Brunch at The Marine Room (Apparently they let ANYONE eat there)

"Savannah, say something sophisticated," I hissed as I wrestled my tightly-origami-ed swan napkin into my lap and quickly color-coded my sugar. Our primly-postured waiter approached and, startled, I yelled out, "Lexus!" "That's the best you could come up with?" Sydney asked, astonished as she watched our server fill our glasses with freshly-squeezed orange juice. "I'll do better when you come back," I promised him. "When you have champagne flutes on the table, you're already sophisticated," he assured me.

We were at The Marine Room in La Jolla, known for its majestic ocean tide views, delicious brunch, and splendid service. "What time is the dolphin viewing?" I asked as I flopped awkwardly in the chair that was pulled out for me. "There's an app for that," he smiled back indulgently, making me glad I hadn't worn my pants with the questionable button. This was definitely a button-worthy restaurant.

Aaron arrived with coffee in a silver tureen with a slender spout. I gulped. I was WAY over my head

here. "Have you ever heard of Kay & Peele?" I murmured as Sydney mulled the mimosa selections. He suddenly grinned at me. Okay. This one didn't starch his shorts. I could work with this. Joshua returned and I tried out my recently-googled sophisticated words on him: "Debutante. Bourgeois. Boondoggle." He was, to say the least, impressed. "What's boondoggle?" he asked, trying to re-fold my napkin. I slapped his hands away. "Remember those ugly plastic braided bracelets that you made at camp?" I reminded him. Oh dear. He probably didn't understand what the word plastic meant. And he probably attended diamond-polishing camp. "It also means work of no value meant only to make you look busy," I told him as he shaped my napkin (or, in the French, serviette) into a walrus.

The Pacific took this moment to cough up one of its critters for my entertainment. "I just saw a bird," I clapped. Everyone looked but the bird had slipped back beneath the waves. "Was it a pelican?" someone asked. "No, it was black," I reported. "A crow?" suggested Lisa. "A raven, perhaps," Sydney added helpfully. "No..." I snapped, actually snapping my fingers, "Seaside cliff dwellers...aquatic...slender-billed...CORMORANT!" The restaurant erupted. Actually, the restaurant was alarmingly quiet (except for us).

We were then directed to the brunch line where I spent a great deal of time deciding which plate to use:  oval, rectangular, wavy. Rectangular seemed the most elegant. I jumped in line and proceeded to read the food identification cards that were obviously written by the finest literary minds of our time. I fell prey to the most elementary of dining deceptions and allowed myself to be lured in by the spurious sprinkling of seasonings and sauces. I KNOW that I don't like Eggs Benedict. It's a pretentiously-titled breakfast dish drowning in a layer of yolk-y lemon butter. But yet...there it sat on my square plate, wasting valuable dessert space. I returned to my seat, disgusted that my napkin had been contorted into a cormorant. "Now you're just showing off," I shouted, sliding my slippery eggs onto Savannah's oval plate. "I thought I'd raised you better," I muttered. As my Eggs Benedict changed sides, one of my thousands of forks had moved out of its meticulous alignment and Joshua rushed over, apologizing, to replace it.

I think I was starting to get the hang of this. As I sipped my coffee from a silver tureen, I noticed that my sugar had run alarmingly low. There were yellow packets artfully displayed and blue packets perched precisely in place but my white packets had inexplicably disappeared. I wailed. White packet sugar arrived in seconds along with two new forks as my napkin was again transformed, this time into a mermaid.

Prior to my brief visit to the restroom, I made the girls promise NOT to allow any more napkin folding. As I proceeded through the waiting room to the outer chamber to the inner sanctum to the actual room I needed, I was delighted to discover disposable hand towels thicker, softer, and more absorbent than my actual bath towels at home. I love bringing little souvenirs back for my 4th graders but perhaps this was too extravagant. I returned to my seat to find more forks and a napkin-ed replica of The White House.

"Mom, signal for the check," Savannah said, "but subtly." Has she met me? I began my three-part choreographed dance utilizing only neck, chin, and eyebrows accompanied by a harmonious blend of discreet throat-clearing and sad-sighing, tinged with regret. Suddenly, a flash of movement startled us all as Joshua handed off the bill to Lisa like a spy passing along state secrets. "Was that slight-of-hand? What just happened? Stop bringing me forks!" we all yelled. Lisa laughed as we all fumed. "We don't know how to act in sophisticated restaurants," I explained to Joshua. "I'd love to see how you act in a regular restaurant," he smiled as the staff gathered to say goodbye like the Von Trapps. "Au revoir!" they called, queen-waving us out the door. "Reservoir!" I hollered back before explaining to the valet that the day was so nice, we'd decided to walk (ten grueling blocks back to the car). "Sophisticated people stroll," I told Sydney as we wobbled away from our luxurious lunch. I only stole one disposable hand towel. And a pen. But the true crime was committed by The Marine Room. They stole my heart.

Stick a sock in it!

Look...I tried. There is irrefutable evidence that I did my very best to embrace the seasonal spirit. Sweaters, cards, fudge, and festivities...I Bob-Cratchitted the hell of the holidays. But it's never enough. The merry-making just won't stop. Even a decisively-shut door can't keep Christmas out.

