Monday, August 24, 2015

Performing Arts Festus-val.



How are you? Good thanks, well actually things have not been great, but I can’t complain too much. I can complain a little though, so here goes.

I really can’t wait for winter to ping ding. I am really looking forward to bitching about how hot it is, instead of bitching about how cold and miserable it is. I have run out of erect nipple jokes. Also, this winter has slammed us in regard to health.

It seems that one or all of my kids have been sick with some sort of festus ALL. DAMNED. Winter.  Hand foot and mouth, check. Gastro, check. The perpetually sore throat virus that turns into temps and a cough that just won’t fuck off, check. I blame myself to some degree, because I didn’t send my kids to day-care for that long and it turns out that day-care and its ability to spread pestilence is important in building a healthy immune system for school.

I inevitably get about 1/3 of the germs my kids bring home, usually when they have all recovered and are back to max energy levels again, or when they have a full calendar of sports, activities or social events I have to ferry them around to. The activity usually coincides with the most inconvenient thing to do with any given illness.

Like when I got a middle ear infection. Fuck, I haven’t had one of those since I was a kid and man they are painful. Hard to concentrate on anything else other than the searing pain painful. SO naturally, my kid was to perform a jazzy little hip hop routine at a performing arts festival. The kind of performing arts festival that had school bands performing various dated ditty’s at an uncomfortable decibel and moderately out of both time and key.

I am not saying that the festival planner was a sadistic thunder c*#nt or anything, but the schedule of the event meant that you could not politely clap and pretend that you gave a crap about the performances of other people’s children until your child had finished performing clearly the best and most spectacular set of the night, then quietly sneak out of a side door and go home.

No.

It was made perfectly clear on several occasions that you were expected to stay for the entire duration of the event, in fact they pretty much soldered the doors shut and placed several stern looking guards on each exit. As extra leverage, they held your child hostage in a separate building until the event was over, then gave you the location of the building in which you could collect your child at the end.  There was no interval either. SO my ear was subjected to the relentless performances of fourteen different schools.

Each squeaky over enthusiastic exhale into a clarinet, every thud on a bass drum, every tinny little ping of the triangle seared through my ear like a hot poker. I was really fucking convincingly considerate about it all too. I smiled and clapped at the end of each performance and nudged fellow parents as they beamed  with pride at their kid, even though every pain receptor in my brain was sending a high alert to my ear, and to be blunt, I really didn’t care for any performance my kid wasn’t in.

I know how that sounds OK, and I honestly.... Just don’t care.

The next day I ruptured my ear drum, not pointing any fingers or anything, but I am pretty certain I would totally have grounds for a law suit if I was that way inclined. I mean I am not, but just saying. It was a bit fucking rude.

There was an upside though, I should probably be a little thankful to the festival to some degree, because the rupture of my ear drum resulted in the ache going away almost immediately, and although it is a little sore; my doctor advises me that it should clear itself up in about three fucking months.

Hope you are all good.


Em.