Wearing my heart on my sleeve

 Christmas really brings out my inner "Lady Macbeth." I so relate to her ruthless manner this time of year (I once threatened my friend Rachel when she was playing Christmas music in her classroom the day after Halloween. Stomping into the room, I leveled her with a death stare before declaring that I would stab her with an icicle.). 

In December, despite my best Grinch-efforts to keep us to a routine, Room 24 veers completely off the rails. Typically a glitter-free zone, my classroom sparkles while I sulk. "Forget good cheer," I sneer when the children plead for a tree, decorations, and...what fresh hell is this...a "Stuffie Day." "Here," I compromise, handing each child a regulation bar room dart, "throw this at our Santa bulletin board and shut up." 

An equal opportunist when it comes to disdaining all December holidays, I broke out the dreidels and hosted a gambling den in Room 24.  As the dreidels spun, we sang happily ("...and when they're dry and ready, a dreidel we will play...HEY!") while I systematically robbed 4th graders out of their fortunes.

I put off crafting as long as humanly possible. 

4th grade has a long-established history of infuriatingly complicated and messy projects.  First up, stained glass window paper plates which require an hour of adult pre-prep work wrestling with plastic wrap and swearing only to have a 9-year-old sit down and immediately declare that he ripped it. 

Edible dreidels are next on the docket and are the most delicious of all my crafts (Pulling a small glass statue out of his stocking, one of my little elves knocked it against his desk like a hard-boiled egg and asked if it was candy...I now take the precaution of announcing, before giving my cherubs ANYTHING, whether it is consumable or not.). We use a toothpick to pre-drill a hole in a caramel square to make room for the pretzel stick square. Should I HAVE to tell them not to then wedge the toothpick in their mouths like a dog with a pork chop bone? The answer to that is "yes." Do I NEED to tell them that you have to remove the wrapping from the caramel before first eating it? (Yes.) As units of measurements, children need to be explicitly instructed regarding the terms "smidgen" and "dollop."  A smidgen of frosting glue is NOT half the container. 

"Mrs. Mosiman, I don't like caramel." 

"Then don't eat it." 

"Can I have something else instead?" 

"Oh yeah, baby...I have something else for you."

I should have stopped while I was ahead...all of them rendered non-verbal from chewing caramels...except one, of course, whose non-appreciative little rear-end was planted in the office.

The painted popsicle picture frame.

"Our goal," I declared, in a delusional state, "is to produce a timelessly treasured family heirloom without destroying our classroom." Silly me.

"First, push back your sleeves," I said, not realizing that I would be repeating that direction, in rising decibels, a thousand more times.

I set strict standards regarding my expectations; heartlessly restricting the creative potential of my proteges. No mixing paint to invent fun new colors. As we are using paintbrushes, there will be absolutely NO need to touch the paint with ANY part of your body (including your fingers, face, hair, and feet). Any small paint smears will be limited to the protective paper plate and paper towel that I so helpfully provided to my meticulous artists. When done with your masterpiece, place paintbrushes in the bin with the brushes all facing the SAME way. This is imperative so that Mrs. Mosiman does not lose her mind.

"Planning is everything," I announced. "I am going to ask you which colors you want on your paper plate palette. You should have a vision in mind of the base color and decorations. Dots. Stripes. Think of your adult's favorite shades. We have six colors to choose from. You, obviously, won't need them all."

I approached my first honey like a maitre-d' at a 5-star establishment, offering a wine list. Only my snooty customer ordered ALL the wine. "Do you have a plan?" I asked dubiously. Child nods confidently. Sniffs the lid. Swirls the paint. Declares ALL of the colors acceptable. Next customer. "Which colors would you like?" I asked patiently. "All of them," came the answer, like she was buying the house a round. 

Sleeves slipped down (along with my sanity). Paint was mixed into shades suitable for the seventh level of hell. We had paint on the floor, our faces, our shoes, stuffies, and the outside of the trash. "Almost made it," one child, who obviously enjoys living on the edge, observed optimistically. 

Completely traumatized at this point, I sent my paint-soaked students to lunch and went about the business of trying to clean up the catastrophe that was my classroom. It could have doubled as a paintball course. Numbly, I reached into the bin to wash the brushes...my hand would have been cleaner gutting a deer. My expectations ripped to shreds, sludge colored-paint dripping from my fingernails, I huddled over the sink, muttering as I scrubbed the fun new color off my hands..."Out, damn spot," I said softly as a co-worker approached me carefully. "Amy, can I help you?" "Yeah," I sighed, "can you please push back my sleeves?"

A small price toupee (being in the Christmas play)

We just had to make it through THIS day. After a full month of frivolity and fuss; being shoved unceremoniously into insufferable sweaters, sporting Santa hats, elf ears, and antlers on our heads, singing (Oh dear Lord...the SINGING), and slinging glitter around for an infinite number of cute crafts...it was all down to This. One. Day. 

No one ever believes me when I whimper, whisper, or wail that "I didn't sign up for this." I am more than happy to sit on the sidelines and cheer (sarcastically, of course). But when my name is entered, against my will, into the Goblet of Fire, I will ingest some Gillyweed, flex my fins and go for the gold like some sassy, souped-up guppy. 

I was not prepared, however, to have to participate in all three events comprising the Tri-Wizard Competition. When my principal signed herself and the 4th grade team up to perform "Blue Christmas" as the singing Elf-is(es), I begrudgingly said, "Okay." When my music teacher reminded me about bell choir practice, I showed up to inform him that a terrible mistake had been made and was unceremoniously handed a bell. Fine. When the "Jingle Bell" choir arrived after that, sweeping me up into their show, I followed the rules of a rip tide and rode out the current.

"THREE shows?" my friend, Katriel said, incredulously, "How did you manage to go from zero to three in one day?" She discovered how quickly that could happen when she arrived during my next bell choir practice to extricate me and instead got sucked into my whirlpool of madness. She stopped laughing all the way when the Jingle Bell choir snapped her up for their show as well. 

How hard could it be, anyway? I watched from the wings, all shook up, while two Elvis(es) had to handle a dramatic Christmas crisis in the back of the auditorium. Well, it's now or never. With my wig held high, I stormed the stage with my sneer firmly in place. My fellow Elf-is(es) didn't let me down. We warbled our way to the end and then sauntered, off-stage-left, before Katriel and I took off at a sprint, rounding the back of the curtain, whipping off our wigs, and clutching our clappers to re-enter from stage-right with our bell choir group. A brief argument preceded our appearance as we debated our order. "Are you high?" one ding-a-ling asked me, to which, unsurprisingly, I answered, "I wish I was."