It's called "You've been socked," and it's supposed to be delightful. And even though I've been trying to channel Dickens...because I'm TRYING...allow me to divert to another prestigious literary figure, Cal Naughton, Jr. from The Ballad of Ricky Bobby who once threatened to "sock" someone straight in the face. That's how I feel about the "You've been socked" activity. My friend, George usually protects me, squirreling away a counterfeit sign proclaiming to the world that I'd already been "socked," but he's since been banished to the opposite side of the building. So every day, I waited in fear, for someone to "sock" my door with a stocking full of fun...forcing me to reciprocate.

As each day passed, my resentment grew. How dare they foist fun on me! I'd give them a stocking full of "fun." [Insert evil, maniacal laughter here.] Despite the on-point messaging, a stocking full of feces was out of the question. But I refused...REFUSED...on principle, to fill a sequined stocking full of cute candy canes. I refused to give joy a firm foothold...it was time to infuse some reality and reason into the season. In other words, when it came to being "socked," I was going to be a real "heel."

The much-anticipated day arrived...accompanied by the dreaded knock...knock...knocking on my classroom door. My 4th graders squealed with delight over the whimsical, hand-drawn note and suckers. That's about right. I nodded with approval over this subliminally-subtle sugar-ed subsidy. We're all a bunch of suckers for condoning and propagating this merry little mission of fun.

My 9-year-olds fell silent as they watched me stuff spiders back into the empty stocking. I would have added coal but I'd been regularly doling it out to my own students so I was in short-supply. A classroom debate raged as we considered the lucky recipient of our gift. "First graders won't understand Mrs. Mosiman's humor," one student argued. "No one understands Mrs. Mosiman's humor," her friend countered. I made a mental note to replenish my dwindling coal supply. 

It was determined that only their fellow 4th graders could withstand the emotional impact of receiving a stocking full of spiders. It was delivered with ninja-like precision while the rest of us hummed The Mission Impossible theme. We were devastated, later, to learn that our message had missed its target. "How did you like your stocking?" one of my kids casually asked at lunch, as inconspicuous as a break-up billboard on the I-90. Sipping his chocolate milk reflectively, the boy informed my student that HIS teacher had announced that Mrs. Mosiman was too cheap and lazy to fill their stocking with appropriate items and instead used her left-over Halloween garbage. Room 24 was shocked and stunned. Our intent had been misinterpreted. Our message misaligned.

"Maybe it was a little too political for this group," my kids said, trying to reassure me, "Not everyone is capable of our elevated, high-brow, sophisticated humor," they soothed. They were right, of course. Next time, we'll be much more to the point and fill our stocking with laundry lint and dum dum pops.

A bee is born...School Bus Karaoke

I'd finally done it. Despite having no musical ability WHATSOEVER...despite having been kicked out of, not one but, TWO bands, I FINALLY broke through the male-dominated glass ceiling that is: School Bus Karaoke. "Amy," School Bus Karaoke co-star (and my arch-nemesis) Tyler said, sighing in exasperation, "there can't be a glass ceiling seeing that there's only been two episodes." "Tell that to Gloria Steinbeck," I snapped. "You mean Gloria Steinem," he corrected as he wondered if I were the right woman to bust through this particular bus barrier. But it was too late anyway...I had already proclaimed myself the Rosa Parks of my time. After our ground-breaking performance, Tyler vowed to devote all his energies to reviewing Women's Rights history with me. "I don't review history," I informed him, "I make history." "Yeah, I see that," he commented dryly.

"So what do I need to do?" I asked casually, inspecting my glossy nails for nicks after Tyler BEGGED me to join the School Bus Karaoke cast.  "Choose a familiar song and re-write the lyrics to reflect a school-based message," he explained, "and create a loose script around it." I yawned. "I'll see what I can do," I shrugged dismissively, "I'll have my people call your people." He thanked me and left the room. By the time he'd reached his own classroom door, I'd had the song written and the script color-coded and printed in size 22 font.

The days of December dragged by as I awaited the day of shooting. My director, Billy, made searing script changes throughout the month as we passed one another in the hall. "Too long!" he proclaimed one day. "Too explicit!" he proclaimed another day..."gratuitous humor has no place here. Save the comedy for the clowns. Educators communicate using elevated wit and whimsy." I admit that my confidence was shaken. My entire lyric foundation was based upon the rhyming combination of scarf and barf. To accommodate his wishes, I switched over to sneeze and freeze but it just didn't have the same pizzazz.

Winter break was fast-approaching with no news of a shoot date. Maybe I wasn't destined for stardom after-all. But then it happened. Out of nowhere. It was a Monday. I remember because I had Zumba and I couldn't understand for the life of me, why ANYONE would schedule Zumba on a MONDAY.  "Filming will begin promptly at 2:40," my director informed me at one o'clock, "I intend to get this in one take."  I nodded. No problem.

Problem.

Where was the script? Where were my lyrics?

Whew! They arrived by email. Problem solved.

Problem NOT solved.

Where were my original edge-y lyrics? My sharp, soul-slicing syllables? Billy had whittled down my words from punch to powder-puff. Oh my goodness. I would be using the word mittens. He might as well have slapped wings on me and had me sprinkle glitter all over the set. Fortunately, I had a no glitter clause included in my contract alongside a daily dose of Pepsi and yellow marshmallow peep rabbits.

