I’m going to preface this by owning up to being a total goon. A feckless dork flails before you now, plucking aimlessly at the interweb in the impotent hope of reaching you. Guess who took the time to draft a little comic gold mine at the time of her last post, who painstakingly noted the many-carat comedy genius that would be this post. And guess who , 100% vintage Luddite that she is… Forgot to save said draft. Who, like a technophobic fool, carelessly closed WordPress and swanned off into the rest of her day downright smug in the unshakable belief that she was the best goddam writer ever to grace wifi!? Yep. Me.
Having taken a deep breath and counted to 10, then completely forgotten about the whole debacle for a few weeks, I’m ready to have another crack at it.
I’ll start with
The Robbie Vendetta
A few weeks into my time at HVC a merry band of Americans showed up. Sue, ever eager to snap up passers by, had nonetheless given no thought whatever to what the new volunteers would actually do. Robbie got the short straw and was duly abandoned to the snotty, thumb sucking, Lego-throwing, sharing-free zone that was “kindergarten.”
Interestingly I’m pretty sure that kindergarten hadn’t existed before the Americans showed up, and went right on back to not existing when they left. Sue promptly launched a one-woman war on Robbie’s child-care skills, wagging her gnarled finger at him and generally balling him out whenever she had enough puff and the vaguest hint of an excuse. By some strange matronly alchemy she was the only one who knew the actual number of kids meant to be in Robbie’s class, which essentially meant she had a ready-made reason to condemn him as an awful teacher whenever she felt like it, since the odds of that number of kids actually being present under house 4 at 9am for a whole hour were vanishingly small. She miscalculated however, her agenda was based on one fatally flawed assumption: that Robbie cared a fart in space about her opinion of his child-wrangling capabilities. In fact, no offence Robbie, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t the plight of the orphans that lured you and your ubiquitous baseball cap to Cambodia. I’m thinking something more like the ready availability of beer for 50 cents or less might have a little to do with it. Having said this even those of us blithely hoping to save the world one rugrat at a time know that it is physically impossible for small human beings to remember that the pink paintbrush is only used for pink paint, the blue one for blue and that peculiarly nauseating shades of brown have no place in art class. Or, as a few of my shirts found out, that teachers are not canvases. Sorry Sue, we are none of us perfect people… Let alone perfect teachers.
Public safety notice: no orphans were harmed in the making of this anecdote.