june 27, 2003.

Meet our newest housemate: Cuddles!

This summer we'll be taking care of Cuddles, the Hogsboro High play school guinea pig. It's kind of interesting that if we'd still had Ceilidh, we wouldn't be able to take her. As it is, Cuddles fills our pet hole nicely. No, not that pet hole. Yeesh.

Initially I offered to take her because I felt sorry for the Home Ec. teacher. Our school is not exactly filled with enthusiastic staff members, and the Home Ec. teacher has a very feral dog who ate the last boarder. I have hazy memories of childhood gerbils, and my deep conviction is that they're pretty unsatisfying pets overall. I'm not really sure if I'm the kind of person who can enjoy a pet that so obviously hates you and wants to escape. Still, considering my parents' view on pets, it was a minor miracle that we got even unsatisfying ones.

My whole point is that Cuddles is a happy surprise. She's quiet, huge, and pretty bright judging from her noises. I can hear the difference between "leave me alone!", "hey, you're home!", and "oh boy! veggie scraps!" Also, she doesn't smell. Of course, we clean the cage every week, so that helps.

On Wednesday, my mother, my co-worker Betty and myself drove to Stratford to see The Birds. The previous week Betty told me that she'd never been to a play at Stratford, and that her boyf didn't like theatre (so she was unlikely to ever see one). Consumed with pity, my mother & I immediately made a place for her in our reindeer games. She was the perfect guest: polite, appreciative, amused by our jokes and thrilled by the whole experience. Mom & I were pretty manic, peppering the conversation with the kind of "claws out" humour we've refined over the years. For example, I was being saucy in the restaurant, and my mother threatened to leave me behind without paying for supper.

"Ha!" I scoffed. "You have no idea what I can do with this Belly. I can get so much sympathy by playing the pregnancy card that I can both pay for my meal AND get a ride home."

"You think a pig farmer's going to drive you home?" she sneered.

"Well, a pig farmer brought me here," I snarled back.

The next few minutes were spent laughing & throwing mints at one another.

I very much enjoyed "The Birds," although they weren't kidding when they described it as "non-linear." I only have hazy memories of reading it in my Greek Drama class, so the jokes were still fresh for me. I especially liked the ancient-y costumes for the Greek gods: all swathed in white, encased in huge immobile masks and stomping around on huge platform shoes. Kind of reminded me of some nights at the Fetish Masquerade.

The next day Betty spent a good 15 minutes gushing about how "cool" my mother was, how Betty could tell what a great grandmother she'd make, and how open I was with my mother. I was tickled that we'd caught my mom on such an obviously good night, when she was so ripe to be shown off.

Okay, so I am officially off C. Thomas Flood for life. Words fail my anger.

To begin with, the English department of Hogsboro High took him out to dinner last Sunday to celebrate his retirement. Unfortunately, they let me know a scant 5 days in advance and I was already going to the Nick Cave concert that night. I thought about trying to do both, but the entire department, from Samuel to Theresa to Betty assured me that it was stupid to shuttle between Queen's Quay & Hogsboro in one night, and that he would understand the scheduling conflict. I popped in $30 for the dinner (half for me and half for Theresa, who was going through a thin patch) and the others assured me that I would be mentioned in nothing but positive terms. So off I went to the concert, happy as a little goth clam.

The last week has passed in a blur, so much so that I failed to notice the complete lack of thanks from him. Other people got cards. I had no idea, as I'd never got one. So it went until yesterday, at the big $15 non-optional "fun" staff barbecue. (I'm beginning to sense a pattern here.) All of the retirees made speeches. I happened to be kipped out in the big patch of shade behind the microphone as this went on. When C. Thomas launched into the most ass-numbing speech I've ever sat through, I was tolerant. When he mentioned Fubar, I smirked to myself. It was when he thanked each member of the English Department individually that I lost it.

He didn't mention me, you see. He named every person there, including the girl who came late in the year as a half English, half History teacher. He did not name the fully assigned English teacher sitting behind him. Struggling to keep whatever shreds of dignity I had left, I got up and sat by the pool with my back to the podium. When the non-optional speeches and award presentations were over (apparently you only get recognition if you coach or if you've been teaching the same shit for at least 15 years), I walked out with my head held high. I brushed past C. Thomas without a word & sailed into the rest of my life.

Then I mentally wrote him a card:

Dear C. Thomas Flood, I hope that your retirement is as boring and pointless as your conversations with me (not to mention your 'help'). Thanks for nothing, you pompous fraud. Amoret (fully assigned member of the Hogsboro High English Department) P.S. I want my fifteen fucking dollars back.

Also, I have decided to award myself

My award-winning achievements are as follows:

• a department head who offered pompous lectures instead of help with curriculum
• awful students who drove me into a nervous breakdown
• a principal who used a variety of hellish manoeuvres both legal and quasi-legal to drive me out of the profession
• a very sweet husband who supported me for two years and now needs his academic turn in the barrel, meaning that I was unable to quit
• a teacher's union that went on work-to-rule and eliminated any chance I had of legally applying for a job in a different, better board
• a surprise pregnancy that forced me to stay in a job that could provide me with maternity benefits
• a class assignment from the new head that gives me three different sections of a single course that I hate.

To cheer myself up, I'm going to tell the story of C. Thomas' OTHER retirement speech, as reported to me by Samuel. Five people at Hogsboro High retired this year, so the official school reception was fairly well attended. Each retiree was asked to make a speech. Now, C. Thomas likes to do two things when he pontificates to a captive audience: he likes to show of the breadth of his erudition and he likes to pace around. So not only was his over-long speech filled with incredibly pompous quotations (including the unintentionally ironic, "[Life] is a tale / Told by an idiot. Full of sound and fury, / Signifying nothing.") but he also wandered like a caged animal while he delivered it. By some strange coincidence, the podium was set up right in front of the refreshment table.

You can probably see this next part coming, so I'll stow the suspense. After 20 minutes of lecturing and backing up, he finished his speech to find that his ass was covered in cake.

Ass. Cake! Oh, I'm dying. I have been utterly unable to tell this story to friends & family without braying laughter at every phrase. Ass. Cake. Damn.

And, yes, I do consider it his just desserts.

"No, dude! Mr. Turtle's my father!"

As I was driving home on Thursday, I thought of the poor Boy, unable to sleep because our apartment is an oven. I decided that the kindest thing I could do for him would be to take him to a movie. Sweet air-conditioned movie! Upon consultation with Dirk, it was determined that the three of us should see Finding Nemo.

Holy cow, what a great movie! Full of surprises & great characters & improbable plans & silly jokes; it kicked "Shrek" down a long flight of stairs. I have to add one caveat, however: the first five minutes made me sob uncontrollably. I really don't think I need to explain why a mother who dies defending her soon-to-born babies would make me cry like Nancy Kerrigan.

Booty Call: Day 112 - Length: 14 cm crown to rump (18 cm or 7 inches head to toe). Weight: about 200 gm.