I arrived, excited and early, at 2:30. Dressed in my bee costume, I waited in the office and realized that there's no humiliation like Hollywood humiliation as the school secretaries pointed out how bee-u-tiful I was to everyone who stopped by.  My director showed up twenty minutes later and my other co-star, Santa himself, walked in the door shortly after. We would not see, Tyler, the diva, for another thirty minutes. As we watched the minutes of our lives tick by as we waited for Tyler, the two men gently explained how, soon, my world would irrevocably change as a result of School Bus Karaoke. Santa nodded solemnly, "From this day forward," he told me, "you will belong to the people." Wow.

The Queen T finally showed up, jumped on the bus, jumped back OFF the bus before sheepishly saying, "Take two," before getting on the bus again. This was it. The bus was coming towards me. My palms were sweating in my giant cartoon bee hands. Billy had given me some last minute words of wisdom...What were they? What were they? The bus inched closer and my stomach clenched. My entire future in acting hinged upon the sage words from this seasoned star. The bus pulled up and I took a shallow breath, remembering. Remembering words that would serve me well the remainder of my days. Words that I will pass along to my children and my children's children. "Amy," he'd said, "Don't get on the bus until I open the doors." So profound. Deep...layered...leveled. Buddha couldn't have said it better himself. And from such auspicious words, full of wit and whimsy, a bee boarded a bus.

Reasons Why My Family Doesn't Deserve Me or I Traveled 3,000 Miles For THIS?

 Being away from home around the holidays can be a confusing and frightening experience. A good host is compassionately aware of this and will go to any lengths to ensure that his/her guest is comfortable. I've learned a LOT about being a kind and gracious hostess on this particular trip. Please indulge me as I share some hospitality tips so that you, too, will be able to make your guest feel special.

1. How you pick up your guest from the airport sets the tone for the entire visit. Remember that your traveler has been uncomfortably squeezed into insufficient airplane seating for HOURS and it is your responsibility to ensure your friend doesn't suffer from painful leg cramping. As your traveler exits Terminal 2, cheerfully call them up and explain that you're stuck at Terminal 1 and that the walk will do your guest good.

2.  Atmosphere is an often-over-looked but critical feature in establishing a warm and welcoming environment. Resist turning up (or even turning ON) the heat as rapid and constant shivering will tire out your guest...helping them to get a good night's sleep in this strange location. Bonus: Shivering also helps burn away those pesky trip calories!

3.  If not adjusting the heat settings doesn't seem like enough, you could go over-the-top by cracking several windows in the apartment and then helpfully inform your guest that it's a preventative measure against the very-real possibility of carbon monoxide poisoning. This is another helpful sleepy-time maneuver as your guest can now lull him/herself to sleep counting the minutes left before impending death.

4.  Number 4 dates back to ancient gladiator times when sock wrestling was still popular.  Apparently, when one gladiator went down in the arena, the other gladiators would wait hopefully to see if the emperor wanted the fallen hero's socks as a souvenir or not. Should the emperor's thumb point down, the remaining gladiators would leap into action, battling one another over this much-anticipated sock acquisition. While this fun tradition seems to have faded over the centuries, an intuitive hostess will fondly rekindle the sock-fueled rage one feels when a guest dares to wear socks to bed...particularly ankle socks which apparently have no heat-value whatsoever and therefore are deemed unacceptable (and dare one say dramatic?) as an apparatus to fend off the cold.

5.  Feeding your guest is over-rated and, honestly, selfish. Forcing your friend to consume unwanted calories (and nutrients) just so you can receive compliments is abhorrent. So what if your guest has trekked three thousand miles and only just managed to choke down a stale airplane biscotti biscuit over the past six hours? Let's say, hypothetically, that your guest customarily only consumes string cheese, blueberry yogurt, coconut-pineapple water and M&Ms. Under NO circumstances are you to have ANY of these items in your apartment. It would be unconscionably cruel to cater to such unreasonable requests. If you MUST feed your guest, it is recommended that you provide a half-cooked Toaster Strudel that is still frozen in the middle as it will aid in digestion. Tepid water is also suggested as it will be frozen by morning. Cracking through that thin icy layer is comparable to tapping the hardened sugar crust on a creme brulee only with fewer calories. Your guest will thank you!

• 5.a. The importance of small, thoughtful gestures cannot be minimized. Pulling a warm string cheese wand from your purse at brunch like a magician pulling a bunny from a hat will amuse and entertain your guest who, thanks to you, had just recently learned to appreciate the little things...like half-frozen Toaster Strudels, heat, and sleep.
• 5.b. Providing your guest with daily, mind-boosting brain exercises is another thoughtful way to show you care. Hiding little delicacies, like cream for the coffee, is an easy way to elevate your guest's mood. Those three drops of creamer that you left in the bottle will be sure to evoke a giggle from your guest. And encouraging hope is a necessary part of being human. "Didn't I see that you had some left-over whipping cream?" your guest might ask. You regretfully shake your head. "I'm afraid I threw it away," you say, not sorry at all. You are, in fact, building up your guest's frustration-level so as to better prepare her for life's little disappointments. You are such a dear. Faced with black coffee, obviously your guest would rather die or bite into a Pepto caplet (See #7)...but, out of no where, here comes our little pal, Hope, again! "Oh, I forgot," you say, obviously NOT forgetting, "I placed it carefully ON TOP of the garbage. Look...it's not touching anything critically-trashy." Here is where you test the desperation-ratio of your guest as well as her level of self-respect.

