If it LOOKS sort of like a brownie than it must TASTE sort of like a brownie...NOT!!!

It was not my most mature moment. To be fair, I don't actually experience too many of those. Case in point, just that morning, the vending machine refused (out of pure vindictive spite) to accept my five dollar bill. Lately (as in, the past twenty years), I have developed the unfortunate habit of skipping over mild exclamations of unhappiness ("Oh snickerdoodles!" "Scooby-Doo!" "My stars!"), bypassing Level One stand-in curses ("Darn it!" "Shoot!" "Aw heck!"), vaulting COMPLETELY over the unladylike language that is associated with Level Two potty mouths and instead, head straight for the big guns of Level Three: Pure, unadulterated profanity. Unfortunately, while I was both verbally and physically assaulting the vending machine, I neglected to notice that the faculty room was not empty (Sorry, Felicia.).

After school, while I was again in the faculty room (Wait! Is this a common thread?), I heard the joyous noise of a blender. And we all know that that means one of two things: Chocolate milkshakes or margaritas! For the first time that day, I felt something akin to hope and happiness. I skipped over to my friend Michelle to investigate. I dispensed of all pretense of social protocol ("Hi. How are you? How was your day? You look pretty. ect.") and got straight to the point. "Is that a milkshake?" I asked pathetically. What's the point of pride and self-respect when dairy is on the line? "Sort of," she nodded, adorable pony-tail bobbing. I jerked back, reassessing the situation, realizing I'd missed some fundamental clues in my desperation for dessert. Ponytail. Stretchy-looking pants. Sneakers. Uh-oh. I began to back away slowly...avoiding eye contact...voice low and soothing. But it was too late. I'd been ensnared.

"Do you want to try some?" Michelle offered in a calm, gentle voice, "It tastes just like a brownie." RUN! my mind screamed. Unfortunately, I was too out-of-shape to run far. I wrinkled my nose, inching closer, like a cautious kitten. It did sort of resemble a chocolaty-like substance. "What's in it?" I asked warily, peering into her weird handheld blender contraption. "Sweet potatoes and protein powder." I stared at her incredulously before the vertigo struck. Ugh. She sighed, speaking firmly, as though to a preschooler, "Amy, you should try it. It's good for you. And it tastes just like a brownie."

I didn't want to do it. You know I didn't. I was being bullied...straight up. Shamed for my life choices. And of course I didn't believe that it would taste like a brownie but still...

She buzzed her witch's brew again before handing it to me. I'd watched a guy on YouTube eat a pre-packaged zebra tarantula earlier in the day so I figured I had this. I danced around a bit while Michelle rolled her eyes in exasperation. I flapped my hands like a southern bell about to consume a zebra tarantula. I channeled my best Matthew McConaughey: "All right...all right...all right." And then I took a shot. Fortunately, gagging and retching precluded my gut-instinct to resort to Level Three profanity. I lunged at the sink where Michelle was daintily cleaning her baby-food blender and I rinsed my mouth out with hot water, spitting into the sink with great gusto. "I don't think the protein powder was mixed up enough," I gasped, clinging to the counter weakly. "No, that's the oatmeal," Michelle told me, frowning as I spit some more.

When I could breath without the compulsion to barf, I wobbled out of the faculty room on limp legs in my attempt to get away from this nightmare. Except the nightmare followed me into my room with her perky little ponytail, spotted my one or two Pepsis scattered about the room, and began lecturing me on my lifestyle. My drawer full of marshmallow peeps pushed her over the edge. She threatened to compose a denture mold of Chiclets for me. She dramatically composed a list of the warning signs associated with diabetes and then departed.

In retrospect, it was a valuable life lesson for me. As opposed to mature moments, I actually experience LOTS of valuable life lessons. Often repeatedly because I don't tend to remember the original life lesson. This life lesson, summed up, is: Just because it's brown, don't assume, suspect, or even dare to HOPE that it tastes like a brownie. LOTS of things are brown and DON'T taste anything like a brownie. You know what I'm saying...I just don't want to use Level Two language.

How Brad failed to ruin Easter for me

I hate holidays. I tend to freak out and utterly ruin them for everyone. Which is why it was quite surprising when Brad decided to take the proverbial bull by the horns and attempt to ruin this Easter for me.

