Mandatory Band Parents Meeting #2

Last night, we had to attend another mandatory band parents meeting, since the marching band leaves around 5 a.m. Thursday for a competition in Indiana. We were forced once again to convene, with standing room only, to endure the predictable exchanges of endless thanks, lame jokes, and stupid questions.

Besides suffering that, I hate being in a crowd of ugly middle-aged people who remind me I’ve seen my own better days. I’m talking about 300 people between the ages of 38 and 58, awash in fluorescent light. Women who look like they spackle their faces, and men who part their hair over one ear. At one end of the spectrum are those who wear elastic waistbands. At the other end are those who spray tan. No matter where I look, though, it’s a reality check I don’t want to cash.

Then, of course, there are the excruciating proceedings:

Band Parent Leader: We’re going to try to move this along, so we can all get home for Bill O’Reilly. Students received packets today with the same information we’re about to go over, so if you don’t catch everything, not to worry--you can read it later. We'll start tonight off with Polly Ester, chair of the refreshment committee.

Polly (doing the mic tap-dodge-flinch): Thanks (ear-splitting reverb). Oooh, that’s loud. I just wanted to say thanks to everyone who donated cups this year. We have finished the season, are now into post-season, and we still have enough to get us through the equivalent of two Rock-a-thons. If you donated cups, would you please stand and be recognized (clapping and murmers of praise before she turns mic over to BPL).

BPL: While we’re at it, we should recognize everyone on the refreshment committee. You guys have done a fabulous job making sure we never run out of Ho-Ho’s and FunYuns. Please stand so everyone can see who you are.

(Repeat for uniform committee, prop committee, spirit wear committee, fundraising committee, poster committee, newsletter committee, first-aid committee, and bobby pin committee.)

Then, of course, lest anyone get their feelings hurt, these same folks had to take turns thanking the band itself for all its hard work and for coming in seventh place in the regional championships.

Next came the treasurer’s report, after which Biggy had to push my head up off his shoulder and dab the drool from his jacket. He wanted to make sure I was awake, so I wouldn’t miss the Indianapolis information session or a single question that it prompted.

We were told to have our students at school by 4:30 Thursday morning and to pack them plenty of warm clothes; that students would be allowed to bring dvd players and mp3 players, as long as they have headphones; that all movies should be rated G or PG, and all cd’s, Wal-Mart approved. It was explained that they will need money for five meals—fast food, and for t-shirts if they want to buy one. Students were encouraged to bring a small blanket and pillow for the bus.

Then it was time for questions from the floor:

Should I feed my child breakfast Thursday morning?

Can they bring personal dvd players?

Will it be cold in Indianapolis?

How much money should we send?

Can my son bring the movie Jackass?

Will you keep the drumline away from our daughters?

Band Parents Meeting

Tonight I suffered through one of those meetings where the info could have been emailed or put into a newsletter if it weren't for all the folks who want to thank each other publicy--Thank you...no, thank you...oh, but really she's the one who should be thanked--and those (Why are they ALWAYS women?!) who simply like to hear themselves talk. You know--the ladies who wave their manicured hands or wiggle their stubby little fingers until they're called on for the sole purpose of extending the length of the session and/or starting an argument.

EXAMPLE #1:

Band Parent Ringleader: Now, Monday's exhibition will be at McEachern high school. It's easier to park in Uranus than it is at that school. We recommend you carpool if you can arrange it.

BP Fat Finger-Waggler: I went last year, and I didn't have any trouble at all parking.



EXAMPLE #2:

BP Ringleader: The fruit sale starts next month, and we need everyone's participation. This is a huge fundraiser that will get us closer to our goal of buying twelve Arabian stallions for next year's half-time show.

BP with Manicure: How much money does the band make off the fruit?

Ringleader: I'm sorry, I don't understand the question?

Manicure: Is there a minimum amount of grapefruits each student is required to sell?

Ringleader: Huh?

Manicure: The reason I'm asking is, we've ordered for the past seven years, and that fruit is just terrible. It's always dry--

(Loud twittering ensues.)

Random BP: We've always found it to be of the highest quality. The pears are as big as watermelons and as juicy as Eva Longoria.

Random BP #2: Yeah, if you're having such bad luck with the fruit, maybe you should volunteer more. Help us pack and deliver it.

Ringleader: And that reminds me--before we go on to the next order of business, I'd like to thank Tina Turnipseed for collating the fruit order forms and Don Duckworth, who taped up the arrows in the halls pointing the way to this meeting. Could you guys stand up? Let's give them a hand.

(And so it went, until I wanted to blow my brains out.)

Second-Grade Dramz

When I saw Lo on Friday, she was about to bust a gut to tell me the following tale of intrigue. Note: The children's names have been changed, mostly to protect the guilty.

Lo: Mom, have I got a story to tell YOU! Stop looking at the computer and listen. Everybody always thinks Violet is so good. She never gets in any trouble. But today at school, she got caught stealing. Yeah, she's not so good after all.

TR: How did she get caught?

Lo: We've been missing so much stuff, and Amanda couldn't find her Webkinz--and she hadn't even LOGGED IT IN yet, so that was the last straw. Ms. C said she was going to check everybody's bags. Right then, Violet started hiding in the curtains and walking around the room--and then she did something stupid--really stupid--INCREDIBLY stupid. All right, what she did--she opened up her book bag thinking no one was watching and said, "Here's the webkinz right here! I found it!"

So Ms. C said, "Where was it?" and Harris said, "In her backpack." Then Ms. C looked through Violet's bag and found the box with the mechanical pencil, Kool-Aid packet, and Smarties that was supposed to be the prize for whoever found the most words in Leprechaun Gold.

