Priceless pandemonium at Pizza Hut

Alea is the one teenager on the planet who doesn't partake
 of selfie candids so we had to ask the waitress to help us out.

"Aunt Amy," invited the text message, "I got a $40 gift card for Pizza Hut. Do you want to go out to lunch?" Hel-lo! Now, some would question my morality for exploiting my sweet teen-aged niece by letting her foot the bill for a meal but I believe that my allowing her to treat me further promotes her sweet and giving nature. "Thanks, Alexis," I typed, my fingers flying across the keyboard, "Let's do it!"

So, we did. You wouldn't think there'd be all that much to blog about aside from the usual paper straw wrappers ricocheting off everyone's heads and in-depth discussions about who is currently grounded and why. But never fear...there is always SOMETHING to blog about.

At the end of the meal, Brad was presented with the bill and, as he lacks my character-building abilities, took out his wallet intending to pay. Alexis was having none of that and, when she tired of his ignoring her, simply frisbee-tossed her gift card toward him. It was a slow-motion type of moment as the gift card spiraled through the air, bounced off Brad's elbow, and then nose-dived perfectly, slipping into the microscopically slim space between the booth and the wall. Brad attempted to wedge it out with a knife, to no avail so finally Alexis, flashlight feature on her phone on, crawled under the table...splunking-style and eventually emerged, covered in dust and coated in old gum remnants, with her treasure. We cheered as I used ice to rub gum adhesive from the back of her hand. Another lesson in how gift cards are such a practical and easy-to-use present.

Walking the plank to nowhere

As an introductory side-note, please understand that each time I use a phase pertaining to physical fitness, I am actually pausing at my keyboard to bend my fingers into bunny ears to represent air-quotes. After my first reference to "working out," I will cease this action (on paper) as my laziness extends to all facets of my existence.

After my mortifying Halloween wake-up call, I unintentionally (and hopefully, temporarily) embarked on a renewed journey of self-improvement because, in a moment of weakness (I suffer from those...A LOT), I told my friend "The Other Amy" about how discouraged I was about how gravity, as of late, was having to expel a lot more energy than usual to keep me from floating off into the atmosphere. Having successfully lost weight through exercise and dietary maintenance, Amy enthusiastically encouraged me to "work out" with her. Again...it was a moment of weakness. And, it has changed my life.

Change #1:  Opportunities to bond about my new hobby:  Several weeks ago, I got into a heated argument with a colleague as I was eating a Snickers bar about my experiences in the Work-Out Room. "What did you call it again," he asked in a patronizing tone as he gulped down his 20 ounce Pepsi (hypocrite). Confused, I repeated myself, "The Work-Out Room." "Amy," he sighed, twirling spaghetti around his fork "it's called the Weight Room." I considered this notion for a moment. No...that was just stupid. "Yes, there ARE weight-lifting thing-a-ma-bobs in there," I conceded, searching my pockets for loose change for the vending machine, "but there are also things that you run-in-place on or pretend you're climbing stairs-to-nowhere." Now, I have to admit, my colleague is a gifted athletics coach with, or so I've heard, an impressive on-the-sports-field-related vocabulary but I...I am a language tactician. After visiting the vending machine, I stomped right down to THAT room to discover that...we were both wrong.

Change #2:  An opportunity to learn more technology:  "Uh..." I said, my hair swept up in an adorable ponytail, "how do I turn this climb-stairs-to-nowhere machine?" An 11th grader walking by paused to say, "You have to start moving first, Mrs. Mosiman." Oh. I awkwardly began moving, squinting at the screen. "Nothing is happening," I whined mournfully. A 9th grader walking by stopped to help. "See that giant button that says "Quick Start," she said, before pushing it for me. The screen lit up and I saw, to my delight, that, after a few minutes of lurching around on the stairs-that-go-nowhere, I had lost a full calorie.

Change #3: An opportunity to inspire others: So, there I was, lurching around on the stairs-that-go-nowhere, when a group of former 6th graders who had gotten alarmingly tall approached me and asked if I'd ever "planked." I informed them, in my most serious voice, that I DO NOT condone recreational drug use. Once we'd straightened out Mrs.Mosiman's alarmingly limited vocabulary associated with "working out" (oops, sorry), I found myself being pulled off the stairs-to-nowhere in order to learn how to "plank." Lay, stomach-down, with your weight on your forearms and toes," I was told. I blinked several times. What?!? The group of young men then modeled the "exercise" (sorry). I backed away in horror. There was NO WAY that I was going to do that! "No...no...no....no," they yelled after me, hands outstretched so as not to frighten away the fat kitten. "You just have to do it for, like, 30 seconds." There was a significant silence in the Fitness Room before everyone burst out laughing. Now I was mad. An intelligent adult, walking around with a stick (I still haven't figured that out yet), gently suggested that a good beginning goal would be ten seconds. Alright-y then. The boys thought I was joking when I complained of cramping up just by getting down onto the floor. I assumed the position. Kind of. "There has to be space between you and the floor," a 10th grader told me. I glared at him and through gritted teeth said, "There is." Like a magician, a senior swept a hand under my trembling torso and confirmed, "Yeah, she's practically an inch from the ground." I ignored the laughter as they counted me down from ten, applauding as I collapsed before dragging me back to an upright position and putting me back on the stairs-to-nowhere. 

