I'm a size 5 from my knees down (not counting the cankles)

I'm forty-five. When am I going to grow into the graceful, gracious woman that I am destined to be? Take Friday, for instance. I apparently turned off my snooze alarm (or maybe there's a fail-safe button after you hit "snooze" over six times) and woke up, in a panic, 20 minutes before my scheduled departure time. Threw myself into my icy van and looked dismally at my frost-encrusted windshield. I can mostly see, I thought to myself optimistically until I was blasted by the rising sun. Blinded, I frantically stabbed the down button and drove the entire way to school with my head out the window. If that wasn't bad enough, a kind bus also pulled over to grant me access. I just hoped that all that hair whipping around my blue-with-cold face disguised my identity.

Upon my return home, I ventured out onto some snow-pack to retrieve my frozen dachshund. She bolted away the moment I sank, thigh-deep, into the snow. My daughter, Savannah, couldn't catch her breath between bouts of laughter as I flailed about helplessly until I was forced to crawl and then roll to safety.

The next day was "Fresh-Start Saturday." I almost called it a day right at the beginning when I mistakenly pulled misplaced delicates from my dresser drawer and stood, in baffled confusion, when I couldn't even succeed in pulling them up past my kneecaps. "You can't expect to fit in size 5s," my husband said consolingly, "and your knees certainly aren't fat. They're angular." My angular knees came into play again much sooner than I would have liked as, to avoid the mud that carpeted most of my lawn, I went to carry the dachshund out to the van, stepped onto some ice and, as my husband would describe it, performed a slow-motion pole dance of epic proportions around the snow fence, landing heavily on my "angular" knees while daintily setting the dachshund down to dash off into the mud. Is it time to face facts? To embrace the notion that I'm not graceful...I'm gawky? I'm not elegant. I'm embarrassing. AND I have angular knees! Well, at least they're acute ;)

How our plan almost went ker-plunk!

It was time for our school's annual "Family Fun Night" and our administrator, who has been tirelessly working from dawn to dusk + five hours, put out the request for each grade level to create a game to contribute to the event. When met with mild grumbling, he pointed up to his face. "See these eyes," he exclaimed, "these eyes haven't closed in days!" Thus-ly inspired, the 4th grade team set to work.

Spear-heading the movement, I found the directions for a to-life-scale version of Kerplunk and brought the idea before committee.  Not mentioning any names (Geri), one member of the group was less enthusiastic than the rest. "I have tomato cages and a tire in the barn," she mused reluctantly, perusing the materials list doubtfully, "but how do you propose I tunnel through the six foot wall of snow to get there?" The rest of us, however, were optimistically delighted about our plan.

Typical of our usual team meetings, we began the process well over a month ago. As unofficial team secretary, I made note of our progress:

Meeting #1:  Introduction of plan:  squeals of delight, muttering, almost unanimous decision to bring our idea before the administrative committee

Meeting #2: Having reviewed the plan with administration, we went over the necessary supplies (see Geri's contribution: appendix A: paragraph 2)

Meeting #3: Still enthusiastic but as the event was still weeks away, we still just talked about supplies. Half-hour discussion about a) DO clear shower curtains exist? and, upon subsequent research, b) WHY do clear shower curtains exist?

Meeting #4:  Agreed to discuss plan next week

Meeting #5:  Geri brought a cheesecake so progress was temporarily halted

Meeting #6:  "Wait...? Family Fun Night is THIS week?!?!" Clearly we did not have enough time available to plan and construct our project. Will have to table our idea until next year.

Emergency Meeting #7:  Having encountered our administrator the night before in a shopping center buying Visine for his dry eyes, our formidable team leader, Rachel, had hastily bought tomato cages and yes, a clear shower curtain (which we promptly lost). We spent over an hour acquiring our much-discussed supplies..."Hello, bus garage...do you have a tire we can borrow?" " Hello...gym? Do you have colorful balls we can borrow?" (As you can imagine, THAT request was met with some colorful language not
suited for a blog of this quality!).  With assembly-line precision, we wrapped recycled PVC piping from Rachel's daughter's science project in duct tape of assorted colors and patterns..."Are these peacock feathers?" Geri asked, setting a plastic pipe on a strip of tape. We zip-stripped the cages together and hit our first big snag as the cages sank despite our best efforts, leaving gaping holes for our colorful balls. (No giggling...this blog is rated PG). Clear packing tape and fifty thousand zip-strips would have to suffice as we wrestled a tire into a polka-dot kiddie pool and then wrestled the tomato cages into the tire. We all stood back to admire our efforts. Clearly, this was an excellent example of how to successfully set a plan in motion!

