Archive for the ‘PTA Crimes’ Category

I will cut to the chase.  I am a Classroom Parent.  It’s really a Classroom Mom, but we don’t want to offend the dads who don’t volunteer.  Nor do we want to imply that only women sign up for this job because that would be too truthful for our comfort.  But I suppose it does leave the door open for some renegade dad who will one day make school volunteer history.  Once again, I digress.

I don’t mind being a Classroom Parent.  I like helping the teacher species, since I hail from this subset of fauna.  And I’d like to help the kids, but I loathe some of the solicitations I will be compelled to make.  Like the Pioneer Day Gift Basket Auction, for which basket items are donated by parents and compiled in baskets that are bargain bid on by other parents for a loss of around forty percent.   Or the Pressure the Parents to Contribute to a Group Gift Initiative.  Or the Give Me Your Money Because It’s Fun Program.

And I didn’t intend on assuming this role.  But in a moment of terror, I cracked.

There I was, browsing the first grade classroom at Back to School Night.  And in my back-to-school optimism, I went to the volunteer sign-ups table.  And I recalled all the times I was not invited to help with parties or field trips for my other daughter’s class last year.  Why was I not invited?  Because the Classroom Parent role was in the clutches of the highest level of Turbosity.  Yes, three Turbo Parents and their three iPhones took on every role.  I have no doubt that an iPhone can outperform me any day, but I believe the iPhone has less of an interest in my child than I do.  Did Steve Jobs dress my children this morning?  No, he did not.

And I was faced with the dilemma:  go Turbo Mom and earn a ticket to the classroom, or go home and stay home.  So down went my name.

And then I got scared.  Of the hours.  Of the time.  And of the duties that would trickle down from the PTA.  And when I say a trickle, I mean a flash flood.  So I hesitated.  And as I turned to cross my name off the list, two golden-maned, chemically-peeled tigresses crossed my path.

They looked…hungry.  Hungry for Turbo.  Hungry for power.   Hungry for a cracker.  Or a second piece of sushi.  And I knew their kind.  They talked of signing up.  And I knew that together they would act with a pack mentality, skinny vanilla latte dripping from their swollen lips.  And between showering in bottles of yellow hair dye, they and their iPhones would devise a plan to keep me from the field trip.  And I would be relegated to the position of stander and waver as the bus carrying my sad-faced child drove off to a museum that the children wouldn’t appreciate in the least.  All on the wings gift basket donation dollars that held only forty percent of their value.

And so, in a moment of ferocious animal resolve, I turned back in my husband’s direction.  I walked toward him in a bitchy strut, like I was Lady Macbeth on a really bad day.  I put my claws in his arm and said, in a Glenn Close-ish voice, “No way.  I’m DOING it!”  And while I desire to be a Gwyneth Paltrow or a Kate Hudson, there is no place for softness, sweetness and smiles in a JUNGLE of PTA things.

So call me Mowgli.  I will learn to beat my chest and fight the entrancing snares of any Winnie-The-Pooh-voiced viper.  And in my awkward human state, I will attempt to navigate through the overgrowth of a PTA Jungle.  Who knows?  Maybe I’ll make a great bear.

If you blinked for a duration of six months or longer you might have missed Greta’s discussion of the behaviors of the parents at the HIGH PERFORMING MAGNET SCHOOL.  To reiterate the sentiment of my last 10,000 posts on the subject, HIGH PERFORMING MAGNET PARENTS (hereinafter referred to as HPMP) are the meddling, turbo-charged, well-coiffed volunteer junkies who believe they run the school.  In their words: “We make the school what it is.”  And they believe themselves.

Recently, the turbo parents of another HIGH PERFORMING MAGNET SCHOOL, in a town across the bridge from us, got in an entanglement with a friend of ours.  The scene of the incident?  FACEBOOK.  Ladies and gentlemen of the internet, the HPMP took their sense of self-importance, dominion, and fabulousness to the blue and white walls of status updates and mobile uploads.  Yes, the last domain virgin to the rule of these hyper-functioning parents has now been corrupted, deflowered and slapped around like a ten-dollar strumpet.

