Feeling a little blue now that the war is over

The last school day of March. Erin declared it "Dress as the
Decade You Were Born In" Day. I dressed in black
and attempted to hide during picture-taking time.
Erin found me.

 According to South Korean director, Park Chan-wook, the point of revenge is not in the completion but in the process. I'd always fancied myself more of a Coppola girl when it comes to bloodshed and vengeance but I'm trying to embrace more of a wider world-view. 

My month-long war with my arch-nemesis, the chronically-happy Erin, was (FINALLY) coming to a end as March drew to a close. I'd been lying in wait for weeks for my pièce de résistance; gathering needed supplies, conducting pre-surveillance checks, and enacting several failure analysis reports. I scoffed when, a week out, Erin lobbed some glitter missiles aimed at our faculty mailboxes. SEVENTY meticulously painted sparkly rocks each proclaiming the word "YOU" in all caps. After rolling my eyes, I stomped over to the secretaries who had taken to wearing WWII helmets and kevlar to avoid getting caught in a round of friendly fire. "Tracey," I snapped, "I need a Sharpie." Once I was able to successfully extract one Sharpie from her endless supply of assorted sizes, shapes, and colors ("Big or little? Bullet-tipped? Fine-tipped? Metallic? Pastel? Black?"), I stomped back to the mailboxes and began flipping those pebbles like pancakes, scribbling "Get" on each one. Unfortunately, as often happens in times of war, I forgot to factor the collateral damage as I caused some unforeseen psychological repercussions effecting innocent bystanders. "What does this mean?" some of my sweet elementary friends asked, confused, after reading my darker, somewhat demented, response to Erin's "You rock!" Joanne would not abide such naivety in her office. "For pete's sake," she snapped, "Amy wrote Get for Get stoned." Next came a long discussion about whether I meant the phrase in the biblical sense or the 1960's Woodstock sense. Bless their hearts.

Last night would serve as the final volley of this epic battle between bubbly and b!+*/y. I waited and waited and waited until Erin's classroom had been cleaned before I made my move. Armed with a giant roll of blue painter's tape, I began the laborious process of taping her door shut. Horizontal strips. Vertical strips woven through. A couple of Xs. Unhappy with the ragged edges around the frame, I evened them up with yellow masking tape. I attached the letters that I'd cut out...THE END...and...with arms shaking from exertion, eyes glassy with glee...snapped a selfie with my masterpiece. Revenge has never tasted so sweet!

Five minutes later, at around 7:30, I ran into friend and fellow co-worker, Loretta, her arms burdened with a box. She spotted Erin's door and shrieked. "How am I going to get in there?" she asked. "You're not," I told her, confident of my door-sealing skills. "I have to get in there," she told me. My friend Cathy appeared, her fingers poised to dial 9-1-1 as it might have looked like I was going to explode in a murderous rage (She tends to exaggerate). "Where am I going to put my box?" Loretta wondered. To my credit, I didn't say the first thing that popped into my mind (I've really been working on that.). "My room," I generously offered. There was a crushing silence as all of the players in this unscripted scene from the O.K. Corral considered their options. Loretta pulled the trigger first. "My purse is in there," she said. 

I don't remember much from that point on. Everything seemed to happen in slow-motion. I believe I may have yelled, "Fine, Loret-TAH!" before lunging forward and crashing through Erin's door like the Kool-Aid guy. It was a blue painter's tape blizzard for as far as the eye could see. Poor Loretta, rendered mute from shock, attempted to soldier-crawl beneath me as I clawed the covering from the door. Who else needs to get into Snow White's room at FLIPPIN' 7:30 at night on a THURSDAY? my inner voice screamed, To be sure, the same bluebird of happiness that craps on my car, lands lightly upon Princess Erin's finger and sings a lilting little tune! I'll give it a finger to sing on! Surely a family of squirrels MUST need to unearth their hoarded ration of nuts from this fairy tale nightmare of a room! What about a d@m^ dwarf or two? C'mon karma! It hasn't yet struck midnight! Oops. Wrong story. During my rampage, another friend (Doesn't ANYONE go home? Who stays at school until flippin' 7:30 on a THURSDAY?), Sandy had magically materialized. She spent most of her time standing with her hands clasped over her mouth in shock as she watched my embarrassing tirade. A renowned cheerleading coach, she did offer to execute a base extension to lift me up in order to grab the hard-to-reach remnants. I politely declined ("Nothing you did or said at that point was polite," Cathy told me later.). 