6.  Prolonging your guest's exhaustion is a handy little tip in helping to bolster a person's critical thinking skills, good humor, and over-all mood. Let's say, hypothetically, that your guest had spent the ENTIRE week leading into Christmas break "teaching" 4th graders which had included class parties, assemblies, concerts, theme dressing days and departed for her trip AFTER school on Friday...dodged a pooping Pomeranian at the airport, had gum snapped at her by a saucy little cashier who sassed, "You ain't from around here, are ya?" when your guest DARED to buy a Pepsi at a southern airport, endured not one but TWO barfing infants on the plane, ignored her husband's advice to wear a warm wrap because, after-all, she was already wearing a sweater (Also said in a semi-sassy way...regretfully), choked on a stale biscotti biscuit, made it to San Diego to discover that she needed to walk from Terminal 2 over to Terminal 1, was welcomed into an ice-cold apartment, starved to death...but then...blissfully...crawled into bed (after having her socks forcibly removed from her frozen feet), only to have her hostess engage in a three-hour discourse detailing the hard-to-detect symptoms of carbon monoxide poisoning.

• 6.a. Keeping your guest's mind sharp with the unknown origins of an obscure movie quote in the middle of the night with a three-hour time differential is also fun. "Come ba-aa-ack...come ba-aa-ack..." is also a disturbing mantra that conjures up under-the-bed demons and mirror monsters. "It was a woman," one might muse at one o'clock (four o'clock EST)..."she needs help." An hour later...genre speculation begins. "A western, maybe? I think she was laying prone on the ground." By the third hour, this exercise will have transformed into a fun team-building activity. "Shut up! Let me think! I just need to meditate on this!" "I think meditation actually AVOIDS the thinking process." "Shut up!"
• 6.b. Cuddling your guest really reflects your level of devotion. "Flip over," you might suggest in a non-bossy tone at two o'clock in the morning (five o'clock EST) while your guest lies awake, afraid of dying from either carbon monoxide poisoning or demon possession, her brain running at 1,000 miles a minute as she tries to figure out which movie featured a character croaking out "Come ba-aa-ack...come ba.aa.ack." When your guest doesn't immediately cooperate, you graciously flip her over yourself so that she can be spooned properly like the old couple in The Notebook. "More like the old couple in Titanic," your guests corrects before yelling, "Wait! That's it! Titanic! It's from Titanic!" At this point  (three o'clock am/six o'clock am EST), you realize that it takes way too much energy to spoon so you flip your guest (and her cold feet) back to her original position.
• 6.c. Honesty is crucial in the host/house-guest relationship. Late-night confessions are best. Let's say, hypothetically, that you only had time, in the six months that you knew that your guest was scheduled to arrive, to wash only ONE pillow case. And let's also say, hypothetically, that by some strange, quirk of fate, that the hostess ended up...in this weird wacky Russian roulette of wayward laundry linens...with the only CLEAN pillow case. It will soothe your cold, starving, over-tired guest to learn about this at approximately four o'clock am (seven o'clock am EST).

7. Now...despite the careful dietary food restrictions that you so thoughtfully imposed upon your
guest, digestive discomfort may still occur. You might find that some of your guests have developed an unhealthy dependency on a certain type on antacid, such as Tums. It's in their best interest to cut this curative cord and mix it up a little. Your guest might initially be resistant. "What is this? My

Pepto at home is in liquid form." A lip curl accompanied by a grimace indicates that you might have a chance of getting your guest to take what's best for her voluntarily. A snarl and a swear word is a good sign that you may have to pin her to the floor first. A Pepto capsule is delivered to your guest's shaky hand. An inquisitive sniff is applied. The medicine is held up to the light. Doubt fills the air as you hurriedly read the microscopic directions on the pink bottle. "My Tums has a chalky taste," your guest whispers forlornly. "Why don't you lick it?" you encourage, "Maybe this tablet is chalky too." You skim read faster. Time is running out. "Chew it," you say desperately, throwing caution to the wind. The digestive health of your guest is at stake here. Too late, you realize your error as your guest doubles over in a coughing fit...her face contorted...her taste buds obliterated beyond repair. "Oops..." you've apparently just reached a relevant direction on the Pepto bottle. "Well..." you yell cheerfully over the coughing, gagging, and retching, "at least you'll absorb it faster this way!"

8. Providing furry companionship for your house-guests will really put you over the top. Now, understand that both two-and-four legged creatures can be unpredictable and behaviors must be managed immediately. A raised voice may result in fear and confusion. Physical discipline might be met with reciprocity. A water-filled spray bottle is an effective method of communicating your displeasure of a certain behavior. Testing this method on your guest first often serves as a deterrent...delaying or diminishing similar behaviors from your four-legged friend. Using your guest as a role model will also provide him/her with a sense of self-importance and belonging. The refreshing burst of water also is key in skin hydration...plumping those dehydrated pores while flooding the dry desert facial plain. By the end of the visit, your guest's skin will simply sparkle. And unsolicited barking will be kept to a minimum.

Look at all I've learned during this, my ten-day visit to San Diego! As I have only been here three days so far, I can't wait to discover even more hosting tips for when the girls come to visit me in New York. I have a LOT planned. Just pray I survive this particular trip first.

