Teacher-of-the-Year?

Teacher-of-the-Year?!? Oh my goodness...someone has made a terrible error.  Go back and tabulate those figures, people!  Informed of the news this morning, the messenger took one look at my stricken face and reassured me soothingly that "It'll take a bit for it to sink in."  Sink in?  Metaphorically, it feels like a giant sink hole opened up in front of me on the great freeway of life and I drove my little blue Ranger right into it.  It's a joke, right?  Like when you nickname a chunky guy "Slim" or call a bald guy "Curly."  So, throughout the day, my face remained in a perpetual grimace that reflected my inner doubts and turmoil.  My colleagues were annoyingly ecstatic to the point of my wanting to slap them.  Every congratulatory remark was met with a disgusted grunt while I pointed out my regular failings as a human being.  Graciousness is NOT in my vocabulary.  I do not know what to do with adult accolades.  Do I respond with a ducked head, lowered lashes, and an "ah shucks, ma'am" or will the demur Queen Mum backhand wave work?  I dove under my desk as, at the end of the day, my virtues were extolled on the afternoon announcements.  This must surely be the lowest day of my educational career, I thought.  Then suddenly, my classroom door flew open and students began to swarm in.  An 8th grader catapulted himself fifteen feet into my arms.  I found myself on the receiving line of smiling kids who couldn't wait to share in my good news.  And it WAS good news.  Because they had ACTUALLY been there...in my classroom...under my often-unconventional tutelage...and they didn't have any doubts about this honor as it applied to me.  I am so proud to have been named their teacher-of-the-year. 

Rise and Shine?

Your first waking thought of the morning is a pretty good indicator of the general tone of the day.  Immediately moaning "oh-hh no-oo-oo..." is not a precursor for success.  Wondering if there is enough loose change in the truck to underwrite a vending machine Pepsi sets a pretty low bar expectations-wise.  Setting all your Thursday morning hopes on a new episode of "Grey's Anatomy" has resulted in devastating consequences.  But this morning, my first coherent though, after hitting "snooze" fifty times and kicking my human snooze button (aka an obnoxiously cheerful daughter, Savannah) in the stomach, was to yearn for tomorrow's lunch.  Huh?  Yeah...that's right.  The thought of tomorrow's lunch pushed me off my pillows and put a happy spring in my slippered steps.  "Dinner," as we like to call them in the Mosiman household, usually consist of a hearty  vitamin & mineral fortified meal of sugar-coated cereal.  The Christmas-time arrival of a panini-maker rocked our world...I direct the deli to thick-cut my mozzarella at a setting of fifteen and will petulantly sulk if my request is ignored.  But last night, I wearily watched as Brad had Savannah set several containers of frozen fish to thaw in the sink.  The implications of this seemingly small event most have seeped into my subconscious throughout the night because I woke with a song in my heart and a hankering for fried fish sweeping through my soul (overly-obvious pun...sorry).  But for some reason, I skipped right over the main event to tomorrow's tupperware-encased  twelve o'clock tidbits!  So here I sit, having just enjoyed an incredible meal of Brad's fried fish, fried potatoes with onions, fried zucchini, and corn slathered in butter  (We haven't figured out how to successfully fry corn yet...no, corndogs don't count...they're not nutritiously relevant).  My tupperware container is jam-packed full of yumminess and I anticipate that tomorrow I will awaken with gladness, anticipating the day before me.  I can't wait!  TGI (almost)F!

A Salute to "Survivor"

I'm not proud, but the best part of my day may have been the hour I spent staring at the television watching an EPIC (yes, I know that word has been adulterated beyond recognition but...) episode of "Survivor."  A loyal fan from its Richard Hatch-i-ish beginning when unshaved, stinking, starving contestants seined "fresh" water from an elephant dung hole to its now-evolved state of white-toothed, discreetly tattooed tribe members who make clitchy jungle-themed furniture inspired by Ikea, I am inspired by the show's commitment to keep things interesting.  Horrible ideas are abandoned (Exile Island was a doozy), atrocious sanitation issues were addressed, health standards directly proportional to viewer tolerance were implemented (we can only watch malnourished players vomit x number of times before irretrievably connecting the show to the original version of The Exorcist) and, most importantly, the show either includes pretty-to-look-at people or the-freakishly-behaving-so-their-looks-don't-matter people.  I refuse to write too much more regarding my devotion to this show but I love, love, love that it still has the ability to surprise. With three good-looking guys in serious jeopardy at Tribal Council, all hope appeared lost.  But one of the
"Three Amigos" (a label they mockingly assigned to themselves), doggedly won the Immunity Challenge, Malcolm (the Mosiman-family-female favorite) harbored a hidden Immunity necklace, and then in a dramatically public fashion, found ANOTHER Immunity necklace so Tribal was jaw-dropping to the smug alliance of seven who thought they had this vote in the bag...NOT!  Now, with our heroes safely immune and smiling happily, the shuffling seven scrambled to strategize.  "The Three Amigos are voting for Phillip," Malcolm announced, clearly enjoying himself while we, at home, laughed out loud. It is moments like these that keep us watching.  No laugh track...gorgeous, exotic settings (a fresh water lake harboring giant non-stinging jellyfish...right out of a dream)...the utter unpredictability of human nature...a sometimes (ok...often) perverse anthropologic experiment of the annoying, the sickeningly sweet, schemers, betrayers, and the completely clueless.  Just like real life.  I refuse to allow myself to ponder too deeply where I would fall in the   social stew that is "Survivor."  Although now that I think about it, every episode includes a nut or two.