Without a word ("Oh...you didn't need to say ANYTHING," Cathy said, shaking her head.),  I took my boulder-sized bundle of blue tape and marched off, Cathy following silently behind me. I made it as far as the trash bins before karma (Thy name is the month of March) kicked me one more time. Finding myself hopelessly ensnared in a web of blue painter's tape, I began to flail about desperately. This was no cute kitten with scotch-tape feet scenario. This was more minke whale in trawling net nightmare. Cathy watched me, reining in her reproach until I exhausted myself. "Now can I help you?" she asked gently, carefully extrapolating me from the mess I'd gotten myself into. Sniffling, I nodded sadly. "Well, I hope you learned something this time," she scolded softly, trying not to rip all the hair from my arms as she removed the adhesive. I sniffled again. "What did you learn?" she prompted. "I learned...sniffle, sniffle...that revenge isn't sweet," I yelped as the scalping continued, "It's sticky."

Get your pom poms out of my face and fight fair

 This is STILL America isn't it? Isn't there some amendment out there that guarantees my right to hate the month of March, unimpeded by positive people intent on turning my thirty-one-frickin'-days of frowns upside-down? Garrison Keillor (RIP dear Companion) once said that "March is the month created to show people who don't drink what a hangover is like." Dang straight. Germ-y. Dismal. Gray. Sleety. Slushy. Sneezy. False hope. More false hope. I will not be fooled. And did I mention the thirty-one-frickin'-days?

And this particular March was even WORSE! My inner voice that always quietly worried that the world was against me became a roar of reality. The world IS against me. With the battle lines drawn between good and evil, the people chose a clear side. NOT mine.

Was it her unwaveringly bright smile? The magical lilt of her voice? Her buoyant personality? Her caring nature? Unflappable resolve? Toned calves? Or was I just THAT easy to despise? In the epic March War between Erin and Amy...Amy is clearly losing. Allies quickly joined Erin's ranks. I was besieged by the armed forces (also known as the "huggers")-Tess and Michelle, and assaulted by the propaganda team ("Et tu, Kathy?"). I was unceremoniously tossed under the bus by fellow March-hater, "If-I-had-my-way-I'd-kill-EVERY-leprechaun-out-there-Traci," who admitted that she was grateful for the break from Erin's eternal optimism. There was a double-crossing musical composer who infiltrated the PA system with uplifting lyrics ("You promised me funeral dirge songs, Aaron!") and a cinematographer (Linda!) who captured Erin's choreographed cheer-leading routine in my classroom. Even the school secretaries bailed on me. Joanne sported a sparkly shirt to inspire me and Tracey would wish me a sparkle-filled day as she power-walked past my door.

Amy (Erin's First Lieutenant), me (Obviously enjoying their
attention), and Erin (The bane of my existence)

Don't get me wrong, I've fought valiantly to the bitter end. I'd had a loaded squirt device at the ready for WEEKS, waiting for Erin to enter my lair. When she came bursting through the door, pom poms in hand, cheerleader skirt swooshing, pony-tail bobbing and launched into a personalized dance routine designed to uplift my spirits, I unleashed a hailstorm upon her. Unbowed beneath this beastly baptism, she asserted that it would only serve to help her glisten and glow even more. I couldn't believe it. It was like she was a citizen plucked straight from Who-ville. She emerged from my flood of fury, my downpour of depression...even stronger. I believe her pom poms were even more perky (And that's factoring in that she's no longer in her twenties!).

