Enough, Ashley! or...Enough OF Ashley!

Further evidence that it's all a matter of perspective.

My viewpoint:  Having still not mastered the precarious art of backing up a "big" truck, I carefully parked Titan yesterday morning and, as usual, threw myself bodily out of the vehicle, bracing myself for the four foot drop to the ground. When I landed, I noticed something colorful peeking out of the snow that was rapidly accumulating so, curious (like a child or a raven), I picked it up to discover a lanyard with a staff id and keys attached. Great. I glanced around to see if anyone was nearby to witness my tossing them back from whence they came. Drat the luck...too many possible witnesses. So I carried this burden into the school, stomping down the corridor grumpily to see my colleague racing towards me. I swung the lanyard out, hoping to "accidentally" strike her with it and snapped, "I suppose you're looking for this."

Ashley's viewpoint:  There I was...in the darkest pit of despair. What-oh-what was I going to do? I had lost my id and keys. And with this great loss...so too, would I lose my livelihood. I searched high-and-low and then, as I glanced out my classroom window in desperation, I realized...the snow! With the white-out conditions, I realized that finding my keys in that snow desert of a parking lot would be like finding a needle in a haystack. But still, I had to try. I raced down the corridor to see my colleague hurrying toward me, smiling her usual bright smile of welcome. In her hand, she waved a beacon of hope. I sighed in relief as she swung my lanyard to me, saying kindly, "I suppose you're looking for this."

And that's not even the END of the story!  Oh no...Ashley couldn't just let it go:

The next day...

As a group of teens gathered in my classroom after school ("Mrs. Mosiman, can we hang out for a little while?" "Yes," I growled, "as long as you don't talk to me."), Ashley suddenly entered the room. She set a Pepsi and king-sized Snickers bar down in front of me. "I just wanted to thank you," she said. I stared at her dumbfounded. How on earth does the ENTIRE world know that I drink Pepsi and snarf down Snickers bars? "Ashley," I hissed ungratefully at her, "it was no big deal. You would have done the same for me." "I know," she replied cheerfully. I resisted the urge to punch her...opting instead for a verbal slap. "Yeah," I pointed out, "but the only difference is...I wouldn't have brought you a thank you gift." She laughed, waved and disappeared out the door.

"I HATE her," I screeched, startling my shocked teens. "Why," they asked, "she brought you a Pepsi and a Snickers." "Isn't it enough that she's pretty and kind and creative and the most amazing teacher EVER," I yelled stomping around the room like Rumpelstiltskin, "that she also has to go around giving me unwarranted gifts to reward me for begrudgingly being moral?" I collapsed, exhausted into my chair. "This is so stressful," I muttered only to hear one empathetic high school say softly, "Have a Pepsi, Mrs. Mosiman, you'll feel better."

Who Wore This Wacky Wig Best?

On this episode of Who Wore this Wacky Wig Best, we see that the student has definitely surpassed the teacher. As it so often happens, some ideas just need to remain in their original paper-form. But no...I spotted the directions for How to Make a Colonial Wig in Seven Easy Steps and jumped at the chance. "What are you doing," my husband asked, already regretting his question when he spotted that familiar mad gleam in my eye as I loaded our shopping cart with more cotton balls than most Mosiman families could ever use in one lifetime. My engineer daughter couldn't resist when I mentioned the wigs. "How do you propose to construct them," she asked, immediately regretting her question as I began to grape-stomp the fluffy packages to fit in the cart. Both of them quickly vanished while I was explaining my plan to the fascinated check-out girl before begging her for sixteen brown paper bags to accommodate sixteen 4th grade heads. 

How hard could this be, I gleefully thought to myself. Cotton balls? Check. Brown paper grocery bags? Check. Glue sticks aplenty? Check. Naturally, the children were enthusiastically on board. After another safety lesson concerning hot glue:

Teacher (pointing to the silver-tipped end of the glue gun):  This part is ...?

Students (choral response): HOT!

Teacher: If you touch it, you will get...

Students (choral response):  FIRED!

Teacher:  No, no, no...YOU won't get fired...I will. Try again. If you touch it, you will get...

Students (choral response): BURNED!

