We're not "lion"...we didn't cheat!

Game night. Otherwise known as a way for Geri to showcase how stupidly inept the rest of us are compared to her...ugh! Any game that takes over 15 minutes of direction-explaining (allotting, of course, for another 15 minutes of questions and clarification) is certain to be in Geri's wheelhouse. But the food was good, the drinks were generous, the house was charming, and the company was kind...no, scratch that...not ALL of the company was kind...one team was immediately deemed "The Mean Girls" for their unsportsman-like behavior, unfounded accusations, and unnecessarily loud and intentionally obnoxious  "time's up" noises. 

By God's good grace (and a late entrance), I ended up on the perfect team, comprised of three laid-back
ladies with a complementary blend of talent, enthusiasm, and convivial wit with a confounding side of "We could care less" which would suddenly surprise the one who insistently ordered it up (in spite of the warning asterisk listed on the menu) with a sharply bitter, lingering aftertaste*.

No one (not even Geri) knew what the hell was going on. My team...cruelly (and for no discernible reason except to discredit our good names and reputations) was called The Cheaters (The game had barely even started yet!) but Bev, Tracey, and I recognized that one must not fight the current of a riptide...we instead decided to go with the flow...like our courageous, underdog forefathers, who were cruelly mocked during the glorious Revolution with a Weird Al parody of a pub shanty (Yeah, ya Lobster Backs...Yankee Doodle THIS! And stick your feather THERE!), we embraced the name and made it our own...The Cheetahs (complete with choreographed celebratory high-fives with sound effects).

Generational differences soon made a painful appearance:  Some in the crowd easily recognized the introductory music for The Smurfs while others thought it was a polite word for flatulence. One of our youngest (and loudest and meanest and most obnoxious) members didn't know who Carol Burnett was and was almost immediately expelled from all future Game Nights. 

Even though no one actually had a full handle on the rules, everyone (except the laid-back ladies of The Cheetahs) loudly voiced their objections to any perceived infractions. "She used TWO words," one player yelled. Geri who self-appointed herself judge-and-jury of all things (No one opposed her since she controlled the flow of liqueur) yelled back, "Opposed...stinky was a brainstorming word leading to the word dirty which determined the correct phrase of "Dirty Harry." It goes without saying that a lot of pouting and sulking accompanied ALL of Geri's decisions. Geri, herself, had to be brought into line when, in a fit of frustration, she leaped up behind the clue-giver who was pointing frantically to the sky at pretend "stars" to flash Spock's classic Vulcan salute. "How hard is it to give a clue for Star Trek?" she shrieked. "Wow!" whispered fellow Cheetah, Tracey, to me, "I could hear her even with the malfunctioning hearing aide in my back ear." "Which ear?" I asked, worried that maybe she wasn't hearing my clues clearly enough. "Don't worry," she said, winking, "I can hear with my final-front-ear." Naturally, as we howled with laughter, The Cheetahs were again accused of guilefulness and subterfuge.

The limits of mimicry and hand motions were sorely tested. We delighted at Geri racing at Bev to be
swept magnificently into the air a la  Baby and Johnny in "Dirty Dancing." That was pure, undisputed art. She (Geri) threw (another) fit, disgusted by a player who, for "Psycho," slashed horizontally rather than vertically but as it was a question of execution rather than rules, the point was not disputed...only mocked. However, another player holding up her hand three times to flash 4-5-1 for "Fahrenheit 451" seemed completely unfair. "Over-ruled," our judge declared while I seethed and stormed that, by that decision, I might as well finger-spell all the clues using ASL.  Geri eyed my near-empty glass so I elected to die on another hill. 