I can't keep time. I don't read music. I have no rhythm. I've had a microphone turned off on me, mid-song, and I've notoriously been kicked out of two bands. All I had going for me was showmanship. I channeled my best SNL Will Ferrell performing "Blue Oyster Cult" and cowbell-ed the hell out of my choir bell. Exit stage-left. Race across the back of the stage, bells flying everywhere, as another argument ensued about arrangement. A semi-circle compromise was made and we entered, stage-right, to immediately form a straight line. Ahhh...theater. I awaited a premeditated pratfall from an orchestrated booty bump that never arrived as our star, Tess, courageously flailed about with concocted choreography. Like all good school teachers, Tess had been the recipient of many thoughtful holiday presents from her children in the form of the three Cs: Candles, coffee cups, and contagion. Let's just say she had some pretty sick moves. As we exited the stage AGAIN, we congratulated her. "I gave it my best shot," she gasped. 

It was over. 

Except for the pictures.

Oh dear Lord...the pictures.

My 4th grade photographer was over-zealous in her picture-taking duties; her astute, David Attenborough-style narration of the videos rendering them not suitable for sharing. 

NOT:  "Graceful as a gazelle, Mrs. Mosiman glided across the stage, her audience enraptured by her harmonious holiday serenade."

MORE LIKE:  "So much for feather feet." and "I've heard her sing worse."

One candid shot summed up the experience as my cherub captured me glowering at my squirming students as they bounced merrily upon their tax-payer-funded auditorium seats. 

The emcees of the show, Erin and Tyler, portraying glib Elf-on-the-Shelf characters, stood in the wings and giggled maniacally at me as I shimmied my hips, shook my bell, and jingled my jangle, knowing the entire time that I was intent on decking something much more satisfying than the halls. As I nervously awaited my cue to ring that stupid bell...never actually sure what the cue actually WAS...I noticed Tyler pointing his camera steadily at me. I took the time to discreetly point back at him. 

My friend Val graciously volunteered to chronicle our experience with an end-of-day group picture. I had intended for us to be gathered wistfully in a most charming fashion around a Christmas tree but when I attempted to wrestle my friend Marissa's table-top tree (The rest of us had dumped our decorations before the last bus had left the loop) into submission, the base fell off and refused to further cooperate so I decided, Have tree, will travel, and dragged it down to the office for the picture. We held it in front of us like hunters holding up a trophy kill. I couldn't take ONE more minute. It was official:  I wigged out. 

Winter vacation has officially begun, folks. School is a wrap for 2022.

2023 will be the best yet ("Serius"ly. I'm not trying to be riddikulus.).

 

The road to school is NOT paved with good intentions

 I am writing this with the greatest of reluctance, knowing that calling attention to Erin's antics will only encourage her. But as our shenanigans (mine being defensive in nature) may have caused the only known non-tractor or livestock-related traffic jam in Wyoming Country, it seemed to bear witnessing. 

Erin and I manage mornings in very different ways...sparkle versus sludge. She skips. I stomp. She's singing show tunes while nary a syllable slips past my lips.

It's bad enough that I am forced to deal with her good cheer at work but we also often share the same sunrise journey; our vehicles meeting at the start of School Road. If I have the misfortune of Erin being behind me, I have to don protective eye wear to fend off her blinding, blinking high beams sending me a merry Morse Code message. If she's in front of me, I am delayed at every stop sign by a Broadway performance or, if she's feeling saucy, a burlesque show...as she shimmies across the street.

Not a jury in the world would have blamed me when, yesterday, I finally snapped. First stop sign. Sigh. Here she goes...in a slinky little black number with sequins. She teaches KINDERGARTEN, folks. As she turned to offer me a booty bump, I tossed the Titan in gear and blew past her. As the second stop sign approached, I decided to give her a taste of her own medicine. Of course, it was dress-up day at school...THANKS TO ERIN who made every flippin' day in December a dress-up day. So, clad from top to toe in red velvet with white fur trim, I flung myself out into the other lane and, illuminated by Erin's spotlight, put on my own show. 

Suddenly aware that there was traffic in the intersection, I moved, with a deep, dramatic bow, to re-enter my vehicle. The other car, situated perpendicularly to Erin and I, was immobile as the driver was incapacitated with laughter (Sorry, Candy.) Seeing cars beginning to line up behind my cackling co-worker, I tried to wave Candy on. Why won't my door shut? Is that a police car stuck in the traffic jam that we (Erin) caused? My red robes, waving majestically OUTSIDE my door, acted as a red flag to direct the confused cars as I prayed vehemently, "Please let that be Officer Ivan. Please let that be Officer Ivan." I rolled down my window so I could better hold my door shut and ignored Erin's incessant phone calls. Pretty sure I was racking up enough traffic violations (and creating some new ones) without adding being on the phone to my misdemeanors. 

Poor Katriel is accustomed to my grouchy greetings each morning but even she was startled by my degree of disgust when I picked her up. "It was my own fault," I fussed, "I lowered myself to her level." "This all happened on your way to work?" Katriel said, stunned, "You literally live five minutes up the road!" 

By the time we entered the building, Erin had alerted every occupant about our exploits. So much for my single syllable responses...I had to spend my morning delivering dissertations defending my actions. Officer Ivan eventually wandered down to take our statements and issue stern safety warnings. My principal listened sympathetically as I explained how Erin had provoked me. "It's always the one who was provoked who gets caught," she observed, offering to help me lay out a plan to avoid a repeat performance in the future. Neither leaving earlier or taking a longer, alternative route appealed to me. "Take the higher road, Amy" my boss encouraged. Forget that...fueled by road rage, I'm ready to hit the streets.

An elf-ective method of cleaning the faculty room fridge

Not surprisingly, my story begins with the typical "I was sitting in my classroom, minding my own business when..."

Felicia came storming in.

