Holy Sheet (of Over-Priced Paper)

You know how you're standing  there in the store, in a cash-out coma, swaying in a state of uncertainty and fear, catching the occasional purchase in your peripheral? Hypnotized by Hershey Bars, I received a jolt of reality when I saw $8.99 flash across the register. Wait. Did I buy a fancy meat? A merlot? A crustacean? Did I accidentally purchase a pack of generic cigarettes?

No.

I bought a greeting card.

No. It wasn't obnoxiously over-sized. It didn't play an annoying tune. No head-ache-inducing hologram. There wasn't a confetti cannon. The card I chose didn't even have a cute puppy on the cover. Or a sparkly unicorn. It was coated in a crushed velvet material. AND it was composed of recycled material. It used two different fonts.

I didn't know what to do. I was emotionally-paralyzed. What was I going to say? "I've decided my mother isn't worth $8.99," I'd announce with conviction, "Please remove her birthday card from my bill." Then I'd toss a few Hershey Bars on the counter.

I am not a greeting card consumer. With the exception of sympathy cards, I typically make my own cards. It's more personal and often a platform for inappropriate language. Hence, my self-imposed exception of sympathy cards. Although I did once make a bunny bereavement card. Which makes me now wonder about that crushed velvet material. Rabbit fur would be worth $8.99. Would that be considered recycled material?

I would like to start an up-rising. Or my own greeting card company.I would just need some customer testimonials.

"My personalized Amy Mosiman card touched me emotionally while insulting me on a superficially surface-level." 

"While not folded precisely, my personalized Amy Mosiman card had heart, humor, and the f~ word used in a somewhat relevant way." 

"I was only moderately offended by my personalized Amy Mosiman card."

And from such auspicious beginnings, do revolutions arise.

This Greeting Card Revolution was made especially for you by Amy Mosiman...who cared enough to send the very best.

Fund-Raisin Fury

 I don't ask for a lot. My demands are simple. As my brother-in-law likes to say, "Amy, you're not just LOW maintenance...you're practically NO maintenance." Sure he lives 4,300 miles away but his opinion matters. And that being said, perhaps you will forgive this brief segue as I rail against the forces of man and nature that conspired to wreck my world, crush my spirit, and inspire this epic rampage of words...

You've seen the children's programming that challenges students to identify the one that is not like the others.  If you've already investigated the photograph for clues as to why Amy is currently hysterical...you might be a bit flummoxed. Amy flosses? you might be thinking, pleasantly surprised. Or...Why does Amy have a British pound at school? There's a watch battery. A glue top. Assorted coins. A mint. And...a Junior Mint? No-oo. A Milk Dud? No-oo. A Whopper? No-oo. What is it?

Alright. I'll tell you. But be prepared. You're going to be upset for the rest of the day. It might hinder sleep tonight. It's...a chocolate-covered raisin.

I know.

I warned you.

It's a travesty. Some stupid little fund-raising company that preys off my guilt (Yes...I would like 40% of the profit from this sale to go towards another parent's child's acquisition of leotards, hockey sticks, camping experiences, tap shoes, tubas, trips to Boston, New York City, Paris, the amusement park...Snarky side-note: My daughters used holiday and birthday money for school trips...they picked strawberries, blueberries, and garlic to supplement these expenditures. There is something to be said for the character-building experience of "If you can't afford it...go without." Instead...so as to avoid NEVER disappointing Little Jack or Little Jill, parents sell FOR THEM!!! And let me repeat that profit margin. Forty cents on the dollar! Fund-raising companies aren't looking to help the unfortunate...they're making serious bank off of people who either refuse to say no to their kids or have no problem asking friends and neighbors to guiltily purchase GARBAGE from kids who have no idea how to even politely make a sale!!! Or say "thank you"!) Thirty dollars a month is allotted from my grocery budget to accommodate the endless parade of student solicitors in my classroom. I'm sorry. I went and bought a Pepsi. I feel better now.

So anyway...back to that stupid little soul-sucking forty-cents-on-the-dollar fund-raising company of whom I was STUPID enough to purchase chocolate-covered raisins IN GOOD FAITH...They were so busy raking in the money, they couldn't be bothered to separate my raisins...instead throwing them in CLUMPS into their sub-par, waxy chocolate. These weren't cute clusters. These were quarter-sized bunches of dried raisin lumps.  I was, naturally, devastated. This quickly escalated into rage. I paid $7.50 (of which the child pocketed $3 towards a flugelhorn) to be bitterly disappointed. Betrayed. Talk about your sour grapes.

"My eyes are up here"-Halloween 2018

What is a girl to do when she is surrounded, on all sides, by perversion? How am I to maintain my pure heart and innocent spirit when those around me cast lecherous lassos of debauchery, attempting to ensnare me; pulling me down to their own depths of depravity.

Sigh.

What is wrong with this world that a girl can't hot-glue a couple of large white orbs with black painted tips onto her chest and then parade around a crowded gymnasium without fear of judgement?  Madonna did it. Brittany. Katie Perry. The Lady Gaga. I'm in prestigious company here.

I did have a few moments where I questioned my choice of costume design. I noticed several members of the teaching staff had trouble making eye contact with me while I was in character. And my 4th graders, delighted with my outfit, kept asking what the eyes were made of and wanted to touch them. Naked truth here: At 48, there is NO WAY that my actual "eyes" would be so perkily positioned so I grit my teeth and allowed my budding optometrists to examine the styrofoam material.

Judgment, in the form of social media, followed me home, questioning my right to choose (a costume). I have to admit, however, that the biggest wound to my pride came when one kid asked if I was Rizzo the Rat from the Muppets. That kid definitely needed to get his eyes checked!