Teacher: And if you get burned...who is going to feel sorry for you?

Students (choral response): NOT MRS. MOSIMAN!

Teacher (nodding approval): Very good, students! Now...what is our class motto again?

Students (choral response): NO WHINING! LIFE IS NOT FAIR! AND MRS. MOSIMAN WEARS A SIZE TEN SHOE AND LIKES EXPENSIVE CHOCOLATE!

Teacher (nodding approval): Excellent!

After our lesson on safety, we unceremoniously stuffed one student head into the bag so I could cut a skull cap upon which to mount our cotton ball wig. In hindsight, perhaps I should have taped the living daylights out of it as well to create a more form-fitting model as it turned out rather rectangular in form...more SpongeBob Squarepants than George Washington. It's true that many hands make light work. It's also true that many 4th grade hands would rather work with a hot glue gun so I was left...holding the bag. The alarmingly thin bag. We focused on constructing one wig to learn the process. Four glue guns. Three more hands applying the cotton balls with rapid-fire precision and me...holding the bag. "Ouch," I cried as each line of molten-hot-lava glue was applied. "Ouch," I whimpered as crafty hands pressed cotton balls firmly down. "Ouch," I sobbed, as strings of hot glue drizzled onto my bare flesh. "Remember, Mrs. Mosiman...no whining," my sweet cherubs said as they hoisted me out of the fetal position to view our finished product. It didn't quite look like the one pictured in the instructions (which, by the way, should have included the number to the closest burn unit) but my little honeys were ready and raring for more. But...oh no! There was a cotton ball calamity! Turns out that it takes approximately three packages of cotton balls to construct one colonial wig! "Those poor Colonial Americans," one little scholar sympathized, "I wonder where they got their cotton balls from?" And there you have it, folks. Yet another, faultlessly integrated lesson utilizing Science, Math, and Social Studies with real-life application. 

The Wind (chill)-y City: Getting to Chicago

If you think Western New York is a bit cold lately, then you should try getting to Chicago! I admit it...the weather has won. I am completely beaten down--only content to be cocooned in comforters. When Brad presented me tickets to Chicago for my birthday in January, the abstract idea of a night out on the town, attending the theater (pronounced in an uptight, snotty way) sounded delightful. Prying me off the couch into a sub-zero night was another thing altogether. The promise of a fish fry at The Flip Side lured  me to the door but I froze at the sight  of my slippery sidewalk, stretching out before me like an Olympic luge course. This was no red carpet occasion. "Let's just rent the movie," I whined as my husband stuffed me, unceremoniously, into our van.

Worried that he wouldn't be able to withstand my whimpering, Brad ordered me a spiked hot chocolate but neglected to anticipate the inevitable giggling and inappropriate debauchery that accompanies any imbibement. Without warning, I launched into a colorful description of a new television show named something like "Born Wild" or "Born in the Wild" where lunatics voluntarily give birth right out in the bush. I immediately turned even redder than I already was, clapped my hand over my mouth, and lapsed into loud laughter. My daughters stared at me horrified while Brad glanced around, gauging our chances of being asked to exit the premises. Realizing that my 19 and 21 year old daughters couldn't even begin to understand the meaning of my bawdy little pun, I began to explain it to them when Brad rudely interrupted me by shouting for the check.

Sadly, the alcohol had mostly worn off by the time we arrived in Buffalo so I was coherently aware that Brad decided to forego the convenient $25 parking spot located steps from the theater's entrance to park more than a block away for $5. The frosty air filled my gasping lungs as I broke into a lumbering jog. Tears froze to my face as I fought against the frigid temperatures to finally make it to my destination:  Chicago. The show was wonderful. "Isn't that J Peterman," I said, squinting, to Sydney while Brad was busy scamming sugar-coated pecans from strangers. Maybe it was the lingering effects of my hot cocoa. Maybe I was still light-headed from my run. Maybe I had frostbite of the brain. Maybe it was my out-of-body Seinfeld experience. Whatever it was...I wanted that musical to last forever. As the curtain call signaled the end of magical evening, I could barely hold back the tears as I was swept up into the crowded current. Lacking anything as sophisticated as an Urban Sombrero, I encased my head in my faux-fur hood and attempted to out-run the cold. It was time to leave Chicago and go home.