A Magical Hogwarts Holiday

 The Mosiman women decided to spend the holidays in an old English castle, bedecked with lights and all the trimmings. It was, in a word, magical. Did I mention that it was Hogwarts? We couldn't have been happier. We admired the illuminated pine cone ornaments decorating the trees, sipped hot butter-beer toddies as we meandered through shops, were sorted by the "Suggestion Hat" into our respective houses, and Sydney was deemed "The Chosen One" at Ollivanders with her Phoenix Tail-cored wand made of ash. We were home. We were with "our people." Why would we ever choose to leave?

But we did.

We were in line for "The Mummy" when Savannah began to express concern as we passed dire sign postings warning about ride precautions. "I took Dramamine," I reassured her, having mastered the castle ride like a seasoned Quidditch player. The signs grew markedly larger and the warnings more strident as we approached the boarding area. My confidence began to waver. How bad could it possibly be?

Turns out...pretty bad.

Three minutes later, I had ground my teeth down to dust, my fingers were frozen onto the ride railing, and I may have wet myself. Our car inched forward so that I could shakily disembark but, somehow, it had overshot the landing deck. This could not be. I glanced with great fear and uncertainty at Sydney, seated beside me. "No," she said, "there's no way we're going again...." We shot forward for another round of riding-fun, Sydney quickly emptying her purse as an impromptu airsickness bag and screaming, "I'm sorry," as we were plunged once again into the darkness.

Three minutes later, I was pried from the ride, air-lifted to a nearby bench where I immediately went fetal. My loving, caring children stood by to see if I needed anything such as photographic documentation of the aftermath (Savannah) or real-time evidence for future legal proceedings (Sydney). I begged to be moved to the sun and curled up in a cozy spot next to a garbage can. "Go on without me," I stoically croaked. Savannah and Lisa scurried off but Sydney remained loyally by my side. "I was a little sleepy," she later confessed, using my unconscious state as an excuse to catch a couple zzzs.

When I could functionally stand again, we slowly made our way back towards Hogsmead. Suddenly, Sydney grabbed my hand and pulled me into a poorly-signed, poorly-lit passageway. "It's a walk-through tour," Sydney said. "To what?" I wondered but she didn't know. Maybe the blood-stained hand-print on the static-y television monitor should have been a clue. We were now crowded on both sides by similarly-confused park guests. "I don't like this," Sydney muttered as I glared at her. Savannah and Lisa had texted us, questioning our where-abouts but had since gone mysteriously phone-silent.  We were herded forward through some swinging doors and the nightmare began: We were in an episode of The Walking Dead. Sydney and I screamed ourselves hoarse, learned our kung fu moves don't work on zombies and I may have wet myself. Somehow, we survived and stumbled back out into the sun where Savannah and Lisa were waiting for us. "It was too late to save you," they told us sadly, "We'd made the same mistake you did an hour ago."

It was decided that the only safe place in the park was Hogwarts. "How about we enjoy some hot chocolate and watch the Animal Actors Show before finishing up with the castle ride?" Savannah suggested, "You guys wait here."

We shouldn't have waited there.

"Sydney...don't look behind you," I whispered, "Frankenstein's monster is headed this way." He came within inches of her before Count Dracula whisked her up in his swirling cape. Scooby Doo and the gang were right up the block but they were apparently oblivious to our perilous situation.

 We watched the show. Drank our hot chocolate. Casted a few spells. And decided to end the day on a high note with the castle ride. It was high alright. About twenty feet high when the ride froze and I lingered longer than was comfortable, trapped between a giant arachnid and a dementor.  I was afraid I was going to wet myself. Was this the way I was going to go out? Dangling like a doomed dust particle in a deranged dungeon? No! Not Amy Mosiman! I was a child of the light.

Fortunately, fate intervened. Or someone unplugged and then re-plugged in the ride. Either way, I escaped Aragog and successfully evoked the Patronus Charm to evade the dementors (My patronus is a dachshund, by the way), making my way back, successfully...victoriously, to The Great Hall to be reunited with my chums. I was ready to go home. While maybe not necessarily as magical, holidays in my living room rarely leave me feeling nauseated and or in need of adult diapers.

A dream unraveled

It was a dream...FIVE years in the making. I scrimped and saved...begged, borrowed, and bartered...wrestling my way into my husband's resistant wallet until FINALLY my dream was realized. Team 4 had enough matching Christmas sweaters to last a week. Victorious...triumphant... I had summit-ted my ugly cotton-blend Everest.

My colleagues and I sat down to map out our weekly wardrobe schedule for December. "Monday will be Reindeer Day...Tuesday will be Gingerbread Man Day..." Suddenly, a discreet cough interrupted this pivotal meeting. "Ugh...about that," Geri said quietly, "I may have thrown away the Gingerbread Man sweater." We sat in stunned silence. She might just have well as said that she'd driven to the North Pole and stabbed Santa in the heart. I took several deep breaths and blinked back tears while Rachel and Kelly indignantly glared at our sweater separatist. "Amy has been working for YEARS to accumulate these hideous sweaters for us! Why on earth would you have thrown one away?"

Geri broke down under their grueling interrogation. "I snapped," she admitted finally. "That stupid plush gingerbread boy protruded at least two feet away from my chest. I couldn't maneuver around my classroom. It impeded my teaching. It was torture, I tell ya...TORTURE! No teacher should be expected to work under such conditions! I won't apologize," she spat venomously, "I WON'T!"