I sighed. Felicia and I have a troublesome history. We flaunted the law during Covid, exercising in her driveway ("Is THAT what you called what you were doing?" Felicia asked, puzzled), I was assigned a station for the bachelorette party she was hosting and ended up dressed like a bee, twerking on a dock at Silver Lake, and we became entangled in an out-of-control prank war that concluded with Felicia scaling a mini-mountain to retrieve a kidnapped boot tray.

Felicia has a short fuse when it comes to the faculty room fridge...I have somehow (See story starter:  "I was sitting in my classroom, minding my own business when...") been appointed the deputy to Felicia's Shelf-Life sheriffing. Last September, we had diligently monitored the evolution of a pink pudding-ed concoction as it morphed into a frighteningly congealed science experiment and then published our findings on Facebook where the embarrassed culprit eventually confessed via Messenger.

The alarming objects of Felicia's wrath this time were the half dozen or so bulging gallons of fermenting cider that took up a good one third of our precious refrigerated space. Real estate in the faculty room fridge is always in a state of disputed encroachment. Notes are posted. Angry words exchanged. Feuds fought. "We have to do something," Felicia fumed. I sighed. I had a million, much-more pressing things to do:  Report cards, holiday cards, lesson planning, correcting, Christmas program practice, bell choir practice, present wrapping...so naturally, I ignored ALL of that and instead threw myself into vengeful refrigerator retaliation. "We'll need one of those awful Elf-on-the-Shelf things," I told her. Felicia nodded. Of course. "We'll need elf shoes and hats." Felicia whipped out a pen and pad to jot down the list as I walked off muttering, "If only we had a stein..."

At the end of the day, materials compiled and a stein mysteriously present, we donned our costumes to combat the calloused clutter of our faculty room refrigerator. "You know, you COULD just clean it out," our more reasonable friend, Katriel, suggested, nonetheless, pulling out a chair for front row seating to an impromptu free show. Kelly, a known faculty room felon who has committed outlandish offenses involving EVERY appliance in there, volunteered to be our photographer as part of her community service hours. Creating a caustic compilation of perturbed pictures is not as easy as one might imagine. There was a LOT of unnecessary giggling. Felicia was incapable of not being impossibly gorgeous in every shot. Kelly neglected to listen to directions (which is what got her into trouble with each of her appliance altercations) so no one could see our Elf-on-the-Shelf poised perfectly IN the fridge. "It's ruined!" I declared, staring sadly at the finished product. "I think it looks great," Felicia said, delighted. Yeah, sure. She looks like a flipping' model while I am a loopy, cross-eyed, slumped-over, chubby elf-phant. "Stop it," Felicia frowned, "We really need to work on your elf-esteem."

Still dressed in costume, we then cleaned out the refrigerator, discovering a gallon of milk, a month over-due. We daintily delivered our dairy to the trash before it could detonate. We called it quits after straightening the thousand bottles of salad dressing in the door. "The only thing green in this fridge is the mold," I commented, "Who do they think they're kidding?" I closed the refrigerator door before I lost my cool. It was time to get the elf out of there.

 

Investigating a fecal matter

"Stand back," my friend Michelle announced with inimitable authority, "I am proficient in poop." Without hesitation, we stood back. And there were more of us there than you would think. For where there is a questionable pile of something potentially poo-related, many will gather, so sayeth a school teacher who is supposed to be somewhere else, compiling report card data.

My friend Katriel and I were exiting the faculty room when we spotted the mysterious mess, wedged between the wall and the floor beneath the student cubbies. I grabbed her arm, halting her progress and, in horror, said, "Is that what I think it is?" At the moment, my reason and common sense were clouded so I failed to factor in the impossible angle and super-human dexterity necessary to deliver such a "deposit."

Holding our breath, we inched carefully closer, the ramifications of this discovery just beginning to dawn on us. "Why don't we just ignore it?" I lamented while Katriel informed me how it would be a dereliction of our duty. I glanced at the corridor cameras, reluctantly agreeing. "You're right," I told her, "Our movement has already been logged."

Fortunately, before we could really start getting to the bottom of this mess, our friend Michelle arrived and promptly took over. Relieved, we let her.

Effortlessly, she squatted down as I suppressed my immature giggling. Michelle glared at me briefly before resuming her inspection. Like an operating room nurse handing her surgeon a scalpel, I handed Michelle a pencil. Poking me, Katriel smiled as she whispered, "Stop, urine enough trouble as it is." After Michelle up-graded her pencil, she began the horrifying process of poking the poo (Really highlighting her gross motor skills). Of course, by now, a crowd had gathered. We watched, with sick fascination, as she plunged the pencil into the poo. "It's not solid," she announced, "It's too spongy." Declaring it faux poo, she stood, face flushed, victorious. We applauded wildly. Thanking Michelle, she smiled at us demurely, saying, "It was the least I could doo." 
 

My faucet is doing a pour job

It was a Sunday morning.

Early.

Rattle. Rattle. Tap. Tap. Pound. Pound. Wiggle Wiggle. Mutter. Mutter. Muffled curse.

I squinted at the clock.

6:50.

A.M.

Tantrum-kicking the blankets entangling my legs off, I stormed into the next room.

"What are you doing?" I croaked, my voice raspy with repressed rage and furious fatigue. 

Clad in his boxers, my husband was sawing away at the drywall inside our tall kitchen closet. Tools littered the floor. The interior items in the closet were strewn all OVER.

"You know how every time you turn on the shower, you pull up the little knob and ALSO yank out the entire faucet?" he began..."Well, I'm replacing it with a sturdier one."

I think this was my cue to say "Thank you," but I decided to let it slide in the face of such early-morning accusatory aggression.  I hesitated, wondering what my role was here. "Since you're just standing there anyway, can you get me a ruler?" Brad asked, somewhat peevishly in my opinion. "Could I suggest something more in means of a shirt or, dare I suggest, pants?" I spat back. Ask me for a ruler in my classroom and BOOM! I'd have it for you, lickety-split. At home, however, I do not find myself in frequent need of a measurement tool. I know EXACTLY how long the important things in my life are. 

For some reason, the only ruler that I could unearth was a wobbly one. I handed it to my husband while simultaneously aiming the flashlight at the wrong area. Grasping the limp tool in his hand, he glared at me before flinging it over his shoulder where it flopped uselessly on the cluttered kitchen floor.  "Why do they even make those?" I asked, watching him snap a meter stick in half. "To wrap around cylindrical objects for diameter," he grunted, successfully cutting the drywall in a straight line. I eyed up the discarded ruler, "Huh," I said softly. He wrestled the drywall out. "Don't even think about it," he growled.