Whose mouse is this?

After having successfully captured our two little mice, the next stop was to ward off the inevitable begging that followed. "Can we keep them, Mrs. Mosiman," my 4th graders incessantly pleaded. "They're NOT pets," I stated firmly, ignoring how adorable they (the mice) were, "Let me introduce you to a new phrase: Cruel to be kind." We discussed how our little mice were wild creatures, not meant to be closed up in a cage. But one of many voices in my head was simultaneously pointing out that "Walt" and "Mickey" were actually raised in an environment of literature, love, laughter and learning. "But what are we going to do with them," my compassionate little crew of creature-rescuers wanted to know. "I'll release them into my neighbor's barn," I said into the sudden silence, pausing before adding, after a quick glance toward the window, "after it warms up a bit."

My friend, Geri, was incredulous. "You're doing wh-at?"  The mice were currently situated on her cluttered back counter as they were too much of a distraction in my own classroom. With Geri leading the charge, I was mocked for much of the day. After school, though, a shift occurred. My door was thrown open and Geri appeared, motioning me to follow her. "You have to see this," she exclaimed happily, "I thought it only happened in cartoons." We returned to the mouse motel where Geri carefully dropped in tiny pieces of cheese. "Walt" picked one up in his little paws and nibbled daintily at the Colby-Jack. Geri laughed, clapped her hands and then clasped them together beneath her chin as she proclaimed them "precious." It had happened...Geri was "mouse-merized."

I became aware of a problem over the course of the next hour. I passed my friend, Barb, in the hall. "Did you hear about our excitement," I asked. "You mean Geri's mice?" she said. I stopped in my tracks, staring at her. "What did you just say?" And it spread from there...the story of "Geri's" mice ran rampant through the school. Thus began one of the ugliest rodent custody battles of all time.

If you give a teacher a mouse...

As our music teacher would tell the tale, he walked in his classroom to spot a tiny mouse, crouching on its haunches, smiling at him. The educator walked up to the mouse, kneeled down to place his palm out so that the mouse could happily hop aboard. That, my friends, is obviously the Disney version of the story.

My version involves a moderate amount of shrieking, tackling, and flapping. Naturally, my mouse would appear in the middle of my Colonial American presentations when I had parents visiting. "Mrs. Mosiman! A mouse," a 4th grader squealed while I valiantly tried to ignore the gray form scurrying along the wall.
"You're seeing things," I assured the students until an adult squeaked, "No, there it is again!" The room was immediately thrown into Colonial chaos as I watched our furry friend disappear into a cupboard. "He's gone," I reassured the group, guiding us back to our goal of presenting our newly acquired knowledge of 18th century America. You can imagine how successful that was.

After things had calmed down, I ran a series of emergency mouse drills.

  If we see a mouse, we...

• don't scream
• don't jump on our chairs or desks...that is only done in cartoons
• freeze, silently, in place--you may point (not gesturing wildly) towards the mouse
• do not, under any circumstance, try to touch the mouse
• We then did an choral recitation which I, the teacher, led:
• TEACHER:  Should a student touch a mouse and get bitten, who gets fired?
• STUDENTS:  You do!!!
• TEACHER:  Should a student touch a mouse and get bitten, who gets fired?
•  STUDENTS:  You do!!!
• TEACHER:  Should a student touch a mouse and get bitten, who gets fired?
• STUDENTS:  You do!!!

As students were preparing to leave for music class, our preparations paid off. "The mouse," a student screamed, gesturing wildly as a horde of 4th graders stampeded over chairs and desks toward the alarmed rodent. I waded my way in, snagging students as I went, herding our uninvited guest toward a corner. "Go to music," I bellowed professionally. My friend and fellow fourth grade teacher, Kelly, ushered them off as my friend Rachel reluctantly arrived to help me. Her "help" presented mostly in the form of flapping her arms and asking, again and again, "Where is it?" Situated on the floor with my knees blocking each corner of the wall, I did not anticipate a scenario where I would have to answer Rachel's' question with, "Up my pant leg." Armed with a shoe box, Rachel danced behind me as I grabbed our guy, juggling him from hand to hand before dunking him, Harlem Globetrotter's-style, into the container. Nothin' but net! 