I've taken some hits, to be sure. I'm listing to the side. Wounded. Wobbly. Alone.

So alone.

But across the desert of depression that is March, I see the end in sight. The light at the end of the tunnel. April is ahead. I have but a few scant days left to battle...I refuse to run up the gray flag of truce. I will NEVER surrender! I will, as God as my witness, fight for my right to be miserable! "Smiling is for suckers!" I shout as I rally for this final engagement. I plot my course. Bind my wounds. Toss back some tequila and...CHARGE!!!

There's a melon-in-one chance of me choking to death on something healthy...

I don't think I spend an unusual amount of time thinking about my own demise but, occasionally, yes...I DO think about it. Naturally, I would like to perish in a manner befitting my personality. I would like it to be memorable and (God-willing) not TOO painful. Smothered in dachshund puppy kisses perhaps. A yellow marshmallow bunny Peep overdose. I'll even settle for falling off the couch and conking my head while reaching for the remote. Beloved guests of my funeral would nod reassuringly and remark, "At least she died doing what she loved."

Completing five hours of curriculum work on a Saturday (otherwise known as purgatory) does NOT fit into the "doing what she loves" category. But at least there was food! Juicy strawberries. Yummy pineapple. Scones. Danishes. A medley of melon.

As is always the case, in the absence of sugar-laden snacks, I will, begrudgingly, accept fruit as a temporary substitute (as long as it's pre-cut for convenient consumption). So...while my team was being AMAZINGLY productive, I was busy shoveling cube-shaped pieces of fruit in my face.

And then it happened...

I choked.

Like near-death...stay away from the light choked.  Palm raised to the ceiling in supplication to Jesus choked. All of the junk-food that I'd enjoyed over the course of my life flashed before my eyes. My team froze...awaiting the outcome. I yakked delicately like a cat, attempting to dislodge this deterrent to my breathing process. And finally, with one desperate push, I catapulted the cantaloupe across the room. I collapsed into my recently-vacated chair, tears streaming down my face. "Are you okay?" my friends asked, concerned. Gasping, I cried, "No! Out of ALL the ways for me to die, choking on a melon is NOT the way I want to go..."

Snickers bar? Maybe. But certainly NOT a melon. The only thing worse would be to vanquish from vegetables. Although the trick to survival in that circumstance is simply to "romaine" calm.

What word starts with "F" and ends with "UCK"? FIRETRUCK!

I have many strengths, including but not limited to: brand loyalty (See Pepsi, Russell Stover Chocolate Marshmallow Bunnies (blue wrapper), and Yellow Marshmallow Peep Rabbits (NOT chicks), creating inappropriate greeting cards, and harboring an alarming number of unnecessary and outdated vocabulary words (See hassock/caftan/cacophony/purloin: All of which have been the basis of family arguments under the heading of That is NOT a word. I rocked Trivia the other night when I correctly identified the word petard.)

Speaking of petard, The Mosimans (and the surrounding neighborhood--Hi Deb and Kelly!) had QUITE the explosive evening last night. There I was, curled up in my comfy chair at the witching hour, reading inspirational literature, mapping out a complicated plan of self-improvement, and reflecting upon the mysteries of the universe when suddenly there was an earth-shattering bang that shook the house. I vaulted up, grabbed a flashlight, and headed outside with the dogs to investigate if a heavy tree limb had come down onto the roof. I made it as far as the icy sidewalk when I realized I wasn't spiritually-sound enough to be ready for Armageddon. "I'm sorry I was reading smut," I prayed to the star-filled sky while promising to cleanse my literary palate with Jane Austen for awhile as I took in the giant fireball across the road. I flinched as another explosive BANG ripped through the night. I called the dogs to come in and realized that my dogs are not well-trained...AT ALL. When I finally managed to wrestle my petulant pups into the house, I raced into the bedroom for the phone. "What's going on?" Brad asked. I brought him up to date as I shakily called 911.

