Helping You Get the Most Out of Your Misery






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Tuesday, November 15, 2005


Meet the Parents

Oh joy. Oh rapturous fucking joy. It's time again for Parent-Teacher Conferences. Why, that's my favorite day(s) of the year.

Good god, I hate the semi-annual torture session known as Parent-Teacher Conferences. They're especially heinous for a theater teacher. Do you know how few parents give a carmelized rat turd how their kid's doing in theater arts? Let me spell it out for you: precious fucking few.

Mostly, I sit there reading a book until either a teacher whose grades matter sends me a parent whose child is a problem in both of our classes, so that I can back up what the first teacher said, or until one of the four kids who get really excited about my class and talk it up at home drag their mom or dad to my spot in the hallway. (Yes, the hallway. I haven't got a room, you see, so I usually set up a desk right outside the bathrooms.)

I suppose I should be grateful that I don't have dozens of angry parents stomping up to me to find out what the hell I think I'm doing giving their offspring a D- when they're obviously so talented. I should be grateful. But I'm not.

Do you know how very, very, very, very slowly time crawls by when you're sitting there, attempting to look at least somewhat purposeful for when your boss walks by, thinking how much more productive and/or happy you could be if you were anyplace else in the fucking universe and wishing you'd had the foresight to down a couple of beers before you had to be there? It moves really slow. Glacially. We're talking a turtle covered in January molasses.

And this year I get to double my joy, as someone made the brilliant decision to split the conferences between two days. So, now that I've gone through my torturous afternoon, I get to look forward to staying until 8:00 tomorrow night, doing it all over. Hurrah!

I think I might hire a homeless guy to sit in my place. They work cheap, I think, and I really don't think any of my parents are going to know the difference. I'll just make sure he knows how to say "[insert name here] is very smart, but she/he just needs to learn to focus." Or maybe I'll just get hammered before I show up.

Those are kind of a chafe. The only parents who show up are the ones whose kids will get a glowing review anyway. The parents of the little cretin that tells you to "F-Off" and has failed 7 quarters consecutively somehow manage to be too busy that night.

I feel like one of those dolls with the string that makes them talk. PUUUUUUULLLL... "Gee. Kayleeaugh is a pleasure. Keep up the good worrrrrk...." PUUUUUULLL... "I expect great things from Amanda! Not too much TV!"
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