So it was with a heavy heart that I gathered my friends for our yearly picture. A picture that conveyed a message of teamwork, friendship, humor, loyalty, and love. But this year's picture would reflect a different message: A work-mate gone rogue...a non-conformist...a ne'er-do-well who would rather blaze her fashion trail alone. Take a long, hard look at that picture, folks, as it captures the very moment that my dream died.

"You mean it's not over YET?" Zumba continues

I tried to arrange a Pot Luck for this, our final Zumba class, but for some reason, not everyone was on board so, to compromise, I brought along a 10.8 ounce bag of Hershey Kisses to commemorate our time together and celebrate that it was FINALLY over. "But Amy," Felicia huffed in exasperation, trying to slap my snack from my hands, "it isn't over. There's one more class on Monday." I looked at her in horror. "Who does Zumba on a Monday?" I asked incredulously. My friend Traci also chose this time to tell me that they'd decided to offer a second session after the holiday break. "I'm going to snap you like a twig," I snarled at her. She laughed, flexing her tightly-tones muscles at me, "You'd have to catch me first!"

Despite my best efforts, I have somehow managed to become a part of this sick group of exercisers. And I hate to admit it, but my efforts are beginning to pay off. For instance, I'm down from a 20 ounce Pepsi to a 16 ounce Pepsi. And the other day...I only ate half of my Cosmic Brownie during class! And (I don't want to brag), I've managed to make myself somewhat indispensable. When one of our members felt a little shaky, I generously sacrificed my own class-time to walk her back to her room and watched her eat a peanut butter sandwich. And yesterday, I unfortunately ended up missing all of the after-class clean-up time searching for a custodian to ask if we really had to clean up (The answer was "yes."). I'm a helper. It's just who I am.

"Does anyone need a towel?" Felicia asked, mid-class. I looked around surreptitiously to see if anyone had wet themselves. I know that I've worried, once or twice, about that happening to me as I was bouncing across the room. "To mop up sweat puddles," Erin interpreted for me, noticing my confusion, "But you don't sweat, Sweetheart, you shine."

Felicia introduced some new moves. I groaned. I had just mastered the Kick the Dog Poo Off Your Shoe maneuver last week. Turns out that Turning a Lightbulb isn't as easy as it sounds. My friend Amy kept counting off for me and pointing out which direction I should go. As I was pulsating, Erin asked if I was kegeling. I gasped. "We don't know each other well enough for you to ask me that," I told her. While on the floor (pretending to be) doing pelvic thrusts, I was astonished with how high Erin's hips were...it was reminiscent of one of those exorcism movies...like there was a string tied to her bellybutton lifting her toward the ceiling.  Erin glanced at me. "Amy, you actually have to raise your ass UP," she told me. Oh.

Finally...class was over. Three of us had worn the same shirt so we held an impromptu photo-shoot. It was then that I noticed that the lettering on our shirts was positioned...let's say...differently. Felicia's words rested much higher on her shirt than mine. I frowned. "Your shirt is bigger than mine," I complained. "But your's look great," she reassured me. She was being kind but it was time to face facts. My shirt had some thirty years on her shirt. But then I realized...philosophically...it's not the size or gravitational pull of your shirt that matters...it's what you do with your shirt that counts.

When my phone is left unattended.

Don't "sweat"-er the small stuff: "Meow"-y Christmas from the 4th Grade Team

It happens every year so I'm not sure why I'm ever surprised. I am but a simple girl with simple dreams. And my dream was for my 4th grade team to acquire enough matching Christmas sweaters to fill a school week. It makes wardrobe-planning a snap. Turns out, it also makes me want to snap the necks (NOTE-TO-SELF:  Edit that line later to "snap at" and lose "the necks" so readers don't realize that I'm in the midst of a murderous merry-making melt-down.) of my some of my usually-easy-going and such-a-joy-to-work-with co-workers. 

You would not begin to believe the bickering that accompanies each picture-taking session. "Why do we even have to take a picture?" Geri groused, "We wear the same stupid sweaters EVERY year." I glared at her as I wrestled her bodily into place. "So we can one day look back fondly upon our years together as treasured memories," I hissed. Maybe a space of five to ten years will enable me to forget the trauma and focus only on the good times. "What good times?" Geri seethed, clenching her teeth for the camera.

Kelly likes to have a plan for the picture. Like a back-story or a theme. "The theme is that Amy makes us wear ridiculous matching sweaters for a week," Geri told her, "We don't need to get into character for that. Just stand there and smile so we can get this over with." But Kelly cannot be thwarted. "Well..." she mused. "I'm the only one who likes cats, so I can look happy and you guys can act mad."  Rachel and I agreed and began preparing for our roles as actives cat-haters. "Wait," Geri interrupted, "I like cats." "So be happy," I said. Geri considered this for a moment before admitting that her hatred of the Christmas sweaters preceded her love of felines. "I'll be mad too," she conceded. 

Our poor photographer...an innocent bystander...was tortured as we argued, debated, disagreed, and belittled one another over a simple picture. Finally a suggestion was made...I don't know by who because I was rocking a pounding headache by then...to "look like cats." Idiotic. But by then I didn't care. To Geri's credit, she even managed to mangle a meow during our photo shoot. What had once begun as a dream had turned into a nightmare.

