"My eyes are up here"-Halloween 2018

What is a girl to do when she is surrounded, on all sides, by perversion? How am I to maintain my pure heart and innocent spirit when those around me cast lecherous lassos of debauchery, attempting to ensnare me; pulling me down to their own depths of depravity.

Sigh.

What is wrong with this world that a girl can't hot-glue a couple of large white orbs with black painted tips onto her chest and then parade around a crowded gymnasium without fear of judgement?  Madonna did it. Brittany. Katie Perry. The Lady Gaga. I'm in prestigious company here.

I did have a few moments where I questioned my choice of costume design. I noticed several members of the teaching staff had trouble making eye contact with me while I was in character. And my 4th graders, delighted with my outfit, kept asking what the eyes were made of and wanted to touch them. Naked truth here: At 48, there is NO WAY that my actual "eyes" would be so perkily positioned so I grit my teeth and allowed my budding optometrists to examine the styrofoam material.

Judgment, in the form of social media, followed me home, questioning my right to choose (a costume). I have to admit, however, that the biggest wound to my pride came when one kid asked if I was Rizzo the Rat from the Muppets. That kid definitely needed to get his eyes checked!

The Case of the Purloined Pumpkins

I admit it. It's a little early in the school year to be going crazy but somewhere along the line, I hit the wall. Planning Halloween costumes ("How many hula hoops do you want me to buy?" Brad asked incredulously. Really? HOW long has this man been married to me?), producing a music video, performing my own stunts, wrestling seventeen longhouses into my classroom, and trying to get twenty nine-year-olds to pronounce Haudenosaunee correctly (As if I knew how to pronounce Haudenosaunee). And somewhere in there...teach.

So...somewhere along the millionth time that I was forced to stomp by Mr. King's classroom, where his children always appeared to be quietly engaged in learning, I stopped longing to break into his UNOPENED container of candy Halloween pumpkins perched invitingly outside his door and simply acted upon it. It's not like he wasn't warned. This storm had been building for awhile. Just the day before, I had launched a verbal tantrum of epic proportions upon his 3rd graders waiting (quietly and in a perfect line) to enter their classroom. "WHY would your teacher leave an UNOPENED container of candy on top of the cubbies for OVER A WEEK!?!" I yelled. "It's unconscionable!" I stormed off. Mr. King later when on to win the Nobel Peace Prize of Teaching on his stellar vocabulary lesson based on the term unconscionable.

So..yeah. I'm not going to lie. I stole it. The statute of limitations for unopened candy pumpkins perched on a hallway cubby had LONG expired. I snuck the container into the office and proceeded to cut my finger on the practically impenetrable packaging. However, neither blood nor karma could deter me. "Joanne, I need some scissors," I cried. The silent secretary handed me shears and a band-aid. "A-ha!" I popped the pilfered pumpkin in my mouth, victorious! "What on earth are you doing?" Joanne finally asked when I'd stopped hemorrhaging. A staunch advocate of taking personal accountability for one's actions, I bravely admitted my crime (There are cameras in the hall, after all).
Withholding judgement, Joanne instead resorted to blackmail. "But you're diabetic!" I cried, trying to hold the pumpkins out of reach, "Joanne! Consider your health!" Deftly, Joanne spun around, delivering a roundhouse kick before administrating a painful armbar forcing me and my (stolen) pumpkins into submission. Confiscating one candy pumpkin, she then handed back the container, demanding that I return my ill-gotten gain. "I'll be watching," she threatened, motioning to her video monitor. I sighed, returning the container to Mr. King's cubby...my candy-confiscating crime-spree over. For now.

Sacré bleu! Profanity from the pulpit!

If that man dedicated as much of his time to creating  heartfelt, life-changing sermons as he does to making my life miserable, Jesus would quickly be kicking either James or John out of the seats next to Him to make room for Calvin. By the way, I always thought that it took a lot of...nerve to ask Jesus for reserved seating like the Messiah is a maître d. 

But no. Rather than spending grueling hours suffering for his craft, MY pastor is rubbing his hands together gleefully, googling biblical terms that, when read aloud, would make a grown woman blush.