"Put your fingers here and hold the pipe in place," he told me next, ignoring my immature giggling as he entered the bathroom to mount the new fixture. "Come here and try it out," he called after a few minutes. "No," I told him, "I don't want to get wet." There was a long pause before I finally heard him jump in and turn on the water. "How's it doing?" I asked, now fully invested in this project. Wary, Brad answered cautiously, "Looks good," he summarized, weighing his words. "That's great!" I told him, "Maybe next time we'll work on the head." 

I snickered as I headed back to bed to bury myself under the covers. "You could have been a plumber," my husband hollered," You have such a potty mouth!"

 

The 4th grade team was all shook up this October

 There have been some changes to my grade level team this year. My friend, Rachel, moved onto an administrative post and my friend, Geri, retired. They had very clearly defined roles on the team. Rachel acted as a gentle, diplomatic braking system for my  outrageous, unreasonable, impossible, and labor-intensive ideas. Geri was the punch-to-the-face mechanism that would stop any "Bigger than Broadway" suggestions in their tracks. But they're gone now and let's just say that the train has left the station. Katriel courageously donned her engineer's cap and, as co-team representative, has her hand firmly on the throttle, battling to avoid an inevitable wreck while veteran member, Kelly, is conducting the caboose, shouting directions when she sees we're getting too far off course. Marissa, Alison, Paula, and Roxanne are busy clearing the tracks so no one gets run over and we don't get derailed. 

Halloween Week, of course, was the perfect storm. Coordinated costumes. Choreographed dance. An assembly. No problem. Easy-breezy-lemon-squeezy. But while I may strike you as an impulsive, fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants type of gal, I abhor walking into a situation where I (or the people I'm grouped with) appear unintentionally ridiculous or unprofessional. I prefer to plan my ridiculousness and unprofessionalism to the T. 

This will probably be the only year that I will get away with this...I struck while the iron was hot. At our very first meeting in AUGUST, I presented my brand new team with my idea of the Evolution of Elvis for Halloween. "Does anyone else have some suggestions for Halloween?" I asked, knowing full-well that NO ONE comes to the first team meeting of the year planning for October. Before they knew what hit them, I had ordered enough Elvis wigs to accommodate a soccer team. 

Our fourth grade Halloween "flash-mob" tradition had begun, over the past few years, to reflect our costume theme so it was easy ("Easy," I can hear Geri snorting now.) to plan the choreography from there. 

Whoever (cough...Rachel) schedules a character-building assembly the week of Halloween AND assigns the 4th grade (and those poor honeys on the 1st grade team) to planning it, should be tied to the train tracks, Snidely Whiplash-style. But what's done is done so, with murderous plots aside, we had to organize an entertaining and meaningful assembly for an auditorium full of kids coming out of a candy-coma. Naturally, it included a magic trick, a full-cast costume change, a rousing game of invisible frisbee, and a "Bigger-Than-Broadway" video. Inspiration had stuck in the wee hours of the morning and, four hours later, I met my tech-friend Eric at his classroom door. Explaining my plan, I said the words I ALWAYS say to Eric, "Is it possible to...?" and he gently but truthfully replied, "It IS possible...for those with video-editing know-how." And then we smile awkwardly at one another until one of us reluctantly agrees with my unreasonable plan to film a 24-second segment that will take 18 hours to edit. 

The kids, of course, were delighted. My idea was to film a side-by-side re-enactment of Forrest Gump boarding the school bus for the first time and encountering Jenny. Left split-screen, the actual movie. Right split-screen, our moment-by-moment, perfectly captured simulation. We diligently studied the scene, taking note of costumes, body movement, facial expressions, and background. I ordered a bus. "What...like a McDonald's Happy Meal?" a 4th grader asked, incredulous that one could make such a request. My students began planning our next movie to include a hot air balloon and camels. We boarded our rented movie set and, like promised, I screamed at my kids for 45 minutes as we tried to imitate the 22 camera angle shifts that occurred in the 24-second shot. "Cherub #14!" I yelled, "You are supposed to be chewing your cuticles!" "I've about chewed them all off," he yelled back, "I'm down to bloody stumps!" 

My 9-year-old bus driver kept trying to interrupt my directorial genius by talking about the radio chatter. "Ignore it," I kept snapping at her, "It doesn't concern us." "But they're talking about YOU, Mrs. Mosiman!" she persisted, "They want to know why you've hijacked a field trip bus." Startled, I looked around. There was another bus parked ahead of us. With a certified driver. CLEARLY, that was the field trip bus. I snatched up the radio speaker-thingie and pushed the button, suddenly grateful for all those years invested in watching "BJ and the Bear" (Sigh...Greg Evigan)..."Breaker, 1-9," I shouted, "This here is Amy Mosiman, aboard a preapproved blinkin' winkin', bring it back. Over." There was a long pause before a confused voice from the bus garage (obviously impressed by my CB lingo) confirmed my presence, followed by the voice of my exasperated secretary telling me to stop pretending that I'm on "Smokey and the Bandit" (Sigh...Burt Reynolds) and get off the radio. "That's a big 10-4," I answered. "Amy, out."

At long last...the 4th grade team made it, staggering, over the October finish line. "Thank goodness, THAT'S over," we sighed, exhausted. 

"Wait. What?" Rachel signed the Elvises (Elvi?) up for a Christmas program performance? Katriel walked determinedly into my classroom the next day. "Tell me we are just lip-syncing Blue Christmas," she said firmly. I rolled my chair towards her, "Hear me out..."

 

Playing pranks never grows mold

For a whole host of reasons, teachers routinely discuss hazardous pay. Rarely does the conversation touch on toxic mold exposure.  But recently, as I was cleaning out my hallway cubbies (Otherwise known as retrieving all the pencils stolen from me), I discovered a questionable container hidden in the far-reaches of one of the alcoves. Cautiously, I drew it out, not wanting to disrupt what I initially took to be an incubating baby koala. Closer inspection revealed, not a marsupial but, a small mountain of mold. A less dramatic person would simply have disposed of this unintentional science experiment. A more mature person would have let it end right there. A productive person with a ton of correcting and lesson plans that needed to be written would have quickly dismissed the subject from her mind. Naturally, I felt compelled to stomp around the building, interrupting everyone else's productivity to share this obnoxious anomaly.

