So, tonight I’ve got two moments.
Moment 1: We pulled into the driveway and, of course, the first sound to greet us was the dogs. They were barking their heads off.
“So, Zoomboy,” I said with a yawn (it was my nap time), “Do you want we should go put them out of their misery?”
“Sure. Should we pet them gangland style or execution style?”
heh heh heh– clever, that one!
And Moment 2:
So, we were supposed to post our swag to the different rooms at RT this year. For those NOT sending stuff, it is supposed to get there by Friday, with a code on it for each room, and if the code is wrong, or if it got there late, it would cost us $100 to bail our stuff out from the holding company to give away our swag.
Well, I’ve been a little busy with the family thing these last two weeks–and the sick thing, but mostly there was St. Patrick’s Day and Easter, and this weekend there’s Squish’s birthday and housecleaning and when all of that was done THEN I was going to concentrate on RT.
And it just hit me, like LAST NIGHT that the deadline was coming up, and then I had a thought about getting all the shit sent, and then this morning I started printing stuff out so I could make my plan about what went where and then it hit me that my printing order wouldn’t be here until Friday and then I asked anyway to see if I posted tomorrow, would it get there Friday, just so I could do a couple of boxes and…
And fuck it.
I”m going to have to haul all that shit to my hotel, assemble it all, and then haul it down to the appropriate sites (I understand it’s half a mile from our rooms to the convention floor, and I’ll probably get lost because it’s a fucking casino, DAMMIT) and dude.
The first thing I’m going to do after Squishie’s party guests go home on Sunday is go buy one of those milk-crate carts–one of the light kinds that collapses? (The second thing I’m going to do is go buy some new dresses. Because.)
Anyway– the thought of the milk crate thing took me back– twenty-four years ago, actually.
So, my first teaching job was a substitute teaching job in the Grant district during the golden years–as in, the years where the cops would sweep the junior high quads before school in order to make prostitution and drug busts of the 12 year old students. No. Not kidding. It was in the news–and I saw it in person. This substitute teaching job lasted well into my first pregnancy. It ended around six months along. A kid threw a chair at me, I called security, and the principal walked him back into the classroom and said, “The kid says he’s sorry,” and I sheltered my unborn baby and thought, “Fuck. This.”
So, when they had interviews at the San Juan district–a district that had its shit slightly more together–I thought, “Well, I can go in for an interview and practice my interview skills, but I”m seven months along. Who’s going to hire me?”
Apparently the woman interviewing me didn’t notice the seven month baby bump–and I called attention to it too. When asked if I could help with after school activities I pointed actively to the Big T in my stomach and said, “No, I don’t think so. I”m going to have other things claiming my attention after school for the next two years.”
But they hired me anyway, because they were stupid, and I know this because I pulled up that first day to get shown to my classroom, and I was told by the principal, “OH my God. We didn’t realize you were pregnant. You have four classrooms.”
Yeah.
So, the first thing I bought was a luggage cart–one of the little collapsible dollies they used to have before the suitcases had wheels. I bungee corded a milk crate to this, bought a file box to stack on top of the milk crate, and bungee corded my teacher’s edition on top of the file box.
I hauled that thing to four different classrooms–and before someone says, “It could be worse,” my prep period was between the two classes I had in the same room, and the room was needed for another class. So, yes, I hauled my entire life around the school between EVERY CLASS.
After my first job review–the one that happens after the principal comes in and watches you teach–I was sitting in the conference room waiting for my principal to come grade me and I heard the following conversation:
“OH my God– she’s huge.”
“Yeah– the district’s pissed, too.”
“Well they should be. Why’d she even interview like that?”
“I have no idea. But they want her gone at the end of the semester.”
“Well, it’s her own fault.”
And that was when the secretary realized I was in the room with the open door and heard everything. And then the principal arrived. Awkward.
But I still had to haul that shit around for the next five weeks.
Anyway– I still remember when I walked up to my principal, Friday the week before my due date, and said, “I’m sorry. I know I was going to teach until I gave birth but I can’t. I just can’t.” She was so disgusted with me for not making it one more week.
Big T was born an hour after his due date had passed. I lost my mucus plug the Wednesday after I bailed, and I think that was probably a close call. I remember stopping in the middle of a class once, and along with twenty students I watched as Big T did a barrel roll in my stomach, head for ass. One of the kids went, “She is going to have that kid RIGHT HERE.”
But for the most part, they were very sweet.
Nobody offered to haul my thirty pounds of classroom for me though– I had to do that my damned self.
So anyway–I’m going to buy myself one of those collapsible milk crate/dolly things now, one of the lightweight ones that requires no bungee cords, and I’m a little nostalgic.
Or is that bitter?
Either way, I know I’ll be thinking, “This thing is GREAT–where the fuck was it 24 years ago?????” the entire time I’m hauling it through a Vegas Casino.