"What am I suppose to do with this?" I growled at my husband who, despite my endless complaining, keeps encouraging me to volunteer. Brad glanced at the word. "What's the problem?" he asked. "Read it aloud," I snarled. He did. Oh. 

Micah 6:5. Remember your journey from Shittim to Gilgal that you may know the righteous acts of the Lord. 

One syllable? Terrible. Two syllables emphasized the naughty word even more. I was at a loss. I'm no stranger to the salty language but I'm usually pretty reserved from the pulpit. "Did you google the pronunciation?" Brad asked. "Yes," I snapped. "It sounds like it's spelled!" Additional research revealed that the term refers to the wood from the acacia tree. Super helpful. 

I couldn't even practice like I normally do. I spent the bulk of the time freezing my face into a placid, reserved expression as I uttered a word more at home in a septic tank than a sanctuary.  Brad's jaw clenched as I practiced in the van as we drove to service. "That sounded good," he insisted as I offered a few words of my own about my pastor's choice of verse selection. A half hour later, I took a deep breath as I approached the podium, taking note of the diabolical smile pasted to my pastor's face. What could I do but throw a Hail Mary? With my best French accent, I addressed the word that could have been my downfall..."Remember your journey from Sh'tem to Gilgal..." I recited. I finished with a flourish, smiled sweetly at my pastor and skipped down the steps...redeemed. Thank goodness I became so fluent during my trip abroad. "Parlez-vous français?" I was asked. "Un petit couleur," I'd answered flawlessly, again deftly navigating yet another conversational conundrum. 

Toot-Toot-Tootsie, Good-Bye. Watch out for the predator!

Well..it happened again. In that epic war of man vs mouse, woman has once again intervened. I walked into my darkened classroom moments before it would be bombarded by twenty 4th graders to glimpse a small shadow float across the floor. It's just my imagination, I tried to convince myself, unwilling to launch myself into the chaotic drama that inevitably accompanies the arrival of a small rodent. I stared at the ceiling, praying that that baby mouse had the sense God gave him to immediately hide. Flight or fight, baby. C'mon. But no. This little guy was a people-person. People-mouse.

Students were now slowly trickling in. As casually as I could, I grabbed the metal lid of our candy jar and gently set it over our little guy as he attempted to raise up on his hind-legs and deliver Hamlet's soliloquy. It was not meant to be. "Rachel," I asked gently, "Could you please gently place your foot on top of our lid?" I scurried off to grab a paper plate. "Andrew, dump the candy out of our jar, please." The kids were surprisingly calm, curious as to what their normally loud and obnoxious teacher was  quietly hiding under that lid. Tools of transfer in place, I delivered a quick lesson on empathy. "There is a baby mouse underneath the lid," I announced solemnly, eliciting gasps. Hands covered mouths in shock. "How does our baby mouse feel right now?" "Scared," they whispered. We discussed the importance of staying silent and limiting our movements. I explained the transfer procedure. No one in the room, including Mrs. Mosiman and the mouse, believed it would actually work. It did. Our baby mouse was safely confined in our glass candy jar. "Let's name it, Tootsie," Charlotte squealed, noting the stuck-on Tootsie-Roll at the bottom of the jar.

I used our science vocabulary to shield me from the pleas of "Can we keep him?" "Where is this mouse's natural habitat?" I asked. We eliminated the playground and the sports fields as release areas. Mrs. Mosiman nixed the plan of traipsing miles out to release our little guy on the Nature Trail. We had a place value assessment to complete. We settled on the small copse of trees by the middle school. As quiet as mice (NOT), we set off on our animal release adventure. Another science vocabulary word was implemented as Ethan spotted a large bird flying overhead. "That's a predator, Mrs. Mosiman!" More begging ensued. We pointed the open jar toward the trees. Tootsie stepped out, took a long look around ("Look UP, Tootsie," Ethan whispered.) and then high-tailed it BACK toward the school. Students screamed. I screamed at students. We surrounded Tootsie like Conestoga wagons trying to turn our stampeding mouse in the right direction. Tootsie finally disappeared into the tall weeds and we returned to our room to discover that it was now to late to take our math exam. "This is the best day EVER," Amanda exclaimed. We cleaned our candy jar and called it a day.

