Wrong "brat"

   Like sand sifting slowly through the hour-glass, I watched student-after-student and colleague-after-colleague succumb to the stomach bug stalking our small school, knowing that it wasn't a matter of "if" but "when" I would eventually fall prey to the puking pandemic. 

Don't get me wrong...I fought it off to the bitter end...dipping kids into vats of hand sanitizer like strawberries into melted chocolate. But you can only stand, shoulder-to-shoulder, in the trenches with your rapidly falling comrades, elbow-deep in bodily fluids, before you must face facts:  Help is not coming. A strong resolve, sure will, and blind courage would not be enough. Forget the Alamo...even if Amy-says-"No," the stomach bug laughs and says, "Yes."

It came for me Wednesday night. 

Naturally, I responded with full-fledged denial. Just a little heart-burn. But my body continued to bubble and brew like a witch's caldron. Time for some false hope and self-delusion. I can fight this. I curled and stretched, folded and furled to escape the inevitable. I was a loaded gun...my esophagus, a burning barrel...but I refused to release the trigger. Inevitably...painfully...I realized that I was no longer in charge of my own destiny. 

I will spare you the details of the next several hours. Suffice to say...I do NOT look good. 

5:45am had me dragging to the door to head for school. "I'll drive you," sighed my sleep-deprived husband, knowing that that would be the fastest way to get me back in bed (or in front of the toilet) but I was already out the door. 6am had me standing, stooped-over, at the school's firmly locked doors,  angrily texting my administrator. Her calmly unreasonable response that the school doesn't open until 7 prompted me to immediately throw up in the parking lot and then look for another way to breech the castle walls. 

I drove around to the back and caught one of our dedicated maintenance staff in the beam of my headlights. He froze. "Why are you here so early?" he asked, watching me stagger from my truck and then draft behind him as he returned to the building. "I'm sick," I gasped, the icy wind and my stomach stabbing me simultaneously. "Show a movie," he told me, shielding my pajama-clad costume from the rest of the morning crew. I quickly assembled my sub plans, stacking the work in order of completion, dropped off a "Happy National Data Privacy Day" card off at Felicia's room so she could collect signatures and crawled back out of the building by 6:30. 

"It's only 24 hours...it's only 24 hours...it's only 24 hours," I lamaze-chanted for the next eternity as my dachshund realized that a perfect Chloe-sized space existed between my knees and the base of our toilet. I cried when Brad put a milk-shake straw in my 7-Up instead of the pre-requisite flex-straw that my mother used to use. And what are these? Ice cubes? Does he hate me? 

The 24 hours were up. I'd made it. My abdomen ached. I'd thrown out my back. My throat was raw. But I'd made it.  Several people encouraged me to take Friday off as a recovery day. It was a Superintendent's Day, after all. Bunch of softies. But it was the conclusion of National Data Privacy Week. We had plans.

I avoided ALL food and went at a slow and easy pace, anticipating our much-anticipated, End-of-January birthdays celebration scheduled after school at Geri's house. This is where things really went off the rails.

Long ago, our pediatrician, Dr. Ang, sporting sassy socks with toe-thong-ed sandals, long extolled the virtues of the BRAT diet, God bless her heart. Obviously, she did NOT mean butter beer, rye bread dip, angel food cake with whipped cream and strawberries, and tequila but c'mon! We were celebrating all of the birthdays! I tapped out mid-way though the crème brulee. Naturally, this caught my friend Katriel's attention as I typically have the makings for competitive eating at the Olympic level. "You got real quiet real fast," she said on our way home, "How are you feeling?" 

"It was supposed to be 24 hours...it was supposed to be 24 hours...24 hours," I lamaze-chanted later, fighting a dachshund out of my way so I could properly regret my life's decisions. 

