You've got to know when to fold them (or in this case: UN-fold them): Breaking out "basic" black

 It's not something that I'm proud of but I admit it...I completely and utterly exploited my position as an educator to facilitate a diabolical plan of darkness...manipulating a child for the most noble of pursuits...revenge.

It happened innocently enough. Room 14 was completing our daily editing challenge:  To find ten errors (spelling, punctuation, syntax, ect) in a passage. One of my little honeys completed his task and announced...confidently..."I found them ALL."

No, he didn't.

But I didn't say that. I looked at him with calculated interest. I had to admire his bravado. 

The class typically is awarded a minute added onto their recess if they are able to collectively find eight errors. My editing Einstein then tossed the gauntlet when he boldly said, "What do we get when I find them all?" Not if...when.

I sighed. This was SO Erin's kid.

Wait. 

This was ERIN'S kid!

I resisted the urge to rub my hands together in glee.

I tossed an extra ten recess minutes onto the table.

The room gasped.

"But what do you give me WHEN you DON'T find ten?" I asked. 

The room immediately went silent. Not finding ten errors was inconceivable to them. Ah...the impetuous arrogance of youth.

"What do you want?" my aspiring editor asked, ready to bet a fiddle of gold against his soul.

One of my administrators has a built-in shenanigan-radar and apparently Room 14 was glowing red-hot. Tyler slipped into the back of the room as our agreement was just concluding.

"WHEN you do not successfully find all ten errors," I stated (as his classmates scoffed...so certain they were of their champion's abilities), "your mother, on Monday, will have to wear...BLACK!"

The room gasped.

Tyler stumbled back, catching himself against the wall before checking the school by-laws to see if I was violating the school's code-of-conduct. Legally...I was well within my boundaries. Morally...I was WAY out in left field...happily shagging fly balls and chatting up the crowd.

"Deal," my little guy said without hesitation, immediately selling out his mom. I couldn't have loved him more in this moment.

I dialed up Erin who apparently has ALL THE TIME IN THE WORLD to chat on the phone ("Make a note of that," I hissed at Tyler who apparently has ALL THE TIME IN THE WORLD to stand around in Room 14 to watch an 8-year-old locate spelling errors in a reading passage about Pablo Picasso.). I explained the challenge and she also did not hesitate. "I'm in!' 

I admit to feeling a little worried about this family. Erin's half would have happily bet the trifecta of Titanic/Hindenburg/and the 2017 Cleveland Browns. Fortunately, Kenna and Kevin tend to exercise more self-control and common sense.

The kid found four.

I had no mercy.

The stakes were high that day in Room 14 and a hard lesson was learned. "I have several years of experience over you," I reassured my worthy opponent. "Not to brag, but, I am pretty skilled at finding 4th grade level editing mistakes." Down but certainly not out, he grinned at me, "Not to brag either, Mrs. Mosiman, but I'm a little bet-ter."

We had a moo-velous time cele-bray-ting Marissa

 Planning for our colleague, Marissa's, baby shower began months ago...

"...but I'm in the hospital," Katriel complained as I texted her tentative ideas over the summer.

"Then you have plenty of time to plan," I answered pragmatically.

Our farm theme, borrowed from Marissa's extensive background in agriculture, yielded a ton of cute craft and culinary choices. The problem was narrowing it down to a reasonable number. 

"No," corrected Katriel (who has gotten quite sassy lately, by the way), "The problem was getting AMY to agree to a reasonable number." (See? Sassy.)

"I don't think we need EVERY farm animal known to man," Katriel said carefully as she calculated the costs of my critter cupcakes. "If we're going to do this," I lectured, "we're going whole hog." Katriel began the difficult-to-impossible work of turning my ridiculous dream into a reality. Walking on eggshells, she proposed frugal changes. "We can't use piping for the eyes," I shrieked, outraged at the very idea. "They MAKE candy decorator eyeballs!" 

So, after Katriel spent half of this year's celery on jelly beans, colored tootsie rolls, candy corn, Necco wafers and decorator eye balls, we learned that I was going to have to travel out-of-town the week-end before the baby shower. "I'm taking the Red-Eye," I assured Katriel, "I'll be to you Sunday afternoon." 

