Cruel School
Well, it’s almost that time again. Back to cruel...err, school.
Do you look back fondly on high school? Any of you who do, please line up over here. Yes right there on that square.
YOINK! {{ Followed by shocked look and hair flying over heads, as trapdoor flops open dropping them into pit below }}
High school is a horrible but necessary training ground for the rest of life in this cruel, cruel world.
I realize now, and have tried to instill in my children, the fact that every one of the greasy little pigs believes they are hideously ugly - more disgusting than a bowl full of intestines. Yes, even the cheerleaders feel this way. That is why they are especially cruel. It’s a defense mechanism.
For most of us (peeks in on pit dwellers who are pacing and reciting their valedictorian speeches to calm themselves) high school was a nightmare. Now (oh joy) I get to relive the nightmare (for the third time) through dear Daughter.
She will be a Junior this year. She feels stupid and ugly. I tell her she is smart and beautiful. She says that I have to say that because I’m her mother. Oh yeah, I forgot - that was in the handbook.
We went back-to-school shopping yesterday. This weekend is the “sales tax holiday” here in Mazoorah. Damn, and I forgot to put up decorations. What a crock. The cities could opt out, so the “savings” (she said sarcastically) was the state tax, which is about 4%. So on the $40 we spent on the limited list of products that are included, we saved... WOW! A dollar and sixty cents! Let’s start a college fund for you honey!
There’s the joy of trying on clothes in the dressing room that is too small and badly lit. Finding that perfect first-day outfit for everyone else to gossip about is so difficult. Especially when she’s decided she wants only black apparel, following in Goth Boy Brother’s combat bootsteps.
Plus we have the hair issue. The hair-that-was-dyed-black-over-the-summer. The hair she wants to darken again, much like the throbbing headache that wants to do to my doorstep.
This followed the thrill of attempting to register and adjust schedule for the upcoming school year. The district sent out newsletters (apparently to everyone on the planet) to show up at the high school to register. They all did. Packed like sausages into the Jimmy Dean Gymnasium.
Please bring proof that you exist.
No, the newsletter that came addressed to you isn’t enough proof. You could be a terrorist who went around stealing those out of mailboxes.
The fact that the student has lived in this district since birth doesn’t matter. Or that she has attended schools in this district all her life. Or that the mother has sent three students through these schools and knows every teacher and administrator by name (and evil nickname).
Having served as a room mother, office assistant, field trip manager, chaperone, PTA member, Grad Night coordinator and Secret Santa is not enough. A terrorist might have gotten plastic surgery to look like you. (This is followed by me rolling on the floor with laughter, and Daughter acting like she doesn't know me).
You want to do what? Oh no, we can’t change any of the classes here. The office isn’t open. You’ll have to call and make an appointment for that. Ignore the three hours you spent waiting in line and wrestle your way through the sweating hoard to exit. Step aside. NEXT!
To leave a comment, please go here
Thanks!
back to school
tax holiday
Do you look back fondly on high school? Any of you who do, please line up over here. Yes right there on that square.
YOINK! {{ Followed by shocked look and hair flying over heads, as trapdoor flops open dropping them into pit below }}
High school is a horrible but necessary training ground for the rest of life in this cruel, cruel world.
I realize now, and have tried to instill in my children, the fact that every one of the greasy little pigs believes they are hideously ugly - more disgusting than a bowl full of intestines. Yes, even the cheerleaders feel this way. That is why they are especially cruel. It’s a defense mechanism.
For most of us (peeks in on pit dwellers who are pacing and reciting their valedictorian speeches to calm themselves) high school was a nightmare. Now (oh joy) I get to relive the nightmare (for the third time) through dear Daughter.
She will be a Junior this year. She feels stupid and ugly. I tell her she is smart and beautiful. She says that I have to say that because I’m her mother. Oh yeah, I forgot - that was in the handbook.
We went back-to-school shopping yesterday. This weekend is the “sales tax holiday” here in Mazoorah. Damn, and I forgot to put up decorations. What a crock. The cities could opt out, so the “savings” (she said sarcastically) was the state tax, which is about 4%. So on the $40 we spent on the limited list of products that are included, we saved... WOW! A dollar and sixty cents! Let’s start a college fund for you honey!
There’s the joy of trying on clothes in the dressing room that is too small and badly lit. Finding that perfect first-day outfit for everyone else to gossip about is so difficult. Especially when she’s decided she wants only black apparel, following in Goth Boy Brother’s combat bootsteps.
Plus we have the hair issue. The hair-that-was-dyed-black-over-the-summer. The hair she wants to darken again, much like the throbbing headache that wants to do to my doorstep.
This followed the thrill of attempting to register and adjust schedule for the upcoming school year. The district sent out newsletters (apparently to everyone on the planet) to show up at the high school to register. They all did. Packed like sausages into the Jimmy Dean Gymnasium.
Please bring proof that you exist.
No, the newsletter that came addressed to you isn’t enough proof. You could be a terrorist who went around stealing those out of mailboxes.
The fact that the student has lived in this district since birth doesn’t matter. Or that she has attended schools in this district all her life. Or that the mother has sent three students through these schools and knows every teacher and administrator by name (and evil nickname).
Having served as a room mother, office assistant, field trip manager, chaperone, PTA member, Grad Night coordinator and Secret Santa is not enough. A terrorist might have gotten plastic surgery to look like you. (This is followed by me rolling on the floor with laughter, and Daughter acting like she doesn't know me).
You want to do what? Oh no, we can’t change any of the classes here. The office isn’t open. You’ll have to call and make an appointment for that. Ignore the three hours you spent waiting in line and wrestle your way through the sweating hoard to exit. Step aside. NEXT!
To leave a comment, please go here
Thanks!
back to school
tax holiday
