Tuesday, November 20, 2012

The mother clucking chicken
Today F and I ran to school before work because we were supposed to have a parent teacher meeting with the math professoressa. She was sick. I had arranged the whole morning, and the extra pair of shoes, and the outfit, and the speech --which all and all took an hour. The school could have taken ten minutes to call us and the other ten parents to let us know that she wasn't coming, but this is Italy so they didn't. Then I went to ask the question even though I truly suspected I knew what the answer would be: So do we get to show up next week at the same time? The answer, of course, was no. 'Cause, again, this is Italy. We had to go through the sign up book and find an empty slot and start the sign up process all over again. F had gotten us a prime number two slot with the teacher and if you come third to tenth you can have to wait a long time and run the risk of being cut in line. More respect is shown to those feisty enough to get one of the top two times. 

At the mini desk in the school corridor where the sign up book is kept there was a mother with freshly blown out,  straight auburn hair. Her head was bent down over the red plastic sign up list. She was poorly organized. Everyone knows you have to take the letter the school sends you with the days and hours that each professor is available and re copy it on a piece of paper where you are also going to jot down what time slot you can enter your name for and and what time. This lady kept referring to the original letter and then the book and then back to the school letter and all the while she was taking to herself. She seemed schizophrenic, but really it was shrewd mommy technique which allowed her to hog the book and make other brooding and hovering mothers feel that if they interrupt your train of thought it will really f***k you up. I could feel myself loosing patience with every second and when she finally turned to the page where our math professoressa was listed, I asked her if I could just quick jot down my name. Well! She made a clucking chicken tskk sound with her little pouty mouth while exhaling like a slithery biforcated tongued viper snake. That mother clucker! Then F pointed out that instead of signing in as number eleven next week which could lead to being disqualified since there are only ten real appointments per week, we could sign up for the following week. I dropped the pen and walked away from her disdainful stare and walked over to the other mini desk and a rather fussy faced F. I couldn't tell if he was annoyed with me or with the chicken lady.

What happened next made it all worth while. We saw the mirage which is the hard to get an appointment with strictest professoressa of them all -- La Lucchi. She teaches Tecnica which is a subject that gets discontinued in high school, but involves difficult geometric drawing and memorizing how various things like paper and dairy products get made. She was putting on her coat. I rushed in like she was my long lost aunt Ethel and she told us T was doing fine and that after her hormones calmed down we wouldn't have to worry about diabetes anymore. Even if that may not be true it was oddly comforting to hear. As I left the room, two other chickens who wanted to have the palle to do what I had just done glared and me like they had mad chicken disease. I left with my crest held high and shaking my tail feathers.

No comments: