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."