Saturday morning would normally find me at the school laying out a week's worth of detailed lesson plans. Instead, Saturday morning found me laying out in the middle of my bathroom floor. "Don't you have emergency sub plans?" Brad asked. Yeah. Filled with activities that have NOTHING to do with my current instruction. Parts-of-speech BINGO.  A subtraction-based Math Mystery packet. Dictionary work. A reading comprehension passage on an elephant sanctuary. A state capital crossword. "That's for emergencies," I told him crossly, re-adjusting the towel cushioning my knees, inadvertently making more room for a wiggling wiener dog. "I'd like to know what you think constitutes an emergency," he said as I waved at him to, please, leave me alone. Before I resumed my bathroom activities, I heard him mutter something as he walked away. I think it was brat. But, considering what I was doing...maybe not.

The siren call of the Scotcheroo

As fraught with danger as Theseus's perilous journey through the Minotaur maze, I battled my way through the gamut of Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year galas; getting clubbed with calories at every turn. Gorging on gallons of gravy. A monstrous amount of mashed potatoes. Shovel-fulls of sugar. To even risk a quick glance at a holiday treat was to add more leaden weight to my petrified posterior. 

January 3rd signified my re-set. I ventured forth, clinging cautiously to the cliff-face of calorie restriction, avoiding the snapping jaws of Scylla and the whirling waves of Charybdis as they lurked in locations that I couldn't avoid; namely, the school office and faculty room. I would make up reasons to visit my friends, Joanne and Val, entertaining them with stories of my odyssey so I could subtly slip by them to score a golden-wrapped Rolo. On Friday, I was faced with boxes of assorted chocolates ("Strawberry cream!" I squealed.) and baked cookies the size of my skull. I'm only one woman, people.

And then...the dreaded faculty luncheons. My classroom is 15 feet away from this perilous pit of the underworld. The scent was intoxicating...maddening. I watched plates, laden with ambrosia, float before me. I admit it...I ran away. Lunch-time found me walking laps around the school...walking...like I was some sort of exerciser. Ugh.

I thought I'd made it...triumphantly...through the maze when my friend, Diane...my slender, fit, poised and perfect friend Diane, stopped to commiserate with me about the struggle. I think she was being serious. Although her next word led me to believe that she was an agent of sabotage...a word that would prove to be my undoing. Wars have been fought...relationships ruined...economies dissolved because of this word. Scotcheroo.

Scotcheroo.

Who could resist? My knees nearly buckled realizing that I was a mere fifteen feet from utter delight. I crept closer to the forbidden door. I knew that even one peek could cause chaos and disaster. Another friend happened by, her fiery hair belying her kind and gentle nature. "How can I help?" she asked softly, sensing that I was in a culinary crisis. "There are Scotcheroos in there," I whispered hoarsely. Carrie nodded, torn between not wanting to enable but also not wanting to torture. "Do you want me to get you one?" she inquired carefully, worried whether she was more meth dealer or angel of mercy in this scenario. "Just a small one," I gasped, barely hanging on. Turns out, it was a gateway goodie...one bite and I stormed the castle and plundered the entire plate of Scotcheroos. 

I'm so weak.

I thought I could settle for just one Scotcheroo. 

I was myth-taken.

 

Yule be sorry if you mess with the Elf-on-the-Shelf

This is not the first blog appearance of my dear friend and co-worker, George. For almost two decades, he has been a source of emotional support ("Why do you have to move the rug every single day? Pick a spot and commit for Pete's sake"), my accountability partner (In his one-man venture to save the planet by plucking redeemable bottles out of my trash, George will one day fund a trip to the Maldives on my wastefulness), and time-management consultant ("Go home," he growls as I search for the perfect clip art after 5 o'clock). He has overseen my holiday gift selections, donated to my ridiculous classroom causes, and will occasionally...begrudgingly...admit that I do not have THE messiest classroom in the school ("At least for today," he'll mutter).

But this time...George really went above and beyond.

Knowing me as well as you do...you will not be surprised that I am not the biggest fan of the "Elf on the Shelf" craze. My gracious! When is enough enough? Remember when little Laura Ingalls was grateful to have just received a flippin' orange for Christmas?!? Oh my goodness! Now, every single day in December HAS to be filled with magical delight...no wonder our little honeys are never satisfied with simple joys. "Mrs. Mosiman? Why can't we have a classroom Elf-on-the-Shelf?" one cherub dared to ask before disintegrating into a pile of coal dust from my burning glare.