Later on though, the head of maintenance came in. "I heard you had a mouse, Mrs. Mosiman," he said. I looked at him suspiciously. This could NOT be good. "Maybe..." I hedged, wheels turning as I wondered who had ratted me out. "I have a sticky trap," Todd told me. "We're more of a catch-and-release room," I told him. He narrowed his eyes at me. "Oh...me too," he agreed, promising that he planned to catch and release any mouse that wandered into his diabolical trap. I shared with him the educational components that accompanied a visit from one of God's little creatures. I expounded upon the rich and relevant vocabulary that we were able to use in an authentic setting. "I have another rich and relevant vocabulary word for you, Mrs. Mosiman," he said, setting the trap in an inconspicuous  corner. "Infestation."

Our Sunday School Come-Back Tour Was Trashed

So...despite being kicked out of EVERY ministry known to man, Brad and I have somehow resurrected our Sunday School teaching partnership. By "partnership," obviously I mean that Brad spends hours in heartfelt lesson planning to create a meaningful message which I effortlessly mock and make a mess of the moment he implements it. We're a great team.

You can imagine my delight when Brad shared the news that we were teaching Sunday School again. "All...I...need..." he gasped, lunging to the left and right as household projectiles whipped by his head, "for...you...to...do..." he roared, running as I grabbed the broom, "is...to...make...a...poster." He fell to the ground, face contorted in pain as he succumbed to a paralytic cramp.

Huh. A poster. I guess I could do that.

Three days later...

"What is that?" Brad asked.

"Your poster," I growled, frowning at his lack of gratitude.

"A tri-fold board?" he said incredulously.

I glanced around for the broom.

He leaned in for a closer look. "You drew a bridge?"

"You said that verse in 1 Corinthians acts as a bridge for understanding the bible," I snarled.

"And a train?" he pointed.

"We can paste the kids' pictures in the windows," I glared. "It's whimsical."

"This is..." he scratched his head, "AMAZING. You made the Taj-Mahal of posters."

And just like that, marital harmony was restored.

Now, in the past, Brad and I were accustomed to taking our Sunday School class on the road. Youth Sunday School is often treated like they're a band of traveling gypsies. In one room one week. Another room the next. We've held classes in parking lots and supply closets. Needless to say, we were impressed with our new accommodations.

"Look, Brad! An accordion door!" I exclaimed.  "Where should I put the poster?"

"How about next to the case of paper towels?" Brad suggested. I scooched past the stack of chairs, nearly knocking over a pile of coffee filters, to position it.  "This is nice," I beamed.

Our pastor was manning children's church in the spacious area outside our own intimate little alcove. Brad began his lesson in his usual quiet voice, having to raise it though, to be heard over the raucous singing of our enthusiastic neighbors. "They certainly are making a joyful noise," I commented, ignoring Brad's warning glare. Apparently the new Mosiman motto is: Sarcasm has no place in Sunday School. "I'll embroider that on a pillow," I'd told him. "I'll just be satisfied if we're not fired from another volunteer position," he snapped back.

As Brad referred to our poster during the lesson and I channeled my best Christian-version of Vanna, pointing out our poster's finest features, we heard Pastor adjusting the volume on his giant flat-screen TV mounted attractively on the wall. I'd accidentally knocked our poster to the ground from its precarious perch on the paper towels as I'd peered past the accordion door. Brad was challenging his students to come up with examples of whether their brainstormed bible recollections fit into the category of people, event, or idea, when Pastor began demonstrating his best Dance Dance Revolution moves for the kids. Six-year-olds erupted into Moonwalking Moves, Flossing, and Whip-It Nae-Naes. "Here, have an Oreo," I hurriedly said to our students, trying to draw their attention BACK to our poster. "They're double-stuffed."

Pastor was now dishing up hot fudge sundaes. We sighed. Brad pulled out his wallet and started handing out five dollar bills. But the heart wants what the heart wants. By the time Pastor's laser light show had concluded, we deduced that next week's youth Sunday School attendance would dip dramatically as our students would go to the underground, seeking out fake IDs that would prove that they were actually YOUNGER, to get into Pastor's class.

"I TOLD you we weren't meant to teach Sunday School," I told Brad as we sadly lugged our poster home. We had to go the long way because Pastor had set up pony rides for the kids.

