Friday, September 21, 2012

Mandatory Chair Time

I spent the day at a teacher inservice presentation. All day. Eight to three. On a cafeteria chair. Anybody wishing to donate to my impending buttocks transplant may leave a pledge in the comments section. We'll work out the details later.

The following conclusions were reached by Val today:

* Teachers are often not the best pupils.
Whispering, hooting, texting, and using outdoor voices is not appropriate in a workshop setting.

* A simple explanation will suffice. There is no need for a superior to place a hand on one's shoulder/back area, as this can be construed as both condescending, and an invasion of personal space. BAD TOUCH!
Don't cross that line. You might lose an arm. Or a lawsuit.

* Milk on a table causes anxiety.
The first thirty minutes of material will not be retained, due to everyone staring at the two gallons of milk beside the donuts, mentally tsk-tsk-ing about the waste. Until one brave little soldier got up and absconded with the jugs, presumably to the refrigerator in the teachers' workroom.

* There are no mimosas on school property.
Even though there is orange juice. Which really does not go with donuts.

* Anti-Scientites must not be allowed to present workshops.
Do not make fun of nonfiction books on coral reefs by saying, "REALLY? Who cares?" Do not belittle the science teachers by ridiculing volcanoes, of which there are three main types, required to be learned by freshmen for the Course Level Equivalents. And especially to not call out for a show of hands for all the English teachers. Then all the math teachers. Then all the history/social studies teachers. Then...oh...that's all.

* Bashing of the sea cucumber is not becoming.
We can't help it that you did poorly on that question on the writing portion of your ACT, and justified it by asking in your mind, "You expect me to read a paragraph about a boring sea cucumber?" If only schools had a fourth core class such as...oh...I don't know...maybe...SCIENCE, perhaps you would have been privy to the excitement a sea cucumber can bring when irritated, expelling its guts and all. Crazy idea, huh? That fourth core.

* Common Core Standards are, quite simply, the same criteria and methods we used years ago, when we called them Reading Across the Curriculum, and Writing Across the Curriculum, before gearing materials to the multiple-choice End Of Course tests.
There. I said it. What everybody who's been around long enough was thinking.

If you disagree, I don't want to hear it. Not until you sit on a cafeteria chair from eight to three.


  1. OMG, how did you endure it? I quietly exited my grandson's "moving up" ceremony (Montessori, don't ask) because the chairs were impossible. All those grandparents who stuck it were far nicer than I.

  2. At our school we have ABC days--professional development--once a month. All-Blender-Conferences. What is that, you ask?

    Blenders are full of margaritas and daiquiris. The whirring is nonstop for the duration of the workshop. The presenters try to make themselves heard over the blenders, but it's impossible. However, even if a few boring words DO make it through, the teachers don't get surly because...well, they're well-hydrated, thanks to the blenders' contents.

    If your district is interested, I can arrange for a meeting between your admin and mine.

  3. No mimosas on school property? What if you supply your own vodka.

  4. Our faculty meetings are held at a Mexcian restaurant and the topic range from toddlers to husbands. Ruba dub flat butt, hope it rounds up again.

  5. Joanne,
    I was distracted by my tablemates, who were at times a bit rowdy. I, myself, was not. Two principals sat at the table behind us. I'm not one for committing professional suicide. In spite of what my next post is going to declare.

    You probably have a special drinking fountain in your teacher workroom that pumps out vodka. Oh. I'm sure that at YOUR school, it's called a teacher's LOUNGE. Perhaps this explains your unfortunate hair-washing decision. I hope that after prying your head out from under the spigot with the jaws of life, a crowbar, and some cooking oil, that the hunky firemen did not call the police to give you a breathalyzer test for shampooing while intoxicated.

    I think we'll hold off on that administrators' meeting for now. We're on the downhill slide towards Christmas break. February might be more appropriate.

    Unlike George Costanza, fired for having sex with the cleaning lady on his desk, I KNOW that bringing in my own vodka would be frowned upon by my employer. I must have some special kind of ESP, because that rule is not written anywhere. The external signs by all the entry doors only prohibit firearms.

    For the record, a mimosa is comprised of orange juice and champagne. Not that I am a drinker or anything. I learned that at the casino Sunday brunch buffet. I suppose if one is headed for Not-Heaven, one might as well kill three birds with one stone.

    Hope will not fill the coffers for my transplant, nor re-round my butt. That will take a month of bean-bag-chair sitting behind my desk. I wonder if I can put one of those things on wheels.