn't resist asking, "How?" I admitted that I didn't know but immediately went to the Google as soon as I got home in an attempt to validate my wavering sense of intelligence. It didn't help. Like rubbing a nickle on a sty on one's eye, the goat/ringworm theory is a little shaky in origin and implementation. I did learn that billy goats smell, especially during mating season, because they like to pee in their beards. "Did you confirm that fact using more than one resource," Brad demanded. I hung my head, "No."

So, there I was at breakfast, grilling Naomi. "Naomi," I asked, after requesting my rye toast to be lightly-toasted, "How many potatoes do you think come from one planted potato?" Without hesitation, she replied, "About ten," before rushing off to run a lighter back and forth quickly over my bread. I sighed. I was going to have to break the bad news to my 4th graders on Monday. Mrs. Mosiman doesn't know everything.