As I've stated...I have many strengths but staying calm and cool in an emergency is NOT one of them. I once tried to administer CPR on my father who had passed out in shock from a broken ankle. Let's just say that I'm NOT proud of the following conversation:

911: 911. What is the nature of your emergency?

Me: I'd like to report a fire, please. Well...obviously I don't mean "like"...I need to report a fire.

911: What is the location of the fire?

Me: (Mind suddenly blank): Well, s&*+...it's complicated. I'm at the intersection of H & H....but on this village end, not the other town end...but the fire is across the tracks...you know...the ones that they took up twenty years ago and now they use it as a snowmobile trail? On School Road? It's the old Archway...

911: Thank you. What is your name?

Me: (embarrassed) Amy (like I was ordering take-out pizza)

I hung up, flustered, and turned to Brad who was staring at me as though I'd lost my mind. "Did you just tell them the fire was at the cookie factory?" he asked incredulously, pointing at the sixty foot high blaze, "That's the old Agway."

Ignoring him, I pulled my boots back on and scuttled across the street to alert our neighbor. When I realized he wasn't home (found out later he was in Myrtle Beach while I was busy battling fire balls away from his property), I stood, transfixed, watching flames lick along power lines, consuming walls, and melting metal, stifling a shriek for each explosion. I returned home upon the arrival of First Responders. "Why didn't you come out?" I asked Brad. "Flying shrapnel really isn't my thing," he told me, exasperated.

When we finally went to bed, I lay there, worried. "What about hazardous chemical airborne fumes?" I asked. Brad buried his head in the pillow. "The firefighters have respirators," he assured me. "But we should prepare for death like that old couple on The Titanic." I took a deep breath, wrapping my arms around him. "I'll never let go, Brad. I'll never let go."

The "Spirit Days" War continues...

"You know that Mercury is in retrograde right now, don't ya?" my friend Kathy remarked, trying to help me understand the lunacy that is currently my world. I simply stared at the lunatic in front of me, trying to reconcile this misalignment of the planets when, really, it was just the humans in my life who were unbalanced. 

I had inadvertently crossed paths with the human hurricane of happiness...a dictator of delight...who incessantly insisted that EVERYONE share in her peppy positive attitude. 

It was my own fault. But I just couldn't remain silent in the face of such good cheer.  I would NOT allow anyone to extort elation while I still had exasperated breath in my body,  black sweatshirts in my closet and gray clouds over my head. If it was war she wanted, war she would get.

"But I don't want war, Amy," she giggled (Erin only giggles, chirps, or encourages), "I just want you to smile!" (All of Erin's sentences end in exclamation marks.)

First I had to map out alternative routes in the school as Erin appeared EVERYWHERE, shaking her pom-pom pen at me. Yes...there's a bell on it too. At one point, my 4th graders had to soldier-crawl past a corridor intersection before making a mad dash down a darkened hallway to avoid her.  Then I had to start walking with my elbows out as Erin had scheduled random huggers to accost me.  It was time to go on the offensive. And, not to brag, but there are few out there who can out-offend me. 

I cut out and hung pictures on her classroom door reminding her that, inside of every silver lining, is a gray cloud. She clapped and thanked me for using glitter to outline her name. Okay...obviously Erin lacks the skills to decipher subtle strikes aimed at taking her down. I targeted her "Spirit Days" initiative with a very blatant meme. Well...not TOO blatant. I toned down the language. It was Erin, after all...it would be like feeding bologna to a bunny. You could do it but it wouldn't be appetizing.

Yesterday, without warning, she came dancing into my room, belting out Omi's "Cheerleader." I ripped the heart-shaped box of chocolate she was holding out of her hands and tossed her out the door. I rallied the troops. Not everyone was on-board. "But Mrs. Krist is so nice," one nine-year-old protested. "Nice is for suckers, Suzy-Q," I snarled, "You're either with us or you're failing 4th grade." Morale is critical if you're an elementary teacher. We photo-shopped Erin's face on the Grinch, devoted hours to re-writing lyrics, and then practiced the chorus for our principal. When Erin finally popped in, she listened, enchanted, hands clasped over her heart, before complimenting my students on their creativity and singing talent. They were stunned. FINALLY...someone is getting it!