Katriel is not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Amy? Out-of-town? Perfect. She had everything done before I had even crossed back into our time zone. My only job was plates and napkins. Which, of course, I had forgotten. No worries. We'll just stop in at Party City on the way to the airport. I wasn't allowed a checked bag so I just stuffed it into my already-stuffed backpack, removing a sweatshirt and two Ts which I hurriedly put on and breezed through TSA like I was crossing into Switzerland. 

School ended and my team hurriedly set up the library for our shower.

I marveled at the spread. Burlap table runners accented with simple flowers and antique tractor toys. A watermelon carved into the shape of a pig. "Square morsels?" I complained as Katriel wrestled the feet on. "You couldn't have melon-balled it?" She must not have herd me because she didn't respond.

I looked upon the buffet of farm-related yumminess with, first, delight, and then, embarrassment. A lot of time, energy, and creative talent had gone into these treats. I had (barely) purchased the paper plates.

"But they were imported," my friend, Dee said, reassuring me. "Those plates traveled 3,000 miles to get here!"

Thank you, Dee.

"What plates?" my new (and now former) friend, Cassidy asked, "I didn't notice them."

That girl really gets my goat.

The shower was over in two shakes of a lamb's tail.

"Well," I sighed, slumping in my chair as I watched as everyone cleaned up, "We did it."

Katriel, her arms full, paused at the door, "We sure did."

On her third trip through, she spoke to me, somewhat cryptically. "You know," she said, wrestling a baby seat bottom, bottle warmer, and a crib liner into her arms like cord wood. I helpfully added a package of adorable baby socks to the top of her precarious pie like the proverbial cherry, "One should really make hay while the sun shines."

Laying my head on my arms at the table, I considered these weird words. Was she quoting a fortune cookie? Why didn't she ask me if I wanted some Chinese food? Rude. 

Then it hit me. Startled, I sat up.

Was she implying that I was lazy?

How dare she! Why on earth would she be mad? 

It's not like I did anything.

"Look at the cute camel!" our
friend Val exclaimed, admiring
what was CLEARLY a horse
cupcake. Later, she tried
defending her unforgivable faux pas:
"Not a camel, Amy, I said giraffe."
Yeah. Like that makes it better.

The amazing 3rd grade team (with
my new (and now former) friend, Cassidy.

Even though she's new to our staff, Cassidy really has my back.

A-DOOR-able story #2 of 3: Trying to buy a door from a bunch of clowns: A futile jester

Having FINALLY arrived at a decision, all that was left was to simply purchase our item. 

Simple.

Yeah.

Our endless errand for an entryway began in Rochester, where we successfully located our desired door. But, alas, we had no feasible way to transport it. "Aladdin rode a magic carpet," I remarked but, sadly, this was no Disney door. 

Our door dreams delayed, we waited until the week-end and ventured out again...this time, closer: To Batavia...who did not stock the Andersen 4000. 3000, right-handled? Yes. 3000, left-handled? You-betcha! 2000...left AND right-handled?  Doors galore! Everything EXCEPT the 4000. 

"No worries," I stated confidently, "I'll just arrange for the Andersen 4000 to be delivered to the Batavia Tool Town store. We'll pick it up next week-end and save ourselves the delivery charge!" Brad remained oddly quiet. 

In an attempt to be as accurate as possible prior to my phone call, I did some research on Tool Town's website and was pleased to see a generous inventory of the Andersen 4000 scattered throughout Western New York. 

I called Batavia first. Most direct route. Easy.

Nope.

"We don't do inter-store transfers," I was told by a disgruntled employee who must have missed her customer service conference seminar.  Her idea of "going the extra mile," was for me to drive double the distance and NOT bother her. 

Okay. Let's try the Customer Service number for Tool Town.  

Oh, Amy...you silly goose. 

The anticipated wait time for your call is eight minutes. We recommend visiting our helpful website to quickly serve your needs. Should you choose to remain on the line, please complete the customer service survey at the end of your call, repeated the robotic voice...for TEN MINUTES.