Real men paint onsies

Two of my fourth grade fellas recently had new siblings join the family. "If they were girls," I thought to myself, "I'd have them paint onsies as a gift." Oh my goodness! What was I thinking! It shouldn't matter if they're boys or girls! Anyone can paint a onsie! Shame on me for thinking that it was only an activity for girls.

So I carefully broached the subject with my two uber-athletic, manly-men students. "Do you know what a onsie is," I asked, not prepared for the utter looks of disgust and disdain that I would receive. "Of course I know what a onsie is," I was told, "it's like a bathing suit for babies to wear under their clothes." Okay...first hurdle crossed.

"Would you like to stay after school with me to paint a onsie as a gift," I inquired. Once it was firmly established that I would be serving snacks, the response was enthusiastically in the affirmative. "What sort of picture?" I was asked. "Anything you want," I said stupidly. "I want an ax and an anvil," my one guy answered immediately. "No," I stated firmly.

"Why?" asked my 4th grader.

"Why?" asked my husband later as I related the incident to him at home.

"Because it's for a BABY," I insisted, "the picture should absolutely reflect the giver but should still be appropriate to a baby."

"What's not appropriate about an ax and anvil," my 4th grader asked.

 "What's not appropriate about an ax and anvil," my husband asked later as I related the incident to him at home.

 "What's not appropriate about an ax and anvil," one of the fathers asked later when I ran into him at the grocery store.

Sigh. Lesson learned. Real men absolutely DO paint onsies. Just be prepared that, instead of anticipated pictures of pink puppies, butterflies and flowers, you will be painting themes depicting mayhem and destruction.

A sad ending to a mouse tale

"Are you sure they're still in there," my husband asked doubtfully for the millionth time, peering into the plastic container that has worked as a temporary mouse house for just under two weeks. I sighed, sick of his daily interrogation. "Of course they're still in there." I ignored the rest of his rant about how I needed to set them free soon or SURELY they're going to get out. What a worrywart, I thought, When will he realize that I know what I'm doing? 

Brad finally left for work. I lifted the lid of my little mouse motel to toss in some seed. I observed the three toilet tissue rolls where my two guests spent the bulk of their time hiding and sleeping. Hmmmm. Like the magician revealing the ball from beneath the cups, I lifted the first tube to reveal...nothing. The second tube was also empty. Heart pounding, I reached for the third. Suddenly, I was diving head-first into the container, searching frantically for my mice. Where were they?!?  Where were they?!? And then I froze. How was I going to tell Brad?

Naturally, my first instinct was to lie. I occupied the better part of my ride to school by concocting elaborate fabrications. But what if Brad already knew? What if it was a set-up? As you can see, my marriage is a firm foundation of mutual trust and respect. Frantic, I brought the matter before a jury of my peers. "What do I do," I wailed, laying out my moral dilemma to my 4th graders. "Lie," came the general consensus (Which should cause us some concern, by the way) but one lone voice held firm. "You need to tell the truth, Mrs. Mosiman," said Tyler, "It's the right thing to do."

"You should have lied," my husband shouted, as I broke the news to him that evening. I remained silent...a rare occurrence. What could I say? I had no defense. For once in my life...I was wrong. I remained silent. It didn't help me much as my husband raged about the room. "I'm sorry," I inserted softly. "A lot of good that's going to do," he yelled. "In a couple of hours, you will have pretty much forgotten about this. Meanwhile, I will always be aware that you DELIBERATELY brought rodents into my house...in my walls...my cupboards. And the worst part is that you'd probably do it all over again if given the chance!" I sighed. What a worrywart. As he continued yelling at me, I focused my attention on the now empty container. How on earth did they get out of there, I wondered, imagining the most likely scenario:

Mouse 1 (hunkered down like a 1920s hobo, rubbing his little paws together over a hypothetical little fire): This is it, Lefty. You and me's bustin' outta here.