A Teachable Moment for the Teacher

     Controversy aside, my 6th graders have worked hard preparing for the New York State tests and I (mostly) welcome this opportunity to gauge their acquisition of knowledge over the course of their time with me.  I generally don't get too rev-ed up about the tests but with all the hype, it's impossible not to feel some trepidation regarding student performance and what it reflects about my teaching abilities.  That being said, I refuse to make the state tests a black cloud of despair that looms threateningly over my classroom day after day.  I reassure, I encourage, I cajole, I bribe, and I reward.  I inspire them with videos:  (based on Taio Cruz's song Dynamite) "This test goes on-and-on-and-on...it goes on-and-and-on...oh yeah...gon' prove my learning to myself this time...saying ay-oh, gonna let go" ( https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mIdhw1R4xys).  I provide semi-nutritional sustenance during the 90-minute test.  This particular practice drives our office's administrative assistant insane.  "What is this?" she asked one year, holding a student's test carefully by a corner, "Is this pudding?" I plan what I perceive to be fun yet meaningful lessons for the afternoon.  That's where the trouble began today.
     Knowing that my students will be using a calculator for part of next week's New York State math test, I taped 15-20 riddle cards around the classroom.  You know how you can cleverly spell the word "hello" upside down on the calculator...that's the gist of this activity except you have to input a series of given operations to eventually get to the answer.  Enter the date that the Declaration of Independence was signed/subtract the year that Columbus sailed to America/divide by the number of legs of a tripod...and so on.  Last week, I sat down in the calm atmosphere of my empty classroom, a cool bottle of Pepsi by my side, and systematically and successfully solved each card.  Today, I handed each 6th grader a calculator and a worksheet, yelled, "Go forth and calculate!" and prepared to put up my feet and relax, enjoying the sight of my students scurrying happily (and quietly) about the room while solving each riddle card with confidence and ease.  Instead, student at card #4 scrunched up his face and raised his hand for help.  Naturally, I ignored him...obviously he hadn't tried hard enough yet.  Student at card #12 was suffering from a similar symptom.  I sighed.  Suddenly I was besieged by begging, whining, and ...did someone just poke me?  Did someone ELSE just poke me?  Again?  I was frustrated.  They were frustrated.  My attempt to help one was nullified by the line of confused 6th graders behind me.  Did someone just POKE me again!  My blood pressure, heart rate and voice level went through the roof.  I sought intervention from across the hall and soon, math specialist, Mrs. Harris had us on the right track.
     Re-scheduling the revised lesson for tomorrow, I  sat in the front of the now-quiet classroom and apologized to my students.  They certainly didn't do anything wrong.  I made an assumption regarding their comfort level with calculator application and should have first modeled the correct way to solve a card and then had us practice a couple as a group before sending them off on their own.  In the beginning of the year, I give a big speech about the importance of  "accountability."   Easy to say...sometimes difficult to do.  Although humbling, I appreciated the chance to demonstrate this character trait in an authentic setting.  I apologized to my students and they graciously forgave me.  Because of today's-not-so-great lesson, tomorrow's modified lesson will be much more successful.

Quitting Before I Get Started...

