A Stinker

What do you do in the days preceding the meeting at which you might be told that you are going to be put out, like Felix Unger, on the doorstep, with a saucepan in hand? Rugelah, my lovely daughter, told me that everyone makes mistakes, that if she misses her uncle this much, I must miss my brother a lot, and I did my best. That helped for five minutes, and now I'm nervous. The Big Cheese is gonna lay one on me, it's gonna stink, and I have no idea how I'll react. You know those moments when you wonder if you'll bust out in song, or cry, or tell the jerk to go to hell? I'm worried I'll violate some norm of decency, and one doesn't do that in the public school realm. Perhaps I should wear a corset? A muzzle? Or maybe more drastic measures are required: a full-facial botox, so that my expression is frozen into a single emotion: indifference. It would remove the risk of the facial tic.

Maybe I need to fantasize about what I would say to her if I could? Nah, that's too simple. She is not any smarter than me, she's been a boss lady for 6 months, and she has a chronic panty line disorder. It's no fun with such an easy target. If only I were Marsha Brady, I could imagine her in her underwear, and pass the driver's test. Yeesh, maybe not.

Chrystal came over tonight and told me yet another story of how she showed up to interview some academic bigwig in sweats, unwashed, because she'd forgotten the appointment. Shouldn't there be a law that if one's closest friend gets to act like a cheesy slob, the privilege is shared? Some girls across the hall today, both of whom are in my math class, were giggling and teasing me about what a terrible teacher I am. They had big smiles on their faces. Now's the time for some cute little ending, but there is none. I'm off to dream of a place where I am the boss and all of the people who work for me are required to pay me for the honor, clean stuff up, and write their own goddamn evaluations. Plus, no panty lines.