The colors of Christmas

Hey! I love Christmas as much as anybody but, c'mon...you have to admit that maybe (just...may--be... (If you're French and have a waxed mustache...please be stroking it speculatively right now)), we've gotten a tad out of control? Hanksmas is a real problem for me. I need time to brace myself for the surge of relentless good cheer that comes at me each December. But the tsunami starts in October now and I'm DROWNING.

At least my students understand. Well...kind of. I help them understand by implementing Rule #13:  The consequences of any student caught singing a Christmas carol in Room 24 prior to Thanksgiving break will be the loss of one recess minute per infraction. (Conversely, if the teacher was caught singing a Christmas song, students would receive five extra minutes on the recess clock. HA! Like that was EVER going to happen!) We keep Christmas locked down TIGHT here in Room 24! It's more special that way!

Today, I received a super-special gift that showed me that like-minded people are out there. Our preschoolers colored candy cane decorations and secretly hung them on classroom doors throughout the elementary. When I spotted mine, my heart filled with hope. Devoid of glitter, my brown and gray candy cane welcomed visitors to a world where students gleefully toss darts at Santa's balloon beard as a count-down-to-Christmas activity. Where the theme song is Spongebob Squarepant's "Don't Be a Jerk...It's Christmas." Where children LITERALLY receive coal in their stockings to reflect the morning announcement quote about responding to pressure. Brown and gray. Glitter-less. The colors of Christmas.

"Follow Amy!" said no sane person EVER

A familiar sentiment that runs through practically EVERY single one of my stories is the exasperated ending of "I don't know WHAT I was thinking!" This story is no different.

I used to fancy myself in a solid leadership role: A respected person who others admired and wanted to emulate; a cool-headed decision-maker that others would look to in times of trial; a visionary who could transform creative thought into mind-transforming action. "Follow me, guys," I would shout, a battle-cry to summon the leaderless minions around me, and we would unleash the hounds, storm the castle, surge the shores, or, at the very least, create something inspirational out of cardboard. But, as years passed and reality set in, I came to finally see that those starved for leadership and guidance didn't necessarily have a hankering to follow me. Me? I was the lone clapper in the auditorium. I was the only one stupid enough to submit a book club review as part of a professional development initiative. I once led a Vacation Bible School program where only ONE kid showed up (Trying to be positive, I told my friend, Sarah, "We saved the hell out of that kid."). No. I yell, "Follow me!" and people run the OTHER way. 

So what does one do when one thinks she has a potentially great idea (Last minute Boss's Day Tribute Video) but lacks the leadership capabilities (singing talent or choreography skills) to garner public support? She bullies, begs, and blackmails established leaders into bringing her idea to life. 

Case in point:

Amy (to obnoxious people who everyone seems to like and will willingly do stuff for):

How about a video song parody of Nicki Minaj's "Super Bass" as "Super Boss" and use a chipmunk voice transformer to adjust our voices? We'd start by changing every f-word to "friend." Not a lot of time to organize for Wednesday, though. No one will hurt my feelings if you want to shelve what could possibly be the Best Boss's Day tribute EVER until next year. Your $3 card will be equally epic, I'm sure.

Response from obnoxious leader #1 (Erin): Do we know how to do this? I'm game for whatever we want to do! I love the lyrics once I read them.

Amy: Of course we don't know how to do this...but Kelly's a whiz at video. 

And obviously you DIDN'T read those lyrics...Nicki is pure smut. But easy enough to re-write if we try.

Response from obnoxious leader #2 (Tyler): Amy, I love your idea!! I’m in.

Just like how we do karaoke videos! Let’s do it. 

Translation:  You do all the work. I'll take all the credit.

Amy:  So we need to start re-working lyrics and get a basic story board in place...

I have a long pink wig...prop ideas? In addition to replacing out f-words...we have some

politically incorrect ideologies to spin in a more professional direction.

Three frustrating hours later, I am forced to face some elemental truths about myself. 

First and foremost:  I cannot rap.

Amy:  Would Megan Trainor's "All about that bass" be easier?

Erin:  For sure.

Tyler:  Definitely.

Amy:  Cowards.

Tyler:  Easier lyrics to change and sing but if you want to channel your inner Nicki, I’m all in.

Translation:  You do all the work. I'll take all the credit. But if it's stupid, I'm blaming you.

 Amy:  Sigh...channeling Megan Trainor is NOT my style. That girl is WAY too happy and positive. But time is of the essence.

Erin:  What's wrong with a happy and positive girl, Amy? 

Twelve hours later…re-written song sent to “committee.”

Amy:  This needs SERIOUS editing if we intend for it to be presented on Wednesday.  My hopes are faltering.

Erin (responding within 15 seconds): It’s perfect…just assign us all parts and we got this.

Amy:  You could NOT have possibly sang it TO THE MUSIC in the time it took you to respond. It is NOT perfect!

Amy (again): Never mind…let’s just get him a card. This is ridiculous.

Tyler (fresh from a good night’s sleep):  Amy, this is great. Just a couple of tweeks of syllables and it’s a for-sure win. Great job! Keep it up and you’ll be in the next school bus karaoke!

Amy:  Ugh…no thanks. Too reserved and shy a girl for the limelight.