Since our daughters were little, we would typically head over to Conesus Lake to watch the walleye spawn each Easter Sunday afternoon. And anybody who knows me knows that the only thing I like better than watching fish is watching fish spawn. Year after year.

"What do you want to do this Easter?" Brad asked a week ago. The girls were in San Diego. It would just be the two of us. "After church, let's go to Conesus," I suggested. He frowned, thinking it over. "We'll decide when you get back," he said finally. I returned from San Diego in time for Brad to leave on a ten hour round trip pilgrimage to Detroit for a summit on Saturday. He arrived home, exhausted, late Saturday night.

"Are you sure about this Conesus thing?" Brad asked wearily as we drove through the early morning mist to the sunrise service. I nodded. Or nodded off. I can't be certain. It was really early.

Afterwards, we silently bundled up and gathered the dogs together to head to the lake. "You know," Brad began, "Easter is late this year. There probably won't even be any fish there." I shrugged, staring out the window. The actual appearance of fish never really mattered to me. "It's an hour there and an hour back," he continued. I stretched, turning towards him. I had a feeling that he was trying to communicate something really important to me here. "What are you saying?" I asked. He grimaced before taking a deep breath. "Why are we taking up two hours of our day based on the slim possibility that there may be a fish present?"

Uh-huh. So much for my loving sacrifice of placing his stupid feelings in front of my own. Here we go...

"So," I snarled, facing him, "you voluntarily drove ten hours yesterday and today you're whining because I want you to drive two?!? And you're worried about NOT seeing your stupid fish? Where was this trepidation over the past twenty years when I was dragged to this lake to watch the wonder of nature? This isn't about the spawning schedule of fish or about travel time...it's tradition!" Points for me for choking back the avalanche of name-calling erupting on my tongue. "I'm just trying to warn you," my husband yelled. "You're just trying to ruin Easter," I yelled back.

We arrived. The dogs were jubilant. It was a pleasant enough day, given the company. We hiked up the spawning run and approached the railing. An immediate flash in the water caught our attention and a smile lit up my face. Two...ten...twenty fish riding the waves, catapulting themselves toward the cataract. "There might not be any fish there," I mocked, pointing at the water and dancing with delight. Brad hid his grin as, for a moment, his wife spun around in her pink rainboots, lifting her arms heavenward and laughing as she forgot, for just a few seconds, that her daughters weren't with them this Easter Sunday.

"You tried to ruin Easter and FAILED," I informed him as we slowly walked back to the van. "Is failing to ruin Easter a bad thing?" Brad wondered to himself as he loaded his family into the vehicle. He could still hear his wife laughing as he got behind the steering wheel.

When our lunch plans went a-rye (because we don't take American money IN America)

 My girls took me out to lunch. An easy enough affair. You'd think. We'd perused the on-line menu the night before to streamline the anxiety-fraught experience of ordering for me and I immediately fixated on the hazelnut raisin bread offered. "I blame myself," Brad sighed later, over 3,000 miles away, "Soup. I told them to get you soup. You don't eat sandwiches." The first bump in the road was determining the spread topping. "Wait. You don't have Nutella?" I asked, stupefied. What sort of place serves hazelnut raisin bread but doesn't carry Nutella? The counter-person detailed the inadequate alternatives of butter, preserves, or cream cheese. "She'll take preserves," Savannah said quietly as my mind reeled. "Strawberry, cherry, or raspberry?" the woman asked. I snapped furiously back to attention. "Cherry? With raisins? What sort of place is this?"

Savannah and Sydney completed their orders without incident. "That'll be a ridiculous sum of money for bread, please," the grain gestapo announced. I waved away Savannah's card and handed her my money. "I'm sorry. We don't take large bills here," she told me. I blinked. Confused. This is EXACTLY why I don't eat bread. "You mean American currency?" I said slowly. I glanced out the window at my United States flag flying and momentarily felt reassured. I may be a small-town girl living in a carb-filled world but even my little hometown Stuff-mart had that magic pen to detect fraudulent bills. Seasoned employees even acquired the skill of holding bills up to the light like they were checking emeralds for clarity. Savannah brushed me out of the way before I could begin making a scene. "You mean continue making a scene," Savannah clarified later. Sydney gently led me away as I descended into a patriotic-despondency.  "There's a table by some windows," Sydney pointed out as I plopped into a corner booth, deprived of light and life and laughter. "Why aren't we eating outside?" Savannah asked, having paid in plastic and electronic information--serving up a side-helping of her soul to buy a sandwich. "Mom loves to eat outside." "I believe she's mentally self-flagellating," Sydney told her sister. Between the two of them, they unearthed me from the darkness and wrestled me out the door. "Ma'am," a nice man called, "You dropped your money." "Leave it!" I cried, "It's no good here!"