Why Than Mehlenbacher won't ever work for Hallmark

Especially in this age of quick communication and milli-second "send"-sibility ruled by email, text and social media, who am I to criticize the humble but incredibly precious Christmas card greeting? Whenever anything other than a petition for cash enters my mailbox, I have reason to celebrate. Cards sent via the postal route are growing more rare making them all the more wonderful. So, what's the problem then, you wonder? Well...it is my assertion that when a self-declared Christmas newsletter is comprised of a more than 60% amount of foisted educational information, it is completely invalidated. Please refer to the following example, penned by my friend, Than, who apparently harbors a secret desire to write for Wikipedia:

Limes mean line or border. Germany was never put under the rule of the Holy Roman Empire. After the Romans suffered defeat around 9 AD, the Romans built a wall clear across southern Germany and north along the border between France and Germany. They manned this border for a couple of hundred years at a tremendous cost (to Amy Mosiman's attention span).  

As you can imagine, I am now terrified to venture out to my mailbox as I am anticipating a follow-up quiz! Nothing says "Merry Christmas" more than a mailbox info-mercial!

Game Night: Let's try to keep it G-Rated, people!

 Game night always seems to bring out the best in others. It tends to highlight each individual's intellectual aptitude, providing opportunities to demonstrate grace in winning or losing while encouraging participants to really stretch themselves beyond their typical comfort zones. The high level of conversational topics is mind-boggling. Take for instance, a late-night and only moderately-adult-beveraged-induced evening of Trivia Pursuit on Sanibel Island. "The Appian Way is the Route 66 of the Ancient Roman World," sniffed Geri haughtily while we are stared blurrily at her as we had presumed that the Appian Way was the screen-selection category of apps featured on our Ipads. Our method of deduction hit its highest point as Bev and Geri discussed the college team upon which OJ Simpson played in the Rose Bowl. Bev brainstormingly mused, "Well, his nickname was The Juice so he must have played for Florida." Geri, who gets mean when she drinks adult Kool-Aid, snapped, "He was called The Juice because his name was OJ."

Christmas Day brought on its own bout of intellectual challenges as we competed in a rousing game of Tic*Stac*Toe. This 3-dimensional version of the paper version featured complexities unfathomable to the strategic intellectuals gathered around the Mehlenbacher table. Honed for years on Farm-opoly, certain players did not, at first, take Tic*Stac*Toe as seriously as was necessary. But when Amy Mosiman trounces you in a game, you know that you've lost your touch and soon, those Xs and Os were being played with the strategic precision of chess pieces at a World Tournament.

And finally, Game Night at the Brown's house proved, once again, that teachers are adults in name only. The party got off to a vindictive start when one player, trying to get her team to guess a movie title, used her life as the model. "When I get to my house and there is no one there, I am..." she prompted. "A spinster!" Another team member hollered, dodging a hail of sharp-edged Triscuits. "No," she said, glaring at the insensitive jerk across the room but using the remark to her advantage, she valiantly went on, "but being single, when I get to where I live, the house is empty so I am..." "An old spinster!" yelled the player again who was immediately administered a breathalyzer and sent home. In the next round of the game, we were denied words so guessing "The Nutcracker" left those of us with morals blushing. Switching to what seemed to be a less dangerous game didn't help. My team was given the task of using clay to prompt a guess of the unknown term and fortunately, you could "animate" the clay to help your fellow players. We had reached the part of the evening where everything in clay-mation resembled a storyboard for the adult entertainment industry. Trying to maintain some dignity, I ignored the other guesses and offered one of my own. "Saxophone," I inquired, observing the clay being pushed forward and backward. The clay-mation master looked excited and the clay was pulsated with even more enthusiasm. "Uh...saxophone...sousaphone..." I panted as the the clay-mation master nodded encouragement and squeezed the clay held tightly in her firm fingers. Suddenly the time was up and the clay-mation master practically erupted from her chair, "It was a trombone, you idiot," she screamed, signaling the end of yet another climatic Game Night.

Mason was here

After a week of laying motionless on my couch, my unblinking eyes plastered to the television, I mustered just enough energy to slither out the door to head to the school for some "planning." "Planning" is actually code for "sit motionless in the classroom with my unblinking eyes plastered to the computer monitor." Without my daily routine, I lacked the motivation to function. How was I going to be a teacher again, I wondered as I walked dejectedly into my darkened room. But then I sensed it...a presence...a ghostly aura of encouragement. There was something on my desk, I saw, approaching it with wondrous awe. Mason was here, he had written, leaving good tidings of great joy in his wake as I ripped into the 2-liter of Pepsi like Popeye tearing into his can of trusty spinach.  Mason was here...a theological statement belying the laws that govern time and geography. He was here...my beloved, easy-smiling boy with a mind made for numbers...until circumstances beyond my control pulled him away (I couldn't, in good conscience, retain him and, despite my strongly-worded warning addressed to the governor of Alabama, Mason was still permitted to move to that area ). Mason was here...literally...to visit family for the holiday and graciously remembering his former (never use "old"...ALWAYS "former") 4th grade teacher to bring her what she most needed at this time: encouragement. Mason was here...and when he walked out of my door last June, a small part of me went with him, a symbiotic side-note that will revel in his contributions and achievements. Clutching a chocolate covered marshmallow Santa in my hand, I turned again to my computer monitor, revived and restored. Mason was here...they were ALL here, I realized. I better get ready.