December in an elementary classroom clearly qualifies as one of Dante's nine levels of hell. As I stomped around my room after school, kicking candy cane crumbs out of my way, flicking paper snowflakes away from my face, and cursing desks crammed with Christmas clutter, I suddenly stopped...a diabolical plan emerging from the anticipatory euphoria. "They want an Elf-on-a-Shelf," I sneered gleefully, "I'll give them an Elf-on-the-Shelf!"

Selling George on my plan wasn't difficult once he realized that he would be a party to ruining someone's morning. "Let me get this straight," he said, "You want me to place this laminated card that you somehow think resembles me on the neatest desk in the room and then tip over the messiest one?" I nodded. George graced me with a rare grin. "I'm in," he declared. We immediately put our plan into action.

To our dismay, the children were delighted.

The neat, organized child who was graced with the magic card received a "No Homework" coupon and a small prize. The messy desk housing a nesting family of chipmunks was heartlessly tipped over. The owner of this disastrous desk had to clean it immediately and then perform an act of repentance before recess (List the alphabet backwards...list the multiples of 6 up to 200...hidden item puzzles, ect). Mr. George was immediately re-named "George-of-the-Forge" (One of my honeys has a dad who is a blacksmith so that made sense plus it fits in well with my upcoming Colonial American occupations lesson) and the kids couldn't wait to get into the classroom every morning to see who had been "desk-graced." There was laughter and giggling as students helped clean the targeted desk together. The penalty-ed pupil always received secret assistance to circumvent their roadblock to recess. 

Naturally, George and I were devastated. 

Amy and George stood there, puzzled; thinking "How could it be?

Their Elf-on-the-Shelf was a joke, can't they see?

But they still had some fun...Christmas wasn't undone.

How was this a game that we lost...and they won?"

"So, did their hearts grow in size?" you ask of these villains.

Who snarled, "This makes me so sick that I need penicillin."

 

Time for some APPstinence when it comes to my phone

 

I know this is getting old, but I must preface this post by stating, unequivocally, that this wasn't my fault. It could have happened to ANYONE.

Katriel and I had popped in, after work, to visit our dear friend, Geri who is valiantly recovering from a broken foot injury. Our intent was to play euchre but, understandably, the strain of being housebound is beginning to show on our normally active and on-the-go friend. Geri felt that her marriage would benefit more from participating in another activity as she and Gregg have strong but very different philosophies when it comes to euchre. That being said, HAD we played cards, I may not have needed an emergency counseling session following our visit. Geri, of course, would disagree.

Delicious Oreo milkshakes in hand, Katriel and I curled up on the couch as Geri explained how we would use our phones to log onto the computer game on the television. I may have been a bit distracted (between the alcohol in my beverage and the startling emails I was fielding that were a consequence of my misguided resolution to better connect with others. Apparently, I had succeeded but was now contending with the repercussion of this idiotic objective. To my daughter, Sydney's delight, I once hosted a thirty minute conversation at a wedding debating the merits and drawbacks concerning rectangular hay bales and round ones. This was almost as bad.) so, as I punched the address into my phone, I inadvertently hit one wrong key. I was off by ONE letter. What's the saying, "For want of a nail, the kingdom was lost?" This was, "For the strike of a wrong letter, Amy's phone blew up with porn."

And let's be clear. This wasn't fun porn. Or Game of Thrones porn. I'm not a prude, for goodness sake. My screen was FILLED with a close-up image of ONLY the body part...I need a little background, people. Story-board my porn. But no...this was microscopic, in-your-face, skin pore porn. I shrieked like a matronly old woman who still kettles her tea and has a crochet-ed doll wearing a hoop skirt dress hiding a roll of toilet paper in her bathroom. I shielded the screen of my phone against my shirt. My subtle behavior had somehow drawn the attention of my gaming companions.

"I did something wrong," I announced, chancing a quick, careful peek like one would into a suspiciously loaded diaper. I couldn't spot an exit on the screen but my retinas had, without a doubt, been burned beyond recognition capability. I may have screamed again and then bobbled the devil's device...lobbing it over to Katriel like it was a piping hot pornographic potato. "Why would you give it to her and not Gregg?" Geri scolded, feeling the need to defend Katriel's virtuous manner. I've spent a LOT of commuting time with Katriel; her virtuous manner need not be defended. Plus, she had strong technical skills. 