Sydney retrieved the bill and then attempted to create a false illusion of happiness by taking our picture. "What are you doing?" I snapped at my beloved child, "There's not even any food here!"  She glanced at the image of tranquility that she'd captured. "This will be a good before-and-after shot," she declared. My order arrived. "I've slept on mattresses thinner than this," I whispered, intimidated. I unhappily slathered raspberry preserves on the half-a-foot thick slice of hazelnut raisin bread. "They make Nutella in single-serve packages," I told Sydney. "I know," she nodded, "They were in my Christmas stocking."

I was quiet as I tackled this slice...segment...wedge...loaf...log of bread. This, of course, immediately alerted my daughters that I was battling some sort of inner demon. In this particular case, it was a wall of impenetrable crust, designed to shred gums and lacerate lips. "Mom...no!" they cried, deftly unraveling this bruising barrier to my bread. "I am NOT a child," I pouted before plunging my fingers into the middle of my meal and plucked out a whole hazelnut, not unlike that Little Jacky Horner with the plum. I happily extracted eight hazelnuts hidden among the gritty grains of  whole-wheat flour.

"Did she eat ANY of the bread?" Brad asked in exasperation later, quizzing his daughters. "No," Sydney admitted, "but she ate every single hazelnut." "Soup," he stressed, "You can almost never go wrong with soup." "You're the one who gave her a hundred dollar bill," his daughters countered. They were all silent for a moment. "Okay," Brad said, bringing the meeting to a close, "Small bills and soup. And let's add single-serve Nutella packages to the list of items necessary to ward off possible public melt-downs. All agreed...say aye." 

"Aye."

"Opposed?...Ayes have it."

Before hanging up, Brad asked, "What are you guys doing tomorrow?'' "I thought I'd take Mom shopping for a new outfit," Sydney announced. After a pronounced silence, Savannah spoke. "Should we reconvene at 1900 hours tomorrow?' "Affirmative." Everyone checked their time-keeping devices. "Good luck, Sydney."

The kabob may have skewed my opinion of the Taste of Hillcrest

"The Taste of Hillcrest is scheduled for the day Mom flies in," Savannah announced, "I'll get tickets." My husband was doubtful. "Your mom will be leaving the house no later than 4:30 am to fly over 3,000 miles to San Diego and then you plan on making her walk countless city blocks immediately upon her arrival?"  I, however, had much more confidence in my abilities especially when I learned that I would be eating every 75 feet or so AND would be receiving my very own complimentary shot glass. "Sign me up," I told Savannah and immediately began training.

First I practiced walking down the school corridors while simultaneously snarfing down a cupcake. Turns out I'm a natural at that. Then I strapped on a pedometer and was delighted to discover that, over the course of a day, I had walked almost 6,000 steps. Wow! "That's great, Mom," Savannah said over the phone as she began researching the possibility of getting a refund for her Taste of Hillcrest tickets, "but were you aware that the minimal number of steps recommended for a nominally healthy human being is 10,000?"  I gasped. "In one day?" I asked, horrified, "That's preposterous!"  But there was a lot on the line here so I had to up my game. "I thought you said we had to walk the bus loop alone to foster our independence in order to give us the necessary skills to survive middle school," my 4th graders complained as I resolutely marched them to their waiting chariots in a sudden burst of loving compassion. "I just can't bear to see you go," I said, glancing at my pedometer as I shoved them up the steps of their assigned buses.

When I finally hit 10,000 (after strapping my pedometer to a particularly lively 4th grader), I knew I was ready to tackle The Taste of Hillcrest.  "But all you like to eat is cheese and Snickers bars," Brad told me as we headed out to the airport. "And you hate walking. When did you think this was going to be a good idea?" He was harshing my buzz. Or maybe I was just sleepy-tired. Either way, his voice was coming from VERY far away and was not yet piercing my consciousness.

