Just when I thought the school year was almost over, a huge honkin' tree-branch of truth smacked me right in the face. Our last day of school is May 31. THAT'S ALMOST JUNE!!!
With my sentence stretched out before me, I feel like I'm toiling away in the salt mines. No end in sight. I would rather do my time in Sheriff Joe Arpaio's baloney-sandwich, pink-underwear, tent-city, weather-channel-and-Disney prison.
Don't get me wrong. I like what I do. I'm just not fond of all that we do. Working with the students is fine. It's the drudgery of dragging the #1 son out of bed each morning, making sure The Pony has clothes that match and lunch that he will actually eat, and barreling over over hill and dale in my trusty T-Hoe to get to work with time for all the folderol which insinuates itself into my very being...that defeats me.
I am not so good at jumping through hoops. I don't like filling out forms for this and assignment sheets for that and looking up transfer grades that are, ahem, on the freakin' school computer gradebook system where they could be harvested in one fell swoop instead of sending a minion to interrupt seven different teachers teaching seven different subjects so they can STOP what they are doing and perform a clerical task while their students sit idle, fodder for the devil to supply them with work for their hands.
The dangling carrot of another day off on the weather forecaster's stick of Alberta Clippers does not repulse me. Make snow days while the sun don't shine, I say. Take 'em when you can get 'em. You never know what fate might befall the piper before he has a chance to collect on your debt.