Finally, a non-robotic representative took my call. I couldn't understand her and she couldn't understand me. We took turns saying, "Could you say that again?" It was an agonizingly frustrating experience:

• Tool Town Representative:  Do you have the zip-code for Batavia?
• Me (stunned for a moment): Aren't you sitting IN FRONT OF A COMPUTER? Never mind, I'll look it up for you.
• Tool Town Representative:  Do you have the item number?
• Me (sighing): No. But I can read you the description RIGHT FROM YOUR WEBSITE!
• Tool Town Representative:  There are no Andersen 4000s.
• Me (sighing):  I KNOW there are no Andersen 4000 in the Batavia store...I would like to have one delivered there.
• Tool Town Representative:  There are currently no Andersen 4000 in stock ANYWHERE.
• Me (losing any patience that I thought I had): I am looking at your website RIGHT NOW and can see SIX in Niagara Falls, TWO in Irondequoit...listed a ka-zillion more..."
• Tool Town Representative: Ma'am, the customer service website is not always an up-to-date reflection of our inventory.
• Me:  So, (Amy takes a deep breath) what you're trying to tell me is that, sometime between last week and right now, some crazy door-buying bozo went around and acquired ALL of the Andersen 4000s from the entire United States stockpile?
• Tool Town Representative: (pretending to be patient but coming off as completely patronizing and unhelpful) Ma'am...
• Me: (interrupts) Never mind. Send me to the survey.
• Tool Town Representative: Wha...?
• Me:  The survey. At the end of the call. Send me to the survey. I'm giving you all ZEROES!
• Tool Town Representative:  Ma'am, the survey has a rating from 1-4.
• Me:  Arghhhhhhh!!!!!

I selected "ones" for all the categories provided and then yelled for five minutes in the space Tool Town gives you if you have any additional comments. I went all Scarlett O'Hara at one point and loudly declared, "As God as my witness, I'll never shop at Tool Town again!" 

I had, of course, forgotten about the gift cards.

I hadn't, of course, forgotten that my dog was going to love this door and it was greatly going to enhance her golden years. 

I reluctantly returned to the website.

$35 delivery.

Huh.

I factored in time, gas, and marital harmony trying to wrestle the door into our vehicle. Plus the necessary stop for a drink to recover from the stress of trying to wrestle the door into the vehicle.

Before pulling the trigger, I made another call.

"Do it," Brad encouraged without hesitation. 

"But wait," I cautioned, "there's more."

Silence on the other side of the line.

"It's $35 no matter WHAT we order," I told him.

"Yeah...?"

"So, what about buying TWO doors...for the living room AND the dining room?" I quietly queried.

Brad was stunned. Rarely do I initiate home improvement-based hard labor. If anyone doubted my love for my dachshund before, this was unshakable proof.

"Do it," he said.

The doors arrived THE NEXT DAY.

Let me be very clear...I am NOT en-DOOR-sing Tool Town. This should NOT be the way one conducts business. I got what I ordered...nothing more, nothing less. I have no warm, fuzzy feelings towards Tool Town. I do not feel respected or valued by that business. Their phone and on-line service is completely stripped of warmth and regard. When it comes to selling doors, Tool Town really should have handled things better!

But I showed them! (By spending close to a grand on doors and accessories!)

All of this could have been prevented if I had known that Tool Town has some pretty peculiar retail regulations. For example, I heard that, as a general rule, Tool Town won't sell hammers in person. According to their policy, they have to mallet to you!

 

A-DOOR-able Story #1 of 3: When you buy a dog a door

 We've had the same screened-in storm door for the thirty years that we've lived in this home...

("You know, the old Wolf place." 

"Nancy, we've lived there for three decades, when does it become the Mosiman place?")

which means that that door may have been installed some twenty to thirty years BEFORE that. 

It wasn't the sixty or more years of accumulated dirt and dust that coated the screen like a shell that compelled us to get a new one. We were pragmatic. We lived on a dirt road frequented daily by a slew of passing tractors and farm trucks. It was the cost of living in the country.

It wasn't the bent, broken, squeaky, rust-stained door that had us thinking of up-grading. We wouldn't want the neighbors to think that we were putting on airs. "Next thing you know, they'll be posting a Buckingham Guard outside that fancy door of theirs." 