Meet Ronaldo.

Ronaldo is a friend of ours.  And his child attends the ‘neighborhood school’ in his town.  ‘Neighborhood school,’ my friends, is code for not the HIGH PERFORMING MAGNET SCHOOL.  Neighborhood school children produce a range of test scores not worthy of calling your neighbor about.  And their school mascots don’t roar like lions or soar like birds, but croak like frogs.

Ronaldo and his wife Jellybean had the option of sending their child to the HIGH PERFORMING MAGNET SCHOOL of their town, but after a night at our home of eating far too many tacos and hearing of our PTSD from our own HPMP, they opted to go the neighborhood school.  They have since developed a big group of neighborhood school parent friends.  They meet for coffee, bike rides, and vodka martinis.  They have GIANT play dates and everyone is happy.  So Ronaldo started a group on Facebook through which the parents of this neighborhood school could meet, organize events, and have flash-card burning parties or engage in other demonic, non-HIGH PERFORMING, neighborhood school-ish rituals.

Ronaldo is a comedian, and he’s never met a potential joke that he didn’t Samba with for at least ten seconds.  So he couldn’t keep himself from saying that the Facebook group is open to parents of HIS KID’S SCHOOL ONLY.  And that, get this, HIGH PERFORMING MAGNET PARENTS NEED NOT APPLY.  And in my book, the man went from cool straight to Messiah.

But then the word got out.  And poor Ronaldo was under fire.  Not from his Facebook friends, Mark Zuckerberg, or even Nick Nolte, but…(steady now)…THE SCHOOL DISTRICT.  YES, THE HIGH PERFORMING MAGNET PARENTS WENT TO THE SCHOOL DISTRICT FOR THEM TO INTERVENE IN FACEBOOK HUMOR.  THERE IS NO FONT BIG ENOUGH TO CONVEY THE RIDICULOUSNESS.  JUST IMAGINE THAT MY LETTERS HAVE WRAPPED AROUND THE WORLD AND REACHED MANCHURIA BY NOW.

So Ronaldo was asked by the neighborhood school PTA president to remove the incendiary content since she didn’t want to experience any face-to-face time with the HPMP, and, well, we can all understand that.  And now Ronaldo has joined the Camp of They Really Are That Bad, at which I head the arts and crafts department.

And then I realized…

Of course the HPMP need to raise $90,000 at the school auction and to collect $300 worth of gift basket merchandise from each class so that someone can bargain bid on it for $80 at the June picnic for a loss of only $220.  Of course I need to buy a raffle ticket every twenty seconds, because THE SCHOOL DISTRICT IS BROKE.  It is.  Three million dollars down, in fact.  Why?  BECAUSE THE SCHOOL DISTRICT NEEDS PERSONNEL TO FIELD COMPLAINTS ABOUT FACEBOOK.

This, most wonderfullest readers, is certainly not the end.  It is only a matter of time before the superintendent starts helping the PTA select their underwear.  Or shop for groceries.  Or implement group therapy for high achievers.  And don’t knock it.  It’s the PARENTS WHO MAKE THE SCHOOL GREAT, remember?  And they need underwear.  And that’s what they’ll get.  Or else, they will wield one of their BIG, SCARY threats in a most menacing tone:  “We’ll send our kids to PRIVATE SCHOOL!” Tragically, they are too uptight to cackle and execute, at the very least, an engaging piece of theater.

But what Facebook and its neighborhood school parents don’t realize is that they are now graced by the magically competent touch of the HPMP, who allegedly contribute to every ounce of AWESOME in those Lexus test scores at school.  The teachers?  Pshaw!  They are as the cast-off Dollar Store items lost in a City Dump of parental involvement and engineering.  It’s the HPMP who make teachers effective via intensive holiday party planning and expert field trip organization.  And if the HPMP can act as a dental dam to the bacteria of mediocrity, then what healing influence might they have on all 410 million Facebook users?  Facebook, prepare for AWESOME.