Educators are inquisitive by nature. After the initial reactions of disgust, the scientific method was immediately employed including origination and duration. The clear container was examined from all angles. The brown liquid bile contained bits of something. Popular hypothesis included onion and lettuce. "What kid brings a lunch containing onions?" one pseudo-scientist challenged. The incubating koala was determined to be either grapes or cherry tomatoes but no one was brave enough to actually crack the container to confirm our speculative guesses. Fear of the odor restrained further analysis. 

At this point, you'd think I'd be done. I'd wasted sufficient time. Interrupted enough colleagues. Put off plenty of work. But no...I wasn't quite finished.

Aware that I often flee the building with my classroom looking like a train-wreck, I try to leave the occasional gift of apology to the poor soul assigned to my corridor. Having known me for close to two decades,  George is always thrilled on the years he is stuck with me.  I decided, on this particular day, to leave him a special treat. 

If you read my note carefully, you will see an arrow directing George to look at the opposite side of the paper where I tell him NOT to even open the container. So I was somewhat surprised by the restrained tone of George's shockingly polite message back to me. But, caught up as I am, in my own busy little life, I dismissed it as a failed caper...looking only to the future. 

I disposed of the petri dish, trusting that fate would send me another fun-filled distraction soon.

Turns out, though, that there was more to the story. George, who doesn't have time for shenanigans and is on a busy schedule, apparently didn't have time to read my note carefully. As it was Halloween, he surmised that I could be creative enough to actually concoct a confection that was themed for the holiday. The only thing that may have saved George was my not having provided a utensil. That, and the fact that I am unable to keep a secret to save my life. Giggling manically, I had shared my nefarious plan with my friend Cindy which got back to George during his break, precipitating the writing of ANOTHER message.

IF I were capable of learning a lesson...it would be:

•  If it takes a dissertation to explain the prank...it may not be a good prank.
•  If the prank has the potential to incapacitate a person with noxious fumes or gastric distress...it may not be a good prank. 
• When it comes to disgusting mold, it might be better just to let sleeping koalas lie.

 

Milkweed pods and butterflies

While every profession certainly has its days, as a teacher, I, for one, with rare exceptions, love my job.  Remind me that my next lesson should probably be on the concise use of commas. I routinely begin each 4th grade year with Helen Hunt Jackson's "September" poem...somewhat for the amazing imagery:

And asters by the brook-side

make asters in the brook

but more so was my shock in discovering that many children have never encountered milkweed. How is this possible? They're country kids, for crying out loud. So...for a decade, Brad and I pluck pods to reflect my classroom population. Sick of hearing me complain about sticky fingers, Brad suggested we harvest ahead of time, letting the pods dry for a year. BINGO. All of the fluffy...none of the fuss! 

This year, I encountered another obstacle as my room cleaner, George, discovered my loot and was none too happy about the prospect of a fluffy fog of feathered filaments peppering Room 24. Over the years, George and I have developed an enviably close relationship based on respectful communication and compromise. He growls at me to go home after 5 and I ignore him. I attempt to wheedle into his good graces with dark chocolate and he accuses me of sloughing off unwanted gifts onto him.  With passionate prose, George is also a gifted correspondent, penning uplifting letters that I sentimentally save and share.

So...encouraged by George's encouraging note, I took my posse of aspiring poets outside with the mysterious bag. We sat beneath a large maple tree to read and discuss the poem; sharing our favorite parts. Then, with great excitement, the contents of the bag were revealed. Like little ducks to water, the children ripped into the down-filled husks and seeds soon soared, filling the air as 4th graders laughed on the lawn, dancing and twirling, trying to catch the puffy parachutes.

A week later...we were at it again. A former student, Alison, and her mom Heidi, are butterfly buffs and offered to set me up with a small habitat container. I immediately said "no," as I tend to kill any sort of biologically-related science experiments. George quickly concurred. I had traumatized both him and myself during my ordeal of incubating eggs. But Alison and Heidi decided that, with their support and supervision, I could (and would) handle it. Okay...don't say I didn't warn you.

Turns out, that if I don't actually have to do anything, my science experiments are pretty successful! Every day, Alison arrived with milkweed leaves to feed the hungry little caterpillars. Heidi would show up with cookies to keep up my morale. Two chrysalises formed and I put up a barricade around my desk.  I ferociously guarded the developing dignitaries...my winged royalty. The first appeared at an inconvenient hour...the children had left for the day so Katriel and I carefully carried our fragile friend with us on our visit to the cider mill to send him on his winged way, toasting his flight with raised glasses. 

Butterfly Number Two appeared, to my delight, at 6 am on my dining room table, halting my  morning absolutions as I video-narrated the event in my very best David Attenborough-style for my sleeping family. Cursing my absence from my childhood Posture & Poise lesson where I would have learned to smoothly walk with a book on my head, I cautiously carried my butterfly newborn to school where he happily attended class. At the end of the day, Room 24 again dutifully trooped outside to allow nature to become their best teacher. We sat in a circle...serious, solemn stewards of the planet...we lifted the lid, collectively holding our breath as our butterfly gathered himself for launch...he rose upon our lifted voices..."Let It Go...Let It Go..."

Pure magic.

I love what I do.

I though Mauy Thai was a drink: How I got tricked into attending an MMA event

I'm not sure what was going through my head when my husband said MMA. I love M&Ms. Many yummy restaurants and fun stores sport alphabet names such as A&W and DSW.  And don't forget JC Penney and TJ Maxx.  I think I just figured food was in my future. Remind me not to judge the wary wildlife that, despite its best judgment, nevertheless, steps into a set trap for a tasty treat. Slam! The passenger door of the Elantra snapped shut and I was whisked away to my first mixed martial arts competition. 

Training with Dokkodo Martial Art/10th Planet in Bath, Brad's friend, Chris Buckley, headlined the main event. Prior to Chris's fight, I had plenty of time to acclimate to my unfamiliar surroundings. As the wife of a martial arts practitioner for over thirty years, I am quite adept at averting my eyes at key moments...for example, when someone is being pummeled mercilessly in the face. This skill serves me

well as I then get to notice other things...such as the Ring Girl. While she rotated around the octagon committing misogynistic hari-kari, I zeroed in on her shoes. "What are you looking at?" Brad asked, delighted that I was taking such an interest in the proceedings. "She should be wearing stilettos," I said, frowning, "School teachers wear wedge sandals."  