Nor was it the often-fixed but seemingly always broken handle that we'd just grown accustomed to snagging and securing, more-or-less shut, every time we entered or exited the house.  It was just another quaint quirk of the house. 

No...it was the dog that inspired our upgrade.

A thirteen-year-old dachshund with liver disease and a brittle backbone...slowed with age, grounded by her now-limited mobility so she that is no longer able to scramble to the top of our furniture to peer out windows and protect our home. Her medicine had robbed her of her hearing. Add to that the recent passing of her best buddy, and we began to worry about Chlo's spirits and sense of purpose. "She loves looking outside," I fretted, worriedly watching her slowly move from one room to another. Brad agreed that a full-view door might do the trick in enhancing the life of our dear little friend.

So it was that we soon found ourselves at Ratchet World, standing in front of an endless wall of options. We whittled our choices down to the Andersen 3000, full-view/half screen and the Andersen 4000, full view/full screen. "How does this work?" I mused, approaching the 3000. I was wary and well-versed in switching "to screen."

"We need the long-handled screwdriver," I would first be instructed. I would dash off on my errand, knowing it wasn't going to end well.

"The other long-handled screwdriver," Brad would sigh, exasperated. I would stomp off to make the switch.

Bracing ourselves for the inevitable, Brad would dig the long-handled screwdriver past the long-broken latches that worked the sliding feature for the screen. Mechanism engaged, we would pry our fingers into the sides to catch hold of the screen to try and coax it up...our blood providing the lubricant necessary for it to eventually slide into tenuous place. 

Brad stepped closer to the 3000 and read the instructions. "Pinch this clip at the top and pull down," he advised. I did it. We gasped. This was incredible. A marvel of human engineering. We had, apparently, been living like cave people.

We raced over to the 4000 that boasted a 45-second turn-around from screen-to-storm. "It says something about a button on the side and inverting the handle vertic..." I paused as Brad effortlessly swung the panel out...well under the posted 45-second deadline. What magic was this? What were we going to do with all our spare time? 

Now for the decision:  3000 or 4000. When it comes to Chlo, naturally, cost doesn't matter. "The 4000 with its full screen would afford Chlo the greatest all-around sensory satisfaction," I began. "Do go on," my husband encouraged, not accustomed to any sort of pro-home-improvement argument from me. "Not only would she have an unrestricted, all-access view to the outside...she could also bask in the breeze and smell all the fun and interesting outdoor-related aromas." Brad nodded. "And what are your thoughts about the 3000?" he wondered. I sighed. "If we were to look, far off, to the future arrival of an additional fuzzy little friend, the half screen is ideal as it is out-of-reach, damage-wise." Brad, of course, had already thought these points through. "So...what do you want to do?"

I am well-aware that it was ridiculous to be standing in the aisle of Ratchet World, agonizing about the purchase of a door for my dog. I knew that the mature, responsible choice was the Andersen 3000. It was the practical decision. Alas...I am not a practical person. Every day that I have with my little dog is a gifted blessing and if I can add any additional smidgen of happiness for her on each of those remaining days...then that is what I want to do and how I want to spend my money. She is our treasured companion and deserves to be treated as such.

"The 4000 it is then," declared Brad, who had made his decision pretty much upon his arrival to the endless aisle of doors. "What?" he said, as I stood there, staring at him. "I thought you presented a gripping open and shut case." 

The reality of what we were about to do struck me as we walked back out to the car. "Now we have to install it," I said, glumly, anticipating the drama involved in that endeavor. "Installing a door should be no problem for you," my husband grinned, "You love to make an entrance!"

Just when you think there's nothing to blog about...

 "What'ya think you'll blog about this time?" Brad asked during the hour-long drive to an MMA event. I stared out the window, debating the question. I've been to quite a few of these affairs now...I would never go so far as to call them "old hat," but I have definitely adjusted. I still enjoy people-watching but the shock-factor has lessened. When it comes to wardrobe choices, you are either promoting, peacock-ing or being practical. Our friend, Shay, looked like she'd stepped off the set of "Outlander." Kristie downgraded her stripper boots for comfy Converse, and me? In no mood to be misinterpreted, I wore a plain navy tee. Nothing to see here, folks! ("I beg to differ," winked my husband who appreciated my strategy of trying to appear invisible, "I see you," he whispered. "My eyes are up here, buddy," I hissed, nudging my naughty husband.)