So I determined the song, I re-wrote the lyrics, I found the instrumental, I developed the choreography, I scheduled a performance time and location...and NO ONE SHOWED UP. I am an utter failure.

Erin, used to having people drop EVERYTHING they’re doing at her beck and call, was shocked by this lack of response to a project headed by Amy Mosiman. Feeling sorry for me, she rallied and insisted that just the two of us could produce this video tribute. Minutes later, confronted by my abysmal singing skills and utter lack of stage presence, Erin panicked and rushed around the building, pulling contractors out of the ceiling, swimmers out of the pool, and spectators watching modified sports off the bleachers to be in our video.

It was done. And so were any hopes of my having even a smidgen of leadership ability.

Even to the bitter end, Erin remained upbeat and positive:

Erin:  We rocked it! Just sayin’!

Amy: You were instrumental in the success of this project!

So now the existential question. If I’m not a leader and I’m not a follower…what AM I? I’m not a loner. And obviously I lack the necessary rhythm to dance to the beat of my own drum. Am I a floater? Eww. No…and I tend to fight the current anyway. I’m not sure how to parley my strength sets of sarcastic remarks and alliteration into a societal position. It’s time I faced facts and threw in the towel. Me…a leader? What was I even thinking?

Zumba: I made it through November (kind of)

It's been rough-going...on the Zumba-front. Three weeks ago, I ran away from Zumba when class was temporarily moved to the typically highly-trafficked, surrounded by GINORMOUS windows, high school gym lobby. Yes...I am a strong, confident woman...unashamed... bold...unapologetic...courageous. A role model for the out-of-shape and out-of-breath. Ugh..no, I'm NOT. Beneath this self-assured exterior beats the erratically-uneven heartbeat of a self-conscious, insecure scaredy-cat. Afraid to try anything new. Afraid of looking stupid in an environment outside of my control. So...yeah. I ran. Well...slunk is a better word as Felicia is obviously faster than me and would have caught me if I hadn't been in stealth-mode.

Two weeks ago, I was ready to get back on the Zumba horse. I assured EVERYONE that I was going until..."What's the matter?" my friend Rachel asked, walking into my classroom as I sat there looking both horrified and dejected. "I forgot my zombie pants!" I wailed, "And everyone will think I did it on purpose!" After calmly inventorying the rest of my "zombie" (Freudian slip? I think not!) clothes and deeming them satisfactory, Rachel decided that working out in khakis wouldn't cause permanent damage (except to my ever-floundering self-esteem).  "I'll wear my work pants too," she declared in solidarity. One of God's own angels. Felicia rewarded my perseverance by playing "Funky Town."

And now to this week. First, I got a cramp wrestling into my zombie pants. That, AFTER cracking a nail trying to inchworm the reluctant fabric up my stodgy legs. We (the class) diagnosed my curious inability to perform cross-over moves (right elbow/left knee, ect) and I was besieged with LOTS of suggestions including scheduling OT sessions and color-coding my body parts. It was also noticed that I am unable to sit down on the floor without circling several times like a bear bedding down for the winter. And speaking of cramps AND being down on the floor, I cramped up painfully performing non-sexual pelvic thrusts (I didn't even know non-sexual pelvic thrusts EXISTED!). Frightened, Erin sprang up to respond to my injured cry...fearing the cause might be heart-related. It kind of was. I wanted...with all my heart...to be done with Zumba. "You need to drink water," she hissed, casting a scornful gaze at my Pepsi...shining like a waiting beacon on the window sill.

I also developed a helpful mantra to accompany repetitive (and, again, pain-inducing) motions: "I...hate...Felicia..." I chugged like the little engine that would like to run over my tied-to-the-rails fitness instructor. "Don't breathe in through your mouth," she yelled, casually popping her gum as she performed an impossible-to-copy tap dance maneuver. I gasped. I couldn't NOT not breathe through my mouth. I was like a single-yoked ox hitched to a Conestoga wagon struggling up a washed-out path in the Rocky Mountains, trying to get those darn settlers to Oregon. "She couldn't have left the pellet stove and China cabinet back East?" I breathed in disgust...through my mouth. I switched to Lamaze: Hee Hee Hoo-oo but it threw off the rhythm of those around me. My friends in the back, Lauren and Amy, tried to point helpfully and cadence out the steps (front /front/back/back/hop) but, at this point, I was a lost cause.

Later,as I sat on the floor, legs spread, I noticed a phenomenon that I could only describe as "trampoline crotch." I wiggled over to my friend Traci, facing her, foot-to-foot (She graciously adjusted her stretched-out width to accommodate my limitations...initially, she resembled a 180 degree angle. Our conversation took place at a more-reasonable 45 degrees). "Am I doing something wrong..." I began. "Yes," she said immediately. I frowned. "I wasn't done yet," I told her. I gestured to the stretch of fabric creating an unnatural land bridge from thigh-to-thigh. "You could bounce a quarter off of this," I said. Boing! Boing!  "What is it with you and sound effects?" she asked, before reassuring me that everyone suffers from trampoline crotch (Copywrite amymosiman2019). Felicia glared at me through the mirror as the woman surrounding me were experimentally boing boing-ing their own zombie pants. "It's not that kind of class, Amy," she scolded.

Good news: My zombie shirt selection has run its course which means I can finally STOP going to class!