Education has been facing cuts in districts across the galaxy, and no one enjoys answering the call for cash like the parents at the HIGH PERFORMING MAGNET SCHOOL.  My husband and I went to the school auction last night, having purchased tickets at a more prosperous nanosecond in our lives.  It was an entertaining evening of wading through taffeta, satin, MARGARITAS, and margarita-induced commentary by me (oops), all…ALL for the children.

Getting through the door was costly; we SERIOUSLY thought of scalping our tickets.  My dress was thrice recycled from other events (score!), but my trip to CVS almost killed me:  hairspray, a curling iron, and hose.   $49.  Value:  eh.  I did internal fist pumps when the transaction was approved by our credit card, with a balance that would scare even Barack Obama, but, I figured, it’s an investment in my appearance. And, ultimately, it’s all for the children.

The auction was well-attended and well-adorned and, well, fun.  And it became very clear to me that everyone, even parents with no money in a depressed economy, needs a prom.  And when you add hotel rooms and chauffeurs, and DUI fines to the bill, you fully realize our commitment to…to the children.

After the prom, of course we had to go to another bar because the children are with grandmother.  And you have to scream to be heard above the band.  And you have to look for food after that, and, ultimately, you have to eat the Big Mac, fries, and vanilla shake in your bed.  You have to wake up feeling terrible and a bit curious about the price of the incidental vices from the night.  The night of revels for our children.

And then you wonder why, as a parent,  you personally have to spend 1.5 billion dollars just to donate 10 cents to the school.  And you wonder if maybe there should be a fundraising campaign, where people write a check to the school for the year, and you don’t have to worry about being sold raffle tickets for turkeys, by turkeys, in the gridlocked traffic circle after school.  And no one will ask you to buy overpriced wrapping paper and you won’t have to argue with other women at 10 AM over how to decorate for Author’s Day, and you won’t ever have to see the PTA secretary in her Irish dancing dress on Unicultural Day.  And you won’t ever be tempted to overspend on a fun night out with your spouse and friends, only to end up eating fast food in your bed while your children are away from you, for the children.

And then you realize why they don’t like you so much at the PTA meetings.

There seems to be a particular species that inhabits and organizes the school auction scene.  I clearly do not possess an auction proclivity or, rather, the auction gene.  In fact, I resigned from heading decorations committee.  Yup, one month before the event.  I won’t bore you with the story of how I suffered.  Just imagine your so-called subordinates refusing to decorate in the agreed upon peach and azure scheme, citing, “We  just can’t get pumped about it.”  After having a THREE hour meeting to re-vote on the colors, I decided the auction life was not for me.

It is a peculiar and rare beast that has auction tendencies, but each one is INDENTICAL to the all the sister beings in her breed.  Yes, they are all female.  And they reproduce via a gender neutral reproductive sac, without any male involvement.  This works much like the earthworm‘s digestive sac.  Worms eat, shit back out their mouths, and grow larger.  So do the ladies of the auction.  They spawn from their sisters’ wormy mouth-poos and become louder and more annoying as they squirm blindly through dirt to slime the cash that you should be saving for retirement.  I recently encountered one such organism.  Below is the dialogue I had with this worm named Linda (many auction worms are named Linda), which undoubtedly sounds similar to other auction-worm dialogues that you may have heard or taken part in at any school in the more annoying regions of the United States.

SUSAN:  Tell me your name again.

GRETA:  It’s-

SUSAN:  I just arrived from work, and after work my mind tends to be a bit cluttered.  Thanks so much for bringing me the donation.  We live in the NORTHERN part of the city.  At Pointe Nicasio, the new housing development with the very large homes.  That’s Point with an ‘e’.  Don’t forget the ‘e’.  It’s silent.  We live right off of Navajo Avenue, but we are the in the new housing development, the NEW one.  Okay?  Now, I understand that people REALLY dress up to this auction. Not like at our old school.

GRETA:  Where did you-

SUSAN:  Oh, our old school.  The principal was great there, if only we could have her at the HIGH PERFORMING MAGNET SCHOOL, you know, pick and choose the pieces we like, for a custom fit.  Yes, at our old school there was just no peer…peer…uh…  Well, the families were just struggling so hard that they weren’t focused on their children at all.  Soooo many families there are, you know, on Free and Reduced lunch.