About the size of a golf ball, our new-found friend was rain-cloud gray and shivering.  And we were in love. We named him "Walt" and reunited him with his sibling who was already installed in an upscale condominium provided by a benevolent music teacher.  With record-breaking temperatures assailing our state, our planned release into the wild is at a stand-still. Stay tuned.

Mmmmm....Mmmmmm.....mortifying!

My Hundreds Day lesson centers around Andy Warhol's familiar 1962 painting of "100 Cans." Students discuss the definition of "art," analyze the painting and then poetically apply Wahol's passion to soup to their own favorite (or least favorite) foods. Finally, we set a deadline in order to reach our classroom goal of collecting one hundred cans of soup to donate to our local food pantry. We are holding steady at 93 cans with six school days remaining.

This is where I make my connection from picky eaters to being nit-picky. Oh my goodness. So...I want my bulletin board to reflect our theme, right? As my friend, Sarah, has explained to me, the first foundation of any respectable bulletin board is the correct border. Yeah...okay. My theme is soup. So I meticulously cut and pasted a ka-zillion clipart images of soup cans, trimmed them to size, laminated the strips to then staple them around my bulletin board. I detest flat space so, to make my display POP a little, I wrestled a giant construction paper soup can into place, never anticipating that my 4th graders would spend the bulk of their time trying to wear it like a hat.

I then added student art.  Each student created an Andy Warhol-inspired multi-block print of his/her selected subject. Voila! Yet, as I sat at my desk facing my "finished" bulletin board each day, I was left feeling unsatisfied. Empty, even. And then the muse struck...the Campbell Soup Kids! I printed off copies, carefully cut out each Campbell Soup Kid face to be replaced with images of my own 4th graders. Mmmm... Mmmmmm...good!  Reactions to the unveiling were mixed. Some found it hilarious; others...horrifying. The one boy who successfully completed the entire assignment and was "honored" with his likeness lacquered to my wall is likely never to do his homework ever again. It is said too many cooks spoil the soup. But it only takes one tasteless teacher to traumatize her students. They will never look at a can of soup the same way ever again, thanks to Andy Warhol and Mrs. Mosiman.

Amy's experience at the movies: I'm so lost

Because of my atrocious eyesight, I once had an optometrist warn my husband, in front of me, mind you, that Brad should never venture into the forested wilderness with me unless he first had me affixed firmly to him with rope. Naturally I was indignant but unfortunately, my husband and my family took this dire threat of impending danger very seriously so that I am rarely out of the sight of concerned family members. Until the other day...

In search of a specific movie, the Mosimans ended up at an unfamiliar theater mega-complex.  After bumbling my way through the paying peep-hole..."Wait, I know I have another twenty on me somewhere," I shouted at the girl behind the glass before I began to publicly molest myself in my search for cash while Brad and the girls pretended not to know me as they stood in the velvet-roped mouse maze with the other staring spectators. Tickets finally in hand, we headed in the general direction of our movie when nature called. "I'll catch up with you," I said confidently as my family looked at me with marked doubt but, as we were pressed for time, they let me go about my business.

Emerging from the ladies room, I suddenly realized that I didn't have my ticket. No worries, I shrugged, the title will be posted. Or so I thought. And thus began the most harrowing journey of my life (in the month of January 2015) as I wandered lost in a popcorn-scented labyrinth.  I set my compass by the movie posters that plastered the walls...panicking as I passed the same ones, over and over again. A man carrying armloads of cut cardboard passed me in a narrow passageway. "Can you tell me where my movie is playing," I asked, stooping to pick up some sheets that had fallen from his pile and then helping him carry his load to the exit. "What number is it," he responded, not acting at all surprised when I explained to him that I didn't have my ticket. He disappeared without providing me much assistance. I hurried back down the carpeted hall, now frantic for some help. A man wearing a white dress shirt and tie appeared very knowledgeable and was listening  patiently as I regaled him with my sad story. Suddenly a hand latched itself firmly onto my elbow, interrupting my dramatic gesturing. "I've got her," my daughter Sydney said softly to the man, tugging me away as the man nodded with sympathetic understanding.