What Brad doesn't know (about my vending machine addiction) won't hurt him

It was bound to happen sooner or later. Brad glanced up from his phone with a frown. "How much do you spent on the vending machines each day?" he asked. Uh-oh. I thought he was playing online euchre. He must have finally drifted over to my blog.

I pretended to think. "Oh...I don't know...a couple of times...?" I finally answered. "A week?" Brad clarified. We've been married thirty years. The man may be cheap but he's no fool. I ducked my head sheepishly, attempting to look adorable. "A day," I whispered. He stared at me in shock. "You do know the mark-up rate on that stuff, don't you?" he inquired incredulously. I sighed. Other than being completely obnoxious, I had so few faults to speak of. Why couldn't he let this go? The vending machine was my Vegas. I lived for the thrill of pushing those little buttons. The adrenaline rush when my selected treat successfully navigated its coiled contraption and plunged several snack stories down to its receivership receptacle. The horror and despair that I felt when it was unable to escape the snack slammer.

My utter lack of self-control also is a major contributing factor at play here (Oh! I have TWO faults! Obnoxious AND lack of self-control!). Should a giant bag of peanut M & Ms appear on my desk...I am going to eat the ENTIRE bag. The vending machine actually helps work as a weight management system because I eventually run out of money. For some reason, Brad was horrified by this revelation.

Accompanying me on a grocery shopping run, Brad interviewed me about my snack and lunch preferences. When we got home, he armed himself with baggies and a Sharpie marker and busied himself divvying up portion-sized bags and labeling my string-cheese.  "Look," he told me, pointing to the portions, "You have two Monday cheeses!" I glared at him. Undaunted, he proclaimed gleefully, "Think of all the money we'll save!" So, on Monday, I headed off to school with my two labelled cheeses, a baggie full of peanut M & Ms, a baggie packed with honey, mustard and onion pretzels, and a sack of mini-oranges. "You can eat all the oranges you want!" Brad encouraged me. I was as blue as a girl could be.

What Brad didn't factor in was the truck breaking down this morning. Stressed out, I headed straight to the Pepsi vending machine to calm my nerves and experience that rush. But as long as he doesn't read my blog again, I should be okay.

Teachers talk trash...or treasure? When it's "time" to walk away

"What could I do with a set of twelve mini-wiffle balls?" I wondered. "Well...beer pong is out," my friend Joanne said firmly, "But what about a variation, though, using buoyancy as the objective study?" Sold! I scooped the wiffle balls out of the junk pile.

This would not be my first experience with dumpster-diving in the teacher refuse pile. Educators are committed to the belief that someone out there would want their outdated, ripped, worn, useless stuff (I was actually thinking of another s~ word). Unfortunately, I am that someone. I conscientiously avoid the faculty room like the plague as it is laden with the off-casts of others. But the bathroom AND the Pepsi machine are in there. It's an endless cycle. "Oh my goodness!" I squealed, waddling over, "A stuffed penguin!" It was like a sign from God. I'd just spent over an hour earlier on a penguin font generator printing out the names of my students for their cubbies, delighted when I realized the U was represented by a dead cartoon penguin. How whimsical and fun!

Someone was also getting rid of a 3/4s filled notebook of black paper specifically for use with gel pens. Surely this was an accident, I thought to myself, Who would give this little treasure away?  What? Am I an idiot? Of course I nabbed it.

The lemon law is in effect, though. My friend Geri conned me into taking a beautifully bound photographic book depicting the Erie Canal. I lugged it over to my room to discover that the illustrations featured the architectural history of the homes and buildings lining the length of the 363 miles-long waterway. My nine-year-olds were going to eat that right up! As I snuck the book back to the faculty room, I spied yet another treasure: An old-school event timer housed in its own heavy box complete with convenient handle which plugs into the wall! I remember sports-type people using this little device during high school basketball games in the 80s. I plugged it in and an ear-spitting obnoxious wail filled the room...it works! I MUST have it! Turns out "I MUST have it" meant "I MUST have it until I came to my senses ten minutes later when I envisioned my 4th graders making this go off in Room 24 every other minute." Perhaps yet another sign from the Almighty. From the junk pile you came; unto the junk pile you must return. Until someone else comes along.