Thanks to time travel, I arrived in San Diego at 11 am and was swept into the loving arms of my daughters. "Are you hungry?" they asked. "Starved," I admitted, "I rationed myself to eight Twizzlers on the trip (Aunt Annie's Pretzel Hut had been, regrettably, closed)." So, with Savannah manning the tasting map, we began our epic edible adventure. We started, oddly enough, at a sneaker store where Italian beer was poured into my shot glass. "I didn't know Italy was known for beer," I remarked, watching the salesman show us how the zippers unzip from around the heel. Sydney drank my, Savannah's and her own sample. "Why would you waste beer calories on that cute little figure of your's?" I asked, seeing as none of the Mosiman woman particular cared for the concoction. "Are you going to become like your friend Traci who spits out bites of brownies?" Savannah asked as Sydney, insulted for some reason, stomped away
down the sidewalk. I gasped. "How DARE you!" Insulted, I stomped down the sidewalk.

Things began looking up when I was handed a mango tortilla. "Taco," both my girls corrected me in unison. Then I was given a chocolate-covered apple slice. As I proceeded down the block, pulled pork with crisp cole slaw, chimis, and teriyaki chicken rewarded my dedicated self-rationing of Twizzlers.  But then things began to take a turn for the worst.

It started at the candy store when I was confused over why my daughters received lovely ocean-themed gummies while I received a phallic-shaped confection. After a lengthy perusal of the candy-coated penis, we finally realized that it was supposed to be a lobster. But, alas, the tide had turned. I was handed a chicken kabob and knew immediately that it would be too spicy for my delicate constitution. Savannah consumed it, handing the stick back to me so I could enjoy the pickle blossom that had lovingly cupped the peppered poultry. In the process, I pieced my uvula, gasping, chocking, spluttering on the sidewalk. When I regained the ability to speak, I assured the gathered crowd that I just wasn't meant to be a sword-swallower. Apparently it was the wrong crowd for that innocent statement.

We popped into an Ace Hardware (for more beer). "They have the best caramels here," I told my girls. Confused as to why she was buying food NOT included on our pre-paid food tour, Savannah nonetheless agreed that it was a delicious caramel. She was even more thrilled for the line of Thai food that followed. I couldn't understand why I was drinking Thousand Island dressing with ice cubes. While my eldest daughter began to scavenge like a squirrel on the San Diego sidewalk, hoarding my and Sydney's portions into storage containers, I took advantage of the photo opportunity with the magnificently-outfitted food service workers. Meanwhile, Sydney, who'd energetically gulped down our three samples of cold brew, wandered into a trendy clothing shop, re-emerging minutes later with an IPA and free earrings. I had indeed traveled to another place and time.

It wasn't until the tour was almost over that I discovered that each participating business was marked by orange balloons which, had I known, would have inspired me to walk briskly rather than blindly to each destination. Those balloons were like little binge-eating beacons. I also didn't realize, until the end, that there was a FREE shuttle. I almost felt betrayed but Savannah cleverly concluded our tour with some ice-cream like concoction that Sydney promptly spilled into her own cleavage. What's that old saying? Into every life, a little rain must fall? Well, with Sydney, it's with every décolleté, a little dairy must dribble. As for me, I will begin training for the Taste of Hillcrest much earlier next year. I should google how to toughen up my uvula to avoid future kabob-related injuries. I'll get back to you with my findings.*

*Helpful hint: NEVER, EVER google uvula exercises. Trust me.

Wait. When you asked me if I wanted a "mentor", I thought you said "Mentos"

https://redandhowling.com/2018/12/27/the-mentor/

I really feel that I may have "made it" in the blogging world now that I have acquired a guest blogger. Even though my guest blogger insists upon being completely shrouded in an uncompromisingly impenetrable veil of anonymity, I feel as though my blog is breaking through to the reading masses. Perhaps the anonymity will add a heightened mysterious allure to what already is a cutting edge writing platform. 

Off and on, overly-enthusiastic schools will promote a Mentor Program for its newly-hired teachers. Ideally, life-long relationships would blossom from this forced partnership as the veteran teacher would pass along years of wisdom, knowledge, and know-how while hopefully suppressing decades of pent-up rage and cynicism.  I look back fondly upon my year of being mentored. My mentor would pop in my doorway on a quarterly basis, flash me an enthusiastic thumbs-up, hurriedly ask, "You good?" and then disappear before I could actually decide if I was good or not.