Katriel got me straightened out and we were able to begin playing. Only...every four minutes or so, my phone would ping with alarming notices that I was corrupted. A truer statement had never been uttered. "Delete it," Katriel would say, staring, unblinking at the TV, as she crushed me in the first round. Delete. Ping. Another warning. Delete. Ping. A threat. Delete. Ping. "Your phone will be locked in two minutes if you don't respond." Katriel had already crushed me in three games by now while I waited for a knock on the door as the porn police came to take me away. "Katriel..." I whined, desperate now. Sighing, she paused her game, grabbed my phone, uttered some sort of magical spell over it, and then handed it back. Exorcised, my phone was now blessedly silent and I could concentrate on the game. Katriel beat me a final time before I decided it was time for us to go. 

"I'm switching phone carriers," I told Katriel on the way home. "Verizon has been pretty spotty," she agreed. "No, I just don't want that to ever happen again," I explained. "How is switching phone carriers going to help with that?" she asked. "I'm going to switch to Virgin Mobile!" I grinned.

Having a melt-down in a New Year's Eve igloo

 I know that you can tell, just by looking at us, that Brad Mosiman and I have been known to shut New Year's Eve DOWN, son! (Cue voice inflection of choice accompanied by a snazzy cross-body hand movement) Regular revelers...that's us.

Okay. That's a bit of an exaggeration. 

How we went from lighting up 151 out of the trunk of our car to falling asleep by 9:30 is a complete mystery to me. I now realize Dick Clark was flippin' gangsta...my apologies for any past pokes at his "Rocking New Year"...my golly, what I would give  if I could summon HALF the energy that he had as he continued to encourage us to watch his balls drop well into his 80s! (Grammatical clarification: Is it "ball drops?" )

Like a small town grocery store being edged out by heartless national chains, so too, has our New Year's Eve options become more and more limited. We began with the stately elegance of Sherlous Hillside with its gigantic fireplaces and elegant pianos  to The Valley Inn with its Willa Wonka-style desserts and intimate table alcoves to the Mosiman Family couch. 

But not this year!

"I rented us an igloo," I announced triumphantly to my husband.  

After three decades of marriage, it takes a bit of effort on my part to surprise him.

Like any good Wyoming County resident, it took him a moment to digest this news. Lake effect snow is our lingo...we are quite fluent in frozen precipitation. Brad Mosiman, born of the mid-west and raised in Wyoming County, is more of the "Why rent when you can buy?" type of guy...Why would we rent an igloo when we could just build our own?

I excitedly explained the geo-dome concept to him, finishing with "...and it's on the water!"  First confirming that it wasn't a floating igloo, Brad, well-versed in our local geography, was confused by the local raging river I was describing. "Do you mean Oatka Creek?" he asked. I was beginning to think that he was not getting into the spirit of our New Year's Eve adventure. This suspicion was corroborated when he lamented the 8:30 reservation time.

Concerned that I would be cold, Brad refused to let me dress like a harlot. If he had had his way, he would have traded my sequins and thigh-high leg slit for a snowsuit. Fortunately, he was satisfied with my compromise outfit of thick socks, jeans, and a warm sweater. As we sleepily prepared for our departure to our New Year's Eve excursion, we attempted to maintain balanced expectations...hoping to solidly land between abject failure and triumphant success.

Turns out...being cold was NOT a problem as a wave of tropical heat blasted us as our server unzipped our igloo and shoved us in...we immediately wrestled the three small heaters into a more reasonable compliance and then sat, entranced, in our twinkly dome...vacillating whether we felt more like the filaments in an incandescent lightbulb or the stuffing in a turkey. The "tasting process" began immediately...seven small courses of food that defied description AND Google translation. Naturally, I protested anything called a "microgreen," stared dismally at my roasted brussel sprout, and happily pronounced  my "frizzled leek" a close cousin to a Funyun. "Who cooks a grape?" I asked my husband who would not be bothered to respond as he diligently marathon-ed his way through a generous tasting of mussels, halibut, and filet mignon. 