We roared as Rachel rocked her clues...ribbeting her way across the floor for "Frogger" and then repeatedly racing out of the room to peek back in for "Terminator." Everyone was stunned when Bev hummed the Addams Family tune and I bellowed, "The Munsters!" (Yes...we were, again, immediately accused of cheating.) When given the opportunity to pass, Virginia littered the floor with clue cards like they were confetti. And as fast as our flower girl tossed down her petals, Rachel raced to pick them up so "The Cheetahs" couldn't see them. "Boy, she has a LOT of faith in our vision," Bev whispered. 

"The Cheetahs" missed a first place finish by ONE point but we celebrated our second place victory with our signature high-five with sound effects. By tomorrow, NO ONE will remember who placed first, second, or third. But they will remember our choreography AND how a small group of under-estimated, misjudged, and maligned women overcame incredible obstacles, rising above the malicious jealousy and mean-spirited bitterness around them to compete competitively while modeling gracious, dignified behavior; cheering on their opponents and congratulating all for their efforts. Cheetahs-of-the-World...UNITE!

("Don't listen to her," Geri interrupted, finally managing to infiltrate Amy's blog, "she's trying to pull a fast one.")

*Refer back to Paragraph 1:  Sub-section Two: Mean Girls

 

Kelly's wedding

 Getting dressed for Kelly's wedding, I stared, horrified into the mirror. Unfortunately, there was no one at home at the time to confirm my worst fears so I took a quick picture and sent off a frantic consultation text to Savannah. She was quick to reassure me. "You look fine. Just remember to smile. Frowning makes people look fat."

So I slapped a grin across my face to match the horizontal stripes of my dress and headed out.

Tucked between the scenic hills of Bristol, I gazed from the car window, keeping a keen eye out for the stereotypical single-story firehall.  I sighed longingly at the beautiful alpine lodges nestled into each knoll and finally pointed. "I want Kelly's reception to be there," I declared, shocked as we simultaneously turned onto a vertical dirt road heading straight towards it. Like a ray of blinding sunshine, Kelly came shooting out of the lodge, wearing the beautiful wedding dress that she had made herself. Of course she did. I have mentioned before that I despise Kelly, right?

We toured the house, the pool, the hot tub, the trailer housing restroom facilities that made my bathroom at home resemble a porta-potty at a Grateful Dead concert, admired the three different-flavored cakes, snagged some snacks..."What are these seeds on top of the guacamole," I asked around a large mouthful. "Are they pine nuts," I said, trying to look culinarily-astute. "They're roasted pumpkin seeds," said the same woman who would later have to tell me to unwrap the corn husk from around my tamale. I was WAY out of my league here.

The free margarita bar made everything better...until the guy with the instamatic camera took my picture and I realized I'd mistakenly put on a circus tent. No amount of smiling was going to fix this. "Here, stand in front of my hips," I slurred, moving my pretty and petite friend Rachel in front of me for every picture that followed. "You're just like Barney," I told her as we smiled for the next shot. "Wait...did I just hear you compare my wife to Barney from How I Met Your Mother?" Rachel's husband, Paul asked suddenly. I immediately apologized but...no worries...Paul's a fan and recognized it for the heartfelt compliment it was.

An hour later, we were still dissecting our favorite episodes when either my friend Geri or I crossed the magical margarita line from cheerfully oblivious to venomously argumentative. "That never happened...you imagined it," Geri hissed at my assertion that Barney had been working undercover at GNB the entire time, intent on bringing that evil empire to its knees. "Barney was the David to the bank's Goliath," I pointed out, sure of my facts and certain that Barney was the hero of my favorite show. I don't want to brag but I recently scored a 27/35 on a "Who Said It: How I Met Your Mother Quiz." Lawyered!

Okay...maybe it was me that crossed the magical margarita line because I also argued with the most pleasant man on the planet. "What do you mean that an amaretto sour is on the bottom rung of the ladder of liquor," I screeched. "I'll have you know, sir, that I was once accused of being an alcoholic and guess what the drink in my hand WAS at that time? Yeah! An amaretto sour!" Lawyered! In the face of my conclusive argument, Paul shrugged his shoulders good-naturedly, re-filled my margarita glass and then further fueled the flame by calling an amaretto sour a "gateway drink."