Speaking of views, ours were outstanding! Used to standing precariously on tip-toe, balancing on flimsy foldable chairs, I couldn't quite get over the luxury of being right near the octagon. The only thing between us and the combat area were the ring girls who I found absolutely adorable in their total lack of diva-ish-ness. They giggled. Took selfies of each other and were totally excited to be a part of the action. At one point, they were handed a championship belt to present to the winner of the next match. Although I'd seen those belts on television countless times, I'd never really given any thought to them...I was delighted to see that the inside lining was constructed of furry fabric! The juxtaposition struck me as silly...this gladiator-type trophy of blood-lust and violence sitting softly, snuggly against the straining, sweating stomach of the victor. Do you think the armor from the Renaissance was fur-lined for comfort?

Brad offered, at one point, to go check out the refreshment stand. Imagine my disappointment when he returned with a beer. Not to worry, Kristie had brought her kids so I leaned back to see what I could scavenge from the young ones. Fortunately, the spotlight hit Cooper's nachos at just the right time, saving me from certain disaster. Who puts ketchup on tortilla chips? I had to make do with Kristie's generous offer of a tiny breath mint. I dropped one in Brad's hand. "What is it?" he asked, eyes on the match. "Acid," I told him. He turned to eye up my shirt again. "Hope you don't get caught," he said, popping the mint, "that would be a big bust!"

A sudden commotion from the ring caught our attention. I gasped as the official looked to be giving one of the competitors the Heimlich Maneuver. "Is he choking?" I asked Brad. He glanced at me to see if I was joking. Seeing that I was genuinely worried, he answered solemnly. "No."  Confused, I studied the scene intently. "Is a vertebrae out of alignment?" "No-oo," Brad said again. "Is he popping his shoulder back into place?" Looking very uncomfortable, my husband leaned in closer and spoke softly in my ear. "He's trying to drop them back into place."

"Them?"

Oh. Them.

Wow.

I did not know THAT could happen.

I sat back in my seat, stunned.

"Crazy, right?" Kristie whispered over my shoulder. I glanced back at her. 

"No," I answered, "that's nuts!"

Room 14

Eminent domain.

As spelled out in the Fifth Amendment, it refers to the right of the government to take private property for public use. 

Think transcontinental railroad.

Think interstate highways.

Think national parks.

Think Room 24. (kinda)

As the time grew closer to evict me from my beloved classroom home, I sought out my inner spotted owl. Surely if my feathered friend could halt logging in the Pacific Northwest, then I could rally enough support to stop one sledgehammer. 

Sadly, no.

Apparently, my bitterness, sarcasm, and resistance to change were no match for a Capital Campaign. 

In the end, they sent the nicest man in the world to kick me out. Steve looked at my impressive tower of boxes with admiration and nodded. "I see you're done," he said. I glared at him. "I'll be ready tomorrow," I snarled. He backed up a bit before delivering the final blow. "Amy, we're moving you out today." If I'd had a beak, I would have pecked his eyes. With my sharp talons, I'd have lunged for his liver. This...the kindest man in the world. A man I've attended Sunday worship with. 

Without a word, I stood and, with a dramatic sweeping gesture, used my arm to clear the remaining items from my desk into a nearby box and stomped out of the room...down the hall.. and out of the school...

Let's just say, I did NOT go gently into that dark night.

All summer, I REFUSED to think of Room 14. I'd been short-changed a syllable. My secluded cul-de-sac was now situated at a busy intersection. I was no longer in line with my 4th grade team...I was (gasp) kitty-corner. 

I was notified, by the 3rd week of August, that I could begin the unpacking process whenever I wanted. 

Oh no.

My usual routine this time of year, when we're allowed in, is to sit in my classroom (When I say "My classroom," I am, of course, referring to "Room 24") and stare, overwhelmed, until I can't stand it any longer and have to leave without accomplishing anything.