We discussed the possibilities of this young woman moon-lighting as a Ring Girl while teaching our impressionable youth of today. Completely plausible given the state of teachers' salaries. And I worked with many women who could rock the ring. I could appreciate the Ring Girl valuing comfort over the sharp sting of stilettos...and the enthusiastic guy with the unkempt beard, tank-top/flannel combo certainly didn't seem to mind. "Please let him be her boyfriend," I prayed as he unfailingly howled each time she appeared.

"Remind me to bring a dry erase board next time," I told my husband. "Why?" he asked. "I'm going to raise a 'Round Board of Comradery' next time," I explained, "With messages of affirmation like: You're pretty and it's obvious that you're intelligent too, Your hair looks great! Stay away from the guy wearing the tank top/flannel combo! You are destined for amazing things! I wondered if she would be receptive to the idea of printing her resume on the back of each round announcement board. 

The disco ball was another fun point of interest. As the paramedics rolled out the stretcher again, I directed my husband's attention to it. He took my hand lovingly as a wave of nostalgia rolled over us. "It's just like the one they had at Skate 98," Brad smiled, alluding to the one of the millions of skating rinks that peppered the landscape in the 1980s.  Was it coincidence that a Billy Squire song played on our long drive home? Hmmm...I think not.

The highlight of the evening, besides Chris's incredible performance, was the hot pretzel with cheese. Definitely worth the hour and a half drive to buy it. Fair compensation for the trauma that accompanies witnessing human beings brutalizing themselves in sport. Next time I attend an MMA event, I will be better prepared and, trust me, I will NOT be wearing sneakers. I'm embarrassed what the Ring Girl would have thought of my attire. To be fair, she didn't look like the judgmental type. I think my first message of affirmation to her will be: You're a knock-out!

The chicken show wasn't what it was cracked up to be

Aware of my love of the fuzzy footed chicken (and feeling guilty that he'd spent the bulk of Saturday having Amy-free fun...which, by the way, consisted of cardio and grueling physical activity based on balance and synchronous movement...yeah...real "fun."), my husband suggested we take an hour drive down to the Southern Tier to attend a poultry and water fowl fair. Toss in a breakfast invitation and he definitely had my interest. 

Now, I know what you're thinking...Amy, if you want to look at a chicken, you can just WALK to your friend Deb's...Yes. This is true. But Deb recently posted that she'd been maliciously pecked by one of her brood and, as a reprisal, killed and cooked it. Right now (fingers crossed), I am currently on good terms with my friend/neighbor but, should I inadvertently cause her some sort of physical or emotional harm...who knows how she might react. I'll travel the hour, thank you very much, to look at chickens WITHOUT having to be constantly looking over my shoulder.

Despite the drizzle (the ducks didn't seem to mind), we sallied forth, undaunted. Cloth sneakers were  unfortunate choice. As we picked our way across the muddy parking lot and fair grounds, we were impressed by the vast array of license plates hailing from Kentucky, Tennessee, Ontario, and the eastern seaboard. Wow. These people were serious about their chickens. We took refuge in the goose building first...shocked to see geese the size of guard dogs in there. "See" might be too loose a verb...let's go with "glimpsed" as we were quickly herded out as the barn was closing because the Goose Grammy Awards were scheduled to begin in ANOTHER building. Okk-aay.

We searched several other empty buildings on our hunt...our sneakers getting soggier with every step. I bet Deb would provide me with a warm beverage after I viewed her chickens, I thought wistfully. Hearing a cacophony of crowing, we followed the noise to a place full of poultry. We'd hit the motherload. Chickens of every size, color, and assorted states of fluffiness. We made it successfully down one aisle before the chicken bouncer alerted us that the Pulitzer Prize for Poultry was about to begin and they had to secure the building. Devastated, I will admit to a bit of lolly-gagging as I SLOWLY exited, trying to see as many chickens as possible but the barn bouncer lurked closely behind me; ruffling my feathers in the process. 

Feeling rather hen-pecked, we flew the coop. Passing a stand of gloriously-colored flowers, we paused to purchase a bouquet. As I agonized over my choice, I apologized for taking so much time. "I'm sure you have some important award ceremony to attend," I commiserated. "Stay as long as you want," he answered, smiling, "and be sure to poppy in any time." It was too late to back-petal. I bought two bouquets. "Seed ya later," he waved. "Hosta la vista!" I said, waddling away in my squishy shoes. 

Our hour's-long quest to see chickens may have come up short but the flowers were beautiful and breakfast was delicious so in the end, I think we can call "No harm/No fowl."

 

Great minds think alike: Moments that make me melt

You moms out there will get this.

It's been over three years since my daughters moved to San Diego. They are 2,551 miles away from me. Thirty-eight hours by car. My heart aches ALL the time. I am constantly talking about them...always thinking about them, praying for them ceaselessly. I know, I know...get a life already.

Fortunately for me...both of my girls are excellent (and patient) communicators. Rarely does a day go by that we don't exchange at least a text. They don't even question if I call up, out of the blue, and ask them to just ease my heart by (a) having Sydney sing the entire theme song from "The Big Bang Theory" or (b) having Savannah quickly recite the presidents in order from memory. Without question, they do what I ask and hang up, resuming their activities knowing that I was having a hard day but they'd just made me feel better. Better that than the bottle, baby!

Nothing feels better (other than actually being WITH them, of course) though, than knowing we are in sync. Brad and I had a busy day yesterday after school...visiting my mom, grocery shopping, ect. We'd just pulled out of the drive-thru, having treated ourselves to McDonald's sundaes when a text arrived on our phones, showing what my girls were doing at the EXACT same minute. My dessert had never tasted sweeter.

 

This "snow" way to treat a lady in August

 It was our last week-end in August.

"You know what we should do?" my husband said.

I perked right up, my mind whirling with the possibilities of the fun we could have, on this...our last few days of summer.

Motioning with his arm for me to follow him on this memorable adventure, Brad headed outside. Positively QUAKING with curiosity, I hurried after him only to be completely befuddled as he began to wrestle our generator out of the garage. I could think of NOTHING fun to associate with our generator.

