Dance Mom

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I hate the place where my daughter takes dance lessons. I didn’t at first. I found the teacher wearing mismatched socks instead of dance shoes to be charming and unpretentious. I liked that it was close and cost a fraction of what a studio would charge.

But now I’m just pissed.

A couple of weeks ago, I got an email saying there were no classes this week, because of the gymnastics shows. Okay, great. I had a slip saying we had a Friday dress rehearsal for the recital, so that cemented itself into my head. Apparently, I also got an email saying that there were dance classes after all. I don’t remember it, but it has been scientifically proven that I got the email and also that I suck.

My daughter was 20 minutes late to tonight’s class and only made it because she was SO insistent that there was class tonight that I called. On speaker, so she could hear there was only Friday’s dress rehearsal.

There was class tonight.

I assumed it was the dress rehearsal. Because there was no class, now there was class, so surely this is the dress rehearsal. Right? No, but I didn’t realize that, so she arrived in costume, only to find her classmates in their motley assortment of dance gear. Oh shit. I was steamed now and muttered something about communication needing work. This sent one of the teachers to get reinforcements, in the form of a burly and pissy man whom I am  assuming is the owner. I can tell you without assumption that he is an asshole.

He waves a paper and asks me if my email is correct.

“Yes, that’s it.”

“Well here’s the email we sent out and here it is on our log as sent at 12:15 on 6/12. So check your junk mail.”

“Well, that does me no good, now, does it?” I replied, because what the hell, dude? I’m here now. Going back and rooting through my junkmail, just to prove you were right and I was a big old wrongy wrong-pants is a fat waste of time.

“Well, you can’t be mad at us if we did nothing wrong” he exclaims.

“Um, I wasn’t mad until just now. Now I’m mad.” I assure him. And I am. There are a handful of smug moms who didn’t misunderstand and who diligently check their email boxes watching with eyes shining. The fuck-up in their midst makes them feel good about themselves. He walks off, shaking his head and I sit, stewing watching the snotty teacher who is an email wizard make sarcastic cracks at a bunch of 6-9 year old girls. She’s a peach.

I’m not saying the email wasn’t sent. I’m saying that sending it the day before class, when you’ve sent 2 out stating there will be NO class is confusing. I made an assumption, but it wasn’t out of left field. It wasn’t dumb. I was already irritated with myself and embarrassed, but to have this guy come and wave his paper in my face to be sure I knew what a loser I really was, put the fucking cherry on it.

And because they are crap heads, I had to BUY fucking tickets to this show. There was a $25 recital fee and a $45 costume charge. Which I can be okay with, even though I’m paying $60 a month for an hour long weekly lesson. But then you make me buy fucking tickets? I almost bought them and set them on fire, right there in the gymnasium. Unfortunately, I left my matches at home and my sonic screwdriver does not emit flames. Damn it.

So there will be no dance class after this recital. She wants to do gymnastics, but I think 4-H can be our thing for a while. Mommy isn’t very good at organized lessons.

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