At the last minute I remembered Moomin's new dance lessons. We whooshed off. "So, where is it again? Mom, are you sure you know where it is? What about the directions?" Thanks for the vote of confidence... And I *had* directions. But the Art Ctr was "closed Monday" and dark and no one came to my knock. We tried the building across the street, which turned out to be the library (where I am now.) Yup, that's the building - the closed one. Back across the parking lot in the rain with increasingly-upset-and-balky Moomin. Someone came to my banging on the door this time to tell me to go around the back. IN THE RAIN. Thanks, bitch! Put up a sign next time!
Then the dance class turned out to be 4 tiny blond princesses in pink sweatpants. I'm not kidding. They all were pinked out from head to toe, and all blond. Fuckin' hell. The teacher ignored me, ignored Moomin, I had to ask her 3 times if this was the right class (we were THREE minutes late by their clock... but she acted like I totally pissed on her Cheerios.) Moomin sat down in the furthest possible away spot, and she ignored him some more. Then she pointed me to the sign, which said, Dancers Only, observation day is the last class. So I walked out. Through the window I could see that Moomin couldn't take his shoes off and all the other kids had their shoes off and he was too shy to ask for help from the Ignoring-him bitchwad.
I hung about a bit more, and tried to ask a question or two from the observing Moms with lattes and toddlers in the RAIN. You know when you stand in front of a group of people and are waiting for a pause, or a look, or other acknowledgement, so that you can politely break in... I did that for a good while. And got only quick glances of appraisal and ... dismissal. OH THE BITCHES. So I busted in, asked my question; as one, they made tiny moues of disapproval and bewilderment... I could draw a little cartoon with their thoughts in a shared thought balloon: "What kind of mom would hire a nanny like THAT?" I was all like "Oh great, Badgerina, good day to wear your army pants, Bruce Lee t-shirt, gelled mohawk, and battered fluevog maryjanes, because that ain't going to get you hired as a mom in Poloville."
They did tell me where the library was and I'm grateful. I wonder if I can get my money back and yank him from the class. You'd think the teacher would at least say "What's your name" and invite him to sit down. I mean what the fuck.
Why did I think this would be a real dance class, just cause it was expensive? I should have realized it's expensive to keep out the rabble... rabble like us...