There was a welcomed break from eating for the community fireworks show. I'd forgotten how pleasant fireworks can be when I'm not occupied with penitent prayer..."Please Lord, let everyone visiting my home leave tonight with the same number of fingers and toes with which they arrived. Please Lord, I beseech that any fires be manageably extinguished by your Good Grace." My favorite fireworks were low arching lights that cascaded directly down onto the frozen river, striking like lava or a welder's forge. 

Returning to the warmth of our little cocoon, I inventoried my forks. Having learned most of my table manner etiquette from "Pretty Woman"  and "Titanic," I knew to start with the furthest fork and work my way in, relinquishing each one like it was a well-ran race horse...and selecting a new fork filly for the next heat. Brad, back-country bumpkin that he is, hoarded his utensils like a bad-mannered troll. Naturally, I consulted our server, the beautiful Danielle, who, by now, realized that she had a pair of special customers in Igloo #2. She diplomatically said that both methods are acceptable and welcomed at her establishment but would make sure that the ratio of fork-to-food would be addressed on my more ladylike-side of the table. And, to be fair, yeah...I was pretty drunk by this time. Brad, abstaining as he was driving, relinquished his portion of the bottle of Prosecco. As I'd already Googled most of the menu; loudly questioning the confusing use of the word "zesty" (Do they mean fun and lively? Do they mean sexy? Can fish be sexy? Do they mean spicy? I'll get heartburn and won't be able to sleep. Or are they implying that some sort of rind was actually zested? Where is Danielle?"), I did a deep dive on the Prosecco. "It's like champagne only it's not from

the area OF Champagne," I told my husband, "Which is in France. Prosecco is made in Italy." Brad was too busy using one fork like a Neanderthal to listen to me. Nevertheless, I continued. "Bubbles are somehow magically implanted into each Champagne bottle," I informed him knowledgably, "whereas Prosecco (I gestured at our bottle, nearly knocking it over...Brad, clutching his fork in one hand, continued eating his filet mignon while saving the bottle with his other hand) has bubbles added to the barrel. It's the lazy man's Champagne!" I concluded before announcing that potatoes are not meant to be pureed unless one has suffered a broken jaw. I eyed the filet mignon. "You won't like the cheese on top," Brad told me. How DARE he! He knows I love cheese! "Ugh!" I spat. Turns out I don't like Gorgonzola cheese...not surprising...Medusa's sisters were gorgons. 

"What am I going to do with my filet mignon?" I whispered. "I don't want Danielle to think I didn't like it." I eyed up my complimentary New Year's Eve party hat. "Oh no," Brad sighed. I'd safely stored my meat as our dessert arrived. There was a LOT going on here, fancy-wise. Tiny chocolate pebbles. A plum center in the middle of the mousse. Slivered chocolate bark erupting out. "It's reminiscent of the chocolate skin coating of a Little Debbie Swiss Cake Roll," I whispered ("You THOUGHT you whispered," Brad said later). Knowing that I am a solid Hostess girl, Brad wisely refrained from comment to limit further discussion.

Perfect as she was, Danielle gave me TERRIBLE directions to the restrooms. Because of her, I tripped down a ramp, almost barged into the staff entrance, and knocked over a mis-mash of bar stools not appropriately pushed in on the outside patio. Fortunately, due to my clear thinking, I managed to find it. "It was like being in a fancy stone cave!" I reported back to Brad (after I tried to get into another igloo first...darn that Danielle). 

It was, unfortunately, time to go. We had had a wonderful time which, of course, delighted Danielle, upon whom our happiness meant the world. Brad thoroughly enjoyed the food, the fireworks, and, naturally, the magical company. From what I can remember, I had a pretty good time too. "Be sure to come back," Danielle encouraged as I tripped out of my yurt, clutching my purloined mignon. "Tell your friends." "Are you kidding?" I answered, giggling like a drunken goof, "We're not telling ANYONE! It'll be our little secret." Danielle dropped me a wink and grinned, "Sure. Keep it under your hat."