Sticking it to my friends at Christmas

It has already been well-established that I am a TERRIBLE gift-giver and this holiday season was certainly no exception. In an attempt to avoid the clichéd coffee mug, candy or candle route with my colleagues, I thought I'd hit upon a sure-proof plan by sticking with whatever theme we'd dressed as for Halloween which is why, last year, my friend, Kelly-Nichol-Dime got saddled with a Princess Leia bobblehead. Obviously, a gift that denotes great care and devotion. 

This year was a shoe-in, I thought as I began the search for Gilligan's Island-related memorabilia. Not as easy as one might think. After hours of careful Google-sifting, I finally settled on a classic, vintage-style magnet for all the members of our costumed clan. I fearlessly pushed "submit" and eagerly awaited the arrival of my perfect present. And waited. And waited. Wait! Does the rumored Christmas mail delivery back-log actually exist? The count-down to Christmas break was on and there I was, with no perfect present. I awoke on the last day in a panic. "Savannah," I said, shaking my daughter awake while dodging the heavy college textbook she aimed at my head, "if my package arrives in the mail, would you please bring it to the school?" 

It was a miserable day as I watched the minutes tick by on the clock and received             un-reciprocatable presents from my thoughtless friends. Finally, at the end of the day, as I trudged back from the festive holiday pageant, I spotted Savannah outside my classroom door. I squinted at the practically microscopic envelope that she held in her hand. "No," I whispered, "no, no, no, no, no." I ripped the envelope from her hand and out slid eight tiny classic, vintage-style PINS. "They're buttons," I howled, "Who's going to wear a classic, vintage-style BUTTON?!?" But there was no going back now...I frantically taped each in place upon my inspirational Christmas card with the disclosure message:  It was suppose to be a magnet. Then came the walk of shame. 

Thanks for the adorable automatronic singing dachshund accompanied by your delicious home-backed goodies that you slaved over for days...here's your classic, vintage-style microscopic pin.

Thanks for the gourmet chocolates...here's your classic, vintage-style microscopic pin. 

Thanks for the Vera Bradley wallet...here's your classic, vintage-style microscopic pin. 

Thanks for the listening to me complain for over a year about how I haven't seen "Pitch Perfect" yet and going out to buy me the movie...here's your classic, vintage-style microscopic pin. 

Next year...coffee mugs for EVERYONE!

Mouse-trapped: A Macabre Tail

It was a scene right out of Edgar Allen Poe's "The Telltale Heart." I was sitting in a learning circle when there came a knocking at my classroom door. The children and I froze. Sure enough, the knock came again. "Who is it," my voice, wavering with uncertainty, called out. We held our breath, awaiting the answer. It could be administration. It could be the fire inspector (although a glance at my emergency exit window brought me momentary relief). "It is I, Mrs. Bush," cried Mrs. Bush, clawing at the door, "Will you bid me 'enter'?" We rushed to her aid, drawing her out of the dark and dismal corridor from which she'd come, burdened by an awkward object. I gasped, growing faint upon the sight of it...a ghostly specter...pestilence from my past.

Seven years ago, to enliven a tale, I'd murdered a mouse and, today, I would be reunited with my crime. How had I convinced my husband to build a three foot long mousetrap, I wondered as I watched Mrs. Bush wrestle it onto my table. And how on earth did I ever manage to successfully affix that atrocity to a bulletin board as the table creaked alarmingly beneath its weight? "We found this in the back of the closet in your old 6th grade classroom," Mrs. Bush said breathlessly, "and we knew that you would want it back." My blank expression masked my true feelings as my students discovered the "Press Me" sticker on the mouse's little paw. It couldn't possibly still work, I thought to myself but a sick compulsion came over me and I was driven forward like Alice toward the sign inviting her to "Eat me." A paw was pinched and the mouse began to writhe morbidly in his trap, sickly singing, "Ho ho ho...ho, ho ho...We are Santa's elves...ho, ho!" The children cheered with delight. Mrs. Bush offered me a little wave before disappearing back into the catacombs of the institute. Like the mouse, I was trapped...forever tied to a prop with boomerang effects and a seemingly infinite battery life. It will take a licking and keep on ticking...or "ho, ho, ho-ing,"  louder and louder, until I go mad. "Villain-ess,"  I shrieked after the retreating form of Mrs. Bush, but she was unable to hear me over the sick singing of the murdered mouse.