"Let's dance, " Rachel said, grabbing me before I could start REALLY creating a scene. Kelly, who had crossed the margarita line a bit before me had already been busy ripping up the dance floor. The song, at present, was "Shout" which has always been problematic for me but as I had had four sessions of yoga under my horizontally-striped belt, I thought I might be able to "get a little bit softer now..." Nope. Writer, Walt Hickey, contemporary to Ernest Hemingway and Judy Blume, presents a compelling essay that addresses the challenges of this song. It is accompanied by a helpful graph. According to Walt's calculations, I need to take my height in feet, divide it by three and then descend that many inches during each of the seventeen repetitions of "a little bit softer now" to successfully complete the move. Great. Two things that I excel at:  Rhythm and math.

Kelly was particularly proud of her chalkboard schedule of events. Her 7 o'clock speech (that was three pages long and delivered from the top deck as we gathered beneath her, hoping that she'd toss down cake, Marie-Antoinette-style) was presented at 8 o'clock. Husband Jon's speech was much more concise and it turns out that, while cake isn't thrown down, beer IS thrown up (into the air...to Jon). The unruly crowd then rushed the cakes. "They're beautiful," Geri commented as we waited. "What's THAT suppose to mean," I snapped, knowing that that was a crack about the shower cake for Kelly that I'd made her order. "Nothing," Geri replied, before murmuring to her husband, "Who gets a picture of a nickel painted on a shower cake?"

It was time to go. We hugged the bride and headed to the car. "Did you know that I told twenty-five bear jokes during Summer School," I asked Gregg as he drove Geri and I back. "How many margaritas did she have," Gregg whispered to his wife as I proceeded to tell him EVERY bear joke I could remember. Geri tried to distract me with her own joke. "A guy dressed as a pirate and was asked,  "Where are your buccaneers?" He said, "Under my buckenhat."" I laughed myself into a lethargic lull. And an hour later...I was home.

There's no accounting for taste

As I can not get enough of it, I returned to the Glen Iris Inn just a few scant days after I'd eaten there with Brad and Savannah.  Even worse, I ordered practically the same meal.  Following an intense period of curriculum development, friends Kelly, Amanda, Geri and I headed to Letchworth Park for a relaxing lunch break. Relaxing is a relative term with this group.  The Danish brie was our first obstacle. My friend, Amanda's customary lunch consists of raw vegetables.  She'll occasionally bring a dip if she's feeling a bit saucy.  She regarded the congealed-looking mass of warm cheese encased in its resistant rind with transfixed alarm. The combined effects of peer-pressure (more like peer-ridicule) and self-respect spurred her forward, gritting her teeth as she stabbed the oddly-shaped knife into the casing, slightly flinching as the cheese bled out.  "If you hate it, pass it over," I hissed at her hopefully while Kelly and Geri stared at her like the circus spectators of a sword-swallowing act. And like the daredevil she is, Amanda downed the Danish brie and mentally prepared herself for the next course.

The selection of the entries seemed a simple enough process.  The arrival was a complicated debacle.  Geri, thrilled with the inclusion of breakfast items on her lunch menu, had ordered an omelette.  Upon seeing Kelly's beautiful Reuben sandwich, she immediately began lamenting her initial decision.  Before Geri could throw ashes on her head and don sack cloth, Kelly intervened, offering to split her meal. Meanwhile, I was happily eating my tomato-mozzarella salad.  "Excuse me," I asked Greg, our very patient waiter, "but what is this?"  I pointed to the flimsy green items decorating my plate.  "Those are salad greens, ma'am."  Responding to my confused look, Amanda leaned over to whisper, "Lettuce, Amy."