Mouse 2: Ya gotta plan, Stan?

Following an intricate blueprint and using the resources at hand (sorry...paw), the two McGyver mice manipulated the toilet tissue tubes-rolling one, barrel-style, to wedge in a corner and then heroically hefting the other two up, end-on-end, to reach the lid. Lefty, with herculean strength, strained his little mousie arms to lift the barrier for Stan to slip through before diving out himself, Indiana Jones-style.

"Are you listening to me," Brad shouted. I nodded. "You would, wouldn't you," he accused, still incensed. "What," I asked. "You'd do it all over again, wouldn't you?" I thought about Lefty and Stan and their glorious escape to freedom. Taking a breath, I braced myself...closed my eyes and nodded.

Dressed for success

There will be a few (Kelly Harris and Joan) who will immediately leap to the defense of the unsung hero of our household, saying that poor Juno, the down-trodden Rottweiler, doesn't receive enough press-time. But...c'mon! Did you SEE the picture?!? Oh my goodness...forget about the baby panda sneezing! Check out my dachshund wearing a panda hat and booties!

The astute observer might be able to detect just a smidge of disgust on my little dog's face but, as usual, she was an awful good sport. Winter can be cruel to her fuzzy little paws as we dig icicles from the fur between her toes. Booties are a much better alternative even though she walks as though she's wading through peanut butter.

Chlo's favorite winter activity is snow-blowing on the 4-wheeler with her daddy but, pragmatically-speaking, steering is precarious at best and Chlo is shivering within sixty seconds. Enter the handy-dandy, belly-busting, canine-covering (front) backpack! With a long-established reputation for detesting canine clothes of any kind, we nonetheless wrestled Chlo into her puppy pack. Once she was installed on the 4-wheeler, her attitude shifted dramatically into high gear.  Able to steer with both hands, Brad made short work of clearing the snow with his little buddy safely supervising him.

No...I have not gone over totally to the doggie dark side. Chlo will not be sporting designer duds or flaunting the latest fashions. She is a very down-to-earth dog. But where-ever her doggie dreams will take her, Chlo will be sensibly outfitted for the occasion.

Enough, Ashley! or...Enough OF Ashley!

Further evidence that it's all a matter of perspective.

My viewpoint:  Having still not mastered the precarious art of backing up a "big" truck, I carefully parked Titan yesterday morning and, as usual, threw myself bodily out of the vehicle, bracing myself for the four foot drop to the ground. When I landed, I noticed something colorful peeking out of the snow that was rapidly accumulating so, curious (like a child or a raven), I picked it up to discover a lanyard with a staff id and keys attached. Great. I glanced around to see if anyone was nearby to witness my tossing them back from whence they came. Drat the luck...too many possible witnesses. So I carried this burden into the school, stomping down the corridor grumpily to see my colleague racing towards me. I swung the lanyard out, hoping to "accidentally" strike her with it and snapped, "I suppose you're looking for this."

Ashley's viewpoint:  There I was...in the darkest pit of despair. What-oh-what was I going to do? I had lost my id and keys. And with this great loss...so too, would I lose my livelihood. I searched high-and-low and then, as I glanced out my classroom window in desperation, I realized...the snow! With the white-out conditions, I realized that finding my keys in that snow desert of a parking lot would be like finding a needle in a haystack. But still, I had to try. I raced down the corridor to see my colleague hurrying toward me, smiling her usual bright smile of welcome. In her hand, she waved a beacon of hope. I sighed in relief as she swung my lanyard to me, saying kindly, "I suppose you're looking for this."

And that's not even the END of the story!  Oh no...Ashley couldn't just let it go:

The next day...

