Monday, August 10, 2009
By Caity -
I am in hell. The museum where I work is having it's first "Homeschool Day" of the year, and judging from the unwashed miscreants gracing the halls of this vaguely respectable institution, Tahoe and my children will be attending public school. To look at any number of these families begs the question: What in tie-die, missing tooth hell were you trying to avoid by educating your children at home? School violence? I just saw a little red headed she-demon burst into tears and pimp slap her mother because she wouldn't give the little brat the change from her twenty. Disease? Clearly they aren't afraid of all disease, because the gingivitis treatment for some of these hillbillies would be enough to put an army of dentists' children through private school. I'd bet there's a statistically significant occurrence of adult onset diabetes in this crowd of fatties, too. Social undesirables? A father just walked in with jean cutoffs and no shirt, prompting the VP of Operations to call the graphics department and demand a rush be put on a sign reading "No Shirt, No Shoes, No Admission." Underpaid, overworked public school teachers with no time for instruction because they're too busy trying to control a classroom full of forty screaming hoodrats? I just watched a woman with seven (SEVEN!) children lean up against the counter and mispronounce "arthritis," while her brood emptied a fishbowl of museum tags onto the atrium floor.
At this point, it's all I can do not to bust out a spray bottle full of water and give them a warning squirt in the face. Trust me, it works. That's how we taught our cat, Mr. Bojangles, to stay off the counter.
I won't bore the readership of Apples and Moustaches with a dissertation on what I feel to be the myriad social advantages of a public education, but I can tell you that no one I went to school with ever hit middle school age and decided to leave the house dressed in identical southern belle period dresses with their siblings. We waited until we were in our mid-twenties and bedazzled matching jean jackets for a Dolly Parton concert like normal people. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go schedule a hysterectomy.