Today, I found my mailbox had been glitter-bombed. My classroom door adorned with an inspirational message. "This has GOT to stop," I growled as I googled the possible jail time for slashing tires. Happily, the sentence was the same for all four tires as it was for one. Might as well go big. 

Hawaiian Day at School: Kiss My Grass!

I stood in shocked dismay as I began the usual welcome spiel for my captive audience of 4th graders.  "Good morning, Class," I smiled, "Today is Friday, March 1st..." My voice trickled off with sad uncertainty as I stared blankly across the room. "What is it, Mrs. Mosiman? Are you okay?" my sweet cherubs asked. They'd locked in their bets months ago and were surreptitiously checking their squares to see who had "diabetic coma" or "stroke" on this particulate date. But no. Even though my pulse was elevated and breath sounds shaky, my health was in its usual state of mediocre lethargy and imbalance. No...I had just realized that March had 31 days in it. Thirty-one days. March. Ugh.

March. The month where I feel moody. Melancholy. Murderous. Some might even say (quietly...where I couldn't hear them...) melodramatic. This is a month to be endured. Survived.

Unless you're my friend Erin. Then it's the month to be celebrated. Sensationalized. Wiggling enthusiastically in her size one and a half happy pants, Erin decided that every Friday in March should be a Spirit Day. Cue Jazz Hands and a flurry of sparkling glitter. I groaned. "Isn't it bad enough that soon I'll be stuffed in a pilgrim outfit for Colonial Days?" I complained. Erin insisted that grass skirts were slimming and the floral pattern of the shirts disguised stains while still being stylish.  This was well beyond my ken. I had a cardboard colonial village to construct. State tests to prepare for. Data analysis to analyze. School supplies to be ordered. We still didn't have a handle on converting an improper fraction into a mixed number and somehow I was suppose to slap on a coconut brassiere and embrace March?

Someone had to take a stand in the light of such hope and happiness. Someone would have to represent those who prefer to simply grit their teeth and claw their way through the Vitamin D-depleting, cabin-fever frenzy of March. I would use my winter-white, chapped jazz hands to slap some sense into this woman and her ridiculous ideas of making the world a better place.

Plagued by restless sleep, I was already awake when the reminder text came in early this morning.

Rachel:  ALOHA!!! Just wanted to remind you that it's Hawaiian Day!

Who uses that many exclamation points at 6 am? I'd hate to see how many Erin would have used.

Me:  F^*} Dress-Up Days...pardon my French.

Note the intentional non-use of exclamation points and the subtle inclusion of an expletive. 

Usually I get dressed in the dark but I was very intentional with my wardrobe this morning so, for once, I turned on the light. Brad squinted at me. "What's up with the Johnny Cash look?" he grumbled before burying his head under the pillow. "It's either this or kill Erin," I told him matter-of-factly before stomping out of the room. Later, my mood further darkened when I saw my normally sedate elementary halls had basically hawked up a cheesy Hawaiian luau. I drifted through the bright flowers and blinding colors like a thunder cloud. I responded like a rabid dog when someone tried to lasso my head with a lei. I was sickened by all the smiles. Channeling my best Ebenezer, I snapped at every positive remark with the same response: "You keep March in your own way and I'll keep it in mine."

I guess it just comes down to different ideologies. While March typically bears down upon me like a great wave of water, dragging me into the undertow, Erin grabs her surfboard. I can barely keep myself afloat in March yet Erin is fighting to lift others up. What an inspiration.

Dagnabbit, Now I'm back to wanting to slap her silly again. And just so you know that a small speck of light still exists in my dark heart, my black socks were decorated with sparkly unicorns. I'm not a complete monster.