Finally, dessert.  We split the strawberry shortcake and a frozen amaretto soufflé. Geri has the highly developed palate of a cross-country truck driver.  She considered the soufflé with the air of one accustomed to yellow jello. As the creamy custard rolled over her tongue, she frowned and made her pronouncement, "It's taste is reminiscent of an indoor splashpark with vibrant chlorine undertones."  We stared in wonder, admiring her descriptive skills.  "You do paint a picture," Amanda admitted before taking a tentative bite.  She encouraged Kelly, "You like an armaretto sour."  Reminded of a happy occasion that she can only vaguely recollect, Kelly slid her spoon into the soufflé.  We somehow overcame Geri's anti-armaretto announcement and finished both of our desserts.

The arrival of the bill brought dismay and confusion.  It was a lesson in word problem development and real-world math application.  Take a $98 bill with a tax line of $6.18, subtract the $8 park entrance fee, consider that only Amy Mosiman bought a yummy adult beverage, figure in that Kelly and Geri split the appetizer but Amy ate most of it, factor in the fact that Geri only had one bite of the frozen amaretto soufflé and commence arguing for the next twenty minutes.  We are one classy lunch bunch.  

This is the story of a grill who volunteered to feed the whole world

I love to volunteer. One of my favorite aspects of volunteering is the part when I get to complain about volunteering.  I could win an award.  Two years ago, I was somehow coerced, against my will, to assist each Sunday in counting the offering.  My friend, Sandy who can actually count with a measure of accuracy and has amazing nails, trained me and retrained me, week after week, tirelessly showing me which columns to fill out, how to subtract what from what, patiently demonstrating how to point dollar bills in the same direction.  After a sufficient amount of time had elapsed, she finally gave up and I became a glorified accounting cheerleader.

During another volunteering opportunity, I found myself in a bleak, mold-encrusted room which needed to be cleaned with its cement-block walls re-painted.  My enthusiastic bleach-to-water ratio resulted in immediate asphyxiation but, as this was a church function, did not cause us to be evacuated.  Using the air purification abilities provided by the Holy Spirit, we soldiered on.  Discriminated against, as usual, because of my height, I was assigned to paint the area closest to the ceiling but my arms quickly fatigued plus I wanted to use a roller.  Begrudgingly reassigned, I soon tired of the roller and switched over to the paint-by-number brush so I could sit comfortably to perform the painstaking trim work.  Someone in the hall had a nifty electric tool that removed grout so I hurried over to supervise and then, take over that task.  Must I do everything?  

A recent middle school social event required the use of a grill.  A petitioning email was quickly dispatched to the entire staff.  Apparently no one actually checks their email at my school so it was then remembered that I had volunteered the use of my grill three years ago.  I did? Oh...ok.  I brought up the fact that, while I was more than happy to share the use of my grill, transportation was a sensitive issue as the bed of my little Ford Ranger sports more holes than a slice of Swiss cheese. No problem, I was told, transportation would be arranged.  Super!

Super?!?  My husband stared at me as I shared the news of our benevolent spirit.  I couldn't understand his reaction.  "Let me put this in a way that maybe you'll understand," he growled, "if I lent out your stove to a bunch of people at work, how would you feel?"  Oh.  "I would be cleaning my stove like crazy," I responded meekly, recalling what happened the last time I cleaned my stove (see the 4/28 blog entitled "Where there's smoke...reflections on the hazards of hostessing").  I felt just horrible, sitting there with my feet up, watching television, while Brad spend an hour preparing our grill for its service to our school.

The next day, three administrative elves arrived at my house in the afternoon to pick up the waiting grill.  Despite its battered appearance and broken burner, it proudly grilled roasted wienies to over a hundred hungry children.  Never had it felt so validated and purposeful.

My husband, obviously not as service-minded and generous as me, thoughtlessly wondered when he was going to get his grill back.  "For goodness sake, Brad, you can't wait one...oops, two days?"  "Well," he countered (somewhat vindictively, I felt), "what do you have planned for dinner?"  Oh.  We went down to the school on Saturday and searched the building to no avail.  Let's just say that tuna noodle casserole pales in comparison to grilled tuna steaks.