This all began with the greatest of intentions...family and friends lured into liking my writing so much that I was given the "gift" of a blog.  Very complimentary but, like a sweater I have no intention of ever pulling over my head, not likely to be used.  So, for my 43rd birthday this January, my daughter Savannah presented me with my own domain name.  "Just what I always wanted," I said, already plotting how long I could put this off.  My eager fan base of two kept pestering me regarding the latest updates of my "blog."  By April, I knew I couldn't put it off any longer and with a great deal of technical support, managed to successfully post a picture of my dachshund Chloe.  "There," I thought with smug satisfaction, "that should fend them off for awhile."  Nope.  The haranguing intensified.  Making an appointment with my technical support team (aka Amy White, world's best school librarian), we began the maddening process of getting my blog up and running.  My job was to sit next to Mrs. White and tell her how pretty she is.  Mrs. White's job was to do all the work and make comforting sounds each time I began to sob, curl up in the fetal position or shout, "Just pull the plug!  Shut 'er down!"  We discovered that a web designer can make, on the conservative side, $150 an hour and that it typically takes 12-20 hours to build a website.  "Shut 'er down," I screamed.  "Shhhhhh," comforted my librarian.  Research (on Mrs. White's part...I was busy cramming a giant bag of Lays Salt & Vinegar chips in my mouth) revealed that we could create our own blog for free.  Fantastic.  Amy White went right to work  I opened up a package of Nabisco Pinwheel cookies.  The first step, naturally, was to get a picture of Chlo up immediately.  That done, I was ready to go home but Amy White felt that perhaps we could surpass our original effort.  She quickly added several of my newspaper articles while I sucked down the last bit of the day's Pepsi.  "Can we be done now," I begged, exhausted.  Recognizing that I had hit my emotional wall, Mrs. White graciously relented, knowing that I had worked hard creating an on-line "masterpiece."  "How can I repay you," I asked my friend, thinking that a $5 gift card might not quite reflect her creative technical efforts and extraordinary patience level.  A fern is a lovely symbol of gratitude.  Instead, my non-materialistic friend made a simple request, asking me to be her work-out buddy for a bit.  Ugh.  This blog may be the worst idea EVER.

A Slightly Sour Sweet Sixteen

As birthdays go, sixteen is a much-anticipated milestone.  Don’t get me wrong, being able to legally buy scratch-offs at age eighteen is a thrill but nothing trumps being handed the keys to the kingdom.  My daughter Sydney recently turned sixteen and, as usual, we pulled out all the stops to celebrate.  She began her special day with a batch of buttered birthday toast.  I meticulously planned her mid-day meal of a Lunchable and mini grape soda pop.  To prevent the debacle that inevitably accompanies any important outing of which I participate, her father picked the birthday girl up immediately after school to take her to the Department of Motor Vehicles.  Sydney had been practicing up by taking the DMV’s online quizzes.  She was surprised to learn that under no circumstances is a driver to cross the double yellow line.  “What if your driveway is on the opposite side of the road?” she asked. 

As father and daughter left, I suddenly had a premonition as I remembered my last trip of this kind to the DMV.  I quickly scanned their helpful and informative website to discover that the social security card is a must-have document.  “You just realized this,” older daughter, Savannah asked incredulously, “we went through this less than two years ago.”  She is still holding a grudge from how I screwed up her own attainment of a driver’s license.  To the great annoyance of my husband, who thought I had my act together (c’mon folks, shouldn’t he know better by know?), I waylaid the trip to Warsaw with a carefully-worded cell phone call.  I then talked them through the search for the needed document.  I can’t explain how to play Crazy 8’s to eleven- year-olds so you can imagine how well that went.  I drove home to make the search myself and naturally found it in the last possible place. 

Brad and Sydney again hit the road.  Unfortunately, the documentation delay resulted in their arriving too late for Sydney to take her permit test.  “Let me buy you a Frappe,” Brad said to our disappointed daughter and off they went to McDonald’s to discover an out-of-order drink machine.  “Well, don’t forget you’ll be having homemade ice cream tonight,” he said consolingly. 

Yeah…about that.  Made the mixture, packed it in ice and salt, turned on the motor and listened to the most horrific grinding sound ever.  I employ the same diagnostic procedure across-the-board to all scary or unusual noises.  I ignore them.  Brad, however, felt compelled to directly address the issue.  Dismantling.  Adjusting.  Fiddling.  He reattached the apparatus and plugged it in.  It now sounded like a dropped transmission.  “It’s fine,” I said optimistically, now actively ignoring the slender spiral of smoke rising from our ice cream machine.  Suddenly a new sound filled the air.  No, not the smoke detector.  If only we were so lucky.  Our new puppy, who voraciously and enthusiastically consumes shoe laces, fabric softener sheets and coffee table legs, chose this exact moment to empty her stomach.  Entering the kitchen, Sydney said, “Mom, Juno threw up.”  My sixteen-year-old stood by silently as she watched her parents battle flames in order to rescue the ice cream mixture, our home, and our very lives (in that order) before she grabbed the paper towels and disappeared back into the other room.  With the clever application of a monkey wrench, Brad hand-cranked the ice cream in the manner of our forefathers and forty-five minutes later, we ate our homemade cajun peach ice cream.  Sydney had, by this time, inexplicably lost her appetite and was more than happy to just go to bed.  Sweet dreams, Sweet Sixteen. 