Sydney led me to the missing movie room as I desperately tried to defend myself. Spotting me, Savannah immediately brightened, certain that I would be bearing a bucket of buttered popcorn after my long absence. "Mom was lost," Sydney hissed, settling me into my theater seat and handing me my water. Brad patted my arm with sympathetic understanding and muttered something about a micro-chip. Safe and sound, I squinted happily at the screen trying to catch up with the story-line. I must have missed the part about the micro-chip.

Type-casted cookie cutters

Thickly-frosted white cookie to the right is a bunny.
Green frosted cookie is a duck with his beak pointed south.
Dog bone is self-explanatory (I hope)

Alright...I admit it. It was a little bit AFTER the holiday season was over before I finally got around to baking my Christmas cookies. But nevertheless, they DID get made. For those of you well-acquainted with me, you know this is a big accomplishment. I am not renowned for my culinary skills. Wait...scratch that. I am not renowned for my exemplary culinary skills.  I once famously cooked a ham in its plastic casing.

The thought of baking Christmas cookies causes me great angst. Anything that requires the implementation of a rolling pin makes my pupils dilate with fear. My friend, Nancy Berwanger, shared her Christmas cookie recipe years ago as our 6th grade team decided it would be an awesome idea to crank out enough cookies for the entire grade level population to frost some to take home. The recipe included buttermilk and once someone introduced me to the concept of powdered buttermilk, I was off and running. Nancy's recipe is both delicious and fool-proof (aka:  Amy-proof).

So it was that, a few weeks back, I dug out my trusty chocolate liqueur bottle that doubles as a rolling pin, and machine-gunned out six dozen cookies of assorted shapes and sizes. My family loves this part. I am the lone cookie-making gladiator to their appreciative audience in my kitchen coliseum. "Choose the rabbit," they'd roar as I reached for a cutter. "She took the duck," they declared. Camels, dog bones, and moose paraded past as my spectators screamed in laughter.

I frowned at them. As Vee DeLong's daughter, I was whimsically raised on creative cookie cutters. My mother would NOT be boxed in by a theme! Christmas at little Amy DeLong's house (I was 5' 10" tall when I was twelve, by the way) was a parade of colorful cookie creations. Abe Lincoln's profile would look patriotically over a safari-variety of animals. The map of the United States and the American flag would instill in me a strong sense of national pride as I reveled in the magic of Christmas. Why should a turkey only be associated with Thanksgiving?

So be it. If my family wanted a type-casted treat, well...that's what they were going to get. I dug through my cookie cutters, searching for a Christmasy one. Hmmm...where was Santa? Nope...no Christmas tree. Wreath? No where to be found. I spotted a star and began hammering out a spattering. "No...!" my family cried out, "We like the Christmas rabbit!" And then it dawned on me. I'd done it. My family did not associate Christmas with traditional shapes. They had grown accustomed to viewing the holiday through the eyes of an oddball. The last time I visited my mom's house, she said that I could go through her cookie cutters and take what I wanted. Don't worry, Abe...I'm coming! My mother's American Eagle is waiting for me with open wings!

Young adults: When will they grow up?

The workings of the young adult mind are so interesting. It's such an egocentric time...the focus on selfish pleasures. The world rotates around fun and friends. It can be exasperating. Take my daughter, Savannah, for instance. Out of the blue, as my family bustled about to get ready for (to still arrive late) church, Savannah suddenly asked her father if we had home owner's insurance. "Well, yeah," he answered, befuddled by the question, "Why?" I paused in the middle of making the bed to listen to her explanation. "ADT offers home owner's insurance discounts," she said, and then, not understanding her father's baffled expression, went on to clarify. "ADT is a company that installs home security systems," she said to the man who installs security systems for a living. I paused to bury my face in a pillow to stifle a giggle. Savannah rallied on to press her point. "How much do you pay per year," she inquired, quickly calculating the speculative savings while I wrestled our current security system off the bed. The rottweiler thumped to the floor unhappily as Savannah concluded her presentation. See what I mean?  Such are the shallow, self-serving conversations of the young. When will she grow up and learn to live in the real world?