I blame my parents.
Except for those very few, minor instances from my growing up years, I was a good child. Ask my mother, she’ll
lie vouch for me. To be fair, I’m not entirely certain that good behavior flowed from a well of soul-deep goodness or just good old-fashioned fear of a butt whoopin’ from my father, but let’s just assume it’s the former, alright?
Those early years of goody-two shoesness probably explains why I’ve turned into a generally harmless, but utterly committed scofflaw, especially when it comes to my kids’ school. Think of me as a more clever, big-busted version of Ramona the Brave. Nothing, with the possible exception of certain in-law behaviors, triggers the old eyeball roll quite like school.
The Co-Defendants attend a very small private school, not because we’re all that, but because we’d like them to get an education in reading, writing and arithmetic which they weren’t getting in public school as opposed to oral, condoms and chlamydia which they were getting courtesy of the public school bus ride home. It’s the little things that make me happy. Not to mention the fact that we enjoy sending them there because, hell, who needs all that extra cash from the paycheck. I live to pay tuition.
Now, before you go thinking I’m all anti-establishment, let me say I love law and order…that Christopher Meloni is HOT with a capital H. Yes, please, handcuff me, I did it whatever it is. Oops, wrong Law and Order! Anyway, I grasp there’s a reason for rules and regs and all that jazz. The sheep must have their purpose, after all. What I don’t get is calling me at work to complain about The Diva’s shoes not being ‘in code’…they’re black with hot pink and blue accents. Elton John’s ticked he lost his shoes to an eight year old. These things have only been going to school on her feet for a month now unlike all the other similarly attired twerps who’ve been getting away with it since August and you just noticed? Golly, that makes you even less observant than the average man. Ask Himself, he should know.
I am quite proud of myself being that I am not quite a bastion of tact and grace when it comes to educator related phone calls. I did, in the interest of full disclosure, bang my head repeatedly on the desktop out of sheer frustration….how’s it possible that a woman who insists on a quiet, attentive classroom can talk that much? But I digress. Himself said I successfully employed what he calls the “Hubby Mode” during the course of the call. Know what “Hubby Mode” is? It’s an autopilot version of communicating….’uh-huh, okay, alright’ minus the ‘no shit’ interjections which go over with teachers about as well as a turd in a punchbowl. If my career as a laboratory professional dries up, at least I can fall back on my talents of impersonating the conversational flair of redneck men. Yay, me.
Anyway, back to the shoes.
Mustering all the nice I had allotted for the day, I politely declined to shell out the dough for another pair of shoes. This, alas, went over, you guessed it, like a turd in a punchbowl.
Did I mention there are only seven full days left in the school year?
To borrow a phrase from my Papa…”BOOSHIT!”
Cue the eyeball roll.