A brief consulting session with an administrator resulted in miscommunication about when, where, and how my grill would make its victorious return home. Take two:  Tuesday.  Apparently no one in the school has a grill of their own OR a truck so my friend Kelly borrowed her husband's work vehicle.  My little grill was scheduled to make its much-anticipated arrival to our wing and when it, shockingly did not, we had it tracked down to the far side of the building and made an appointment with a brawny administrator to help us load up.  Voila! The grill showed up so Kel and I drove the truck over to load it. Uh...yeah.  The two of us sized up the situation and made ready to lift the propane grill up to shoulder-level to slide it into the waiting truck bed.  Metal edges bit into our hands, the awkwardly proportioned unit dangerously shifted, I may have squealed in fear, despair, or anticipated pain.  After several attempts, it was decided to get some additional muscle.  "Preferably someone with a fully functional shoulder who can walk in an upright position without a noticeable limp," Kelly said, hinting that perhaps I wasn't pulling my fair weight.  Our muscle arrived, in the form of 5th grade teacher Amanda, who I outweigh three times over.  I glared at Kelly.  We lifted the grill from the bottom, groaning as it leaned alarmingly, causing us to stagger back while we failed desperately in our noble attempt to tip it toward the truck. The Israelites hauling that Ark around had nothing on us. "How did you get it here," Amanda asked in disgust.  We described how three muscular men effortlessly made the initial delivery so naturally three intelligently competent women should be able to duplicate the task.

As no knight-in-shining-armor seemed to be on hand, these three damsels in distress finally wrestled the fiery dragon into its cage.  Bruised, smudged but victorious, we returned the grill to its rightful kingdom.  "You should have seen it," Brad told Savannah when she came home, "the grill arrived in about thirty different pieces."  "Your father is exaggerating, as usual," I said scornfully.  "Your friend said we should take a picture of it," he responded.  Later, while he restored the leaning-tower-of-grilling to its original state of magnificence, my husband graciously reassured me that he would support any future decisions to lend out our grill for the betterment of humankind.  I, however, have decided to stick with the "is it smaller than a breadbox" rule-of-thumb.  I vow to only lend objects that I can personally transport easily even with a semi-functioning shoulder and a minor limp.  "No you won't," Brad said, "we're going to end up in the same situation before you know it."  "Whatever," I snapped, "I don't know what you think you have to complain about."

Slip out the back, Jack

Let me just say right now that I have HAD IT with Jack.  Sure he's cute with his sweet little smile and his little baby fist pumps and wiggling his tiny little toes.  But guess what, everyone? He won't stay cute forever.  As his little baby bobble head eventually grows proportionally to the rest of his Cabbage Patch body, my darling little dachshund, Chloe will remain adorable forever.  What does Jack have ahead of him?  The terrible tantruming twos...that annoying "why?" stage...the twerpy tween years...awkward adolescence...his teens...Kelly has so much to look forward to.

Kelly, Jack, and I attended the 5th and 6th grade Spring Concert this evening.  We were housed inconspicuously in the sound and lighting room overlooking the auditorium.  Let me restate that.  I was housed inconspicuously in the sound and lighting room.  Kelly and Jack were installed like royalty, waving to the cheering peasants below. While I was busy tirelessly and selflessly video-taping the evening's performance as per the band director's request, Jack was trashing the room like a rock star.  During intermission, Kel scooped up her son and dashed down the stairs to greet their adoring public.  "Amy!" she shouted over her shoulder, "Are you coming?  Someone has to take pictures!"  Someone sighed, grabbed her camera (shocker:  Kelly had forgotten hers), and set about the business of documenting Jack's every movement.