And there was a ton of pencils too. We're always running out of pencils. A ton of them in her cubby, too, and Ms. C said, "Violet. why do you have all these pencils?" and Violet said, "Um, I didn't put them there..."

You know my missing library book you had to pay for? She took that too.

TR: Really? They found it in her backpack? I paid ten dollars...

Lo: No, but still. I'm sure she took it--and my crayons. And my snacks. She's our Table Captain, but now, all that's going to change.

TR: Is she poor, Lo?

Lo: No, she's Indian-ish.

TR: Huh? What does her being Indian have to do with it?

Lo: She's not poor. She doesn't even have an accent or anything. Anyway, so Ms. C sent her to Mrs. Huck's room and told me to go get a behavior sheet from the office...

TR: Why does Ms. C always let you do that?

Lo: Because I like it. Then I brought it back and she asked me to get Violet's parents' phone number. Then she goes and calls and comes back with Violet and tells Violet to go to Mrs. Huck's room, but we all saw Violet running around outside.

Then we watched a movie and no one sat next to her--of course. Then we went to specials and when we got back, Violet's father was there. He was real calm. He didn't freak out like you and Dad would have.

TR: I don't freak out.

Lo: Whatever. Anyway, after they left, we had a class meeting and Ms. C said that she'd better not see any of us being mean or not playing with Violet or not talking to her. She said everyone makes mistakes.

TR: That's true, Lo. Besides there must be some reason she felt compelled to take all that stuff.

Lo: Yeah, because she WANTED it. Ha! I'm never playing with her again. I'm going to be Table Captain too. You wait and see.

Storytime

I've got nothing today, so I've been rummaging through the archives of my mind to find a story to tell you. Here's one from high school (The names have been changed to protect the innocent). There are more where this came from:

Starting when I was 16, my friend Christine and I worked for her stepfather for a couple of years. We'd turnkey apartments, which meant doing everything that needed to be done between tenants--cleaning, painting, wallpaper, steaming carpets, you name it. We made $16 an hour (each), which was pretty awesome in 1979, when the minimum wage was $2.90.

At first, her Pops would drive us to work in his '69 Chevy Caprice station wagon. The missing front passenger side window was covered with plastic, and the interior smelled like bar-b-que. Eventually, we started driving ourselves. When I was 16, my parents wouldn't let me take my car on the Interstate. My father kept a close eye on my mileage, too, so Pops let Christine drive his boss's old truck when we had to go somewhere far away like Riverdale. He didn't care that she was only 15, a year younger than I.

We'd crank up some REO Speedwagon on the boom box, pick out the ugliest 1960's surplus wallpaper we could find in the complex basement, and redecorate slum-like apartment communities such as Barclay Arms, the student housing for Life Chiropractic College. Before papering or painting, we'd write notes all over the walls for the cultural anthropologists of the future to find--usually graphic messages about Denise Gordon, one of our McEachern High School cheerleaders.

Christine's stepfather was the only father she'd ever known. He'd raised her since she was two. Besides the hard labor of his construction job, the man took care of the household duties as well. He cooked for her and her two older brothers, took care of the house, did the shopping, everything. On a good day, her mom would lie on the couch in her pajamas, waiting for Phil Donahue to come on. On a bad day, she'd hold a loaded gun to Christine's head and threaten to pull the trigger. I'd witnessed this personally. The woman was certifiable. So we were extra thankful for Pops, who'd make us frisbee-sized pancakes on Saturday mornings and buy us liquor. And since I preferred him to my own father, an alcoholic exhibitionist with the temperament of a Pentacostal deacon, I spent most of my time at Christine's.

Every now and then, we'd do a bigger project for Pops, like assist with the remodel of one of those mansions in Ansley Park. That meant scraping paint, stippling ceilings, sanding floors, and staining baseboards, much harder than hauling out the abadoned stashes of Penthouse in the closets at the apartments. When a huge renovation was finished, he would take the whole family to Panama City Beach. At the Redneck Riviera, he'd fill our pockets with airplane sized bottles of vodka to sneak into the Miracle Strip amusement park. We'd mix it with orange juice to fool security. We'd usually end up meeting some townies in the Fun House and driving around with them all night, listening to Aerosmith. Pops would give Christine's wacked-out mother a sedative so she wouldn't shoot us when we came in at 3 a.m.

You might be surprised to hear that Christine and I were as pure as driven snow--and this despite the fact that utility men often showed up at the apartments we were cleaning, only to find us trashed and giggling because one of us burned our feet on the eye of the stove or accidentally stuck a screwdriver in an electrical outlet. We had no intention of having sex until we were 18, and as far as we knew, we hadn't. But at the beach one of these times, Pops insisted on offering us 'morning after' pills he'd scored from a pharmacist "associate" of his. Christine's mother walked in during this discussion--one of maybe three times I ever saw her vertical--and spied the pills in his hand. Showing her usual interest in pharmaceuticals, she asked what they were. He told her it was sinus medicine, but we could tell she thought he was holding out.

We assured him that we had no need for the "Sine-Aid" or whatever, and that he'd already been more than generous, what with the copious herbs and spirits. He was so warm and kind, so incredibly understanding and sympathetic to us, the two teenaged girls in his care. He said he respected our resolve but warned that teenagers had "desires" that could lead us to do things we didn't intend. He urged us to accept the meds--just in case. It almost seemed as though he wanted us to have sex. We refused.

On the way back to Atlanta on that particular trip, Christine's mother became very ill. She was delirious, moaning, in and out of consciousness. She was having hot flashes and raging nightmares. This went on for a couple of hundred miles, while we listened to our Christopher Cross tape and mocked her in the back seat. During one of her lucid moments, Pops asked her a few questions: Had she eaten the shrimp he left out overnight or missed a couple of doses of her Haldol.

Finally, she confessed that she might have taken too many of his sinus tablets.