Btdt
2004-08-13, 8:23 a.m.

Today will mark Day 3 of volunteering at school.

Now, I'm squarely on the teachers' side. They are trying to squeeze more crap into one day than most of us could in a week, and desperately need to delegate some busy work to willing hands. But woe to the unsuspecting newbie who thinks it's all about prancing in to check a few papers and soak up the adulation.

The typical volunteer request form is a sinister, sugar-coated checklist designed to entrap the naive Ward n' June's who mark off a few entries, expecting everything to be rainbows and sunshine so they can show up and Feel The Love. There are laws about truth in advertising, right? Therefore, I propose that the school volunteer requests be presented like this:

Teacher seeks wives (gender unimportant) for purely clerical polygamous 9-month relationship for the following duty levels.

Level A: Grunt

Duties include cutting out bulletin board letters, checking spelling tests, and handing out goodies at class parties. Desired skills are the ability to handle scissors without puncturing particularly necessary blood vessels, tolerance to monotony (cutting out 5,000 lower-case alphabet figures), and cheerfully changing your name while at school to "__________'s Mom" so kids can speak to you.

Level B: Grizzled Vet

Duties include laminating, assembling bulletin boards, swiping supplies from other teachers, chaperoning unruly children on field trips, and guarding the teacher's personal supply of soft drinks and ice cream in the teachers' lounge. Desired skills include knowing the names of all 600 kids in the school, where Mrs. So-And-So hides her really good construction paper, psychic abilities, and a withering stare to shoot down children whose sneaky thoughts activiate your mom radar.

Entry level grunts can expect to progress to Level B in approximately two months.

Which brings me to my arch-enemy, Together Woman.

You know who she is. The one who holds down some sort of hot snot position at either work or Big Community Action Agency, a Level B school volunteer, multiple preppy overachieving mini-me's spread throughout elementary and middle school, chairs the school carnival committee, and brings the whole class cupcakes from scratch for every party. You can't set foot in school without coming face-to-perfect-face with her. To top it off, her (usually very big) house is spotless.

I hate her. I hate her Land Yacht suv and her overpriced Bought My Wife-mobile, her unwrinkled khakis and cooperating hair. Stepford Woman, you cannot be real. Not that I want to be like you, Evil Sheep, but your contrived perfectness both irks and fascinates me, and I must know the inner workings of your life.

Michael Moore, you want to make a documentary that I am willing to see? (Miracles ARE possible.) Follow that woman. Show me, step by step, how she zips through her day. Show me her secrets. Most importantly, SHOW ME HER FLAWS. Because they're there. Oooh yessss, my dearie, they're there. BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

*****************************

Note to self:

The dryer tends to dry clothes more quickly if you TURN IT ON.

(Today's *duh* moment brought to you by the moron who took Tylenol PM at 11pm on a weeknight and can't get her sh*t together this morning, even after the 4th cup of coffee and a rather large brownie.)

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