GRETA:  Uh-huh..

SUSAN:  In fact, so few people can even afford to go to their auction, that’s why they don’t need additional volunteers to run theirs like we do.  They are all workers, not…spenders.  Oh gosh, excuse me.  (pause)  Sorry, I spilled cappuccino on my cuffs.  Oh, these darn pressed sleeves have no stain-resistance anymore.  The price we pay to be green.

GRETA:  Yeah, you know-

SUSAN:  So anyway, get the check over to me.  I would so appreciate it, and we’ll see you there.

GRETA:  Can-

SUSAN:  Oh and tell me what you’d like to eat.  I go vegetarian.  I can’t speak for the meat dish.  I don’t do meat.  Bye-bye!

GRETA:  Can you tell me the number of your hous-

(click)

GRETA:  I’ll take the meat.

Should you find yourself in the position of having to deliver a check to an auction-worm’s house, I recommend that you not show up in jeans and flip-flops with your fly down.  This is the mistake I made, and doing so will just inspire further discussion of the appropriate attire on Auction Day.  And at 39-years-old, you are too old to be told what to wear, though not too old to be embarrassed about having contempt for someone while your zipper is down.  Couldn’t she have sneaked out a quick “XYZ, PDQ”?  Surely that saying crosses the economic boundaries that my Roxy flip flops and ratty jeans fail to.

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Trouble brews at the high anxiety paradise that is the HIGH PERFORMING MAGNET SCHOOL.  This time we have a bully.  At the drop-off circle.  Every morning.  Waiting, waiting for everyone.  This bully is tall, wears shorts in 40-degree weather, and screams at people until they do what she says.  She wears a yellow and orange safety vest, and she knows how ruin your life with it.  She runs the traffic circle.  And she is my age:  OLD.

The traffic circle bully (who shall hereinafter be referred to as the TCB) and I have a history.  My children, who stand in utter fear and trembling at the presence of any adult authority figure at their school, termed her The Crazy Lady because of the fact that she approaches each car, OPENS THE DOOR, and through a maniacally friendly smile says good morning, with a falseness that would make even Splenda roll its eyes.  She does this in hopes of expediting the children’s exits from their cars and the parents’ exits from the circle.  Crazy and annoying as this is, I appreciate her efforts in the name of expediency.  However, if there is a microsecond during which you do not PULL FORWARD she will command you, not like an authoritative traffic cop, but like a female cat after mating: squealing in agony, arching her back, and swatting her offended, puffed up tail.  Despite these wild behaviors, I didn’t use choice swear words on her (behind her back, like a good parent) until the time that she told me that I couldn’t drive through the circle twice to drop off my kindergartner at 8:00, when her playground opens, and my second grader at 8:15, when her playground opens.  I have indulged myself with this two-time tour around the hideous domain that is her Traffic Circle of Life in order to spare my second grader from waiting in front of the school in the cold and dodging sex offenders (two of whom were recently found walking close to school grounds) for fifteen minutes each morning.  When I politely explained my preference, she told me with a distinct edginess of tone, “You really should reconsider.  It doesn’t really make sense.  It’s RIDICULOUS, actually.”  She DARED use the word actually on me.  What a whore.  I kindly, but firmly told her that it was inappropriate for her to try to intervene in this decision.  And I continued to endure her unpleasantness two times per day.