"We're going to see if it starts," Brad informed me happily.

It did.

High on the success of that little enterprise, Brad then tugged out the snowblower...in AUGUST.

In our family, we are big on thinking about our future selves. For example, how is Future Amy going to feel the next day when Present Amy stays up until 2 am reading? Present Brad is ALWAYS talking about the economic planning surrounding Future Amy's retirement which is a total bummer when Present Amy wants to go to Disney. 

"Won't we be happy that we did this in August rather than in November or December?" Brad asked, as
he valiantly pulled the starter cord. I nodded, settling into a nearby lawn chair and popping the top on a Moscow Mule. On the twentieth try, the snowblower flickered briefly to life. Brad made a few adjustments and then grasped the cord again...only for it to immediately snap.  

I froze in place, knowing that the attention of the T-Rex (and Brad Mosiman) are drawn to movement. I was pleasantly surprised when my husband simply shrugged. Tossing it to the ground, Brad said, "Well, it's not going to start that way." 

Bouncing along in his ignorant bubble that this process is SO much easier in summer, he began the process of dismantling the housing unit for the cord. Easier said than done, of course. I watched (on my second drink, by now) as he tried to meticulously "fish" the starter cord through with fishing line before finally deciding "housing compartment be damned" and just magically wrapped the cord around some dangerous motor part and gave it a go, grinning at me when it worked. I got up, went in the house, and grabbed another beverage. 

Now, all that was left (of my few waning hours of summer) was to tip the heavy, cumbersome, filthy snowblower vertically at least a dozen times to poke, wiggle, twist, and lube different parts while I lamented that these same verbs could have been applied to some other fun, end-of-summer activity. 

FINALLY, thanks to Brad's diligent attention,  the snowblower turned on. Me...not so much.  

Let's just say that, for the Mosimans, the end of summer did not go out with a bang.

 

What's a zombie's favorite cereal: Brain flakes

For good or bad (Notice how, when anyone says that, it usually leans towards the bad?), I am doggedly loyal. When I commit...I commit HARD. And this loyalty isn't just limited to people. Pepsi. Russell Stover Chocolate Marshmallow Bunnies. Wyoming County. The East Coast. My friend Val and I almost came to blows over the great Hostess/Little Debbie debate on Tuesday but, fortunately, we were able to find common ground in our mutual love for insurance commercials.  

So it was, with my loyalty leotard firmly in place, that I screeched to a halt in the grocery store, my wobbly-wheeled cart leaving tread marks on the highly-trafficked tile. Usually, the appearance of my childhood favorite cereals brings about squeals of delight and an internal debate conflict of how many boxed purchases would result in cashier judgement.  But this time, I (appropriately) felt waves of horror at an unprecedented addition to my usual monster cereal line-up. 

I immediately alerted my girls.

Me: (sending pictorial evidence) What the...? Cherry flavored???!!!

Sydney: (horrified because she's been raised right) Did Frankenberry get censored? 

Me:  No...it was on the bottom shelf. As you know, it's strawberry flavored. They (insert snarl here for obvious betrayal of my cereal trust) ADDED a new monster cereal. I don't know whether to be delighted or disgusted.

Lisa:  Ha-ha. Did you get to try it? (She's new folks, so we have to forgive her light-hearted flippancy. Her use of the word "get" denotes a privileged opportunity. If...and that was a big IF...I chose to sample this unasked for addition, it would be in sacrificial service to the cereal-loving community.

Me:  I refused on principle and regretted upon passing.

Feeling dirty, I finally went back and brought it. While I would typically tear into my beloved Booberry or Frankenberry cereal before I'd even left the grocery store parking lot, the box of "Frute Brute" (It even sounds wrong when I say it) sat, forlorn, in sad exile in my cupboard as I wrestled with my consumer conscience about its purchase.

It was then that I decided to conduct a little research (What? Don't YOU research your cereal before you eat it?). As Booberry was a much-anticipated and beloved companion each October of my childhood (Yeah...and adulthood), I was not surprised to learn that it was initially manufactured in 1972, shortly following Frankenberry and Count Chocula. 

Fun fact. They artist who drew the Trix Rabbit, also created the monsters! 

But...get this:  The "Fruit Brute" (apparently he could spell back then) was introduced in (gasp) 1974! WHAT?!?! He was retired in 1982. If his abrupt disappearance was the result of a seedy womanizing scandal or political malfeasance, we are not likely to know as I was unable to find any sort of paper trail. It was interesting to note that "Fruit Brute" made appearances in both "Pulp Fiction" and "Reservoir Dogs." As Taratino also seems to have a foot fetish, I am not surprised that he went for this particular monster cereal.

If that wasn't shocking enough (Are you sitting down?), "Yummy Mummy" made its debut in 1988 but sales must have unraveled because it disappeared in 1992. How on earth did I miss this? Oh...I was 18. Cereal was not high on my list of consumables at that time.

Apparently 2013 marks the unprecedented time in history where ALL 5 monster cereals hit the shelves at the same time...perhaps a preapocalyptic precursor to climate change, Covid, inflation, gas prices, and the invasion of the spotted lanturnfly?

Alright.

Research done, it was time to move forward with my investigation.

With a winced apology to Booberry and Frankenberry, I poured myself a bowl of "Frute Brute," removing rating points just for contributing to the spelling inaccuracies of minors.  Crunching down on my first bite, I was pleased that it reflected the crunchy airiness associated with my monster cereals. The marshmallow-to-dry-cereal ratio was also similar to its fellow frightening breakfast buddies (Note-to-self: Compose a strongly worded lament beseeching the manufacturer to add MORE marshmallows to each box). Okay. I didn't hate it. But did it gain my loyalty? 

Imagine a scenario where I was adrift in the freezing Atlantic, balanced precariously upon a floating doorframe with limited space. Let's just say that I wouldn't hesitate to make room for Booberry or Frankenberry. I would let "Frute Brute" hang on to the edges but I would NOT make any promises to him unless he pledged to immediately conduct a name change upon our return to land. Count Chocula is on his own.

I wish the manufacturer had consulted me prior to this marketing gimmick. Now that I am aware of their desire for monster-expansion, I feel like I have the perfect NEW product name for their line-up:  Cereal Killer!

I hope that this little experiment has been helpful to you, the cereal-eating public. 