"I think you'll have to come in with me," I told my husband, who had done the bulk of packing up Room 24 when he'd realized it was taking me an hour to sort and organize items before committing them to each cardboard home. I had watched, with horror, as Brad had heartlessly stuffed the contents of shelves, cupboards, drawers, and counters into the boxes without rhyme or reason. "Sure," my husband answered, "but why?" "I'm afraid I  might go fetal," I admitted.

We agreed to an hour. Look. Make a plan. Get out before I got too overwhelmed.

Three hours later, Brad had wrestled my furniture into place.

We ignored the 50 cardboard elephants sitting in the middle of this strange room.

Over the course of the next two weeks, I would unpack and attempt to sort out the jumbled mess that used to be Room 24. Committing something to a shelf, drawer, or cabinet had me up at all hours.

2 am

I sat up straight in bed.

"What's the matter?" Brad muttered.

"I put my board games in the wrong place," I told him, horrified.

He stuffed his head under the pillow.

And the next day, he watched, wordlessly, as I emptied two cabinets to "fix" this problem.

Chlo in Room 14

Four of my nervous breakdowns in and twenty boxes to go, Brad momentarily lost his patience as I meticulously situated each student-and-staff-selected stuffed dachshund on a top shelf in Room 14. "We still have twenty boxes to unload," he told me, exasperated. "I still have twenty more dachshunds to fit on this shelf," I explained. The last furry friend in place and, suddenly, things began to click. Room 14 was beginning to feel familiar. I wrestled "Buster Bear" and "Ladie Liberty" up on walls. I felt like I could breathe again. A student-made stool was tucked in by my desk. Pictures chronicling my family's annual visit to the State Fair "seal"-ed with a kiss decorated my bookshelf. Student art went up. The glass apple my mom gave me when I received my teaching job at Letchworth was placed on the window sill. 

Now I was ready to work.

Brad was unable to deal with the number of costumes housed in my classroom. "You have more craft stuff than Michael's," he observed, stuffing a bag of feathers into a bin. "Why do we keep buying stickers?" he asked as he filled a second drawer with scratch-and-sniffs and smiley faces. 

I danced into the room as Brad was unsealing the remaining two boxes. "Great news!" I told him, "The school is going to pay us (me) for five hours of unpacking!" My husband froze. "You weren't getting paid for this?" he frowned at me. "You must have forty hours in at this point!" I elected NOT to tell him about the several hours of mandatory video training I still had ahead of me...where I could watch it at home on my time or use my planning time to get it done. Every year. 

Rule #1 in Room 24...er...I mean, Room 14 is:  Life is not fair. 

I love what I do. I love the people I work with. I love my students and their families. My administrators, office staff, and maintenance and custodial departments have been scrambling to help, encourage, and lend a sympathetic ear even though they are over-loaded as well. Sacrifices are definitely made regarding remuneration. Obviously this is my limited and over-simplified view of things. I respect the people I work with...it is the process with which I often disagree. Government budgets are unimaginably tangled like the Greek myth of the Gordian Knot. Funds are strictly channeled; departments are encouraged to spend instead of being rewarded to save. Climate-confused outdoor classrooms cloud our views. Our athletic fields are flourishing but teacher salaries stagnate...we are told that our financial compensation is directly related to the economic prosperity (or lack of) and industry of our region. So...here we are. My fellow elementary teachers and I. All frantically unpacking, on our own time, to ready our rooms for September. Because we love what we do. I work with some amazing people...they inspire and motivate me. I am truly blessed.

Chlo in my 6th grade classroom

The final touches on making Room 14 feel like home came with the christening of Chlo. She has been a constant companion in each of my three classrooms. "I don't remember it being this hard," I complained at one point to Brad, "moving from 6th grade to 4th grade." "That's because all you had to move was your stapler," he reminded me. I laughed. It wasn't quite that easy but I saw his point. We brought my little dog in once everything was in place and gave her the tour. Seeing her in this new space filled the empty space in my heart that I'd been experiencing...I do not handle change gracefully. But thanks to Brad, my colleagues, and Chlo...everything is going to be owl-right.