I watched with a weary fascination as Jack's fans clapped when he blew kisses, when he stood on shaky legs, when he mooed.  I wanted to scream.  "C'mon, folks!  Wake up!  He's a two-trick toddler, for pete's sake!"  Chlo has at least ten quality tricks in her current repertoire.  After significant effort, we managed to drag Jack away from the pulsating pull of his people.  To avoid further delay in making a hasty get-away, we kept to darkened corridors and headed for a back exit.  Exhausted, I hung up my paparazzi hat and assumed my other duty of lugging Jack's thousand pound baby bag out to the car.  I waved good-bye to my pint-sized pal and was unexpectedly rewarded with a heartfelt blown baby kiss.         Oh my goodness, Jack is the cutest kid EVER!!!

Poetry with Punch

The 5th annual "6th Grade Poetry with Punch" event was this evening.  It was an auspicious occasion of figurative language and an assortment of fine cheeses set off with classical music and extravagant desserts.  With the warm weather, we anticipated an audience of perhaps three and were pleasantly surprised to have every seat filled.  One ball player rushed in towards the end of the program, out-of-breath from practice, in order to read his poem.  Our students were sweet and sincere and proud of their poetry. As emcee, I was loud and bumbling and obnoxious and incredibly proud of their public speaking skills and poetic talent.

Truth-be-told, the real entertainment happens behind the scenes. Brad finally unearthed
 my deep dark secret (well, one of them anyways) when he graciously ordered the "Poetry with Punch" cake.  Text message from my husband: Are you aware that this cake is going to cost $60?  Text message reply from me:  Oh my goodness! Really?!?  I cringed as I pictured his calculations as he quickly time-traveled back over the past five years. Ordering it turned out to be the easy part.  When Syd and I showed up later, we initially mistook our cake for a small coffee table. We each grabbed an end and carried it out like a couch.  I stuffed Syd and my very valuable cake into the small confines of my Ford Ranger.  Changing gears took a careful synchronization of lifting, shifting and sifting.  

Its appearance in my classroom had the desired effect of producing an eager anticipation of tonight's event.  "What?!? You want me to come to school at night to read poetry?" is suddenly replaced with "Wait?!? If I show up and read a little poem, I'm rewarded with a giant piece of cake along with an assortment of fine cheeses?  And there's sherbet in the punch? RAINBOW sherbet?!?"  Its appearance at the school further underscored my delusional tendencies to my colleagues.  "What are we going to do with all the leftover cake," they moaned.  Dee generously cut plate-sized pieces for our guests.  Hyped-up on sugar, our students have never read so expressively before, with such passion and enthusiasm.  We may have inadvertently stumbled upon the secret to tackling the global issue of illiteracy.  The question is:  is my husband be willing to fork out another sixty bucks to feed this problem?

Mrs. Harris (Kelly) was busy feeding us and Jack prior to "Poetry with Punch."  While Kelly, Deanna, Cathy and I enjoyed Al's chicken finger pizza, Jack scooted happily around Dee's classroom.  When it was Jack's turn at the trough, Kel plopped him unceremoniously in my lap.  Soon, I was covered in sticky orange slices and purple yogurt.  As a grand finale, Jack's juice went off like a volcano.  I was now officially outfitted to emcee our red carpet gala.  I was so relieved when Savannah showed up with little Chlo.  Thank goodness that a well-behaved, sweet-smelling, quiet little creature would be on hand.  As I introduced poets with my demure dachshund, Jack's voice filled the room.  Seriously...couldn't Kel strap a muzzle on that kid?  Someone pointed out the obvious behavior differences between our two special guests but Kel seemed oblivious that some obedience training was in order.  Even after the event, the contrast was quite evident.  While Chlo graciously cleaned the carpet of cake crumbs, Jack thoughtlessly pulled every book in the library off the shelf.  We got a chilling look at the future when we observed him discreetly researching illegal substances (see picture).   We had a great night.  For some, poetry is a highly-structured, sophisticated affair.  But for others, poetry is sticky and sweet, filled with the hopes and dreams of 11- and 12-year-olds.  For them, poetry actually is a piece of cake.  

