Friday, December 05, 2014

Holiday time hustle

To follow up with the justification note for T, which she took full advantage of to get out of being interrogated in Science, let me tell you that in the game of Who Wants To Be A Millionaire Italian style, I both had to poll the audience and phone a friend (Gabriella). Gabriella thought about my request and then took 15 minutes to text me the most beautifully worded excuse note that ever was. It was so eloquent that I made F take a picture of it with his phone so that we can use it from now on. 
Today I had a parent-teacher meeting with the math professor. She had aggressively shiny hair and sharp bangs. She wore a war mask of four inch thick make-up and she was un-wooable, that is, she did not let me woo her. Woo-woo! How you doing?? (I may or may not be watching The Wendy Williams Show on streaming.) She is from the south of Italy and she was not the least bit charmed or impressed by our family's being from New York. (gasp!) 
I took another stab at it and tried to appeal to her as a female. I told her how great I thought it was for my daughter to have a female role model in the math department; and she pointed out how in Italy, teaching is a female dominated field because the men get the higher paying math occupations. At least it has its positive side, I added weakly, while tracing the three colors of her eyeshadow with my desperate gaze.

I could feel my time was running out so I told her that all of us parents - at this point she looked at me skeptically because I guess it is pretty far fetched that I have conversations with any large group of discerning Italians, giustamente, suppongo -- felt that she was much better than last year's math teacher. 

Finally, her face cracked a smile, and I am not using cracked metaphorically here. So I left the room as quickly as I could and announced to the scary parents in the waiting area outside that I had been fourth in line and so now number five could be up at bat. They said they didn't know what number they were because the professor had the list of parents' names. I said nothing, because that, among other things, is not my problem.

This afternoon I had a lovely coffee with a woman who is following an aryurvedic diet plan. Out of curiousity I took the on-line test for aryuvedic body type when I got home. The recommendations included avoiding loud music and energetic dance performances which is too damn bad because I promised my middle school hip hop student that I would go to his break-dancing competition at the disco this Sunday night. Two words: blog worthy.
Today's lesson with him was kind of a wash. The last four times he has come to my house he has asked to use the bathroom where I suspect he hangs out for as long as he can before he feels guilty enough to come back to the table and the grammar exercises. He usually says that he is so tired that he feels dizzy and then fake stumbles and looks up at me to see if I noticed his fake stumble. I try to teach him one thing per lesson and then I let him watch youtube videos. Hey, they're in English, okay? Today I inadvertantly taught him about my boobs because I wore a blouse that was really too transparent. At least I wore a jacket in that refrigerator they call T's high school this morning. If my ass kissing didn't woo the math professor, I'm pretty sure my tits wouldn't have done the trick either. Sigh.

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