My anonymous friend was asked to be a mentor and nervously agreed. S/he later revealed what a valuable experience it was. The following are notes taken (facetiously) from one of her/his mentor meetings:

I advised mentee to avoid being assigned the peanut-free bus on field trips because it turns out that Doritos may be manufactured in facilities that could contain peanut/tree nut oil. And don't even THINK about M&Ms. 

Mentee taught me how to bring technology into the classroom to enhance student learning.

I told mentee to buy the most expensive masking tape.

Mentee taught me to use web page to post homework and link games and learning sites.

I told mentee to remember to sign out for outdoor recess.

Mentee taught me to turn on Ipad and utilize apps for student learning.

I asked mentee what an app is.

I explained to mentee how to best utilize duct tape for a quiet, respectful classroom.

Mentee helped me set up and implement the reading program, Raz-kids.

I taught mentee how to best avoid aggravating school secretaries.

Mentee established numerous rubrics for me to use for module assessments.

Wow. I admit I was stunned. I may have even teared up a bit. What a beautiful exchange of ideas. A collaborative master-piece. "You actually had meetings?" I asked my friend, astonished. S/he nodded. "I don't think I have what it takes to be an effective mentor," I told her. "Don't sell yourself short," s/he answered, "Look at how well I did." 

I nodded, considering the knowledge that I would want to pass along to future generations of educators. What would have helped me? I wondered. And then I had it. The key ingredient of being an effective mentor is ensuring that your mentee knows how to order pencils, reminding them of faculty meeting times, and demonstrating the proper procedure for all those notes from home. I might gently advise against creative discipline practices such as throwing a student's shoes out the window. Another piece of advice would be to save making school-wide changes to morale until you've been tenured. Be the change you you want to see in the world but keep it confined to the four walls of your classroom or everyone will hate you. I would also encourage my mentee to purchase smooth jumbo paperclips. What teacher in his/her right mind buys small, wire-coated paperclips? Truly, a sign of an untried teacher. Maybe I was made to be a mentor after-all.

Today's April Fool's Day Joke Left Brad Feeling CRESTfallen

If (IF) I had a fatal flaw, this might be it. I LIVE for playing April Fool's Day pranks on my husband. Sometimes I am successful. Sometimes I'm not. I hate having April Fool's jokes played on me. I am the worst sport so, fortunately for me, Brad enjoys simply trying to outwit my prank rather than retaliating. I devote months to research and spend hours testing the viability of each year's selection.

The white frosting in the toothpaste tube was simply elegant in design and implementation. The only possible blip on Brad's radar would be the sudden and mysterious disappearance of his customary gel paste in its only half-empty container. The Mosimans are renowned for folding a toothpaste tube to the millionth degree, cracking out a vice grip to ensure that we've squeezed the bleached-white blood from the proverbial packed-with-Fluoride stone. I was ready with a somewhat credible story (The Mosiman motto: Always have a lie in place). Brad:  Where's the toothpaste? Me:  I needed it for school. Brad (shrugging): Of course you do.  But shockingly, he never asked so I filed that handy little lie away for future use.

The other important component for a successful April Fool's Day prank is for me not to be ANY WHERE NEAR Brad as the trick is being executed as my eagerness apparently gives it away. My most successful caper was when Brad and I were on opposite coasts. So today, I planted myself in the dining room, awaiting the roar of the electric toothbrush. Scowling, Brad was quick to come around the corner to catch me dancing a merry, little jig. I don't need to drive a fancy car or live in a big, luxurious house to be satisfied. I don't need a million blog followers to be happy (Although I do appreciate ALL of you!). No, nothing brings me more joy than to have successfully pranked my husband!

Brad tries to act all holier-than-thou...that he simply endures the childish mindset of my annual antics because that's what a godly husband does. Inside, I know he's seething but instead, he rushes out to balance my naughty with nice, my teasing with tolerance, my prank with patience. Unfortunately though, when his right hand was buying me my favorite flavored water, his left hand was busy texting the family to let them all know how wonderful he is...ultimately invalidating the act in the process. I feel that I won TWICE today!