 
 

Don't tell me to reLAX: Diagnosis...terminal

I am happy to report that, for the most part, my mental health has returned to its somewhat precarious pre-Covid state. Unfortunately, the heart-pounding anxiety that accompanies my necessary visits to airports was grandfathered in as part of the pre-existing package. And, satanically-seduced by low air fare and a direct flight, I found myself at the fifth busiest airport IN THE WORLD. 

After spending almost three delightful weeks in my company, Sydney's beau, Douglas was a little surprised to discover this quirky little component of my character. I had, after-all, been a model house guest. Quiet. Dignified. Calm. Quiet. The only minor blip was when we finally had to print out a sign reading "Yes" after the third day of Douglas asking Sydney if I was being sarcastic. An act that, I feel, only served to highlight my time-saving, problem-solving traits. 

So, when Sydney subtly alluded to my fear of airports, Douglas thoughtfully did what he could to minimize my anxiety by printing out and reviewing the terminal map with me. I was unable to concentrate, however, because he'd printed it out in black and white. Early on in my visit, Douglas had delivered an impassioned street-side speech about the lack of sincerity of the pet owners who had posted a "Lost Cat" flier of their calico in black and white. Obviously, I had failed to impress Doug as a model house guest. 

As you can see from the picture above, my assigned gate was immediately to the right outside of TSA. Couldn't have been easier. Terminal 5 was similar in layout to my home airport of Buffalo so I set about getting my step count up during my several hour wait. In the midst of that, I happened to catch a glimpse of the airport monitor that now listed my flight as tbit. What the heck was tbit? To be determined? No. Non-American donut holes? If so, I would throw a great big ol' American fit. 

I tossed off a text to my family as I searched for answers. A nice young man sporting a "God is dope" sweatshirt was helpful. Tbit stands for the Tom Bradley International Terminal. "Isn't he playing for Tampa Bay now?" I asked. "You're thinking of Tom Brady," he said before dashing off. Sydney Lynn was calling by this time as she and Douglas were busy navigating the LA freeway on their way home from dropping me off. She had investigated tbit and was trying to direct me to the new terminal. How hard could it be?

First of all, there were a LOT of stairs. What a great opportunity to get my step-count up, I thought to myself, never imagining the insurmountable journey before me. The Hobbits had it easier headed to Mordor.

 

Three sketchy tunnel-passages and more stairs than I can count later, I began looking for energy-consuming methods.

 

 

Danger lurked around every corner.

 

A slight drop in morale here.

Sydney and Doug were following my adventures in real time...noting my slowly moving dot on Google Maps and receiving fun picture texts from me. "Should we go back?" worried Doug. "No," Sydney reassured him, "Profanity shows that she isn't giving up. Fury is better than fear for her. The dot is still moving so she hasn't gone fetal yet"

  

Jaded (and so...so tired), I would no longer be fooled by propaganda.

I somehow emerged into Times Square. Four stories of sensory overload and high-end shops. I window-shopped Rolex watches for Brad ($13,000) and Sydney texted my moving dot to stop at Victoria's Secret. I lapped Madison Avenue twice before I realized there was a tbit A & B. I finally found the hidden passageway next to the gourmet cheese shoppe. I paused but then thought, I'll just come back when I find my gate.

Sigh.

I had to be getting closer. The signs were all there. I was shooting off unhappy texts to my family as proof of life as I plodded along. Gripping the steering wheel in frustration, Doug predicted that he and Sydney would make it home before I made it to my supposed "gate." "How is she editing photos so fast?" he asked as they continued to monitor my slowly moving dot on the screen. "It's her super-skill," Sydney told him.

And then, finally, there it was. I had initially been assigned the closest possible, most conveniently accessible gate in the entire airport only to be reassigned to the furthest possible, least conveniently accessible gate in the entire airport. I passed under a pair of hungry vultures perched on the now-closed food mart gate while dodging a tumbleweed. 

 

My several hour wait time had dwindled to thirty minutes and my step-count boasted record numbers. And I was starving with only Doug's kind gift of Jolly Ranchers to my name. The cheese shoppe was an unfathomable distance away. I remembered passing a vending machine and, like a lost soul in the desert, staggered over to this industrial oasis. I gazed at their offerings with distain. Amy Mosiman would NEVER, even under threat of death, pay $2.50 for a Little Debbie product. Hostess...maybe. And the chip selection made me shudder. I would not compromise my snacking morals for this.

A determined hunt later, I found a tiny bodega open and quickly snagged a Pepsi. two string cheeses, and a three-pack of Ferrero Rocher and didn't even blink when I was charged $11.45. 

I vowed to ration my precious acquisitions.  One Ferrero Rocher an hour, interspersed by dainty bites of string cheese. I couldn't even say "thank you" to the gate agent who charmingly (ie: patronizingly) scanned my old-school paper ticket like I was a relic from Hee-Haw because my cheeks were stuffed, hamster-style, with mozzarella. The Ferrero Rocher were consumed before I'd fought my way into my confusing seat belt. Only Doug's Jolly Ranchers survived to sustain me during the Red Eye flight home.

With my clunky pink ear phones plunked unashamedly on my head, I took turns staring at the small movie monitor and out the window as I awaited the sunrise that would reunite me with Brad Mosiman.

Touch down! Tom Brady forgotten, I was welcomed by a more familiar and comforting figure. I fairly jogged up the gangway and twirled about in the nearly empty (but clearly marked) corridors. Like Dorothy, I needed a ridiculous quest to teach me that there is no place like your home airport. I mulled this analogy over as I waited patiently for my bag...realizing I encapsulated nearly all the characters in Oz from the brainless Scarecrow to the Cowardly Lion to the Tin Man with my heart fairly beating out of my chest. And, like them, I had had all I needed to succeed with me, all along. 

 

My reunion with my husband was bittersweet. Safe in his arms, I was home. Smiling, I sat next to him in the van, chatting animatedly...the memories of my traumatic journey fading away like a bad dream...when I spotted, from the corner of my eye, an item that caused all the feelings associated with that nightmare to suddenly resurface. I reached down and grabbed it by the scruff, dangling from my fingers like a mangy mutt. "What is this?" I croaked, hoarsely.  Brad glanced at the snack bag, confused. "You don't like these?" he asked, before grinning. "Better these on an airplane than deLays!" 

I came home for this?