As a group of teens gathered in my classroom after school ("Mrs. Mosiman, can we hang out for a little while?" "Yes," I growled, "as long as you don't talk to me."), Ashley suddenly entered the room. She set a Pepsi and king-sized Snickers bar down in front of me. "I just wanted to thank you," she said. I stared at her dumbfounded. How on earth does the ENTIRE world know that I drink Pepsi and snarf down Snickers bars? "Ashley," I hissed ungratefully at her, "it was no big deal. You would have done the same for me." "I know," she replied cheerfully. I resisted the urge to punch her...opting instead for a verbal slap. "Yeah," I pointed out, "but the only difference is...I wouldn't have brought you a thank you gift." She laughed, waved and disappeared out the door.

"I HATE her," I screeched, startling my shocked teens. "Why," they asked, "she brought you a Pepsi and a Snickers." "Isn't it enough that she's pretty and kind and creative and the most amazing teacher EVER," I yelled stomping around the room like Rumpelstiltskin, "that she also has to go around giving me unwarranted gifts to reward me for begrudgingly being moral?" I collapsed, exhausted into my chair. "This is so stressful," I muttered only to hear one empathetic high school say softly, "Have a Pepsi, Mrs. Mosiman, you'll feel better."

Who Wore This Wacky Wig Best?

On this episode of Who Wore this Wacky Wig Best, we see that the student has definitely surpassed the teacher. As it so often happens, some ideas just need to remain in their original paper-form. But no...I spotted the directions for How to Make a Colonial Wig in Seven Easy Steps and jumped at the chance. "What are you doing," my husband asked, already regretting his question when he spotted that familiar mad gleam in my eye as I loaded our shopping cart with more cotton balls than most Mosiman families could ever use in one lifetime. My engineer daughter couldn't resist when I mentioned the wigs. "How do you propose to construct them," she asked, immediately regretting her question as I began to grape-stomp the fluffy packages to fit in the cart. Both of them quickly vanished while I was explaining my plan to the fascinated check-out girl before begging her for sixteen brown paper bags to accommodate sixteen 4th grade heads. 

How hard could this be, I gleefully thought to myself. Cotton balls? Check. Brown paper grocery bags? Check. Glue sticks aplenty? Check. Naturally, the children were enthusiastically on board. After another safety lesson concerning hot glue:

Teacher (pointing to the silver-tipped end of the glue gun):  This part is ...?

Students (choral response): HOT!

Teacher: If you touch it, you will get...

Students (choral response):  FIRED!

Teacher:  No, no, no...YOU won't get fired...I will. Try again. If you touch it, you will get...

Students (choral response): BURNED!

Teacher: And if you get burned...who is going to feel sorry for you?

Students (choral response): NOT MRS. MOSIMAN!

Teacher (nodding approval): Very good, students! Now...what is our class motto again?

Students (choral response): NO WHINING! LIFE IS NOT FAIR! AND MRS. MOSIMAN WEARS A SIZE TEN SHOE AND LIKES EXPENSIVE CHOCOLATE!

Teacher (nodding approval): Excellent!

After our lesson on safety, we unceremoniously stuffed one student head into the bag so I could cut a skull cap upon which to mount our cotton ball wig. In hindsight, perhaps I should have taped the living daylights out of it as well to create a more form-fitting model as it turned out rather rectangular in form...more SpongeBob Squarepants than George Washington. It's true that many hands make light work. It's also true that many 4th grade hands would rather work with a hot glue gun so I was left...holding the bag. The alarmingly thin bag. We focused on constructing one wig to learn the process. Four glue guns. Three more hands applying the cotton balls with rapid-fire precision and me...holding the bag. "Ouch," I cried as each line of molten-hot-lava glue was applied. "Ouch," I whimpered as crafty hands pressed cotton balls firmly down. "Ouch," I sobbed, as strings of hot glue drizzled onto my bare flesh. "Remember, Mrs. Mosiman...no whining," my sweet cherubs said as they hoisted me out of the fetal position to view our finished product. It didn't quite look like the one pictured in the instructions (which, by the way, should have included the number to the closest burn unit) but my little honeys were ready and raring for more. But...oh no! There was a cotton ball calamity! Turns out that it takes approximately three packages of cotton balls to construct one colonial wig! "Those poor Colonial Americans," one little scholar sympathized, "I wonder where they got their cotton balls from?" And there you have it, folks. Yet another, faultlessly integrated lesson utilizing Science, Math, and Social Studies with real-life application.