 as published in Warsaw's Country Courier

http://www.mywnynews.com/arcade_warsaw/

Wyoming's Apple "Fun"-kin Festival

            My anti-dusting stance has recently infiltrated my discriminatory shopping selections as I now actively abstain from purchasing “knick-knacks.” I also shy away from areas with randomly milling crowds as I tend to respond by flapping my hands furiously and breathing like Darth Vader to postpone the inevitable claustrophobic panic attack.  And bees...?  They must “comb” the airwaves for the latest “buzz” on Apple-Umpkin because those flying missiles are always there.  So, given that she can’t handle crowds, collectables, or creepy, crawly bugs, one might wonder why Amy Mosiman would voluntarily attend the annual Apple-Umpkin Festival in Wyoming.  Ok, I admit it.  Apple-Umpkin is fun and, after its over-twenty year reign, the event ushers in the season of autumn as effectively as a flock of honking geese.

            I attended this year’s festival in the company of six teen-agers.  I tell you this so that you will feel sorry for me right away.  Upon arrival, we were offered a free kitten to off-set the five dollar parking fee.  Generous as this promotion seemed, we gently declined the non-declawed feline and proceeded to browse Main Street, Wyoming.  Many teens lack a filter, particularly my friend, Meghan, who felt compelled to shout out prices at the top of her lungs in an outraged tone.  This is the same girl, by the way, who later inadvertently slapped a toddler out of his stroller.  There were many unique crafts on exhibit including recycled spoons made into decorative jewelry and glass soda bottles stretched into one-of-a-kind art pieces certain to rocket in value upon purchase.  We stood dumb-founded in front of the magic towel holder and watched with jealousy as people walked by us wielding giant foam bows and arrows. 

            The Wyoming Village Reception Hall hosted an antique show where I discovered a collection of small gnome figurines.  I know this breaks my new “knick-knack” rule but I have been spending the last few months terrorizing my dear friend Deb by sneaking suspicious items into her flowerbed.  The collection of used baby shoes that mysteriously appeared a few months ago almost drove her insane.  Her Google research led her to believe that she might be the victim of a voo doo curse so I felt it was time to up the ante and what could be more frightening than a gnome?  Four dollars a pop seemed a tad excessive but Meghan came through as she pointed out one with a chip on his nose.  “You should be able to get a deal on that one,” she said encouragingly.  I marched up to the vendor with my two dollars and showed him the flaw.  He inspected the gnome as though it were the Hope Diamond, shaking his head, and replying, “I couldn’t possibly.  I can’t even abide with the idea selling the set by piece.”  I felt terrible to be responsible for splitting up the gnome family but I had a voo doo curse to perform so I countered by offering another dollar.  The vendor looked painfully offended but said he had mouths to feed at home and so accepted my ludicrous deal.  Meghan’s boyfriend, Clay, bought barbeque sauce for the same price and tried bragging that his enjoyment would supersede mine, dollar for dollar.  Obviously, his youth clouds his judgment when it has to do with garden stalking and the mental manipulation of your closest friends. 

            Sitting on the spacious side porch of the art gallery adjoining the Hall, our group watched in rapt fascination and horror as black walnuts plummeted from the trees onto the parked cars below.  Whoomp!  A small sign invited musicians to enjoy the porch as a practice area so I led my group in a rousing rendition of Tanya Tucker’s, “There’s a tree…out in the backyard.”  Alright, you guessed it; I sang a lonely solo which was punctuated perfectly by percussion-based “whoomps!”   I also received no pity regarding my bee sting because “it didn’t leave a mark.”  We completed our Apple-Umpkin fun with samples of caramel-apple pie fudge and fresh-squeezed “diet” lemonade.  Not all accidents result in innovative inventions.  Penicillin and gun powder may be the exceptions because the inadvertent lack of sugar in my lemonade did nothing but leave a sour taste in my mouth.  Fortunately, the heat of that warm September day had everyone in my group begging for a sip and the look on their faces made the purchase completely worth it.   So if the traffic, the crowds, the bees, and the search for collectable treasures puts a sour look on your face, take heart.  Four free kittens found a home on Sunday and as a result, five dollar parking looked like the deal of a century!  It’s all about perspective.  

as published in Warsaw's Country Courier

http://www.mywnynews.com/arcade_warsaw/