Our reasonably-priced purchase

Jack reading from the forbidden section of the library.

Measuring Up

The pinnacle achievement of every teacher is to be compared, even remotely, to elementary teacher Becky Kelleher.  Becky Kelleher, who greets each student warmly each morning with a genuine smile and sends them off with a hearty handshake.  Becky Kelleher, who fills her classroom with a giant inflatable astro-lab, transporting her students to a magical star-filled world.  Becky Kelleher, who houses baby chicks and crawfish between student desks, bringing the natural world into the academic realm.  Becky Kelleher, who sends greeting cards to students as they proceed forward into middle school and even into high school.  As her students graduate, a final card comes in the mail, filled with nostalgic pictures of their past together with a lovingly-written congratulatory note assuring students of Mrs. Kelleher's unshakable belief in their abilities and her confidence in their good character.  Becky Kelleher...Becky Kelleher...Becky Kelleher.  Sigh.

Occasionally, I rally and attempt to summit this seemingly impossible Everest of Achievement.  Unfortunately, it takes a LOT of effort.  My friend Kelly and I decided to team up and see if perhaps, in the great educator equation of life, two little teachers (no giggles, please) might equal a Becky Kelleher.  Last night, several students from our school were presenting in a 4-H Fashion Show.  Kelly and I rubbed our hands together with diabolical glee!  Here was our chance to shine!  To bolster our resolve, we met for pre-show icecream, Kelly's little honey, Jack enthusiastically covering her in Cherry-Berry Cooler.  We were so excited about this opportunity to appear even a quarter as fabulous as Becky Kelleher that we arrived a half hour early.  Kelly noted, with surprise, the marked lack of vehicles in the parking lot.  "What time does this start?" I asked, somewhat grumpily as my ice cream glow was beginning to wear off.  Thanks to Jack, Kel still had a strong rosy glow.  "I told you...7," she responded, a tad on the testy side for someone trying to appear wonderful.  We carried fifty pounds of Jack's required gear into the school only to learn that we had a wait on our hands.  Kelly occupied Jack with a slew of toys while attempting to distract and pacify me with complicated games on her fancy phone.

We were spotted by several of our students as they arrived.  No...it never even ONCE entered our minds that this was our chance.  Who would know, after the lights dimmed and the show began that two little teachers (remember, no giggling) ducked out to perhaps attend a post-icecream conference?  But that move has never been published in the Becky Kelleher playbook of recommended teacher practices.  One student scrambled over for a brief visit, interrupting Jack and I from our activities.  The young man needed a boost of confidence, nervous about his up-coming public performance.  Excellent, this was precisely why we were there!  I admired his hand-sewn pants with the practiced eye of someone who has never needled-up a day in her life.  "How cute," I squealed, "are you trying to look like a leprechaun? "   Confused, the 7th grader looked at the design I'd near-sightedly mistaken for green clovers.  "No, Mrs. Mosiman," he said, "the pattern is John Deere."  His confidence restored by this affirming conversation, mere minutes before he hit the big stage, our fashionable friend departed.

The show was a raving success.  Kel and I were a disaster.  I couldn't follow the plot, baby toys flew across the room, Kelly shoved me out of my chair to help a woman who'd fallen who didn't want my help, and we finally got kicked out because Jack wouldn't stop laughing.  I saw NOTHING in the fashion show storyline to induce such a reaction.  Was I missing something?  There was a lot of talk about invisible zippers.  Maybe Jack picked up on a subtle humor that I'd overlooked.  Irregardless, Kel and I definitely fell short of our goal.  During the post-icecream conference, we brainstormed our next expedition.  Our calculations were clearly faulty.  In order to measure up to Becky Kelleher, we might need to add another teacher or two.

Don't be fooled by his fashionable outfit,
 Jack was singularly responsible for getting us
kicked out of the 4-H Fashion Show.