Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Are you having a nice day? On a Thursday? Liar.
For the three of you who follow this silly page regularly, here are some updates:
1. The Heir returns from college today. I must make some macaroni and cheese.
2. The Monkey Man got his email phished and was out of touch for awhile, but he has returned. Pizza and Poetry May 22 -- be there!
3. I want to go to the animal shelter tomorrow and pick up three kittens. Bottle babies. Lots of work.
Now, on to today's rant, in which I prove that I have no decency whatsoever, having taken more advice from Machiavelli than from the kindly Druids who want me to improve myself.
Quite a few tiny blips of cyberspace have been devoted to my loathing for my night school instructor. I thought and thought about what I would call him and finally landed on a fitting title: Mr. Bigwand. Just scramble the letters around a little, and you'll get the gist.
I've heaped every sort of scorn on this person, largely because I don't like people who are too fond of themselves. Mr. Bigwand does not need for me to like him. He is his own biggest fan. Just ask him. He'll tell you. And tell you again.
However, last night I saw Notorious B.I.G.wand in a different light.
You see, he wrote a letter of recommendation for one of my classmates. And he knows everyone in the school district where she applied, so he also made a few calls on her behalf.
Mr. Bigwand told the rest of the class that there were more openings in the district from which he retired (and in which, to hear him tell it, he stands on God's shoulders).
I have been re-hired to teach next year at my current school. However, my school district is notable for its opaque methods of terminating employment. Here today, gone tomorrow seems to be the rule of thumb where I work.
Ergo, I may need one of those hand-penned recommendation letters from Bigwand in the future. The district where he used to teach is near my house.
If I can give all you youngsters out there a bit of free advice, it's this: Never burn any bridges. If you don't like someone, don't tell. You never know who that person knows or how they could be helpful to you in your future. So what if that help strokes the ego of the helper? If you're the helpee, does it matter?
Readers, have I told you lately how much I adore Mr. Bigwand? What an intelligent, discerning individual! I just can't wait to go to his house for a picnic! (This is actually true -- the picnic is the final class, and we must attend to get our certificates of completion.)
Am I despicable and shameless? Oh yeah. Guilty as charged. Remember, both the high road and the low road get you to Scotland, and one does it faster than the other.