So now she’s mad at me.  She no longer touches our car (thankfully), and she denies our children the traumatizing honor of her diseased good morning greeting when they walk by her.  And she’s out to nail me on the tiniest violation of the sacred Traffic Circle Code of Conduct.  Now, once I’ve assumed a forward-most position, millimeters behind the luxury vehicle in front of me, I have to scream at my sweet-faced 5 year-old to hurry up or we will be clobbered with a ferocious PULL FORWARD, a foot stomp, and a GAAAAWWWDD, delivered through the scowling megaphone of muscles and skull that encase her tortured PTA mind.  We have now been upgraded to the expectation to PULL FORWARD within the NANOSECOND (as opposed to the millisecond) the preceding car inches forward, even if my daughter’s water bottle is caught in her ear, her hair is wrapped around the buckle of her seatbelt, and one foot is stuck in the pocket of her sister’s raincoat while the other is doing a swan dive toward the asphalt of the TCB’s Web of Good Mornings and Black Death.  We must PULL FORWARD and risk loss of life, limb, and lunch bag.  When I finally do depart, I tend to drive a bit slowly since countless children walk on the sidewalk with the predictability of popcorn kernels cooking in a bag in the microwave.  I try very hard to keep this parade of school-aged whirling dervishes safe by slowing down from my regular highway speed of 65 MPH.

The TCB is especially dangerous since as a volunteer she is not really under much supervision or jurisdiction of the school.  She is a free-agent; that is, she does work for free.  They need her services, and they will probably not get rid of her unless she intentionally kills someone.  What kind of battered psyche does it take to be willing to yell at people in cars every morning between 8:00 and 8:30 for absolutely no pay?  It takes the psyche of a…a traffic circle bully, and we have one in the form of this fit, tanned, and curly-haired creature.  And I’m almost certain that this abusively altruistic non-employee doesn’t get quarterly performance evaluations nor does she pass out surveys entitled How are We Doing?

Other than disturbing the sense of peace that my brown-sugar-coated oatmeal enjoys in my stomach each morning, the TCB is emblematic of an emerging problem in our schools today.  I’m talking about the roving group of Turbo Moms* who engage in a ferocious style of volunteerism.  If a little bit of help is good, then a lot is phenomenal and likely to earn them an invite to the luncheon to receive a certificate soaked in the unsightly clip art images that result from a seeming obsession with the overuse of toner.  (These certificates are made by the rodent PTA president herself, the head proprietor of your generous financial contributions to the school.)  The Turbo Moms* spend a good portion of the day helping at school, and with that comes an untrained, uncredentialed, and unwelcome sense of control over not only your child, but you.  What happened to the days when volunteers simply made cookies or quietly assisted with the homework folders and engaged in polite gossip about your child’s academic performance with their closest 12 friends who all happen to know you and your kid?  When did these kinder, simpler times pass us by?  Now we function in a network that is a world of righteousness and lawlessness, where diamond stud earrings and gift basket donation dollar amounts reign.  Unlike our own eighth grade experience, where we were protected from bullying by caring teachers, scary administrators, and our status as the fastest in fly on the swim team, we must fight parental pushiness in order to protect our right to not drag our children from our cars as we hastily depart in observance of the almighty MOVE FORWARD principle for living life.

I find it ironic that in an age of bully-proof schools, we have bully parents selling the I Love Being Me bracelet for $2 each.  To our children.  (Who nag us for the $16 that their buddy Taylor spent on all eight of his.)  To fatten the PTA treasury.  So they can make more certificates soaked in toner to give away at the volunteer luncheon to award other bully parents.  Perhaps the PTA needs to launch a new program for bully-free parent communities.  Yes, they can spearhead the movement towards a world with self-esteem for all parents, who employ conflict resolution tactics via I-statements:  “When you scream at me to PULL FORWARD when only 40% of my child has left the vehicle, I feel like you hate my kids and my car, and that you want to bludgeon me to death with that ugly white visor of yours that you wear on even sunless days.”

This campaign would be a good use of the PTA’s strong-armed efforts.  Better even than having ME sign my daughter’s Cool The Earth coupon (which, incidentally is printed on HEAVY card-stock), pledging that I will wash all my laundry in cold water from this day forward.  I think that of all the wastes of toner in the industrialized world, the cause for a bully-free PTA would be the best use of it.

*A former teacher colleague coined this phrase to describe some of the lovely ladies who assisted her with the school fundraisers.  While teachers appreciate the help, they are not above naming the more unpleasant aspects of the package it arrives in.

I Wish I Could Quit You.  How I Came To Hate The PTA  www.babble.com